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Gryffindor is playing a practice match with Slytherin right now, something that happens once in a while during the long stretch between the fall and the spring. Both teams get antsy, the respective Captains want practice, and while nobody says it out loud out of appearance, being able to play with a little less on the line is good for the rivalry between the two houses.

Instead of watching for the Bludgers, however, George is staring intently at Oliver, who in turn is watching Marcus Flint weave through the other Chasers with a little too much focus. Flint smacks into Angelina with a growl, and tosses the Quaffle sharply to Pucey, who catches it by the tip of his fingers. Yet Wood’s eyes are still trained on the streaming green robes of the Slytherin Captain.

It’s odd, George thinks, because normally Oliver only keeps his gaze on the Quaffle, whoever’s actually holding it be damned.

George narrows his eyes as Flint says something indistinguishable to Oliver as he nears the hoops, Quaffle now back in his possession, before hurling the ball so it hits the hoop with a clang. In response, Oliver only seems to smile.

George shakes his head – clearly he’s seeing things.

The little match ends with no clear winner, nobody truly keeping score and Malfoy and Harry are too busy making faces at each other over their broom handles to catch the snitch. Normally, Flint would already be up in Oliver’s face by the time everyone’s feet touches the grass of the pitch. But today, the Captains part with curt nods and nothing else.

George migrates to Fred once they’re in the locker room, giving him a nudge to indicate ‘take a look at our Captain’. And yeah, Oliver’s still a little distracted, hurriedly dressing when he’d usually be taking his time carefully putting away each piece of equipment.

He waits until the girls and Harry have emptied out before turning to his twin.

“Freddie, have you noticed-”

“That Wood’s been staring at Flint’s ass for the entirety of practice? Yeah, I have.” Fred answers before George can finish his question.

“Oh good, I thought I was going mad for a bit – I think that last hex we practiced may have addled my brains.” George glances around discreetly, making sure they’re alone before continuing. “So what do you think?”

“Dunno,” Fred admits, “Though I suppose a crush isn’t out of the question. Remember back in September, when Wood was all up in arms about Flint avoiding him?”

“Right.”

They exchange a glance before grinning.

“So Georgie, looks like it’s time to have a nice chat with our darling older brother.” Fred snickers, and they shut the lockers before hustling to dinner.

Percy’s sitting in his usual spot, head buried in another one of the dastardly books that 7^th years have to read, and George swoops down immediately on his brother’s right, Fred following his cue and taking the left.

“Hullo, Perce.” They say simultaneously, and Fred takes the opportunity to ruffle up their older brother’s curls.

Percy huffs while straightening out his hair, placing his book down primly on the table “And what is it that you two want this time?”

“Aw, Perce.” Fred whines as George throws his arms over Percy’s bony shoulders. “Why do you always assume we want something when we come talk to you?”

Percy softens a bit at that, shooting them small smiles. “Not all the time, I suppose. But you two rarely start off with a simple ‘hello’.” And he eyes them sharply over the rim of his glasses.

George leans in further, lowering his voice to indicate that what they want to discuss is not to be said too loudly. “Do you happen to know anything about Oliver?”

Percy chokes on the sip of water he was taking. Fred pats him on the back heartedly, making him cough worse.

“W-what kind of ‘things’ are you two trying to get at?” Percy says, after he recovers from his coughing fit.

“Oh nothing, really,” Fred says nonchalantly, “Maybe something to do with his romantic life?”

Percy snorts, then says in a voice higher than usual - “I think you two would know better than me. No locker room banter?”

George sighs. “You know Oliver; he won’t talk anything but Quidditch when we’re in there.”

“And you’re his roommate.” Fred pipes up, stealing a bite of potato from Percy’s plate. “A good friend of his. Probably a lot better at logically taking apart a romantic situation. Really good at keeping a moral standpoint.”

George can see Percy struggling not to roll his eyes in front of the younger years, but Fred’s laying it on pretty thick.

“You must have something on him.” George finishes, before his stomach grumbles and he moves to pile some chicken onto his plate before it all disappears. “Pretty please, Perce?”

Percy stares disdainfully at how his twin brothers are stuffing their faces. He clears his throat and shrugs stiffly, so George knows he’s keeping a secret, but not what.

“No, boys, I’m keeping my lips sealed, thank you.” And then Percy whisks away with his book and bag, a tiny grin on his lips at the twin’s jilted hollering behind him.

Fred pokes at his lamb chop. “Ugh. I thought we’d be able to wring it out of him.”

“At least we know there is something. And from those furtive little glances our dear Captain seems to be shooting at the Slytherin table right now, our hunch might be correct.” George can see Oliver from the corner of his eye. When he looks at where the Keeper’s gaze is directed, he’s right in that Wood is staring at Flint. Discreetly, of course, but not discreet enough for the Weasley twins.

Fred taps his chin thoughtfully, this time looking over at where Katie, Angelina, and Alicia are laughing over their soup.

“You think we should bring in some backup, Georgie?”

