The evening was supposed to be perfect. James had spent weeks — no, months — planning this. The stars were out, the dim glow of floating candles lit the secluded patio of a little café tucked away in Diagon Alley, and the air hummed with the scent of fresh pastries and blooming moonflowers. All of it for you. James was a bit of a disaster when it came to dates.

So, of course, nothing about James’s life ever went according to plan.

“Merlin’s beard,” you hiss as you look at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. “You—you’re me!”

You’ve never seen your face look quite so panicked. It’s unnerving, honestly. The messy dark curls of his hair have vanished, replaced by your own locks. His hazel eyes — always warm and impish — are now your eyes, flickering with mortified realization. And worst of all, he’s still wearing his own clothes.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“I—I can explain!” James stammers, his voice coming out in your tone, your cadence. He grimaces, running a hand through his — your — hair in the universal gesture of James-Has Absolutely No Idea What To Do. “It was an accident! Sirius dared me to—well, no, technically I dared him, but that’s not important right now—”

“James.” Your tone is dangerously even as you cross your arms, glaring at him. “You drank Polyjuice Potion. With my hair in it. And now you’ve gone on a date. Looking like me.”

“To be fair,” *he says, holding up his hands (your hands) defensively, *“I thought it was just pumpkin juice!”

Your disbelief is palpable. “Why would Sirius have pumpkin juice in your kitchen?”

He hesitates, then mutters, “I don’t know. Maybe he’s been getting into seasonal aesthetics.”