Title: Quidditch Dreams

Author: burninator

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Neville/Oliver

Word count: 750

Disclaimer: Characters, settings, Quidditch, etc, all belong to J.K. Rowling, not me. She makes lots of money off them, I make none.

When he first started at Hogwarts, Neville used to watch the Quidditch players with a type of longing. Flying wasn't his thing, by any stretch of the imagination. They made it look so easy, so effortless; they swooped through the air, concentrating on the game and barely even having to think about the actual flying. It came naturally to them. To him, the whole game seemed confusing. Complicated. He found it difficult to know how to watch it correctly; there was so much going on, so many players, that it was hard to know which part of the action was the important bit.

The Chasers seemed an obvious point to focus on, as they zoomed about, passing the Quaffle between each other. The game could be won or lost based on the goals they scored. You'd have to keep your eye on the Beaters too, although focussing on them seemed fairly pointless. Watching the Quaffle itself was another obvious way, but even then you stood the chance of missing the game's climax.

With all due respect to Harry, the Seekers could be pretty boring to watch before they spotted the Snitch. They hovered around, trying to stay out of the way of the other players, and the Bludgers. As soon as one of them located the Snitch, however, it rapidly became much more exciting. A desperate chase, often getting violent and highly tactical, continuing until one Seeker or the other snatched the little golden ball from the air to end the game.

You could choose to watch for the Snitch itself, of course, and try to spot it before the Seekers did. He watched this way quite often, back then, wishing he was in the air with them all, looking for it for real.

Back before he realised what the most interesting thing on the pitch really was.

Circling the goalposts, swooping and dipping through the air in rapid, graceful movements, the Keeper's eye was always on the Quaffle. He seemed able to anticipate the actions of the Chasers even before they'd decided what they were going to do. And he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. The way his head moved, letting you know he was completely alert and aware of his surroundings; not just the part of the game that actively affected him, but also watching the rest of his team, remembering later to congratulate them or give them tips on how to improve. His red and gold robes streaming out behind him as he whipped through the air, fluttering and flickering like a flame in the wind. He was elemental; flying as though he were born to it. His passion for the game was obvious in every manoevre, every save a personal triumph; but more, his contribution to the way the team functioned.

Oliver was the team. More than that, it was as if he was Quidditch itself.

Neville found himself fantasising not only about Quidditch, but about Oliver. He imagined himself sweeping through the air majestically, the way the others did, scoring goal after goal. The few times the Quaffle got to the other team, Oliver would deftly save it, preventing the opposing team from scoring even once. He usually pictured the other team as Ravenclaw; Slytherin, some part of his mind suspected, would be a little too violent, and things might not run so smoothly as he wanted.

After the game, Oliver would pat him on the back, congratulate him on playing so well. Maybe drape an arm around his shoulder, easily. Comfortably. Neville imagined being that close, leaning into the embrace and feeling Oliver's body against his own. Imagined the two of them alone in the changing rooms, half undressed; imagined sneaking a look at Oliver's body, unnoticed. Or, maybe he would notice. He'd cross the room, stand so close that Neville would be able to smell his skin, hear his breathing. Then closer still, one arm behind him to rest against the wall, as their faces grew closer together. Neville's eyes would close as Oliver's mouth covered his, as his tongue gently pushed open his mouth. His body would be so close it practically begged to be touched, and through bare skin, the thrumming excitement, anxiety and triumph of the game would be communicated. He would taste the headiness and freedom of flight in Oliver's mouth, and their two bodies would press together, melt into each other as their hands explored each other..

Yes, he knew how to watch Quidditch now.