“Sounds about right.” George responds, and they scoot along the table, gesture the girls over and start explaining.

~~~

Angelina’s pretty sure that the Weasley twins have taken one too many Bludgers to the head. 

“Oliver has a crush on Marcus Flint?” She says skeptically, and Alicia giggles behind her hands again. Her fellow Chaser hasn’t stopped laughing since Fred and George had brought it up at dinner, and now the Gryffindor Quidditch team, save for Oliver and Harry, have migrated into Gryffindor tower, lounging in a corner on overstuffed red chairs.

“C’mon, you must’ve noticed today during practice! He couldn’t keep his eyes off of Flint.” Fred says, gesturing for everyone to lower their voice as Oliver makes his way downstairs from the seventh year dorms.

“Well, you’ve got a point.” Angelina admits, because yes, she’d noticed that their Captain had been a little distracted earlier. But she’d just put it down towards a lack of sleep, or perhaps not enough competition on the line. Deep down, she knows it’s just excuses – when has Oliver ever been anything but enthusiastic when it came down to Quidditch?

Katie’s still looking incredibly confused, brows furrowed over her normally cheerful face. “I still don’t understand – of all the people, why Flint? I mean, Oliver could get anyone.” She blushes lightly at the teasing nudges from George, but shoves him right back.

“I’m serious! Don’t you see his little gaggle of fans at every game? Just seems weird that he’d go for that asshole.”

“Well,” Alicia says, still giggling, “Flint’s pretty popular amongst the Slytherins.”

“Yeah but Oliver’s not one of those.” Katie points out.

Angelina rolls her eyes. “Let’s all ignore Alicia’s weird attraction to Marcus Flint’s biceps.”- Alicia splutters out a protest but Angelina plows on – “Okay so say Oliver has a crush. But if Flint isn’t on the same page, then we’re just setting him up for humiliation and I highly doubt he’d be thankful for that.”

Fred and George exchange a look that has Angelina internally groaning – you don’t spend five years with the Weasley twins and not start watching out for warning signs when they’re up to their tricks.

“See that’s where you wonderful-”

“-talented and intelligent-”

“-lovely ladies come into play.” Fred finishes with a cheeky smile. The girls all roll their eyes, too used to the twins’ flattery to pay much attention to it. “How do you feel about gathering a little information from our wonderful Slytherin opponents?”

Which is how Angelina, Alicia, and Katie find themselves tracking down the likes of Adrian Pucey and Miles Bletchley. They’re some of the tamer Slytherins, Angelina knows, but that still doesn’t make the idea of confronting and prying information out of them any easier to swallow.

(“Why us.” Katie bemoans.

“Because!” Fred throws up his hands exuberantly “Sure, they’re hostile to you on the pitch-”

“And try to send as many of us to the hospital wing before any game.” Alicia points out.

George brushes that off nonchalantly, continuing where his twin had left off. “Yes, but your feminine charms are more likely to cut through that cold mean Slytherin exterior than our dashing good looks.”

“It’s for the sake of our dear captain.” Fred reminds them hurriedly.

Angelina sighs. “Fine, boys, but only because studying for OWLs all the time is getting a little boring.”)

She’d be lying if she wasn’t interested in getting to the root of all of this hullabaloo; after all, for all she knows, Oliver’s life has always revolved around Quidditch, Quidditch, and more Quidditch. He’d dated that one Gryffindor girl a year above for a short time in his fifth year, and there were rumors that he’d hooked up with a guy from Ravenclaw but those had all been brushed off – at the end of the day, Oliver Wood was known for his Keeping abilities, leadership skills, and general likable personality, not who he went around with. 

So Angelina’s a little curious, because never in her entire time on the team did Oliver ever show explicit interest in anyone. Except Fred and George are right – now that she knows what to look for, Oliver’s been disappearing at odd times and the altercations that usually happen with Flint have steadily lessened. As if Oliver doesn’t want the rivalry with the older boy off the pitch.

They’ve just entered the library, having last caught a whisk of black and green robes strolling in there. Katie peers down each aisle.

“I doubt they’ll be here for long.” She sighs as the study tables are conspicuously absent of any Slytherin badges. “You know the snakes don’t like hanging out in the library.”

“I’m sure I saw Montague, at least though.” Angelina replies, standing on tip toe to look over a teetering stack of books. “And he’ll most likely give us dirt, seeing as he’s never been known for being particularly tactful.”

Alicia tugs at Angelina’s sleeve. “Finally! They’re sitting in that corner over there.”

And sure enough, Pucey, Bletchley, and Montague are lounging in their chairs, more focused on levitating paper airplanes than the books and papers sprawled open in front of them. Angelina wrinkles her nose as Bletchley launches one into Montague’ hair. 

“Alright.” She straightens her tie. “Time for business. Remember – no matter what, we don’t let them know that we think Oliver has a crush, alright?” Angelina shudders at the rage Wood would be in if he found out they’d let his little secret slip to the Slytherins, of all people – the boy can be charming and friendly all he wants, but when the temper flares, it's a sight to behold.

Katie and Alicia nod, following her steps as Angelina plants herself firmly in front of the table of Slytherin boys.

“Johnson.” Pucey says coolly, as he notices the three girls suddenly blocking his light. “And Spinnet and Bell, as well. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Angelina chooses to ignore the sarcasm ringing through his voice. “You lot have known Flint for quite a bit, haven’t you?”

Bletchley raises an eyebrow. “Sure. What’s it to you lot?”

Pucey watches, more amused than suspicious, as Angelina struggles to find the proper words to frame a question with. How do you ask whether your team’s rival captain is interested in your own? ‘Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if our two captains started boning?’ – yeah, no.

“What do you know about him?” Alicia steps in, attempting to poke and lead in the direction they’re heading.

