Chapter Text
The world wakes gently.
The Gryffindor common room is soaked in early gold — the kind of sunrise that makes the dust in the air look like drifting magic. The fire has burned low. The lanterns have all gone out. The castle is hushed in that rare, perfect pocket of quiet where no one has yet begun arguing, gossiping, or sprinting to class.
And on the floor — wrapped in hand-stitched blankets, thrown pillows, half-finished origami stars, and one very battered cloak — are four boys who absolutely did not plan to fall asleep together.
James wakes first.
He blinks up at the ceiling, confused in the soft way of someone who’s slept deeply for the first time in days. His curls are flattened on one side, sticking straight up on the other, and his jumper is rumpled from being squished between three Slytherins all night.
He doesn’t move immediately.
He just lies there, warm, dazed, listening.
Regulus is asleep on his left, looking deceptively peaceful — except his hand is still loosely curled in the fabric of James’s jumper like he fell asleep mid-protective-instinct and never let go.
Barty is snoring softly on James’s right, sprawled in a way that violates several laws of physics.
Evan has half of a blanket draped over his head and is muttering something about “primitive sleeping arrangements” in his sleep.
James smiles.
A little, barely-there curve of the mouth.
Then—
Barty groans. Loudly. Dramatically.
He stretches like a cat that’s been wronged by the universe and announces:
“WHOEVER decided the floor is an acceptable mattress owes me financial compensation.”
Evan kicks him without lifting his head.
Regulus stirs with a murderous noise.
James sits up, curls flopping.
“It wasn’t that bad…” he says.
And three Slytherins, still half asleep, simultaneously turn to STARE at him like he has personally offended the concept of human comfort.
Regulus: “James.
You fell asleep on a stone floor.”
Barty: “A medieval one.”
Evan (lifting the blanket just enough to glare):
“With questionable heating charmed into it.”
James shrugs, earnest and unbothered.
“I’ve slept on worse.”
All three boys freeze.
Barty’s expression softens in a way he probably doesn’t realise.
Regulus’s eyes flicker, thoughtful, almost pained.
Evan sits up fully — which he never does unless something hits him emotionally.
But James just gives them that familiar, lopsided smile.
“Besides,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck,
“I had all of you to use as pillows, so that helped.”
They stare again.
Then Barty collapses back onto his blanket.
“I take it back,” he groans, “this floor deserves jail time.”
James snorts.
Regulus stands, dusting himself off with unnecessary elegance.
“We need breakfast,” he declares. “Now.”
Evan: “And possibly professional medical intervention.”
James: “It wasn’t that bad—”
Three voices at once:
“YES IT WAS.”
James laughs — the kind of laugh that crinkles his eyes and warms something behind the ribs.
For the first time in a long time,
the morning feels hopeful.
The Great Hall is already loud when James and the Slytherin boys step inside — just an ordinary morning hum. But the door swings shut behind them, and something subtly shifts.
Not silence.
Not shock.
Just… attention.
People glance up mid-bite.
Lean toward their friends.
Hesitate for half a second before returning to their eggs.
The difference is that no one looks hostile anymore.
Only curious.
Barty mutters, “Brilliant. We’ve become a spectacle again,” and Regulus replies under his breath, “You were born a spectacle.”
Evan nearly chokes trying not to laugh.
James tries not to shrink under the eyes. He keeps his shoulders level and stays in the middle of the group, a point of calm they instinctively orbit like magnets.
They head toward the Gryffindor table — not because anyone planned it, but because James naturally gravitates there, and the others simply follow.
Which causes an entire cluster of second-years to stop mid-conversation.
Before anything can get awkward—
the Gryffindor girls spot them.
Marlene is the first to react.
She does not greet them gently.
Oh no.
She gasps, points dramatically, and yells across the room:
“THERE YOU LOT ARE!”
Half the hall looks over.
James turns scarlet on the spot.
Mary and Dorcas barrel over, Pandora gliding behind them like a chaos angel.
And the questions hit immediately:
Mary: “Why didn’t you come down earlier? You always come down earlier—”
Dorcas: “Why do you all look like you stayed up way too late?”
Pandora: “Regulus, your hair says ‘villain’ but your eyes say ‘tired orphan.’”
Regulus: “Pandora, please—”
Pandora: “Never.”
