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Percy Weasley had many opinions about Quidditch.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, he also shared those opinions.
Frequently.
At length.
And often without being asked.
The game was reckless, the scoring system made no sense, and the players routinely risked life and limb for what Percy considered to be "an oversized ball and bragging rights."
It was loud.
It was dangerous.
It involved far too much shouting and absolutely not enough reading.
Most importantly, Quidditch was responsible for approximately seventy per cent of the noise pollution in Gryffindor Tower.
Percy was currently attempting to enjoy a peaceful Saturday morning in the common room with a textbook, a pot of tea, and three rolls of parchment.
Outside the tall windows, December had settled over Hogwarts. Snow drifted lazily past the glass in soft white flakes, coating the grounds in glittering silver. The Black Lake looked like polished steel beneath the cloudy sky, and the distant mountains wore crowns of fresh snow.
Inside the common room, the fire crackled warmly in the hearth.
It should have been perfect. Should have.
Instead, Fred and George existed.
Percy had just finished colour-coding a list of upcoming assignments when George dropped onto the sofa beside him so hard that the cushions bounced.
Percy's quill left an enormous ink blot across his parchment. He closed his eyes, counted to five, then ten, then twenty.
When he opened them again, George was grinning, which was never a good sign.
"Percy," George said.
"No," Percy said firmly.
George blinked. "I haven't said anything yet."
"You don't need to," Percy muttered.
Across the room, Fred was hanging upside-down from an armchair. Literally upside-down. Percy didn't know how he'd gotten there and refused to ask.
Fred nodded solemnly. "Fair."
George tried again, "You should watch our Quidditch match today."
Percy looked up from the essay he was colour-coding and scoffed. "I am not interested in some stupid, idiotic, pointless ga—"
The portrait hole swung open, and Percy stopped. The words died in his throat. Because Oliver Wood had just entered the common room wearing his Quidditch uniform: scarlet robes, golden trim, leather gloves tucked into one hand. A broomstick slung casually over his shoulder, his cheeks were pink from the cold outside, and a few snowflakes still clung stubbornly to his dark hair.
The universe immediately forgot how to function. Or maybe that was just Percy.
Oliver's scarlet robes fit perfectly. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair was slightly windswept from practice, and he looked annoyingly, unfairly handsome.
Percy's brain short-circuited. Oh no. He looked— Percy swallowed. Dangerous.
Not in the usual sense.
Oliver wasn't dangerous because of Dark magic.
Oliver was dangerous because Percy had developed a rather unfortunate tendency to forget how words worked whenever he was nearby.
But this time, Percy noticed something else.
Oliver had headphones over his ears, the thin black cord trailing down to the Walkman clipped to his pocket— the same battered grey device Percy had seen him carry since first year. Oliver always had it with him: tucked into his robes, hanging from his pocket, sitting beside his plate at breakfast. Percy had written an entire Muggle Studies essay about Walkmans in his third year, earning an O largely because he had access to a living, breathing source of information who treated the device like a beloved pet. He knew exactly how it worked. He’d written diagrams. He’d explained the mechanics of cassette tape spools to Professor Quirrell. He’d even earned extra credit for detailing the difference between auto‑reverse and manual flip.
He knew Oliver listened to his cassette tapes every single day — a mixture of Muggle bands and singers, mostly his parents’ favourites. It was how Oliver stayed close to them when he was miles away from home. Percy had learned that in third year, when he’d finally worked up the courage to ask what Oliver was listening to.
Oliver had tugged one headphone off his ear, cheeks pink from the cold, and said with a shy little smile, “Bit of Queen and Bowie. Reminds me of my Pa.” Then he’d tapped the Walkman fondly. “Fleetwood Mac for my Ma. And Madonna. Whoever she is.”
Percy had pretended he knew who those bands or singers were. He absolutely did not.
Oliver’s father was a Muggle cow farmer, and his mother a witch who helped out on the farm. Their favourite music had become Oliver’s favourite music. Their cassette tapes had become Oliver’s comfort. And their Walkman — battered, scratched, held together with Spellotape — had become the one piece of home he never let go of.
