When Did You Get Hot?
James Potter x F!reader
warnings: smut, p in v, fingering, loss of virginity!, making out, swearing, drinking (of age ofc), pretty good sex imo but I might be biased... let me know if I missed any :)
summary: you'd never been interesting in sex, that is until you return to Hogwarts for your final year and James Potter is suddenly the most attractive guy you'd ever seen in your life...
word count: 5.6k
a/n: so this isn't technically inspired by Sabrinas song, but I thought it was a good title so I'll just put it in here anyway. let me know what you think... I love this one and as I promised from the vote James deserves some smut. I have a few other cooking so let me know what you think!!! I'm so bad at summaries just trust me it's an amazing fic.
~~~
You were not an easy girl.
And everyone knew that.
There had never been a specific reason as to why you refused to do anything sexual. Muggle religion wasn't something you were raised with, you weren't a hopeless romantic waiting for "the one", and you certainly weren't scared of sex. It was simply something you weren't necessarily interested in.
It started in fifth year when Marlene barged into your shared dormitory with messy hair, swollen lips, and her face flushed. Despite being fifteen at the time and more focused on what you were going to eat for dinner, you weren't clueless. You knew simply by her appearance that she'd ventured into territory none of you had yet, and her words only confirmed that assumption.
"Sirius and I snogged for nearly two hours!" She had exclaimed as she fell back onto her bed with a sigh. "It was... like nothing I've ever felt."
"Alright, you've snogged him before, this isn't anything new," Mary had commented from her desk, her eyes not leaving the book she'd been reading.
"But it is different this time," Marlene replied. She sat up, and the smirk on her face was one of pure mischief. "We were only one step away from shagging."
That caught everyone's attention.
The rest of the evening was spent with millions of questions being asked, and Marlene's cheeky answers that were accompanied by explicit details. By the time everyone was tucked in bed, you were far too aware of what was hidden underneath Sirius Black's trousers, and it left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach.
At first you thought it was only because it was Sirius who she'd been describing in that manner. He was an immature, loud, and annoying boy. You were cordial with him, when he wasn't acting like a complete asshole. So, it only made sense that the idea of him naked didn't appeal to you specifically.
That write-off only lasted a year.
Sixth year brought tales from all the girls. Mary had spent the summer with some muggle girl, and while you had nothing against that, you still didn't care much for the details. Around Christmas, Lily began to go out with some Ravenclaw boy and that relationship progressed far faster than anyone expected. By the time spring started to melt away the cold winter of sixth year, all your friends had stories to share, and you began to realize that maybe sex wasn't for you.
When you and all the girls began to hang around the Marauders more, you became brutally aware of the fact that you were the only person who hadn't snogged someone. You hadn't even been on an official date. And unfortunately, they were all aware of those facts too.
During lunch one day near the end of the term, Charlie Wright, a Hufflepuff boy in your year approached the Gryffindor table, specifically you who sat at said table. He tapped your shoulder gently causing you to nearly choke on your pumpkin juice as you whipped your head around at an inhuman speed.
"Uh, hi Y/N," he greeted you with a small laugh as you coughed from the pumpkin juice in your throat.
"Hi, is there something I can help you with?" You asked, too aware of all the eyes of your friends on you in that moment.
He shrugged. "I was just wondering if you'd fancy going to Hogsmeade with me this weekend."
Your eyes widened for a second. "Like a date?"
"Well... yes."
"Oh!"
You ran a hand through your hair nervously. Charlie was cute, and you'd spoken with him plenty of times during Herbology to know he was a decent enough guy. But you'd never pictured him in that way. You'd never really thought of anyone in that way. This wasn't the first time you'd been asked out, not at all. However, this was the first time you'd been asked out in front of all your friends who you could tell from your peripheral vision, were watching with hopeful, entertained eyes. You'd never wanted to be able to disapparate more in your entire life.
"Listen Charlie, you're really nice, but I'm just... not interested in dating," you said, already feeling the awkwardness in your chest.
Unlike some of the other guys who'd asked you out in the past, Charlie was a good sport. Instead of frowning or questioning you further, he gave you a curt nod and said something along the lines of, "I understand." Then, he turned and disappeared into the crowd of students.
You turned back to your plate, a slight hint of red on your cheeks, and picked up your cup of pumpkin juice. Down the table, you caught James setting his fork down a bit harder than necessary, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before he looked away. But you were already focused on the warmth spreading across your face, too embarrassed to notice—or care.
