cigarette daydream || james potter

"You wanna find peace of mind,"

Estella had barely left her bedroom that week.

The cottage had begun to feel like it existed in two separate worlds-upstairs and everything else. Downstairs was muffled life: distant movement, the occasional clatter of a mug, the soft thud of footsteps across old floorboards that had never quite stopped complaining about being walked on. Upstairs, however, was something slower. Heavier. A space where time didn't so much pass as it pooled and stagnated in the corners of the room.

Her bed had become its centre.

The mattress dipped permanently in the middle now, as though it had accepted defeat under the weight of her presence. The sheets were creased in a way that suggested she never fully got out of them anymore-only shifted positions, like changing angles might somehow make the same hours feel different. Sunlight came through the window in the same thin, tired stripe every afternoon, catching on dust that floated lazily through the air like it had nowhere else to be.

Letters from James arrived anyway.

They appeared in ways she didn't bother to understand-sometimes slipping under the door, sometimes landing heavily on the bedside table as if they had dropped out of the air itself and decided that was good enough. They always looked slightly too neat for the room they entered.

She never read them for long.

Some were burnt in the small grate in the corner of the room, the paper curling inwards as the ink blurred and darkened before disappearing into ash. Some were thrown into the bin without ceremony, landing on top of old wrappings and forgotten things like they belonged there. One had been found later in Oliver's litter tray, partially buried as if even the cat had decided it was an acceptable place for it to end up.

Oliver, for his part, showed no guilt.

He simply blinked at her whenever she caught him near them, as if correspondence was beneath his dignity.

That afternoon, the light outside had begun to shift.

It wasn't quite evening yet, but the sun had that hesitant quality it got before dropping behind the hills-gold thinning into amber, stretching itself long across the fields like it was considering whether to stay or leave. The sky outside her window had softened into pale orange and muted blue, colours blending together without commitment.

Inside, Estella lay on her bed, one arm thrown across her stomach, the other idly tracing patterns into the blanket without looking. Her voice was barely audible even to herself, humming something low and uneven under her breath-*Starman*, fragmented and soft, like she only remembered half the notes and didn't care enough to fix the rest.

The sound filled the room in pieces rather than melody.

A knock came at the door.

It was sharp enough to cut through the stillness.

Estella didn't move immediately.

The second knock followed anyway.

Then the door opened without waiting for permission.

Remus stepped inside as though he had been expecting resistance but refusing to acknowledge it. He carried a chipped mug in one hand and a plate balanced carefully in the other. The smell of tea followed him in-warm, slightly too strong, with the faint sweetness of jam clinging to the air.