Evan snorts.
James beams at them despite the embarrassment.
Barty looks personally attacked and delighted at the same time.
The girls herd the boys to the table, practically shoving them into seats. It’s chaotic, loud, and completely normal — the kind of normal James has been missing desperately.
But then something tugs at his attention.
A gentle pull.
A quiet awareness.
James looks up across the hall.
And there’s Sirius.
Already watching.
Already smiling — small, careful, but real.
Not tense.
Not unsure.
Just Sirius.
His Sirius.
In the most familiar, quiet way.
James feels warmth spread through his chest.
Sirius seems to inhale slowly, like he’s steadying himself.
And then Sirius mouths, very slowly:
“You okay?”
Not “I miss you.”
Not the emotional punch.
Something gentler, something new — a cautious beginning instead of a heavy reunion.
James’s lips tip into a tiny smile.
He mouths back:
“Yeah.”
Sirius’s shoulders loosen.
He nods once, grateful.
Across the table, Regulus glances between James and his brother.
But instead of stiffening, he just lowers his gaze to his plate, thoughtful.
Quiet.
Not upset.
Mary nudges James lightly.
“How’re you doing?” she asks softly.
James answers honestly this time.
“Better.”
The table warms again with chatter, laughter, toast being stolen, and Barty dramatically attempting to explain why pumpkin juice is “a crime against beverages.”
And for the first time in a very long time,
James feels like he belongs everywhere at once —
with his friends,
with the Slytherins,
and maybe, slowly,
with Sirius again.
The rest of breakfast settles into something soft and surprisingly easy.
They talk, they eat, people stare a bit, but nobody whispers viciously. The world hasn’t magically fixed itself — but it’s manageable.
When the bell rings, everyone groans.
Barty: “I swear we just got here.”
Mary: “That’s because you took seven years to butter your toast.”
Barty: “Precision is an art, Mary.”
James laughs so hard he nearly spills his juice.
They split for classes — or rather, they attempt to. The Slytherin boys hesitate, glancing at James as if waiting for something.
James waves reassuringly, smiling.
“I’ll see you lot after. Don’t let Barty start a fire.”
Barty: “That was ONE TIME—”
Regulus grabs him by the sleeve before he can launch into a speech.
The day moves on.
✨ Charms Class
James sits between Marlene and Remus, and the class is surprisingly peaceful.
Flitwick keeps praising James’s wandwork — something he tries to shrug off but secretly glows under.
Remus elbows him.
“You’re in a good mood.”
James shrugs.
“I think… today’s just better.”
It’s not much, but Remus smiles, small and warm.
✨ Transfiguration
McGonagall pauses mid-lesson the moment James’s charmwork produces a perfect crystal fish on the first try.
“Mr. Potter,” she says with a very faint smile, “if you’re going to show off, at least pretend you’re struggling.”
James goes pink.
Sirius — across the room — tries not to grin.
James pretends not to notice.
Fails miserably.
✨ Potions
It’s a disaster, as always.
Slughorn tries to pair James with whoever is free, but Lily swoops in before anyone else can move.
“Mine,” she says, dragging him to her table like a mother lion grabbing her cub.
They laugh their way through the lesson, James accidentally dyes his sleeve lavender, and Lily snorts so hard she nearly drops her cauldron.
When the final bell rings, James feels light.
Not fixed.
Not perfectly fine.
But lighter.
The boys don’t even have to discuss it.
The moment the day ends, Regulus tilts his head toward the staircases leading upward.
James follows without asking why.
The climb is familiar, breath-stealing, the old stones echoing their footsteps. By the time they reach the top platform, the world feels… muted. Open sky. Cold winter air. The buzz of the castle left far below.
James inhales deeply.
And something in his shoulders drops.
Barty collapses to the floor first, dramatic as always, arms spread wide.
Evan sits down with more grace, leaning back on his palms.
Regulus stands a moment longer, watching James in that quiet way he does — assessing, softening.
James wanders toward the railing, eyes drifting to the endless sky above them.
“…you like astronomy a lot more than I thought…” Regulus asks, barely louder than the wind.
James huffs a laugh. “Like it? Reg, I love it.”
He doesn’t mean to sound so reverent, but he does.
And the boys… notice.
