Just My Luck
pairing - james potter x fem!reader
summary - you get stuck in a shed with your quidditch captain
warnings - gryffindor!reader, quidditch player!reader, kinda grumpy x sunshine vibes
a/n - week one of hogmarch! using the dialogue prompt "if we're stuck here, we might as well make the best of it"
wordcount - 2.3k
The last thing you wanted was to be stuck alone with James bloody Potter.
And yet, here you were.
It had been a long, grueling practice, made worse by the fact that you were forced to take orders from James—James of all people—because he was Captain now, and you weren’t. You were still bitter about it, still fuming over the decision McGonagall had made at the start of the season.
Not that you had wanted to be Captain, necessarily. But if anyone deserved it, it was you. You had been on the team since second year, worked your ass off every season, knew how to run drills better than anyone. And yet, somehow, James—show-off, golden boy, bloody Potter—had been the one to get the title.
And of course, he was obnoxiously good at it.
You huffed under your breath, gripping the heavy crate of practice Bludgers tighter as you trudged toward the equipment shed.
James was beside you, carrying the other half, his usual, infuriating grin still plastered across his face despite having spent the last two hours barking orders at the team.
“Y’know,” he said, effortlessly adjusting his grip like the crate weighed nothing, “if you weren’t so busy glaring at me during practice, maybe you’d actually manage to listen to the strategy I was explaining.”
You shot him a glare that could have set his broom on fire. “Oh, sorry, Captain. Next time I’ll be sure to hang onto every brilliant word that comes out of your mouth.”
James just laughed, completely unaffected, his hazel eyes bright with amusement. “That’s all I ask.”
You groaned, shaking your head as you reached the shed. He had this way of getting under your skin—like an annoying little itch you couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t just the fact that he was a talented player or a natural leader or that he made Quidditch look so damn easy.
No. It was the fact that he knew all of this, and he enjoyed pushing your buttons about it.
The two of you set the crate down inside the shed, the worn wood creaking under the weight. You turned to grab the last few Quaffles, and James, ever the show-off, tossed his into the storage bin without even looking.
“That was luck,” you muttered.
James smirked. “That was skill, darling.”
You rolled your eyes, about to retort, when—
Click.
The sound was so quiet that it almost didn’t register. It wasn’t until you turned back toward the door, reaching to grab another broom, that you realized it had swung shut behind you.
You frowned.
James frowned too, as if the same realization was dawning on him at the exact same moment.
Slowly, you reached for the handle and twisted it.
It didn’t budge.
You twisted harder.
Still nothing.
There was a beat of silence.
James blinked. “Did you just—?”
“It’s locked,” you said flatly.
James let out a nervous chuckle. “That’s funny.”
You turned to face him, arms crossed. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
Another pause.
Then—like the absolute idiot that he was—James reached for the door handle himself, as if that would make a difference. He twisted. Pushed. Pulled.
Nothing.
He let out a sheepish cough. “Okay. So it’s… properly locked.”
You stared at him, unamused. “Brilliant deduction, Potter.”
“Well, no need to panic. Just grab your wand and—”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
James stopped.
You saw it—the exact second he realized.
“No,” he said, his voice dropping into something close to horror. “No, no, no—tell me you have your wand.”
You didn’t answer.
“Tell me one of us brought their wand.”
Silence.
His face fell.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair.
You let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We left them in the locker room.”
“Because Quidditch robes don’t have pockets,” he finished, nodding grimly.
More silence.
Then, James turned to you, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “I mean… at least we have each other?”
You deadpanned. “I’m going to kill you.”
His grin widened. “That would be counterproductive.”
You groaned, slumping against the wall of the shed. “This is your fault.”
James raised his eyebrows. “My fault?”
“You’re the Captain. That makes everything automatically your fault.”
He scoffed. “That’s not how it works.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know, because I’m not Captain.”
James let out a dramatic sigh. “Are you still salty about that?”
You glared at him. “I hope someone finds us in here tomorrow.”
James just laughed.
And, Merlin help you, you hated how much you liked the sound of it.
Because for all your irritation, for all your sharp words and glares and gritted teeth… you didn’t actually hate James Potter. Not even a little.
And that was the real problem.
James stretched his arms behind his head, utterly unconcerned about the fact that you were well and truly stuck. You, on the other hand, were pacing a tight line along the cramped space of the shed, trying to think of a way out.
“Maybe if we both threw our weight against the door at the same time, we could—”
“Shatter the entire thing?” James cut in, amused. “Brilliant idea. McGonagall would love that one.”
You whirled on him, scowling. “You got a better plan, Captain?”
James, to his credit, pretended to think about it. “Not really. But if we are stuck here, we might as well make the most of it.”
You gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “And how exactly do you suggest we do that?”
James smirked, leaning lazily against the wall like this was all just a minor inconvenience, like you weren’t actually trapped inside a tiny wooden shed with only old broomsticks and deflated Quaffles for company. “Well,” he said, voice infuriatingly casual, “we could always sit and have a nice chat.”
You let out an exaggerated groan. “I’d rather take my chances with the door.”
“Come on,” James said, tilting his head at you. “I’m trying to be civil.”
You shot him a glare but begrudgingly slumped against the opposite wall, arms crossed.
“Alright, since you’re so interested in chatting,” you said, voice thick with sarcasm, “why don’t you enlighten me? What is it, exactly, that makes you so insufferable?”
James laughed, bright and easy. “Dunno. It’s a talent, I suppose.”
You rolled your eyes. “You would think that.”
He grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. But then, to your surprise, the amusement in his expression softened just a fraction.
“Alright,” he said, a little more serious now. “Your turn. What is it, exactly, that makes you so mad at me?”
