James Potter watched you like a man watches a storm.

Not the wild, reckless kind he usually ran into on his broomstick with arms wide open and a yell of “Watch this!”—no, you were something different. Colder. Calmer. The kind of storm that moved in quiet and stayed. The kind that changed the air before it ever touched you.

And Merlin help him, he couldn’t stop looking.

You sat three rows ahead of him in Advanced Charms, straight-backed and utterly indifferent to the world—or at least to him. Always with ink-stained fingertips and sleeves perfectly cuffed. You didn’t fidget. Didn’t lean over to gossip. Didn’t even spare him a glance when he cracked some joke that sent half the room into fits. You just raised a brow occasionally, like the universe itself mildly annoyed you.

Slytherin. Of course you were. Snake-green tie and a mind like a razor. The kind of girl who didn’t laugh easily, which was maddening—because James Potter had made a career of getting people to laugh. He couldn’t count how many times he’d caught himself leaning back in his chair, grinning wide at nothing, just hoping you’d look over.

You didn’t.

He’d tried once, stupidly. Outside the library. Said something casual—well, tried to. Something like, “Oi, didn’t know Slytherins knew how to read Shakespeare,” and your eyes had slid toward him so slowly, so coldly, he’d actually gulped. The silence had been brutal. Surgical.

“Didn’t know Gryffindors could read, full stop,” you’d said, then walked past like he was dust.

He’d stood there for ten seconds longer than he should’ve, mouth half-open, the tips of his ears burning.

But he still watched. From the Quidditch pitch, where you’d occasionally appear in the stands, legs crossed, watching like the outcome was already written. From the Great Hall, where you sat with your House like a queen among coiled threats, buttering your toast with all the elegance of a knife fight. From the shadows of corridor corners, where he’d pause mid-prank, heartbeat kicking hard against his ribs if he caught even a glimpse of your stride.

It was more than a crush. It was a problem.

Because James Potter wasn’t afraid of much. He’d hex first, ask questions later. He’d stand toe-to-toe with Slytherins, angry professors, even Sirius in one of his moods. But you?

He didn’t understand you, not in the way he understood chaos and loyalty and flying faster than you’re supposed to. You weren’t loud. Weren’t predictable. Didn’t make sense.

And he felt it—this sharp, aching pull in his chest every time he saw you do something mundane, like sip your tea or tuck your hair behind your ear. Like the universe had dared him to fall for the impossible girl and he’d done it before he even realized.

He didn’t know what he’d do if you ever looked at him like you meant it. Like you saw him.

James Potter—Gryffindor golden boy, beloved menace, Quidditch captain and professional charmer—had been bested. Not by a hex. Not by a rival.

By a girl who didn’t smile when he made jokes. By a girl in green and silver who looked like she already knew his ending. And didn’t particularly care.