Part One: Pleasant Beginnings
Oliver Wood hated Slytherin. He hated everything about them. He hated their arrogance, the way they sauntered around the school as if they were loved by everyone when it was actually quite the opposite. And it was all the worse, because they knew everyone hated them, yet they would still flaunt around the halls, as if they were gods, their blokes flirting shamelessly with any bird within a reasonable radius like the incorrigible gits they were. Oliver hated it.
He hated their cowardice. It was the Gryffindors who were the first to step forward when presented with a wary or unexpected task. Even the Hufflepuffs would volunteer before the Slytherins. They would all huddle in the back of the room like dogs trapped by a vacuum. Oliver hated it. He simply hated it.
He even hated their colors. Green and silver together repulsed him. Whenever the Christmas holidays came around, Oliver refused to pair those two colors together. He hated their Quidditch team. They dashed about the skies, committing foul plays, one after another as if the rules didn't apply to them. He hated their obsession with blood purity, he hated their head of house, and he definitely, most definitely hated Marcus Flint.
This burning hatred it what caused Oliver to miss the opening match of the Quidditch season. And to make matters worse, the slimy Slytherin had managed to talk his way out of it! As Oliver lay in bed fuming over all of his wasted training, he tried to remember exactly how he'd landed himself in his predicament.
An essay was involved. He'd been in the library completing said essay. Because Oliver had spent all of his free time practicing Quidditch like he always did—of course Quidditch was the only thing that mattered—he sat in the library with books scattered around him while he scrambled to pull useful words and phrases from them after waiting until the last minute to complete an essay that McGonagall had assigned a week ago.
Books were everywhere, as were wads of discarded parchment from where Oliver had crumpled them, certain that McGonagall wouldn't accept the feeble attempts he'd put into them. His hair was a disarray from the many times he'd run his finger through it in exasperation and after two and half hours of effort, with only fifteen minutes left until the library closed—Madam Pince had already been over several times to remind him—Oliver sat surrounded in his mess with only three inches of essay. And his writing was as large as McGonagall would accept.
With Madam Pince glaring at him impatiently, Oliver sighed despondently and admitted defeat. He'd just have to accept the consequences when he failed to hand the essay in on time. McGonagall was strict, without a doubt. But she wasn't unfair. She wouldn't punish him with anything more than he deserved. At the most, she'd probably knock off half a few points for every day he failed to hand it in.
With a flick of his wand, Oliver vanished the many wads of paper one by one, then, too impatient—lazy might be a more appropriate word—to properly put the books back where they belong, he charmed the jumbled mess to return themselves to the nearest shelf. As the books drifted away, Oliver rolled up his nowhere-near-complete essay and put away his ink and quill. He strapped his bag around his shoulder and with a half-hearted yet grateful nod to Madam Pince, he shuffled out of the library.
Oliver recalled those events distinctly. They explained why he'd been away from Gryffindor tower at such a late hour in the first place. But after leaving the library, things became unclear for Oliver. He wasn't exactly sure what happened next. He wasn't exactly sure how or where he'd bumped into—quite literally though it was an accident—Marcus Flint.
An insult had been made, as a result. Yes. But that was nothing new. If they weren't glaring at each other across the Great Hall or on the Quidditch pitch, they were insulting one another. Or discreetly attempting to hex each other. So it was nothing new when a few nasty words were exchanged after Oliver accidentally bumped into Marcus. Oliver was preparing his sincerest apologies when he realised who it was.
"Watch where you're going you half breed git," Marcus snarled. It wasn't a hard thing for the boy to do. His face was practically always in a permanent scowl. But his tone wasn't completely spiteful that evening. And he'd said much worse things to Oliver. But those eight words were all it took for Oliver to snap. He completely ignored his wand. He wanted to feel skin under his knuckles. Oliver was much smaller than Marcus, but he had the other boy pinned under his waist in seconds.
Somehow Oliver's core smiled when his fist finally felt the resisting forced it craved, when it finally connected with Marcus's face. Oliver wanted to hear something crunch. He wanted to see blood. He put all his effort behind his next punch, but Marcus bucked his hip in an attempt flip them over, only managing to start a scuffle in the floor. They growled and pulled at each other's hair and robes, rolling around, throwing weak punches that came from bad angles, until the larger boy inevitably gained the upper hand.
Maybe it took so long because his attention was currently occupied, but it was then that Oliver noticed the grey cat out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't sure where Mrs. Norris came from, and he wasn't sure how long she'd been staring, but over his several years at Hogwarts, he'd learned that wherever she was, somehow—
"Hey! Stop that you nasty beasts!" Filch swiftly hobbled down the corridor, his jowls afflair. "Enough!" He grabbed each of them by an ear and snatched them apart. Oliver scowled at the sharp pain, thrashing about in a futile attempt to escape, only managing to make the pain worse. Oliver wasn't sure when it happened, but his nose had burst and blood poured down his lips. He held a hasty hand up to stop it. Still, blood seep through his fingers as he was pulled down the corridor by his collar.
Then, before Oliver knew what was happening, he was sitting next to Marcus in front a very stern looking McGonagall, her lips pressed, nostrils flared, and hair bun as severe and meticulous as always. Oliver was certain that she had more than spray holding those hairs in place. She glared at them from behind her desk, her face so ominous and unforgiving, that Oliver knew their meeting would not end well.
"You two should be ashamed of yourselves," she began, her voice so quiet that if the room weren't so silent, Oliver wouldn't have heard her. With a gentle flick of her wand, Oliver felt a burning heat in his nose, and then the pain and blood were both abruptly gone from his face and his hand. She continued speaking as if she hadn't just casually healed her student's face. "Brawling in the corridors like muggles! I have never been more appalled!" She glared daggers at the two of them, heaving like a bull for so long that Oliver grew uncomfortable. Both boys sat with downcast eyes until—
"Detention!" Oliver and Marcus both jumped at the sudden outburst. "For the both of you! This Saturday morning."
Both boys blanched. This Saturday morning? As in two-days-from-now Saturday morning? Surely she didn't mean that. "But professor!" Oliver argued. She couldn't do this to him! To Gryffindor! "This Saturday is the opening—"
"—the opening match for Gryffindor and Slytherin; I am well aware. And you two will miss it." She continued to glare, just as stern as ever. "It's much less than what you deserve. Don't you think? While everyone else files out to Quidditch pitch, you two will report here. I suggest you find substitutes for yourselves soon. Off to bed with the both of you. Goodnight. I'll see you in class tomorrow."
Marcus scraped his chair against the floor and stormed out of the study before Oliver could even move.