The three Slytherins exchange a glance, and it’s shifty enough that it puts Angelina on edge. It’s rare, after all, that Slytherins ever do give up information on their friends – and she doubts the three would be any different. Flint does have a wide range of control over his own house. And the anger of the Slytherin Captain is not one to be messed with, even for the rashest of Gryffindors. Not that anyone has told Oliver Wood that, of course, but he’s a special case.

Bless Oliver’s pretty head, Angelina thinks, because they definitely would not be doing this for anyone else.

“Well,” Montague speaks up for the first time, voice slow and measured, “He’s not part troll, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Can be pretty violent.” Pucey chimes in, as if Angelina hadn’t seen Flint tackle a rival Chaser to the ground before. He grins cheekily at the simultaneous groan from Angelina and Alicia.

Katie sighs at the obvious lack of respect the three Slytherins are giving them. “Something we don’t know, perhaps?”

Montague narrows his eyes as he tosses the mangled remains of the paper airplane he’d been tearing up onto the table. “What exactly are you trying to get at, Bell?”

“Maybe we want to know about his romantic life.” Katie shoots back.

Pucey eyes them all with veiled amusement.

“Didn’t think you lot would have a crush.” And the laughter that arises from the trio grates on Angelina’s nerves. She takes a deep breath to remind herself that no, she’s not allowed to cast a hex on all of them right now, if only because Pince will have her head.

“I dunno, Adrian,” Bletchley leers, “Maybe they heard about our Captain’s certain physical endowments.” And the red head snickers at the blotchy blush that blooms across Katie’s cheeks, even while she mimes gagging.

To her regret, Angelina’s hex soars right over Bletchley’s head, her arm having been jolted out of aiming properly by Alicia. Alicia casts a disapproving look, and mouths ‘let it go’. Angelina sighs – this really is a dead end mission, and she’s going to give Fred and George an earful when they meet up later tonight.

“That’s not what we’re asking about.” Alicia says primly, pretending not to hear Bletchley’s comment.

“Spit it out then, or else we’re leaving.” And Pucey makes a move to gather up his belongings, only for Angelina to slam her hand down on the textbook he’d been in the midst of picking up.

“Fine. Fine, we want to know if Flint’s interested in Oliver.”

Alicia and Katie balk behind her, but Angelina continues, trying to play it off nonchalantly.

“After all, all that stalking in the castle just to beat him up? That weird tension on the pitch? Don’t tell me we’re the only ones who think something weird is going on.”

Alicia gives a hum of agreement.

“Not to mention all the staring at dinner.” Katie jumps in.

Pucey’s face is smooth and devoid of emotion. But instead of the sneers and mockery from Bletchley and, in particular, Montague, that she’d been anticipating, Angelina only sees possible curiosity - similar to the type she’s been feeling towards the whole situation as well.

“Er.” Bletchley starts, fingers fumbling with a wad of parchment in front of him, “Well, let’s just say we’ve been wondering the same thing as well, recently.”

And that seems to start off a tirade of discussion between the Slytherin boys, with Angelina, Katie, and Alicia watching with wider and wider eyes.

“He never shuts up about Wood during practice, even if it is all insults.” Montague bemoans.

“And the stares. Merlin, what is up with the stares?” Bletchley continues, twirling his quill around. “I can’t tell if he wants to fuck him or kill him.”

“Probably both.” Angelina snorts.

Alicia settles down warily at the remaining empty chair at the table. “So what you mean is – yes, he’s interested?”

“We don’t know, Spinnet. It’s not like Flint’s an open book.” Montague says shortly. “Adrian, has he mentioned anything to you?”

Pucey clears his throat, and Angelina realizes that he’s been conspicuously silent for the whole exchange. The Slytherin Chaser smooths down the front of his robes, picking at a piece of lint. “We’ve never talked about it in detail.”

“But you’ve talked about it.” Angelina points out. “That’s something.”

Pucey rolls his eyes. “Slytherins don’t do heart-to-hearts like you prissy lot do. And it’s Flint. You really think he’s going to tell all? All I know is he hasn’t hooked up with anyone since the beginning of this year so. There’s that.”

Angelina hums thoughtfully, leaning on Alicia’s shoulder. Now what? If the Slytherins are to be trusted, Flint seems to be acting just as oddly as Oliver is – and it’s too much coincidence that just as they’ve been behaving weirdly, the fights and altercations have gone down.

“So – assuming that the interest is mutual,” Bletchley says loftily, “What do we do now?”

Angelina blinks. “You guys aren’t terribly astounded and completely put off by the idea of Flint and Wood together?”

Alicia giggles a bit, no doubt at the mental image, and Katie makes a move to shush her. Montague eyes them as if they’re a three headed dog, but Angelina’s only watching Pucey’s reaction. The Chaser seems to be the one who knows the most, after all. No dice – the Slytherin Chaser’s face is still one of mild boredom.

“An appeased Flint is better than an angry Flint.” Montague explains, as if the three girls in front of him are children. Angelina waves her wand threateningly, and the big brute holds up two hands in mock surrender.

Bletchley clears his throat, sending a warning glare at Montague. “You didn’t answer my question. We need a concrete plan to work off of.”

“A love potion, perhaps?” Angelina’s pretty sure that Fred and George have something in the works (when do they not?) and it could be primetime to test out their newest creation. “As a catalyst, to get the ball rolling.” She adds hastily, at Alicia’s skeptical expression.

“Not on Ollie, though!” Katie says.

“Like hell it’s going to be on Flint.” Pucey warns them. “I’d like to keep my head on my shoulders, thanks.”

“What about a potion that just makes him say what he’s really thinking? Y’know – instead of all the insults and the snarling and such.” Alicia pipes up. “I’m sure I saw something like that, when we were working on Babbling Beverages last week.”

“That,” Montague starts, and Angelina braces herself for the inevitable insult, only to be surprised by – “could work, I suppose.”

The three Slytherins in front of her are turning out to be far more agreeable than she’d have imagined.

“Alright,” Angelina nods solemnly. “time to put this into action.”

