AN: This is my first story on this account, however, not my first attempt at fanfiction EVER (I used to write under a different alias but we don't talk about that) anyways, rabble over, enjoy :)

A loud BANG echoed through the dormitories in the Gryffindor tower, swiftly followed by a shriek of 'Weasley!' A few frightened first years jumped, knocking over the pawns in their game of wizards' chess. The tiny soldiers began squabbling on the board, as a particularly grouchy knight brandished his sword.

Upstairs, into the sixth year dormitories, Oliver Wood seethed, his arms folded, brows knitted together. Percy Weasley is in the middle of one of the coldest eye-rolls in Hogwarts history, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Now really, Wood. You ought not to leave your…" Percy gestured to the pile of splintered wood and parchment on the ground. "…things lying around."

Steam practically spewed from Oliver's ears. He stared at the ruined parchment on the ground in anger; a hex which Percy had been 'perfecting' had rebound off the wall- straight into Oliver's chart of quidditch techniques. Now torn and battered, the diagrams moved sluggishly; the snitch moved at a snail's pace, but the inky sketch of Harry still couldn't catch it.

"My work" He raged, "was nowhere near you! All the other lads are perfectly capable of leaving each others stuff, so why can't you? I don't see any of your precious books in ruins at your feet. And it's not like my work was in your area! See, my bed, my trunk, my desk. My space. Your bed, your trunk, your desk, your space."

Oliver breathed heavily, fists clenched.

"Now really, Wood, there's no need for-"

"Now really, Weasley, you need to sort out your priorities!"

And with that, the burly Scot stormed from the room, grabbing his broomstick on his way out. The ginger rolled his eyes at his quick tempered dorm-mate and used a quick spell to clean everything up. Though he hated to admit it, he did feel bad for destroying Oliver's work (after all, he did love a Gryffindor win) but he would never utter anything of the sort aloud. Instead, the sensible Weasley shook his head at himself and carried on with his homework.

The wind whipped Oliver's robes around him as he soared around the quidditch pitch. It was were he was most at home, truthfully. He shut his eyes slightly and let the sharp, cool, early evening air nip at his face as his knuckles turned white against the handle of his broomstick.

Unknown to Oliver, Percy sat, huddled in his thick cloak, in the stands, tucked away so that anybody at the quidditch player's height would never spot him. He watched with intense concentration, as if the way Oliver flew was as intriguing as McGonagall's progressively more difficult spells. Well, in all truth, his flying was as intriguing as that, but for different reasons. Oliver was not a nimble seeker, nor a bulky beater. Of course, he was burly, due to his broad shoulders and well-built muscles, but he didn't appear stocky like a fair few of Percy's brothers. The way Oliver sat upon his broom made him look taller, but not gangly, like Ron. His deportment was excellent, and he didn't slouch like a sack of potatoes, even when flying for pleasure rather than competition.

While Percy was left in deep concentration with regards to him, Oliver was completely oblivious as to his spy. He allowed himself to dip and curve and dive and soar through the air, looping around the hoops on either side of the pitch. Soon he began to relax, completely loosen up in his natural habitat, though the sun was setting lower and lower, and the sky was being dyed a deeper and inkier black by the minute. He touched back to the ground and slung his broomstick over his back as he walked back to the changing rooms. He showered himself quickly, casting a quick chat, to ensure that the dodgy changing room showers spat hot, steamy water at him instead of freezing him half to death. He groaned slightly at the hot waster running over his shoulders, as it relaxed every tense nerve there was to find.

Like most people do, he began to have a deep and meaningful think in the shower, questioning many aspects of his life. Should he reconsider his NEWT subjects? Should he be a quidditch player, coach, or teacher when he left school? Should he go easier on Weasley? Should he apologise?

He sighed to himself as he rustled through his thoughts, before turning off the shower and towelling himself dry. He dressed in a thick jumper and a pair of trousers before exiting the changing rooms, precious broom in hand.

Meanwhile, since the changing room doors shut, Percy had been staring intently at the door, squinting to see the first signs that his room mate might be exiting shortly. When he did, Percy followed Oliver with his eyes, taking in everything from his grip on the broom stick, to his slightly spikier still-soaked hair. He swallowed a lump in his throat with great difficulty, before making his own way down to the castle, entering through a different door to make it seem as though he had just exited the library after a late night study session. He sighed to himself as he thought about the evening's events. He couldn't deny, Oliver Wood was bloody well attractive. But these thoughts confused and worried Percy, and chilled him to the bone. He'd only ever been out with girls, and even they didn't seem too impressed with him. Not to mention he had six brothers, and god knows what they'd say if they found out he maybe-not-certainly-but-possibly-never-going-to-admit-it liked another boy. They already teased Ron enough for being the youngest brother, and Ginny for her more than slight crush on the Chosen One. He sighed quietly to himself, lost in a sea of his own thoughts, when he walked smack into something, big, hard and human.

"Oi, watch it- oh it's you."

A heavy Scottish accent pulled him from his own little world.

"Oh. Sorry." He mumbled. "Calmed down now?"

The Scotsman cracked a small smile, his rage from earlier replaced with boisterous, banter-y humour. "Oh, well, you know me. A good fly will boost my mood,"

You have no idea thought Percy.

"Well, uh…" he stammered. "I'll be… I'll be… bed. Yes. Off to bed. In the tower. Which is not along this corridor. Ah yes, bed. In the Gryffindor tower. Ahem. Excuse me," he said, growing more and more flustered, ears burning crimson, pink cheeks contrasting heavily with his freckles and fiery hair. "Hm, yes. Bed."

"Weasley, I heard you the first three times." Oliver said, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

"Well… yes. Bed. I'll be… I'll be off now. Uh… charms tomorrow. See you then," he hurried off, tripping over his own feet, completely losing his composure as he practically ran away, leaving Oliver confused, with furrowed brows and a shaking head.