James had been quiet the whole walk up. Not the kind of quiet that meant he was thinking, but the kind that meant he was feeling too much to speak. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white around the strap of his quidditch gear bag. The rest of the team had peeled off at the staircase to the boys' dormitories, clapping him on the shoulder with murmured condolences. He'd barely acknowledged them.

The door to his private dorm clicks shut behind Y/n, the lock sliding into place with a soft, deliberate turn. The room is exactly as it always is: quidditch posters tacked haphazardly across the walls, a pile of robes draped over the armchair, the Marauder's Map lying open on his desk. The only light comes from the enchanted candles floating near the ceiling, casting a warm amber glow across the space.