Archive of Our Own ^beta

”Weasley!”

The call comes from down the hall, accompanied by the sound of a quick paced stride as Oliver Wood approaches, interrupting Percy’s conversation with a third year Slytherin. While the tone of barely suppressed righteous fury has become familiar to Percy over these past seven years, the usual needlepoint focus of it is nowhere to be found, making him feel unsure. So far, their meetings have been marked by an air of business and professionalism, an unexpected but not unwelcome recognition between two teenage boys that the other one deserves their respect.

Sometimes Percy remembers that had he been a Gryffindor, after all, it would have been him and Oliver Wood. Sometimes he even thinks they might have been friends. Real friends.

The Slytherin girl’s eyes widen in a sort of panic as she finds herself between two of the most notorious Hogwarts seniors. Percy Weasley on her one side, tall and proud Head Boy black sheep of the Weasley clan, fiery red hair contrasted with perfectly restrained manners. Oliver Wood on her other, fierce and loud and warm while introverted and unknowable, unattainably attractive personification of the ideal Gryffindor quidditch captain. She squeaks a “thanks” to Percy and slinks off before he can stop her.

“Oliver Wood,” Percy greets, considering a remark on the interrupted conversation before deciding against it. "How may I help you?”

“What’s the meaning of giving Katie detention?”

“Katie Bell?”

“Of course I am talking about Katie Bell!”

Without anyone between them, Wood takes another step closer, forcing him to tilt his head back to retain eye contact with Percy. Percy’s initial assessment of Wood’s fury holds up; it has none of the specificity, instead reminding him more of a dark horizon, a broad and general sort of looming charge, searching for a place to strike. “I believe it was Jennifer Allman who dealt the detention,” he finally says, “Perhaps you ought to talk to her.”

“You’re the Head Boy,” Wood snaps back, “you’re the one who approves detentions.”

“And as Head Boy I like to have a system where I trust my prefects to perform their duties.”

“You didn’t even ask Allman why she gave it?”

“She has done a good job so far and I found her motivations reasonable.”

“Did you hear why she gave it, Weasley? Did you actually listen to-“

By now, there are eyes on them from the students and ghosts passing through the hall, especially a group of Hufflepuffs seem to be paying close attention from the tapestry where they are now lingering. Wood’s hands are fists at his side. His voice is loud and fast in the hallway as Percy cuts him off: “Mr. Wood.” The quidditch captain stops. “I stand by Ms. Allman’s decision. That’s final. If you would like to contest my decision, you are welcome to go through your head of house, and I will be happy to discuss the matter with Professor McGonagall. Assuming she shares your notion that it was unjust.”

It is only in the silence that follows that Percy registers how strange it is that Wood let himself be interrupted. In his past experiences with Wood, attempting to cut him off will do nothing, they will just be speaking over each other. Now, Wood simply stares him down, brows knit together. “Allman’s a Slytherin.”

“And?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t keep track of the tournament schedules, Weasley.”

It is like a magical word to transfer some of that fury he sees behind Wood’s eyes into Percy’s own body. A rush of blood rings in his ears and he can feel his face heat up. It makes him painfully aware of the audience they have. When he lowers his voice to reply, he notices how close together the two of them have moved, how he can bring it to almost a whisper.

“Mr. Wood,” Percy begins once more, quickly realizing he hasn’t dispelled the attention of the bystanders at all. If anything, the hallway has gone eerily quiet in effort to listen in. “What I will pretend is that I entirely misunderstood what you just said as concern, rather than the accusation that it is. Very well – I have full confidence in the judgement of my prefects, as the school has full confidence in me, not to mention my fellow Head Girl.” Wood’s eyes dart over Percy’s surely blushing face as he continues. “To dispel your concerns, however, let me position this: if there were a conspiracy among the Slytherin prefects to sabotage the quidditch competition, it would be a sad blow to our reputation as cold-blooded schemers to attack Gryffindor, when we won’t play you for months yet and it is already quite clear that our main competition for this season is Ravenclaw.”

Through the ringing silence, Percy becomes aware of his sweaty palms, not to mention the blood rushing in his ears. The two of them stay like that for a moment. Wood with his head tilted back, dark eyes attempting to stare Percy down, lips pursed and fists tight at his sides.

Finally, Wood takes a step back, breaking the tension. A feeling almost euphoric washes over Percy. It is a sense of triumph, not far from the pride whenever he proves he can fill out the Head Boy boots, but more acute and with something of an edge to it. “I will say,” Percy continues, the strange delirium clouding his better judgement, “that I hadn’t expected a week’s absence for a chaser to be such an issue for the Gryffindor team. I can’t say I know much about quidditch but at that level of concern, I would be very careful about staying out of trouble, if I was the captain.”

