James Potter x reader: Childhood friends
The first Christmas you ever spent at Potter Manor, you were six years old and hiding behind your mother’s legs.
Even then, James Potter had marched right up to you with messy hair and scraped knees and declared, “You look like you need a friend.”
Your parents had laughed with Fleamont Potter and Euphemia Potter, already deep into mulled wine and shared stories. The Potters had known your parents for years—long before Hogwarts letters and blood status ever mattered. You were muggle-born, yes. But in their home, you were simply you.
And James had decided, very early on, that you were his.
Now you were seventeen, standing in front of the tall mirror in the guest bedroom at Potter Manor, smoothing your hands over your dress for the fifth time.
Ravenclaw blue. Simple. Modest. Safe.
Downstairs, laughter echoed through the grand hall. The annual Potter Christmas party was in full swing. Chandeliers glittered with enchanted snow. Garland wrapped around banisters. Music drifted up the staircase warm, lively, impossible to ignore.
All of James’ friends were here. Gryffindors in bright dresses and sharp suits. Loud laughter. Easy confidence.
You were good with books. With quiet conversations. With thoughtful pauses.
You were not good at dancing in crowded rooms.
A knock came at your door before it creaked open without waiting for permission.
James leaned against the frame, already in dress robes, glasses slightly crooked from rushing.
He grinned when he saw you.
“You look…” He paused, and for once, the boy who could talk his way through anything seemed to lose his words. “Merlin.”
Your cheeks burned. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he said quickly, pushing off the frame and stepping inside. “I was going to stare dramatically and make everyone else downstairs wildly insecure.”
You rolled your eyes, but your hands were still twisting together.
“You’re thinking about escaping through the back garden,” he said softly.
“You absolutely are. You did it when we were twelve.”
“You said there were too many people.”
“There are too many people.”
He stepped closer. Not crowding you. Just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.
“You don’t have to dance,” he said gently.
You hesitated. “But everyone will.”
“It’s my parents’ party,” he corrected. “And I’d rather spend it with you than with a hundred people trying to impress each other.”
Your heart did something inconvenient in your chest.
The music downstairs shifted — slower now. A waltz.
You looked toward the door. “I don’t know how to dance.”
“I don’t. Not properly. I’ll step on someone’s feet. Or trip. Or knock something over.”
He stared at you for a long second — then smiled, softer this time.
“Well,” he said, holding out his hand, “good thing I do.”
You eyed his hand suspiciously. “James.”
He didn’t lead you downstairs.
Instead, he tugged you down the hallway and into his bedroom, closing the door behind you. The music drifted faintly up through the floor, muffled but clear enough.
His room still looked like it always had — Quidditch posters, stacks of books, a faint smell of cedar and something distinctly James.
He turned to you, suddenly serious.
You laughed nervously. “There are lessons?”
“There are always lessons. I’m a very patient instructor.”
“You’re not patient at all.”
He stepped closer and gently took your hands, positioning one in his and placing the other carefully on his shoulder.
His hand settled at your waist — warm, steady.
“If I step on you,” you warned.
The music downstairs swelled again.
“Just follow me,” he murmured.
He began slowly. One step. Then another.
You stumbled the first time.
He tightened his hold slightly. “I’ve got you.”
The second time, you almost tripped.
He smiled. “Still got you.”
The third time… you didn’t.
His eyes never left yours.
“You’re good at this,” you whispered.
“No at… this.” You gestured vaguely between you.
Something in his expression changed.
“You’ve always been nervous about crowds,” he said quietly. “But you’ve never been awkward. Not with me.”
Your throat tightened. “That’s because you don’t count.”
He huffed softly. “I count.”
“You’ve known me forever.”
The room felt smaller somehow. Warmer.
The music slowed downstairs violins soft and lingering.
James pulled you a little closer without thinking.
Your foreheads nearly brushed.
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you don’t have to be loud to be brilliant.”
“Everyone downstairs shouts to be noticed.” His thumb traced absent circles against your waist. “You don’t. You just are.”
Your heart was racing so hard you were sure he could feel it.
For once in his life, James Potter looked unsure.
A loud wolf whistle cut through the moment.
Sirius Black leaned against the frame, arms crossed, grin positively wicked.
“Well,” he drawled, “this is educational.”
You jumped apart instantly.
James glared. “Do you knock?”
“Didn’t want to interrupt the wedding rehearsal.”
Behind him, Euphemia Potter peered over his shoulder, eyes twinkling.
“Oh,” she said warmly. “Fleamont, come here.”
Fleamont appeared moments later, taking in the scene with suspicious delight.
James went scarlet. “Mum.”
Sirius looked between you both, then back at Mr. and Mrs. Potter.
“Five galleons,” he said casually. “They’re together before Easter.”
“Before Valentine’s,” Euphemia countered.
“End of term,” Fleamont said thoughtfully.
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
James ran a hand through his hair. “Can everyone please leave my room?”
Sirius smirked. “We’ll give you two privacy. For dancing purposes.”
They retreated down the hall, laughter echoing.
“I’m so sorry,” you murmured.
“They think exactly what I think,” he said quietly.
He stepped closer again. Slower this time.
“That I’ve been in love with my best friend for years,” he said, almost like a confession he’d rehearsed a thousand times. “And she’s just now letting me teach her to dance.”
“I’m not very good at… this,” you whispered.
His hand brushed yours again.
Just before your lips met, a burst of laughter exploded from downstairs and you both startled, noses brushing awkwardly.
You both laughed — soft, breathless.
He rested his forehead against yours.
“Next dance,” he said, smiling, “we’ll finish it
dededos
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