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Percy Weasley had spent fifteen minutes preparing the perfect opening line.
Fifteen.
Not because he struggled with talking to people. Percy was perfectly capable of holding a civilised conversation. He simply preferred conversations that had structure, purpose, and efficiency.
Which was exactly why he was currently standing beside the refreshments table at a Ministry charity event, mentally rehearsing a harmless compliment while trying not to think about the broad‑shouldered former Gryffindor Quidditch captain laughing across the room.
The ballroom around him glittered with floating lanterns enchanted to drift like slow‑moving fireflies. Gold and deep navy banners hung from the ceiling, shimmering whenever a lantern passed. Ministry officials mingled in clusters, their dress robes rustling softly over polished marble floors. A string quartet played near the far wall, their music weaving through the low hum of conversation.
Percy smoothed the front of his dark burgundy robes — tailored, crisp, and perfectly pressed — and straightened his glasses. This was fine. He had faced examinations, Ministry inspections, and Fred and George at their most creative. He could certainly speak to Oliver Wood.
Oliver Wood, who looked unfairly good in formal robes. He wore midnight blue robes, trimmed with silver threading that caught the lantern light every time he moved. And he moved constantly — animated, expressive, alive. His hair was slightly windswept, as though he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His laugh carried across the room, warm and bright.
Percy inhaled, squared his shoulders, and crossed the room with determined strides.
Oliver noticed him immediately; his entire face lit up. His grin was so sudden and so genuine that Percy felt it like a physical impact.
“Percy!” Oliver said, as though they hadn’t seen each other two weeks ago. He stepped forward, clasping Percy’s upper arm with both hands. “Pure dead brilliant! Come here!”
Percy immediately forgot half of his prepared speech. “Hello, Oliver.”
Oliver’s grin widened, and Percy swallowed nervously. Merlin, that smile ought to be regulated by the Ministry.
They stood there for a moment, Percy trying to look composed, and Oliver rocking slightly on the balls of his feet like he was restraining the urge to hug him.
This was it. The perfect opportunity.
Percy adjusted his sleeves, lifted his chin, and delivered his carefully rehearsed line. “Do you play Quidditch?” he asked, and although Oliver blinked, Percy’s confidence grew. “Because,” he continued smoothly, “you look like a keeper.”
For exactly one second, Oliver stared at him. Then his eyes widened. “Oh!”
Percy waited.
Oliver’s grin became enormous. “Oh, wow.”
Something about that response felt wrong.
“You won’t believe this,” Oliver said excitedly, leaning forward, brown eyes sparkling. “But I am a keeper!”
Percy’s smile froze. “Oh,” he muttered.
“I was Keeper for Gryffindor for years!” Oliver continued, gesturing broadly as though Percy might have forgotten. “Then after Hogwarts, I joined Puddlemere United. Been playing professionally ever since.”
Percy felt the first warning signs of disaster.
Oliver, meanwhile, was only getting started. “Actually, that reminds me of last night’s match!”
Percy’s soul quietly left his body.
Twenty minutes later, Percy sat in a chair — a plush velvet one near the wall, beneath a floating lantern that cast warm gold light over his hair.
Oliver paced enthusiastically in front of him, sleeves rolled up now, collar slightly askew from all the motion. His hands carved shapes in the air as he spoke, his entire body moving with the rhythm of his storytelling.
Apparently, at some point, Percy had acquired a cup of tea. He had no memory of receiving it. He held it like a lifeline.
“…and then the Chasers pull left,” Oliver was saying, gesturing so wildly that nearby guests kept ducking. “But that’s exactly what the Falcons expected, right? So they shift formation and—”
He grabbed a bread roll from a passing tray with the reflexes of a professional athlete. “Imagine this is me.”
Percy stared at the bread roll.
“And these are the Chasers.” Oliver seized three biscuits, nearly knocking over a candle.
A nearby Ministry employee looked horrified.
Oliver remained oblivious. “So they come in from this angle—”
The biscuits collided with the bread roll, and one fell onto the carpet.
Oliver didn’t even notice.
Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, glasses sliding slightly down. This was not how flirting was supposed to work.
Across the room, several people were openly watching.
Including his younger twin brothers, Fred and George Weasley.
