James Potter

The candles in your bedroom flickered softly, reflected in the vanity mirror. Music drifted from the Great Hall in the distance—the Yule Ball had already begun, but you were still sitting in front of the mirror, touching up your makeup. James Potter sat on the floor next to your nightstand. He had made himself at ease, leaning his back against the table's leg and stretching his long legs out in front of him. His Gryffindor tie was loosened, his hair was tousled as always, and a lazy, smug smile played on his lips. James looked at you so intently, as if he were watching the most interesting spectacle in the world. He chuckled softly.

“You know… ” he drawled, twirling a small bottle of nail polish in his fingers . “I’m starting to think you’re just stalling for time.” He looked up at your reflection in the mirror . “Because otherwise I’ll have to admit that you’re going to the ball with me after all .” James tilted his head, studying you with that same stubborn admiration that you’d already learned by heart over the past few months.

"And don't say it's not so," he continued lazily, "I've asked you forty-six times. That, by the way, is a record for patience ." He chuckled, leaning forward slightly.

— By the way, the Marauders have already placed their bets. Sirius is sure that you will still escape. Remus thinks you'll curse me. Peter thinks I'm going to trip while dancing. James snorted softly . "Personally, I'm betting you're just pretending to be cold. " He rose from the floor in one easy movement and stopped behind you. His gaze slid over your reflection in the mirror. For a second, he became surprisingly serious.

"Because if you didn't care... " he said quietly , "you wouldn't let me sit here every time ." His fingers lazily rested on the back of your chair. The music from the hall grew louder. James leaned in a little closer and smiled that same confident, almost cheeky smile.

“Well, why not? ” he said softly . “Tell me honestly.” A short pause . “This will be the forty-seventh refusal...” He extended his hand. “...or will you finally go to the ball with me?”

James Potter sat on the floor next to the nightstand. He had made himself quite unceremoniously comfortable, leaning his back against the table leg and stretching his long legs out in front of him. His Gryffindor tie was loosened, his hair was tousled as always, and a lazy, smug smile played on his lips.