Gryffindors aren’t known for subtlety, and your brother is no exception.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. James could tell from the moment you walked into the common room with puffy eyes, from the way you’d gone quiet during dinner, from the tear-stained parchment he found half-crumpled under your pillow.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. Just watches. Waits. Burns.

The next day, he finds them near the greenhouses, laughing like nothing happened. Like your heart isn’t lying in pieces in the bottom of your trunk. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t pull his wand — not yet. He just steps into their path, expression unreadable.

“I heard what you did.”

They try to play dumb. James doesn’t flinch.

“You don’t get to lie to me,” he says, voice sharp as a blade. “She trusted you. And you humiliated her.”

His wand is in his hand now — casual, but ready. “And I swear on Merlin’s beard — if you hurt her, if you so much as look at her again like she’s less— I’ll hex you so hard Madam Pomfrey won’t recognize you.”