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Oliver woke the next day to the storm outside growing steadily louder, the cold seeping past his covers and into his bones.
He lay awake in his bed; brain jumping from best flight paths in stormy weather, skipping to his half-finished Transfiguration essay, and finally tripping on the image of Flint’s face, scrunched in concentration as he pointed out the flaws of the Pullback Turn.
…And maybe a little about the way Flint’s fingers felt in his hair.
Oliver pulled his pillow over his head and tried to drown out the noise from the storm. It would be at least another two hours before breakfast and he had to be well rested for the game tomorrow. They must win. McGonagall would have his head if he managed to lose Gryffindor these 25 points after losing a match against Hufflepuff.
Oliver sighed into his pillow tiredly, and the storm raged on for several more hours before he finally fell asleep; rolling hills and windy skies on his mind.
Wood looked around at his team the next morning in a quiet panic; they didn’t look nearly as worried as he felt they should be. Except for Potter, of course, who looked as if though he had gotten even less sleep than Wood himself.
Potter was managing all right with his porridge, and the rest of the team were wolfing down their breakfast, but Oliver just stared blankly at his toast. After a few minutes with nothing but the noise of the storm outside to sober them, he led his team out of the Great Hall and squelched across the grounds down to the Quidditch Pitch.
From the changing rooms, Oliver watched the Hogwarts students run across the field to their stands, huddled under umbrellas and robes that barely withstood the pelting rain. He looked back at his team and opened his mouth to start his usual Pre-Match Pep Talk, but quickly shut it again before he could blurt out something ridiculous like, “Did you know, Flint feels strongly about enviro-regulations in standard league matches?”
Oliver gulped, shook his head hopelessly, and led his team out onto the field.
He sat in the changing rooms long after the rest of the players had cleared out, re-playing the match in his head. He thought about Potter in the infirmary, the battered Nimbus 2000, and whether Flint had been watching the game from the stands.
Oliver briefly wondered whether he could drown himself in the showers.
Autumn came and went in a blustery rush of cold; Ravenclaw beat Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw. All that was left was for Gryffindor to beat Slytherin, by a margin of a hundred points…
Wood found himself in the library most of November, halfheartedly attempting to finish another damned Transfiguration essay. Every time he put quill to parchment, he found his fingers had betrayed him and had doodled Quidditch hoops instead.
Skimming over another paragraph in The Theological and Ethological Theories of Transfiguring Inanimate Objects into Animate Beings with glazed eyes, he lazily drew new tiny ink figures on broomsticks, spelling them to zoom around his notes…
Wood was gloomy and silent for the rest of the week. He had heard that Ron had thrown a cow’s tongue at Malfoy in their potions class after a spirited mockery of Harry falling off of his broom. There was also a rumor that Malfoy was planning on staging an entire production (to be performed in the Great Hall later that month; open auditions next Monday), but Oliver didn’t put too much stock in it, as Fred Weasley had been the one to pass on this information.
It was their last day of classes for the week and nearing six o’ clock, and Oliver found himself with a pile four books high on the theology of animation throughout the centuries. He waved at Hermione Granger sitting three tables across from him, and returned to his essay. Lost in thought, he idly chewed on the end of his quill, and almost upturned the inkpot when a heavy figure slammed his book bag onto the table and sat next to him.
“Wood.”
“Flint!”
Flint glanced around the nearly-empty library and shifted uncomfortably when he met Hermione’s curious gaze.
“Ravenclaw beat Hufflepuff.”
Wood squinted. “So?”
“Meaning Slytherin still has a chance if we beat them next week.”
“So do we, if they lose by a margin of 100 points total...”
“So we both need Slytherin to beat them. Listen, last time,” Flint coughed, “Er – last time you said something about a modified Pullback Turn, remember? Ravenclaw uses Reverse Wronski Feints all the time, and…”
Wood sat dazed as Flint grabbed his Transfiguration notes again and scratched in more Quidditch diagrams. The smell of sandalwood was overpowering.
