“So, good game, huh Potter?”
James only allows himself to freeze for two seconds before he grits his teeth and chucks his unfastened Quidditch leathers onto the little wooden bench. That fancy, posh drawl can only belong to two people—but the voice itself, being a smooth, rumbling baritone rather than the pitchier sharp croak associated with the other, narrows the surprise visitor down to one. The latter would never dare approach James like this anyway. Not outside of the hallways of the Castle, without being flanked by his bigoted little mates; not with such a comment, said after a game that was very much not good.
This voice James would recognise underwater.
“Black,” James greets him flatly. “I’m assuming you’ve come to gloat?”
Black clacks his tongue and steps closer, heels of his expensive leather school shoes tapping sharply against the granite flooring of the changing rooms. “Gloat? Me? Don’t be absurd.”
“It’s not every day that Slytherin wins from Gryffindor,” says James. He tugs off his tunic—sweat- and rain-soaked that the garment is, it sticks to his upper body like wet papier-mâché. “I’m sure you lot must be pissing yourselves with surprised glee.”
“You say that as though Slytherin hasn’t won from Gryffindor before,” Black replies. “When was it… two years ago? Though you may not remember, considering you got knocked off your broom halfway through. Your poor, pretty skull, your delicate ribs… all cracked, weren’t they?”
Two years ago, when James was still caught in the thralls of new hormones and the like, calling his skull pretty and ribs delicate would’ve been enough for him to catapult headfirst out of his hospital bed and, perhaps, break Black’s handsome nose. At this point in his life however James has acquired self-control, so he bravely refrains from breaking any noses.
He does swivel around though, Quidditch tunic swinging from his fingers, and meets eyes of liquid mercury. Infuriatingly, Black is smiling just a little bit—that haughty, better-than-thou smirk that his little brother has never been able to perfect. It presses the corners of Black’s eyes into sharp little angles, making him look just that bit more lethal. The silver woven through his Slytherin scarf matches his irises.
“I wasn’t captain two years ago.”
“But you’re captain now,” Black murmurs, eyes briefly flicking to James’ chest and then back up to his face—likely checking for weak spots. “And you still lost… without a bludger to the temple, or the gut.”
In the ensuing moment of tense silence, James tightens his jaw in frustration whilst Black just stares at him, all unsettlingly bright eyes and sooty lashes. His nose is too straight and his mouth is too plump: Black is too pretty, so James has to focus, irritably, on the eerie dichotomy between Black’s blueish black hair and near-colourless eyes.
It doesn’t help much, but a man can try.
“You did come here to gloat, didn’t you?”
The small, smug smile widens into something dangerous. Black’s got straight white teeth, canines sharp and slightly protruding. It induces a curl in James’ gut that he equates to anger.
“The keen observational skills of a Gryffindor never fail to amaze me,” Black says. “Tell me, would that affect you that much, Potter? Will you run to Evans for additional comfort?”
“Additional?” James asks, and then he frowns. “Comfort? Evans?”
“Have you forgotten words, Potter?”
“I know words,” James snaps, and he instantly realises that’s the most absurd accusation to get upset about. He clears his throat. “I simply don’t understand what Evans is supposed to comfort me about. And why.”
Black’s neatly groomed eyebrows lift slightly. The laugh that follows is a little breathless, a little incredulous. “You’re Head Boy to her Head Girl, Potter.”
“So?”
“So?” Black barks out another breathless little laugh. “So, won’t perfect Lily Evans give you a shoulder to cry embarrassingly on?”
“Evans will pat my shoulder, tell me ‘tough luck’, and hand me a butterbeer before stalking off,” says James. “Any longer in my morose presence and she’ll rip my throat out with her fingernails.”
Black stares at him again, jaw jutted out slightly and tongue pressed against the bottom of his upper incisors. Then he smiles again, sharper than before.
“Good to know,” he drawls, voice low and supple like broken-in leather. He reaches out, taps the very tips of his fingers against James’ naked collarbone, before retreating. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
James blinks. “What.”
The smile remains wide and dangerous as Black turns to walk off. James does not look at Black’s arse.
“See you in Transfig on Monday, Potter,” Black says. “We’ll see who manages to transfigure their tortoise into the best trumpet. And,” he adds over his shoulder with a downright infuriating wink, “have fun in the showers.”