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Silence vow.

Notes: Rivals James Potter x Female Reader. Sassy Hufflepuff reader. Cliché I don't care. Not use of Y/N. English is not my first language. Use of Google translate. I hate people who don't know how to express their feelings (me). Slightly angst.

WC: 11.0k

Navigation | Serie Masterlist | Part I

James usually didn’t think too much after a match.

Winning or losing was just part of the game, and there was always another one ahead—another practice, another chance to shine. But this time, something felt different.

Since your fall, his mind kept returning to the moment he had to swerve away from the Snitch to catch you instead. The way his fingers had closed around your waist, the weight of your body swaying in the air, the fear that—for a fraction of a second—had frozen his blood. He’d never felt anything like it in the middle of a match.

He had won, yes. Gryffindor had celebrated. But he hadn’t, not really.

He spent more time than usual in the tower, sitting by the window, staring out at the pitch as if expecting to see you appear. Sometimes you did, sneaking out at night, thinking no one noticed. But James did. He knew you went out to train alone. He knew something inside you hadn’t healed with the bruises. And although he’d wanted to approach more than once, something held him back.

It wasn’t fear. It was respect. And guilt.

He kept replaying that argument in the air, the words laced with anger. “Fine. You win. Your team wins. Another victory for Gryffindor.” That line stuck with him like a curse. It hadn’t been the voice of someone who’d lost a match. It was the voice of someone who had been robbed of the chance to finish it. And he had been the one to take it from you.

The arrogance he used to wear like a protective cloak no longer served him. Every time he climbed on his broom during practice, something inside him tensed. Not because he doubted his skills, but because he finally understood that flying wasn’t just about winning. That there was more at stake when you shared the sky with someone like you.

And yet, he didn’t know how to reach it.

He didn’t know whether to apologize or simply stay away. But what he did know was that when your next match came—against Slytherin—he would be there. Not as a rival, not as a detached spectator. But as someone who, though he’d never admit it aloud, wanted to see you just fly again.

It had been a few weeks since that fall during the Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor match, but the memory still clung to you like a stubborn shadow refusing to fade. Some nights, when the castle slept and the world seemed to pause for a moment, you snuck down to the Quidditch pitch. There was no light, save for the soft glow of the moon filtering through the stands, but you didn’t care. Flying in the dark, training alone, feeling the cold wind against your face… it had all become a refuge. An obsession.

You spent hours sweeping across the pitch, mentally replaying every move of the match, every mistake, every second that could’ve changed the outcome. You repeated maneuvers until exhaustion, forced yourself to dodge imaginary players, to react faster, to anticipate the impossible. The fall hadn’t just been physical. It had struck your pride. The idea that you were ready to lead.

You analyzed every play, every flight, every decision with near-maniacal precision. You became your own harshest critic, and each night in the air turned into a desperate search for control. It couldn’t happen again. Not against Slytherin. You couldn’t afford another mistake.

But it wasn’t just the match that had been left unfinished. It was something else. Something deeper, more intimate, that still weighed in your chest with a force you could no longer ignore. It wasn’t just the fall, nor the lingering pain in your ribs. It was that exact moment when you’d felt his arms around you, holding you mid-air like you were the most fragile thing in the world. That shared look frozen in time, heavy with tension, with unspoken words.

Since then, you’ve avoided thinking about him. You’d repeated in your head, like a protective spell, that it meant nothing. That was just a moment. That he would’ve done the same for anyone else.

And now, standing in the middle of the empty pitch, with the dark sky mirroring the confusion inside you, and the wind whistling through the goal hoops like a distant lament, it was much harder to keep pretending. The echo of that instant—his ragged breath, the warmth of his body next to yours, the slight tremble in his hand as he held on—came back with unbearable clarity.

It wasn’t just the match that had been left unfinished.

It was you. It was him. It was both of you.

That night, the sky was clear, studded with stars like distant embers.

The air was cold, but not enough to stop you from following your usual routine. After hours of solitary training, your muscles were tired and your hands numb, but your mind remained alert, insistent, as if it still wasn’t enough.

You had lost track of time between your secret practices, mental corrections, and the constant anxiety about the upcoming match. The night air felt less biting from the Astronomy Tower, where you usually end up after flying. It was your way of returning to the ground without really touching it. From up there, the pitch looked smaller, more manageable. As if your mistakes could also be seen from a safe distance.

You sat on the edge of the stone ledge, legs dangling into the void, broom resting against the wall. The wind played with loose strands of your hair, and the sky, clear and open, let the constellations shine as if they, too, were silently watching you. The silence felt different this time. It wasn’t the usual kind.

You felt it before you heard it. That unmistakable kind of energy he always carried with him, even when he tried not to make a sound. And though you didn’t turn around, you knew it was him.

“Come to rub your victory in my face?” you asked coldly, still not looking at him, eyes fixed on the horizon.

James didn’t answer right away. He knew you’d noticed him, and still he stayed silent for a few seconds, as if he didn’t know what to say. As if he hadn’t expected to find you there—and yet, at the same time, had somehow planned for it.

“No,” he said finally, his voice lower, calmer than usual—almost like he was afraid of breaking something. “That’s not why I came.”

You stayed silent. It was his turn. Let him speak.

“I’ve seen you training at night,” he went on, approaching slowly. “A few times. I didn’t say anything… I didn’t want to interrupt. But tonight… I don’t know. I guess I got tired of just watch from afar.”

“From afar?” you echoed, sarcasm lacing your voice. “How noble of you, Potter.”

James shook his head, a barely contained smile curving his lips. He let out a soft huff, like even he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. His eyes, always so alive, sparkled with that familiar glint, the one that came right before he said something infuriating. “Nah,” he said with mock nonchalance, shrugging. “Just came to bother you for a bit.”

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, not even bothering to look at him. Even if you didn’t show it, part of you felt that familiar tingle—that mix of irritation and something else. The idiot really knew how to get under your skin.

James chuckled softly, the sound fading into the cold wind sweeping across the tower. He stepped a bit closer, close enough to feel present, but still respectful of your space. “Although, to be fair, you’re always mad at me anyway,” he added with a crooked smile, “so it’s not like this makes much of a difference.”

“Hmm,” you murmured, still not looking at him, as if the stars were safer than his eyes.

He noticed that tiny shift in your tone, that barely perceptible change. And it only made his smile widen, like he’d just scored a point in some invisible duel. “You always seem in a bad mood when I’m around,” he said softly now, almost gently, like someone testing dangerous ground.

