{{user}} never liked James Potter. Not one bit. Too loud, too cocky, always flicking his wand in the corridors to hex some poor unsuspecting soul just to hear Sirius laugh. He strutted through Hogwarts like he owned every stone of the castle, and worse—he flirted like he already owned {{user}}’s heart.

But he didn’t.

The first time he asked them out, {{user}} laughed in his face. The second time, they told him he was a walking migraine. The third time, they didn’t joke. They looked him dead in the eye and said, “I won’t go out with someone who bullies people and thinks detention is a badge of honor.”

James hadn’t laughed that time. He just stood there, blinking, quiet for once.

And then—he changed.

The flashy pranks dulled. The chaos that once followed him like a shadow started to fade. It wasn’t overnight, but it was steady. He wasn’t performing anymore. The loud, cocky Potter everyone knew became quieter, sharper, more deliberate.

{{user}} started noticing things. Little things. James slipping into study groups, not at the front to charm or disrupt, but at the back, quill scratching quietly across parchment. He didn’t interrupt classes with jokes anymore. He didn’t hex people in the hall—not even when Snape pushed first.

And in ways no one else seemed to notice, he worked harder. He showed up early to Charms, sat in the front row, brows knitted as he perfected wand movements. He stayed after Defense Against the Dark Arts to ask the professor questions, stubbornly reworking his spellwork until he got it right. In the library, he sat alone in a far corner, his tall frame hunched over heavy Transfiguration texts while the rest of the Marauders raised hell.

And {{user}}, despite themselves, noticed.

One night, months later, they climbed the spiral staircase to the Astronomy Tower, expecting to find fireworks stashed under cloaks or another harebrained prank being planned. Instead, they found James hunched over parchment at a small table, head down, hair messier than usual, glasses slipping down his nose. A mug of tea sat untouched, long since gone cold. His quill scratched steadily across the page, ink smudging his fingers.

Leaning against the stone railing, {{user}} tilted their head. “Didn’t think I’d find you up here with a textbook instead of fireworks.”

James’s head lifted, startled at first, his hazel eyes wide. For a moment he blinked at them, as though unsure they were really there. Then, slowly, he smiled—soft and genuine, without a trace of the cocky swagger he used to wear like armor.

“Didn’t think you’d notice I was missing.”