James Potter swore he hated you.

Not in the way he hated Snivellus—with all the tangled history and blood-boil and betrayal. This was different. Colder. Quieter. A hate that lived under his tongue like a spell he hadn’t quite cast, smoldering and sharp.

It didn’t make any sense. You hadn’t done anything to him. Not really.

And maybe that’s what drove him mad.

You were always there. Moving through the castle with that Slytherin ease, like nothing touched you, like the chaos of adolescence and war and hormones couldn’t reach past the way you carried yourself. Perfect posture. Impossibly clean robes. That look in your eye—calculating, unreadable, always several steps ahead.

You didn’t look at him. Not the way other people did. Not with awe, or amusement, or even irritation. You just didn’t look. Like he didn’t exist. And that, for James Potter, was worse than open scorn.

He was used to being seen. Loudly. Brightly. Whether for pranks or Quidditch or that stupid hair-ruffling thing he did when he was nervous (which—fine—was always when she was within thirty feet), people noticed him. That was the deal. That was who he was.

But you? You could walk past him in the corridor, brush shoulders with him outside the library, and not so much as blink in acknowledgment. And every time it happened, he’d feel this hot little surge in his chest—ugly and unfair—and think, God, I hate her.

Except. He didn’t. Not really.

Not when he caught you once by the Black Lake, hair undone, sleeves rolled, reading some book he didn’t recognize with your shoes kicked off like you weren’t a Slytherin at all, just a girl in the sun. Not when you tilted your head at something in Transfiguration and bit the corner of your lip like you were trying not to smile. Not when you rolled your eyes at a classmate’s comment and muttered something under your breath in that clipped, low voice that somehow made his stomach flip.

There was something electric about you. Something that made him feel too big for his skin.

He didn’t understand it—this sour, clenching thing in his chest. How he could burn with frustration at the mere idea of you, and then dream about your mouth against his like it was fate. How he could glare daggers at you in the Great Hall, only to find himself drawing the curve of your jawline in the margins of his notes during History of Magic.

Once, he caught you looking at him.

It lasted a second. Less. You were passing by as he leaned too far back in his chair, laughing at something Sirius had said, and he saw you glance over—cool, expressionless, like you were checking a weather pattern. And then you were gone.

He didn’t stop thinking about it for days.

It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real. You were the enemy—his enemy, the one who made his blood heat and his palms sweat for no good reason, who walked the halls like you owned them, like you knew something he didn’t. He didn’t like you. He didn’t.

But if that were true, why did his heart race when he saw you walking alone toward the dungeons? Why did he care if you were laughing—really laughing—with someone else? Why did he want to ruin you and kiss you all in the same breath?

James Potter hated you.

He hated how you made him doubt himself. He hated that you never looked his way. He hated that he didn’t know what he’d do if you ever truly did.