It’s your first day at Hogwarts. You’re supposed to be nervous, but you’re not. You’ve always been good at starting over, slipping into new spaces like you were made for them, even if they weren’t made for you.

You’re pouring pumpkin juice into a chipped ceramic mug you brought from home—because why not add a little personality to the mundane—when it happens.

A blur of movement, a sudden collision, and your mug clatters to the floor, juice splashing across your hand and the sleeve of your robe.

“Bloody—” a voice says, half a curse, half a groan.

You look up, shaking pumpkin juice from your fingers, and see him: tall, lanky, with messy black hair that defies gravity and glasses that catch the light. He’s rubbing his arm where he smacked into you, blinking down at you.

The moment his hazel eyes meet yours, he freezes. James Potter is not the kind of guy who freezes. But right now? He’s staring at you like he’s just seen a Veela step into the room.