You crossed your arms, tense, though your tone was more biting than firm. “Because you’re annoying. And unbearable.”

James let out a real laugh, shaking his head slightly, as if your insult was some kind of backhanded compliment. “And you’re stubborn and reckless,” he shot back, glancing sideways at you, one eyebrow raised.

You turned just enough to throw him a sharp look. “And you’re spoiled and impossible.”

“And you’re uptight and a perfectionist,” he replied without much thought, still playful, but there was something in his eyes—something more.

“And you’re selfish, insufferable, and arrogant,” you fired back without hesitation, your pride giving your words perfect aim.

James paused for a second, like your words had hit deeper than he wanted to admit. But then he huffed, not quite offended, and tilted his head with that infuriatingly arrogant expression of his. “And you’re a pain in my ass,” he said with a lopsided smirk, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“How clever, Potter,” you replied coldly, sarcasm like venom in every syllable—even if, deep down, something inside you clenched without warning.

James rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade. On the contrary, it softened a bit, losing some of its usual smugness. His voice lowered slightly, like he was speaking only to the night—or to the part of you still deciding whether to listen. “I have my moments… surprisingly.”

And in that moment, the silence grew heavier. It wasn’t just the usual game, the sharp-tongued sparring, the sarcastic armor you both wore. It was something else. Something that lingered in the cold air of the tower, in the whisper of the wind, in the subtle heat of a presence that refused to leave.

Your hands were cold, but the warmth radiating from him—even without touching—was unmistakable. And you hated yourself a little for noticing it.

“Surprisingly,” you echoed, one eyebrow raised, tone mocking.

James laughed briefly at your sarcasm, clearly enjoying this far more than he should’ve. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he replied with a playful grin. “Sometimes I can be clever.”

“Oh, really?” you retorted, tilting your head with fake interest, like you weren’t quite convinced.

James chuckled, clearly amused by your sharp replies. There was something about this dynamic that kept him hooked—like he couldn’t help coming back for more. “Very funny.”

“What do you want, anyway?” you asked, more serious now, your tone sharp and unbothered. Your eyes stayed on the sky, but your posture had turned rigid—alert.

He shrugged, as if he wasn’t sure why he was there. But the truth ran deeper, even if he wasn’t ready to say it aloud.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing. After all… you fell off your broom last match.”

“I don’t need you checking on me,” you shot back, the words out before you could stop them—harsher than intended, though you didn’t take them back.

James rolled his eyes, still wearing that maddening smile. He knew you well enough to hear the armor in your voice. “Someone’s got to. With the way you fly, it’s a miracle you haven’t gotten yourself killed yet.”

You turned to him, frowning like he’d insulted you, though deep down, you knew he wasn’t entirely wrong. “I wasn’t being reckless. I just lost balance.”

He huffed, crossing his arms with a look that hovered between disbelief and amusement. His eyes narrowed, catching yours with a teasing spark. “You lost balance because you were flying too fast chasing the Snitch. That’s reckless.”

“Trying to win, they call it,” you muttered, a hint of wounded pride slipping through despite your best efforts.

James rolled his eyes again, this time with a mix of frustration and fondness. You always had that effect on him. No matter how impossible you were, some part of him admired your fire—even when it drove him mad. “There’s a difference between trying to win and throwing yourself off a broomstick,” he said, voice low but firm, like he needed the words to hit their mark.

You met his gaze, unflinching, your eyes still on the horizon. “I was trying to win.”

James sighed—a sound closer to a growl—as he watched you. There was something about the way you held yourself, so certain, so immovable, that only made his frustration grow.

“No. You weren’t just trying to win,” he said, his voice deepening as he looked at you, eyes scanning every inch like he was trying to decode you. “You were being reckless. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt, and all you cared about was catching that bloody Snitch.”

You finally glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at your lips, like his concern was some sort of twisted joke. But under the surface, the tension was undeniable. “So what? Why do you care? You won, didn’t you? End of story.”

He let out a bitter laugh, one that escaped before he could stop it. The frustration was bubbling to the surface now, whether he liked it or not.

“I don’t care about the win. I care that you were so reckless. You could’ve died; do you get that?” His voice cracked—just barely—as a flicker of something raw passed through his eyes.

“That’s not your problem.” You didn’t even look at him, like you could dismiss his concern with a single breath.

James shook his head, more to himself than to you. He knew nothing he said would change your mind, but he had to try anyway. “Of course it’s my problem,” he muttered, voice lower now, edged with something heavier. “Because it seems like you don’t give a damn about your own safety. Someone has to. And it’s gonna be me”

He looked up at you fully then, face tight, jaw clenched, like he was holding back words that might only make things worse. “You were so focused on the game, you didn’t even realize you were risking your life,” he said, his voice strained. “You’re so obsessed with winning, you can’t even see how dangerous you’ve become.”

There was a line between you, invisible but palpable—one neither of you dared cross. And still, he kept talking. But now there was something more behind his words.

“I should’ve let you fall. But I didn’t,” he said, the words rougher than he intended. Still, his voice didn’t shake. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself just because you don’t know when to stop.”

You looked at him, defiant as ever. “And what exactly is the point of this lecture?” Your voice was cool, unreadable.

James clenched his jaw, the ache of trying to reach you sitting heavy in his chest. “The point is for you to see what you’re doing. To stop being so damn reckless and stubborn. To stop acting like your life doesn’t matter.”

You frowned, visibly irritated, but you didn’t turn away. The tension between you was tangible now, a slow-burning fuse. “So, what do you want from me?” you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion.

He let out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair like that might somehow ease the knot in his chest. “I want you to stop throwing yourself into danger like it’s worth nothing,” he said, almost a whisper, soaked in desperation. His eyes locked on yours, hoping—begging—you’d finally hear him.

You held his gaze for a long moment. “You’re exaggerating,” you said flatly, that faint smirk returning with a hint of mockery.

James rolled his eyes hard, his whole face tensing in frustration. “I’m not exaggerating. You were reckless. You could’ve seriously hurt yourself.”

“But I didn’t,” you shot back, indifference curling in your tone like a shield.

He sighed again, slower this time, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s not the point,” he said, more calmly now, though the edge hadn’t left his voice. “The point is that you could have. You were so focused on winning, you didn’t even realize how close you were to—” He cut himself off, closing his eyes for a moment. The thought was too much. “You were this close to ending up dead.”

“I wouldn’t have died,” you said with a shrug. “Just… severely injured.”

James scoffed in disbelief, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “And you think that’s better? You didn’t stop for one second to think about the consequences?”