Regulus sits beside him. Not too close, but close enough.
“Show us something, then,” Barty calls from the ground. “Teach the class.”
James almost refuses — almost — but then the excitement flares in his face before he can hide it.
He points upward. “Alright. See there? Orion’s belt is low this time of year but it’s still visible, and—”
He starts talking.
And the boys go silent.
Because James isn’t just naming stars.
He’s tracing stories.
Ancient wizard myths. Muggle stories. Astronomy lore. Spell origins based on constellations. Creatures connected to certain celestial alignments. Old traditions his grandparents taught him. Academic bits he just picked up because they were interesting.
His hands move when he talks — soft gestures, excited arcs, little flicks of his wrists as he draws invisible maps between points of light.
Regulus watches his hands like they’re another language.
Evan’s brow lifts with growing respect.
Barty just stares at him, slack-jawed, like James has personally upended his worldview.
Finally Evan says, flat and honest:
“…James, that was beautiful.”
James freezes mid-sentence.
Then goes red.
Comically red.
Neck to ears.
“I— I’m just rambling— it wasn’t—”
“No,” Regulus cuts in, voice low, edged with sincerity. “It was extraordinary.”
James makes a noise.
Like an embarrassed croak.
Then tries to hide his face in his hands.
Barty cackles. “He’s overheating! We’ve killed him. Good job, lads.”
“Shut up,” James mumbles through his palms.
Regulus does not shut up.
He leans in — barely — and says:
“You should talk like that more often.”
James nearly falls off the tower.
⸻
After his blush fades (mostly), they migrate to the floor.
A messy sprawl of limbs and cloaks and school ties.
All four lying on their backs, staring up at the sky.
The wind is cold, but their closeness makes it warm enough.
There’s no pressure to speak.
Just… breathing.
Clouds drifting overhead.
James humming something, soft and distant.
Barty tapping his shoe against James’s.
Evan’s shoulder brushing Regulus’s.
Comfortable silence.
The kind that only forms between people who trust each other.
James finally exhales, long and slow.
“…I’ve never done this with anyone,” he admits quietly.
“Done what?” Evan asks.
“Talk about the stars. Lie around like this. Feel…”
He swallows once.
“…safe.”
The boys don’t move, but something in them collectively tightens and softens at the same time.
Barty turns his head toward him. “James?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to make us ridiculous about you.”
James chokes on air.
Regulus kicks Barty lightly in the shin.
Evan actually laughs — a rare, warm sound.
And James—
James beams up at the sky like it hung itself just for him.
The moment settles around them like a blanket.
Quiet.
Warm.
Gentle.
A small universe on the tower floor.
And none of them want to leave.
They’re still at the tower, the light softening into that pale late-afternoon glow, dust floating like gold specks in the air. The boys are gathering their things, sort of, in that lazy way where they’re talking more than moving. James is half-standing, half-perched on the stone ledge, swinging one leg carelessly over empty air.
Regulus watches him like he’s one bad tilt away from death.
Barty watches him like he’s actively hoping for chaos.
Evan watches him like he’s memorising the view.
And James…
James is humming, pleased and warm, staring out across the grounds like everything in his chest finally clicked into place.
It’s quiet.
It’s peaceful.
And then James turns around.
Big smile.
Soft eyes.
The kind of expression that should be classified as a weapon.
“I like being here with you,” he says casually, stretching his arms up. “You three… you look unreal in this light.”
Silence.
Immediate, catastrophic silence.
Regulus actually chokes on air.
Barty’s jaw drops like he’s witnessing the invention of fire.
Evan’s hand, which was elegantly adjusting his sleeve, simply stops midway and stays there.
James blinks.
“What?”
Regulus, voice breaking like cracked glass:
“Wh— James. James, you can’t just say things like that.”
James tilts his head. “Why not? It’s true.”
Evan went pink. actually pink.
Barty: “Reg, I swear to Merlin, if you faint, I’m pushing you off the tower.”
Regulus: “I am not fainting— Potter is the one— he— Merlin’s sake.”
James laughs. Bright, confused, lovely.
“What did I do?”
Evan steps forward like he’s carefully approaching a wild creature.
“James, cariño… you just complimented us like you were seducing us.”
James: mortally offended by the implication he would seduce on accident.
“I did not!”