~~~

The little vial of potion is cool against Adrian’s palm, and he’s once again pondering how exactly he got pulled into this whole plot in the first place.

It’s mad, he thinks as he watches Flint grumpily stab at a piece of bacon, and he’s probably going to come out of this with a couple of broken limbs. Flint’s been a little too eager to push them around recently, both on and off the pitch.

Terence settles into the seat on the other side of Marcus – Bletchley and Montague had filled him in on the proceedings immediately after the Gryffindor Chasers had paid them a visit, and Higgs had wanted in. 

(“It’ll be the most hilarious thing since Lockhart’s Valentine-grams last year.” Terence said with a coy smile after learning all the details.

Adrian groaned. “You really have no faith in the rest of us, do you?”

“Not one bit.”)

Adrian uncaps the vial, holding it as steady as he can with the nerves. Because if Marcus catches them, they’ll all be running laps around the pitch until their feet are bloody, and that's just before he figures out that all this is to get him with Oliver Wood.

This is insane. And pretty stupid, considering Adrian already knows the two are going at it like rabbits.

He chalks it up as a combination of boredom and his own innate inability to keep himself out of drama – it’s the plight of being a Slytherin that literally everything can be turned into a Rita Skeeter-esque gossip fest.

Bletchley crashes on the bench in front of him, eyes still blurry and unfocused, and Montague shoots him a look that has him hurriedly wiping the sleep from his eyes. “You’ve got it?” is mouthed to Adrian by the Slytherin Keeper, and Adrian merely gives a curt nod back, trying not to draw too much attention.

“Flint, did you finish that Transfiguration essay?” Terence pipes up, eyeing Adrian to know that he’s creating a window of distraction.

Adrian hastily dumps the contents of the vial into his own goblet of pumpkin juice as Flint turns towards Higgs.

“Who gives a bloody fuck about Transfiguration?”

Ah, the tell tale morning temper of Marcus Flint. Charming. Adrian has no idea how Wood puts up with Flint, to be totally honest, because just trying to get to the bathroom before Flint on good days needs to be carefully executed, lest a trip jinx come aiming at your ankles. He's been shaken awake on more than one occasion for Quidditch with a growling Flint in his face.

“Won’t it be great to rub ol’ McGonagall’s face into yet another Slytherin Quidditch Cup?” Montague grins, turning the conversation to the only topic that doesn’t make Marcus growl at them.

Flint’s owl drops the Daily Prophet in front of him. “Whatever.” Their Captain says, and he opens up the paper directly to the sports section, most likely memorizing the newest rankings.

Adrian quickly switches their goblets before Marcus reemerges from the paper. Bletchley and Montague watch with bated breath as their Captain takes a long drink from the spiked juice. There’s no spluttering, no shriek of disgust, so the pumpkin juice has at least managed to cover the taste of whatever potion the Gryffindor Chasers had given them.

Montague’s never been known for his patience, of course, so he jabs Flint in the shoulder.

“What plays are we running today?”

Flint swats his hand away and grumbles something unintelligible.

Adrian huffs. Maybe they’ve been duped. Granted, Gryfindors are normally too brash to pull something so underhanded but as the minutes tick by and Marcus still shows no sign of a sunny disposition, he’s pretty sure the vial was just filled with water that’s been charmed to take on a different color.

His friends seem to be thinking the same thing, and Terence is softly snickering. Adrian shoots him a disgruntled glare – but it’s Higgs, and Adrian’s always been too soft on him, so the glare makes no difference whatsoever.

They all turn their attention back to their breakfast, trying not to be visibly dejected. Adrian’s about to admit it was a silly plan anyways when-

“Hey one of you, pass me the salt, please?”

Everyone freezes. Because when the fuck has Marcus Flint, notoriously foul-tempered and bitter tongued Slytherin, ever used the word ‘please’?

Bletchley slowly moves the salt shaker closer to Marcus, who’s waiting very patiently. “Here, Flint. Er. How’re you feeling?”

“Really good. Got a good night’s sleep. Psyched for Potions later.” Marcus beams at the Keeper.

Miles, on the other hand, pales as if he’s seen the Grim.

Terence is now exchanging scared glances with Adrian because happiness? On Flint’s face at 8 am? Being excited for potions? The potion was supposed to make Marcus say what he was truly thinking, not make rays of sunshine shoot out of his ass.

“Ahem, Marcus, uh – I was wondering what you thought of Malfoy’s performance last practice?” Terence asks innocently, because normally Flint refuses point blank to discuss seeker tactics with Higgs, out of circumstance.

Marcus furrows his brow thoughtfully at Terence’s question however. “Well, his flying’s alright. Needs to work on his attitude. Granted, the kid’s still not quite on par as you were, and that’s my fault, really.”

Adrian chokes on his sip of juice, as Marcus shoots an apologetic smile to Higgs, patting him on the back fondly.

Montague looks like Christmas Day has come early.

