18 March, 1977. Hogwarts, Forbidden Forest.

"You're going too fast, Black." the voice of James Potter thundered across the small clearing of the Forbidden Forest.

"But the book says to add winged toad's pustule extract after letting the potion simmer for five minutes..." protested Alya, her thin nose dipped between the pages of her copy of Advanced Potions.

"Exactly! And it's only been four and a half. You have to wait." the boy pointed out, tapping the glass surface of a small pocket hourglass with his wand. It was a very useful magical instrument: the golden sand inside it could be adjusted according to need, through a simple formula, Eligo Tempora. Such objects were very much in vogue at the time, especially among professional potters, given the absolute time precision they guaranteed.

The personal workshop of James's father, Mr Fleamont Potter, was crawling with such hourglasses, and his son had one given to him to use at school to improve his performance at Potions.

"And what difference can thirty seconds less make?" grumbled the girl.

"All the difference in the world if you want to pass the Potions test!" the Gryffindor apostrophised her.

Alya snorted audibly, pouting.

"Black, you're in too much of a hurry to finish. Don't think about the end result, try to focus exclusively on each step, one at a time. Remember: the essential ingredient for any potion is..."

"... patience." sang the Slytherin, rolling her eyes.

James shook his head, exasperated. He had done everything he could to grab himself an extra shift to use the Marauder's Map that week to help Alya improve in the subject she so detested. However, the Gryffindor boy hadn't imagined that the task would be so arduous and exhausting. Alya immediately proved to be an extremely difficult pupil to deal with, surly and contrary; touchy and not at all inclined to accept criticism. She took advantage of any downtime to express all her impatience; moreover, she had a tendency to be easily distracted by her constant complaints about how unfair Slughorn had been to her and how Potions was a useless subject, not at all suited to her magical talents.

More than once that night, James considered the idea of hexing her with a silencing spell, so as to make mute the girl's insistent and annoying gnawing. Luckily for him, he had the good sense to suppress the impulse. James knew Alya well by now: he knew how vengeful she could be if instigated, and her ability to cast powerful spells without any difficulty was legend throughout Hogwarts.

The Gryffindor, as impatient and tired as he was, really didn't want to end up hanging upside down on the top of some lost tree in the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

Meanwhile, Alya had administered the drops of winged toad extract and was about to read the next procedure.

"Stir the resulting decoction for exactly fifteen minutes clockwise and another fifteen counterclockwise... What a drag!" she whimpered in disgust.

"Come on, it's the last effort, after that you just have to let the brew rest," James tried to reassure her, without too much transport. He quickly waved his wand and calibrated the sand in the small hourglass again.

Alya reluctantly grabbed a ladle from her bag, dipped it into the liquid and began to slowly draw large circles in a clockwise direction, as the book suggested. James, exhausted, squatted down next to the girl, pulled a vibrant Golden Snitch from one of his trouser pockets and began to fiddle with it, as was his habit when he wanted to kill time.

"And that Golden Twitch?" commented Alya scornfully, earning an immediate glare from James.

"Scratched during last practice... and besides, it's not Twitch, it's Snitch!" the Gryffindor corrected her, glowering at her from behind his round glasses.

The Slytherin answered him with a scowl.

After about ten minutes spent stirring, Alya began to show the first signs of susceptibility.

"My arm hurts from stirring this concoction. Why don't you relieve me, instead of sitting there fiddling with that golden mosquito?" she exclaimed in a sour voice.

"Hey, I'm not your house elf! You have two arms. Use the other one!" replied James to her in a testy tone.

"I thought you wanted to help me," she commented frostily.

"Indeed. But I have no intention of slaving away for you. I'm not the one in danger of being thrown out of a class!" the resolute Gryffindor reprimanded her.

"You are so arrogant!" hissed Alya, offended.

"And you're a spoiled child," retorted James, adamant.

Alya felt herself flaming with anger.

"Tell you what, Potter: to hell with it all, you and this stupid potion! I'm leaving and so long. And don't cry on my empty desk in Potions a month from now!" the girl exploded, enraged.

"Oh, I shall console myself by looking at the one occupied by Evans," replied James with imperturbable simplicity.

Alya gasped. She turned back to Potter, her cheeks flaming with anger.

"I beg your pardon?" growled the young Black, through gritted teeth.

"You got that right," James replied to her in a defiant tone, well aware of the raw nerve he had just touched. Teasing the ardent competitive spirit inherent in Alya - as in all the other members of the Black family, for that matter - was the only effective strategy to keep the girl's will not to throw in the towel alive.

