I'm Head Girl, and I'm Forced to Live with the Arrogant Prankster I Despise

The stone gargoyle slid aside with a grinding sound as Lily uttered the password, “Exemplum.” She dragged her trunk over the threshold, her jaw tight with a fury that had been simmering since she’d read the Headmaster’s letter. Head Girl. It was an honor she had worked for, a responsibility she cherished. But sharing it with James Potter? It felt like a cosmic joke, a cruel twist of fate designed specifically to torment her.

The common room was larger than she’d expected, cozy and circular, with a plush crimson rug and a grand fireplace where a low fire already crackled. And there he was, lounging in one of the high-backed armchairs as if he owned the place. James Potter, in all his infuriating glory, his black hair an artfully chaotic mess, his long legs stretched out before him. He wasn't wearing his school robes, just trousers and a plain grey jumper that made him look older, broader in the shoulders than she remembered.

He looked up as she entered, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face. It wasn’t the familiar smirk she despised; this was something quieter, more genuine. It didn’t matter. It was still him.

“Evans,” he said, his voice a low baritone that filled the space between them. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

“Don’t,” she snapped, dropping her trunk with a thud that echoed her anger. “Don’t you dare act like this is normal.”

His smile faltered. He sat up straighter, his hazel eyes, magnified slightly by his glasses, fixed on her. “I was just trying to be welcoming.”

“Welcoming?” The word was a bitter scoff. “How, in Merlin’s name, did you get this badge, Potter? You’ve never even been a prefect. You’ve spent the last six years hexing first years for a laugh and strutting around the castle like you’re some kind of king. And Dumbledore thinks you are a suitable Head Boy?”

He stood then, unfolding his full height, and the casual air vanished completely. He was taller than she’d realized, and he met her furious glare without flinching. “I know what you think of me, Lily. I know I haven’t given you much reason to think otherwise.”

“No, you certainly haven’t,” she shot back, stepping closer, her own indignation making her brave. “You’re an arrogant, bullying toerag who thinks the rules are for everyone else. What part of that screams ‘leadership material’?”

A flicker of something—hurt, maybe—passed through his eyes before being replaced by a weary resolve. “I’m not that person anymore,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I know I have a lot to prove, especially to you. But I am taking this seriously. I want to do this right.”

“Do it right?” she repeated, incredulous. “You wouldn’t know ‘right’ if it hit you with a Bludger. This badge,” she jabbed a finger toward his chest, “is about protecting students. All of them. Not just your little gang of sycophants. It’s about responsibility and integrity, two things you’ve never shown an ounce of.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his jaw clenching. “I’ve changed.”

“People like you don’t change, Potter. You just get better at pretending.” The words hung in the air between them, sharp and final, leaving them standing in a silence thick with six years of animosity.

Lily broke the silence first, her voice devoid of its earlier heat, now clipped and cool. "Fine. We can stand here all night, or we can do the one thing we're actually required to do together. The patrol schedules need to be posted by morning."

James seemed to welcome the change in subject, however frosty. He nodded, gesturing toward a large oak table near the window. "Right. Of course."

She stalked over to the table, pulling a roll of parchment from her bag along with a quill and a pot of ink. She unrolled a detailed map of the castle, its secret passages and hidden corridors already marked in her own neat script. She flattened it with her palms, refusing to look at him as he took the seat opposite her. The air was thick with unspoken things, charged with the energy of their argument. She could feel the warmth radiating from him across the table, smell a faint, clean scent of soap and something uniquely him, like broom polish and wind.

"I've drafted a preliminary grid," she began, pushing a piece of parchment with neat columns towards him. "If we pair one Gryffindor with one Slytherin, and a Hufflepuff with a Ravenclaw, we can ensure impartiality and cover all seven floors, plus the dungeons and grounds, on a rotating two-hour basis."

James leaned forward, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he studied her chart. He didn't pick it up. "It's efficient," he said, and she braced for the 'but'. "But you've got Caradoc Dearborn paired with Mulciber. Caradoc is brilliant, but he's timid. Mulciber will walk all over him. And you've got Emmeline Vance on the seventh floor by the Charms corridor—she's terrified of heights."

