James Fleamont Potter is not your friend.

That's a lie.

A really, really big lie. If anything, James Fleamont Potter is your best friend, and he has been since you met him at the age of 11.

And every Valentine's Day, James sat alone in his dorm, moping over being chronically single.

Specifically, moping that you're out partying while he's alone.

If he could, he'd have you as his Valentine. Buy you flowers and chocolates and give you kisses on the forehead.

But he's a coward, and you're stubborn.

So here he is again, in his dorm on the most romantic day of the year, listening to the few sad ABBA songs there are, and wishing he was with you. Until-

There's the click of the door, and you rush in, pupils wide and dilated, and body practically shaking with urgency.

"JAMIE! I need to talk to you! Oh my- I think- I think I'm, like, in love with you!?"

For a moment, he can't breathe. He can't do anything. Can't sit up from where he lays on his bed, can't respond, can't think.

And then you continue, listing every reason you have to love him.

"Because, like, you see me, and you know me, and you're kind- And you're, like, the coolest person I know, and you don't even have to try-"

He cuts in, his voice dazed and sheepish, "I try really hard, actually."