“I did think about it,” you replied simply, your tone unchanged.

He stared at you, stunned. “So you knew? You knew it was dangerous and kept going?” He shook his head again, voice rising slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

His voice was thick with disbelief and something else—disappointment. “You could’ve died. And you didn’t care. You just kept flying like nothing else mattered. Like you don’t even matter.”

“James…” Your voice softened at last.

“What?” he snapped, still tense—too tense to notice that, for the first time, you’d called him by his first name.

“I’m fine. I’m alive.” Calmly. Quietly. Your eyes gentler now.

He stared at you for a beat, silence stretching between you. The anger still burned beneath his skin, but now something else flickered behind his eyes—relief. And frustration.

“You’re fine,” he echoed, almost bitter. “That’s all you’ve got to say? You could’ve broken your neck, and all you say is ‘I’m fine’?”

“Yes… because none of that happened. I am fine…” you paused. “Thanks to you.” That last part came out in a whisper, barely audible, like it physically hurt to say it.

James frowned, tilting his head slightly. He caught the murmur, but not clearly enough to understand it. His expression was still serious, but his tone now carried a hint of curiosity he couldn’t quite hide. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“I just said I’m fine,” you insisted, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

James was now visibly exasperated. “Yeah, I heard that,” he said impatiently. “I want to know what you said after that. I didn’t catch it.”

“I didn’t say anything after that,” you replied quickly, lowering your gaze just a little.

He rolled his eyes again, clearly not buying it. “Don’t lie to me,” eyeing you intently. “I heard you say something. I just didn’t catch it. So say it.”

“You’re delusional,” you muttered, folding your arms, clearly uncomfortable.

James scoffed and shook his head, his patience running thin, though his tone stayed insistent. “No, I’m not. I heard you. I just didn’t understand. What was it?”

You sighed, eyes dropping for just a second, and mumbled, “That I’m fine… thanks to you.”

For a moment, James looked surprised. His expression softened instantly, the irritation fading, though a trace of skepticism still lingered in his eyes. His voice dropped, calmer now. “Are you… thanking me?”

“Kinda,” you said, not quite meeting his eyes.

A playful smile crept onto James’s lips, and the usual mischievous glint returned to his eyes. He spoke in a teasing tone, but it was warm, not mocking. “‘Kinda’? That’s all I get?”

“Fine. Thanks for catching me. Happy now?”

He let out a light laugh, and his smile turned into that classic, arrogant half-smirk he was known for. He shook his head, clearly amused. “Aww, was that so hard to say?”

“It really was,” you admitted with a resigned little shrug.

James kept smiling, smug but gentle, his voice still playful. “Well then… you’re welcome.”

“You’re impossible,” you huffed, though a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

He laughed again, clearly delighted by your reaction. “You love saying that, don’t you?”

“Because it’s exactly what you are.” You sighed, glancing away for a second. You couldn’t believe you’d just thanked him. James Potter. You swallowed and forced yourself to keep it together.

“Well… I’ve to go,” you broke the second of silence, tossing your hair back with a casual gesture, though if your heart was beating faster than you’d like to admit.

He gave you that arrogant grin he always seemed to have ready, like he knew exactly how much he got under your skin. “Running away? What a surprise.”

You rolled your eyes and shrugged, a crooked smile on your lips. “See you later, loser,” while turning around before he could answer.

You heard him scoff behind you and couldn’t help but smile a little more. “See you, reckless little headache,” he called after you, in that teasing tone you knew far too well.

You didn’t answer. You just lifted one hand in a lazy wave, not looking back, as you walked off toward the stairs.

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It had only been a couple of days since your last conversation with James. Not a long time, really. Just a few days, a handful of shared classes, some fleeting encounters in the hallways. But it was enough for everything to feel different. Undeniably different. As if something invisible and heavy had settled between the two of you, altering the air you shared without either of you being able to name it. A subtle presence, almost imperceptible, yet impossible to ignore.

The atmosphere between you had changed. Not explosively, not with grand gestures, but with a quiet kind of transformation—like the air growing heavier before a storm. There were no shouts, no arguments, none of those sharp jabs you used to trade as if they were part of a daily ritual. You simply… didn’t speak.

And that, more than any past argument, made everything seem stranger. It wasn’t a truce, nor a peace hard-won. It was a kind of carefully maintained void, as if both of you had silently concluded that it was better to stay quiet than risk saying something you couldn’t take back.

There were no provocations, no sarcasm disguised as humor. None of those intense looks full of irritation or underlying tension that had once been inevitable whenever you shared a room. What had once been a constant battle of wit and willpower, an all-out war of words and gestures, had completely vanished.

In its place, a carefully measured distance had been born. A kind of silent pact to keep out of each other’s way, as if any wrong move might break the fragile balance that had formed between you. And the worst part was that no one needed to ask what had happened. Everyone noticed. Everyone felt it. But no one dared to mention it.

Because the silence between you and James wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t the kind of silence born of forgetfulness or disinterest. It was something deeper, something heavier. A silence that, on its own, spoke louder than any previous fight.

And his friends noticed immediately. No one had to say anything; there was no need to ask. It was evident in the small gestures, in the subtle absences that suddenly weighed more than any spoken word. They noticed how, when he passed you in the halls, he no longer opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark or furrowed his brow like he was gearing up for another verbal skirmish. He simply looked at you—if he looked at all—and dropped his gaze slightly, his shoulders losing that usual tension, as if he had suddenly decided not to fight.

Your friends noticed the change in you, too. How your eyes no longer searched for him in a crowd to challenge him from afar. How your firm stride and determined expression no longer came with that spark of provocation you used to reserve just for him. No more cutting words, no more sharp remarks delivered with surgical precision, knowing exactly how to strike a nerve.

None of that was there anymore.

Now, when you saw him, you simply walked past. Not a glance, not a reaction. As if he weren’t there. As if he were just another figure in the crowd, as irrelevant as any stranger in Hogwarts robes. And he, who had always been ready to take the blow and strike back with equal force, now seemed to avoid it at all costs.

Silence.

Complete and absolute.

A silence that didn’t scream revenge or hold onto resentment; a silence that, somehow, hurt more than any past fight. Because this silence wasn’t empty. It was full of everything you hadn’t dared to say.

And that was what stood out the most.

Not the silence itself, but its strangeness. Its abnormality. Because it wasn’t what people were used to. It wasn’t what they expected to see when the two of you were in the same space. It wasn’t the usual anymore. It wasn’t what had, over time, become almost a constant within the castle—like the bustle in the corridors or the constant hum in the Common Room.

