When the Sun and Stars Unite (Jegulus Oneshots)

Snitchnip

Regulus thinks he's doing his boyfriend a favour--but James is less than pleased by what the Slytherin considers a favour.

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James gripped his broom, grateful for the charm on his gloves because there was no way he'd have a proper grip on anything in this slop. It was pissing rain, had been for the last six days, and the storm was raging during the match. He half wanted to blame Slytherin for trying to sabotage them, but he was fairly sure they wouldn't have actively tried to play like this.

Cheating—sure. They'd already knocked out Gryffindor's seeker, leaving them with Jover who was their reserve, but total shite—especially in this weather. Through his goggles, as James clutched the Quaffle close to his chest, he caught sight of Black hovering above him. Almost taunting him. His hair was plastered across his forehead, his cloak flailing out behind. His sharp, grey eyes were darting round the pitch, but in a lazy manner because he knew. He bloody-well knew he wasn't going to have to even try. Not with Longbottom out.

James stamped down on his fury, his frustration. Losing this game wouldn't mean they'd lost a chance at the cup, but James wanted to sweep the season, leave Hogwarts undefeated—to have something to boast about when scouts came to watch him.

But that wasn't going to happen.

Gryffindor was only up by seventy-five, which meant unless he could score...

"YES!" He threw the Quaffle hard, bypassing Rosier and it sailed through. Another ten points dinged.

It still wasn't enough. It wasn't fucking enough, because he knew Regulus had seen the fucking snitch and it was too bloody late for him.

James sailed through the rain, bypassing his teammates, giving them his Captain's Nod letting them know in spite of their shit luck, he was proud of them. And that was true—he was. They were doing their best.

Beaters were on point, chasers never leaving sight of the Quaffle. Jover was hovering, not tailing Regulus like he ought to have been doing because Regulus was a vicious seeker, more relentless than James was on the pitch. At least in some ways.

As Regulus zoomed past Jover, having spotted the snitch, and he gave James an almost taunting look. Something in James snapped. It was pointless, for all that he faffed round with a snitch outside of the Pitch, he was no seeker. But he would be damned if he let Gryffindor go on without a fight.

He could see it, the small, flitting ball racing past fat raindrops, skating just outside of Regulus' gloves.

With an overly-determined look on his face, James pushed his broom forward, as hard, as fast as it could go and he came nose-to-nose with the Slytherin. He glanced over, Regulus looking almost surprised. Almost. His hand stretched, and he was close.

Too fucking close.

And then suddenly Regulus had fallen back. Not a lot. Just a fraction, and James had been too startled to realise what was happening—and the next thing he knew his fist had curled round the tiny ball and the whistle was blown.

The commentator was screaming about the win, Slytherins screaming about how the match was invalid because James had caught the snitch instead of Jover.

But eventually Hooch gave her ruling—Gryffindor won, and it was over.

James dropped to the ground, meeting the Slytherin Captain's long, angry gaze for a while, listening as he barked at his team to get the fuck in the showers and he would be talking to them later. "Especially you, Black. Don't think you're not going to pay for letting Potter best you."