The Gryffindor common room buzzed with life, a chaos of laughter, rustling parchment, and flickering firelight. Somewhere in the corner, a fourth-year trio was arguing over dress robes. Fred and George were charming ornaments to dance on the tree when McGonagall wasn't looking. And near the hearth, half-sprawled in worn armchairs, James, Hermione, Harry, and Ron sat in a loose circle, the topic of the Yule Ball circling them like smoke they couldn't wave away.
James leaned forward, forearms on his knees, the collar of his robes undone. His wand tucked behind his ear like a quill. He looked like he hadn't slept properly in days—not that any of them could talk.
"So," he said, tone casual but eyes sharp, "Hermione… got a date for the Ball yet?"
The fire crackled. Silence followed. A second too long.
Hermione blinked. "I do, actually."
There was a beat.
Ron straightened so quickly he almost fell out of his chair. "What?"
Harry looked between them, confused. "You—already asked someone?"
James didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe, for just a moment.
Hermione's brows rose slightly. "Yes," she said, not unkindly, "I accepted someone a few days ago."
"Who?" Ron demanded, tone bordering on scandalised.
Hermione crossed her arms, eyes narrowing in familiar warning. "None of your business, Ronald."
James let out a breath, sat back, and nodded slowly. "Fair enough," he said, with a ghost of a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Guess I was a bit late to the party."
Hermione turned to him, and the defensiveness melted. She leaned forward, voice softer. "James… I didn't know you were going to ask. If you'd said something sooner—"
He waved it off with a shrug and a crooked grin. "It's fine. I'm not heartbroken, just… surprised."
There was a moment there—unspoken, awkward. She looked like she wanted to reach across and pat his arm but didn't.
Harry,cleared his throat. "Where've you been anyway? You've been disappearing a lot lately."
"Yeah," Ron added, frowning. "We barely see you outside class. You're not still sneaking off to duel practice, are you?"
James hesitated.
"I'm working on a personal project," he said finally.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "That's cryptic."
James smiled faintly. "It's meant to be."
Hermione gave him a look, but said nothing. If she suspected more—and she likely did—she held her tongue. For now.
Harry, trying to steer things back to safer waters, turned the question around.
"So… now what?" he asked. "Who are you going to ask?"
James opened his mouth to speak.
Paused.
For the first time in… well, maybe ever, he found himself completely uncertain.
"I don't know," he admitted, blinking. "Haven't thought that far."
"You?" Ron looked at him as if he'd just confessed he didn't believe in magic. "The Great Strategist himself? No plan? No backup?"
James smirked. "Shocking, isn't it?"
"I mean," Harry said slowly, "You could ask someone from Ravenclaw. You're oddly popular over there. Or Hufflepuff. I heard that sixth-year girl—what's her name, Celia?—she's been asking about you."
"I'm not asking Celia," James said dryly. "She once hexed a boy for looking at her owl the wrong way."
Ron winced. "Yikes."
"So, what's the plan then?" Harry asked, leaning back. "Do we make a list? Pool our knowledge? Send letters by owl under aliases like some weird romantic reconnaissance squad?"
James chuckled. "A weird romantic reconnaissance squad?"
"I'm in," Ron said immediately.
James finally laughed. Properly this time. A quiet, rough sound, but real.
"Maybe I'll just skip it," he said after a moment. "Go solo. Wear something black. Lurk in a corner. Terrify first-years."
"That's my job," Snape's Fake enchanted portrait snapped from the wall. Nobody looked at him.
"Seriously though," Harry said, more gently, "you should come. You don't have to go with anyone if you don't want to."
James nodded slowly, gaze drifting to the fire. The flickering light made the edges of his face sharper, older. Like someone who lived two years for every one that passed.
"I'll think about it."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was companionable. The kind that only comes when people know each other well enough to let the quiet breathe.
In the corner, the Weasley twins' enchanted ornaments exploded in glitter. Someone squealed. Someone else started coughing.
James leaned his head back, eyes half-lidded, the firelight flickering in his pupils.
He'd missed this. Just sitting. Talking rubbish with people who didn't expect anything dark or heavy from him.
He'd almost forgotten what it felt like.