You oceans both, I close with you,
We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, not knowing why,
These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all. – WW

Oliver Wood, Gryffindor captain, knelt motionless on the floor of the shower, the warm water pouring over his shoulders and puddling beneath him briefly before swirling away down the drain. The floor was scummy and cold, and mold showed in the cracks between each tile, but Oliver's mind was wandering elsewhere and he barely felt the chill seeping into his knees.

He'd been waiting in this position for nearly fifteen minutes, and his legs had long since gone numb, though the water, magicked, stayed warm. His posture was one of utter defeat – both shoulders angling toward the floor, water running over the sloping collarbone, his Quidditch-roughened hands brushing the floor between his legs. At first he had been tense, but now he only waited.

The humiliation of losing the match was more than enough to reduce him to such a state, but the match wasn't all he'd lost. It had been foolish of him to make a bet with Diggory; especially with such conditions, but he had and so he waited listlessly.

Percy Weasley, Gryffindor prefect, swept through the showers with an expression of supreme distaste on his face, wincing at the abandoned knickers and mud-covered floors. Following the sound of the last shower running, Percy made his way to the very back of the showers, and, averting his face, stepped in front of the entrance to the shower.

Oliver tensed slightly, hearing someone approach – but it didn't sound like Diggory. Instead of the heavy slap of bare feet, the footsteps were brisk, with a tapping sound, and then he heard someone clear their throat and a clear voice say: "Wood!"

Weasley? Oliver did not move, but said stiffly: "Yes?"

"Er – you can come out now."

"What?"

"I said, you can – "

"I heard you." Oliver lifted his head a little, focusing his gaze on a rust stain in the tiled wall. "I don't understand."

"Diggory asked me to convey his apologies. He genuinely believes that you would have won, and so, decided to render your…wager…null and void." Diggory hadn't told him the nature of the bet, but since Wood was kneeling inside the shower, naked, Percy could make an educated guess.

There was a slight pause. "But he still won," said Oliver, sounding doubtful.

"Don't be a blathering idiot, Wood. He feels sorry for you."

"I don't want his sympathy." That sounded more like the Oliver Percy knew: gruff and remote, never bothering to say any more to Percy than a simple "Alright?" They'd been friends in the first and second year, but by third year Oliver had cast his energies in the direction of Quidditch, and Percy to his studies, and gradually they had grown apart. This conversation was the longest they'd had in years.

Percy rolled his eyes. "For Merlin's sake, stop wallowing in self-pity and get some clothes on." Out of sheer habit, he opened his eyes while saying this, and saw that Oliver had craned his head around to listen to him. Their eyes met, and Percy quickly covered his own with his hand; but not quickly enough to block Oliver's surprised expression.

There was another long pause, but Percy did not hear any movement. Finally Oliver said,

"I can't move."

"What?"

"My legs fell asleep."

Keeping one hand over his eyes, Percy fished around in his robes for his wand and pointed it in Oliver's direction. "Good?"

"Lower and to the left. No, my left."

"That would be my right," said Percy rather peevishly. "Alright?"

"Good."

"Reanimus!"

More silence. Percy squinted, as if he didn't have a hand over his eyes, and asked, "Did it work?"

Pause. "Yes. But it hurts."

"You're a Quidditch player, Wood, you can handle pain."

Oliver laughed shortly. "Is that what you think?"

Percy's face wrinkled more, and he fiddled with his robes, trying to find his pocket and replace his wand. "You made that bet with Diggory, didn't you?"

"How do you know what sort of bet it was?" he asked, sounding immediately defensive. The shower shut off abruptly and the silence of the empty locker room poured in. "I'll bet he was bragging about it to the other prefects."

"He was not," Percy protested. "No prefect would ever behave in such a manner. They are elected for a certain moral fibre…"

"Spare me, please. If Cedric had a 'certain moral fibre', he wouldn't have made the bet in the first place." Something rustled. "You can uncover your eyes now, Weasley."

Percy drew his hand away, blinking, but his glasses had fogged and all that was visible was Wood's blurry half naked figure. He started to reach for his wand again, but Oliver snorted and reached forward, one rough hand closing over the thin wire frames.

"What do you think you're – " Percy started to protest, visions of his first year coming back to him. Marcus Flint had teased him incessantly, and one of his favorite tricks was to steal Percy's glasses and bewitch them to do all sorts of things, such as present everyone Percy saw as naked.

"You use magic for everything," Oliver said, but he said it neutrally, and when he handed the glasses back to Percy they had been wiped clean. Percy put them back on, a little off-balanced, and nodded shortly.

