Disclaimer: You know it, J.K. Rowling owns it.

A/N: Every so often I'll change the search parameters to 'Percy' and 'Oliver' and have a mini P/O fest. I found a fic I really liked yesterday and my muse decided that, finally, she wanted to try writing this pairing. At 4 AM. Yay. I hope that you like it, and I would really appreciate your comments. Never underestimate the power of reviews.

Sorry about the spacing on N. E. W. T.s This website refuses to acknowledge it as a genuine acronym for some reason. I hope that I got these two in-character, and that this seemed realistic. Oh, and I definitely hope that you -- Enjoy!~

Oliver scrubbed.

And scrubbed.

Oliver scrubbed so much that it began to feel as though scrubbing was all he had ever done.

Or it might have done, had he not been caught up in how he was missing evening Quidditch practice to scrub this generic, ordinary, apparently oh-so important wall, which was suspiciously dirty. He'd known, when his Potion had exploded, that Snape would find some way to schedule his detention when the Gryffindor team had booked the Pitch to practice. What he hadn't foreseen was Filch's involvement in the affair.

Slimy gits had evidently conspired to find the dirtiest wall in the castle, make it ten times dirtier and have him clean it, ensuring that Oliver would not be able to get any flying done for at least a week, when the next practice slot was open.

Damn them damn them damn them.

Utterly miserable, Oliver turned to the damn bucket by his side to soak the damn sponge in cold, soapy water once more, only to notice someone standing close by, looking down at him.

It was Percy Weasley, a stiff Prefect in Oliver's year and House (meaning they shared a Dorm and many classes); they tolerated each other and got on well enough, but more often than not came to blows over something. He was certainly not the sort of guy you wanted to meet while serving a detention: Oliver had only heard the rumours, but apparently lectures would most likely follow. He looked a little awkward (more so than usual) to have been discovered, as though he'd been there a while longer than he'd meant to be.

Which he had been.

Percy patrolled.

And patrolled.

Percy patrolled so much that it had begun to feel as though it was one of the few things he ever did.

This was not to say that he did not relish carrying out his Head Boy duties, or that he resented the responsibilities and extra work he had been entrusted with. But he did sometimes find it a little tiring when he'd reached the evening of another busy day and couldn't go to sleep like everyone else. He had his N. E. W. T.s to think about, and plans for where he would go after them to occupy him.

He knew what other people said about him. "Perfect Percy" they'd sneer. "Head Boy? Bighead Boy, more like..." Many mocked him for how seriously he took things, including his own family. And it was true that he believed in upholding the law -- something that the Sorting Hat had been quick to point out, much to Percy's delight -- but even though he often came across students serving detention whilst patrolling, he would not reprimand them further (unless they were slacking off or cheating, in which case he would obviously have to say something): they were already being punished for their rule-breaking, and that was fair.

So most of the time he would simply shoot them a stern, disapproving look before moving swiftly on with his important business. Why he stopped in his tracks when he found his dormmate and Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, Oliver Wood, scrubbing furiously away at a grimy stone wall he wasn't quite certain of. Perhaps it was because, looking back, he was somewhat responsible for Oliver's detention (he had noticed his -- friend...? Acquaintance...? Percy hated not knowing -- well, Oliver, getting out the wrong ingredients but had been too focused on his own potion, on getting top marks, that he had neglected to warn him). Or perhaps it was the intense way the Quidditch fanatic treated the task, shirt sleeves rolled up over rather muscly arms as he worked his way through the grime.

It was also probably a great deal to do with the fact that, somehow, Oliver had managed to clean the dirt away in a pattern that clearly resembled Puddlemere United's -- his favourite Quidditch team, Percy vaguely recalled -- logo. Deliberately or not he wasn't really sure of, but if he were to do something as vile as gamble -- which he most certainly would not -- he would bet that it was the latter. Oliver, too, was a very focused and task-oriented person: if only he focused on studies as much as he did Quidditch, perhaps they could have been good friends...

"Percy," greeted Oliver, somewhat resentfully, though he couldn't possibly know that the Head Boy was kind of, sort of responsible for the exploding potion incident, and thus the detention. "Patrolling, I see?"

Percy opened his mouth to tell him to have more respect for a Prefect, but he ended up blurting, "It's your own fault you're here, you know. If you paid as much attention to classes as you do to Quidditch then you wouldn't --"

"Spare me the lecture," snapped Oliver, who was not in the mood for 'Perfect Percy', "and why not bugger off? We both need to sleep, but we can't until we've finished what we're doing."

The Head Boy faltered, somewhat ashamed of himself. Oliver should have more respect for him, but then...

He thought about finishing his patrol, imagined filling out the Prefect Duties roster with a satisfactory report and another job well done under his belt.

But then he thought about his yearmate that he was kind of, sort of friends with, and having to spend an entire night scrubbing a dirty wall without magic, and how although he was sometimes resentful Oliver was rarely mocking or snide, always willing to give people chances...

...and he bent down, rolled up his shirt sleeves over wiry, freckled arms, conjured an extra bucket of soapy water and sponge, and started his own scrubbing. "Two pairs of hands are better than one," he said stiffly at Oliver's look of astonishment.

Pretty soon they decided to divide the wall into two sections so as not to get in each other's way, and if their bodies occasionally brushed it was still just accidental. They talked on in low voices, idly, about a lot of things. Mostly they were things that neither of them cared about, but there were some that they did. And Percy found himself enjoying it.

Enjoying a detention which he of course hadn't even earned.

But perhaps this was what detentions were like. Never having had one, he wouldn't know...

Percy suddenly hated not knowing this -- but perhaps, he thought as he hid in the shadows while Filch inspected their work hours later, rule-breaking could have pleasant consequences after all.

If it was with the right person.