Percy knew all of this. He’d known it for years. And every time he saw Oliver with that Walkman clipped to his belt or tucked into his robes, Percy felt a small, warm tug in his chest — something soft, something fond, something he absolutely refused to name.
Oliver glanced around the room, then his eyes landed on Percy. Immediately, his face brightened, that warm, radiant smile that made Percy’s brain short‑circuit — and he reached up, sliding the headphones off his ears. He looped them casually around his neck, the foam pads resting against his collarbone. The smile that spread across his face could probably have powered half the castle. Oliver walked over, the Walkman bumping lightly against his hip with each step. "Hiya, Percy."
Percy stared. His brain abandoned him. The smile should not have been legal. Honestly, there ought to be rules. Some sort of Ministry regulation.
Oliver couldn't just walk around looking like that and expect society to function.
"Percy?"
"Oh," Percy said when Oliver had sat himself on the armrest next to George. Brilliant, outstanding response; Percy internally applauded himself.
"Oh." Oliver chuckled, resting his broom handle against his soft chin. The sound sent an entirely unreasonable amount of warmth through Percy's chest.
Oliver smiled wider. "Everythin' alrigh'?" he asked softly.
No. Nothing was alright. Not remotely. Percy was staring. He knew he was staring. He couldn't stop staring. And that bloody Glaswegian accent was infuriatingly attractive. How could an accent be attractive? Percy didn't understand the science behind this.
Oliver's sleeves were rolled up. Why were they rolled up? Why did that matter? Why was Percy suddenly aware that Oliver's forearms existed?
This was ridiculous.
Percy Weasley was a sensible person. A rational person. A person with ambitions. And somehow all of those ambitions were currently losing a fight against Oliver Wood's smile because Percy had spent the last six months trying very hard not to think about the fact that Oliver Wood was attractive.
And Oliver had apparently decided to show up looking like the physical embodiment of Gryffindor House.
"Percy?"
Percy cleared his throat, then immediately looked away into the roaring fire. "You know what?"
Oliver tilted his head. "What?"
Percy folded his essay with great precision and sat up straighter. His voice emerged far more confidently than he felt as he said, "I am suddenly feeling very interested in some Quidditch."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then Fred fell off the armchair onto the floor, and George made a choking noise.
Oliver looked utterly delighted. "You are?"
"Absolutely!" Percy said confidently.
"You hate Quidditch."
"I do not!"
Oliver folded his arms over his chest. "Last week you called it 'organised chaos conducted at irresponsible altitudes,'" he reminded him.
Percy's ears grew warm as he did remember saying exactly that. "Upon reflection, I may have been hasty," he declared.
Fred was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
George pointed at Oliver with a grin on his face. "It's because of him."
Percy shot him a glare. "It is not!" he said at once.
"It absolutely is," Fred declared, delighted.
"It is!" George added at once.
"It isn't!" Percy snapped.
Oliver was now trying—and failing—not to laugh. He looked caught somewhere between embarrassment and delight.
Percy's heart performed a spectacularly irritating flip at that. "Oh, Merlin," he whispered.
The problem wasn't that Oliver was handsome. The problem was that Oliver laughed at Percy's jokes, asked about his classes, remembered details Percy mentioned weeks ago. The problem was that Oliver was kind. Which was significantly worse.
Percy glared at everyone. "Perhaps I merely wish to support my fellow Gryffindors," he said at once.
Fred wiped tears from his eyes. "Right." He didn't believe him. Nobody did.
"Nothing to do with Oliver looking like that?" George added, pointing to Oliver's soft smile and the delighted look on his face as he stared at Percy.
Percy's ears turned bright red. I hate you both, he thought.
Oliver finally lost the battle and burst out laughing. "Looking like what?"
George gestured dramatically. "Like a Quidditch romance novel cover."
Oliver nearly dropped his broom onto the floor in surprise.
Percy wished the floor would open and swallow him whole. Instead, he gathered his books. "I shall be attending the match!"
Fred grinned, "Excellent."
George grinned wider. "We'll save you a seat."
