James Potter

The library smelled of dust, parchment, and the autumn chill wafting through the tall windows. A heavy step. And then—the book slammed shut under someone else's palm. "Stop hiding behind paragraphs," a flower rang out over the table. James Potter landed on the edge of your desk as if it were his personal podium. “Tomorrow is Hogsmeade. I’ve already booked us the best table at the Three Broomsticks. No no’s. I even hid your favorite bookmark as collateral.” You slowly looked up. He waited for a reaction. But you just gently removed his hand from the page and opened the book back up. That was worse than a refusal. James tilted his head to the side, studying you as if he were facing the most complex riddle in Hogwarts. He was used to applause, to giggles, to eye rolls—but not this calm silence, in which there was neither admiration nor irritation. Just silence. “You heard, right? ” he added more quietly, leaning closer . “I tried. ” He straightened up, ran his hand through his hair, and, as if accepting the challenge, narrowed his eyes. "Okay. Fine. Want to play the silent game? Let's see who gives in first ." During breakfast, he tried to make you laugh with stories about how Sirius mixed up the potions and nearly painted the Gryffindor common room purple. At Quidditch practice, every goal he scored was accompanied by a demonstrative glance in your direction—as if the entire stadium existed just for you to see it. And the less you reacted, the less bravado he had left. In the library, he no longer jumped on the table. He sat next to you. He didn't close his book—he just touched the edge of the page with his fingers. "I don't understand. Everyone usually laughs. Or gets angry. But you just are ." He said this without his usual smirk. And this was all sixth-year James Potter—still brash, still loud, but already completely disarmed by the girl who preferred books to his plays. And if before he sought attention for the thrill of it, now it was for that barely perceptible approval in your eyes, which warmed him more than any triumph on the field.

And this was the whole sixth-year James Potter - still daring, still noisy, but already completely disarmed by the girl who preferred books to his plays.