Title: After the Quidditch Match (3/5)
Author: elgatoneun
Rating: PG-13 for slash
Pairing: Percy/Oliver
Summary: Third match of the season is between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Oliver steps up training and needs help with something. Percy helps and tries to cheer him up.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Spoilers: Everything up to and including book 3.
Feedback: Would be appreciated
Notes: This takes places during Percy and Oliver's 7th year (Prisoner of Azkaban). I subscribe to the popular belief that Percy and Oliver are the only two seventh year boys in Gryffindor.
Oliver Wood was sitting at his desk. His hand was poised over a piece of parchment. A quill was clutched in his fist; a drop of ink splashed down onto the paper below. Percy Weasley watched from the doorway of their shared room. Oliver laid his quill to paper and wrote a few words. He paused and then furiously scratched them out. This procedure was repeated several times.
"Oliver, do you need some help?"
Percy was leaning casually against the frame of the door, arms folded. It was actually a very good impression of Oliver's usual stance – casual, nonchalant … sexy. Unfortunately, Oliver didn't seem to notice or appreciate it.
"Oh, Percy, hello. Hm, what's another word for 'insane'? Something that's not offensive?" Oliver seemed to scrutinize his paper intensely. He crossed out some more writing.
Percy walked over to Oliver and peered at the parchment that seemed to wholly absorb his attention. Oliver was frowning down at it, as if it were a recalcitrant pet that was defying him on purpose. A little bit of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth. It was a ridiculous parody of childish concentration that was endearing and highly appealing.
Percy looked down and read the paper obligingly. It seemed to be a letter. It was riddled with inkblots and crossed out words; it was barely legible. He could make out the addressee, Professor McGonagall, the words 'Quidditch' and 'Firebolt', and something akin to a disaster of colossal proportions if something wasn't returned. It also made several unsavory insinuations regarding McGonagall's loyalty and character. Percy was shocked.
"What in the world are you writing? Have you gone mad? Are you trying to get expelled?"
Oliver looked up at Percy with his sad brown eyes. Percy had to restrain himself from kissing Oliver right then and there.
"I might as well be." Oliver leaned back in his chair, dispirited. Percy patted him consolingly on the shoulder. Oliver clasped his hand there. Both of them were still for a moment.
Percy shifted down to one knee, his right hand still within Oliver's grasp. He kneeled there, with his arm around Oliver's shoulders.
"So tell me what this is about," Percy said, referring to the letter.
"You know Harry's Nimbus got smashed into pieces after the first game." Oliver closed his eyes briefly, as if the pain of that moment were too much to bear.
Percy nodded, and Oliver continued.
"Well, he got a new one over the holidays. He got a Firebolt." Oliver paused significantly, as if he were willing Percy to say something.
"Er, um, that's good isn't it?"
Oliver looked at him somewhat scornfully, obviously annoyed at his ignorance.
"Good?! It's bloody fantastic! With a broom like that, the Cup's ours for sure."
"What's the problem then?"
"It's McGonagall. She confiscated it! It's almost as if she wants us to lose."
Percy was surprised. Professor McGonagall was an avid supporter of the Gryffindor team, having discovered and scouted Harry for the Seeker position in the first place.
"Why would she do that?"
Oliver huffed and folded his arms across his chest.
"Some nonsense about the Firebolt being from Sirius Black." He waved his hand airily, dismissing the notion that a fugitive could possibly be behind the gift. "She thinks it might be tampered with, and harm Harry somehow."
Percy's forehead creased thoughtfully. He thought back on the extraordinary measures that had been taken to ensure Harry's safety this year. Sirius Black was a dangerous criminal who posed a real threat to Harry. He had overheard his parents talking about it enough over the summer to know that every precaution needed to be taken in order to prevent Black from getting to Harry. He tried to choose his next words carefully.
"Oliver, maybe McGonagall's right. If the Firebolt is from Black, it can't possibly be a good idea to use it."
It was the wrong thing to say judging by Oliver's stricken expression. Oliver looked at him as if he'd decapitated a kitten and stuck its bloody head in his mouth. Oliver had a very expressive face. Percy sighed; the kitten killer decided he might as well continue and try to reason with Oliver.
"If Sirius Black did manage to get a Firebolt and send it to Harry, it could very well kill him. Everyone knows Harry's mad about Quidditch and that he needs a new broom. It's the perfect opportunity to get to him."
Oliver wasn't looking at him with unmitigated horror anymore … it was slightly mitigated.
