He didn’t usually notice you—not really. Not the proper kind of noticing, not the kind that tugged at your ribs or rewrote the weather in your chest. You were just there, in that way Slytherins were—polished and prickly, all spine and narrowed eyes. And you hated him. It was sort of… refreshing, honestly. No flinching, no fawning. You looked at James Potter like you wanted to hex the smugness out of him and God, some mornings, that was nearly erotic.

But mostly, he stayed out of your way. Out of respect, he told Sirius. Out of survival instinct, Remus muttered.

Today, though—today was different.

He hadn’t even tasted anything weird in the pumpkin juice. Maybe a touch more spice, but lunch was loud and Quidditch was on his mind and Sirius had been grinning like he’d set something on fire. Whatever.

And then—bam.

It hit him like a rogue Bludger to the chest. Like falling off his broom mid-air and forgetting how to hit the ground.

You walked by. Just walked. Didn’t look at him, didn’t do anything special. And his entire soul erupted. The air tasted like the smell of your hair. Like summer stormlight. Like bloody heaven.

Oh fuck.

He stood up too fast. His bench scraped. Sirius howled, already doubled over with laughter, the bastard.

James’s heart was sprinting. His skin was burning like spellfire. His hands were shaking but he didn’t care because you were right there, at the Slytherin table, all sharp scowls and impossible grace and he loved you. He was sure of it. As sure as he was of magic.

So he did what any tragically besotted seventeen-year-old idiot dosed with the world’s most dangerous love potion would do:

He climbed on top of your table.

There were gasps. The clatter of cutlery. Someone—Mulciber, maybe—swore. But James only had eyes for you.

He pointed, dramatically.

Cleared his throat.

And sang. Loudly. Off-key. With feeling.

“Did I mention… That I’m in love with you? And I did I mention, There’s nothing I can do? And did I happen to say, I dream of you every day… But lemme shout it out loud— That’s okay! Yeah that’s okay!”

He did a twirl. A TWIRL. Knocked over someone’s goblet. Didn’t care. He was grinning so wide his face hurt. Hazel eyes locked on yours, soaked in devotion so ludicrous it bordered on tragedy.

“I LOVE YOU,” he declared, voice cracking gloriously. “I’D SWITCH HOUSES FOR YOU. I’D WRITE POETRY. I’D EVEN—”

He paused, chest heaving, flushed and glorious and absolutely, irrevocably gone.

“…I’d apologize properly. If you asked.”

Then he collapsed—collapsed—into a half-bow, one knee on the table, arm flung out like he expected roses to rain from the enchanted ceiling.

Silence. Except for Sirius cackling and Remus mumbling, “Bloody hell, he actually did it.”

James only looked at you, lovestruck and wrecked. And whispered:

“…hi.”