Out of all my somewhat debatable arguments against his character, there is one that I've always believed to be rock solid. Surprisingly, it's not his cocky attitude or his larger than life ego— it's been the fact that he is, without a doubt, not the forehead kissing type.
While that may seem petty and inconsequential to you, I've found that it's an alarmingly accurate way to judge a boy's character—how they treat their girlfriends, in public. From my knowledge, there are three different types of guys—the cheek kissing type, the forehead kissing type, and the full, frontal snogging type.
When dealing with him, I'd immediately crossed the first type off the list—the cheek kissing type were, for lack of a better term, the most prude of the three, and that's definitely not a word you'd associate with this particular boy. The snogging type is, as I'm sure you could guess, the other side of the spectrum; the guys who are all about the physical contact. The middle one—the forehead kissing type—that's the best one; the ideal one. Boys who fall into that category, they're the keepers. They're the affectionate ones. Because after all, what's sweeter than a kiss on the forehead?
Yes, I'm aware this little categorizing is highly childish and stereotypical, but as far as teenage boys go, it's also fairly accurate. And from nearly the very beginning, I had James Potter pegged as the snogging type. And it's not like it was just me, all my friends agreed too; when half of what you hear about a boy is the latest girl on his arm, it's really the only conclusion to come to.
These same friends, however, don't see it as necessarily a bad characteristic. "He's not afraid to show he's attracted to a girl!" Well, he's certainly not afraid, I'll give them that; he's so comfortable with it, he'll snog a girl in the middle of the Great Hall—a beautiful sight first thing in the morning for the rest of us, I'm sure you can imagine.
So, in Fifth Year when he started asking me out, and in Sixth Year when he continued to, this was always, in my mind, an excuse to fall back on; a rock solid, sure as you were born, truth—James Potter was not the forehead kissing type. And ever since I'd devised this little analyzing system back in Third Year, I've had it decided that I'm going to only date boys that are the forehead kissing type. Because even though I was certainly having trouble finding that kind of guy, who wants to be with just another hormonal boy, looking to show off the fact that he can get a girl?
Not me, that's for sure. So whenever Potter would ask me out, I'd roll my eyes and look at him in disgust, before spinning around and walking down the hallway. And, y'know, fine, I'll admit it, there was something nice in the fact that he never gave up on me; no girl is impervious to that sort of attention, no matter what they say. But his attention wasn't sweet enough for me to look past his character flaws, and so I continued to turn him down.
Until Seventh Year, that is. And don't go thinking I changed my mind all at once; it was a slow, slow process, one that I wasn't even aware of till it was over. But somehow, he unknowingly nullified each of the serious character flaws I'd always held against him—arrogant, egotistic, narcissistic, stuck-up, bullying, and, y'know, the last one. He'd do it in simple ways, in actions he was sure no one other than him knew of; how was he to know I'd been watching him nearly as much as he watches me? For different purposes, of course—my observations were strictly for analytical use.
One afternoon in Transfiguration, we were working on a particularly complex spell, in which you had to transform a pencil into a bird. Potter'd gotten it right away, but Pettigrew just couldn't seem to get the hang of it, not to save his life. Five minutes before the end of class McGonagall announced that anyone who hadn't gotten the spell down by the end of class had to write an additional essay, which doesn't even make sense—how is writing going to improve your spellwork?
Anyway, Peter was the only one left, and just before the bell rings, all of a sudden there is this beautiful tropical bird sitting in front of him, with more colors than the sunset. McGonagall was too pleased with the fact that everyone in the class had gotten the spell to notice the overly shocked look on Peter's face, or the content smile on Potter's. But I wasn't, and I did notice, and I like to think I'm as good at putting two and two together as the next person. Potter'd done that spell for Peter, just so his friend wouldn't have the shame of being the only one with extra work.
That was the first time I'd ever seen—or been willing to see, I s'pose—Potter do something wholeheartedly kind for someone else, and it made me start to wonder if I should maybe reconsider my harsh judgment on him. I might've even said yes to going out with him, but I guess we'll never know. Because at the start of Seventh Year, he'd stopped asking me. I'd still feel him watching me in class, or see his eyes scanning the hallway till they reached mine, but no longer was I able to spin on my heel after turning him down.
Often, almost too often, Remus would miss a day of classes and come back the next day looking worn and torn beyond belief. We'd been told that he visited his sick mother, but I've never understood how a sick mother could make someone look so broken. Anyway, one morning I woke up with a fierce nosebleed—I used to get them as a kid, but it'd been years since the last one—so, with a ball of tissues to slow the bleeding, I walked down to the Infirmary.
I was about to walk through the double doors when I heard voices on the other side, and stopped. It was barely seven in the morning, and I couldn't imagine who could possibly be awake and talking. I held my breath as I listened, letting it out slowly as I identified the voices…Remus, and Potter. Potter was going through everything we'd done in class the day before—going over every part of the notes, which I was shocked to learn he'd actually taken—and, of course, adding in all the humorous parts of the day.
I stood their listening for a moment, my head tilted at an awkward angle and bloodied tissues in my hand. I hadn't been expecting such kindness from Potter, that was for sure. Even more so, when I finally entered the Hospital Wing, I wasn't expecting the look of something near regret on his face at seeing me—I hadn't expected him to want to keep his kindness a secret from me.
I told Madame Pomfry, that'd I gotten nosebleeds like this quite often in my childhood, but that didn't stop the young nurse from insisting I spend the day in the Infirmary, possibly even the night as well. She led me to the bed next to Remus, and I was surprised again when Potter muttered something to his friend, lightly put his arm on his shoulder, and then walked out.
I spent some time chatting casually with Remus, but soon even he was allowed to go, and I was left alone. It wasn't long before I fell into a restless sleep, one in which I wasn't entirely dead to the world but still somewhat awake. It might've been minutes later or it might've been hours, but soon I felt something soft brush against my forehead. For a moment I could only relish how beautiful and genuine it had felt, but soon my mind registered what just happened, and my eyes shot open.
And when they focused to the bright lights, they saw James Potter sitting next to me, a soft smile on my face, and it was obvious what had happened, whether I wanted to admit it or not. That's when I was aware that my mind had been changed about James Potter, and that I'd been wrong about that rock solid argument.
Because James Potter had just kissed me on the forehead.
A/N: You've taken the time to read this, I'd really appreciate it if you took another second to leave a review, and let me know your thoughts/reactions. Thanks!