Chapter Text
Potter Manor, 6 pm, 12th January 2025
Let’s be clear about one thing: this was supposed to be a family dinner. Harmless (as much as any family reunion could be with them). Maybe a bit loud, definitely full of wine, and, ideally, over by ten (that will never happen). Except, of course, it wasn’t. It was never going to be just a dinner. Not when half the family had cried over James Sirius Potter in the last three months, and the other half had googled (or in Ron’s case, owled) “how to tell if your nephew is doing coke again.”
Three months. That’s how long it had been since James’s second overdose. Twenty-three years old, former Quidditch golden boy turned elite auror with a reputation, now mostly seen in shadows (in alleyway ambushes, at funerals he blamed himself for, on balconies, in hospital beds, in shame). There had been screaming, crying, and breaking things. But also a lot of silence, the kind that creeps in when everyone’s just too scared to ask what happens next.
This wasn’t the first time someone had tried to organize an “everyone-under-one-roof-to-make-James-feel-loved-but-also-a-bit-threatened” type of gathering. But it was the first time everyone showed up. Which is how you knew things were serious. Because this family didn’t agree on anything: not on politics, not on art, and certainly not on how to parent James. Still, they came. The whole lot of them. Weasleys, Potters, Delacours, Lupins, and most importantly dramatic cousins with glitter in their pockets and trauma in their smiles. All of them arriving to the Potter manor in waves, hugging tightly and whispering things like “just be normal” and “let’s not start with the drugs.” They’d all agreed: no ambush. No cornering James in the hallway. No shouting. No intervention, because that was a loaded word and James hated it and might set the carpet on fire.
So, it was a dinner. A very casual, not-at-all-scripted, just-happens-to-be-full-of-people-who-love-you dinner. There were candles. There were appetizers. There was Fleur correcting Victoire’s posture and Rose passing around wine like it was therapy. There was a garden full of too-loud cousins, and a kitchen where Hermione had already told someone to “take their passive-aggressive energy elsewhere, thank you.”
And somewhere else, noticeably not here, was Harry. Because of course.
6.20 pm
James arrived last. Not dramatically late, just enough to confirm it was intentional. He pushed the door open without knocking. "Evening," he said to the empty hallway voice calm and pleasant. Like he’d just arrived for tea, not an emotional ambush. From the hallway, he could hear murmurs in the next room. He looked at the row of family photographs lining the wall: Quidditch trophies, Christmases in matching jumpers, awkward teenage stages in silver frames. His footsteps were soft as he moved further in. Albus caught sight of him first from the threshold of the living room and gave him a tight nod. James returned it. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Was trying to decide between making a grand entrance or just not showing up.”
There was a beat of silence, then, all at once, the room exhaled. Ron muttered, “For fuck’s sake.” Even Ginny, tense in the doorway, gave a short, reluctant laugh, the kind that’s half love and half exhaustion. James stepped into the room and gave a little bow. “So,” he said lightly, “this the part where someone says it’s not what it looks like?” Rose, already halfway through a glass of wine, replied flatly, “Oh, no. It’s exactly what it looks like.” James gave the faintest smile; something twisted with affection and irony. “Good,” he murmured, shrugging off his coat, “Hate surprises.”