Chapter Text
Oliver pulls a jumper over his head.
“Shit, man, this thing’s full of holes.”
Percy looks up from his book. The jumper is, indeed, full of holes. It looks like it’s been eaten by oversized moths. He stifles a laugh.
“How’d you manage that?”
Oliver crinkles his nose. “I don’t take very good care of my clothes. Probably got ‘em from Quidditch.”
Percy raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise Quidditch was that… aggressive.”
“It’s not,” Oliver sighs, pulling the jumper back over his head. “I’m just not very careful.” He folds the jumper and puts it back in his trunk. “Guess that’s a bust. Lemme see if I have a clean shirt in here…”
“You can borrow one of my jumpers,” Percy says, going back to his book. “They’re all clean and hole-less.” He gestures to his trunk with his foot.
“Thanks, mate,” Oliver says, opening Percy’s trunk. He pulls out the top jumper and Percy goes red when he sees it.
Percy leans forward and grabs at the jumper. “Oh, well you don’t have to wear that one. I’m sure there’s another clean jumper in there if you just-”
“No no no, I want to wear this one,” Oliver says, stepping back from Percy’s reaching hand. He pulls the scarlet jumper over his head.
“Well, what do you think?” he asks, “Do I look like a Weasly?”
The jumper actually looks rather good on him, Percy thinks. It’s a bit small on him, but it shows off his muscles nicely. The sweater doesn’t make him look nearly as eggheaded as Percy looks, he thinks.
“Yeah,” he says, cocking his head to the side, “It actually looks better on you than it does on me. Maybe I should get mum to knit you one next year."
Oliver smiles at him mischievously. "Think Molly’ll think we’re dating?”
Percy shrugs, “Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It’d get her off my back about who I’m dating, anyway.”
Oliver puts a hand to his heart and smiles broadly. “Oh, he loves me! He can bear to spend time in the same room as me! I think we’ll have a spring wedding, what do you think, dear?”
“Shove off,” Percy says, “All I said is that of all the guys at Hogwarts you would not be my last choice.”
“Who would be your first choice?” Oliver asks, genuinely curious.
Percy thinks for a moment. “Probably you, actually,” he mumbles.
“Uh, what was that?” Oliver asks, cupping a hand to his ear, “I am your favourite person at Hogwarts? And you’ve been attracted to me since the moment you saw me in first year? But waited until now to tell me?? Letting the passion build as the years passed, until finally, finally-” Percy throws a pillow at him.
“I didn’t say ‘person’,” Percy huffs, “I said ‘guy’. And don’t you have to get going, Mr Captain Of The Quidditch Team Forcing Everyone To Train Constantly?”
Oliver checks his watch. “Shit, you’re right. We’re not done with this conversation, Weasly.” he rushes out the door and down to the Great Hall for breakfast. He smells like Percy all day.
. . .
Three Weeks Later
On the day of the Quidditch match, Oliver wakes up to the wind blustering outside the window. For a brief, lovely moment, he’s calm. And then he’s hit with a wave of anxiety, crashing and rolling in his stomach. They were supposed to play Slytherin today. They had been training to play Slytherin today. They had been drilling for the past week against Slytherin’s playstyle, but now they were up against Hufflepuff. Bloody Malfoy with his bloody arm. Clearly faking his injuries. It was a smart play, Oliver couldn’t deny. Put off playing Gryffindor, and maybe Gryffindor would lose to Hufflepuff, putting Slytherin at an advantage for the rest of the season. But it was underhanded. It’s cheating, and Oliver hates cheaters.
“Harry can do this, Harry’s got this, we’re a good team,” he says it under his breath, repeating it over and over like a mantra. “Fred and George are strong, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie are fast, Harry can do this, Harry’s got this.”
He must have gotten a bit too loud at some point in his rambling because Percy pulls back his drapes to hiss at him to shut up. Oliver goes down to the Great Hall, where heavy rain beats down from the ceiling, disappearing before it reaches the heads of the students sitting below it. He’s glad to see Harry has finished a big bowl of porridge and started on toast by the time he and the rest of the team join him. Oliver sits down beside the Seeker and picks at his food.
“It’s going to be a tough one,” he says, hoping he'll be able to rile up an inspiring speech by game time.
“Stop worrying, Oliver,” Alicia says, her soothing voice doing nothing to aid his nerves, “We don’t mind a bit of rain.”
It was far more than 'a bit of rain’, however. By the time they were out on the pitch, the ground was soaked and muddy, the rain was coming down in sheets, and the wind was blowing so hard that umbrellas were whipping out of hands.
As the team change into their scarlet Quidditch robes, Oliver tries desperately to come up with an inspiring speech. He can’t. He stands in front of the team as the players look up at him expectantly. He clears his throat. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He tries again. An odd choked noise comes from the back of his throat. Finally, he gives up. He shakes his head and gestures for the rest of the team to follow him.
The wind is so strong, Oliver feels himself being pushed sideways as they walk back out onto the pitch. He can’t hear the crowd over the peals of thunder. He looks back at Harry, desperately, but he can’t even see the boys eyes, his glasses are so covered in rain. How is he going to see the Snitch in this? Screw that, how is Oliver going to see the Quaffle in this?
The Hufflepuffs approach from the opposite side of the field, Oliver can see their bright yellow Quidditch robes approaching. Oliver and Cedric approach each other to shake hands, and Cedric smiles at him, but Oliver just clenches his jaw, trying to keep his nerves (and what little breakfast made it into his stomach) down.
