Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1908357.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Percy_Weasley/Oliver_Wood
  Character:
      Percy_Weasley, Oliver_Wood, Harry_Potter, Ron_Weasley
  Additional Tags:
      Unresolved_Sexual_Tension, Bathroom_Sex, Mildly_Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-11-10 Words: 7196
****** Oliver Wood’s Biggest Fan ******
by puckity
Summary
     Oliver Wood has a rather obsessed fan. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know
     it.
Notes
     Written in 2005; because Percy, who can be a world-class prick when
     he wants to be, deserves a bit of explanation. Canon through HBP,
     although this would take place in PoA so that doesn’t really matter.
     Dedicated to, or rather blamed on, my brilliant beta Rachel--who also
     edited this.
     You can also follow me on Tumblr.
“What exactly do you two think you’re doing?”
“It’s none of your business, Percy.”
“Don’t take that insolent tone with me, Ronald.”
“I’ll take whatever tone I want with you, thank you very much.”
“You’d better reconsider your attitude, Mr. Weasley. I am Head Boy of
Gryffindor before I am your brother.”
“So why don’t you go write up a report or file a complaint or do whatever it is
that you authoritarian types are into?”
Percy’s upper lip quivered. It had a bad habit of doing this whenever he was
desperately trying to restrain himself or repress a certain emotion; at the
moment he was fighting a mix of humiliation and undignified rage. Unfortunately
for him, the result was neither stoic nor intimidating. He just ended up
looking rather like a constipated chipmunk.
“Oi, ouch! Bloody…” Ron shot Harry a nasty look for something that Percy
couldn’t see with the lab table between them. But Harry was already talking to
the older Weasley son, and pointedly ignoring the younger one.
“We were only looking for Professor Lupin, Percy. The last time we couldn’t
find him he ended up being in the dungeons. We thought it was worth a try.”
Percy attempted to silence the voice in the back of his mind that told him he
was being blatantly lied to.
“And what business do you have with Professor Lupin? At a quarter past nine, I
might add.” What he hoped sounded like a brotherly scolding came off more as a
haughty challenge.
“Well, um…you see—it’s, it’s complicated.” Now it was obvious that Harry was
lying to Percy. Or at least he wasn’t telling him the whole truth.
“If you have enough time to sneak about after hours then you have enough time
to explain yourselves.” Earlier that day, Percy had come across the two hulking
giants that normally guarded the Malfoy boy in a similar situation. It was
similar insomuch that he had found them coming out of the Astronomy Tower
during the lunch hours, looking disheveled and clearly up to no good. They too
had refused to answer his questions or respect his authority. That incident
coupled with the argument he’d had with Penelope over the Quidditch game that
Friday had left him in an extremely sour mood. He would not stand for
insubordination from his own flesh and blood.
“Look Percy, why don’t you stop being a great prat and go snog your girlfriend.
You look like you need it.” Ron grinned toothily at him. That was the last
straw.
“Fine, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter. You’ve brought this upon yourselves. I will
not disturb Professor Dumbledore tonight, but rest assured that tomorrow
morning I will have no choice but to inform him and Professor Snape of this
little nighttime excursion.” At Ron’s blanched look, Percy stood a bit taller.
“As I said, you left me no other options.”
“Why, you lousy excuse for a—” Ron’s wild-eyed disbelief distorted his features
and he looked quite mad. Unable to finish his sentence, he stood there shaking
for a minute, and then without warning he lunged across the lab table and made
a vain attempt at throttling his older brother. Harry was playing a game of
tug-of-war with the end of Ron’s robes, frantically trying to pull him away
from Percy’s neck. Percy, meanwhile, was scrambling to get out of reach of
those groping hands.
“Ron! Get a grip!” Harry had resorted to grabbing Ron around the waist and
heaving him back. His arm now caught Ron’s torso and held him fast. Ron
appeared to be completely unaware of this as he continued making threatening
comments and fought at attacking Percy, even though the latter was at least ten
metres away by now.
