James Potter
It was her.
It was Her, and only Her, that could make him feel this way. Her, with her flowing dark-red hair and bright green eyes that made him melt—
Those were the same green eyes that looked upon him with hate and disgust. He couldn't understand why—why She hated him, why She was disgusted whenever She looked his way. It couldn't be his physical appearance—true, he wasn't very tall and was rather skinny—but years of Quidditch training had at least toned his muscles somewhat, and he definitely wasn't ugly.
So why, then, did she not say yes already? He was handsome, he was smart. An excellent Chaser, and his family, the Potters, had quite a bit of gold stored up. He was, like, literally freaking perfect, and so was She—that was why they would even be more perfect together.
He had never known truly living, truly breathing, truly anything—before he knew it was Her. It was never love at first sight—but anyway, he had first met Her at the tender age of eleven and he definitely wasn't interested in girls yet.
After he realized it was Her, he needed to make Her his. When his best friend found out about it, he laughed it off, said it was simply a want because She was pretty. He got mad and exclaimed he couldn't believe his closest companion was doubting the unbelievably deep feelings he had for this girl. His best friend said nothing, but meekly accepted that this was how he felt.
For nearly two (perhaps even three) years he tried desperately to obtain Her affections. His attempts were to no avail, however. But, seemingly, the minute he turned seventeen (or certainly very recently after) something snapped. He decided to back off for a while, maybe date another girl, since She seemed like a lost cause. He did back off, but still She paid him no mind. It depressed him. He couldn't pay attention to any other females, no matter how hard he tried. He only wanted Her, but She hated him. A lot.
Right?