People had grown used to that near-electric tension that sparked whenever you crossed paths. To the back-and-forth of sharp remarks that always hovered between genuine irritation and poorly disguised amusement. To the sparks that flew when you exchanged words, glances, or simply shared presence. It was a game—dangerous, yes, but also fascinating—that seemed to feed itself, grow by inertia. A constant tug-of-war, a dance of egos that kept everyone watching, expectant, as if witnessing something greater than a simple school rivalry.

They were used to seeing you like that: on the edge of confrontation, as if every conversation were a chess match where neither of you wanted to concede. As if provoking each other were an essential part of your routine. As if neither of you could resist the other’s presence—the temptation to seek them out, just to test them, to get a reaction, to see how far the other’s patience could stretch.

But now… nothing.

Not a word in passing. Not a whispered, mocking comment. Not even a fleeting glance—one of those that lasted barely a second but left a mark. The air between you, once full of tension and fire, now seemed empty. Cold. As if something had been extinguished without warning.

It was as if, without speaking, without needing to make it explicit, you had reached a silent agreement: to disappear from each other’s lives. To erase one another from your orbit. To pretend that the need to clash, to seek each other out with eyes or words, had never existed.

Or maybe… you were just avoiding the inevitable.

Because if one looked closely—and some did, though they would never admit it aloud—they would start to notice certain things. Small details. Tiny gestures that, on their own, might not say much, but together began to form a pattern impossible to ignore.

Like how James, for instance, sometimes lingered a few seconds longer than necessary staring at the entrance of the Great Hall, his expression distant, as if expecting someone to appear amidst the morning crowd of robes and laughter. And when he didn’t see you—when the moment passed and you didn’t arrive—he’d lower his gaze with a swiftness that almost looked like disappointment. Almost.

There was also the fact that he no longer made snide remarks whenever someone mentioned the Hufflepuff team aloud, nor did he try to throw in a veiled jab disguised as a joke. He would just change the subject or go quiet, as if the words were stuck somewhere in his throat.

And you weren’t completely absent from it either. Because sometimes, when you were flying over the Quidditch pitch during team practice, your eyes would wander toward the empty stands. Not really looking for anyone in particular—or so it seemed—but there was always a pause, a slight slowing of your flight, as if you were hoping to find a familiar figure, a face in the crowd... and when you didn’t, you simply sped up again, pretending nothing had happened.

And there was more.

In the few classes you shared, you would always sit on the opposite side of the room if he was already there. Not as a conscious decision to avoid him, but more like an automatic reflex, one you’d learned the hard way.

Sometimes James would slightly turn in the corridors when he heard your voice. A subtle movement, barely noticeable—but it was there.

There was also that moment in the library when you both happened to be there, and neither of you would lift your eyes, but both knew the other was present. That the other had arrived. That the other was sitting just a few tables away—or walking past. And then your whole body would suddenly become hyper-aware: of how loud you were turning the pages, of every movement, every breath.

Sirius was the first to break the heavy silence in the Gryffindor common room. The sound of his History of Magic book slamming onto the table echoed through the space. “When was the last time he threw daggers at the Hufflepuff girl?” he asked, amusement in his voice, though a flicker of unease showed in his eyes.

Remus, buried in a scroll full of Potions notes, looked up and let out a soft sigh. Peter, sitting next to him, tried to hide a grin, but a small chuckle escaped him. “Exactly six days ago,” Remus replied calmly, as if he had the date stored in memory, showing no discomfort at the question.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “You’re counting the days?” he teased, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity. He leaned forward, resting his head on his arm atop the table.

“No. But James has been unbearably quiet every time she enters the Great Hall—or whenever she’s nearby. And that, believe me, is more unsettling than when they fight,” Remus added, his voice calm but his eyes thoughtful. His tone was so serious that Sirius didn’t know what to say for a moment.

James, who was a few feet away, pretending to read an article on Quidditch strategies, said nothing. But the subtle shift in his posture, the way he turned the page without even looking at it, made it clear he wasn’t paying attention to a single word. The book stayed open, but his mind was far away.

Sirius glanced at James for a second, unable to resist a mischievous smile. “Wow. What happened to the James Potter who used to dive into fights as easily as he throws a Bludger?” he remarked, throwing a smirk at Remus. But deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The atmosphere in the room had felt more tense ever since that Hufflepuff girl crossed paths with his best friend.

Peter, who had been chewing on his quill, stopped and shrugged. “I don’t know what’s worse,” he muttered thoughtfully. “At least before it was entertaining. Now... it feels like they genuinely hate each other.”

Remus frowned, as if weighing every word he’d just heard. “They don’t hate each other,” he said, in a quiet, slightly somber tone. “If they did, it would be easier. The fights, the grudges... everything would be clear. But that’s not what’s happening.”

Sirius looked at him intently, his grin fading. The atmosphere had grown far heavier than he’d anticipated. James was still in his own world, reading without reading, detached from the conversation—but something in him had shifted ever since that argument on the Astronomy Tower.

“What makes you so sure they don’t hate each other?” Sirius asked, his tone less playful now. He really didn’t get it. To him, relationships were simple: either there was friendship, or there was conflict. But this... this didn’t fit.

Remus sighed, glancing at James for a second before returning his gaze to Sirius. “Because James wouldn’t be this quiet if he actually hated her. If he did, there’d be some kind of reaction—something tangible. But he’s just... empty. Like he doesn’t know how to deal with what he’s feeling. And to me, that’s a lot more complicated than any screaming match. The lack of answers is what makes it all so confusing.”

The common room, usually buzzing with noise, felt quieter than usual. Even the other students scattered around the tables seemed unusually subdued, as if the conversation among the four Gryffindors was the only one that mattered.

Peter looked at Remus, trying to grasp the weight of what he’d just said. “So... what do we do with that?” he asked, voice a bit shaky, clearly unsure of what that kind of unresolved tension even meant. For Peter, problems were solved with a few jokes and a good distraction. But this felt deeper. Way deeper.

“Nothing,” Remus replied, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “There’s nothing we can do. All we can do is wait and watch how James deals with it.”

Sirius finally found something to say, but his tone was different from usual. “I guess... it’ll be interesting to see how this ends,” he said, the usual spark gone from his eyes. “Though honestly, this is starting to scare me a little.”

Remus nodded slowly; his thoughtful gaze fixed on James. What had started as a small friction now felt like a silent war. And deep down, they all knew someone would have to give in. But no one knew who it would be.

