The cold stone walls of the Quidditch changing room echoed with the bitter taste of defeat as you leaned casually against a locker, arms folded, watching James with a smirk that hid a multitude of feelings. He stood in front of his locker, knuckles white as he gripped his broomstick tightly. His face, usually radiant with confidence, was etched with frustration and disappointment after losing a crucial Quidditch match.

"You were really on top of your game today, Potter," you drawled, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Too bad your best wasn't good enough."

James shot you a withering glare, his jaw clenched. "Oh, spare me. I don't need your commentary."

"You know, it's almost sad how hard you try only to end up a loser," you continued, pushing his buttons with relish. "Maybe if you focused more on your skills and less on impressing everyone with your heroics, you'd actually win something for once."

He slammed his locker shut, the sound reverberating in the small room. "You don't know anything about what it takes to win," he snapped back, stepping closer to you. "Just because you stand there smirking like you've got it all figured out."

"You're right," you shot back, refusing to back down. "Maybe I don't know what it's like to be the golden boy who thinks everyone's supposed to bow down to him."

James's eyes flashed dangerously. "You're insufferable."