Chapter Text
Percy Weasley had always believed there was a logical explanation for everything.
Rules existed for a reason. Schedules kept life from descending into chaos. Homework was to be completed three days before it was due. Ink stains were avoidable if people simply handled quills correctly.
And Quidditch-
Quidditch was absolute nonsense.
Percy had spent the better part of thirteen years convinced the sport existed solely to give Madam Pomfrey job security. People willingly mounted unstable broomsticks, hurled iron balls at each other, and screamed themselves hoarse over points that could be rendered completely meaningless if some tiny golden menace happened to be caught at the end.
Ridiculous.
Which was precisely why Percy found himself standing awkwardly outside his older brother, Charlie Weasley's, dormitory one rainy Saturday afternoon.
He knocked once. Then he immediately reconsidered all his life choices.
The dorm door flew open before he could escape.
Charlie blinked at him, shoulder-length hair messy as if he had just gotten out of bed. "Percy?"
Percy adjusted his glasses on his nose, a nervous habit he's always had. "Hello," he said politely.
"You're voluntarily in Gryffindor Tower on a weekend instead of the library," Charlie said, surprised, but then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Are you dying?"
"I simply wished to ask you something," Percy said simply as he slid his hands into his black trousers' pockets.
"That sounds ominous," Charlie muttered. He then stepped aside anyway, letting Percy in.
The room smelled faintly of mud, dragon-hide polish, and something that might've once been toast. Quidditch posters covered nearly every available surface. Brooms leaned against the walls. One of Charlie's dorm mates was snoring loudly beneath a pile of scarlet blankets.
Percy looked deeply distressed already.
Charlie grinned at his expression. "So," he said, dropping onto his bed, "what catastrophe brings you here, dear brother?"
Percy lingered near the door like he regretted existing. Then he cleared his throat. "I was wondering," he began stiffly, "if you might explain Quidditch strategy to me."
Silence.
Charlie stared.
Percy stared back with all the dignity of a man walking willingly toward his own execution.
Charlie's expression slowly transformed into delight. "Oh, this is good!" he said curiously.
"There's nothing good about it!" Percy said sharply. "I merely think it would be academically beneficial to understand a sport that occupies approximately seventy per cent of this school's collective intelligence."
Charlie barked out a laugh. "Academically beneficial," he repeated. "Sure."
"It is!"
"Mhm."
Percy folded his arms over his chest. "If you're going to mock me, I shall leave," he said shortly.
Charlie sat up immediately. "No, no, absolutely not!" He said quickly. "Sit down. I want to hear every terrible lie you're about to tell me."
Percy hesitated before perching gingerly on the edge of Charlie's trunk.
Charlie leaned forward eagerly. "So," he said. "Who is he?"
Percy blinked. "What?"
"The boy."
"What boy?" Percy demanded at once.
Charlie snorted. "Percy, you've spent your entire life calling Quidditch barbaric broom-based insanity. Last year you referred to Beaters as 'licensed assault enthusiasts.' You once asked Professor McGonagall if the school budget would improve if the Quidditch pitch mysteriously burned down."
Percy looked offended. "I never said mysteriously," he mutters, frowning.
"And now," Charlie continued triumphantly, "you suddenly want to learn strategy. So, who is he?"
"No one," Percy said, yet the corners of his lips curled towards as he did indeed think of someone, which told Charlie exactly what he wanted to know.
Charlie gasped dramatically. "Oh my God!" he whispered. "You fancy someone!"
Percy's ears turned violently red. "I do not fancy anyone!" he said at once.
"You're blushing," Charlie said, smiling warmly.
"It's warm in here," Percy said quickly.
"It's November," Charlie said, pointing at the dorm window beside his bed at the light snow falling outside.
Percy stood abruptly. "Clearly this was a mistake," he mutters firmly.
Charlie lunged forward and grabbed his sleeve before he could flee. "No, wait, wait-Percy, please, this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me!"
"That is deeply depressing," Percy murmurs as he glares at Charlie to let him go.
He doesn't like it when people touch him, and this includes his family. He's fine with one touch a day, but that's it. It's like being restricted to having one cookie a day, and only one, but if he has another, his blood sugar rises, and that's never a good thing.
Charlie ignored him entirely, but he did let him go. "It's not Diggory, is it? Too young. Not Flint either, thank Merlin. If you tell me it's Flint, I'm disowning you."
Percy looked horrified. "Marcus Flint looks like he bites people recreationally," he admits flatly. Charlie chuckled at that image.
"So, not Flint," Charlie mused, relieved. "Good. Narrowing it down."
"I came here seeking information," Percy said, and he pinched the bridge of his nose."Not psychological warfare."
Charlie grinned wickedly. "Fine!" He eventually agrees. "Tell me what you want to know about Quidditch."