---
An hour later, Percy found himself in the Quidditch stands. Voluntarily.
He was still struggling to process this. The fact still felt deeply concerning.
Cold winter air bit at his cheeks while snow crunched beneath hundreds of boots. Students packed the stands, bundled in scarves and hats. The entire stadium buzzed with excitement. Red and gold banners whipped through the wind. Someone nearby was blowing a lion-shaped horn. Someone behind him was screaming so loudly that Percy was concerned for their health. A first-year painted entirely in red nearly fell over the railing.
Percy ignored all of it.
The teams flew onto the pitch, and the crowd exploded. Then Oliver appeared, and the noise around Percy vanished. Oliver mounted his broom, kicked off the ground, and soared into the sky.
Percy's breath caught. He'd never properly watched Oliver play before. Not really. Certainly not like this.
Oliver looked completely different in the air. He looked confident, certain, and alive.
The tension Percy sometimes saw in him during classes disappeared entirely. Up there, Oliver looked free, like flying was as natural as breathing.
And, unfortunately, Oliver was very good at flying.
Percy had known this already. But seeing it in person was different.
Oliver darted across the pitch as if he belonged in the sky. The captain barked instructions across the pitch. His voice carried over the roar of the crowd.
"JOHNSON!"
"KATIE, LEFT!"
"WATCH THE BLUDGER!"
Oliver made impossible catches, performed turns that made Percy feel slightly ill just watching, and the crowd roared every time he touched the Quaffle.
Percy found himself smiling, and then laughing. Actually laughing. When had that happened?
Oliver dove sharply, caught the Quaffle, dodged a Slytherin Chaser and scored. The stadium erupted.
Oliver threw a fist into the air. The grin on his face was absolutely radiant. His smile was bright enough to be visible from halfway across the pitch.
Percy's heart did a strange little flip. Oh. That was... Oh. That explained several things. Several very inconvenient things. "Oh," he said out loud.
Fred appeared beside him like an evil spirit on a broom. "Oh?"
Percy jumped, then crossed his arms as he looked at his younger brother firmly. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.
"Watching you," Fred said innocently with a cheeky smile. There was never anything actually innocent about his smile. Percy knew this since he was five.
"You should be watching the Bludgers!" Percy told him firmly.
"I am," Fred said, then pointed upwards towards the hoops. "Georgie is. You've spent twenty minutes staring at Oliver, you know."
"I have not!" Percy said loudly at once. He didn't mean to sound that loud.
"You absolutely have," Fred corrected him, before letting out a boyish giggle.
George appeared on Percy's other side, while Fred flew off back into the sky to watch for Bludgers. "We timed it," he said cheerfully.
Percy glared at his other brother. "You timed it?"
"Twenty-three minutes," George declared with a nod. "And not a single glance at the actual game."
Percy buried his face in his hands. Merlin, help me. George howled with laughter and flew off back into the match.
---
When Gryffindor finally won, the celebration was absolute chaos. Students flooded onto the pitch. Snow flew through the air. People were shouting. Someone started singing the school song.
Percy was attempting a strategic retreat before anyone could speak to him.
Unfortunately, Oliver spotted him immediately. "Percy!"
Percy froze, and his stomach fluttered, which was becoming an increasingly serious issue.
Oliver jogged over, looking annoyingly pleased with life. His hair was messy, his cheeks were flushed, and his soft brown eyes sparkled with excitement. And somehow that stupid smile was even brighter than before. "You came! Aye, ye actually came. That's pure...brilliant!"
The simple happiness in Oliver's voice caught Percy off guard. As though Oliver had genuinely hoped he'd be there. As though it mattered. Percy's heart softened in his chest. "Of course I came."
Oliver looked genuinely happy as he said, "I didnae think ye actually would."
Percy's stomach fluttered, which was ridiculous, and annoying, and entirely Oliver's fault. He adjusted his scarf, mostly so he had something to do with his hands. "Well," he said, trying to sound casual, "it was... reasonably entertaining."
Oliver laughed. "Reasonably?"
"Perhaps moderately entertaining," Percy admitted softly.
"Moderately?"
"Very entertaining."
