One week ago Thursday, you looked at Oliver Wood and realized that you were deeply, deeply infatuated with him. You watched him soaring through the sky and when he paused in front of you, backed by crimson and flame-colored clouds, you knew. Your heart beat sped up while he hovered there, staring at you.

“What?” he asked, and you realized that you’d have a fondness for Scottish accents for the rest of your life.

“Nothing,” you said. Your voice didn’t squeak, and you were terribly grateful for that.

“Let’s go, then.” He gestured for you to join him in the air.

You had decided a few weeks ago that you were going to get on the team next year. Oliver was leaving school and Gryffindor would be without a Keeper, so you figured you should at least try.

It occurred to you that perhaps Oliver could maybe help you out, so one night you pulled him aside after dinner and asked if he would. He told you that he got up early most mornings to practice anyway, and said you could come along if you’d like. You agreed, and four mornings a week you rose at six and the two of you flew around the field and tossed the quaffle back and forth until it was time for breakfast.

So maybe sometimes you caught yourself admiring his form in more ways than one, that was nothing, right? Not a thing wrong with being an aesthetic sort, and anyway a person would have to be blind not to find Oliver Wood good-looking.

You didn’t expect to get a crush on him, of all things. Admiration was fine, but you thought you would have drawn the line at staring at him like some sort of lovelorn girl. Apparently, though, you are entirely free of shame. Because here you are again, watching him fly and wishing you could be his broom and could that be more wrong? You think not. It’s been a week and three days and nothing has changed except for everything, because now you want to do things like kiss him against the locker room door and possibly lie on the grass at his side and watch the sun rise.

And it’s stupid, because it’s not like you have a chance. He’s a seventh year, and the fact that he’s too busy to notice doesn’t mean that half the girls in school and more than a few of the boys aren’t queuing up to shag him senseless. There’s no way he’d want you; you’re just a Weasley and you’re not even one of the interesting ones. You’re not even that great of a Quidditch player, as hard as you try, and you don’t know why he even bothers with you, but the fact that he does gives you hope. Desperate, pathetic hope, but there it is.

So you try.

You finish the lesson and walk with him as far as the end of the pitch before you work up the courage to do anything, and then you stop.

“Ron?” he says, making it a question, and you stand on tiptoe and press your lips to his before you lose your nerve.

You’re kissing him, and you don’t really know what you’re doing but it’s enjoyable nonetheless. His hands are on your shoulders and you realize suddenly that he’s pushing you away.

And you say “what?” because for a second there he kissed you back, you felt him kiss you back and then he stopped and you can’t for the life of you figure out why. “What?” you ask again, and then you start to think of reasons.

Oliver looks aggrieved. “Ron, you’re-“

“I’m fourteen!” you cut him off. Okay, barely fourteen, almost fourteen if you wanted to get technical about it. Thirteen and nine months is practically there anyway. “That’s not that young!”

“It’s not about your age-“

“What is it then?” you very nearly shout. You always wondered if you would handle rejection well. Guess not.

“Ron, it’s not personal,” he starts, and he’s lying already because of course it is. “I’m seeing someone else.”

The first thing you think to ask is who, and when he answers you wish you hadn’t.

“Um,” he says, and looks anywhere but at you. “Percy.”

You very nearly say “Percy who?” because honestly, it’s just that unbelievable, except that it isn’t. They’re roommates and they always sit by each other at meals. Percy’s never around any more, and Oliver’s busy even when there isn’t a game to be played. It makes sense, it fucking makes sense and what ever made you think you had a chance?

You have dirt beneath your fingernails. You are almost certain that Percy doesn’t. There are grass stains on your knees and you probably aren’t a very good kisser. You’re thirteen and he’s seventeen, and he’s leaving school in a few months and he’s dating your brother, for god’s sake, he’s dating Percy of all people.

Oliver’s looking at the ground. “Sorry, Ron,” he says. He doesn’t stop there, but it doesn’t matter what he says because he can bloody well be sorry as he wants, he’s still Percy’s boyfriend, and not yours. Eventually he heads up to the castle. He doesn’t look back.

You have a feeling that today’s lesson was the last.

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