“Percy, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Ever since Scabbers
disappeared—”At this point Ron turned to Harry and began fuming about how
Hermione’s furry monstrosity had eaten his family rat. Percy watched in a sort
of stunted shock while trying to check that his body was still intact. Harry
began talking again, struggling to speak over Ron’s rantings. “Really, I’m
sorry. I know about your duty and obligation and all that, but if you turn us
into Snape there is no way I’ll be able to play in Friday’s match. And if that
happens,” Harry grimaced. “Wood will kill me.”
Percy’s stomach jumped a little. Surely, he reasoned with himself, he couldn’t
allow Gryffindor to lose the Quidditch Cup. Not so much for Harry, but he
couldn’t let Oliver lose it. That was all he had talked about, day and night,
for seven years. Percy couldn’t be responsible for robbing him of a last chance
for glory. Gathering up all his dignity, Percy composed himself again. Both the
younger boys stared at him with hesitant expectation.
“No, that would be unacceptable.” From the other side of the table a collective
breath was exhaled. “I will not report you—just this once—on the condition that
you understand I do this at risk of my position and integrity. Under different
circumstances I would not be so lenient.”
Harry smiled broadly. “Thanks, Percy. We owe you one.” Ron had already started
towards the classroom door, mumbling a halfhearted apology as he passed his
brother. Harry made to follow him, but Percy called after him.
“Harry! Um, about the match, then…” Looking at the best seeker in the school,
Percy refused to let the younger Gryffindor know how much he envied his
abilities. “You think there’s a good chance of us getting the Cup? Because I
was considering a wager with Penelope…nothing major…I don’t condone gambling in
the slightest, especially not in the school.” Harry seemed momentarily shaken,
but quickly regained a slightly less enthusiastic smile and nodded.
“If you’re in the mood to win, make that bet.” With that Harry left the
classroom and—after a brief moment of indecision—Percy went to finish his
patrols.
                                      ---
The seventh year boys’ dormitory in Gryffindor tower was never particularly
quiet, but for the past week the same thick air of manic anticipation that had
seeped around the school began to stagnate there. Not that Percy minded the
rowdiness so much—although it did make studies and any sort of organizational
pursuit a nearly impossible task—it was only that he didn’t really know how to
function within it. He had always felt like a spectator—never knowing how to
respond to the sarcastic jabs that were thrown about—and after a while no one
bothered to try and include him anymore. The good thing about the upcoming
Quidditch Cup Final was the fact that it had heightened the frenzy to a point
where his fellow seventh years started to try and make jokes with him again.
When he returned from his rounds the dormitory was still filled with
conversation.
“You should use Shield Charms, so if those Slytherin wankers try and beat a
foul bludger you won’t have to worry about it.”
“Like we want to get disqualified before the match even begins, Everly. We can
tell why you failed the last Practical Charms test.”
“At least I can transfigure my footstool. Didn’t yours end up squealing with
feathers?
“Leave Everly alone, Kerrick. You couldn’t transfigure the lamp. Yours ended up
being a crow with a light bulb on its head.”
“Only that one time!” In the corner a scuffle broke out between the three boys,
while the others looked on in amusement. Wood glanced up from his miniature
model of the Quidditch pitch briefly, then returned to muttering what must have
been plays and formations to himself. Percy sat on his bed polishing his Head
Boy badge and trying his hardest not to stare at Oliver lost in his planning.
More than anything, Percy wished he could tell Oliver Wood how much he admired
him.
Oliver Wood was just as organized and rigid as Percy, but he managed to be
infinitely more popular. Percy should have hated him, or at the very least have
been annoyed with him. But when he watched Wood soar around the pitch, making
dangerous dives and hairpin turns, he couldn’t help but be awed. It had been
like this ever since their second year, when Oliver would practice flying after
classes, and tell all the other boys, who spent their free time relaxing, that
one day he would be captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and his team would
win the Quidditch Cup. At the same time, Percy told everyone that—just like his
brothers before him—one day he would be Head Boy.