"Thank you."

On the other hand, it had been Oliver who taught him the countercurse for all of Flint's jokes; how to permanently affix his glasses to his face so that they couldn't be stolen (and later, how to get them off again, after Percy couldn't sleep for a week). And now it was Oliver preaching to him about the improper overuse of magic.

Oliver was examining his hands, not noticing Percy's silence, and suddenly he swore. "I feel like a bloody prune."

Percy bent over and peered at Oliver's hands, wrinkled and white from so much time in the shower. "I don't know any spells for that," he admitted.

The Quidditch captain smiled wryly. "Something the great Prefect Percy doesn't know?"

"Yes, well." His feathers a bit ruffled, Percy shook his head slightly. "I should be going, then."

"How's Harry?" Oliver asked, abruptly, before he could move.

"Fine, from what I hear, just a bit shell-shocked is all. And probably very sorry that Gryffindor ended up losing. I don't know why you – why you place such importance on sports." He had been about to say why you men, but realized suddenly that it could be construed rather badly.

"Don't you want to win the House Cup?" The tone was plaintive and somehow comical, one that Percy had heard Fred and George mimic time and time again.

"Of course I do. I'd just rather not get involved in all this silly intrigue, nor risk my teammates' lives. It's something to think about, Wood. I'm sure Diggory doesn't attach half as much importance to winning…"

Oliver's face darkened. "Don't be so sure."

Curious, Percy shoved his conscience into the back seat and added, in what he thought to be a tactful tone, "He didn't say anything, you know. Beyond that you two had a wager going, and where I was to find you. And I'm sure he didn't mention it to any of the other prefects."

"How are you sure?"

Flustered, Percy stammered, "Er – well, because – "

"Because gossip of that sort would have circled the school twice in a day." Oliver sighed, becoming somehow deflated and smaller, and Percy realized for the first time how short Wood really was. He stood a good head and a half shorter than Percy, although he was much burlier, and his arms were slightly freckled. As Percy noticed these things, Oliver ran a hand through his damp hair, making it stick up, and sighed again. "Well, I'm sure you can guess at our bet."

"I wouldn't be so audacious as to presume – "

"Fuck that," Oliver said flatly, and Percy started slightly at his language. "It isn't presumption, it's simple fact. I suppose I should be grateful that Cedric Diggory, heartthrob of all the girls and envy of all the boys in Hogwarts, was willing to," and then he cut himself off, and an eerie silence pressed in.

"Are you, then?" Percy said awkwardly.

"Yeah." Oliver looked up at him, furrowing his brow. "Aren't you?"

Percy spluttered. "What? Me? Why would you….whatever gave you that idea?"

He shrugged, ticking off on his fingers as he spoke. "You're a prefect."

"That's hardly reason to assume…"

"You have ridiculous affectations."

"I do not," Percy protested, fixing his glasses with a hurt sniff.

"You subscribe to Witch Weekly."

"As I've said before, that was my mum's magazine, it was delivered to me by mistake."

"And you whisper 'Jason, Jason,' when you come. When you do wank, which isn't very often, which is because you cast the silencing spells wrong, which is because your wrist movement isn't firm enough."

Percy's face went an odd shade of grey, leaving his freckles standing out like ladybugs. "Yes, well – " he choked.

"What I want to know," Oliver continued calmly, crossing his hands over his dripping chest, "is why you're bothering to pretend you're straight and dating that Clearwater girl."

"I am not pretending," he protested, weakly.

"It's really not kind, you know. She probably even thinks you like her – amazing how women lie to themselves, innit? I'd break up with her before she finds out, you know, it could get messy. Eventually she'll notice that you keep your eyes closed while you're having sex, and avoid kissing her."

"You're not going to," Percy said, helplessly.

Oliver shook his head. "No, no. Just some advice, is all." Stooping down, he retrieved what looked like a pile of clothes from the bench on the side of the shower and started to leave. Percy turned about, mouth hanging helplessly, and finally managed to say as Oliver went round the corner:

"I haven't!"

Oliver's face re-appeared around the tiled wall. "Haven't what?"

"Haven't…" Percy made a face of distaste. "…had relations. With her."

"Well, break up before she wants to, or you give into your hormones. That is, if you have any. Judging by the fact that you've only gone at yourself once this year, I'd say your studies are getting to your head. But I'm not particularly surprised that you're a virgin." Oliver winked and poked Percy in the stomach, then disappeared.

Percy stood still in the middle of the empty locker room, not quite knowing what to do.

"I'm not a virgin," he said, to the quiet.