Percy sat back down reluctantly. "Well," he began carefully, "I've noticed that team dynamics appear to rely heavily upon coordination between Chasers and Keeper positioning-"
Charlie froze. That wasn't casual curiosity. That was specific.
Very specific.
Slowly, Charlie said, "You've been watching Gryffindor practices."
Percy went still. "...Occasionally," he admitted with a slow nod.
Charlie stared at him another moment. Then realisation hit him like a Bludger to the skull. "Oh, Merlin," he said softly.
Percy frowned. "What?"
Charlie burst into helpless laughter.
Percy looked absolutely scandalised.
"You-you like Oliver Wood!" Charlie barks out.
"I do not!" Percy snaps, his ears and cheeks colouring to a bright scarlet red.
"You absolutely do!" Charlie grins.
"I absolutely do not!" Percy snaps again, but this time an unmistakable smile slowly forms on his lips. Merlin help me.
Charlie nearly fell off the bed laughing. "This is brilliant," he wheezed. "Percy, you hate flying!"
"I don't hate flying," Percy mutters slowly. Because he didn't. He hated how wonderfully Oliver flew.
And how wonderfully brown Oliver's eyes are.
And how absolutely pretty he is.
"You grip broomsticks like they've personally insulted you!"
"That is unrelated."
"And Oliver Wood," Charlie continued, wiping tears from his eyes, "talks about Quidditch the way Professor Binns talks about goblin rebellions."
Percy looked away mutinously, a blush returning to his face.
Charlie's jaw dropped. "Oh my God," he whispered. "You actually like listening to him!"
Percy's silence was answer enough.
Charlie made a sound somewhere between delight and disbelief. Because suddenly it all made sense.
Percy lingering near the pitch after matches.
Percy pretending to read while Gryffindor practiced.
Percy asking weirdly specific questions about Keeper formations at breakfast.
Percy, who hated sports, somehow knew Oliver Wood's practice schedule better than Oliver probably did.
Charlie stared at his younger brother with dawning horror. "You're down catastrophically!"
"I am not down anything!" Percy snapped.
"You're learning Quidditch for a boy!" Charlie reminded him
Percy's ears burned brighter. "I merely wish to hold an intelligent conversation," he said firmly.
"With Oliver Wood."
"...Potentially."
Charlie clutched his chest dramatically. "This is the best day of my life!" he admitted happily.
Percy looked moments from murder.
Charlie recovered enough to grin at him. "Alright, fine! I'll help."
Percy blinked suspiciously. "You will?" he asked in a whisper.
"Absolutely!" Charlie said brightly. He slung an arm around Percy's shoulders. "Step one," he said solemnly, "you need to stop looking at Oliver like he invented happiness."
Percy choked. "I do not-"
"You do," Charlie said cheerfully. "It's revoltingly obvious."
"It is not obvious!" Percy said at once. For how can it be? He keeps his true feelings intact, thank you very much.
"Fred and George already have bets running," Charlie told him, grinning.
Percy looked as though he might pass out. Fred? George? Oh no...
Charlie patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Don't worry, Perce," he said softly. "Mum, Dad, and the rest of the family still have no clue."
"That is not comforting," Percy mutters.
"It should be," Charlie said as he leaned back thoughtfully. "Okay. If you really want to impress Oliver, you don't actually need to understand everything about Quidditch. You just need enough to survive one conversation."
Percy straightened slightly, immediately attentive.
Charlie pointed accusingly at him. "That, my darling little brother, was the most lovesick thing I've ever seen."
"I hate you," Percy said flatly, refusing to look at his older brother now.
"No, you don't," Charlie said with a cheeky little grin.
Unfortunately, Charlie was correct.
Over the next several weeks, Percy became unwillingly, horrifyingly educated.
Charlie taught him player formations.
Quidditch terminology.
Professional teams.
Famous matches.
Why the Wronski Feint was impressive.
Why Keepers mattered.
Why Oliver Wood became personally offended whenever someone missed a goal.
Percy took notes. Actual notes.
Charlie nearly cried laughing the first time he found Percy with a colour-coded diagram of the Gryffindor team lineup.
"This," Charlie declared, holding up the parchment, "is either true love or a medical emergency."
Percy snatched it back furiously. "It is called preparation," he said proudly.
"For flirting?" Charlie said, amused.
"For conversation!" Percy replied instantly.
"Same thing," Charlie said with a shrug.
"It is not!" Percy snapped, glaring at him.
Charlie just smirked knowingly. And Percy hated that smirk. Because the truly mortifying part was-Charlie was right.
Percy liked Oliver Wood.
A lot.
It had started gradually.
Oliver waving at him in corridors despite Percy not understanding why.
Oliver grinning at him across the library.
Oliver loudly defending Percy when Fred and George replaced his ink with beet juice.
Oliver sitting beside him at meals and talking endlessly about Quidditch with such ridiculous enthusiasm, Percy found himself listening anyway.
