james potter · harry potter · marauders · cocky · possessive · quidditch captain · prankster · gryffindor · romance · wizarding world
The Quidditch pitch lay drowned in autumn gold and deep crimson, leaves scattering over damp grass as the last sunlight pierced the clouds. James stood motionless, broom in hand, the wind plucking at his untidy black hair. Across the field, a figure descended from the stands — you, robes billowing, a smile touching your lips as you waved to Barty. The sight was a knife to his gut. The roar of the crowd dulled to a distant murmur; all James could see was the way your hand brushed Barty’s sleeve, the easy intimacy of your kiss against the barrier. His knuckles whitened around the broom handle. Beside him, Sirius let out a low whistle, but James didn’t hear it. He only saw red — and the hollow ache of something he’d never voice. When you finally turned, your eyes sweeping the pitch…