Lily’s fingers tightened around her quill. "This isn't about their personal feelings, Potter. It's about fulfilling a duty. They're prefects. They need to be capable of handling any assignment."

"It's about making sure the patrols are actually effective," he countered, his voice low and reasonable, which was somehow more infuriating than if he'd shouted. He reached across the map, his long fingers tracing a route from the Owlery down to the kitchens. His hand was less than an inch from hers. She could feel the heat of it on her skin, a strange current that made her pull her own hand back as if burned. "We should pair the more experienced prefects with the younger ones. And we need the toughest pairs—like Remus and McKinnon—near the Slytherin dungeons, especially after curfew. It’s not about impartiality, it’s about being smart."

"You mean pairing your friends in the cushiest spots," she said, her voice sharp with accusation.

His head snapped up, and his hazel eyes met hers, the easy-going look gone, replaced by a flash of steel. "No, Evans. I mean putting people where they can do the most good. Leadership isn't a bloody Arithmancy equation. It's about knowing your people."

The silence stretched, taut and vibrating. He was right about Emmeline, she knew he was. And probably about Caradoc, too. He knew the students in a way she, buried in her books and her principles, did not. The realization was galling. They worked for another hour in near silence, the only sounds the scratch of his quill—messier and bolder than hers—and their clipped negotiations. "Fine, Vance can take the ground floor." "McKinnon and Lupin on the east wing, then." Each concession felt like losing a battle, and with every point he made, a grudging, infuriating sense of his competence began to take root. They weren't just arguing; they were dividing the castle, carving up their authority, and the tension was no longer just anger. It was something else, something more complicated that hummed in the space between their chairs.

When they were finally done, the finished parchment lay between them, a testament to their fractured truce. Her script was precise and compact; his was a bold, messy scrawl that took up far more space than necessary.

James leaned back, running a hand through his perpetually untidy hair. The gesture was so familiar, so quintessentially him, but tonight it lacked its usual swagger. It seemed more tired than anything else. “Well,” he sighed, his eyes scanning their combined work. “At least everyone will know which instructions to follow if they want to get to the right place, and which to follow if they fancy a scenic tour of the castle’s broom cupboards.”

He glanced up at her, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. It wasn’t the smirk she was used to, the one that always made her blood boil. This was something else entirely. In the flickering firelight, she saw the mask of the arrogant Gryffindor Quidditch captain slip. Just for a moment, his hazel eyes, unguarded, held a raw flicker of insecurity, a genuine anxiety that he wasn’t living up to the task. The sight was so jarring, so completely at odds with the boy she had loathed for six years, that she felt a strange jolt in her stomach. She immediately stamped it down, telling herself it was just another performance.

He must have mistaken her silence for consideration. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, his gaze earnest and intense. “Evans… Lily,” he began, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone that vibrated through the quiet room. “I know what you think of me. And you’re not wrong. I was an idiot. But I’m trying to be better. Can we… can we just have a fresh start? Please. Just for this year. Head Boy and Head Girl. Nothing else matters.”

The plea hung between them, sincere and heavy. A part of her, the part that was exhausted from the constant fighting, wanted to accept. It would be so much easier. But the memories were a wall she couldn’t see past: his hexes in the hallways, his casual cruelty to Snape, the way he carried himself as if the world was his own personal playground.

“Trust isn’t given, Potter,” she said, her voice quiet but unyielding, as sharp as a shard of glass. “It’s earned.”

She watched the hope in his expression collapse. It wasn’t a dramatic change, but it was absolute. The light in his eyes dimmed, his shoulders slumped forward just slightly, and the confident set of his jaw softened into something loose and defeated. He looked genuinely hurt, and the sight sent a sharp, unwelcome pang through her chest. He didn’t argue or offer a comeback. He just gave a single, stiff nod and pulled back, turning his head to stare into the crackling flames of the fire as if she were no longer there.

The silence that followed was worse than their argument. It was empty and final. Lily stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. She gathered her quill and ink without another word, refusing to look at the defeated line of his back. She walked to the door of her new room, the one marked Head Girl, her heart pounding with a confusing mix of victory and regret. As she closed it behind her, the last thing she saw was his silhouette, alone and motionless in the fading firelight.