“I cannot concentrate”, Oliver hissed, picking up his books and stuffing them into his bag.
Hermione Granger peeked out curiously from behind her books as Wood left the library in a huff. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Flint looked a bit disappointed.
Classes passed in a haze as Oliver and Flint focused on Quidditch and pretended that nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred. Flint whispered every hex he could think of at any Gryffindor player passing by, and Wood made it a point to book as many training sessions as possible, giving Slytherin almost no chance to use the field for practice. They were so single-mindedly focused on this, in fact, that even in their classes, they studiously and suspiciously avoided any unnecessary interaction.
Snape stalked around the classroom, pointing at pairs of students. “Gather your materials and begin the Draught of Despair. Instructions are on the board. You will bottle your results and bring them up to me.”
Wood sat still as Flint reluctantly shuffled to his desk.
“When drunk, the Draught of Despair induces fear, delirium, and intense thirst in the drinker.” He paused. “Regrettably, the effectiveness of the draught cannot be tested on students. Instead, you will be marked on the physical properties of the draught; the liquid will be emerald green in color and will glow phosphorescently if brewed correctly..."
Over the next few weeks, Professor Snape watched in barely concealed fascination as the two (previously) worst students in his class managed to brew all of their potions flawlessly.
Today, they’d brewed Amortentia in record time with no interruptions, no talking at all, and had flasked samples with a perfect mother-of-pearl sheen and spiraling steams.
Snape sat at his desk, looking at the two students in front of him, then down to their separate observations reports where Flint had noted, “sample does not smell like the fresh pine of a Quidditch Hoop”, and Wood had observed, “sample smells like whatever the opposite of sandalwood is.”
He looked back at the two perfect vials of Amortentia sitting on his desk, and realization rushed at him like a Blast-Ended Skrewt on a rampage.
“Three points each for an impeccable sample,” Snape snapped, “and I’m taking two points for what is possibly the most obtuse laboratory report I have ever been subject to in the history of educational magic!”
As the rest of the students cleared away their things and brought their samples and reports up for inspection, a still-stunned Snape only remembered to fail half of the class.
Transfiguration was slightly less nerve-wracking. McGonagall refrained from pairing him with Flint, and Oliver was able to take out his frustration on the poor teacups being transfigured into door mice.
The pent up confusion and stress was doing wonders for his marks, it seemed; no more than twenty minutes into the class Wood had managed to flick a 7-member family of door mice into being. He looked over to the other side of the classroom where Flint was tapping at his third broken teacup, and smirked in satisfaction.
Winter worked its way into the Hogwarts grounds, seeping in through the castle walls, and extra candles and blankets appeared in the students’ dormitories and common rooms. Snape lined the windows along the dungeon corridors with another layer of magical insulation, and Flitwick charmed the classroom chairs to emit a pleasant warmth. The ceiling of the Great Hall turned into an ashy white sky, and once in a while, a brilliant ray of sunlight would peek through to illuminate the freshly fallen snow around the castle.
The last weekend of term, it was announced that there would be another Hogsmeade trip, much to the delight of students.
Oliver pored through the newest editions of Quaffle with barely contained excitement; the newest model of Quidditch gloves had been released and were making their way around the countryside; they would be on display at Dervish & Banges for the rest of the month.
Oliver knew Harry was staying behind, so he lent him his copy of Which Broomstick, and promised to fill him in on all the details of the new gloves when he got back.
Saturday arrived and he trooped out excitedly with Alicia, making his way from the carriages down the busy streets of Hogsmeade. They passed Honeydukes, where Alicia laughingly pointed out Ron Weasley almost dropping a jar of Cockroach Clusters.
They ambled past the Three Broomsticks and finally reached Dervish & Bangs, heading directly to the display at the back.
“Welcome, welcome!” boomed the proprietor, gesticulating wildly at the encased pair of carbon black gloves. There was already a small crowd of onlookers, mostly from the local village as well as a few players from Hogwarts.