Oliver's grin widened. "There it is," he said warmly.
Percy rolled his eyes, and then their eyes met. Suddenly, the noise of the celebrating crowd seemed much farther away. For a moment it was just them, snow drifting down around them, and the castle glowing warmly in the distance.
Oliver smiled, looking at Percy as though there was nowhere else he'd rather be. He leaned a little closer as he said, "You know, we've got another match next month."
Percy's stomach did another ridiculous flip. "I see."
"You coming?" Oliver asked.
Percy pretended to think about it. "Hmm..."
"Please?" Oliver added pleadingly.
A warmth spread through Percy, soft and inviting. He smiled despite himself. "I suppose I could make time."
"Pure dead brilliant!" Oliver beamed. For a moment they just smiled at each other.
And from somewhere behind them—
"THEY'RE FLIRTING!"
Percy nearly leapt out of his skin. He spun around at once. Fred and George were watching from the stands; several Gryffindors were watching; two of Oliver's teammates were placing bets and taking notes.
Oliver turned bright red.
Percy contemplated committing fratricide. The twins vanished before he could reach them. Cowards. Absolute cowards.
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, still laughing. "Your brothers are bloody mental."
"They truly are," Percy heard himself say.
They started walking back toward the castle together in comfortable silence, their boots crunching through fresh snow. Oliver bumped his shoulder lightly against Percy's, whose face immediately warmed. Each accidental touch sent warmth racing through Percy. Neither of them moved away.
Percy could still hear the distant echoes of Gryffindors celebrating behind them, but the noise felt far away now — softened by the cold air and the quiet warmth blooming in his chest.
Oliver’s shoulder brushed his again. Once. Then again, more deliberately. Percy’s breath caught.
Oliver cleared his throat, the sound small in the winter stillness. “Percy?”
Percy looked up. Oliver wasn’t smiling now — not the bright, Quidditch‑captain grin he wore on the pitch, but something softer. Something nervous.
Percy’s heart fluttered in his chest.
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly to the ground before returning to Percy’s face. “I, uh… wanted tae ask ye something.”
Percy swallowed. “Alright.”
Oliver took a slow breath, visible in the cold air. “I was thinkin’… maybe… if ye wanted… we could spend some time together. Properly.” His voice wavered, just a little. “Not just in the common room. Or after matches. I mean—” He laughed quietly, embarrassed. “I mean like… going out. With me.”
Percy stopped walking. Oliver stopped too, turning to face him fully. His cheeks were already pink from the cold, but Percy could tell there was more to it now — a nervous flush, a hopeful one.
Percy’s heart thudded in his chest. “You’re asking me out?”
Oliver nodded, shoulders tense. “Aye. If you want. If ye don’t, that’s— that’s alright. I just—” He exhaled, fog curling in the air. “I like being around you. A lot.”
Percy felt warmth spread through him so quickly it was almost dizzying. “Oliver,” he said softly, “I… I’d like that.”
Oliver’s relief was immediate and visible — his shoulders dropped, his smile blossomed, bright and earnest and so full of joy that Percy felt his own face warm in response.
“Really?” Oliver asked, voice quiet with disbelief.
Percy nodded. “Really.”
Oliver let out a breathy laugh, the kind that made Percy’s chest tighten in the best possible way. “Brilliant,” he said, glowing. “Absolutely pure dead brilliant.”
They resumed walking, closer now — their arms brushing, their steps falling into easy rhythm. The castle loomed ahead, golden windows shining like lanterns in the dark.
For once, Percy wasn't thinking about homework, or exams, or his future. Instead, he found himself listening to Oliver now talk excitedly about the match. He watched his strong, calloused hands move as he spoke, watching his pretty brown eyes light up.
And when Oliver smiled at him again, Percy realised something important. Maybe Quidditch wasn't so terrible after all. Well. As long as Oliver Wood was in it.
And Percy realised something else, something warm and steady and quietly wonderful: he was thinking about Oliver Wood walking beside him in the snow, smiling like Percy had just made his whole world brighter, and that maybe going out with Oliver Wood wouldn’t be terrible at all.