Barty:
“Mate. You said we looked unreal. With that face. And that tone. And that little smile—”
James covers his face with both hands and makes a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a laugh.
“I was being NICE!”
Regulus, muttering into his sleeve:
“Nobody is ever that nice, James.”
Evan tries— tries— to hide his grin. “We are simply… unprepared.”
“For what?” James demands.
Barty spreads his arms dramatically.
“For YOU.”
James goes red from hairline to collarbone.
Regulus, softening despite himself, steps closer, brushing a bit of lint off James’ jumper like he has an excuse to touch him.
“Just… warn us next time,” he murmurs.
“Warn you for what?!” James sputters.
Barty: “When you’re going to flirt.”
James: “I WASN’T—”
Evan: “You were, love.”
James: “NO I—”
They all start laughing.
Bright, uncontrollable, warm.
But underneath it —
a shift.
A spark.
A truth they’re not speaking yet.
James still doesn’t realise it, but the boys do:
He’s not just their friend.
He’s their undoing.
They finally leave the tower —
though “leave” is a generous word, because none of them have fully recovered from James’ accidental flirting incident.
The door swings shut behind them with a soft clunk, and they stand there in the corridor for a moment, blinking, adjusting to real light again.
James is still pink.
Regulus is still pale.
Evan is still smug in a quiet, fond way.
Barty still looks like he wants to throw confetti.
And then James sighs.
“Alright. Let’s go before one of you drops dead.”
“That was aimed at Regulus,” Barty says immediately.
“That was absolutely aimed at Regulus,” Evan agrees.
Regulus glowers at both of them.
“I am perfectly fine.”
James bumps his shoulder lightly as they start walking.
“You okay, Reg?”
Regulus malfunctions one (1) additional time.
“Yes,” he says too quickly. “Just— you, and the lighting, and the— never mind.”
James raises an eyebrow.
Regulus looks away so hard he nearly walks into a wall.
Barty catches him by the back of his robes without even looking.
He’s done this before.
They fall into step naturally:
James in the middle, Regulus on his left, Barty on his right, Evan slightly behind, the natural formation they always slip into now—
A shape that says:
James is ours to protect.
James is ours to steady.
James is ours.
Not that James has noticed.
He’s too busy… humming.
A little melody, soft and warm, drifting down the corridor like sunshine made into sound.
Regulus glances over.
“What song is that?”
“Oh.” James rubs the back of his neck. “Just something my mum sang when I was little.”
Barty: “In Spanish?”
“Yeah.”
“Sing it?” Evan asks, gentle and hopeful.
James flushes. “Here? Now? People will hear.”
“Let them,” Regulus says.
That tone —
quiet, steady, protective —
makes James go soft in the chest.
So he sings.
Low.
Barely above a whisper.
A warm, pretty Spanish lullaby winding through the stone halls like a spell.
And the boys?
They stop walking.
Completely.
Just stand there listening.
James doesn’t notice until he turns around, still humming, and sees all three of them staring at him like he’s made of starlight and soft hands and everything they never got to have.
“What?” he asks, flustered.
Evan steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder.
“James,” he murmurs, “you can’t do things like that and expect us to behave rationally.”
Barty: “I would commit several crimes for you right now.”
Regulus: “I would help.”
James sputters, red again.
“I WAS JUST SINGING!”
“You were singing like that,” Barty says. “There’s a difference.”
They keep walking, this time a little closer.
Shoulders brushing.
Fingers nearly touching.
And somehow the air feels charged in a way none of them know how to name yet.
As they near the main staircase, Regulus gently hooks a finger into James’ sleeve to slow him down.
“You really like this castle, don’t you?”
James nods.
“Always have. Every corridor feels like… something important could happen in it.”
Barty smirks.
“Oh, something important is definitely happening.”
James groans.
“Don’t. Please.”
Evan laughs quietly.
“You make it too easy, cariño.”
James hides his face in his hands.
They laugh together all the way down the stairs, the teasing light but fond, until the sound wraps around them like a shared warmth.
By the time they reach the ground floor, they look like they’ve been friends for years.
By the time they reach the courtyard, they look like they’re something more —
even if none of them are ready to say it out loud.
The afternoon sun hits the courtyard just right — warm without being harsh, gold without being blinding. The kind of light that makes stone glow and makes everything feel like a memory while it’s still happening.
