James sank deeper into the couch, letting the cushions swallow him, the firelight flickering across his tired face. The common room was quiet—too quiet, as if the castle itself had gone to sleep, leaving him alone with the restless energy that always seemed to buzz under his skin.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of the day pressing down: missed Quidditch passes, Sirius’s endless teasing, the echo of Professor McGonagall’s words from Charms class. His mind refused to quiet, spinning through victories and failures, plans and what-ifs, like a broomstick caught in a never-ending loop.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair. The strands fell into his eyes, and he brushed them back impatiently. He could feel the tension coiling in his shoulders, the same restless energy that made sleep impossible.

He stared into the flames, watching the shadows dance across the walls, the flicker reflecting in his hazel eyes. There was a sharp clarity in the quiet, a space where he could think without interruption.

For a moment, he let himself lean back fully, closing his eyes, exhaling a slow, quiet sigh. He hated how exposed the silence made him feel, but there was something almost comforting about it too. No expectations, no laughter to answer, no one watching him.

He lifted his head, glanced around the empty room, and allowed a small, wry smirk. Even alone, James knew he couldn’t stay still for long. The night stretched ahead like a blank canvas, and though sleep might not come, there was always the possibility of invention, mischief, or a plan taking shape.

He leaned back again, letting the warmth of the fire seep into him, the restless energy coiling like a spring ready to unwind. Alone, yes, but not idle. James Potter never was.