Oliver was loud and messy and emotional in ways Percy had never known what to do with.
But when Oliver talked, it felt like sunshine. Like warm, inviting sun rays shining down on him, blessing him with Vitamin D.
And Percy-
Percy liked sunshine far more than he should have.
Unfortunately, understanding this did not make speaking to Oliver any easier.
Especially once Oliver started smiling at him. That smile was a public health hazard.
"You're staring again," Charlie whispered one evening in the Great Hall.
Percy nearly inhaled his pumpkin juice. "I am not," he mutters, yet he catches himself staring across the table again.
"You absolutely are!" Charlie said happily.
Across the hall, Oliver was animatedly explaining something to Alicia Spinnet using mashed potatoes as tactical demonstrations.
Percy looked away immediately.
Charlie grinned. "Go talk to him!" he pressed.
"No," Percy said simply, because the thought of actually going up to Oliver Wood and saying something but messing up completely made nervous butterflies flap around in his stomach.
"You know enough Quidditch now," Charlie reassured him.
"That's not the issue," Percy said, while enjoying the warm fumes of his pumpkin juice on his face.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You afraid?" he asked softly.
Percy looked deeply offended. "I am not afraid of Oliver," he whispered sharply to him.
"Then go!" Charlie said, giving Percy's shoulder a gentle boop.
Percy adjusted his glasses nervously. "...What if he asks me something I don't know?" he whispers.
Charlie stared at him for a long moment. Then, very gently said, "Percy... Oliver once forgot where he put his shoes while wearing them."
"That's not reassuring," Percy said, yet a small smile returned to his face because that does sound like something Oliver would do.
"He's not going to interrogate you," Charlie added reassuringly.
Before Percy could respond, Oliver looked up.
Their eyes met instantly.
And Oliver's entire face lit up.
"Oh no," Charlie whispered gleefully. "He's coming over."
Percy visibly panicked, accidentally dropping his hand in the bowl of peas, but he didn't realise it.
Oliver reached them seconds later, windswept from practice and smiling so brightly Percy forgot approximately half his vocabulary.
"Percy!" Oliver said happily. "Haven't seen you near the pitch lately."
Charlie made a strangled noise behind his goblet.
Percy ignored him through force of will. "I've been busy," he told Oliver calmly, though internally, his body filled with nervous butterflies.
Oliver leaned casually against the table. "You coming to the match next Saturday?" he asks curiously.
Percy opened his mouth.
Charlie kicked him sharply under the bench.
"Yes," Percy said immediately.
Oliver beamed, "Pure dead brilliant!"
Then Oliver tilted his head, and Percy was instantly reminded of an adorable crup puppy. "You actually understand what's happening yet?" Oliver asked.
Percy froze.
Charlie looked seconds from exploding.
This was the moment.
The entire reason Percy had suffered through three-hour lectures on Puddlemere United defensive tactics.
Percy swallowed down his nerves. "A Keeper's positioning depends heavily upon Chaser pressure and anticipated passing lanes," he said carefully. "Particularly against aggressive offensive formations."
Silence.
Oliver stared at him.
Charlie stared at him too.
Percy contemplated faking his death.
Then Oliver's expression turned absolutely dazzled. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "Exactly!"
Percy blinked.
Oliver looked delighted. Actually delighted.
"You've been paying attention!" Oliver said happily.
Percy's face went warm. "A reasonable amount," he admitted softly.
"That's brilliant," Oliver said, grinning so hard it should've been illegal. "Most people stop listening when I start talking strategy."
"That seems statistically improbable," Percy said, attempting at a joke.
It worked because Oliver actually laughed. And Percy felt the terrifying realisation settle firmly into his chest.
Oh.
Oh, he was in serious trouble.
Because Oliver Wood was looking at Percy with undivided adoration, as if he were the only person who mattered in this moment.
And Charlie-
Charlie was watching them both with the expression of a man witnessing a train wreck in slow motion. A deeply entertaining train wreck.
"Oh," Charlie murmured under his breath.
Percy shot him a warning glare.
Charlie ignored it completely, because suddenly it was obvious to him too.
The way Oliver leaned closer whenever Percy spoke.
The way Percy relaxed around Oliver without noticing.
The way Oliver looked absurdly pleased every time Percy understood something about Quidditch.
Charlie grinned slowly. "Well," he said, standing up, "I'm going to leave you two to your very educational conversation."
Percy looked alarmed. "Charlie-"
But Charlie was already walking away. The traitor!
Oliver sat down across from Percy, still smiling. "So," he said, "want me to explain offensive rotations?"
Percy looked at him.
At the bright, pecan-coloured brown eyes.
The windblown, dark messy hair.
The ridiculous enthusiasm.
That pretty smile.
Those dimples.
And despite himself-Percy smiled back. "Yes," he admitted quietly. "I think I do."