James slowly turned the page of whatever he was pretending to read, but his eyes never really landed on the words. Everyone knew the answers were inside him, but he didn’t seem willing to share them.

Meanwhile, in the Hufflepuff common room, the conversation between Nora, Owen, and you were taking an unexpected turn. Nora, as always, couldn’t stay quiet when something didn’t make sense to her—and this time was no exception.

“Are you seriously telling me you’re never going to say anything? Ever again?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief as she chewed a piece of Honeydukes chocolate.

You glanced briefly at the parchment you were writing on, pretending you hadn’t heard her, but you knew it was useless. Nora wasn’t going to drop it—especially not when she saw your face so serious, so distant. Of all moments, this one was the most tense.

“Say what?” you replied, not lifting your gaze, like the words were just noise—just another distraction.

Nora let the chocolate drop into her hand and crossed her arms, watching you with a mix of frustration and concern. “I don’t know. ‘Potter, you’re unbearable’? ‘Stop hogging the pitch when it’s not your turn’? ‘I’d mess up your face if it wasn’t already so wrecked’? Something like that. Anything. For Merlin’s sake, this has gone on too long!”

The mention of James made a knot tighten in your throat, and without meaning to, you let out a dry, humorless laugh. It was all you could manage—laughing so you wouldn’t break. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You’d just learned to deal with it in your own way—in silence, alone.

“It’s not worth it,” you repeated, like a mantra. The words came out mechanically, as if you’d said them so many times they’d lost their meaning. But deep down, you knew they weren’t entirely true. You knew it wasn’t that easy to let go of what had happened between you and James. That tension now filled every space between you two, and ignoring it wasn’t going to make it disappear.

Owen, who had been sitting quietly by the window, staring outside, finally spoke. His tone was gentler, but no less concerned. “Do you really think that’s going to make it go away?” he asked, not judging—just trying to understand. He knew you didn’t like talking about it, but he also knew the words were there, hovering, waiting.

You sighed and looked at your friends, finally letting go of a bit of the pressure that had been weighing you down. You knew Nora wouldn’t let it drop, and Owen was also quietly waiting for a more honest answer. Even though they both tried to show you support, the truth was that no one could fully understand what was going on in your head.

“No. It’s not going to go away,” you said softly, almost in a whisper, while staring at the quill in your hands. The parchment no longer seemed important—just a background to thoughts you couldn’t focus on. All your mind circled back to was James.

Nora frowned; concern etched on her face. “Then what are you going to do? Because you can’t keep going like this. We’re all noticing it—and so is he.” Her voice was blunt, no sugarcoating. That was sometimes the best way she helped you: with honest. She wasn’t afraid to say what others wouldn’t.

You stopped writing, finally. You couldn’t avoid it anymore. You couldn’t keep pretending nothing was wrong. But what you felt now was more complicated than a simple fight or cold indifference.

“I don’t know,” you admitted at last, looking at Nora, then at Owen. The vulnerability in your voice was something you rarely let show, and you knew your friends felt it, even if they didn’t say anything. You were caught between what you wanted to do and what you felt you should do. Silence settled between the three of you like a heavy blanket, only broken by the soft crunch of Nora’s chocolate.

Owen looked at you with understanding but said nothing. He knew sometimes words weren’t enough for something this tangled. Meanwhile, Nora let herself fall back onto the sofa with a sigh.

“Just... don’t leave everything in limbo,” she said at last. The suggestion was simple but carried a lot of weight.

The sound of the conversation faded as the Hufflepuff common room returned to its usual calm, but in your mind, everything still revolved around the same thing.

A Tuesday afternoon. The Quidditch pitch almost empty. The Gryffindor team had just finished their practice, and the Marauders were heading back to the castle, James and Sirius with their brooms slung over their shoulders, boots caked in mud. The sky was starting to darken, stained with violet clouds, and the air carried that unmistakable smell of damp autumn.

James walked in silence, eyes on the ground, spinning his wand between his fingers absently. Not a joke, not a sarcastic remark about how the Ravenclaw’s new Seeker was so bad.

“So what, we’re not having any more fun messing with the Hufflepuff captain?” Sirius blurted, his usual smirk in place, one eyebrow raised.

Remus shot him a warning look, but it was too late.

James paused for a second. Just a second. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw clenched—just slightly, just enough for all three of them to notice. Then he kept walking, as if he hadn’t heard.

“It was a joke, mate. Relax,” Sirius added, raising his hands. “Though, I’ll admit, the fights with her were the highlight of every Tuesday. A classic. Like Thursday pudding.”

“There’s nothing to fight about,” James muttered without turning around.

“Nothing?” asked Remus, walking beside him, his voice low. He was more perceptive than the other two combined, and he knew James well enough to recognize when something was off. “When was the last time you two exchanged sharp insults?”

“Couple of days ago,” Peter chimed in from behind, in a neutral tone like he was reporting the weather.

“Thanks, Pettigrew, we didn’t need the exact track,” James grumbled without stopping.

There was a pause, as if the three of them were mentally calculating how far they could push before James snapped.

“So what happened?” Sirius asked, cocking his head with genuine curiosity now. “Did she finally bore you? Beat you in a fight and crushed your ego? Or are you just swallowing your feelings like an idiot?”

James came to an abrupt stop. The wind tousled his hair, and for a moment, the pitch fell completely silent. “I’m not bottling anything up,” he said quietly, but firmly.

“Of course you are, mate,” said Remus, with that rare kind of patience he only used when he truly cared. “You’re bottling everything up. And you’re not even pretending you’re not anymore.”

James pressed his lips together. He closed his eyes for a second, as if he needed to gather strength just to speak. “It’s not worth dragging this on,” he said at last, and there was a strange bitterness in his voice—something that didn’t usually belong there. “That’s it. It’s over. It was fun while it lasted, but... no more.”

“You really believe that?” Sirius asked, more serious now.

James looked at him, and for a moment, there was nothing but exhaustion in his eyes. Not physical tiredness—something heavier. Emotional fatigue, like he’d been fighting a battle he didn’t even remember starting.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All I know is that talking to her is... complicated. Everything with her is complicated. And if I don’t talk, if I don’t look at her, if I don’t say anything... then at least I’m not making things worse.”

“Or maybe you’re just avoiding the inevitable,” Remus murmured.

James didn’t answer. He simply started walking again, a little faster this time.

Peter exchanged a glance with Sirius, who shrugged. Then they picked up their pace to catch up.