"Are you serious Y/N?" Marlene asked from across the table.
"No." You pointed to the person sitting a bit further down the table. "He's Sirius."
It earned a quiet chuckle from Peter and Remus. Marlene, Mary, and Lily on the other hand remained silent, all their eyes on you with clear disappointment written on their faces.
"Charlie is a nice guy," Lily said.
"And he's cute!" Mary added a bit louder than you thought necessary.
You held up your hands in defense. "I never denied those facts."
"So what's the problem then?" Marlene leaned forward, genuinely baffled. "He asked you out. He's nice. He's cute. Those are literally the only requirements."
"My requirement is that I actually want to go," you said flatly.
"But why don't you?" Mary pressed. "Like, actually. Is it because of something he did?"
"No, it's just—" You set your fork down, already exhausted by the conversation. "I'm not interested in dating. I've told you all this."
Sirius, who'd apparently been listening from a few seats over, let out a loud laugh. "Mate, she's rejecting Charlie Wright. Charlie's like, objectively a catch."
"She's mental," James muttered, but there was something almost protective in his tone—a quality that didn't match the casual dismissal of his words.
"I'm not mental," you said, feeling heat creep up your neck again. "I just don't want to date him. Or anyone."
Lily exchanged a look with Marlene that made your stomach twist. "You've never even kissed anyone, Y/N. Don't you want to at least try it?"
"Not particularly, no."
The table went quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made you want to disappear.
"Blimey," Remus said softly. "She really hasn't."
"The Saint," Sirius announced suddenly, raising his goblet like he was making a toast. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Y/N L/N—the only person in this entire friend group who's never snogged anyone and has absolutely zero interest in changing that fact."
A few people laughed. Most of them looked at you like you'd grown a second head.
You stared down at your plate, feeling the weight of their collective confusion settle over you like a heavy cloak. The Saint. Of course that's what they'd call you. Because apparently, not wanting something everyone else wanted made you some kind of anomaly.
You picked your fork back up and took a bite of food, hoping they'd move on. They didn't.
~~~
"The Saint" title didn't leave you all summer. In fact, it became almost like a nickname for you. Each time you were around any of your friends, there would always be at least one question of if you'd gone against your dubbed name. And each time you'd give the same answer, only solidifying the name.
By the time you were sitting in the already too full compartment on the Hogwarts Express to return for your final year of school, you'd gotten used to the name. You weren't embarrassed or ashamed of who you were, and no amount of commentary would change that. So, as you sat crammed between the window and Marlene, you flipped through some muggle magazine Lily had brought you casually.
The compartment door opened, but you didn't look up, too focused on the Muggle magazine to care who'd decided to squeeze in.
"Good day Prongs, Padfoot," Remus's voice filled your ears. "Nice of you two to finally join us."
James leaned against the window frame near you, while Sirius threw himself into the remaining seat.
"What can I say Moony? My adoring fans needed to see me. Though it seems Prongs here had almost as many admirers as I did," Sirius replied.
You finally glanced up from the magazine, ready to make some sarcastic comment about Sirius's ego—and the words died in your throat.
James Potter was standing less than two feet away from you.
James Potter, who you'd known since first year. James Potter, who you'd sat next to in Transfiguration countless times. James Potter, your friend.
Except—
Merlin's beard.
When had he gotten so... tall? He had to be at least 6'1 now, maybe taller, and the way he leaned against the window frame made his shoulders look broader than you remembered. His skin was deeply tan—he'd always been darker than the others, but the summer sun had turned him golden in a way that made your stomach do something very strange and unfamiliar.
His hair was still a mess, still defying every law of physics, but somehow it looked... good? Like he'd just run his hand through it and it had fallen perfectly into place. And his face—had his jaw always been that defined? Had his eyes always been that warm shade of hazel? Had his nose that was always a bit longer than the others always been so appealing to look at?
You realized, with growing horror, that you were staring.
And then he shifted slightly closer, and you caught his scent—something clean and woodsy, like broomstick polish and cedar, mixed with whatever soap he used and something underneath that was just... him. It hit you like a physical force, and suddenly the compartment felt about ten degrees warmer.
Your mouth had gone completely dry.
This was James Potter. James. The same James who'd made stupid jokes at breakfast and helped you with Charms homework and been part of your friend group for a year. The same James who'd been sitting at that table when Charlie asked you out, who'd muttered that weird comment you hadn't understood.
