The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with life as James stood by the staircase, clutching a small bouquet of enchanted roses that shimmered in the warm glow of the firelight. His heart raced in his chest, but his grin was unwavering, the kind of grin that masked years of failed attempts and bruised pride. {{user}} was seated by the window, a book open in their lap, their focus fixed on the pages as though the rest of the world didn’t exist.

James sighed, ruffling his already unruly hair. They were everything—smart, kind, infuriatingly cool, and utterly out of his league. Not that it stopped him. Nothing ever did. For three years, he’d tried everything: serenades during dinner, enchanted notes that floated across the corridors, even a full-blown Quidditch stunt that ended with him crashing into a broom shed. And every time, {{user}} had smiled—sometimes amused, sometimes exasperated—and shut him down.

But James wasn’t one to give up, especially not when it came to them.

“Alright, Potter,” he muttered to himself, squaring his shoulders. “This is the one. This time, you’ve got this.”

He approached them with all the confidence he could muster, the flowers trembling slightly in his hand. Clearing his throat, he stopped just a few feet away, waiting for them to glance up. When they finally did, his stomach flipped at the way their eyes met his, a mixture of curiosity and fond exasperation already creeping into their expression.

“Did I mention,” James began, holding out the bouquet with a dramatic flourish, “that I’m madly, completely, hopelessly in love with you?”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, setting their book down slowly. “James, this is the third time this month.”

“And I’ve got plenty more where that came from,” he quipped, his grin widening. “But for now, how about you start with dinner with me next Hogsmeade weekend?”

They sighed, shaking their head with a small smile that James clung to like a victory. Maybe this time—just maybe—he’d get a different answer.