“What if it’s not the trouble that bothers you?” Sirius said quietly, just beside him. “What if it’s that you don’t know what to do with how she makes you feel?”

James stopped again. This time, he said nothing. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it. He just looked down at the ground, at the dry leaves crunching beneath his boots, and stood there for a moment, like the answer might be hidden in the mud or in the wind beginning to pick up.

Then, without another word, he murmured, “Let’s head back to the castle.”

And the three followed him, saying nothing more—because they knew that in that silence, there was more truth than in any half-spoken confession.

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James was standing in the middle of a fifth-floor corridor, like so many times before, with his usual three companions. They were leaning against the stone wall, taking up far more space than necessary, talking far too loudly for a time between classes. Sirius was gesturing wildly as he recounted some absurd story that had Peter laughing uncontrollably, while Remus tried—without much conviction—to get them to lower their voices. The laughter of the four echoed through the corridor like a familiar soundtrack, a regular occurrence for anyone passing by. It was the same old scene—messy, loud, as if the whole world revolved around them.

And then, without warning, you turned the corner.

You were walking fast, determined, clutching your books tightly to your chest. Your robes were a bit disheveled, and your face held a look of focused determination, as if your mind was already in the classroom ahead. You weren’t expecting to run into a group blocking the hallway. And you certainly weren’t expecting him to be standing right there.

The collision was inevitable. Literally.

You both staggered a step back from the impact. One of your books slipped from your grasp and hit the stone floor with a sharp thud that seemed unnaturally loud amidst the suddenly fading laughter. The Marauders’ chatter died off as if someone had hit a switch. For a split second, time froze.

You looked at him first, your eyes finding his like it was instinct. There was something defiant in your gaze—something that had been simmering for weeks and now, finally, found a crack to slip through.

“You do know corridors are for walking, not chatting, don’t you, Potter?”

You didn’t say it with anger. It came out in that perfect blend of annoyance and dry sarcasm you used to reserve just for him. Like the weeks of silence vanished in that instant, bringing everything back to familiar, if uncomfortable, territory.

James didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. “And you do know you’re supposed to look where you’re going.”

The tension that followed was almost tangible. No one said a word. Sirius froze mid-laugh, mouth still open. Peter’s eyes went wide, like he was witnessing the return of an anticipated storm. Even Remus, usually so composed, frowned slightly—watching.

“Throwing yourself at me to get my attention? You could’ve chosen something less dramatic,” James added, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Peter laughed like it was the best joke he’d heard all week. Sirius let out a theatrical “Oof!” clearly delighted. Remus let his head fall back against the wall, muttering something that sounded a lot like, “Not again…”

You didn’t even blink. “And you always block hallways like they’re an extension of your common room” you said, crouching down calmly to retrieve your books, never breaking eye contact. Your voice was steady, but sharp as a freshly-honed blade.

James opened his mouth, like he was considering a clever comeback, but no words came. For once, he hadn’t expected that answer. Sirius watched with a mocking glint in his eye, but also curiosity. Peter rocked on his heels, unsure whether to laugh again or stay quiet. Remus remained silent, though now he was watching you closely—measuring, calculating.

“You know,” you continued, rising to your feet, gripping your books tightly to your chest, “not all of us have time to loiter around making noise and taking up space like the rest of the school doesn’t exist. Some of us have more important things to do.”

The tension became almost unbearable. James’s grin faltered slightly, and while he still looked composed, something in his stance shifted. A slight tightening of his jaw, a flash of something else in his eyes—something rarely seen.

“And yet, here you are,” he replied, voice lower. “Right in the middle of our noise.”

“Lucky you, Potter,” you shot back just as quietly, your voice intimate but unmistakably clear. “You bump into someone and already have a snappy comeback prepared.”

James tilted his head just slightly, with that familiar smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes—but the spark behind it was unmistakable.

“Lucky you,” he murmured back. “Found yourself an excuse to talk to me.”

It was just a moment. But it was enough.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t respond immediately. Part of you wanted to keep going—to throw another sharp line, to cut through that arrogant armor he wore like an invisibility cloak. But another part—smaller, more annoying—wondered if that was exactly what he wanted.

So instead, you simply stepped to the side, still looking him in the eye. “Lucky for me, I don’t plan on staying.”

And without waiting for a response, you kept walking down the corridor, forcing them to move out of the way as you passed. The silence that lingered behind you stretched a little longer than usual.

That brief encounter, that minimal exchange, held more weight than any of the shouting matches from weeks before. It was a crack in the wall you had both so carefully built. Not a truce. Not a reconciliation. But a break in the silence.

James watched you until you disappeared at the end of the corridor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stood there with an unreadable expression—though Remus didn’t miss it.

As soon as you turned the corner and vanished into the crowd of students passing through the halls, the group remained quiet for a few seconds. It wasn’t awkward silence—but it was heavy, expectant.

Sirius was the first to speak, using that tone he always saved for when something amused him far more than it should.

“Well, well, well…” he said with theatrical slowness, folding his arms. “Are we back in the game, Prongs?”

James didn’t answer right away. He kept staring at the spot where you had just disappeared, as if the corridor still held some echo of your voice. There was no smile on his face, none of that cocky expression he usually wore when he came out on top of a verbal exchange. What he had now was something more restrained, more serious. As if, deep down, he was regretting something he’d said—or maybe something he hadn’t.

Remus watched him with the quiet patience that was so typical of him. He didn’t mock, didn’t exaggerate. He simply observed, like someone reading between the lines of a scroll that had been handled too many times.

“So the vow of silence lasted sixteen days?” he asked—not mockingly, more like stating a fact.

“There was no vow of silence,” James replied curtly, still not looking away from where she’d vanished. “And this was… nothing. A collision. Literally.”

Peter, who had remained quiet until that point, let out a sound somewhere between a nervous laugh and genuine concern. He glanced sideways, as if checking whether someone else might’ve overheard the exchange.

“Do you think she’s mad?” he asked softly, like saying it too loud might summon the answer.

“Her?” Sirius replied, a wide grin now spreading across his face. “If that was anger, I call it progress. She used to act like he didn’t even exist. Now at least she ran over him.”

He paused, clearly enjoying his own phrasing.

“Metaphorically. And physically.”

Remus let out a long sigh and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

“It was strange,” he said at last. “Not enough for them to start fighting again, but just enough to know this whole ignoring-each-other thing… it’s not going to last much longer. Whatever that between them is, it’s unresolved.”

James finally turned on his heel to face them. His dark eyes glinted with something that wasn’t anger but wasn’t clarity either.