So why did you suddenly feel like you couldn't breathe properly?
Why was your heart doing that thing—that rapid, fluttery thing you'd heard Marlene describe a hundred times but had never, ever experienced yourself? Why did your face suddenly feel all flushed as if you were embarrassed?
"You alright there, Y/N?" James asked, and oh Merlin, even his voice sounded different. Deeper. "You look a bit flushed."
You absolutely were not alright.
Because apparently, over the course of one summer, James Potter had become the most attractive person you'd ever seen in your entire life.
And you—the Saint, the girl who'd never been interested in anyone—were suddenly, overwhelmingly, catastrophically attracted to him.
~~~
The next three months were absolute torture.
It started small. Innocent. The kind of things that had happened a hundred times before without you batting an eye.
In Transfiguration, James leaned over to borrow your quill because he'd forgotten his—again—and when his fingers brushed yours, you nearly dropped the damn thing. Your skin burned where he'd touched you, and you had to grip the edge of your desk to keep from doing something completely mental like grabbing his hand back.
It was just a quill. You'd passed him quills before. This was normal.
Except it wasn't. Not anymore.
At meals, he'd sit next to you like he always did, except now you were painfully aware of every single point of contact. His thigh pressed against yours under the table, warm and solid, and you couldn't focus on anything else. Not the food. Not the conversation. Just the heat of him bleeding through your robes and the way your pulse kicked up every time he shifted closer to reach for the salt.
You tried to rationalize it. Told yourself it was just proximity. Just your brain misfiring because you'd never experienced attraction before and didn't know how to handle it and James had always been conventionally attractive to the majority of the female population at Hogwarts.
But then he'd laugh at something Sirius said, and you'd catch yourself staring at the way his throat moved. Or he'd run a hand through his hair in frustration over a Potions essay, and your stomach would flip. Or he'd lean down to pick up your dropped book in the common room, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that you could smell that cedar-and-something scent again, and you forgot how to form words.
"Here," he said one evening, handing you the book with an easy smile. The same smile he'd flashed you so many times before that you hadn't thought twice about.
Your fingers brushed his as you took it. Again. Always again.
"Thanks," you managed, and your voice came out strangled.
He gave you an odd look—concerned, maybe—but you turned away before he could ask if you were alright. Because you weren't. You were losing your mind.
The worst part? He had no idea. None of them did. You were still the Saint, still the girl who didn't care about any of this, and you couldn't exactly announce that you'd suddenly developed an all-consuming obsession with James Potter's hands and the way he smelled and how stupidly tall he'd gotten.
You'd spent five years being completely unaffected. Untouchable. And now you couldn't sit next to him without your heart trying to break out of your chest.
It was humiliating.
By the time Gryffindor won their first Quidditch match in November, you were wound so tight you thought you might snap. The common room erupted into celebration, someone produced Firewhisky from Merlin-knows-where, and for the first time in months, you saw an escape.
If you couldn't think straight around James Potter sober, maybe you just needed to stop thinking altogether.
The Firewhisky burned going down, but you didn't care. You took another sip, then another, letting the warmth spread through your chest and blur the edges of your overthinking brain.
The common room was packed—everyone shouting, dancing, celebrating Gryffindor's victory. Someone had charmed the record player to play louder than it had any right to, and the bass thrummed through the floor. You'd lost track of Marlene, Lily, and Mary somewhere in the chaos, but it didn't matter.
Because James was across the room, still in his Quidditch gear, hair a complete disaster, laughing at something Sirius said. And for once, you weren't trying to look away.
The alcohol made everything easier. Simpler. You weren't the Saint anymore—you were just a girl at a party who wanted something, and for the first time in your life, you were going to take it.
You crossed the room before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Potter," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected.
He turned, eyebrows raising in surprise. "Y/N. Hey—"
"You played well today."
"Thanks, I—"
"Really well." You stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Close enough to smell the sweat and broomstick polish still clinging to him, mixed with that cedar scent that had been driving you mad for months. "You know, I've been thinking."
His eyes widened slightly. "Yeah?"
"I've been thinking," you continued, emboldened by the Firewhisky and the way he was looking at you—like he couldn't quite believe this was happening, "that I've been an idiot."
"You're not—"
"I have been." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his Quidditch robes, and his breath hitched. "Because I've spent three months trying to pretend I don't want to do this."
