#andra

you step through the portrait hole a little late, hair still wind-tousled from cheering so hard your voice cracked during the final dive. your dress catches the light like it was woven from starlight and leftover victory, soft, flowing fabric that shimmers between silver and deep midnight blue, hugging you in all the right places before spilling out like liquid moonlight. tiny charmed fireflies drift around your shoulders, orbiting you like you’re the center of the universe.

james sees you and forgets how to breathe.

he’s mid-laugh with sirius, broom still propped against the couch, quidditch robes half-unzipped and hair more disastrous than ever. but the second his eyes land on you, the room narrows to just one point.

“merlin’s bloody beard,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

sirius follows his gaze and smirks. “down boy.”

james doesn’t hear him.

he’s already moving, cutting through the crowd like he’s chasing the snitch again. people part without thinking—james potter on a mission is a force of nature.

when he reaches you, he stops short, like he’s scared getting too close might ruin the view.

“hi,” he says, voice softer than anyone’s ever heard it. his glasses are slightly crooked. he doesn’t fix them.

you smile, shy and bright all at once. “hi, captain. nice catch out there.”

he laughs once, breathless. “you saw that?”

“i saw everything.” you tilt your head, fireflies dancing in your hair. “you were brilliant.”

james swallows. he’s captain of the gryffindor quidditch team, he’s faced bludgers and slytherins and detention more times than he can count, but right now he feels like a first-year tripping over his own tongue.

“you—” he starts, then stops. tries again. “you look… i mean, bloody hell, love. you look like you walked out of a dream i didn’t know i was allowed to have.”

your cheeks warm. “james—”

“no, seriously.” he steps closer, close enough that you can smell the grass and leather and faint butterbeer on him. his hand finds your waist like it belongs there. “i’ve won matches before. i’ve celebrated before. but i’ve never felt like this. like the win doesn’t even matter next to you standing here looking like… like that.”

he gestures vaguely at all of you—dress, glow, everything—like words are failing him spectacularly.

you laugh, soft. “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m in love with you,” he counters, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “that’s worse.”

“worse?”

“infinitely worse. devastating, really.” his thumb brushes your side, gentle. “i look at you and my brain just… stops. full quidditch-pitch silence. and then it starts screaming your name on loop.”

you bite your lip to keep from grinning too wide. “poetic.”

“i try.” he leans in, forehead touching yours. around you the party keeps going—remus is trying to stop peter from doing shots off the table, sirius is yelling something about a conga line—but it’s background noise.

“dance with me?” james asks, voice low like a secret.

“here? in the middle of all this chaos?”

“especially here. especially now. i want everyone to see how lucky i am.”

you pretend to think about it for half a second.

then you slip your hand into his. “lead the way, potter.”

he does—pulls you gently into the open space near the fire, where the light is warmest. one hand on your waist, the other holding yours, he starts swaying even though the music is too fast for it. doesn’t matter. he’s making his own rhythm.

you rest your head on his shoulder. he presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your hair, then one more because he can’t help it.

“i’m never letting this win go,” he murmurs against your skin.

“the match?”

“no.” his arms tighten around you. “this. you. us. never.”

and in the glow of the fireflies and the fire and the fairy lights someone strung up across the ceiling, you believe him.

because james potter looks at you like you hung the moon.