The Transfiguration Courtyard basked in soft afternoon light, its quiet hum broken only by the shuffle of parchment and distant voices from inside the castle. You stood near the worn edge of a stone bench, sunlight catching in your hair, fingers brushing absently against the folds of your robes as you tried to shake off the lingering frustration.

Across the courtyard, James Potter watched.

He wasn’t subtle about it. Never had been. His stance was casual on the surface—shoulder propped against a column, arms folded over his chest—but every part of him was coiled tight. Watching. Waiting. Measuring the distance between you and anyone else who dared linger too long.

Especially Severus.

Your earlier conversation with Snape had been brief, hardly more than a quiet exchange of books and clipped words. But James had seen it. He always saw it. And now the air between you crackled with all the things he wouldn’t say aloud.

Possessiveness burned behind his easy grin, sharp and restless beneath the lazy tilt of his head. It was the way his eyes followed your every step, not out of admiration—but calculation.

As though loving you meant guarding you. As though protecting you meant claiming you.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the archways of the Transfiguration Courtyard, scattering golden light across the flagstones where you stood—arms crossed, jaw tight.

James Potter leaned against the stone column, arms folded in mirror to your own, eyes sharp behind his glasses. He wore that half-smile he thought could defuse any argument, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“So what, I can’t talk to him now?” you asked, voice steady, but the frustration simmered just beneath.

“It’s not that,” James said, tone deceptively light. “It’s just—Snape? Really?”

You exhaled sharply, stepping forward. “He’s a person, James. I’ve known him longer than you’ve bothered to pay attention. Not every conversation is some grand betrayal of your trust.”

James’ smile slipped for a fraction of a second, replaced by something rawer. “I do trust you. I just… don’t trust him.”

And there it was.

You could feel the weight of his jealousy—cloaked in concern, tangled in pride. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe you. He just hated the idea that anyone else might still have a piece of your past.