“There’s nothing between us,” he said sharply, like he needed to say it more to himself than to the others.

Silence fell again among the Marauders, but this time it was heavy with meaning. Sirius just smirked, that half-smile he always wore when he knew he was right and didn’t need to prove it anymore. He clapped his best friend on the shoulder and lowered his voice.

“Of course not. Absolutely nothing. That’s why you look like you just swallowed a Bludger every time you see her.”

James didn’t respond. He just looked down and shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes, as if trying to contain something threatening to rise to the surface. He tried to pick up the conversation they’d been having before the collision, but the thread was lost. And they all knew it: something had changed.

You were walking fast through the corridors, as if moving quickly could somehow put distance between you and what had just happened. Your lips were pressed into a thin line, your brow furrowed, your thoughts a hopeless tangle. With each step, the scrolls you’d scooped up after the collision trembled in your hand, like they still remembered the impact.

Charms class was on the third floor, but in that moment, it could’ve been on Mars—you would’ve kept walking just as distracted. Your mind kept replaying what had just occurred.

You’d spent weeks building a wall of indifference. You’d convinced yourself it was better not to speak, not to look at him, not to give him any space in your day. That if you ignored him consistently enough, he’d stop mattering. But it had only taken a second—an accident, a brush of contact, one miscalculated corner—for all that self-control to collapse like a house of cards.

"Throwing yourself at me to get my attention? You could’ve picked something less dramatic."

You repeated it in your head, hearing his stupid voice, with that damned confidence that never wavered. The line was trivial, almost a joke. But the way he said it… wasn’t. There was something else. Something you weren’t sure if it bothered you or confused you.

You entered the classroom with firm steps, though the tremble in your fingers hadn’t entirely gone away. You sat in your usual seat, opened your Charms book, and pretended to pay attention—even though you knew you hadn’t heard a single word the professor had said in the first few minutes.

Part of you was frustrated that you’d spoken to him at all. Another part—though you didn’t want to admit it—felt alive. As if that brief exchange had reignited something you thought long buried.

You didn’t know what it was. But you knew one thing for sure:

You weren’t going to be able to ignore it much longer.

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That Saturday, your friends—and a couple of your Quidditch teammates—had dragged you to the stands of the stadium, forcing you to watch the third match of the season: Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw. You’d tried to resist, of course. You had a pile of homework waiting, a training session to plan, and, honestly, zero desire to spend the morning watching James Potter strut around on his broom in front of half the school.

But Owen had insisted, using logic you couldn’t entirely refute: “We have to study the Ravenclaws,” he said with a serious tone, as if it were a matter of life and death. “They’re slippery, unpredictable… no one really knows how they play.”

And he wasn’t wrong. The ravens were rarely seen training. Their schedules were so erratic that more than one person had questioned whether they trained at all. They entered the pitch before dawn and left just before classes started, like ghosts. There was no chance of spying on them—not even with the help of an invisibility cloak. So there you were. Against your will, seated in one of the middle rows, a yellow-and-black scarf knotted around your neck, arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed as you waited for the match to begin. The air was cold and smelled of damp grass, polished broomsticks, and collective excitement. Around you, students from every house filled the stands with enthusiasm.

You crossed your arms tighter, uncomfortable, and let out a sigh that didn’t go unnoticed by Owen, who was beside you eating an apple with a smug look on his face.

“Oh, come on, captain,” he said with a teasing grin. “A bit of team spirit. This is field intel, not torture.”

“It’s Saturday morning. It’s freezing. I haven’t had breakfast. And I’ve been forced to sit next to a couple who hasn’t stopped kissing since we got here,” you replied, turning your head with a resigned expression toward the pair beside you.

“But you always say Quidditch is won with strategy. And what better strategy than observing your enemies?” Nora chimed in from the other side, bundled up to her nose in her scarf, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Observing the enemy, yes. Freezing to watch Gryffindor was not part of the plan.”

And, as if the universe had been listening just to mess with you, that was precisely the moment the teams took to the field.

The roar was immediate. A mix of cheers, shouts, and applause filled the stadium as the scarlet and blue robes soared over the pitch in formation. The sound of broomsticks slicing through the air made you look up almost by reflex.

And there he was.

James Potter led the Gryffindor formation with that same charming arrogance that followed him through the corridors. It was obvious the pitch was his natural element. He didn’t just fly—he owned the sky like it belonged to him. He gave commands with confident gestures, and his teammates responded with perfect precision. The game hadn’t even started, and it already looked like he had it all under control.

The crowd's excitement grew by the minute, and all you could think about was how many more useful things you could be doing right now.

Or at least, that’s what you forced yourself to think… because, even if you wouldn’t admit it—not even under Veritaserum—part of you knew your discomfort wasn’t just about the weather or your to-do list.

The real reason was at the center of the pitch, adjusting his gloves with arrogant ease and that carefree smile that seemed permanently etched onto his face since birth. Sitting on his broom like it was a natural extension of his body, chatting animatedly with his teammates, laughing with Sirius Black, bumping fists with another chaser. He looked perfectly at home.

And you couldn’t help the way something—annoying, uncontrollable, unnecessary—stirred inside you when you saw him.

“Careful not to stare too long. Might strain your neck,” Owen muttered beside you, still watching the pitch.

You shot him a sharp look, but he only grinned, clearly entertained, as he settled further into his seat.

“I’m watching the Ravenclaws,” you said stiffly. “As you should be doing.”

“Sure, sure,” Nora nodded from your other side. “And I swallowed a Snitch this morning.”

You rolled your eyes. The sound of Gryffindor’s drums started to rumble, announcing the teams’ final formation. You tightened your scarf, took a deep breath, and forced yourself to focus.

You had a mission.

Study the Ravenclaws.

Only the Ravenclaws.

The whistle blew—sharp and clear, slicing through the cold air like a dagger. The match exploded into motion: Bludgers shot off, the Quaffle was tossed into the sky, and the players scattered like a controlled storm, each with a clear purpose.

Your eyes didn’t take long to find him. Not the Quaffle, not the Beaters, not even the fastest Chasers on either side. Your attention was focused on the highest point of the sky, where James Potter had already risen above the chaos, scanning every inch of the field.

Seekers played a different game. While the rest fought for points, they hunted the final prize. And he did it with a level of focus that stood in stark contrast to his usual attitude on the ground. No jokes. No smug smiles. Just a sharp gaze and precise movements, almost feline, like he could feel the Snitch in his bones.

