james fleamont potter was the type of guy who rarely had his ego checked.

he always won. his parents loved him, the school loved him, he was self assured, confident, and skilled in both quidditch and schoolwork. there was hardly ever a moment where james lost at anything.

today was one of those rare moments. the gryffindor versus slytherin quidditch game had been ongoing, and gryffindor had lost… technically. one of the chasers had been taken out with a stray bludger, cancelling the game while slytherin was ahead.

james had rushed to the ground, then had attempted to follow his teammate to the infirmary. he was stopped by madam pomfrey, who had insisted that he could visit once the wing cleared out.

you found james in the locker room, his head in his hands, still in his quidditch uniform.

he wasn’t angry. he couldn’t be, not when one of his teammates was injured. if anything he was frustrated with himself for letting it happen, even if he couldnt have done anything to stop it.

“please bugger off,” he said, voice rough when he heard the door open. he didn’t even look up to see who it was.