Kitayama might be taking a picture of this (mousapelli) wrote,
Kitayama might be taking a picture of this
mousapelli

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Operation Site Anniversary: Hour Twenty

Starting. To. Drag. Need to get up and walk around soon or something. Sick of LJ's crap. Love florahart, cave_canem, and marksykins for my respective birthday fics.

Speaking of florahart, here is the Percy that she requested, in any flavor I care to make him. I've never done Percy before today, except in snippits, but I am very please with how this turned out.

Some Things Never Change

It wasn't that Percy didn't enjoy Quidditch. While he was certainly not as exuberant about the sport as his brothers or father, Percy had nothing against a rousing bout of flying and ball tossing.

It was just that after three hours of sitting up properly on a bench at the Puddlemere United stadium, Percy's whole back had begun to writhe with agony. He needed to stretch, and he needed to do it now, before he began to twitch uncontrollably.

"I'm going to get some refreshments!" he announced to his benchmates, people from his office. They had invited him because they really couldn't not invite him when they were asking everybody else and he was right there, and Percy had accepted because it was polite.

They waved him off and returned to the game without really paying attention, and Percy nearly wept with relief as he stood up and pressed hands against his aching lower back.

A short walk will do me good, Percy reasoned, and he set off to do exactly that, picking his way carefully down the narrow staircase of the seating tower, wrinkling his nose at the Butterbeer cans and chocolate frog wrappers that threatened to trip him and send him careening down the stairs.

At the bottom, he was arching his back to stretch when a familiar voice spoke up.

"You realize that you've been to every single one of my games?"

Percy started with a jerk that set his back aflame again, and cursed as he turned to see Oliver Wood leaning against the bottom of the seating tower, watching him. Oliver looked just the same as he had since graduation, the only difference being that his Quidditch robes were now blue and instead of Gryffindor red.

"Every single one," Oliver continued, shaking his head. "My first professional game and everything, even though I didn't actually get to play. I'm in the program, though."

"Oliver!" Percy pushed his glasses up his nose to cover his surprise. "You play for Puddlemere?"

"Only the Reserve," Oliver shrugged, taking a few steps closer. "The game's about over anyway, though, no chance they'll need me."

"You are ahead three hundred points," Percy admitted. Oliver nodded and craned his neck to watch the Quidditch players zip past above them, and for a second, all Percy could see was Oliver Wood the First Year Gryffindor, yearning with every inch of his 11-year-old body to play on the House team.

"You never change," Percy said before he realized he'd opened his mouth, and the tips of ears burned.

"You did, though," Oliver replied light, flicking his glance back down to earth. "You grew up, Pwee."

Percy laughed out loud at the nickname he'd had for all of five minutes in First Year, a name Oliver had given him after reading his abbreviated name off his trunk in their new dormitory.

"I should go," Percy said after another moment. "I'm here with…people."

"I know," Oliver said. "I saw you up there, in the stands. You never can hide a Weasley in a crowd."

"No," Percy shook his head.

"We play Chudley in two weeks," Oliver said. "I might get air-time."

"I'll be there," Percy promised spontaneously, and Oliver's eyebrows shot up. "Can't break tradition for your first game, it'd be bad luck."

Percy's ears flamed redder than ever, but in the back of his mind he reasoned that he'd promised to take Ron to see them at some point anyways.

"Deal," Oliver grinned, sticking out a hand for Percy to shake. "I'll buy you a drink afterwards."

"We'll start new traditions," Percy agreed, returning the grin.

The grin stuck long after Percy had returned to his seat, the feel of Oliver's hand still tingling across his skin.

New traditions, he thought to himself, his heart the lightest it had ever been during a Quidditch match.
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