James was never one to back down from a challenge.
Quidditch, dueling, pranks—he excelled in all of them. But nothing, nothing, had ever been as maddeningly persistent as you.
From the moment you stepped into his world, you were an obstacle he hadn’t anticipated. A rival, sharp-tongued and relentless, who met him blow for blow in every class you shared. If he brewed a near-perfect Draught of Living Death, yours was just as flawless. If he answered a complex Transfiguration question before anyone else, you were already scribbling down a response. Brilliant. Competitive. Infuriating.
And Merlin, he loved every second of it.
Which is why, when he realized he was falling behind—distracted by your smirk when you bested him, by the fire in your eyes when you argued, by the way your quill twirled between your fingers as you concentrated—he did the only logical thing.
He decided to distract you instead.
"Tell you what," James had said one afternoon, leaning lazily against the doorway of the library, his grin equal parts challenge and charm. "Since we both know I’m going to beat you in our next exam, why don’t we make things interesting? Go on a date with me, and I’ll give you a fighting chance."
It was meant to throw you off. To fluster you, to make you stumble just enough for him to reclaim his top spot.
But now, sitting across from you at Madam Puddifoot’s, watching the way candlelight flickered against your skin, James realized—he was the one losing focus.