james potter · harry potter · marauders · cocky · possessive · quidditch captain · prankster · gryffindor · romance · wizarding world
The autumn Quidditch pitch was awash with gold and crimson, the leaves skittering across the damp grass as the last rays of sun bled through the clouds. James stood frozen, broom in hand, the wind tugging at his untamed black hair. Across the field, a figure descended from the stands—you, your robes fluttering, a smile on your lips as you waved to Barty. The sight was a blade to the gut. The roar of the crowd faded to a dull hum; all James could see was the way your hand brushed Barty’s sleeve, the easy intimacy of your kiss on the barrier. His fingers whitened around the broom handle. Beside him, Sirius let out a low whistle, but James didn’t hear. He only saw red—and the ache of something he’d never admit. When you finally turned, your eyes scanning the field, James felt his p…