“This is both horrendously terrifying, and fucking hilarious.” Montague whispers to Adrian, before the Seventh Years take off for Transfiguration. Adrian can only watch in horror as Flint opens the door for a group of Hufflepuffs with a smile.

God, he’s going to get his ass handed to him the moment the potion wears off.

***

Johnson, Bell, and Spinnet are reading on a bench in the courtyard when Adrian, Terence, and Miles swoops down on them.

“What the hell.” Johnson says baldly.

“Don’t ‘what the hell’ us.” Adrian says, “What the hell was the potion you lot gave us?”

“Hold on, you guys told Higgs?” Bell jumps in before Johnson can speak.

Terence shrugs. “If you thought Bletchley was ever capable of keeping his mouth shut-” Miles makes an indignant sound, “-then you were terribly mistaken.”

The three girls in front of them exchange glances as Terence flashes his great big doe eyes, making sure his face is in its most innocent of expressions. Adrian snorts – he’s seen that face turned towards teachers and Head Boys alike; they all end up underestimating Higgs.

“It was just the truth-speaking potion. Not Veritaserum!” Spinnet adds hastily at Terence’s raised brow. “Just something that makes the tongue a little looser. Wasn’t a trick, I swear.”

“Whatever it is,” Miles pipes up, “You lot failed at brewing it, because Flint is being scary.”

Johnson furrows her eyebrows. “I didn’t see any first years screaming this morning.”

“No, I meant scary as in he’s being nice.” Miles continues. All three Slytherin boys give an involuntary shudder. “He pulled out a chair for a girl this morning.”

“Told Snape he appreciated his teaching methods.” Adrian grimaces.

“Smiled.” Terence adds, because yeah – Marcus Flint grimaces, sneers, growls, makes a wide variety of facial emotions, but smiling sappily is not one of them.

The three Gryffindor Chasers, however, seem to have failed to grasp the horrendousness of what has occurred, and are instead laughing behind their hands. Adrian can feel a vein throbbing in his temple.

Johnson recovers the fastest. “No proclamations of love yet? He’s had classes with Oliver today already.”

Miles sighs. “No, no love confessions. But he told McGonagall that her robes looked extremely nice today, and it was completely genuine. So there’s that.”

Bell’s face takes on a blotchy blush as she continues trying to restrain her laughter.

“It’ll – oh my god – it should wear off by the end of the day.” Spinnet says through barely concealed giggles. “You’ll get your Captain back by then.”

“Until then, I guess we’ll just have to keep pushing Oliver into his way.” Johnson says thoughtfully. Her eyes glint mischievously, and Adrian once again remembers why he’d never dare cross her on and off the pitch. “We might even be able to get Flint to carry Oliver bridal style into the Great Hall.”

At that, the three Gryffindors dissolve into fits, clutching each other’s shoulders. Adrian rolls his eyes, and gestures for Miles and Terence to leave the girls be. The Weasley twins have obviously rubbed off on them in terms of senses of humor.

“Now what?” Miles whines, shooting disgruntled looks back at the still chuckling Gryffindors.

“Now we ride it out.” Adrian says grimly. Quidditch later is going to be disastrous.

***

Adrian’s right – practice ends up being incredibly confusing, none of the players used to Flint not yelling at them throughout their paces. Derrick and Bole are allowed second (and third) tries at hitting the Bludgers, when normally Marcus would have torn the bat from their hands at one disgraceful miss.

Montague doesn’t receive even one healthy punch to the side when he gets distracted while Flint’s running through Chaser formations.

For fuck’s sake, Adrian laments, he’s even letting Malfoy off the hook. He glances over at where Flint’s telling Malfoy to do ten laps around the pitch instead of the usual twenty. The third year looks up at Flint with wide, wide eyes.

“You’re serious?” Malfoy says, as if he’s afraid of pushing his luck.

“Absolutely!” Flint’s happy reply causes Malfoy to turn even paler than he usually is.

“Montague,” Malfoy hisses to the brunet sitting next to Adrian, “Montague, is this a test?”

Montague merely gapes back at the Seeker, in shock himself as he watches Flint give an enthusiastic hug to Higgs, who had slunk down from the stands to witness the hilarity.

“Just do what he says.” Adrian interjects, pushing Malfoy lightly. “Take his uh...generosity…when he’s willing to give it.” He watches as the blond begins his laps with a bemused expression. Good to know that Malfoy does respect their Captain, at least to a certain degree.

As practice concludes, Flint pats them all on the back and offers individualized encouragement as they all pass into the locker rooms. Adrian spots Terence stuffing his fist in his mouth to stop from laughing as the Slytherin Captain ruffles Malfoy’s hair, the blond looking increasingly disturbed the messier his hair gets.

“Pucey!”

Oh fuck, now it’s his turn.

“Yeah, Flint?” Adrian tries, playing it nonchalant.

Marcus pulls him down so they’re sitting across from each other on a pair of locker benches. A large hand claps him roughly on the shoulder. Adrian stiffens at the affection apparent in Marcus’ face.

“You know, Adrian, I don’t say this enough-” Marcus begins.

“Let’s keep it that way.” Adrian says hurriedly.

“No, no, I just want you to know that,” Marcus continues, and Adrian balks as his Captain smiles. “You’re really one of the most genuine Slytherins out there. Don’t know where I’d be without you as a friend, you know. I really, truly appreciate you!”

It’s disturbing how much Marcus looks like a puppy at this very moment.