Oliver sees Madame Hooch's mouth form the words ‘mount your brooms’, and he pulls his right foot out of the mud with a squelch, throwing it over his broom. He hears Hooch's whistle, a distant squeal, and pushes off the ground. Getting higher seems to make the weather worse. He flies back to the hoop and can barely make out his teammates in the rain. Fortunately, he can see the bright yellow Hufflepuffs and manages to block the Quaffle a few times. But it’s hopeless. He can just make out the outline of Harry struggling in the air, and he signals to Hootch for a time out. There’s a flash of lightning as she blows her whistle, and he gestures for the rest of the team to join him on the ground. The team splashes down in the mud beside him.
“I called for a time out,” Oliver yells, hoping to be heard over the wind and rain, “Come on, under here-”
They move to the edge of the pitch and under a large umbrella. It barely helps. Everyone’s already dripping water and shivering. Harry takes off his glasses and wipes them on his robes.
“What’s the score?” he asks.
Oliver sighs, “We’re fifty points up, but unless we get the Snitch soon, we’ll be playing into the night.”
“I’ve got no chance with these on,” Harry says, exasperatedly waving his glasses.
At that moment, Hermione Granger appears over his shoulder. She’s holding a cloak over her head and, for some ungodly reason, beaming. “I’ve had an idea, Harry! Give me your glasses, quick!”
Harry hands them over and Oliver is impressed when she taps them with her wand, “Impervious”.
“There!” she says, handing the glasses back to Harry, “They’ll repel water!”
Oliver could have kissed her, and he doesn’t even swing that way.
“Brilliant!” he cries, his voice hoarse from yelling over the wind, “Ok, team, let’s go for it!”
They push off the ground again, and the game starts anew. As Oliver takes his place in front of the hoops again, the rain seems to let up for a moment, and he looks out into the crowd. He spots Percy by his bright red hair, somehow still reading a book in all this. Next to him is Penelope Clearwater- wearing the same jumper he had been wearing a few weeks ago. Oliver can make out the huge gold ‘P’ on the front even through the rain. Like it was enchanted- like it was made to taunt him. But of course, Percy didn’t care. The whole thing was just a joke to him. He’s straight anyway, no matter his musings about boys. It was a joke. Oliver might be the first guy he would date at Hogwarts, but he was still at the end of a very, very, very long list of girls.
As soon as it had let up, the rain pounds down hard again, until Oliver can barely see the stands anymore. He clenches his jaw and turns back to the game. Harry (or Harry’s dark outline, at least) seems to be doing better, he’s dodging and spinning well and- Harry lurches and drops a few feet. Cedric Diggory pelts up the pitch behind him.
“Harry!” Oliver bellows, “Behind you!”
Harry whips around and flattens himself down on his broom, racing Cedric for the Snitch. Oliver tries to focus on keeping the Hufflepuffs from scoring again. Just as he’s blocking a shot, the stadium falls eerily silent and Oliver feels a bone-chilling cold. He looks down. There are at least a hundred hooded Dementors, all swarming and circling below Harry. He looks up just in time to see Harry fall.
. . .
“Lucky the ground was so soft.”
“I thought he was dead for sure.”
“But he didn’t even break his glasses.”
Harry can hear voices whispering all around him, but he can’t piece together any sense from it. He can’t make out where he is, or how he got there, or what he’d been doing. Every inch of him aches as if he’s been beaten.
“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Harry’s eyes snap open. He’s lying in the hospital wing. The Gryffindor Quidditch team, covered in mud from head to toe, are standing around his bed. Ron and Hermione are also there, drenched and dripping water.
“Harry!” cries Fred, looking extremely pale under all the mud, “How’re you feeling?”
Harry’s memories fast forward through the events of the match. The lightning, the Snitch… and the Dementors.
“What happened?” he asks, sitting up suddenly.
“You fell off,” Fred fills in, “Must’ve been - what - fifty feet?”
“We thought you died,” says Alicia, rocking back and forth.
Hermione makes a small, squeaky noise. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot.
“But the match,” Harry asks, “What happened? Are we having a replay?”
No one says anything, and the horrible truth sinks like a stone in his stomach.
“We didn’t… lose?”
“Diggory got the Snitch,” George says, softly. “Just after you fell. He didn’t realise what had happened. When he looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to call it off. Wanted a rematch. But they won fair and square… even Wood admits it.”
“Where is Wood?” Harry asks, suddenly realising he’s not there.
“Still in the showers,” Fred says. “We think he’s trying to drown himself.”
. . .
Oliver wonders if he could drown himself in a shower. He thinks that if he cries long and hard enough, he can.
It’s stupid, it’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid. Of course, Percy doesn’t love him. Of course, Percy doesn't like him. He’s straight! Oliver knew this could happen when he got the damn crush. Oliver knew it was likely to happen when he got the damn crush. So why does it hurt so bad? He wants to scream- he wants to punch something.
He punches the wall of the shower a few times. He feels a bit better. He punches again and his knuckles land between two tiles, the grout ripping open his skin. He watches a few drops of blood drip down the drain.
“Right, this is stupid,” he mutters, “get the fuck over it and move on, Wood.” He takes a deep breath and turns off the shower.
Get the fuck over it and move on.