Wood flinches. He opens his mouth to say something and his hand moves upwards, but he changes his mind and goes quiet, hand reaching to rub at his chin instead. As if struck by a blow. Then he takes another few steps back, retaining eye contact, before nodding. “I hear you, Weasley, good talk.”

Then he turns around and leaves down the hallway, which suddenly becomes busy as students remember they were going somewhere, or were talking about something. Percy remains for a moment. His brain spins as he wipes his sweaty palms on his robe. It is only later that evening that the leaving scene strikes him as reminiscent of a dark sky ahead unexpectedly dissipating into an unassuming overcast.

“Weasley!”

It is the second time that day that he is addressed by family name from a quidditch captain. Marcus Flint tumbles over the back of the couch and down next to him. Percy rescues a pile of parchments just in time as Marcus throws his feet up on the coffee table. “You’re high in spirits,” he mutters, “trust practice went well, then?”

Marcus waves the question aside. “Lucian is killing it as a beater, but you don’t care about that, what’s this I’m hearing about you sawing Wood by the ankles?” He takes a beat before letting out a snort. “Sawing Wood, huh…”

“He overstepped, I shut it down, that’s all. Didn’t you say you have a report you need to write?”

It is late evening and the common room is empty save for the two of them and a sixth year, who is lounging on an armchair with the Walkman brought from her muggle home, presumably to escape from the large swath of Slytherin girls in her dorm. They are an expansive bunch, the more senior Slytherin students, almost a dozen seventh year boys compared to the lone Oliver Wood. “Too late to start now. Don’t change the subject.”

Percy rolls up the transfiguration notes he has been pretending to read. “What did you hear?”

“Heard that Wood’s a bitch ass baby who assumes everyone’s out to get him.” It’s not that far from what Percy had been about to say to his face. He flinches nonetheless. “Heard that you’ve paid attention to quidditch talk, which counts as a win for me, also heard that Wood ran off like a dog with his tail between his legs. Also-also heard that you kind of lost your cool.” Percy pushes his glasses up his forehead to rub his face with his hands. “You alright?”

“Yes.” He takes his glasses off proper. “In retrospect it feels like he was trying to provoke me? But I don’t know why he would do that.”

Marcus shrugs. “He’s just pissy they lost to Hufflepuff. Wood’s got no impulse control. You got any flack for it?”

“Not yet. Don't think I will. It’s not like him, though, he’s usually all business.”

“What, you think he has a grand plan or something? Come on. I’ve played that guy for years now and his strategy ends where the pitch does. He wouldn’t know an ulterior motive if it came out of his wand.”

“Mm.”

“You know,” Marcus breaks into a grin, slides an arm over Percy’s shoulders. “Penny said it was kinda hot.”

“She saw it?” Percy groans.

“She’s the one who told me about it. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“She dumped me.”

“So what? I guess she likes you best when you drop the façade and get bossy. Or it’s about the game of it, and since you’re a smart guy I reckon that as long as you play along, you won’t get fooled. You’ll be out of here come summer anyway and it’s not like you’ll have to marry her.” Percy stays quiet, bites his thumbnail. Marcus shrugs. “Seems like you could use letting off some steam, if Wood of all people is getting to you, is all I’m saying.”

“Since you’re such an expert, Marcus, how come we’re not having this conversation about you?”

It is snide, because the more Percy thinks about the situation the less he understands it, which frustrates him to no end. If Wood had wanted to provoke him, surely he would have gone further, instead of making such a heel turn? Marcus just laughs. “Because I’m damn ugly,” he says, “maybe I’d get some if I was a Hufflepuff or something.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” Marcus shrugs again and gets up on his feet, “the girls in this place want their Slytherins pretty. You and Calvin are the resident pretty-boys and the rest of us just have to live vicariously through you.”

He says it with an air of tragedy that pulls a snort out of Percy. He throws a gentle punch at Marcus thigh, as punishment for making him laugh despite himself, as Marcus heads off towards the dorm. It leaves him the last one in the common room. The fireplace settles into embers as a cue for the night owls to take their leave. He watches it for a bit, but it gets him nowhere and eventually, he too heads for the dorms.

“Oh come on,” Marcus groans as they spot the Gryffindor sweater with the captain’s badge on one of the benches, “let’s head.”

“Be civil. Maybe he’s almost done-“

“No way. Fancy baths for another time. This is not my idea of relaxing.” He lowers his voice, already turned to head back from whence they came. The scented steam reaches into the vestibule separating the entrance of the prefects’ bathroom from the changing area and main space. On their way here, they had discussed the fact that Oliver Wood absolutely seemed to be attempting some sort of scheme to set Percy off, leaving Percy all the more determined to retain a stiff upper lip and be entirely unaffected by it. Despite being all but entirely unaffected by it. He had already reached a point of actively looking for things to get Wood about, be it points or detention. So far he had nothing. Not that he would admit to any of it.

