fuel to the fire || james & emma
She stretched, cat-like, on the ground by the fire. Mm, warm, she registered distantly; most of her focus was on the boy seated nearby, who seemed to be empty-handed. Or not, Emma couldn’t really tell. She flopped onto her back and lifted a half-emptied bottle of Firewhiskey, a peace offering of sorts. Maybe. She was largely ambivalent about the boy, but there were old scores and old grudges that ran deep.
And it might’ve been foolish, four years after her graduation, to still be so hung up over a game that, on hindsight, had been ridiculously arbitrary. It’d been a fun way to pass the time, definitely, and Emma loved flying; she missed it, now that it had been deemed a risk to their security. But these days she was bitter and resentful at just about anything, and this was a good excuse to vent her frustration at someone.
“‘Lo, Potter. I never did get back at you for your win in sixth year.” Or fifth. Was it? Emma was usually good about these things, but the bloody drink was making her woozy. “Your lot cheated, of course, but I’ve learnt my lessons about trusting Gryffindors, in that you really shouldn’t. Truce?”
James had propped himself up on his elbows, squinting at the darkened sky above him and trying to string together Canis Major from the stars to the east. His glasses were tucked safely in his pocket; wearing them in front of the fire just fogged them up, so he had chosen the less dorky option, which was to wrinkle his nose and squint at the sky. A motion to his left caught his attention. Vanity, offering alcohol.
"Hullo," he said, unsure if he was greeting the girl or the bottle. Taking the Firewhiskey and downing most of what was left, James watched her with a slight furrow between his brows. It was a bit baffling to him why she’d just come up, insulted his team, then asked for a truce, but he supposed Slytherins were prone to bouts of entitlement. He finished the Firewhiskey but let the bottle dangle from his fingers as he stared at Vanity, uncertain if she was joking about the truce.
"First off, we never cheated." James couldn’t help his lower lip from sticking out in the smallest of pouts. Integrity, or whatever. "I’m sorry you’re so hung up on how much better we were, four years later. It’s a shame you can’t accept that I’m a superior captain and chaser." Reaching a hand out to give the top of Vanity’s a consoling pat, he continued in a voice barely tinged with frustration, "Shove your truce up your arse, please. I would rematch, but the Inferi have probably infected the skies by now."