“Careful, Weasley.” Devon Shanahan, whose bed was to the left of Percy’s,
smirked. “If you polish that badge much more, it’ll lose all its finish. And we
can’t have that for our Head Boy.” Though it was a jab at his expense, Percy
reminded himself that Shanahan wasn’t really being mean. Percy wished he was
quick enough to make a sharp retort, but he settled for a bit of strained
laughter as he put his Head Boy badge onto the nightstand, his face already
beginning to warm with embarrassment.
After a short while, the insults died down and the boys went to their beds, all
looking reluctant at the thought of sleep. Percy touched his wand to the
bedside light and watched it dim to darkness. He lay down on his back, staring
up at the maroon awnings. When he was certain that the others had drifted out
of consciousness, he reached over and inched the nightstand drawer open. Under
several books and his glasses, Percy felt for a battered wooden box. Inside
were all the various paraphernalia he had collected from Oliver Wood’s run on
the Quidditch team. Percy edged out a tattered, overexposed picture and
fingered it delicately. A single boy, no older than fourteen, stood in the
frame, clutching his Cleansweep and dressed in full match attire. He nervously
swayed, tapping his broom handle and fidgeting with his robes. Yet, for a
wizarding picture, he was remarkably still. Percy turned it over, and could
just barely make out the smudged writing in the pale moonlight.
To Percy, the smartest person I know.
Someday you will be Head Boy, and I will be Quidditch captain, and then
Gryffindor will be the best house in the school.
Your friend,
Oliver Wood
Percy would have given a great deal to still be young enough for Oliver Wood to
call him a friend.
                                      ---
The rest of the week was marked with increasingly more spiteful bickering with
Penelope. It had started a few months ago, with her casually pointing out some
of Percy’s idiosyncrasies. Taking it as a personal affront, Percy had sulked
for days, much to Penelope’s annoyance. This came on the heels of Penelope
bringing up the issue of the seriousness of their relationship. Percy—who
wouldn’t admit that he was anything more than mature on all matters—saw this as
a sign of her childishness. And he altogether refused to talk about her main
concern, which was what she termed his ‘growing fanaticism’ with the Gryffindor
Quidditch team. He argued that she was simply jealous because Gryffindor was
clearly in the running for the Cup. She demanded to know why he took it as part
of his duty as Head Boy to guard the locker rooms whenever the team occupied
them.
If Percy had intended to be honest with himself, he would have admitted that he
wasn’t prepared for this relationship—or probably any relationship for that
matter. With Penelope he had not only been flattered to be an object of
affection for someone; he also saw it as his chance to fit in with the peers he
couldn’t relate to. The first months of the year before were filled with
experimentation and infatuation. They snogged several times a week and he had
made a few awkward grabs in various rooms, but after a summer filled with
almost daily love letters they’d come into seventh year as an actual couple,
and it became evident that they were not suited for each other. Percy took
refuge in the Quidditch matches, and his long-standing fascination with Oliver
Wood had peaked into something else entirely.
The boy standing nervously in the picture hidden in his nightstand drawer was
pudgy and uncoordinated, and Percy remembered how he had always been nearly a
head taller than Oliver. It probably started happening in their fifth year, but
with Harry Potter coming to Hogwarts and all the excitement surrounding that,
Percy hadn’t really noticed. It was during the first games of their sixth year
when Percy really saw him again. He had grown—equal to if not slightly taller
than Percy—and he had stretched out, a lightly muscled body replacing the
stockier one of his younger years. His jaw had set, his eyes had deepened, and
suddenly he was something like an enigma among the student population. Still he
had no girlfriends; he never joined in with the other boys’ horseplay. The only
thing he cared about was the only thing he had ever cared about; his team was
going to win the Quidditch Cup. In his ambition and drive for this achievement,
Percy felt like Oliver was something of a kindred.
