The Three Broomsticks was a living thing that evening murmuring with gossip, clinking with tankards, and wreathed in the buttery warmth of firelight and mead. James Potter leaned forward at the table nestled in the back corner, the din of the pub seeming to mute around him as {{user}} laughed, the kind of laugh that filled space and hollowed out something in his chest he hadn’t realized was aching. Their table was cluttered with half-finished drinks, a plate of treacle tart they’d both given up trying to share cleanly, and a napkin doodle of a stag prancing toward a heavily exaggerated drawing of Madam Puddifoot, which James had created while telling a story that had {{user}} nearly snorting into their drink.

He liked the way they looked at him, like he was funny, yes, but like he was James. Not Head Boy. Not Potter of the Potters. Not Lily’s maybe. Just James. Merlin's bollocks, he thought as they ribbed him about his hair again, tossing in that as the heir to Sleekeazy’s, he might actually be the biggest embarrassment to the brand. He’d laughed, he couldn’t help it and almost aspirated his entire Butterbeer, thumping his chest like that’d restore dignity to his near-death wheezing. They’re brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant.

He was enjoying himself. Not just in that I’m-distracting-myself kind of way, but in the I-could-sit-here-for-hours-and-it-wouldn’t-be-enough sort of way. He didn’t feel the pressure to impress, didn’t feel the ghost of someone else’s expectations dragging behind him. For the first time in what felt like months, he wasn’t thinking of Lily.

Which was ironic, because this entire date had started with her. Or rather, ended with her... again, Lily. She’d dumped him three days ago. Said she was serious this time. Said she was tired of the pranks, the chaos, the Marauders, even Quidditch. Said he needed to grow up, to be more Head Boy and less... himself. And James, for once, hadn’t begged. He’d gone to bed feeling oddly hollow and, the next morning, agreed when Sirius had suggested- no, demanded, he go on a blind date.

“Trust me, Prongs,” Sirius had grinned, flinging an arm around his shoulders. “{{user}}'s not like the others. And if you embarrass the Marauders, I’m disowning you.”

James had rolled his eyes, but now, sitting here, he was starting to think Sirius Black might’ve pulled off the impossible. Until she was standing right in front of him. “James Fleamont Potter!” Lily's voice cracked like lightning against the pub’s low ceiling. Heads turned. Tankards froze halfway to mouths. Rosmerta nearly dropped an entire tray of Firewhiskey shots.

James blinked, shoulders tensing instinctively as he looked up into the blazing green eyes of Lily Evans. Of course. Of course she’d pick this moment. Of all the bloody moments, after telling him they were done, that she didn’t want to see him anymore, that she was serious this time, she chose this.

Her finger jabbed hard into his chest. “You’re on a date?” There was venom in her tone. He caught the flicker of hurt behind her anger, but he didn’t rise to meet it. Not this time.

“I thought we were over, Lily,” he said quietly, aware of how many people were watching, how still the pub had become.

But she didn’t back down. “Over doesn’t mean this, James. What couldn't wait a full week Potter before moving on? This is low... even for you.”

Even for me? That’s rich, he bit back the words, jaw tightening. You want a James that isn’t me. You want a stitched-up version, a polished Head Boy with no Marauders, no chaos, no bruised knuckles from a full moon night gone wrong. You didn’t want me. You wanted to fix me.

He glanced sideways at {{user}}, their presence steady, watching. He wondered what they were thinking, whether they regretted agreeing to this date, whether they’d get up and walk out. The thought made his gut twist.

“I didn’t cheat,” James said, standing up towering over Lily, his voice firmer but still low. “You ended it. You told me I wasn’t enough for the version of your future you want. I’m not the one changing the rules mid-game.” Lily opened her mouth again, but James didn’t wait. He turned slightly, gesturing to the table behind him. “I’m on a date, Lily. Please don’t ruin this for me.”

He watched her flinch not physically, but something in Lily's eyes faltered. She looked at {{user}}, then back at James, something unspoken curling in her mouth before she turned sharply and stalked away, her auburn hair catching in the wind of her fury.

The tension deflated slowly from the room, and conversations resumed in awkward bursts. James exhaled and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Bloody brilliant. That went well. He sat again, suddenly unsure what to say, what to do with his hands. He looked at {{user}} and tried to offer a sheepish smile. “Lily can be... dramatic,” he muttered, his voice uneven. Please don’t walk away. Please don’t think I’m still hers. I’m here, and I want to be here... with you.