“Now, the gloves won’t be available for purchase until this summer, and won’t be allowed for use in official league matches for at least a year afterwards, so all you players and captains best start thinking about the best strategy to incorporate them into trainings…”
“I’ll join you later!” Yelled Alicia, waving goodbye as she jogged to catch up with Katie Bell and Padma Patil standing further down the street, “tell Fred and George hello from me!”
Wood waved back and was making his way towards Zonko’s Joke Shop when a snowball smacked him squarely on the back of his head.
He whirled around to see Pucey and Bole smirking at him across the street. A few passers-by had paused to watch what would happen next.
Wood had spent the past few months so focused on avoiding conflict that the snowball almost came as a relief, and before he knew it, he had pulled out his wand and sent a shower of snow directly at the two boys.
Sputtering, Pucey and Bole pulled out their own wands, but were immediately hit by two more snowballs, this time coming from George Weasley, who had seen them on his way out of Zonko’s.
In just minutes, havoc was wreaked; bodies slipped and slid everywhere, snowballs were pelted in every direction. Wood scooped up snow and threw it blindly; it was every man for himself, as just a minute ago, Fred Weasley had joined the fray and charmed piles of snow to chase Oliver around the street. Angelina and Katie had come running back, and Padma was cheering them on.
Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver saw Bole take a diving leap at Angelina who dodged out of the way - just in time to be pelted with three snowballs to the stomach a la Adrian Pucey.
Laughing, Oliver ducked behind the first mound of snow he could find, and huddled beside it while snowballs flew overhead.
A swish of robes flew past him and Oliver grabbed and pulled, causing the offending witch or wizard to land heavily in a pile of snow. Oliver sent a shower of snow over the body and just barely caught a whiff of sandalwood before he was flipped on his back and snow shoved into his nose and mouth.
“This is – completely – mad!” he gasped out, grappling with Flint.
“I know!” Flint laughed, surprised.
As Flint tried to shove the side of his head into the snow, Olive reflected that Flint had a rather pleasant laugh.
Oliver jerked his knee up into the side of Flint’s hip, and used the leverage to kick out from underneath him. “That’s for imitating a Dementor last match.”
Huffing, Flint scrambled back to his feet and sneered at Wood. “Careful there, wouldn’t want you to break your arm before we get a chance to trample you next match for the Cup.”
Oliver ran at him, the smell of sandalwood getting stronger.
“Why do you wear so much cologne”, he grunted, taking Flint down and pinning him between his knees, “you stink”.
Flint shoved the heel of his fist into Wood’s face, and kicked around ineffectively.
“I don’t wear cologne,” he grunted, “you’re the one that goes around smelling like a bloody Quidditch Pitch all the time.”
Wood dug his elbow into Flint’s chest, and then sat up suddenly in surprise, causing Flint to swing into thin air.
“I smell like a Quidditch Pitch to you?” A snowball whizzed dangerously close to his ear. Oliver ducked, shifting his position, and –
“Oh…”
Oliver gaped at Flint, and Flint lay very still, face very pink in the white snow around him.
Just then, a shrill whistle pierced the air and a very frazzled looking McGonagall began breaking up the commotion and ushering the students back towards the carriages waiting to take them back to the castle.
As the carriages pulled up to the castle, Minerva and Severus took account of the disembarking students and stopped in horror as Wood and Flint stumbled out of the last one.
“Have you - have you two been fighting again?”
Minerva goggled as she took in the rumpled robes and untamed hair. Flint’s lip was bleeding. Oliver looked very smug.
“I think ten points from both of these boys is in order, don’t you agree, Severus?”
She turned to find Snape determinedly looking in the other direction. “Perhaps just a warning this time, Minerva.”
Christmas passed in a blur, and Gryffindor won the next match against Slytherin. Flint rushed the goal post six times and Wood stopped every throw.
Harry caught the Snitch at a sixty-point lead and Oliver landed to the sight of a shining silver Cup.
Wood looked over the cheering crowd that surrounded him and caught Flint’s eye.
Flint nodded, and led his team off of the pitch.
Gryffindor had won.