Oliver looked up from his notes on Quidditch strategies. "Of course not."
The prefect frowned, adjusting his glasses, heaving a sigh. "Are you sure? I don't have any annoying habits? Fred and George were making a list at dinner."
"So that's what they were doing..."
"Oliver!"
Oliver considered. Percy was bossy. He was neat to the point of psychotic obsession. And there was that ridiculous need to always be right coupled with the stubbornness to admit when he was wrong. And the inability to forget the rules and just live.
But he couldn't tell Percy that. He'd be crushed. Besides, those things didn't really matter.
"I'm sure," he said.
OoOoO
Percy looked down at his bowl. Oliver swore it was soup, a recipe from one of his teammates. Percy was more than a little sure that the meat in the broth was still breathing.
"Well?" Oliver pressed, spooning some of the concoction into his mouth and licking his lips.
Percy tried some. It tasted awful, too salty and a little sour. But Oliver looked so proud himself, the way he did after winning a particularly difficult match.
"It's delicious," he lied, offering what he hoped looked like a sincere smile.
"Excellent! I'll have to make it again."
OoOoO
"They don't know about me, about us," Percy said, blushing.
Oliver shrugged. "So? Tell them, Perce."
"I can't. I need you to lie, okay? Please. For me."
It was difficult for Oliver to hide the hurt in his voice, but he managed it. "Yeah. Okay," he said with a forced smile.
Percy beamed, pushing open the door. "Mum, Dad, this is my old friend, Oliver Wood."