Skipped over Oliver's POV because I couldn't wait to get to this chapter. Because - you guys – finally.Finally.FINALLY YOU GUYS.

Name: Katie Bell.
Age: One week until school's over for the year and then I'm practically a SIXTH YEAR.
Current Location: Quidditch Pitch: where else?
Current Mood: Nostalgic. Maybe that's why instead of celebrating the end of gruelling exams like normal people, I actually turned up to Quidditch practice when Quidditch season is already over.

"You do realise Quidditch season is over?" Is the first thing I said to Wood when he strode purposefully across the Pitch. He looked pretty grouchy, but I didn't blame him: he'd spent the week tutoring me ready for my exams, and because Wood is an unreasonable perfectionist task-master, he wouldn't finish tutoring me until I got over 80% on all his practice tests (talk about shrinking the goal hoops). So I don't know where he fit in studying for his own NEWTS.

"Call this a farewell practice then," he rumbled.
Angelina flipped her pony-tail. "Yeah, you're off to greener pastures and shiner Quidditch hoops next year."
Wood narrowed his eyes at Angelina. "How do you mean, Johnson?"
"What're wasting time with us for – hasn't Puddlemere accepted you?"
"No."
"We all know the re-trials are just a formality."
"They were last week. I didn't go."
"Oh."
"Someone let Lee Jordan know all bets are off for Puddlemere next year," Fred said. "Haven't got a hope without Wood."
"Why the hell didn't they take you?" Alicia growled.
"I sort of didn't trial."
"You didn't what?"
"Oliver, that's your dream."

I'd been standing quietly, digesting what Wood had said. Last week, when he should have been practicing and then trialling for a professional team, he was helping me swat for my stupid O. and not once did he make it seem like he wasn't 100% invested in studying. He never glanced at his watch, or seemed distracted or non-committal or had his thoughts elsewhere than studying: not once.

"Wood," I growled. "I'm going to be really angry if you ditched the re-trials to help me study."
"My reasons are my own. What sort of rubbish Captain would ditch his team for a shot of glory himself? I made a commitment to this team – and we're not just a team whenever we're on the Pitch - Puddlemere clashed."
"But this is just school. You could have had a professional-"
Wood held up a hand. "I don't want to hear about it," he dismissed. "There's no I in team. You guys are my focus. So let's go out there and make me proud."

We all cast furtive glances at each other as Wood strapped on his arm guards. Then we made an unspoken agreement to go along with what our Captain said. If our Captain said carry on as usual, then we would.

"So Wood, what torture – I mean to say practice, practice," Fred amended. "Why 'torture' slipped out I don't know..."
Alicia, in no mood for the Weasley's distractive antics, elbowed Fred and bossed herself into the conversation all business-like. "What practice-"
"-Torture," George slipped in, but Alicia was on a mission to complete the sentence.
"-have you devised for us this afternoon?"
Oliver called his broom to his hand. "Target practice."

None of us moved.

"I swear to Morgana, Oliver, if this is another one of 'those' training sessions, I am steering my broom into a wood-chipper. With me on it."
"What are those training sessions?" Oliver growled, his Scottish brogue rumbling deep in his throat.
"You know those sessions," Angelina said with a toss of her hair. "The 'agility training' where you tie a snitch to a branch on the flailing Whomping Willow and make Harry grab it, knowing full well that tree has had a beef with Harry since last year."
"Or 'Impact Conditioning' when you fire Bludgers out of cannons," said George. "Where did you even get cannons from?"
"George, we live in a medieval castle," Angelina pointed out.
"Yes, I know, but Filch's hidden all the fun stuff really well. So even we can't find it."
"Don't forget those training sessions where we allegedly needed to improve our reflexes," Fred added. "So you put one of those Hydra curses on the Bludgers so every time we hit them it doubled them."
"And when you greased the Quaffle," Angelina added, getting in on the action.
"And Charmed the Giant Squid to Levitate."
"Uh, no, sorry, that was actually one of ours," confessed Fred sheepishly.
"Not as fun as we thought it'd be," George admitted.
"But it could only be Wood who Charmed the Snitch to go even faster."
"It was like a missile-"
"-I nearly lost an eye, I swear."
"-Little flying walnut took out most of the Herbology greenhouse glass too."

"Those were genius training sessions," Oliver defended hotly.
"Apart from the squid," Fred pointed out.
"That wasn't my idea."
I sighed. "Let's just get it over with – what are we doing this time?"
"I was hoping this time we could work on my Goal Keeping." Oliver replied.
"Wait, so this time you get to suffer?" blurted George.
"And by 'suffer' my brother meant practice, obviously, in the similarities akin to how artists practice/suffer for their art."