***

When Percy was little, the Weasley family had been even more impoverished than it was currently, and to make ends meet, certain arrangements had to be made. For many years there was only one wand in the house, and a boggart that they couldn't afford to banish in the bathroom cabinet. Percy remembered quite vividly running out of the bathroom screaming, with toothpaste down the front of his robes, because the boggart had come out of the tap. From then on the Weasleys brushed their teeth in the kitchen sink.

Another arrangement pertained to bedding. Charlie slept wedged between the twins on the couch in the living room, and Percy, who was rather attached to his oldest brother, shared a bed with Bill.

Percy was around seven when it happened. He was lying on his side, facing the wall and falling asleep, when Bill tapped him on the shoulder – their signal for a conversation under the blankets. Delighted, Percy dove underneath the covers, fumbling for the charmed flashlight that he kept under his pillow. He thumbed it on and Bill shoved it out of his eyes, squinting.

"Sorry," Percy whispered, but he was grinning. Bill always thought of the best games. Perhaps this time they would sneak out to the backyard and catch fireflies in the summer grass, and then hide them in Mum's bureau.

"I want to show you something, Percy," Bill whispered, shoving a strand of red hair out of his face.

"Okay," Percy answered, readily.

"But you have to promise not to tell."

Percy grinned, trying to guess what it was Bill had for him. Maybe a bullfrog, again? Dad hated those. "I promise."

"Okay. Watch."

He watched as Bill reached down into his pants, mouth open a little, and started to move his hand around inside them – at first slowly, and then faster, and faster. Percy didn't quite understand what he was doing, but he waited patiently for an explanation.

Bill stopped suddenly. "You want to try?"

But I don't know what you're doing, he thought, helplessly, but nodded anyway. He put the flashlight down and snaked his own hand into his pajamas. All that was down there was…

"No, no, you're doing it wrong." His brother was panting a little as he reached over and pulled Percy's hand away. "Want me to show you?"

"Okay."

Bill reached over and put his hand in Percy's pants, rubbing and rubbing, and after awhile Percy said, "Bill?"

"Mmmhmm?"

"What are we – "

"Shhh. Here, you do it to me, okay?"

Not wanting to make his favourite brother angry, Percy reached over and put his hand in the same position, and then yelped a little and jerked back. "It's wet!" he exclaimed.

"Shhhhh!" Bill looked angry now, as he reached over with his other hand and grabbed Percy's. "Just do it, okay?"

Percy hesitated, then huffed a little and said, "Okay."

He rubbed and Bill rubbed until Percy's hand was suddenly very wet, and he cried out and drew back and Bill slapped him, hard, and then quickly, as if sorry, took his hand and dried it off and rolled over.

Percy stayed under the covers, his cheek stinging. Thereafter, whenever he tried to speak to Bill about the incident, his older brother would give him such an angry look that he was silent instantly for fear of being slapped again. It never happened again, and soon the Weasley boys had their own beds, and their own rooms.

***

Percy was fifteen and he was failing Potions. He had extended every iota of concentration and diligence that he possessed in the direction of that particular subject, studying formulas and incantations until his head ached; he had even gone to a tutor for extra help, but he just couldn't seem to grasp the concepts enough to make even a passable potion. He dreaded the hours spent in the clammy and cold dungeons, with Snape's disapproving stare and heavy tread, fumbling over bottles and knives. So it was that he had gone in the late spring of his fourth year to Snape to see about some extra credit.

"I don't give extra credit, Weasley," Snape said in his most silky voice, while Percy sat defeated in one of his bare, gothic-looking chairs.

"Please, sir, there must be something I can do…"

"You have your heart just set on prefect, don't you, Weasley?" Steepling his long white fingers, the Potions master stared him down.

Percy nodded, admitting freely: "I'll do anything that I have to, Professor."

"That is a dangerous word, anything."

"Sir, I mean it." Percy held Snape's gaze, as much as it terrified him, making clear his meaning and intent. He had heard, in snatches of rumors originated from Slytherin, that Snape did not turn down a student willing to 'improve his or her grades'.

Snape nodded, and one finger detached itself from the perfect steeple he had formed and cocked itself at the floor.

Slowly Percy rose and then got down again, kneeling slump-shouldered but looking up, almost fearfully, as Snape rose and reached down with his elegant hands, seizing the back of Percy's head by his hair and pressing it forward into his robe-covered crotch. Percy had let his hair grow a little long in the past months, and as he knelt with his face smothered in Snape's robes, held firmly in place by Snape's fingers twisted in a handful of his red locks, he firmly resolved to always keep it short. He could smell Snape's arousal right through his robes: a heady, musky scent, with a touch of brimstone that was purely Snape.

