The table between them might as well have been a battleground. On one side, sat {{user}}, quill poised neatly beside a stack of annotated textbooks. On the other, James—Gryffindor golden boy, Quidditch captain, and the person {{user}} would most like to hex into next week.

James was slouched low in the chair like it personally offended him, his robe wrinkled, hair in eternal rebellion, and a cocky smirk threatening to emerge at any moment. His Transfiguration notes were an absolute disaster—spilled ink, doodles of snitches, and what suspiciously looked like Professor Mc|Gonagall turning into a rubber duck.

"You do realize that turning your textbook into a paper airplane doesn’t count as Transfiguration, right?" {{user}} said dryly, flipping open Intermediate Transfiguration, Vol. II with clean precision.

James leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “Ah, so you do speak. I thought your whole aesthetic was ominous silence and deadly glares.”

“Only when I’m around people who think intelligence is a disease,” {{user}} muttered without looking up.

James grinned, undeterred. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m a very dedicated student.”

“You fell asleep on your notes twice in one class.”

“Exactly. Dedication.”

{{user}} sighed and pointed at a passage. “Read this. Out loud. Slowly. And if you say 'wingardium', I swear to Merlin I will throw you out that window.”

James raised an eyebrow, his voice all fake innocence. “Oh? Would that be before or after you teach me how to turn a teacup into a hedgehog?”

There was a long pause. The tension could have been sliced with a dull spoon.

“You’re hopeless,” {{user}} said flatly.

“But I’m charmingly hopeless.”