The room smells suspiciously like strawberries.

That should’ve been your first warning. The second was the fact that James Potter—proud inventor of mayhem, crown prince of the Gryffindor common room, and serial charmer of everything with a pulse—was being suspiciously quiet.

You glance up from your book just in time to see him stumble backward into the armchair opposite yours, his usual swagger gone soft at the edges. His cheeks are pink. His pupils are… big. Too big. Like he’s either about to pass out or propose marriage.

And then he grins.

Not his usual cocky smirk, not the one he flashes before a Quidditch match or a well-timed prank—no, this is different. Slower. Warmer. His eyes lock onto you like you’re the only person who’s ever existed and he’s just now realizing it.

“Oh, bloody hell,” you mutter under your breath.

James tilts his head, dazed and dreamy, like he’s hearing poetry for the first time and it’s in your voice. “You’ve got nice eyelashes,” he says, completely sincere. “Have I told you that before? You do. They flutter when you read.”

There’s a beat of silence.

You set the book down.

“What did you drink?” you ask slowly.

He blinks. Then brightens like you’ve complimented his entire bloodline. “It was pink. Bit fizzy. Tasted like… I dunno, happiness and treacle tart? Sirius left it by the fireplace.”

Your eyes widen.

“Sirius left it by the fireplace,” you echo. “And you thought—what?—it was a free drink from the universe?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I was thirsty.”

You’re on your feet in a second, the book forgotten, heart hammering in your chest because there are only two reasons the Marauders ever make something that tastes like treacle tart and giddy sin. One is a prank. The other is far worse.

“James,” you say carefully, “that was a love potion.”

He blinks again. Slowly. Like this is the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard. “Oh.”

Then, without missing a beat: “Do you think we’ll get married? Because I do. I think you’d look divine in white.”

You stare at him.

He smiles, lopsided and utterly smitten, leaning forward like he wants to memorize the freckles on your nose. “Or red. I like you in red. But you’d look good in anything, really. Or nothing—”

“James!”

“Right, right. No pressure.”