The Potions master did not bother even to remove his robes. Instead, a whispered spell opened a hole in the fabric just the right size for Percy's head, and Snape pushed him in before he could think, his glasses rising off his ears and bending under the force with which they were being pressed into Snape.

He had no experience in oral sex. His first, and only boyfriend had been a Muggle boy in his town by the name of Jason, who he had met during the previous summer while watching Ron in the park. They had fumbled with each other behind the lilac bushes that ran round the length of the park, and wrote to each other a few times, and that had been the end of that.

Now, Percy was barely able to move, so tightly was Snape pressing his head to his cock and stomach. Somehow he managed to twist his head to the side and begin biting and sucking whatever he could reach, and eventually the pressure at the back of his head grew less and less as Snape thrust forward into his mouth, the smell of his sweat filling the room and never making a single sound. The muscles in his thighs twitched and writhed against the base of Percy's neck – the hole in the robes was so small it was nearly choking him, and when Snape came with a long shudder and a twisting of the shoulders Percy swallowed what he could and withdrew so forcefully that he toppled backwards and ended up on his back like a turtle. Snape stared down at him like some sort of Norse demon, black and ravenlike and white-faced even though he should have been flushed.

"You may go now, Weasley."

And so Percy received the highest marks in Potions in the House of Gryffindor that year, and he became prefect and accepted his badge with the bitter memory of the Potions master still on his thick and fuzzy tongue.

***

But he was, technically, still a virgin.

That night, he waited until he knew Wood was asleep for certain, (keeping tabs by use of a handy spell he had heard Fred and George discussing) when his wand glowed blue, and then crept out of his bed in bare feet and padded across the dormitory to Wood's bed.

Noiselessly he drew aside the curtain. Wood slept on his back, shirtless, one arm under his head and the other clutching a fistful of blankets. Percy watched him with a curious lack of expression, then cast a silencing spell, careful to keep his wrist stiff, and climbed into the bed, drawing the curtains behind him.

Wood did not wake, however, and finally Percy reached over and shook him a little. That did it. The Quidditch captain started and sat up, blinking at him, and whispered, "Percy?"

Percy frowned and then leaned in and kissed him.

He hadn't ever kissed anyone, he realised with a jolt as Wood, surprised, quickly reciprocated his clumsy tongue with an expert one of his own. It made his hips hitch, and one hand curled of its own accord around Wood's waist.

Oliver, he's Oliver. If you want him to fuck you, you're going to have to at least pretend to be familiar with him.

Oliver's own hand was now winding a path over Percy's chest, fiddling with the clasps on his nightshirt. Pulling back, Percy wriggled out of his shirt, feeling a little exposed as Oliver tilted his head to regard him briefly. The Quidditch captain's own chest was slightly furry and tanned and muscled, a sharp contrast to Percy's smooth freckled one. Percy shifted a little, exercising his height, and felt a bit better.

Percy leaned back in and they kissed more, hands wandering everywhere, and he very quickly realized that Oliver was not only shirtless. He let his fingers poke into the hollows at the junction of thigh and pelvis, enjoying the way Oliver jumped a little, and kissed more fiercely, gathering his confidence.

They dove under the covers, Percy kicking off his remaining clothing, and melded together easily. Oliver's hands were cold and Percy yipped in protest as he seized a palmful of buttock. Eventually, however, both hands became warmer from the sheer heat between the two of them, and they pressed and wandered eyes and hands and tongues until Oliver was nearly sobbing with arousal.

It was then that Percy rolled over and pressed his back to Oliver's chest, reaching back with one hand to tease Oliver's hair, smelling the rank stench of his own sweat. "Do it," he whispered, breathless.

"Conscido," Oliver said, and then he filled Percy with force.

Percy's eyes widened, comically (or so he imagined), and his head went down, steadying his chin on his chest and taking deep breaths. Oliver moved slowly, at first, but in scarce minutes had sped up and was fucking him hard, the obscene slapping sounds of Oliver's thighs hitting Percy's backside over and over, like a punishment, filling the world in between the curtains.

Oliver's no longer cold hand wrapped itself around Percy, and he came first by mere seconds.

Percy lay quite still, listening to the harsh sounds of their breathing, and Oliver pulled up the blankets more, rolling over so that they were back to back in a comradely, close sort of way. He waited until Oliver's breathing had evened off, and then he seized his clothes and eased out of the bed.

He stood naked in the tiny pool of moonlight in the center of the dormitory, Oliver's come trickling down the inside of his thighs, and sighed.