"Do what?" His voice had gone rough.
You pulled him down and kissed him before you could logically stop yourself.
For a second, he froze—shocked, maybe, or trying to figure out if this was real. But then his hands came up to cup your face, and he kissed you back like he'd been waiting for this just as long as you had.
And oh.
Oh.
His mouth was warm and tasted like Butterbeer, and when his tongue swept against yours, your knees actually went weak. One of his hands slid into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you made a sound you'd never made before—desperate and wanting and completely beyond your control.
This. This was what everyone had been talking about. This heat, this need, the way your entire body lit up like someone had cast Incendio under your skin.
You pressed closer, and he groaned—actually groaned—his other hand dropping to your waist to pull you flush against him. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, could feel the way his fingers tightened in your hair like he was afraid you'd pull away.
You weren't going anywhere.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, his eyes were dark and slightly dazed.
"Merlin," he breathed.
"Yeah," you agreed, because coherent sentences were beyond you.
His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, and he was looking at you like you'd just turned his entire world upside down. "How much have you had to drink?"
"Enough to do that," you admitted. "Not enough to regret it."
His lips curved into a slow, devastating smile. "Good. Because I've wanted to do that since the train."
Your stomach flipped. "The train?"
"The train," he confirmed. "You looked up at me and I thought—" He shook his head, laughing softly. "I thought I was going to lose my mind."
"Join the club," you muttered, and he kissed you again—softer this time, but no less intense.
Around you, the party raged on. But all you could focus on was James Potter's mouth on yours and the realization that you'd been missing out on this for eighteen years.
You were never going to be the Saint again.
And you were completely fine with that.
~~~
You woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a stomach full of dread.
Oh Merlin. Oh Merlin, what did I do?
The memories came back in flashes—your hands in James's hair, his mouth on yours, the way he'd groaned when you pressed closer. You'd kissed James Potter. In front of everyone. While drunk.
He probably thought it was a mistake. A drunken impulse you'd want to forget.
You spent breakfast avoiding eye contact with everyone, pushing eggs around your plate and trying not to think about how badly you'd humiliated yourself.
"Y/N."
You looked up. James was standing beside the table, still in his pajamas, hair even messier than usual. "Can we talk?"
Your heart sank. Here it came—the gentle letdown, the "you're a great friend but—"
You followed him out into the corridor, bracing yourself.
"Look," he started, running a hand through his hair. "About last night—"
"It's fine," you interrupted. "I was drunk, you were drunk, we can just forget—"
"I don't want to forget it."
You blinked. "What?"
"I don't want to forget it," he repeated, stepping closer. "I've wanted to do that for months. Since the train. Before that, actually—do you remember when Charlie asked you out?"
"Yeah?"
"I wanted to hex him," James admitted, laughing softly. "Right there in the Great Hall. I know I had no right to, but I couldn't stand the thought of you going to Hogsmeade with him."
Your brain was short-circuiting. "You... what?"
"I've been mad about you since fifth year," he said simply. "I just didn't think you were interested in any of that. In anyone."
"I wasn't," you breathed. "Until now."
His smile was blinding. And then he was kissing you again—slower this time, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.
When you broke apart, you were both grinning like idiots.
"So," he murmured against your lips. "Want to do that again sometime?"
"Yes," you answered instantly. "Definitely yes."
~~~
"Sometime" turned into every spare moment you could find.
Between classes, in empty corridors, behind tapestries, in the Astronomy Tower after dark—you and James were constantly sneaking off to snog like teenagers who'd just discovered what kissing was.
Which, in your case, wasn't far from the truth.
A week after the party, he pulled you into an empty classroom after Transfiguration, and you ended up pressed against the door with his hands in your hair and your legs wrapped around his waist, feeling more of him than you ever thought possible.
When you finally came up for air, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
"We should probably talk about this," he said, his breath ragged.
"Talk about what?" You kissed his jaw, his neck, anywhere you could reach.
"About—Merlin, that's distracting—about what we're doing."
You pulled back slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He set you down gently, keeping his hands on your waist. "I want to take you on a proper date. To Hogsmeade, or—I don't know, anywhere. I want to do this right."
Your stomach twisted. "James—"
"I know you've never been interested in all that," he continued quickly. "But I fancy you. A lot. And I don't want this to just be... I don't know, sneaking around and snogging in empty classrooms."