Adrian pats Marcus’ shoulder awkwardly. “Uh, thanks. You’re – well, you’re a pain in the ass most of the time, but I appreciate you...too?”

Flint’s resounding laughter, even at the insult, fills the whole locker room. The rest of the team takes that as their cue to clear out as fast as possible, Bole and Derrick tripping over each other in their haste.

“Ah Pucey, you’re a riot.” Marcus wipes tears from his eyes; Adrian didn’t think he was that funny, but before he can say as much, Marcus claps him on the shoulders again, holding him immobile.

“You flew spectacularly at practice today. Caught onto plays immediately, really good. Keep it up, mate, would love to play professional with you. Oh and also,” Marcus’ voice lowers, “Never officially thanked you for what you did at the beginning of the year. You know, with Oliver.”

Adrian chuckles tentatively. “No problem.”

Another hearty pat on his back and Flint finally releases his hold on Adrian, who sags with relief. Sure, Flint acting like himself can be giant headache, but for some reason, a cheerful, sappy, nice Flint is a hell of a lot more intimidating. The tall Slytherin is humming to himself as he heads towards the broom shed, and Adrian can finally start banging his head on the lockers like he’s been wanting to do for the last twenty minutes.

“Enjoying the show?” Adrian hisses back at Terence once Flint’s out of earshot. The sandy-haired Slytherin is shaking with silent laughter against the lockers.

“I was wrong.” Terence gasps out. “This is leagues better than Lockhart. Oh god, I could kiss Alicia Spinnet right now for making this happen.”

Adrian glares at him pointedly. “I’d like to see you try.”

Terence merely winks.

~~~

Oliver’s on his way to the broom shed himself when he spots Marcus’ figure ahead of him. They haven’t had a chance to talk all day, but he’s heard enough from startled classmates that Marcus has been acting incredibly odd.

(“He didn’t even glare at Flitwick.” Percy had whispered to him, as if scandalized by the notion of Flint not sending off waves of animosity.)

Oliver had been pretty sure people were just exaggerating – Hogwarts students tend to do so, and rumors always grow wilder and wilder. You don’t have Harry Potter as a Seeker and not become accustomed to it. However, it’ll still do to check to make sure Marcus hasn’t been too affected.

“That’s what happens when you’re an asshole ninety percent of the time.” Oliver grumbles under his breath. “People talk when you do one nice thing, I swear.” He speeds up his steps to catch up to his boyfriend.

But the Slytherin Chaser is walking quickly (almost cheerily, if Oliver’s instincts are correct) and Oliver doesn’t manage to catch Marcus before the latter slips inside the shed. Oliver darts in before the door closes.

“Marcus!”

The Slytherin turns at his name, and then in a split second, Oliver’s engulfed in a bone-crushing hug.

Oliver wriggles enough out of Marcus’ grasp to save himself from suffocating. “What is up with you today?”

Marcus responds with an enthusiastic kiss. “Hi.” He grins soppily down at the Keeper in his arms.

“What the fuck.”

“Tsk,” Marcus tuts, releasing Oliver from his tight hold, “Do you really have to curse? It’s not nice, you know.”

“You, of all people, are lecturing me about language? And when have you cared about being nice?” Oliver can feel his eyes bug out of his skull. He holds Marcus away at arms length, eyes narrowing at how clingy the older boy is being. “You are Marcus, right? This isn’t someone who’s Polyjuiced themselves into Flint?”

Marcus chuckles and moves in to nuzzle his nose against Oliver’s. Oliver leans back with rising alarm.

“Marcus-”

“Ollie, don’t be silly.” Grey eyes meet his with surprising earnestness. “Have I ever told you how much I care about you? Because it’s a lot.”

“Marc-”

“You’re the best,” Marcus continues, as if he hadn’t heard Oliver’s protests. “And your Keeping skills are so impressive, and you’re such a great Captain and you have the cutest freckles on your nose and – oh no, that’ll hurt you, darling, stop that!”

Because Oliver had taken to banging his head against the door of the shed in the midst of Marcus’ cooing.

“Okay.” Oliver raises a hand to stop Marcus’ from rambling on, no doubt about to check his head for injuries. “Okay, you’ve obviously been jinxed, or – or you accidentally drank a potion because there is no way in hell that the normal Marcus Flint would coddle me.”

Marcus merely shoots him a hurt, confused look.

Oliver runs a hand through his hair, biting back a sigh. “Alright, what did you do today?”

“Had breakfast, went to class, then Quidditch practice. Why?” Marcus cocks his head, making a move to get Oliver back in his arms. Oliver sidesteps the attempt.

“Alright, did anything feel weird? Or did someone give you something to eat or drink?”

Besides his own team, the Weasley twins, maybe, everybody else would’ve been too scared to try anything on Marcus. Except the Weasley’s had been cooped up in their dorm room all day trying to figure out a bit of charm work, and Oliver had talked to them all throughout breakfast. He’s wondering if maybe he should go on and interrogate them later when Marcus’ face begins returning to its normal surly expression.

Marcus looks down at the Cleansweep he’s clutching as if it’s a Dungbomb waiting to go off in his face. “What the fuck am I doing here.”

Oliver gives a sigh of relief as it becomes steadily apparent that whatever had Marcus acting like one of Celestina Warbeck’s songs has worn off.

“I don’t know, Flint,” Oliver says nonchalantly, “But you just called me ‘darling’, so I think that’s the least of your concerns.”

Marcus’ face pales.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Oliver asks, taking the Cleansweep out of Flint’s hands just in case the Slytherin decides he needs to break something.

“Was at breakfast.” Marcus grumbles, running an agitated hand across his face. “And then I was just talking to my mates.”

“You don’t remember pulling a seat out for Penelope Clearwater?”

If Oliver had a little more tact, he’d be comforting his boyfriend with soothing words. If Oliver had a little more tact, he’d tell Marcus that nobody had paid any attention to his change in demeanor. Of course, Oliver Wood does not have a little more tact, so he finds himself laughing at the sheer horror written all across Marcus’ features as memories come flooding back to the Chaser.

“Somebody must’ve jinxed me, holy fucking hell, what the bloody fuck. I might as well turn over and become a House Elf.” Marcus whispers. “I told McGonagall I liked her robes. I was nice to that snotty little Smith kid. For fuck’s sake, I told Malfoy that it’s the participation that counts. 

The Chaser shivers at the last statement.

Oliver smiles indulgently. “Well,” he says, “You’re just going to have to get your reputation back. Darling.”

Marcus shoves him roughly into the wall and Oliver can’t help snickering at his boyfriend’s embarrassed angry blush.

“Shut the fuck up, Wood.” Marcus huffs, but the Slytherin lets Oliver curl in under his chin anyways.  

