I stared out of the Common Room window as the torrential rain pummelled the earth, unrelenting and vicious.

It would just be our luck to have a match on the day with the worst forecasted weather in five years in this area. We would have great fun at this Saturday's match against Slytherin.

My back protested slightly from leaning forward out of the straight-backed chair I sat on next to the window, books spread out in front of me on the wooden table, the quiet murmur of students dotted around the Common Room melting into the background noise of the crackling fire. I leant back into my chair and sighed happily.

I was incredibly relaxed ... though, somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew I shouldn't be. I should really be frantically running through every single one of the some two-thousand-and-eighty-two plays Oliver has taught us over the past three years.

But I wasn't. I was calm, gazing out at the contradictory weather, light ... daydreaming ... relaxed.

I wasn't pleased when this relaxed state was interrupted by someone tapping me sharply on the shoulder.

I turned and looked up at Oliver. He was completely drenched, his robes dripping onto the ruby carpet at his feet, his hair plastered to his forehead. My jaw dropped in shock.

"Oliver –" I tried, finding my voice, "Why're you –?" I cut myself off when I noted the broomstick in his blue, shaking hand. "You were out in that? Oliver, you're going to get sick –"

"Shut up."

I wasn't taken aback when Oliver cut me off abruptly. He always got overly rude close to match time. And we only had five days left. This was polite. He was usually much worse.

I looked at him critically as he dragged his hand roughly through his hair, making it stand on end.

"What is it, Oliver?"

"Practice. Hooch will be there to ensure no one tries to kill my Seeker. Seven o'clock. Tell the others." And with that, he left, dripping his way out of the portrait hole, undoubtedly to go back to his precious pitch.

Idiot.

I sighed and looked down at the books spread before me. I really needed this Magical Creature's essay finished.

I looked at the clock. It had already passed six. I had no hope in hell.

With a sigh, I closed my books. Serves me right for daydreaming. I would think of a good excuse in the morning. Hagrid would forgive me.

"Hello, Katie," Angelina said pleasantly, dropping into the seat across from me, her arms laden with books. She thunked them down and went to open one.

"I ... wouldn't bother," I said with a grimace.

She looked up at me, her shoulders slumped. "Oliver's called practice, hasn't he?" she asked in a monotone.

"'Fraid so,"

"Damn him."

"It's five days to the match."

"This is due in two."

"We knew he'd be like this, Ange. It's his last year."

She sighed and closed the books she'd cracked open.

"I know ... I just really wanted us to be wrong."

I laughed, then gathered my books into my arms. "Coming?"

She glanced at the clock, which now read twenty past, and glowered at it. "Sure," she sighed.

--

All seven of us dripped onto the Gryffindor changing room floor, wet, muddy and tired. It had been a difficult practice in the howling wind and the hammering rain.

Even Oliver looked tired ... though weary and hopeless were probably better words to describe him. He didn't even seem to have the energy to comment on the practice, because he walked straight past us without comment, or even eye-contact, to go to the showers.

It was a bad sign, I thought vaguely ... but I was far too tired to be bothered by it, so I went for my shower without pointing it out to the others.

I was the second last out of the showers. Angelina, Alicia, Harry and the twins had left already. I sat on the bench outside the male showers, my foot pulled up to rest on the bench so that my leg was flush with my body.

I began to drag a brush through my freshly washed, sodden hair.

I didn't notice that Oliver had come out of the showers until he tugged the brush out of my grasp and into his own. I looked up at him curiously.

"I need something to distract me from Quidditch. It's either: I brush your hair, or I cry. Take your pick."

I smirked. "You know which one I'll pick."

He just glowered, then rolled his eyes. He took me by the shoulders and turned me so that my back was facing him. He then sat on the bench behind me and set to work.

I was taken by surprise at how gentle he was as he brushed. Oliver never ceased to surprise me, it seemed.

His voice broke quietly through the peace that had washed through me the second time that day. "It was a good practice. Tough ... but no one made any huge mistakes."

I hummed in agreement.

"I'm a horrible Captain, aren't I?"

I glanced round at him with a quirked eyebrow. "No you're not. You're a brilliant Captain, Oliver."

He shook his head. "I should have said well done to the team. But instead, I went moping into the showers like a child just because everything wasn't perfect," he carried on, as if I hadn't spoken, mocking himself. "That wasn't fair. I'm sorry, Katie."

I shook my head infinitesimally. "Don't be thick, Oliver. Don't beat yourself up over it. We understand."

He sighed. "You shouldn't have to," he muttered, pulling the brush through the length of my hair.

"This is so relaxing," I whispered, my eyes closing.

I heard Oliver laugh quietly behind me. "Who knew that all it took to tame the firey Katie Bell was a good grooming?"

I turned my head slightly and stuck my tongue out at him childishly. He laughed again and continued brushing.

A few moments silence passed between us. Just the sound of the brush through my hair and Oliver breathing in and out, slowly.

"I went to see Diggory today," I told him quietly.