The boys step out into it together.
James inhales deeply, eyes closing, shoulders relaxing.
He looks lighter in sunlight — like it was made for him.
Regulus notices first.
He always does.
“You look… better out here,” he says quietly.
James opens one eye. “Better?”
Regulus clears his throat. “Healthier. Less… stressed.”
Barty cackles. “He means you look fit, James.”
“I DID NOT—”
“Yes you did,” Evan says warmly, cutting Regulus’ panic short. “It’s okay to compliment friends, Reg.”
Regulus glares at him, mortified, but Evan only smiles back.
James decides to rescue him.
(He’s very good at rescuing Regulus from himself.)
“Thanks,” James says softly. “Sun’s good for me, I think.”
“It’s good for all of us,” Barty says, stretching his arms out dramatically. “We look like we’ve escaped from the dungeons.”
“You did live there all morning,” James points out.
They wander toward the center of the courtyard, where an old bench sits under a wide, leafy tree. Without talking about it, they all sit — James in the middle again, the boys flanking him like bodyguards who pretend they’re not bodyguards.
A breeze moves through the leaves.
The shade dapples over them.
Evan sits back and watches the sky.
Barty taps his heel against the ground, restless but content.
Regulus quietly leans an inch closer to James without even noticing.
It feels peaceful.
Almost magical in a different way from spells.
James sighs with the softness of someone who didn’t realize how tired he was until he stopped moving.
“I needed this,” he murmurs.
“Us too,” Evan says.
“For once, we agree,” Regulus mutters.
Barty gasps dramatically.
“Mark your calendars — Regulus Black just admitted to needing human interaction!”
Regulus kicks him.
James laughs, bright and warm and loud enough to make two Hufflepuffs by the fountain look over and smile.
The courtyard keeps them a little longer —
long enough for James to start humming again,
long enough for Regulus to rest his head back against the bench,
long enough for Evan to close his eyes in the sun,
long enough for Barty to stop fidgeting.
Long enough for it to feel like something important.
Eventually James sits up, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Alright. I should probably head back before Sirius breaks into the Great Hall again looking for me.”
Regulus raises an eyebrow.
“He would do that?”
Evan: “He has done that.”
Barty: “Twice.”
James grins sheepishly.
“He worries.”
“And you do too,” Regulus says softly.
James doesn’t argue.
The walk back is quieter, but not in a bad way — more like everything has settled into a comfortable rhythm.
James walks between them again.
Not because they force it.
Because it feels natural.
Barty and Evan talk about a wand-work assignment due next week.
Regulus listens but doesn’t speak much, thoughtful in that silent, observant way he has.
James glances at him every few steps, checking in without saying a word.
They reach the corridor leading to the Gryffindor tower — where gold light spills through the windows and portraits whisper curiously as they pass.
Just before the turn, James slows.
“So…” he says. “This was fun.”
Regulus gives him a look.
“James. We spent half of it experiencing the emotional equivalent of being hit by a Bludger.”
“Still fun!” James insists.
And the truth is —
they agree.
Evan nods. “We like spending time with you, cariño.”
Barty: “Painfully so.”
Regulus mutters something that sounds dangerously close to “same.”
James beams.
They stop just short of the stretch of hallway where the boys would normally split off.
James turns to them, rocking on his heels.
“I’ll see you later?”
All three of them answer at once:
“Yes.”
“Obviously.”
“You couldn’t escape us if you tried.”
And James feels so full, so warm, so comfortable that he almost forgets how to speak.
He lifts a hand in a little wave —
boyish, soft, the kind of gesture someone only gives people they trust.
The boys start to turn away.
But James calls out:
“Hey!”
They turn back.
He smiles.
“Thanks.”
He means the day.
The company.
The laughter.
The way they make him feel like he belongs in more than one place.
Regulus’s expression softens in a way he wouldn’t allow in public.
Evan looks proud.
Barty grins like he’s holding a secret.
“Anytime,” Evan says.
“Tomorrow?” Barty adds.
“Always,” Regulus finishes quietly.
James disappears around the corner to the portrait hole, jumper sleeves tugged nervously over his hands, smiling to himself like he’s carrying a warm secret.