"Oliver, there could be all sorts of spells and curses on that broom. It's just not safe right now to be accepting things blindly, especially when it's seems so coincidental."
"I canna believe you're on their side." Oliver said this quietly, a note of defeat and betrayal evident in his tone.
"I'm not on their side, I just think you need to be careful. Besides, McGonagall wouldn't have just thrown it away, she'll probably check it."
"Well, she said she would," Oliver said begrudgingly.
Percy patted him on the back.
"There, you see, if the Firebolt's alright, you'll … I mean, Harry will get it back. And everything will be fine." Percy knew he was being patronizing, but couldn't seem to stop himself.
"Well, that's why I'm writing this letter, to sort of hurry things up a bit. But it's awful." Percy couldn't help but agree. Oliver's eloquence was on the field, in his quickness and keen eye, flying fluidly and stealthily in the air while guarding the hoops. It didn't extend to the written word.
Percy looked down at the letter again. There was only one part of the letter that could be deemed appropriate and inoffensive – the opening salutation.
"I think it would be better if you went to speak with her personally. You could plead your case, use a little of that Scottish charm you are so famous for."
"Maybe, will you go with me, Percy? McGonagall will listen to you, you're Head Boy." Percy smiled, amused at Oliver's words. He was Head Boy – nobody listened to him.
"Of course, it can't be any worse than that letter." They headed down to see the Head of Gryffindor house.
Percy was wrong, wrong, wrong … so dreadfully wrong.
Twenty minutes later, he was pushing Oliver out of McGonagall's office. One hand was clapped over Oliver's mouth. The threat of being turned into a giant slug and then being let loose in a vat of salt didn't deter his companion into keeping his stupid mouth shut. Percy's hand, now wet with spit, was doing that job.
Oliver and Percy walked back to their dorm room. Percy still prodded Oliver along now and then, his hand still a bit clammy from have been partially suctioned onto Oliver's lips.
Oliver muttered invectives about the outrageously stubborn Scottish woman's disposition and fiery temper, conveniently forgetting about his own. His diatribe lasted only until they reached the main corridor to Gryffindor tower. He was quiet and dejected by the time they reached their room. Oliver immediately sank down onto his bed, sitting – elbows on his knees with his head cradled in his hands. He stared morosely down at the floor.
Percy went to the bathroom to wash his hands.
Oliver was still pouting when he came out. Oliver's handsome face was set in a childishly glum expression. Percy sat down next to him. He put his arm around Oliver, leaned in and whispered into his ear.
"Cheer up. Come on, now … I'll let you do that thing you like to do." He nuzzled Oliver's neck, and teasingly bit one sensitive earlobe.
Oliver shivered. He turned his head to look at Percy dubiously, half suspicious and half hopeful.
"Really?" Oliver had the beginnings of a smile on his face, a little puppy dog expression that promised to be fully adorable. Percy couldn't have denied him anything at that moment.
Percy nodded solemnly. "Yes, really."
Oliver's dimples made an appearance and his eyes lit up.
"For how long?" Oliver demanded greedily.
Percy mentally calculated the time he would need to finish his assignments, revise for his Advanced Potions exam and make his rounds and reports for the night.
"For an hour."
"With props and everything?" Oliver was already gleefully assembling the items he deemed necessary for one of his favorite activities.
"Props and everything." Percy laid down on Oliver's bed, arms behind his head and watched as Oliver prepared.
Soon everything was set up properly. Oliver positioned himself on the bed next to Percy. His whole body flush, and fully aligned against his friend, the warmth of it seeping through to penetrate his very soul. His head was supported in the crook of Percy's arm. Oliver pointed out the objects hovering above them. He took a deep breath.
Percy looked up dutifully.
"Now this is what I call the Whirlwind play. See how that one Chaser seems to be in the Beater's position?" Oliver pointed to a small figurine that was set up in the little model Quidditch field he had set up above them using a modified Levitation charm.
"So the Chaser is lined up along this trajectory, blocking the line here … now the seeker here has to …" Oliver continued animatedly detailing his strategic plays while Percy listened obediently. He looked down at Oliver, smiling and gesturing, his mood drastically different than what it had been only half an hour ago. Oliver poked him a little to make sure he paid attention to the brilliantly clever maneuver that the play was named after, guaranteed to blow the opposing team away. Percy let him ramble on.
Lying there next to Oliver, a thought occurred to Percy – this was one of his favorite things to do, too.