On Thursday evening, after the latest fight with Penelope, Percy made his
rounds in a dark temper and returned to the Gryffindor Common Room just as
Oliver shouted, “Alright team! Bed!” Still festering in his foul mood, Percy
followed behind the players and made his way just after Oliver to the seventh
year boys’ dormitory. Too upset even to polish his badge, Percy tossed it
roughly on his nightstand and threw himself across his mattress. These antics,
however, were ignored amidst the cat-calls and lewd remarks aimed at Wood as he
stripped to his pants.
“Hey, is it getting warm in here, or is it just me?”
“Better not let your female fans know about your little pre-match ritual,
Wood.”
“I vote for you doing it without your pants, seeing as it’s the Final and all.”
Every boy in the room was leering at Wood, who ignored them almost completely
as he began to reach towards his toes. Percy sat bolt upright, already breaking
into a nervous sweat. In his huff, he had totally forgotten that it was the
night before a match, and that meant that Oliver was going to do what he called
his ‘extensive stretch sets’. Basically, he would remove all his clothes except
his pants—his reason being that clothes restricted movement—and do dramatic
stretching for half an hour before going to sleep, to relax his muscles so they
didn’t cramp up in the morning. Percy had been subtle about being absent during
these evenings, mostly for fear of facing his reactions to them. But he hadn’t
thought about it at all today, and the result was that now he found himself
staring at Oliver Wood’s backside, unable to look away.
After what seemed like an unnecessarily long period for a stretch, Oliver stood
up and began his shoulder and arm sets. Percy watched the muscles in his back
shift and tense, ebbing like waves in the water. It was beautiful, graceful.
Luckily Percy’s bed was near the door so the other boys, who were still jeering
Wood, couldn’t see him watching in unabashed rapture. Five minutes passed, then
ten, and still Percy didn’t look away. Oliver began to rotate his torso—hands
on his hips—and as he spun his upper body around he looked behind him. Percy
had the sudden sense that Oliver had caught him staring. What was more, this
break in his reverie brought a more pressing issue to his attention. A
noticeable stiffening in the front of his trousers—which he did not care to
analyze further—demanded immediate action. Desperate to get as far away from
the nearly nude Oliver and all his other male peers as he could, Percy shot out
of the dormitory door and down the stairs, trying to frantically think of
somewhere he could go to take care of this problem. A soft jingle in his pocket
reminded him of something—the key to the prefect’s bathroom. Without a second
thought he ran to it, unlocked the door and jumped inside, praying that no one
had seen him in this utterly humiliating state.
How could this happen? Percy’s head hit the tiled wall with a thud. It didn’t
seem fair. He was supposed to be respectable, trustworthy, moral in character.
And here he was, aroused by another boy stretching. Not just any other boy; the
most unattainable other boy. His hand hovered just above his trousers. The
summer between his third and fourth years, he had been caught touching himself
by his twin brothers. Instead of being disgusted—as Percy had been the first
time he attempted to wank off—Fred and George were malevolently giddy. They
never threatened to tell their mother or father, but the guilt hung over
Percy’s head like a dark cloud. Whenever they referred to ‘summer recreation’
they would look at Percy and wink, which only reminded him of his deed. As it
was he didn’t touch himself in a sexual way for over a year after the incident,
and even four years later he couldn’t masturbate without feeling nauseous.
Still, just standing there and imagining Oliver’s slightly bronzed skin
rippling as he stretched made Percy’s cock swell painfully. The sooner he did
it, the sooner he could go back to the dormitory and sleep.
He unzipped his trousers and forced a reluctant hand inside. Percy didn’t like
looking at himself, seeing any unsavory part of his anatomy. Standing over a
urinal, his fingers closed around his penis and he began to pump as rapidly as
he could. All he could think of was getting rid of this overwhelming feeling of
shame. He felt his body approaching the crest when a sudden noise sounded on
the other side of the wall and the door began to open. He barely had enough
time to zip his trousers and close his robes over them. Trying to appear as
composed as any normal person in a bathroom would be, he casually looked up
only to see the urinal next to his being occupied by a pajama-clad Oliver Wood.