~~~

George looks up from his essay to the sight of Angelina, Alicia, and Katie all collapsing on Fred’s bed, his twin giving an indignant squawk as his books get knocked to the ground.

“So obviously,” Katie sighs, “Something went wrong with that potion we made.”

Angelina gives a hum of disappointment, resting her chin on Alicia’s shoulder. “As much as I enjoyed seeing the Slytherin team fall all over themselves during their practice today, it could’ve been so much more interesting if the potion had worked and we’d managed to convince Oliver into running in there as well.”

“You mean it could’ve been hot.” Katie giggles.

 Fred and George exchange a glance before raising questioning eyebrows at their teammates.

Alicia snickers in her attempt to explain. “Flint may only be alright face wise, but that body makes up for it.” And the girls dissolve into a laughing fit.

George chokes on his own spit. “I can’t believe you lot. Gross.” Fred shudders besides him as well.

“Damn, I can’t believe we were wrong for once.” Fred sighs, leaning back against George’s pillows, obviously accepting the fact that his bed has been overrun. “We’re usually good at this sort of stuff.”

“Maybe we’ve lost our touch.” George says, hanging his head in mock shame.

Angelina shrugs. “It was a fun distraction. Now – back to OWLs.” She picks up the textbook from the floor and lobs it over at the twins, smacking Fred in the forehead. “That’s for making us work with the likes of Montague.”

***

The next morning, George watches as Flint shoves a Ravenclaw boy (second year, by the looks of it) down the stairs while the rest of the boy’s friends clear off in fright. Flitwick steps in just in time to grant Flint a detention, which the older Slytherin looks extremely pleased about.

No doubt, yesterday has caused Flint to renew his behavior with vigor, George thinks, and maybe the Gryffindor team should lie low for a week so that Flint doesn’t put two and two together. He’d like to keep all his limbs intact, thank you very much.

George has to begrudgingly agree with Fred’s proclamation of their failure, however, because Oliver doesn’t seem like he’s harboring a secret crush anymore. In fact, as the final match gets closer and closer, their Captain can most often be seen manically poking the figures of his model Quidditch set.

Percy’s had to drag Oliver back upstairs on more than one occasion, under dire threats of confiscating all Quidditch related material. The distraught wail of Wood being forced to sleep has become a common sound.

So their little escapade in trying to get Flint and Wood together falls to the wayside of George’s brain – OWLs are to be taken, and as much as he’d prefer opening a business instead, his mother will have his head if he doesn’t at least pass. He, Fred, and Lee Jordan have been trying to think up some quality pranks as well.

With all this swirling around in his life, George doesn’t think about Oliver too much, until-

“Did you hear that?” Fred hisses to him. It’s a couple days after they’ve won the championship, and on their euphoric high, the twins have thought up a grandmaster scheme – Filch had caught them sneaking Butterbeer back into the Gryffindor common room so now, it’s time for payback.

“Please tell me it’s not that blasted cat.” George moans, wishing that they’d asked Harry to borrow the map.

A tell-tale meow echoes around the corner of the corridor.

“Look’s like it.” Fred says begrudgingly, and they slink off as quietly as possible, before breaking into a run to avoid the heavy footsteps of Filch. They manage to make it to safety on the second floor, one of the nicer portraits mouthing an “all clear”.

George leans his head back against the stone wall, catching his breath. “Damn Mrs. Norris.”

“Think we should get a Mr. Norris to distract her next year?” Fred grins.

Before George can respond to that idea, however, the soft murmuring of voices floats over to where the twins are. They exchange a glance before sneaking slowly towards the classroom where the talking is issuing from.

George gestures towards the half open door. “Someone was hasty.”

Fred snickers, peering in and George watches as his brother’s eyes grow comically wide.

“It’s Wood and Flint.” He hisses back at George, who immediately tip-toes to lean above Fred’s head in order to get a look. Sure enough, Oliver’s face is recognizable even in the gloom of the dark classroom, and enough time spent aiming Bludgers at the back of Marcus Flint’s head makes the Slytherin easily recognizable.

Wood’s face is pulled into a frown, noticeably agitated, because the Keeper has never been one to hide his emotions. Their voices have lowered so Fred and George can’t hear what they’re discussing clearly.