Wood spun the Quaffle on the tip of his broomstick until the Weasley's stopped their double-act. "I didn't pass Puddlemere try-outs, my fault: got distracted, lost sight of the bigger picture. So I need you guys to just barrage me with what you've got. Quaffles, Bludgers, the lot. Don't hold back."
"Can I clarify?" I asked. "You want us to make a run at you?"
Oliver gave a broad grin. "With everything you've got, Bell."

"Psst," I whispered to Angelina as we called up our brooms. "Was that flirting?"
Angelina frowned. "I don't think so. He's in boss-mode since you broke him four years ago. Nowdays he saves all his love and affection for Quidditch."

Oh. Okay. I'll take a strictly-business approach then, as normal. I turned to Alicia and pulled on the lacings of my leather gloves. "Is it just me, or is this training actually sounding like it might be fun?"

Alicia seized a Quaffle and tossed it between her hands. "Us throwing stuff at Oliver with his blessing – where's the down-side?" (Actually as a side-note, I preferred to throw stuff at him without his blessing, but I was perverse that way.) "Plus, you can work off some tension," she whispered.

I made a quick fist with my gloves, the leather creaking. "What tension? Oliver and I are totally cool now. Cally's gone, Wood apologised, we had a breakthrough so now we hardly ever fight. Well, hardly ever with fists. Plus, today we've got a free pass to absolutely thrash-" at that moment Wood straddled his broom, ready to zoom off towards the Keeper hoops, and I got distracted. The way he straddled the broomstick reminded me of the time earlier this year when I'd fallen off my broom and Wood had straddled me. The way his calves and thighs tensed as he pushed off from the pitch... The way the wind streaming past pushed at his hair and tightened his robes over his shoulders and back...

I didn't realise my mouth had stopped talking until I had to swallow. In the silence I'd left by not finishing my sentence, I looked guiltily at Alicia and Angelina.

"We certainly didn't mean the sexual tension, obviously."

Practice was, as implicitly advertised, fun. In the genuine light-hearted, fluffy kind, not the exhaustive sweat-blood-and-tears-vindictive victory fun it usually is, like winning a battle.

At first we'd lined up and taken strict turns, facing Wood like a firing squad. Honestly, it had been like throwing cream pies at a fun fair. Then we just de-evolved into a free-for-all. Alicia, in a show of female solidarity about the way Wood had handled my whole Cally-and-me-as-a-five-year-old fiasco had purposefully aimed every Quaffle at Oliver's junk. Angelina had taken the moral high-ground and kept things above the belt. I'd tagged Wood 5 times. Not that I was counting.

By the end of 'target' practice, Wood had successfully deflected 875 Quaffles along with 124 Bludgers (which seemed like a proportionally high amount, but there were two Bludgers and only 1 Quaffle, and also the Weasley twins had a score to settle about the Bludger-Cannon training). In total Wood had let 13 Quaffles through. He'd called a penalty once when he'd narrowly avoided catching (and thus triggering) a dung-bomb. "That is not standard Quidditch equipment," he called coldly, whistle hanging between his teeth from where he'd blown a time-out. The whistle was Charmed to stop our brooms dead, so we couldn't move until we agreed with the penalty.

Wood would have kept the training going – and I wasn't about to protest the open season on Oliver day, but the Quaffle was beginning the flag. It's enchantment was fading and it was starting to drop through the air before it travelled a few feet.

The peep-peep of the training whistle was almost a disappointment.

"Over so soon?" Alicia said as we set foot on the Pitch again.

"Time – like us - flies when it's fun," Angelina observed.

I usually found practice went by quickly – once I had actually heaved my slovenly arse out of bed at the sparrow's fart of dawn.

I staggered a little as I landed back on the Pitch. I always forget ground's a little bit more solid than moving around in the air.

"That... went well... team," Oliver panted, struggling for breath. A bruise was beginning to form on his temple from where a Bludger had grazed him when it rebounded off the hoop. We traipsed back to the locker rooms.

"Except... Bell," Wood added. "Could you... stay back a bit?"

I'd been in the process of shucking my arm guards when Wood made his request. I dropped my hands with a sigh. "What is it, Wood?"

He calmed his breathing while loosening the knots of his own gauntlets, so I relaxed a little. Surely practice was over if the Captain was undressing. Wait, that sounded wrong. Or maybe it actually sounded so, so right. Don't get distracted, Katie.

He worked a finger underneath the stays of his laces – Merlin, he Charmed those strings tight.

"You alright?" he said as he nonchalantly peeled one of the reinforced leather glove from his hand. He flexed his hand as if the glove was so tight it had restricted blood flow. His fingers were so long and slim, like a painter's or a pianist. He dropped the ox-blood red glove at his feet.