Percy briefly considered asking him whether or not he realized this was a
prefects’ bathroom, but got distracted by the realization that Oliver’s
privates were being exposed to him—albeit innocuously enough—at that very
moment. He struggled against the compulsion to steal a peek. Honestly, he was a
young man in his last year of school, and Percy thought he should be able to
exert more self-control that this.
“Um, are you alright there, Percy?” Percy, whose solution to not staring at
Oliver’s penis was focusing on a crack in the wall tile and mentally listing
every pair of socks he owned—including color and pattern—spun about to face
Oliver. He clamped down hard on the inside of his lip, willing it to remain
steady.
“Yes, I’m perfectly well. Just a trifle worn out over the day’s exertions.” His
voice rang slightly higher than normal. Realizing that standing over a urinal
with his trousers fastened any longer could be construed as bizarre, Percy
turned toward the sinks, careful to keep his robes billowing. “And how are you,
Oliver?”
The expression of mild surprise left Oliver’s face, and he seemed to be
channeling all his energy on the act of taking a piss. There was no change in
his stance, but his voice sounded tighter than it was a moment earlier.
“I’ve got to win tomorrow.” Percy let the lukewarm water run over his hands as
he glanced at Oliver’s reflection in the mirror above the sink. Those deep set
eyes stared at some invisible point in the porcelain bowl. “I’ve worked all
these years for it, spent my hours training and practicing. It’s the only thing
I ever had, and now it’s almost mine. But,” The passion that overtook his
previous sentences dissipated, and now he sounded rather sardonic. “you know
what that’s like, don’t you Percy?” Percy wasn’t sure if he had looked down at
his hands soon enough for Oliver to not see him watching.
A strange silence stretched between them. Percy hadn’t really talked to
Oliver—outside of class work and dinner banter—in three or four years. For all
the intensity Percy feigned, Oliver commanded it. And yet now Percy had what
he’d always desired, and Oliver was still reaching. After seeming to decide
that Percy was not going to answer, Oliver zipped up his trousers and walked
over to the sink beside Percy. When the water began running he spoke again.
“I’ve seen you at the games this year. You’ve found some time in the demanding
Head Boy’s schedule to follow the team?” Familiar indignation rose in Percy’s
chest, and he flipped off the faucet and turned to the towels. He replied with
his back to Oliver.
“You may think that my post has made me too proud for Gryffindor, but I’ll have
you know that I am just as dedicated to our house as you are.” Though his
unintentional erection had not gone away, Percy suddenly felt the overwhelming
need to be anywhere but near Oliver Wood. This close proximity brought rushing
back all the late night dreams he had worked so hard to convince himself were
not real—of Oliver injured in the hospital wing with only Percy to tend to him,
of Oliver finding him during an after hours patrol and confessing his unbridled
lust for Percy, of Percy walking in on Oliver showering after a match and
Oliver pinning him against a stall and licking the water from the back of his
neck…and then with his broom—and Percy would not let these thoughts cloud his
mind. But then he was distracted, because Oliver was chuckling behind him.
Percy didn’t think he had heard Oliver so much as giggle since fourth year, but
the fact that he was laughing at Percy substantially tainted the moment.
“I forgot how cute you are when you get offended.”
Percy couldn’t decide if he was being mocked or not. Perhaps it was a matter of
being referred to as cute by the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, but
his thoughts now raced at alarming speed. If he was being mocked and he showed
even the smallest hint of taking it seriously and being flattered, what little
social status he had would be as good as gone. If Oliver wasn’t trying to be
cruel but hadn’t meant it in a romantic way and Percy got angry or excited, the
person he admired most would never give him the time of day again. But if
Oliver had meant it in a suggestive way…then Percy didn’t have the faintest
idea of how to respond to that.