“You see that?” Nora whispered beside you, leaning slightly forward to keep him in view. “He hasn’t moved from that quadrant in over a minute.”

You nodded, narrowing your eyes. “He’s casting a net. Closing in on zones to narrow the search.”

“Like you,” Owen added, crossing his arms with one eyebrow raised.

You didn’t answer. But yes, in a way, it surprised you. James moved with calculation. He flew in wide circles, crossed the field diagonally, and paused briefly at strategic points. And when one of the Ravenclaw Beaters sent a Bludger his way, he didn’t just dodge it easily—he used the momentum to gain height and shift his angle, not wasting a single second.

For several minutes, the match turned into a chaotic and vibrant choreography, but you weren’t seeing it all anymore. You were only watching him.

Until, suddenly, he stopped mid-air.

The Snitch.

You saw it too: a golden flicker hovering a few meters above the west hoop. Almost no one else noticed. But he did. He turned his broom sharply, body nearly parallel to the handle, and dove. The speed of his descent made the crowd erupt in cheers. The Ravenclaw Seeker reacted a second too late—and that second was all James needed.

He caught it with a flawless maneuver, closing his fist around the Snitch as if it had always been part of the plan.

Owen stared, mouth agape. “Merlin! Even I wouldn’t have reacted that fast.”

“That's because you usually react after the matches even start,” Nora teased, elbowing him.

But you said nothing. You kept watching James as he descended slowly, the Snitch still in his hand and a satisfied smile painted on his face.

The stadium exploded with deafening cheers, but you couldn’t look away. Something about the way he’d caught the Snitch left you speechless. He’d been so precise, so exact, that you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of admiration and frustration.

The rest of the Gryffindor players gathered around him, applauding and celebrating, but James barely paused. He’d caught the Snitch as effortlessly as someone might catch a falling feather.

That’s when you realized your breathing had quickened. It wasn’t just the game that kept you glued to the stands.

It was him.

And you couldn’t deny that the uncomfortable feeling inside you was becoming harder to ignore.

You were walking down the stadium steps, heading back to the castle, with Nora and Owen chatting about their weekend plans. Nora suggested a trip to Hogsmeade that afternoon, while Owen groaned about all the homework he had and how it killed his mood for any outing. Between laughs and jokes about whether magic could do his assignments for him, you tried to relax, to forget for a moment about the match and everything that had happened on the field.

The crowd was starting to disperse, the buzz slowly fading, and the crisp afternoon air hit your face as you reached the bottom of the stairs. But just as you were about to take the next step into the courtyard, a familiar voice stopped you cold.

“Did you enjoy the show?” The voice was soft, but laced with challenge, and it made you freeze. It was him.

James Potter walked toward you, his robes billowing behind him and the golden Snitch still in his hand, as if there were nothing more important in that moment than making sure you knew he’d won. The smirk on his face was as arrogant as ever, but there was something else—an unmistakable gleam in his eyes that suggested that, for some reason, he wanted your attention.

Owen stopped when he saw the two of you falling behind, and Nora gave you a knowing look before walking a few steps ahead.

You didn’t look at James right away, focusing instead on the path ahead, but you knew you couldn’t ignore him for long. Finally, you turned to him with an expression that teetered somewhere between indifference and defiance—though he, of all people, likely knew that you hadn’t yet managed to erase the image of him catching the Snitch with near-perfect precision.

“The show?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow, fully aware of what he wanted to hear. The sarcasm was inevitable. “Sure. Pretty impressive. I didn’t think you could catch anything other than your own ego.”

James’s smile widened, but this time there was something more genuine in his eyes, like he was actually enjoying the challenge.

“Hey, not every day a bloke pulls off his very own ‘great feat.’ I thought you’d appreciate it,” he said, spinning the Snitch between his fingers like it meant nothing at all.

He was clearly teasing, but there was something in his posture—a subtle provocation. Like he was testing you. Like it was a game.

“Appreciate it?” you repeated with a small smirk. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of worship Seekers. Or oversized egos.”

James stepped a little closer, that smug smile still playing on his lips, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—like he enjoyed this back-and-forth, this push and pull only the two of you seemed to know how to play.

“I wasn’t expecting applause,” he said. “But if you ever decide to give me a chance to show you what else I can do…” He shrugged, almost like he was joking, though there was an edge of sincerity beneath it. “Might be worth considering.”

You looked at him for a moment, feeling the tension rise between you again, unsure what to do with it. It was a provocation, no doubt—but there was something in his tone, in the way he stood there, that made you wonder if he meant something more.

“In your dreams, Potter,” you replied, not breaking eye contact, refusing to be pulled into his game—even if a small spark of curiosity had already been lit.

Apparently satisfied with your answer, James grinned again—that same maddening, challenging grin.

“See you around, Captain,” he said as he turned to leave, walking toward the locker rooms with that infuriating ease of his, still toying with the Snitch like he hadn’t just won a critical match. Like the win didn’t weigh on him at all.

You stood there for a few seconds, watching him disappear into the crowd of students. Something inside you—a small flicker you couldn’t name, irritation or curiosity—was still burning. Because James Potter wasn’t just a boy who sought attention. He was a boy who knew how to get it. And now, for some reason you didn’t want to examine too closely, he had yours.

“You okay?” Nora asked, reappearing at your side again—though she’d clearly been watching from closer than you realized.

“Yeah. Perfectly fine,” you replied, not entirely convincing, quickly regaining your composure as you walked with her and Owen, who had also lingered nearby, watching like a silent spectator to a play that was just beginning.

“Did he say something interesting?” Nora pressed, using that tone she always used when pretending to sound innocent—and failing miserably.

“Nothing worth to repeat,” you replied, though the echo of his words still bounced around your mind.

“You looked at him like it was,” Owen said with a shrug.

You shot him a glare, and he just raised his hands in surrender—though he couldn’t hide the amused smile tugging at his lips.

“What you saw was sheer amazement at the height of human arrogance. Rarely do you get to witness something so... refined.” You said it with as much seriousness as you could muster.

Nora snorted. Owen let out a loud laugh.

“Sure, sure. Refined. Like Ravenclaw’s plays, right?”

You didn’t answer. Because the truth was, yes. You were studying him. Maybe not with strategic intentions. Maybe not for training purposes. But you were watching him. Noticing how he moved on the field, how he spoke, how he looked your way even when it seemed like he wasn’t.

And that… wasn’t part of the plan.

You quickened your pace, letting the castle’s familiar buzz wrap around you. It was still early. Hogsmeade awaited. The weekend was just beginning.