James knew this well and was pleased to see the spark of determination ignite in the Slytherin's grey irises. Even if, inexorably, at first glance it came down on him.

"Dare to repeat that, Potter, and I swear I'll poison you with this concoction you're forcing me to prepare!" ranted Alya, waving the dripping ladle menacingly in the dishevelled boy's face. But James was not intimidated.

"You, poison me? With that slop? Don't make me laugh! It would be more deadly to sip spring water!" he chuckled amusedly.

Alya was so indignant that all she could do was mutter incomprehensible insults. The Gryffindor took advantage to reload. He suddenly grabbed the Snitch that was still buzzing around him, slipped it back into his pocket and leaned towards Alya, so that he could get a good look at her face.

"Listen to me carefully, Black! Don't think I enjoy sitting here and listening to your endless whining while you attempt to create vaguely passable brews. You'd be a very good potionist if you'd only deign to put a little more effort into it, instead of wasting your time spouting your complaints. And here I am, in case you hadn't noticed. For an hour! Without batting an eyelid. And do you know why? Because I really want to help you. I really want you to pass the damn test! So now put that ladle down and start stirring again!"

James' unexpected outburst left Alya stunned and utterly speechless. She merely glared at him as she obediently went back to stirring the decoction in the cauldron.

A heavy silence suddenly spread across the clearing.

James, visibly annoyed, pulled the Snitch out of his pocket a second time and began to practise complicated and spectacular holds to appease his discontent.

Alya, for her part, stood rigorously mute, her face rigid as granite, her grey eyes fixed on the potion bubbling timidly in the cauldron. Like the concoction she undauntedly continued to stir, her soul boiled with torment. On the one hand, her pride burned furiously at the ungallant epithets with which James had addressed her; on the other, she couldn't help but recognise how much her attitude had been comparable to that of a wayward child.

Dissimulating her remorse with feigned haughtiness, Alya avoided looking the Gryffindor in the face throughout the preparation, shifting her gaze from the decoction only to check the flow of golden sand inside the small hourglass. James, who in the meantime had taken on the braggart expression he usually sported at school, continued to play with the Snitch, as if to prove that there could be nothing more interesting for him at that moment.

Finally Potter's little hourglass announced the end of the potion preparation. According to the Advanced Potions manual, all that remained now was to let the brew stand for twenty-four hours, with the fire out. Without breaking the sombre silence that enveloped the clearing, Alya used simple spells to tidy up the paraphernalia she had used: she extinguished the fire under the cauldron, gathered up the numerous small vials full of all the ingredients she had used that evening and carefully stowed everything in her bag, along with her Potions book.

James stood up, drew his wand and pointed it at the cauldron.

"Occulto" He recited in a low voice. "As a precaution. Best to conceal the cauldron's presence from anyone who might happen to be around. You'll have to come back here tomorrow night to undo the concealment spell and check the state of the potion." explained Potter, in a monotone tone and blank expression, without deigning Alya a glance. He still looked angry.

He turned on his heel and, turning his back on the Slytherin, said brusquely:

"It's late. I must return to the castle. You finish tidying up."

Alya had a sudden pang in her heart; she had yet to see the Gryffindor so cold and aloof towards her. She realised that her inner torments now had nothing to do with wounded pride.

"Forgive me..." she muttered with her head down, behind him, without even realising it.

Potter turned back to her, looking at her in dismay. He was unable to really believe the word he had just heard.

Alya looked up shyly, almost fearfully, but when her silver eyes met the Gryffindor's ones again, something in her melted.

"I know I went too far just now. You try to help me and I act like a spoiled brat... I'm sorry. Really." confessed Alya, usually haughty and hard as stone, now sincerely sad.

"Don't go away. Please." she added in a hushed voice, poorly concealing the nuance of a plea.

James stared at her incredulously for a few very long moments, motionless. Then his expression changed, abandoning all traces of rigidity and reproach.

He ran towards her, drew her tightly to him and grasped her face in his hands so as to force her to look him straight in the eye.

"I'm not going anywhere, Black!" he muttered with fiery determination.

And he kissed her. They both savoured the sweetness of the moment, the taste of a barely extinguished quarrel, dissipating any residual anger and remorse in the air. James would have liked to break the embrace just to reassure Alya by telling her how much he loved everything about her, even her tendency to be capricious, snobbish and haughty. But the way she trapped him to her lips made him realise that she already knew this and that she in turn reciprocated it.