“I think your hands are as dry as they’re going to get.” Glancing down, Percy
saw that his hands had been automatically looping a drying motion against the
hand towel for several minutes. Completely at a loss of what to do or
say—completely lost in this whole situation—Percy darted for the door, his face
burning a fierce red.
“Percy, wait! Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just…our
last year is more than half over, and I didn’t know if I’d get another chance.”
Percy turned around but couldn’t look up past Oliver’s knees. When he tried to
say something, his voice broke and it came out as a yelp. He cleared his
throat.
“A chance at what?”
Oliver grinned sheepishly. “A chance at talking to you again. I can’t remember
the last time we had an actual conversation outside of class.” For a moment,
sharp disappointment stung Percy. But he pushed it back and met Oliver’s gaze.
It seemed moderately sincere.
“I never was a good people person.” Percy shuffled back towards Oliver.
Suddenly uncertain of what to talk about, Percy struggled to hastily keep the
conversation afloat. “I saw you in that match against Ravenclaw, when you used
the split arrow formation. It was very impressive.” Oliver laughed again. At
Percy’s stiffening face, he waved a dismissive hand.
“I had no idea you knew that much about Quidditch. I’m the one who’s
impressed.” Oliver smiled, as if to chase away any lingering feelings of
mockery.
“Well, when you grow up with two older brothers who are Quidditch fanatics, and
three younger brothers who are Quidditch fanatics, you tend to pick up a few
things along the way. Especially from the twins.” Percy sighed in an elder
sibling sort of way.
“Ah yes, Fred and George. I can see how they could be a nuisance.”
“You only have to deal with them for a set number of hours every week during
the season. I have to deal with them the rest of the time.”
Oliver laughed again, and made a concessionary motion. “You win.”
Without Percy realizing it, he and Oliver had come to be standing oddly close
to each other. The lull in the talking served as a glaring reminder of Percy’s
less-than-ideal physical state. Unfortunately he couldn’t look down or make any
telling movements without alerting Oliver to his arousal. Suddenly he felt warm
breath grazing his jaw and his upper lip began to quiver. Oliver was
unnecessarily close to him now, almost looming above him—although that was an
exaggeration seeing as he was only an inch or so taller than Percy at most.
Under that intense scrutiny any resolve or delusions of authority faded. The
back of his thighs hit something cold and hard—the edge of the sink—and he
couldn’t move any further. Oliver leaned in, and Percy felt a surge of panic
and terror like nothing he had known before. His lip trembled, but then it was
trapped immobile beneath Oliver’s own mouth.
Their first kiss was awkward, to put it mildly. With Penelope he had been just
as panicked, but at least then he had control in the situation. Matched against
Oliver he was totally at the mercy of someone else; he hated feeling helpless.
The kiss was short and rigid—at least on Percy’s part. After a few seconds,
Oliver pulled away and both surging relief and swelling regret filled the pit
of Percy’s stomach. It seemed as though Oliver had decided to give up, but
then—as he moved to turn his hip—his leg brushed against the front of Percy’s
trousers and he paused. For a minute he did nothing, then his hand rubbed over
Percy’s concealed erection and Percy froze, desperately trying not to embarrass
himself further. Oliver stared back and forth between Percy’s trousers and his
furiously blushing face, and then began to stroke Percy in a more deliberate
fashion. Too mortified for words, Percy shut his eyes to avoid the tears that
threatened to prick up at any time. He was so focused on his shame that he
didn’t notice the second kiss coming, and it turned out that being less
prepared for it improved the experience immensely.