You scoffed. “Oh, where to begin?”
James just raised his eyebrows, waiting.
You hesitated.
Because, really—what was it?
What was it that made your blood boil every time he smirked at you? What was it that made you grind your teeth when he swooped past you on his broom, looking like some Quidditch poster boy? What was it that made you so incredibly bitter about him being Captain, when, deep down, you knew he was actually pretty damn good at it?
You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably. “You’re just… you,” you said finally, though even you knew it was a weak answer.
James hummed. “Right. And that means…?”
“You’re arrogant. You’re annoying. You think you’re the greatest thing to ever happen to Quidditch.”
He grinned. “I am the greatest thing to ever happen to Quidditch.”
You gave him a look. “See? That. That right there.”
James laughed, but his hazel eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and searching, like he was seeing something beyond your words. Like he knew there was more to it.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.
James leaned in slightly, his grin never faltering. “You know, I think you secretly like it.”
You snorted. “Like what?”
“The way I get under your skin.” He tilted his head, watching you closely, like he was trying to read you. “The way I push your buttons.”
Your stomach did an annoying little flip. You ignored it. “Oh, please.”
James smirked. “You wouldn’t glare at me so much if you didn’t care.”
A silence stretched between you, not quite tense but not entirely comfortable either. The shed was small—too small—and now that you weren’t moving around, you were painfully aware of how close the two of you were.
James must have noticed it too, because his smirk softened, something flickering in his hazel eyes. “Listen,” he said, a little quieter, “if this is about Quidditch—about me being Captain—I didn’t take it to spite you.”
You frowned. “I never said you did.”
James gave you a knowing look. “You didn’t have to.”
You looked away. Because, maybe he had a point.
Maybe it wasn’t just about the title. Maybe it was the fact that when McGonagall had announced James as Captain, your heart had twisted in a way you hadn’t expected. Because you had worked so hard, and yet—James had gotten it without even breaking a sweat. Like everything else.
And maybe it stung because James—golden, charming, ridiculously talented James—had always been just one step ahead of you.
You exhaled, crossing your arms tightly. “I know you didn’t take it to spite me,” you admitted, voice quieter than before. “It’s just… frustrating.”
James watched you, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, after a beat, his mouth curved into a slow, lopsided smile.
“Y’know,” he said, voice teasing but warm, “for what it’s worth? You’d make a bloody brilliant Captain.”
Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked it with a scoff. “Yeah, yeah. Flattery’s not gonna get us out of here, Potter.”
James grinned. “No, but it might make you like me a little more.”
You rolled your eyes. But this time, it was harder to fight the smile tugging at your lips.
James must have noticed the way your mouth twitched because his grin widened. “Was that a smile?”
You scowled on instinct. “No.”
His eyes sparkled. “It was.”
“It was not.”
James hummed, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “It’s alright, you know. You can admit it. You like me.”
You scoffed, leaning your head back against the wooden wall with a dramatic sigh. “Being trapped in a storage shed with you has made me delirious, that’s all.”
James chuckled, and for once, it wasn’t the teasing, self-satisfied kind of laugh that usually made you want to throw a Bludger at his head. It was softer. Warmer.
And that was almost worse.
Because James Potter was supposed to be arrogant and annoying and completely, utterly insufferable. He wasn’t supposed to look at you like that—like he actually wanted to understand you. Like he wasn’t just playing a game.
You exhaled, shifting slightly where you sat. “I do take Quidditch seriously, you know.”
James tilted his head. “I know you do.”
“I don’t just get annoyed at you for the sake of it.”
“Well,” James said, smirking, “maybe a little.”
You rolled your eyes. “I just—Quidditch is the one thing I’ve always been really good at. And then you come along, and you’re just… better.” You hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.
James blinked. “Wait—do you actually think that?”
Heat rose to your cheeks. “I—shut up.”
James stared at you like you had just told him the sky was green. “You think I’m better than you?”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Forget I said anything.”
“Not a chance,” James said, still looking mildly offended. “You’re one of the best players I’ve ever seen. I mean it.”
You peeked at him through your fingers, skeptical. “Even better than you?”
James grinned. “Obviously not.”
You let out a strangled laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Git.”
James just laughed, but then his expression softened. “You know I admire you, right?”
You blinked. “What?”
James shrugged, like he hadn’t just casually thrown that out there. “You work harder than anyone. You make plays even I wouldn’t think of. And you never back down from a challenge. It’s kind of impressive.”
Your throat felt oddly tight. “Oh.”
James smiled. “And a little terrifying.”
You snorted, shaking your head. “Good.”
A comfortable silence settled between you. The shed was still small, still cold, still locked. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite as unbearable anymore.
James shifted, bumping his knee against yours. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think McGonagall gave me Captain because I’m better. I think she gave it to me because I’m loud and she wanted me to yell at people so she wouldn’t have to.”
You laughed. “That does sound like her.”
James grinned. “And you would’ve been a nightmare. Can you imagine? You’d have us all doing drills in our sleep.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”
“Fair point.”
Another pause. Then James nudged you again, his voice quieter this time. “Hey.”
You glanced at him.
His hazel eyes were even softer now, searching. “I really don’t want you to hate me.”
You swallowed. “I don’t.”
He held your gaze, like he was waiting for you to take it back. But you didn’t.
And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned your head against his shoulder. Just for a second.
James stilled. You could hear his breath catch, just slightly, before he let it out. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he leaned his head against yours.
You sighed, closing your eyes. “If you tell anyone about this, I will deny it.”
James chuckled, quiet and warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
And for some odd reason, you almost didn’t mind being stuck with him.
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