It starts with envy, because even the most non-Slytherin of the Slytherins must possess a House trait somehow.
It's in the echoing applause that triggers said feeling in your toes, and, as they chant his name again and again, it spreads throughout your being. The tips of your fingers: green; the whole of your heart: green; the blood that runs through your veins; green. It's overwhelming, that feeling of longing for what someone else has and you know then and there that you must practice, you must make the team the following year. You need that praise, you want that recognition.
[Little do you know,] You'll also want him.
x
It continues with happiness, because you made the team, you are accepted.
(But that's not even the whole of it.)
You exit the changing room after a game played and won against Gryffindor and, at the same time, he exits the opposing one, leaving him cornered as you block the narrow exit toward the castle. He looks at you and then looks away quickly, the sting of defeat still fresh in his mind. "Good game," you say, because even though he's on the wrong team and wears the wrong colors, he's still the reason why you're here today.
Wood's gaze returns to you, a strange expression upon his face, one of surprise. He nods, and you move out of his way as he goes to walk back to the castle but falters in his step. Turning back to you, he extends his hand, and, with a forced smile, he replies, "It's nice to see someone actually playing by the rules on your team."
You shake his hand and return the smile with a friendlier one. The skin of his palm and insides of his fingers is rough and calloused and you can't help but wonder whether he does anything but practice Quidditch.
[Little do you know,] You'll long for that touch.
x
It changes into some sort of friendship, because, really, you have no one else.
It's raining, and you doubt that anyone will be on the pitch in such weather, but of course he's there. You sit on the stands, your broom leaning against your leg, and just watch him fly around, trying out different maneuvers, going this way and then that. It's a while before he even notices you and when he does, he flies straight down, dismounting to stand before you.
"What were you doing?" he demands, an accusatory edge to his voice as his dark brow narrows. "Because if you were spying for your team, you aren't doing a very good job."
You quickly shake your head and try to think of what to tell him, all the explanations of just watching him sounding wrong in your mind. "I didn't think anyone else would be out here," you say, "and I was waiting for you to be done so I could use the pitch."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, but, when you make a motion to leave, he replies, "You could practice with me…if you want." Then it seems as though the words that just left his mouth register in his mind (offering to help a member on the opposing team, a Slytherin at that), and he quickly adds, "Just this once."
You accept his offer.
[Little do you know,] It won't be just that once.
x
It morphs into something lingering between lust and hate, because is there really much of a difference anyway?
It's just like any other rainy day, the unspoken agreement to meet at the pitch and practice and just talk. No one notices because, well, how many other people would really willingly play Quidditch in the pouring rain? He's sitting awfully close to you, rambling on about how this person isn't putting her all into the practice he's planned, and how that person isn't taking his dedication to winning seriously. Everything has to be exactly as planned in his book, down to the last detail.
So you do something to mess him all up and kiss him.
It's just a light peck, enough for his taste to linger sweetly on your lips. He looks at you, dazed and confused, and you just shrug. "Not everything has to be planned, Wood. That was spontaneous and it wasn't bad, right?"
He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to because he quickly turns, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and brings your face back towards his own. This time it's far from a light peck and you're sure his taste will linger in your mouth for some time and in your mind for much longer.
"Not bad at all, Higgs," he agrees after you split apart.
[Little do you know,] You've gotten yourself into quite the mess.
This was done for Drabble Tag (prompt: cornered) on the M&MWP forum (link is available on my profile).
Terence/Oliver is a M&MWP so please give a mention (& post in our forum) if you write them, thanks!
I'm debating making this a two-shot, so keep an eye out for that if you're interested.
Thanks, mew, for betaing!