"I like sneaking around and snogging in empty classrooms," you said, only half-joking.
He laughed. "I do too. But I want more than that. Eventually."
You bit your lip, trying to organize your thoughts. "I don't need all the romance right now," you admitted. "I don't need dates and flowers and—all of that. I just..." You took a breath. "I just really want to try all of this. With you. The physical stuff. I've spent eighteen years not caring about any of it, and now I can't stop thinking about it, and I don't want to wait."
His eyes darkened. "You want to—"
"Yes," you said firmly. "I want to. With you."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face. Then he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your lips. "Okay. We'll go at your pace. Whatever you're comfortable with."
"But?" You could hear the unspoken word.
"But eventually," he said, smiling, "I'm taking you on a real date. Because you deserve that too."
You kissed him instead of answering. But you were smiling against his mouth.
~~~
It happened two weeks later.
The common room was empty—everyone at dinner—and you and James were on the couch, his hands under your shirt, your fingers working at the buttons of his.
"We should go somewhere," he murmured against your neck. "Somewhere private."
Your heart was hammering. "Your dorm?"
He pulled back to look at you, eyes searching. "Are you sure?"
You nodded. You'd never been more sure of anything.
The walk up to the boys dormitories felt like a walk across the entire castle. Your heart hammered in your chest, your hand a bit sweaty in his as he guided you up the stairs. When he pushed open the door and led you inside, you were met with a sight that seemed very fitting for a room that held four teenage boys.
Clothes thrown around on one side- Sirius's you were sure of by the inappropriate muggle magazine pictures hung on the bed frame- books stacked on trunks, the overwhelming smell of cologne, and more Quidditch gear than you'd seen in your life. James led you to his bed, which was not made, but still not nearly as messy as Sirius or Peters.
"They won't be back here for a while, you know how much Sirius eats," he mentioned, his voice lighthearted.
"He eats as if he's been starved his entire life," you replied, trying your hardest not to sound nervous despite how fast your heart was racing.
James stood in front of you so close that you had to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. "We don't have to-"
"I want to." You wrapped your arms around his neck. "I really do."
Without another word, he kissed you, slower this time. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, and he followed you down, bracing himself above you.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi."
His hand slid under your shirt again, palm warm against your ribs, and you arched into the touch. He took his time—kissing your neck, your collarbone, pushing your shirt up inch by inch until you sat up to pull it off completely.
He stared at you for a long moment, and you resisted the urge to cover yourself.
"You're so beautiful," he said, voice rough.
"You're not so bad yourself, Potter."
He grinned and kissed you again, and then his hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, sliding up to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity.
"Impressive," you managed.
"I've been practicing," he deadpanned, and you laughed, swatting his shoulder.
"On who?"
"Sirius. He's very supportive."
You were still laughing when he kissed you again, but the laughter died when his mouth moved lower—down your neck, across your collarbone, closing over your breast.
"Oh—" The sound escaped before you could stop it, and he hummed against your skin, clearly pleased with himself.
Your hands found his shirt, tugging insistently, and he pulled back long enough to yank it over his head. You'd seen him shirtless before—Quidditch practice, swimming in the Black Lake—but this was different. This was yours to touch.
So you did. Ran your hands over his chest, his toned abdomen, his shoulders, the muscles of his back. He shivered under your touch, and the knowledge that you could affect him like that sent a thrill through you.
"Well, let's see it," you said, fingers moving to his belt.
He helped you, kicking off his trousers and pants until he was completely bare, and—
Oh.
"Is that—I mean, is it supposed to—" You cut yourself off, face burning.
James was trying very hard not to laugh. "Yes. That's... yes. That's normal."
"Right. Obviously. I knew that."
"It's okay to be nervous," he said gently, settling beside you and hooking his fingers in the waistband of your skirt. "We don't have to—"
"I want to." You lifted your hips, letting him slide the fabric down along with your knickers, and then you were both completely naked, and this was actually happening.
He kissed you again, long and slow, one hand sliding up your thigh. When his fingers brushed between your legs, you gasped.
"Okay?" he murmured.
"Yes. Don't stop."
He didn't. He touched you carefully, watching your face, adjusting based on your reactions. When he found the right spot, your hips bucked involuntarily.
"There," you breathed. "Right there."