Oliver stopped for a second, mid-stroke, before continuing. "Oh?" he asked, his voice light and innocent.

I nodded slightly. "I knocked his tooth out."

He snickered. "It was a good punch. Remind me to not get on your bad side."

"I will," I smirked.

Oliver cleared his throat slightly, before saying, "What else did he say?"

I glanced round at him for a second, before turning back. "He said that he wasn't going to ... pursue me anymore."

He snorted. "Yeah, right."

I shook my head. "I think he's serious this time. Played the whole self-sacrifice card."

He hummed slightly, as if still disbelieving.

"Well, it doesn't matter, anyway. What he does doesn't bother me. It's what you do that does."

I heard him sigh, and he stopped brushing. I turned to look at him.

"How is your bruise?"

He rolled his eyes at me. "Healing."

I placed a hand on his t-shirt clad stomach and leaned toward him slightly. "You need to be careful, Oliver. If not for your own health, mine. You're giving me a complex."

He barked a laugh. "Sorry," he said. He placed the brush back in my hand and shook his head at me slightly, still laughing.

I retracted my hand from his torso and leant back to lean against the wall. "Can't wait to see Flint's slimy face when we win on Saturday," I said, grinning.

Immediately, Oliver's eyes sparkled with mania. His Quidditch sparkle. "The whole bloody team's faces!"

I laughed with him.

He shook his wet hair out of his face and ran his hands through it, causing it to stick out at all angles.

I laughed at him and reached up to mess it even more.

He didn't half look sexy with bed hair.

In retaliation, he messed up my hair, no doubt re-tangling the knots he's just detangled.

I messed his hair with both hands this time, and he grabbed me around the waist and growled playfully. I laughed even more, struggling to be free.

After our laughter died down, I realised what predicament I was in. My face was inches from Oliver again, my arms around his neck, his shining, perfect chocolate eyes staring into mine.

I dragged my eyes from his, determined to control myself. I buried my face in the crook of his neck. That was safe ... right?"

I heard Oliver sigh, and he pulled me closer so that I was encased between the solid circle of his arms and his warm, glorious body.

Bliss.

"That keeps happening," he muttered into my hair.

"What does?" I squeaked, tensing up. I hoped he hadn't noticed.

"You can't keep eye-contact with me. I've noticed that recently. You always look away after about ten seconds."

I pulled away, glancing up at him. "Do I?" I asked, somewhat calmer after assuring myself that he hadn't noticed what I had been about to do.

He nodded, then took my chin gently, making me look up at him. "Try."

His eyes smouldered into mine. Those eyes must have been made to undo me. My heart sped up, thumping in erratic rhythms as his smirk met his eyes. He was just too sexy.

I pulled away, my eyes sliding to the ground. I heard him sigh.

"See?"

"I can't help it."

"What do you mean?" he asked softly.

"Well," I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that I was going to say what I was about to. "Your eyes are very difficult for me to look into. They're too pretty. They make my heart hurt – and I'm pretty sure that that's not healthy."

"Oh," he said softly. There was a moment's silence where I didn't have to look up to know that those eyes were staring at me.

Then came the laughter.

I glared at the floor until he was finished, my face burning in embarrassment ... or anger. I wasn't sure which.

His cool hand calmed my burning cheek. He was still chuckling when he slid closer to me on the bench. I wanted to hit him and run away. I trained my eyes on the ground at our feet.

"Too pretty?" he asked breathlessly. He moved his hand to my chin and his other to my shoulder. He trained my gaze to him. "Do you have a mirror, Kates? Too pretty is ... you. You –" he cut himself off, shaking his head and smiling wryly. At himself, or me, I wasn't sure.

He let go of my chin and leant back against the wall.

I forced myself to breathe again, my anger dissipated.

"I still think your eyes are too pretty."

He smirked at me, his eyes glinting. "Think that all you like. I know different."

I threw him a sceptical look. The he held his hand out. I looked at him oddly.

"What?"

"The brush. I messed up your hair again."

I rolled my eyes at him and handed over the brush. He turned me by the shoulders and began to work through my almost dry hair, his hands weaving through it after the brush.

Damn him to hell.

When he was finished, he placed the brush on the bench in from of me, then wrapped his arms securely around me before I had the chance to turn around.

"You aren't half silly, Bell," he said affectionately.

I realised quickly that there was no point in disputing this point.

He leant his chin on my shoulder, his arms warm around my waist, my hands atop his, holding him there.

"You know you're beautiful, don't you?" he murmured into my neck. My heart just about stopped. He kissed my exposed shoulder once, very lightly, his lips barely making contact. My stomach leaped.

"What?" I managed to squeak, tensing up instantaneously.

He chuckled. "I thought not," he said before pulling away and standing up. "C'mon. Best get some sleep. Practice at five tomorrow."

"You better mean five PM," I said, my voice wavering dangerously, rather than sounding threatening like I'd intended.

He grinned and winked, before taking off running out of the changing room door.

Bastard.

--