"Oliver," Tom Johnson, occupant of the bed opposite Oliver Wood's in the Gryffindor boys third year dormitory, hisses across the room. "Oliver. Wake up."

His final two words are said a little louder, and yet have no impact on the dead-to-the-world boy in the bed closest to the dormitory's door. After a particularly late night plotting out potential Quidditch strategies to counter Ravenclaw's recently beefed up moves, even the notion of waking up anywhere near to breakfast time on this Saturday morning is alien to Oliver Wood.

However, Oliver's sleep is rudely interrupted by the shrieked cry of his name by an outrageously tall, lanky ginger-haired individual standing at the foot of his bed.

Still groggy with sleep, Oliver sits up slowly, bleary-eyed, and makes eye contact with a furious Percy Weasley, who looks to Oliver as if he's about to start a duel.

"Morning, Perce," Oliver says through a yawn, making no effort to cover his mouth. They're friends, and he's taking a little longer than normal to process the fact that the expression on Percy's face isn't the usual friendly – or at least patient – expression he's normally greeted with. "Have a good sleep?"

Percy stares at him, his expression icy though his stance betrays his anger. When he's annoyed, Percy stands with his hands on his hips, legs apart, his back as straight as a rod. It's something that Oliver has taken great pride in pointing out to his friend – provided he isn't the reason for the stance. Which, unfortunately, appears to be the case today.

Sitting slightly more upright, Oliver's about to add something to his clearly mispitched question, when Percy starts to speak.

"I know you love Quidditch," Percy begins in clipped tones, ignoring Oliver's salutation. "I know Fred and George love Quidditch. But do you not think, as a third year, you should have a little more sense than agreeing to letting them borrow your broomstick? Can you really not see any problems with that?"

It takes Oliver a couple of seconds to process Percy's words, and a couple more for them to make sense in his mind. Broomstick, Fred and George…why might Percy have an issue with that?

Oh. Because they're related.

"I, er," Oliver begins, but Percy clearly hasn't finished his tirade.

"Rules are there for a reason, Oliver!" Percy half-shouts, pacing slightly but never taking his eyes off of Oliver. "You're the reason, you should know that first years can't fly. It doesn't matter how good they bloody are – how good they think they are – they are children!"

"Well, so are we, Perce," Oliver quips. Once again, he's misread the situation. Or, rather, his brain has misjudged the appropriate response.

"WE SHOULD BE RESPONSIBLE, WOOD!" Percy screeches, so loudly that Oliver idly wonders if the Giant Squid can hear Percy's dulcet tones. "I can't understand why you'd do this." He laughs once, then twice. "Actually, I can. Because Quidditch is all you can think about. What I just can't understand is that you wouldn't tell me."

Not daring to trust himself to respond directly to Percy's comments, Oliver mumbles, "how did you find out?"

"Because while you think you might be all master spies and secret-keepers, Wood, Fred and George are eleven," Percy continues, and Oliver can hear the anger. Percy rarely calls him Wood, after all. "I watched them with my own eyes flounce down to the Quidditch field after breakfast, broom on one of their shoulders, discussing how they were going to enchant the apples they'd stolen!"

Hmm, after breakfast. That means that it's later than Oliver initially thought.

Asking the time, however, he decides would be too poor a decision, even for him.

"I, er, I don't know what to say," Oliver continues, his voice low. He can't make eye contact with Percy, not now. Not when he knows what Percy, the king of honour, is going to ask next.

"Do you regret it?" Percy asks, his voice dropping from a shout to a steady tone with barely restrained anger colouring the edges.

Oliver has to answer honestly. And he has to answer in one word; Percy doesn't care about the reasons, he just cares whether Oliver fits into his straightforwardly black and white view of the world.

"No."

~x~

The following week is the tensest ever experienced in the Gryffindor Boys Third Year dormitory. Percy isn't speaking to Oliver, Tom and Paul aren't sure who they should be speaking to so decide to stay out of it and stick with their Ravenclaw friends, and Patrick decides vehemently to support Oliver but doesn't want to tell Percy this, so doesn't speak to anyone.

It's a mess, and Oliver isn't sure what to do. He should have lied, he recognises, he should have told Percy that he regretted his decision to make a deal with the trickster twins. But, in his heart of hearts, he can't say that. Because he doesn't. From a selfish perspective, he recognises the Quidditch potential of the boys, and he knows that, should he ever become Captain, he wants them on his team – and he wants them as good as possible before they get onto it.

And from another, more humanitarian perspective, he likes the boys. He wanted to let them fly because, truthfully, if he had been in their situation he would have wanted someone to help him. He would have done anything to get his hands on a broom, so really, he's helped Percy out. Rather than hearing that his friend's made a deal with the boys, Percy could have been hearing of their accidental death due to a misunderstanding on the black market, after all.

"Mr Wood, I do hope that my lesson isn't distracting you from your Quidditch preparation." Professor McGonagall's voice is razor sharp, sarcastic to the very core.