As it thumped onto the grass I stopped perving on his hands and looked him in the eye like a normal person. I found a smirk had worked it's way onto his face. When had that got there?

"Was my training off?" I asked innocently. Just like your kit.

Wood dropped the other glove.

Why stop there? Take it all off! my hormones shrieked.

Instead Oliver kicked the discarded Quaffle backwards so it rolled over his foot and up his leg like a move out of Muggle football. When it rolled over his knee he gave a little shunt so the ball bumped into the air, and he caught it.

"I'm only asking you this Bell because I'm-," he stepped closer, so only the Quaffle was between us, separating our chests, "-concerned. During training you seem a little..." he leaned in, "...distracted." My heart jumped so violently he could probably feel it through the Quaffle.

I frowned. What was he playing at? I had two choices – step back away from his complete invasion of my personal space bubble, or push back against his weight. My choice? A hint: I play offense. I sucked in a deep breath, eyes squinted, ready for a challenge or taunt about my training and/or flying ability.

Then it hit me like a Bludger from the left-field. Was Wood flirting? It was so odd I had to run it by my mind again, with different emphasis. Wood flirting? Wood flirting? Wood flirting?

I wasn't imagining it this time. Was this what he'd been doing the first year I joined the team? If he was flirting (Morgana, that still sounded weird), I was quite new to this game. But I picked things up fast.

I raised my hand and traced an indent in the Quaffle. "Are you sure I was distracted? Because you were fumbling your balls a fair bit." At that I punched the Quaffle down so Oliver lost his grip. The Quaffle dropped from between us. Score 1 to me.

With a punt Oliver kicked the ball straight back up into his hands before it even hit the ground.

...Hmm...

1 all.

"You do a lot of flashy flying," Wood admitted. I buffed my nails on my Gryffindor crest patch. "But it masks your weak or sloppy throws." Wait, when did we get back to coach-critique mode? "You need to work on that."

I dropped my hand. "My flying is spectacular. So is my aim."

"I'll make you a deal," Wood bargained, all teeth and charm and Scottish vowels that sounded like they'd been rolled in honey.

"...What?" I asked, suspiciously. Wood was generally not the type to bargain. It was his way or the no-fly way, that option where you weren't on the team and ate breakfast with everyone else at school instead of training at the Pitch.

He flicked his broomstick and the hoops slid down, the posts disappearing into the ground until the hoops stood on level with the ground. I'd forgotten they could do that – Hagrid got Wood to perform the Charm occasionally when he needed to clean the posts or string banners up, because giants just didn't do well flying up on broomsticks. I eyed the lowered goal posts uneasily. "If you can get this Quaffle past me, on the ground with no broomsticks – just you, me, a Quaffle and a Hoop, I'll concede."

Wood, conceding defeat? Even better: Wood conceding defeat to me? I'll take that deal.

Five minutes later I was wishing I hadn't.

"Where's the feinting?" Wood bellowed at me like I was 100 feet in the air away from him, not 5 feet on the grass like I actually was. I bent over, doubled in the middle, panting for breath like I'd taken a Bludger to the gut, trying not to use the fainting method instead. My legs burned. The balls of my feet hurt. I never really worried about my legs when I flew on a broomstick. On a broomstick, I only used my thighs to direct my flight. A fact that was well-known (and well-liked) about all Quidditch players. "Where's the misdirection, Bell? You're just charging at me like a bull at a gate."

Charming rustic Scottish imagery aside, the Scottish bastard had a point – he was blocking all my throws and passing them back to me, and I was lagging. I was just no good on the ground: I moved too slowly. Gravity held me back.

"Do you want to break while I get a blindfold or some rope to tie a hand behind my back?" Wood enquired.

Don't let him get to you, Katie, I told myself. He's saying that to rile you up.Classic Slytherin tactic.

I faked throwing the ball over-arm, followed it through a little so I looked committed to the throw, then flicked my wrist to twist the Quaffle off in a spin.

Wood caught it without breaking eye-contact with me. His eyes were just too sharp.

"Is that the best you've got?"

I snatched the Quaffle he tossed back to me and stormed off a little way to regroup. This wasn't going to work – he could see my plays from miles off. I needed to change tactics. Completely. And the opposite off hurling a ball at him from a great distance? I about-faced and stepped closer. "You're right, Wood; I can do better." I walked towards him and instead of my eyes darting around everywhere, looking for an in or an unguarded corner, I kept them locked on his mahogany eyes.

"Belllll," Wood said, slowly and suspiciously. "What're you doing?"

