James Potter is like pink.

Hot, fluorescent, neon pink.

The kind of pink that Petunia wears. In hot pants and matching nail polish. Sometimes she pulls her thin black hair up off her thick neck and ties it up with hot pink ribbons.

The thing about this pink is that I know that it's obnoxious and horrible, but very secretly, I only hate it because I, being a redhead, look atrocious in pink. If I looked glamorous in pink –hot, fluorescent, neon pink— then I would wear it every day.

And Petunia wouldn't look at me like I was fashionably offensive in my grey Hogwarts uniform because pink would be on my fingernails, and laced in my hair, and maybe I'd be a bit rebellious and charm my Gryffindor tie pink. And James Potter wouldn't be able to call me a prude.

He would tell me I was gorgeous and he would mean it. And I would feel flattered at his attentions and hold his hand and I'd go with him every Hogsmeade weekend.

But James Potter does not do this sort of thing. Instead, he pulls on my ponytail. Instead, he spills pumpkin juice all over me. Instead, he flies upside down over me singing crude songs when I'm trying to study outside. And then he asks me out lacking anything remotely resembling sincerity.

Thus, I hate pink. And James Potter. Because we simply don't match, and we never will.

AN: Reviewers get pumpkin pie with loads of whipped cream!