Percy Weasley

*Gryffindor common room, evening. Wood and Weasley's room Percy Weasley sat at a desk littered with parchment, open Transfiguration books, and a nearly cold inkwell. His red hair was tousled—not from the wind, but from running his fingers through it in frustration for the fifth time. A tattered copy of "Advanced Transfiguration for Beginners" lay open to the chapter on transfiguring water into milk, but Percy hadn't even turned the page in half an hour.

All he had to do was assign the steps to Oliver. Oliver was to prepare the calculations for the spell's intonation and wand angles; Percy was to provide the theoretical justification and the diagrams for the transfiguration. A simple, clear, logical diagram. He even made a schedule down to the ten-minute mark.

But Oliver Wood, instead of sitting and working, "stayed late at training." Just for an hour. Then two. Then three.

Percy squeezed the quill so hard it crackled. Ink splattered onto the clean sheet of paper with his elegant handwriting. He growled, wiped the stain with his robes, and stared into space again. The room smelled of dust, old paper, and someone else's irresponsible attitude to work. To his work. To their common work.

And then the door swung open with a slam.

"Why are you so sour?" Oliver's voice hit the silence like a snitch on glass.

He stood in the threshold, smelling of wind and grass. His robes were unbuttoned, his shin guards were askew, and dry leaves were stuck in his hair. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glittered with feverish excitement, and he was practically glowing—after a perfect catch, after a "lightning turn on his broomstick," after their Seeker had caught the Snitch in five minutes. Oliver Wood was happy.

"I had a perfect practice session today!" he announced, not noticing the corner of Percy's mouth twitching. "We practiced guarding the rings, and Charlie said he hasn't seen a dive that fast since*