Broomsticks and Amnesia
By The Marauder Named Prongs
Assigned by VerbalKlepto
A Harry Potter/Oliver Wood pairing
"Come on, Harry! You're playing like shit!" came a frustrated roar from the opposite side of the Quidditch pitch. Harry Potter turned jerkily on his brand new Firebolt broomstick, trying to face the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Oliver Wood, without falling to the ground. It only took a few seconds for Oliver to come to a stop before his team's Seeker, his brow creased in frustration. "Are you sure there aren't any curses on that thing, Harry?" Oliver asked, peering at the world's greatest broomstick skeptically. "I know McGonagall checked it, but it's clearly not flying right."
Harry glared at Oliver in frustration. He gripped the broomstick tightly, beckoning Oliver to follow him to the ground. He didn't say a word. He didn't want to. So he delayed. Getting back to earth was a difficult task. He seemed to zigzag toward the ground rather than flying smoothly as he was famous for doing. When he landed with an embarrassing skid across the grass, Oliver was practically gaping.
Before he could say a word, Harry cut him off angrily, "It's not the bloody broom, Oliver!"
Oliver shut his mouth, swinging his own broomstick over his shoulder. He had never been angry with Harry before. He liked him as his Seeker, for good reason. He liked him as a person for even better reasons. It certainly hadn't been Harry's first year at Hogwarts that Oliver had gained a peculiar attraction to him, but after watching the young boy spend a night in the Infirmary regrowing the bones in his arm just last year, Oliver couldn't help being impressed. Since then, he'd kept a much closer eye on Harry, not only on the field, but off of it as well. He couldn't deny how well the boy looked in a set of Gryffindor Quidditch robes anymore than he could deny how badly he wanted to win the Quidditch Cup this year. It was the realization that he was in his final year at Hogwarts and unlikely to see Harry for a very long time that made Oliver spend more time with him while he could.
That was the whole reason they were out here today. Harry was recovering from an injury he had sustained in one of their practices the previous week. Oliver offered to practice with him one-on-one to get him up to speed on what the rest of the team had been working on while he was in the infirmary. Or so Oliver told him. His intentions were actually quite a bit less innocent.
But, as always, Harry had thrown him a curve ball. And as good of a Keeper as Oliver was, he wasn't ready for it. He had never, ever seen Harry fly so badly! He made the awkward boy in Harry's dormitory look like a good flyer! What was his name? Neville? Yeah, that sounded right.
What Oliver wanted to do was spend some "quality time" with Harry. What he ended up with was a Seeker who suddenly couldn't fly his damn broom! It had to be the broom itself, because Harry was an excellent flyer. Everyone knew it. He turned to face the bespectacled boy. "What the hell is wrong with your flying, Harry?"
At his words, Harry flung his precious Firebolt to the ground. "It's not the broom, Oliver!" he repeated angrily. "It's me, all right? I can't bloody remember how to fly!"
If the comment hadn't shocked Oliver so badly, he would have felt quite sorry for the boy. Instead, his temper flared as visions of the Quidditch Cup floated away from him. "What the bloody hell does that mean!" he shouted, stomping his foot in exasperation. "How do you forget how to fucking fly!"
Harry's cheeks reddened significantly. "Pomfrey gave me something wonky for my injury, Oliver. I can't fucking fly." Harry sounded like he was going to burst into tears, but he refrained, staring at the ground in embarrassment. At that moment, Oliver did feel sorry for him.
"Okay," Oliver said calmly. "We'll figure this out." He paced in front of Harry for several moments before he stopped short, smiling brightly. He knew just what to do. He walked over to Harry, beaming as though Merlin had shown him the way. He would teach Harry how to fly again. He would show him all the moves.
"What, Oliver?" Harry asked after Oliver had stood in front of him, smiling joyously for several seconds.
Oliver shook his head a little, trying to clear the images forming there from his mind. "I'll just teach you."
Harry looked at him skeptically. "I never had to learn, Oliver. I've always known how to fly."
"Exactly!" Oliver exclaimed brightly, dropping his broom unceremoniously to the ground as he walked closer to Harry. "It'll come back to you in a heartbeat, I'm sure."
Not looking too confident, or comfortable with the idea, Harry nodded, mounting his broom as he did so. At least he could remember how to do that. Oliver mounted behind him, reaching around him to grasp the broom stick firmly, just behind Harry's own hands.
"All right," Oliver said in a voice a little huskier than he had originally intended. "Now, we're going to kick off from the ground on three, okay?" Harry nodded, bending his knees ready to spring in the air. "One!" Oliver shouted, "Two! Three!" They pounded hard onto the ground, shooting a good twenty feet in the air. Oliver moved closer to Harry on the broomstick, trying not to think about how close the boy's backside was to his groin. It was all turning very erotic, very quickly.
Over the next twenty minutes, Oliver retaught Harry how to turn, dive, swirl and speed around the pitch on the Firebolt. Every passing minute was like heaven and hell for him. He was so close to the one he desired, and yet the nearness was like a great tease. The horizon was darkening as they landed back on the ground, stumbling awkwardly at the shaky landing. Oliver accidentally fell forward onto Harry as the broom tilted on their landing. He succeeded in knocking the younger boy flat on the ground, his own weight falling heavily on top of him.
"Sorry," Oliver mumbled, again with a voice laced with dulcet tones. "Slipped." He made no efforts to move, though Harry struggled beneath him. The younger boy succeeded only in wriggling himself onto his back, still pinned beneath Oliver's weight. They were practically nose to nose. Merlin, Oliver could smell him. It was sending his senses whirling. He wanted to do such horrible things to this boy. Such horrible, delicious things.
"Oliver?" Harry questioned nervously, his back crushed into the hard ground.
The Quidditch captain knew this was his last shot. Now or never, he thought as he dove downward, placing his lips roughly on Harry's. He closed his eyes and lavished in the chaste kiss he longed to deepen. He had only seconds to enjoy this, he knew, but his head was spinning out of control. He moved his lips and was shocked to feel a response. Harry was… kissing him back? He couldn't believe it. This was better than his dreams. Ten times better.
And yet, the spell was broken much sooner than Oliver would have wanted. Only seconds passed before Harry seemed to come to his senses. He realized what exactly was going on and pushed hard on Oliver's shoulders.
"Oliver!" he shouted, surprised, but not angry. Oliver put that moment into his memory for safe keeping. Merlin, what he wouldn't do to hear that exact word fall from Harry's lips in a different situation. He knew it was over. He knew it was time to get up and awkwardly apologize for something he certainly did not want to apologize for.
He stood shakily, offering Harry a hand up. Harry considered his hand for several moments before resigning to grab it and let Oliver pull him to his feet. His cheeks were bright red. He said nothing. He had nothing to say. He had kissed back. What could he do? Accuse Oliver of being a pervert? No, he had kissed back. He had encouraged it. Oliver knew it. Oliver was very, very happy about it.
As they walked silently to the Changing Rooms, Oliver knew that stolen kiss would never be spoken of, never be shared again by either of them. They let things lie, not questioning, not thinking, just ignoring. Oliver was okay with that. He could dream about it. There was no one to see what went on in his dreams.
The fact that Harry had kissed back was satisfying enough that Oliver suddenly didn't care if they won the Quidditch Cup. He didn't care if Harry never learned how to fly properly again. He could die happily, even if he died tomorrow.
Okay, if I don't say so myself, that was great. Exciting and so WRONG. I love it. I know you do too. Don't deny it.