Oliver looks up to see that somewhere between the last time he could remember looking at the teacher and now, she's migrated to be standing directly in front of him.

"I, er, sorry," he mumbles, deciding that it isn't worthwhile protesting that, for once, he wasn't thinking of Quidditch. At least, he wasn't thinking of it directly.

McGonagall holds his gaze. "I'm told that, when you're discussing Quidditch, you're quite convincing, Wood. I'm yet to see evidence of this in my classroom."

Blushing, Oliver casts a brief glance around the room to find that the other thirty students in the class are all intently staring at him. Just as he would be, had this been any of them.

"I'm sorry for being distracted in your lesson," Oliver attempts an apology, returning his attention to Professor McGonagall. "I promise it won't happen again."

She still doesn't look convinced.

"Stay back at the end of the lesson, Wood," McGonagall says, her tone ice cold as she returns to the front of the classroom. "Mr Weasley, I hadn't realised that I'd said anything even remotely amusing. Do wipe that smile off of your face before I ask you to stay back, too."

.

"Take a seat, Wood," McGonagall says, her tone flat, at the end of the lesson. It's break time, and Oliver laments the hastily made cheese and onion sandwich that's currently sitting in his bag. He wonders for a split second if she would mind if he ate it now…

Hesitantly, Oliver takes a seat opposite his Head of House, unsure what the situation is. It's about more than just his distracted state in the lesson, he's sure of that: normally, he receives lines or a detention immediately. He's never normally asked to stay behind – at least not to discuss his attention deficit.

"Wood, we should have been having this conversation a month ago, but I wanted to give you some time to try and sort the situation out," McGonagall says firmly, but neutrally.

Instantly, Oliver's heart sinks.

She's taking him off the team.

"Please," he says, suddenly energetic as he does his best to fight the tears which threaten to fall. He can't lose this, he can't. "Please don't do it, Professor. I'm doing my best, I promise."

"But you're not!" McGonagall snaps. "We have had conversation after conversation about your poor Transfiguration performance. You have assured me time after time that you will improve, and yet I can see no sign of the improvement ever materialising! You take an important qualification in two years, Oliver, which may sound far away at the moment but, I assure you, it will be here before you know it. And you cannot focus on anything other than how to get a ball through a hoop!"

"Four balls, three hoops," Oliver mutters pedantically.

"As I am well aware," McGonagall shoots back, her expression equally icy. "I have spoken to your parents, and they are in agreement that, until your grades in Transfiguration improve, you are to be removed from the Quidditch team."

"Please," Oliver repeats, giving up any pretence of control as he leans forwards in his chair. "One more chance, please, I'm begging you, Professor. Please. It's all I live for."

There's a sad half-smile on McGonagall's face as she rises from her seat. "Then I recommend you find something else to live for, Mr Wood," she says, almost kindly. "Perhaps start with Transfiguration."

~x~

There's a grim expression on Charlie Weasley's face as he approaches Oliver in the corner of the Common Room that evening.

"You alright?" Charlie says by means of greeting, though Oliver doesn't even acknowledge him. "Look, I heard what McGonagall said. It isn't an issue, you're not off the team."

That gets Oliver's attention. Unfortunately, deep down, he knows it's only a ploy.

"Yeah, I am," Oliver says glumly. After the initial sadness, there was anger, followed by despair and now, a strange form of acceptance. "I'm really sorry, Charlie. I am trying my best, I just can't crack the subject. And McGonagall doesn't believe that I'm trying."

"Are you though?" Charlie's voice, while not exactly angry, isn't exactly the most supportive tone Oliver's ever heard. "Nobody doubts your dedication to Quidditch, Ol, but to anything else? You spend more time on that broom than anyone else on the team combined. Which would be fine, but not if you're supposed to be sorting your grades out."

"But it's boring!"

Charlie smiles. "So are most things that we have to do in life. Do you think that McGonagall enjoys having to tell you off – or take you off the team? She's the most into-Quidditch Head of House Gryffindor has ever had, and Dumbledore had the job before her. But you didn't exactly give her a choice."

Oliver's torn between classifying this chat as a telling off, or as some form of moral support.

"I guess you're right," Oliver says begrudgingly. "But even if I try, I won't do well enough for her to put me back onto the team. I was only doing alright in second year because Percy helped me with most of it and, well…"

"Yeah, I heard about the deal with my twin brothers," Charlie continues, but to Oliver's great relief doesn't offer his opinion on it. "Look, Perce will be fine in the end. It'll just take him a bit of time to come round. Mum always says that he's got a better moral compass than most Wizengamot Chief Justices."

"So do you think that I'll get back onto the team?" Oliver's voice is barely more than a whisper, but Charlie hears him.

"You're not off the team, no matter what McGonagall says," Charlie replies firmly. "We don't have a game for another six weeks, that's more than enough time for you to get your grades up. If not, we'll get a sub in for that game – if we even play it. February games normally get called off, which would give you even more time. Just put effort in, okay?"

"Okay."

