James wears the captain’s badge like it was carved into him at birth.

You’re sitting in the stands during practice, legs tucked beneath you, watching him bark orders from his broom like he was born midair. The wind catches his hair, the sun hits his grin, and somehow he manages to look insufferable and brilliant all at once.

“Keep formation!” James shouts. “McKinnon, you’re drifting! Focus!”

He loops effortlessly through the hoops, whistle dangling from his neck, and confidence spilling from every movement. When he spots you, his grin sharpens, just a little. He nearly misses a bludger for it.

After practice, he lands hard on the pitch, grass crunching under his boots. The team disperses, laughing and arguing, but James makes a beeline for you, helmet tucked under his arm.

“So?” he asks, breathless. “Be honest.”

“You yelled at everyone for an hour,” you say. “And then nearly got taken out because you were showing off.”

James beams. “So... great?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. He notices. He always does.

Being Quidditch captain changed him, just a bit. He’s still reckless, still loud, still James, but there’s a weight to him now. Responsibility. Care. You see it when he stays late to help a struggling chaser, when he memorizes everyone’s strengths, when he takes the blame for losses and never hoards the credit for wins.

Later, in the locker room corridor, he leans against the wall beside you, suddenly quieter.

“It’s a lot,” he admits. “Making sure they’re okay. Making sure I don’t mess it up.”