“Damn it,” Fred whispers, “Would be handy if we had something to listen with right about now.”

George shushes him.

They could very well be fighting, but normally the fights that involve the two Captains devolve into shouting matches, and this – this seems far too intimate and too serious to be anything close to rivalry. Oliver sits on a desk, but Flint isn’t so much crowding Oliver against it as standing comfortably between his legs.

They watch with bated breath as the discussion seems to fall into a lull. Oliver’s frown has lessened, now replaced with an expression not unlike the one he’d sported the days following their match with Hufflepuff early in the year: dejected and quiet in his defeat.

And then George has to clap a hand over Fred’s mouth to keep him from swearing when they watch Flint lean in to kiss Oliver soundly, hands cradling their Captain’s face. The Keeper responds with little surprise, and the way Oliver is gently running his fingers through Flint’s hair indicates that this is something that has happened many, many times before.

“Seems like Oliver didn’t need our help after all.” George mutters.

Flint buries his face into Oliver’s neck and then it’s too private of a scene for George to continue watching. He tugs at Fred’s sleeve and his twin must agree, because Fred follows after him willingly as they meander their way back to Gryffindor tower.

“Think we should confront him about it?” George asks once they’re back safe in their room.

Fred smiles, a mischievous one that George knows he’s mirroring.

“Course, Georgie – we’ve got to redeem ourselves!” 

***

They corner Oliver in the otherwise empty common room a couple of days later – he’s got his head buried in Quidditch Through the Ages and completely vulnerable when Fred and George drop down onto the plush red couch, sandwiching him firmly in between them.

Oliver barely looks up from the book, merely giving a nod in either direction to his Beaters.

“Oliver, oh darling Captain, how could you?” Fred starts off in his most heart-wrenchingly desolate voice.

This manages to capture their Captain’s attention – for all of Wood’s lectures, the Seventh Year still has a heart, and all his players are near and dear to him. He frowns in confusion.

George drapes himself over Wood’s shoulder. “I thought,” He gives a dramatic sniff, “I thought you knew how I felt!”

Oliver’s eyes widen comically. “Excuse me?”

“Shut up, George, you’re infatuated with him, but I, I’m in love.” Fred gasps, clutching at Oliver’s robes like a drowning man. George bites back a laugh as Oliver rears back from Fred’s attempt to kiss him.

“And to think,” George says, miming wiping away a tear, “To think our strapping captain chose Marcus Flint above our handsome visages.”

Wood splutters at the mention of Flint’s name. “I’m not – Marcus isn’t – hold on - ”

“You could’ve had the both of us!” Fred finishes, flinging a hand to his forehead in his best impression of a damsel in distress.

Oliver merely looks at the both of them, face stricken and utterly confused.

“We saw you two – a couple days ago, in the classroom.” George explains helpfully. “I have to say, I’m surprised there were kisses instead of fists. Quite experienced with both, aren’t you, Wood?” He nudges Oliver in the ribs. Fred gives Oliver a quasi-congratulatory clap on the back, and the Keeper sets down his book with a sigh, running a hand across his exasperated and slightly pink face.

“Alright.” Oliver clears his throat. “Alright, yes Flint and I – well. You lot already saw, there’s not much to explain." 

“There’s plenty to explain!” Fred croons.

“When, where, how, and why. And how good.” George supplies, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Oliver rams his shoulder unapologetically into his, but he’s grinning sheepishly, blush still present on his cheeks.

Oliver waves away the twin’s needling questions. “You lot are too young.” He says loftily, but then he gets swept up in Fred and George’s flailing limbs, narrowly avoiding the the playful chokehold Fred attempts to put him in.

“Ask your brother!” Oliver chokes out from between Fred’s bicep. They know their Captain is letting them win - Oliver’s strong enough to push them around any day. George makes a noise of mock indignation.

He huffs, blowing red hair off his brow. “C’mon, Wood, you tell Percy the Prat and not us?”

The Keeper grins. “He may have, ah, came to the conclusion himself.” And snorts at a memory that Fred and George are not in the know of. Oliver straightens his robes out a bit, before glancing at the twins.

“I’d– uh, well I’d prefer if you guy would keep this on the low for me. Not that I’m ashamed!” Oliver says quickly, vehemently shaking his head as Fred had prepared to interject.

“It’s just – relationships aren’t a great thing to carry into the professional Quidditch world, are they? And there’s the issue of Marcus’ parents – Purebloods are a big batch of gossips, after all.” He looks at his Beaters, waiting for them to continue their teasing.

“It’s serious, then?” George asks, tentatively, because for all of their teasing and guessing about crushes and infatuations, a serious relationship is something of another matter.

Oliver nods, rubbing the back of his neck a little embarrassedly. And for all that Fred and George complain about Wood’s grueling practices, shouting matches, and one track manic mind, they still love their Captain. George exchanges a glance with his brother, and they nod in silent agreement.

“No worries.” Fred says in an odd moment of seriousness, “We’ve got your back, Oliver.”

Oliver’s grin splits his face, and George thinks it’s the least they can do, considering Oliver probably had to deal with a potioned-up Marcus Flint due to the twin’s mishaps earlier.

“Man,” Fred whispers to George, as Oliver settles back into Quidditch Through the Ages, “The girls are going to be pissed when find out they worked with Montague for nothing.”

George shudders at the notion of Angelina’s future wrath.