He circled that spot with his thumb, and pleasure sparked up your spine—sharper and more intense than anything you'd felt on your own. His other hand was in your hair, his mouth on your neck, and you were drowning in sensation.
"James—"
"I've got you," he said against your skin. "Let go. I've got you."
The pleasure built and built until it was almost too much, breaking over you in waves that left you gasping his name. He worked you through it, gentle and steady, until you collapsed back against the pillows.
"Holy shit," you managed.
He was grinning. "Good?"
"Understatement."
He kissed you again, and you could feel him hard against your hip. You reached down, wrapping your hand around him experimentally, and he groaned.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," you said. "Show me?"
He covered your hand with his, guiding your movements, and you watched his face—the way his eyes fluttered closed, the way his breath hitched when you twisted your wrist.
"Okay," he said after a moment, stilling your hand. "Okay, if you keep doing that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast."
You smirked. "Really?"
"Really." He shifted, settling between your legs, and your heart kicked up again. "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes." You pulled him down for a kiss. "I'm sure."
He reached for his wand, murmuring a contraceptive charm, and then he was lining himself up, pressing forward slowly.
It hurt. Not terribly, but enough that you tensed.
"Breathe," James said softly, stilling. "Just breathe. We can stop—"
"Don't stop." You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Keep going."
He moved slowly, carefully, giving you time to adjust. The pain faded into pressure, into fullness, into something that wasn't quite pleasure yet but wasn't entirely uncomfortable either. You'd never felt so full in your life. When Marlene had gone into explicit detail of how it felt to be shagged, you thought her description of "fullness" was absurd. But now, in this moment, you finally understood exactly what she meant. And you loved it.
"Okay?" he asked, voice strained once he was fully inside.
"Okay. You can move."
He did—slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as your body relaxed around him. And then he shifted his angle slightly, and—
"Oh—"
"There?" He did it again, and pleasure sparked through you.
"Yes. There. Don't stop."
He didn't. He found a rhythm that had you clinging to him, your nails dragging down his toned back as he fucked you, gasping his name, chasing that feeling building low in your belly. When he pressed sloppy, wet kisses to your neck, you threw your head back and whimpered- actually whimpered- his name. You felt the way he tensed at the sound of you saying his name, and it only made your thighs clench around his hips even harder.
"You feel so fucking good," he murmured, the vibration of his husky voice on your skin sending a shiver down your spine. One of his hands slipped between your bodies, finding your clit, and the combination was overwhelming. "Fuck- Y/N."
You felt like you were going to explode. "James, Merlin, James."
"Come on," he whispered. "I feel how—fuck—let me feel you."
The pleasure became too much again and you came, sharper this time, and you cried out as it broke over you. Your teeth sank into one of his shoulders, your whole body shaking as you practically saw stars. He followed moments later, burying his face in your neck and groaning your name, his glasses hard against your soft skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just lay there sweaty, breathing hard, tangled together.
"So," James said eventually, voice muffled against your shoulder. "That was—"
"Yeah."
He lifted his head to look at you, grinning. "You okay?"
"More than okay." You kissed him. "I get it now. Why everyone's so obsessed with this."
He laughed, rolling onto his side and pulling you against him. "It's not always like that, you know. It's—" He paused, searching for words. "It's different with someone you care about."
Your heart squeezed. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I meant what I said before. I want to do this right. I want to take you on dates and hold your hand in the corridors and—all of it. Not just this."
"I want that too," you admitted. "I think I just needed to figure out the physical stuff first. To know that I could actually... feel all of that."
"And?"
"And I definitely can." You kissed him again. "With you."
~~~
Three days later, James took you to Hogsmeade.
He held your hand the entire way, bought you hot chocolate at the Three Broomsticks, and kissed you in the middle of the street like he didn't care who saw.
"You know," you said as you walked back toward the castle, "a year ago, if someone had told me I'd be here with you—"
"You would've laughed in their face?"
"I would've thought they'd been hit with a Confundus Charm."
He grinned. "And now?"
You stopped walking, turning to face him. The sun was setting behind the castle, painting everything gold, and James Potter was looking at you like you were the only person in the world.
"Now," you said, "I can't imagine being anywhere else."
He kissed you, soft and sweet, and you thought about Charlie Wright asking you out in the Great Hall. How you'd rejected him without a second thought because you genuinely hadn't been interested.
You weren't the Saint anymore. You were just a girl who'd finally found someone worth wanting.
And that was more than enough.