“I’m not sacrificing my bath,” Percy replies, matching his volume to Marcus’. “And anyway, that’s all his issue, I’m above it and I don’t want him to think he’s getting to me.”

Marcus gives him a look like he has just proclaimed his departure from Hogwarts to pursue a career as a muggle barber.

Before either of them can lead the way, Oliver Wood’s voice calls from the main room, “who’s there?”

“Percy Weasley and-” Marcus shakes his head with a glare, “uh, did you just come here?”

“Getting ready to leave,” the answer comes, as Marcus takes the opportunity to slip back out through the hidden doorway. Percy makes a silent gesture at him to get his support but Marcus just flips him off in return. In their shared vocabulary, it might as well translate to “let’s agree to disagree”, so Percy just rolls his eyes before heading in towards the changing area.

“You don’t mind, then,” Percy asserts, back towards the steaming bath. The changing area isn’t as closed off here as it is in the other bathrooms, so he throws a glance towards the main area, finding the large tub to be draining and spotting the broad shape of Wood at its edges.

“No, no, not at all.”

It is said as if through clenched teeth. The scots is heavier than usual.

Percy has not yet thought it out loud, not even in his journal, but there is something about this new and seething rage that Wood seems to brandish for him that he finds deeply flattering. Thrilling, far more exciting than the back and forth that he finds himself caught in with Penelope, whose attempts at retaining his attention quickly exhausted him. Admitting to liking someone and then finding reasons for why you do not want to be with them seems far less interesting to him than whatever it is that Wood sets off in him. Marcus leaving is evidence of that; it would have been just as easy for the two of them to avoid each other, nonetheless Wood seems to constantly find new things about Percy to confront or at least let seep into the Hogwarts gossip-mill, equally matched by Percy’s refusal to stay out of his way.

Wood speaks up again as if on cue: “Congratulations on beating Ravenclaw by the way, a shame about the gameplay but whatever works, I suppose.”

“Your critique is misguided, Wood, Marcus left.”

“I figured we’d already established you pay more attention than you let on.”

Percy’s jaw tightens as he sorts through the contents of his bag and begins to undo his tie. Perhaps the reason why Wood’s prodding intrigues him is because it hits a bit too close for someone with whom his only interactions between age eleven and now have lacked all sort of personal attention. “I can separate my personal interests from my role as head boy, this is part of the criteria when prefects are chosen,” he replies. Then, in a low voice adding, “not that you’d know.”

“But I do,” Wood replies, this time much closer behind Percy who hadn’t expected him to even hear it. He snaps around to Wood immediately behind him, leaning against one of the pillars in muggle style sweats and a t-shirt, looking smug enough to make Percy do a mental check that his expression is sufficiently emotionless. “They did ask me, you know,” he continues. “I said I’d rather just be captain of the team. Seems kinda boring, anyway, don’t you think?”

“Really now.” The smirk does not fade, even as Percy feels confident his own expression does not give Wood what he wants, which stirs his annoyance something fierce. Even more annoying is that he has nothing witty to retort. Something about the lack of competition, he thinks, but Wood continues before he can form any words:

“I’d rather do something people will like me for,” he says, as if he is just pondering it out aloud to no one in particular. “No one cares much for head boys, do they? People don’t look at the engravings on the prefects’ monument the way they do the quidditch cup, I don’t think, I mean I remember when Charlie won us the quidditch cup and it was just this huge party- See, that’s what it’s all about to me,” Wood continues on. Percy watches him in a sort of stunned silence. His tie is still hanging over the shoulders of his mostly buttoned shirt and here is Oliver Wood, with wet hair and soft muggle clothing, all but spitting bile at him directly. “…being a leader, I mean. Being part of something, motivating from the inside, giving cause to celebrate. If I’d been a prefect I’d had to cut myself off from all that, pretend I was above it, you know? And I knew I couldn’t do that, so I said thanks but no thanks, so I do respect anyone who can separate themselves from their house pride and all that.”

The room is warm with steam. None of these words mean anything and Percy knows it, but that does not help the way his face turns red, nor the shiver down his spine as Oliver Wood pry his way in under his skin. When the smirk turns into a mean grin, Percy is struck with two clarities at once, and then a third as he savours the first two, choosing his words with care. The first realization:

“It is cute how you think this is at all a competition between us.”

Wood’s expression immediately shifts. “Excuse me?”