"I think I was moving too fast," I said, carefully lining my toes up so they were almost touching his own. Wood didn't back down. If anything he stood taller, so he could look down at me with a conceited smirk. Except his chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon when in reality, he'd basically stood in front of the shrunken down Quidditch hoop and effortlessly batted my Quaffles away.

"Or maybe I was going too slow."

I reached up and set a palm on his shoulder. Oliver flicked his eyes over to my hand, but caught himself before he could turn his neck and present a blind spot in his vision. He continued looking steadily at me, with a bland 'yes, what?' look in his eyes. His features were schooled, but he wasn't scowling like he usually did whenever he saw me at Quidditch practice. That was encouraging, right? Usually I'd say 'sod encouragement – I'll just do it my own way' but right now I needed all the support I could get. Because I was about to change the rules and make a whole other game.

You heard your Captain's advice, my brain coached. Think strategy. Feint. Misdirect. Any means necessary.

I moved my hand so my fingers brushed his neck. I could feel the heat off his body warming my skin, like holding my palm over a cauldron to test the burn. I'd never held back from a dive in Quidditch before, and this was no different.

As I skimmed my fingers up his nape, the ends of Wood's hair tickled across my hand. Standing this close, I felt him tense, his muscle held rigid. But his eyes slid closed.

There – that was my in! He'd literally lowered his defences!

I raised my other hand with the Quaffle and -

-Oliver shot his hand out and grabbed my wrist.

"Ah, ah," he murmured as his fingers curled around my wrist and my pulse shot darts through my veins. The Quaffle bounced to the grass. "I said I could defend with my eyes closed."

And his eyes still were.

Which gave me the courage to lean in and press my lips softly against his.

At first he locked up and stood stock-still, completely blindsided.

Yeah, I know, not the most brilliant tactical Quidditch move: snog the goalie. Wood wouldn't approve of the base simplicity. With no reaction from Oliver, I wasn't sure if I should tactically surrender or go all-in.

Wood's breath hitched under my lips. Perhaps he didn't mind it so much after all.

I slid my hand through Wood's hair and leant in to steady myself as I pressed my lips harder against his. He was just too damn tall! I'd never really noticed when we'd been on broomsticks. I stood on tip-toes so I could deepen the kiss, trying to encourage him. He was almost unnaturally still and I still don't think he'd drawn a breath since I stepped towards him.

I balled my fist and hit his chest. He jolted with a start. "You're supposed to breathe, Wood."

I hadn't realised he'd unfrozen at first.

His hands ran down my spine, just grazing above my skin so hesitantly his touch was feather-light, like I was a Quaffle he'd caught just by the tips of his fingers. Then he changed his grip, harder and firmer so his palm was hot and flush against my back, and I knew he'd definitely caught me.

And Wood was back in the game.

He tightened his grip, roughly pressing me closer to him.

For someone who played defence he certainly was being fairly aggressive.

For a moment, he held me like that. His head dipped over mine, fringe falling into my eyes, his breath fluttering against my lips.

He slanted his lips over my own and I jumped from the contact. His kiss was searing hot, like windburn. Wood's fingers tilted under my chin for a better angle then settled around my waist in a capture.

Everything shifted behind my eyelids. The world spun and I swayed with vertigo. My stomach hadn't dipped like this since my first year playing Quidditch. Still in Quidditch-mode, my confused body reacted the same way it did when I was nervous before a Quidditch game. My breathing shallowed. My skin prickled. I felt... dizzy? I never felt dazed before on a broomstick, never lost my head at heights. So why did my body react like I was falling?

I arched into his embrace and leant into Wood instinctively, steadying myself against his broad shoulders. He made a noise deep in his throat, almost a growl of frustration, and guided my hands to reposition them behind his neck. I realised this was so my palms weren't a barrier between us.

Now better-balanced, I drew myself back up tip-toes. I liked the kiss, and threaded my fingers in Wood's hair like a key in a lock, keeping him in place. Stay, I commanded in my mind. Then I tightened my grip on his windswept hair and pulled him closer.

Several long seconds later we pulled away, panting, trying to catch our breath.

The fallen Quaffle had rolled away, unnoticed, until it rolled into the goal and the Hoop let off a loud, pulsing chime to record the score.

She shoots, she scores.

I grinned up at Oliver. "I believe I won that round." I clapped his shoulder and turned away.

Wood looked aghast as I scooped up my Quidditch gear. "You can't distract me like that every time you want to get a goal past."

I slung my broomstick over my shoulders and started back towards the castle. "Why not?"

A/N: Probably didn't live up to the 40-something chapter wait, but FINALLY GUYS. I tried.