***

19 March, 1977. Hogwarts.

James was walking alone around the castle, holding a book under his arm that Remus had ordered him to fetch from the library. He, Sirius and Peter were waiting for him in the Great Hall to tackle a History of Magic topic together, and James was already gaping in wide yawns from boredom. To refresh his spirits, he turned his thoughts to the kisses he and Alya had exchanged the night before in the Forbidden Forest.

He had been seeing her for a little over a month, but he could not deny that he was now deeply in love with that haughty, stubborn, gruff, but at the same time tremendously charming Slytherin, who possessed the rare ability to torment him with unpredictable mood swings. She was certainly not an easy girl to handle, given her stubbornness - congenital it seemed, if you compared her to her twin brother Sirius - and haughtiness. But James Potter had never liked simple things. Spending time with Alya was like going on a journey full of adventures: the Gryffindor never knew what to expect. And that sent him over the edge. The number of their secret encounters in the forest could be counted on the fingers of two hands, yet each time James had discovered something more about the girl and her twisted character. Beneath the tough appearance of the algid thoroughbred snob, he had glimpsed Alya's more intense side, where fragility, empathy, gentleness and strength were woven together in a mixture which had been fatal for James.

The dishevelled boy strolled headlong down the first floor corridor, which at that moment was completely deserted, absorbed in his pleasant romantic memories.

Until, a few metres from the entrance to the girls' bathroom, a sudden noise caught his attention.

The Gryffindor recognised the creaking of a hastily closed door. And that was highly suspicious, since no one had entered that bathroom for years, given the harassing presence of Moaning Myrtle, a snivelling ghost who haunted it assiduously.

James slowed his pace, putting himself on guard. Reaching the doorstep, he lingered at the door. Sure of what he had heard, he was not surprised when he realised that the knob had been locked. Someone from the inside must have locked the door with magic. Whoever was hiding inside Myrtle's rickety bathroom clearly didn't want to be discovered.

James quickly pulled out his wand and pointed it at the handle.

"Alohomora", he whispered, as he slowly rotated his wrist. The lock clicked and the door opened. James stepped circumspectly over the jamb and cautiously walked through the wide puddles that covered the scuffed tiles that made up the floor. The boy wrinkled his nose, trying to defend himself against the stench of sewage that hovered in the place left to neglect. There was an unnatural stillness, interrupted only by the intermittent dripping of a leaking sink.

James knew he was not alone and the fleeting movement of a flap of black cloth swinging from behind one of the cubicles gave him confirmation of this.

The Gryffindor acted quickly and on impulse.

"Reducto!" he exclaimed, as he raised his wand towards the spot where the shadow of a cloak had flashed.

The door of the cubicle, already unhinged in itself, leapt into the air making a great clang. The blow was effective enough to flush out the one who had so far tried not to be found: Severus Snape.

James saw him emerge from his cramped hiding place. Thin and hunched beneath the broad cloak that covered his sloping shoulders, Snape resembled an overgrown bat, his greasy black hair falling limply in front of his yellowish face and his dark, liquid eyes crackling with hatred.

"Snivellus, but how nice to see you again! I see you've moved in with Moaning Myrtle. It's a good choice. This place suits you. Filthy and scruffy, it fully reflects your qualities", exclaimed James malevolently, with a grin that did not possess even a shred of mirth. "So, what are you up to Snivellus?" he pursued him, then, suspiciously.

"None of your business, Potter!" hissed Snape through gritted teeth.

From the stiffness displayed by his rival, James guessed that the Slytherin was also gripping his wand, tucked under his cloak, waiting for the right moment to hurl some bill at him.

"Surely it must be something slimy and shady. I wouldn't expect anything else from someone like you." the Gryffindor continued, holding his wand up against Snape. "Let me guess - you've been lurking here, waiting for easy prey on which to test your Dark Magic tricks? I know how you enjoy tormenting Muggle-born first years!"

James' voice had taken on a menacing tone. And the barely perceptible hesitation Snape displayed confirmed the Gryffindor's suspicions. Reflexively, Potter's hand gripped the handle of his wand more tightly.

Although no one among the professors and the headmaster had caught him red-handed yet, there had been many rumours circulating at Hogwarts lately about Snape and, more importantly, about the kind of wizard he yearned to become.