"Right, good chat, now get on with some transfiguring!" Charlie finishes, clapping a hand on Oliver's shoulder in solidarity before standing up. "Oh, and Oliver?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to make any more deals with my twin brothers," Charlie adds, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "At least until they're in second year. Then you can see about getting them on the team anyway, yeah?"

~x~

"Oliver?" Patrick Sullivan's voice sounds concerned to Oliver's covered ears. "Oliver, it's time for the Ravenclaw-Slytherin game. You need to get up!"

Oliver shakes his head, resolve tight within his stomach. Just about, anyway. It's taking everything in him to not get up from his bed, Transfiguration books, and practice feathers to go and see a rare game of his favourite sport. His only sport.

"Can't," he says by way of reply. "Need to get to grips with colour changing spells by tomorrow morning so that I can try and do size changing then."

"Oliver," Tom Johnson says, his tone betraying his exasperation. "You have been working non-stop for the last two weeks. I'm fairly certain that McGonagall didn't mean for you to work yourself to death by transfiguring everything you can."

"Faster I do it, faster I can get back on a broom." Oliver's reply is deadpan, and straight to the point. "Let me know the score, and I'll do my statistics tonight. See you later."

"Come on, mate," Patrick tries again.

"See you later," Oliver repeats.

Tom and Patrick walk out, leaving Oliver to his books and feathers.

It takes him three quarters of an hour to get the white feather to a vague cream-colour, and a further hour and a half to get it to be light blue.

He takes it as a victory.

(Slytherin decimate Ravenclaw and, in his brief ten minute statistic analysis that evening, Oliver's pleased to see that his calculations about Ravenclaw's tactical decisions were as correct as ever.)

~x~

"Mr Wood, a word please." McGonagall's voice is cool as she calls Oliver back into the classroom at the end of the double Transfiguration period of the following Monday.

Hesitantly, Oliver steps back into the classroom, closing the door behind him. He waits near it, however, keen to bolt as soon as possible.

McGonagall fixes him with a hard stare. "I understand you didn't attend the Quidditch match on Saturday, Wood."

Oliver averts his gaze from the teacher, instead looking at the floor.

"Yeah, well, I had to do Transfiguration practice." He hopes his tone doesn't sound as sullen to her as it does to his ears.

"Wood, when I told you that you needed to do something other than Quidditch, I didn't mean for you to spend all of your time doing it!" McGonagall's tone is almost concerned, and Oliver looks up, shocked. "You don't need to spend all of your time practicing."

"I do," Oliver replies flatly. "I spend loads of time doing it, and I'm still not really getting better. The faster I get things, the faster I can play Quidditch again."

A faint smile appears on McGonagall's lips.

"You were listening, after all," she replies, attempting (and failing) to sound cool.

"Yep," Oliver says, tightening his grip on his bag. "Look, Professor, without being rude, but can I go? I need to try and get the size changing spell by lunch to keep on track with my practice schedule."

"Your friends were so outraged that you didn't attend the Quidditch game that they came and harassed me for most of yesterday," McGonagall continues as if she hadn't heard Oliver's question. Which, if she operates the same selective hearing as he does, she might not have. "They told me how hard you've been working, and how you have made significant improvements. Which, after today's lesson, I can verify. Therefore, we need to set up a timetable for you to continue and you will need a friend to help you practice…but I am happy to accept you back onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team."

There's silence in the classroom.

"Is this a trick?" Oliver blurts out.

McGonagall's eyes narrow. "I can assure you, Mr Wood, that I am not trying to trick you. You will be on a reduced flying schedule – scheduled practices only until March – but you can play. Try and do something moderately for once, won't you? You need to learn a little balance, rather than doing all or nothing."

Oliver's suddenly unable to hear anything she's saying.

He's back on the team!

"I, er, thank you Professor," he mumbles, not trusting himself to say much else in case he sounds so ecstatic that she immediately takes him off the team again. "Um, who came to see you?"

"The entirety of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, along with every single Gryffindor Third Year," McGonagall says, the same smile playing with the corners of her lips. "You have a loyal year, Wood."

~x~

Hesitantly, more hesitantly than he's done anything before, Oliver approaches Percy shortly before bedtime that evening.

"Um, Perce?"

Percy looks up, his expression neutral.

"Look, I just wanted to say something I should have said before," Oliver says, wracking his brains for the exact words he wants to say. "I'm sorry…for not telling you about the deal…and for making it, obviously.

"It's fine," Percy says quickly, but Oliver interrupts him.

"No, it isn't and you were right to be angry…I should have been more responsible and not made it," Oliver replies firmly. "I promise that I'll put our friendship before Quidditch from now on. And if I do anything that I think I should tell you, I definitely will. Promise."

Percy smiles. "I accept your apology," he says, proffering his hand. It's such a Percy Weasley thing to do, that Oliver laughs a little before shaking it firmly.

"Can we be friends again?"

They're friends again…but at least partially due to a promise that, deep down, Oliver knows that he can't keep.

Sincere apologies for the length of time between updates! I'll do my best to be more consistent going forwards.