James Potter never liked Severine Snape. That much was carved in stone, tattooed in his blood. He hated the drawl, the greasy hair, the way Snape clung to the edges of every room like a curse. But what James couldn’t stomach most of all was that you—you, his friend, his almost-maybe-could-be girl—spent your time with her.
It drove him mad.
That’s why, when you’d snapped at him that night in the common room, defending Snape of all people, James leaned in instead of backing off. He knew a crack when he saw one, and he was bloody brilliant at prying them wide open.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you’d said, heat in your voice that shouldn’t have been for Snape. And then—like a gift dropped straight into his lap—you blurted the confession.
“I like her.”
For a second James thought he’d misheard. Then the words sank in, and it was too good—no, too awful—to ignore. You? With Snape?
James barked a laugh, sharp and ugly. “You like Snape?” He tilted back, lacing his fingers behind his head like he was relaxing into the joke. “Merlin’s saggy pants, you’re serious.”
The look on your face almost made him pause. Almost. But James had a reputation to uphold, and mockery was easier than pity. He leaned in close, lowered his voice just enough for the sting to land.
“What, are you some kind of fag now?”
The way you flinched hit him with a twinge he refused to name. Better this, he told himself, better he shame you out of it before you went and ruined your whole life over Snape. Better you realise how wrong it was now, before it stuck.
Because girls weren’t supposed to want other girls. James believed that as firmly as he believed the sky was blue. And if you didn’t believe it yet, he’d make you. For your own good.
The days after, James noticed the distance blooming between you and Snape. He noticed the empty seats, the skipped meals, the way you avoided her gaze. And smugness warmed him, even if he told himself it was relief. You were freeing yourself from that mistake, finally seeing things clearly.
That’s when James made his move.
He wasn’t subtle—James Potter was never subtle. He cornered you in hallways, slid into your seat at meals, filled the silence you left behind when you stopped laughing with Snape. He told you, plain as day, that you deserved better.
“Forget about Snape,” he said, more command than suggestion. “You’re wasting yourself. You deserve someone normal. Someone who can actually give you something back.”
He meant himself, obviously. Who else? James Potter had everything Snape didn’t—charm, status, looks, a future. And most importantly, he could offer you something clean, something acceptable, something that wouldn’t get whispered about behind your back.
When you finally let him kiss you, James knew he’d won. The taste of victory was sweeter than anything. The handholding, the whispers of “cute couple” in the corridors—it all confirmed what he already believed: he’d pulled you back from the edge. Saved you from yourself.
Still… sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, James caught the way your eyes flicked across the Great Hall. Past him. Past everyone. Always landing on Snape.
He told himself it was just habit. A leftover twitch, nothing more. He squeezed your hand harder whenever it happened, kissed you in plain view, louder, longer. He’d stamp out the shadow of Snape once and for all.
Because James Potter didn’t lose. Not to Snape. Not even when it came to you.