His notoriously morbid curiosity towards the Dark Arts seemed to have resulted in a series of magical experiments. Snape, as it was rumoured, delighted in creating potions and spells all his own, with the sole purpose of pouring the resentment, which he harboured towards the world that did not recognise his worth, onto those weaker than himself. Usually, he would fish his victims among young students, first and second years most, still inexperienced in spells to defend themselves and too afraid to rebel.

Snape would do anything to get his moment in the limelight and picking on those he deemed inferior was one of his favourite strategies.

James' distaste for the envious and resentful Slytherin grew even more acute.

An impatient sizzle pervaded his hand that still held the weapon, but who knows why he held back. Snape, on the other hand, feeling hunted and overflowing with hatred towards the Gryffindor who had always mistreated him, immediately sprang to attack.

He raised his wand and James was just in time to dodge his opponent's non-verbal spell, parrying himself behind the open door of a cubicle. Snape's blow shattered part of the wood in a shower of splinters.

"Impedimenta!", shouted James, but the Slytherin moved quickly and the spell missed him by a handful of millimetres.

Snape also threw himself to the side, for protection behind the rickety wall of another cabinet.

More spells echoed through the bathroom, in a succession of explosions that disintegrated some of the tiles lining the walls and shattered the glass of the mirror hanging above the sinks. Some of them blew up, copious water poured onto the already wet floor.

In the heat of the crash, James nearly slipped because of a puddle that surrounded him. He quickly pulled himself together, but the momentary distraction gave Snape time to get his aim right and cast his spell.

"SECTUMSEMPRA!" squealed the greasy-haired boy, with clear sadism in his voice.

James tried to protect himself again behind the wood of a door, but he wasn't quick enough. The curse struck him squarely in the hand that held his wand, disarming him instantly.

Gushes of blood spurted from the Gryffindor's palm and wrist, wounded as if by an invisible and very sharp blade. The floor around him turned crimson and James looked horrified at his hand, burning with pain, now completely covered in blood.

Snape, meanwhile, had approached him, wand still held high, scrutinising him with a dark grin of victory that uncovered his yellow teeth.

"You're finished, Potter!" he hissed triumphantly, his eyes gushing with sadistic pleasure.

He lifted his wand, anticipating the deadly revenge he was ready to take with quivering spirit, driven by envy and the deep hatred he had always harboured for that overweening and successful Gryffindor who wouldn't leave him alone.

But a providential sound of footsteps stopped him.

Terrified, Snape cast a quick glance at the bathroom door left open. If anyone had passed by at that moment, he would have been caught in the act and would have had no chance. Snape lowered the wand and hid it under his cloak; he shot one last glance full of resentment and disappointment at Potter, then sneaked away.

James tried to imitate him. The threat from the Headmaster regarding his expulsion still hung over his dishevelled head; to be found in a pool of blood, in the middle of a half-destroyed bathroom, the obvious site of a confrontation wouldn't have been wise.

He picked up his wand from the ground with an uninjured hand and slipped out of Myrtle's bathroom with stealth. He quickly closed the door to hide the suspicious rubble.

In spite of the pain in his injured hand, James sped down the first floor corridor, trying to outrun the patron who had ended his fight with Snape. But he didn't make it in time.

"Potter!" the booming, stern voice of Professor McGonagall pierced his shoulders.

Unable to do otherwise, the boy turned around, trying to show himself as innocent as possible. However, the trail of blood he discovered behind him betrayed him.

"By Merlin's beard, Potter! What happened to your hand?" she said, looking horrified at the wound James was trying in vain to hide under his cloak.

Caught off-guard, the Gryffindor could not come up with a plausible excuse as to why his right hand was dripping with blood, and was left gasping like a fish.

But fortunately, the teacher seemed more concerned about her student's condition than angry or in the mood to hand out punishments and lectures.

"I'll take you to the Hospital Wing right away! There, calmly, you will tell me everything."

Obediently, James followed her as his mind worked fast, devising a viable tale which involved neither forbidden magical confrontations nor spells hurled into a cramped, stinking bathroom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N:

In this chapter we find James struggling with Alya's difficult and contradictory behaviour. I enjoyed imagining their bickering ♡.

Also, since I don't want this to be a story based only on a ship or on a love story, I wanted to end the chapter with a clash between our beloved Gryffindor and his eternal rival, Severus Snape. I'm not used to describing fights, but I hope I managed to make it compelling enough anyway.

Let me know what you think!

I hope you enjoy this chapter ^^

And thanks for reading!!