George leaned toward Fred, eyes gleaming. “Ten Galleons says Oliver still hasn’t realised Percy was flirting.”
Fred considered, tapping his chin. “Only ten?”
“Good point.”
“Twenty.”
They shook hands.
Meanwhile, Oliver had somehow progressed to discussing broom maintenance. He mimed polishing motions with the bread roll, completely earnest. “…and people never appreciate proper handle balance.”
“Fascinating,” Percy said weakly, though his lips twitched.
“It really is!” Oliver beamed, chest puffing slightly with pride.
Percy immediately felt guilty because Oliver genuinely looked delighted. His eyes sparkled whenever he talked about Quidditch. His hands moved constantly — sweeping, circling, tapping his thigh for emphasis. His entire face became animated, eyebrows lifting, dimples appearing, mouth curving in bright, unguarded excitement.
There wasn’t an ounce of pretence in him.
No calculated charm.
No polished social performance.
Just enthusiasm. Endless, unstoppable enthusiasm.
Percy found himself smiling despite everything because Oliver was impossible, and somehow, that made him wonderful.
Oliver paused suddenly. His hands dropped to his sides. “Have I been talking too much?”
Percy blinked. “Oh.”
For the first time all evening, Oliver looked uncertain. His shoulders hunched slightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking away. The change was so unexpected that Percy almost laughed.
“I know I get carried away sometimes,” Oliver admitted, shifting his weight. “Most people stop listening after the first five minutes.” His smile became sheepish, small and crooked.
Percy’s chest tightened. Because beneath all the confidence was the same boy who had spent years eating, sleeping, and breathing Quidditch.
The same boy who cared so much about things that he couldn’t help sharing them.
The same boy Percy had been quietly falling in love with for far longer than he cared to admit.
Percy set down his tea, then he stood — smoothing his robes, adjusting his glasses, steadying himself.
Oliver immediately looked worried. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I’ll stop talking about it.”
“Don’t.”
Oliver blinked. “Don’t?”
“No,” Percy said as he adjusted his glasses again. A familiar nervous gesture.
One Oliver recognised immediately — his expression softened.
“You know,” Percy said carefully, “I wasn’t actually making a Quidditch observation.”
Oliver frowned, head tilting. “What do you mean?”
Percy sighed. Of course, he didn’t understand. “Oliver.”
“Yeah?”
“When I said you looked like a keeper…”
Oliver stared.
Percy could practically hear the gears turning.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Painfully slowly.
Then—
“Oh,” Oliver said after a moment. His face turned bright red, colour blooming all the way to his ears. “Oh!” he added, now understanding.
Percy nodded.
Oliver slapped a hand over his mouth and giggled — an honest, startled, boyish sound that made his shoulders lift. “Oh, Merlin.”
The silence lasted three seconds.
Then Oliver burst out laughing. Not mocking laughter — delighted laughter. The kind that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle.
Percy groaned, covering his face with one hand, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I thought you were talking about Quidditch!” Oliver said through his laughter, wiping at his eyes.
“You always think I’m talking about Quidditch!” Percy said at once, though he was smiling now.
“To be fair,” Oliver wheezed, “most people are!”
Percy rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were pink.
Oliver stepped closer — close enough that Percy could feel the warmth radiating from him. His grin had softened now. Warm. Fond. Dangerously fond. “So,” he said quietly, “you think I’m a keeper?”
Percy felt his ears burning. “Unfortunately,” he muttered.
Oliver’s smile widened, slow and bright. “Funny.”
“What?”
Oliver gently bumped their shoulders together, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
For once, Percy found himself completely speechless. And judging by the triumphant cheering coming from somewhere behind them — most likely Fred and George — they had not been nearly as subtle as they’d imagined.
Oliver glanced toward the noise, then back at Percy, eyes warm. “Want to hear about the match anyway?”
Percy groaned dramatically, head tipping back. “Absolutely not.”
Oliver laughed, rich and delighted. “Good.” He slipped his hand into Percy’s — fingers warm, grip confident. “Because I was going to tell you regardless.”
And despite himself, Percy laughed too because Oliver Wood talked too much, loved Quidditch too much, and took far too long to understand flirting. But if there was one thing Percy Weasley knew for certain, Oliver Wood was definitely a keeper.