“It is cute. That you have so much to prove to me.” Instinctually, he takes a step closer, making Wood straighten his back against the pillar and uncross his arms. “Just a few weeks ago, you tried to convince me I had ruined your whole season with a routine detention approval, and now you are telling me that your legacy is set in stone? Everyone knows you are desperate to win the cup this year. Who are you trying to fool?” The expression in front of Percy has shifted entirely, not the least because as the space closes between them, the height difference becomes impossible to ignore. “If I really wanted to, Wood, I could strike out your entire quidditch career. Not that I have any reason to. You trying to make this into a competition, as if we were on the same level just because we share a few passwords…”

This is the second realization: while he has no doubts about the fact that Wood could wrestle or knock him out with ease on physical force alone, it does not matter. Percy wields a different sort of power. One which is effortless to the point that the mere notion of its existence has made Wood drop his guard. One which makes him gesture vaguely to the room, washed in reds from the setting sun, makes him drag on the silence while Wood’s hands run along the smooth stone pillar behind him as if he is looking for something to grab onto. Especially that last part, actually, how intoxicating that power is when he allows himself to let it run freely.

“…I find it cute.”

Oliver Wood yields.

The head tilted up towards him is no longer a defiant glare but an exposed throat. The body against the pillar is no longer irreverently relaxed, nor tense and ready to either strike or run, but softly seeking support. On some level, he had expected Wood to fight back, but the shift is immediate and so undeniable it catches him off guard. It is not fighting they have been doing, he notes as the instinct to close the gap between them overpowers him, it is playing.

The only person he has kissed before is Penelope, but when he leans down to press his lips to Oliver’s, it is the most natural impulse he has perhaps ever had. No worries about doing it right, maybe because as they have just established, he has won. Percy is in the right no matter what.

He hears something like a mewl from Oliver, realizing that he is pushing up on his toes to meet Percy, making him overcome with that same feeling of delirious might. It is a beast roaring triumphantly within him, begging to put claws to soft flesh, leaving effortless marks but never breaking skin. Oliver forms himself like clay below him, against him, gasps as Percy pins him against the pillar proper. Percy feels an arm hook around his neck, fingers closing in the fabric of his shirt, a hundred silent and servile pleas for his attention.

It is all so much.

Taste of Oliver on his tongue, scent of freshly washed hair in his nose, the strangely firm body of an athletic man shifting against his. Hands. Lips. Breath. Body. Body. Body.

Percy pulls two steps back. His head is swimming. Oliver stumbles, without another body to keep his balance on his toes, before steadying himself. Once more against the pillar behind him. They both catch their breath, watch each other’s faces, red with blush and thrill. Oliver seems to wait for a cue, a sign, perhaps a command. Percy has none to give; his ears are ringing and he feels short of both breath and blood. It does not matter. He watches fingers find the stone ridges of the pillar and knows immediately that he wants that touch. A gallery of emotions play over Oliver’s face: something giddy, something sly, something almost reverent. That furious fire in the dark eyes. Then he is standing on his own, away from the pillar, and Percy realizes he himself has straightened to his full height.

“Enjoy your bath.” Oliver’s voice is breathy and barely audible as he sweeps past, close enough that Percy can feel the brush of what he thinks is the hair on his arm, leaving him alone in the prefects’ bathroom.

Taste of Oliver Wood on his tongue, scent of freshly washed hair in his nose.

“Mr. Weasley, do you have a moment?”

Percy looks up from cleaning his quill and puts on his glasses. It is the most recent Ravenclaw prefect. She fidgets with a braid hanging down over her shoulder, looking out for madam Pince, though the library is about as crowded as it gets and her voice is so quiet he almost did not hear her. “Yes?”

“Apparently, ever since Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw last weekend, quidditch captain Wood has been encouraging his teammates to ignore curfew to get in extra hours of training.” Across the table from Percy, Marcus looks up, eyebrow quirked.

“Did you speak to him?”

“Me and Liam tried to, but he says that since he’s a captain, the prefects can’t tell him what to do and that we should be excited he is trying to avenge our ‘unjust loss’ against Slytherin.” She pauses. “Then Penelope spoke to him, but he said that unless the order comes from the Head Boy himself, he can do whatever he wants.”

Marcus chokes out a laugh by coughing but Percy avoids acknowledging him. “He said that?” The prefect grimaces as affirmation. “Where is he now?”

“I think he said he was going to do some equipment maintenance?”

“Right,” Percy says, a bit too loud and quick. “Thank you, Keri.”

“Is he for real?” Marcus snorts as Percy begins to pack up his things.

“I wouldn’t put it beyond him. With Black on the loose I am afraid I can’t put it off, though… I’ll see you later, Marcus.” Marcus gives a sarcastic salute to Percy, who has hoisted his bag up over his shoulder, already heading out of the library.

Lucky for Percy, the light drizzle means no one looks twice as his already wide strides turns into a sprint for the quidditch equipment shed, light spilling out of the door slightly ajar.