You slam your Charms book shut and shove it into your bag, head down, heart tight.

He’s at it again. James Potter — with his bloody broomstick hair and stupidly charming grin — calling your name down the corridor like it’s some kind of performance.

“Oi! {{user}}! Fancy getting a butterbeer with me this weekend?”

You don’t even look back. You hear Sirius’s laugh echoing off the stone behind you, and it twists in your chest like a knife.

You walk faster.

Because you’ve seen the way people look at you when James talks to you like that. Like they’re waiting for the punchline. Because every time he says your name in that bright, too-loud voice, you feel like someone’s put a spotlight on the one girl at Hogwarts who doesn’t belong in it. Because he’s tall and golden and magnetic — and you’re just… not.

You think you’re safe by the library staircase, hidden between books and shadows.

But then you hear Sirius whispering — not to you, but to James.

“Mate… you’ve got to stop asking her out like it’s a show. She thinks you’re taking the piss.”

“What?” James sounds genuinely confused. “I’m not— I’m serious.”

“No,” says Remus quietly. “He’s Sirius. I’m Remus. And she thinks you’re joking because she’s convinced she’s not pretty enough for you.”

There’s a long pause. Then a muttered, “What?”

“Everyone talks,” Sirius says, a little softer now. “They say she’s plain. You’re… well. You. She’s probably heard worse than you think.”

James doesn’t respond. He just disappears down the corridor — fast.

You’re still tucked into the corner when he finds you.

He doesn’t call your name this time. He doesn’t say anything at all until he sits beside you, quietly, without the usual fanfare.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice low. “About what people say. About what you think.”

You don’t meet his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

A pause.

“{{user}}, I didn’t ask you out to be funny. I don’t want a reaction, or attention, or a laugh. I just want you.”

You open your mouth, but he gently brushes your hair behind your ear and cuts you off:

“I love your smile. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking too hard. The fact that you read books I’ve never even heard of.”

He leans in, softer now.

“I know what I look like. I know what people say about you. And none of it — none of it — has ever made me want you less.”

And then, like it’s the most honest thing he’s ever said:

“You’re beautiful. And I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.”