The three boys don’t walk away immediately.
They stand there.
Still.
Thinking.
Barty breaks the silence first.
“So we’re all in agreement, yes?”
Evan sighs. “About what?”
“About him being—” Barty gestures vaguely, dramatically, helplessly “—that.”
Evan nods slowly. “Yeah. He’s… very much that.”
Regulus crosses his arms, cheeks faintly pink.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Both boys stare at him.
Regulus scowls.
“…Fine. I know what you’re talking about.”
They start walking back toward their own staircase, all three suddenly quiet.
Not awkward.
Just… thoughtful.
Evan folds his hands behind his back.
“We should… take care of him.”
“We already do,” Barty says.
Regulus breathes out softly.
“Then we keep doing it.”
They don’t say anything else.
They don’t need to.
The decision is made without ever being spoken:
James Potter is theirs to look after now.
And they won’t let him slip through the cracks again.
James hasn’t even taken two steps into the quiet little alcove before Sirius pulls him in.
Not violently.
Not desperately.
Just… like someone who’s been holding his breath for days and finally gets air.
“Jamie,” Sirius whispers.
James melts into him instantly, arms winding around his ribs.
He squeezes back hard — too hard — but Sirius doesn’t complain.
He only holds tighter.
For a full minute, they just stay there.
Breathing.
Clinging.
Relearning the shape of one another’s shoulders.
When Sirius finally leans back, he wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to look casual and failing miserably.
“Okay, I need to say it,” Sirius says. “The jumper. The one you made. It’s— Merlin, James. It’s brilliant.”
James blushes. Actually blushes.
“It’s just a granny-square pattern—”
“No,” Sirius says firmly, grabbing the hem between his fingers. “This is art. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever made me. And you made yourself one to match? You absolute— you’re ridiculous.”
He huffs a shaky laugh.
“You know I’m never taking this off, right? People will have to pry it from my cold, hexed body.”
James laughs into Sirius’s shoulder. “You really like it?”
“I love it,” Sirius says, voice cracking on the word in the gentlest way. “And I love—”
He stops himself, swallows, then tries again.
“I love that you made it for me.”
James’s throat tightens.
“Well. I missed you,” he says simply. “And when I miss people, I make things for them. It’s a habit.”
Sirius softens instantly.
“You missed me?”
“Like crazy.”
Sirius’s reaction is immediate — a breath gone sharp, eyes closing, forehead leaning against James’s temple.
“Good,” Sirius murmurs. “Because I— Merlin, Jamie, I missed you so much it was stupid.”
James wraps an arm around his waist again.
Sirius leans in without hesitation, like muscle memory has been waiting for this moment.
“I kept thinking,” Sirius continues quietly, “if we just had one good hug again, everything would feel less wrong.”
James swallows. “Does it?”
Sirius nods. “Yeah. It really does.”
They sink down onto the window ledge they used to claim every week in first and second year — the hidden one behind the old tapestry.
Sirius slides sideways so James can rest against his shoulder.
It’s exactly like old times.
Sirius nudges James’s knee gently.
“You smell like crochet yarn.”
“You smell like wet dog,” James fires back automatically.
Sirius snorts. “We’re really back, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” James says softly. “We are.”
The sunlight hits them through the stained glass, coloring them warm blue and amber.
Sirius shifts so James can lean his head on his chest—something James used to do all the time before everything got complicated.
James hesitates.
Sirius doesn’t.
He opens his arms a little.
A silent invitation.
James goes.
He settles against Sirius’s chest, fingers curling loosely into the knit of his jumper — the jumper James made — breathing slow and steady.
Sirius exhales shakily into James’s hair.
“I’m glad you’re back with me,” Sirius whispers.
“I never left,” James replies sleepily. “Just… drifted.”
“Well,” Sirius says softly, wrapping an arm around him, “I’ve got you now.”
And just like that —
the exhaustion hits both of them at once.
Sirius lets his chin rest on top of James’s curls.
James curls closer, the same way he used to fall asleep after Quidditch practice when he was twelve.
Within minutes, Sirius’s breathing evens out.
Within ten, James’s grip on his jumper loosens just slightly.
They fall asleep tucked into each other,
not because they need comforting —
but because this is home.
This has always been home.
And for the first time in weeks, the castle feels right again.