With one hand still stroking the front of Percy’s trousers, Oliver’s other hand
wound around Percy’s head and nudged Percy’s mouth towards his. A few chaste
touches—they really weren’t even kisses—and Percy made his first reciprocal
move. Keeping his eyes closed, Percy leaned forward trying to follow Oliver’s
lips as he pulled away. His hands tentatively rested on Oliver’s sides. Oliver
thrust his head forward to meet Percy’s again, and this time he began to try
and pry Percy’s lips apart. Percy resisted the attempt, mainly because Penelope
had always told him that snogging him with tongues felt like snogging a cow
chewing cud. But then Oliver’s hand left his trousers and Percy’s face was
bracketed by palms; he couldn’t escape. Finally, with his hands bunched in
Oliver’s nightshirt, Percy parted his mouth slightly and Oliver took the
offensive tactic of slipping his tongue in-between those lips and coaxing that
other tongue out to meet him. For a few more minutes the snogging increased to
a minor frenzy; Percy even made a few noises in the back of his throat. Then
Oliver shifted his attention to Percy’s ear, biting playfully at the lobe and
blowing softly against Percy’s cheek. Percy’s heart pounded erratically and he
screwed his eyes tighter shut.
“There are only two things I’ve ever wanted.” Oliver whispered into Percy’s
ear, and it almost sounded like a hiss. “One is sitting in the school trophy
case, and the other is you.” Percy’s eyes shot wide-open. It was entirely
possible that he had been in such a prolonged distressed state of arousal that
his brain wasn’t registering things properly. Oliver pulled away from his ear
and those intense eyes seared into his own startled ones. There was a
frightening power in that gaze that Percy only dreamed of attaining. Oliver
stared at what he must have thought to be Percy’s blank expression and then
started again, a tiny waver in his voice.
“I—I want you. May I please, um, have you?” Even Oliver Wood appeared to be
embarrassed by such a direct and explicit—not to mention poorly
phrased—question. For Percy’s part, he wasn’t totally sure what Oliver having
him would entail but right now his body ached for release, and even his sense
of moral duty and shame couldn’t diminish it. In a distinctly non-Head Boy
decision, Percy nodded his consent.
Without missing a beat, Oliver went into his team captain mode; with a purpose
and direction he knew exactly what his course of action was going to be.
“You’ll need to take this off.” Oliver plucked at the fastening on Percy’s
cloak. “It will be in the way.” Percy fumbled with his garment as Oliver
stepped back to peel off his nightshirt. As he did so he motioned to Percy.
“Your shirt and trousers, too.” A minute later, Percy was naked except for his
pants, which only served to make his erection even more prominent. He crossed
his arms over his thin chest and hoped that all the pale skin on his body
wouldn’t flush along with his cheeks. Oliver moved back to him and kissed him
quickly. “I’ll take care of you first.”
Percy didn’t process that statement fast enough, because suddenly Oliver was on
his knees and Percy’s pants were around his ankles and then a warm, wet trail
was being drawn up the underside of his penis and he lost what little control
he believed he still had. As much as Percy hated looking at his body in
arousal, something about watching Oliver Wood suck at the head of his cock was
fascinating. After a few more slow licks, Oliver forced as much of Percy’s
penis into his mouth as he could without gagging. At this point Percy’s neck
muscles liquefied and his head swung back. His eyes fluttered shut and he felt
his hands clench around the edge of the sink. He tried to ignore the rather
disgusting smacking and slurping sounds as Oliver picked up the pace. Then
Percy felt two hands touching him—one rolling his balls and the other pumping
the base of his penis. The sensation rose, for the second time that night, of
him approaching climax. Every feeling associated with it—guilt, shame, disgust,
embarrassment, and blinding pleasure—rushed through Percy and with a broken
moan he came.
Percy opened his eyes and found himself shaking harshly. Next to him Oliver was
rinsing out his mouth in the sink. Percy wondered if he should have warned
Oliver before he climaxed, but Oliver didn’t seem noticeably bothered. He had
that determined look once again. He turned from Percy and moved around the
bathroom, obviously searching for something. Percy was going to offer to help
him locate whatever it was he needed, since this was a prefects’ bathroom and
he was Head Boy, but a triumphant ‘aha’ from near the bathing pool told him his
services weren’t necessary. Oliver walked back with a glass bottle of fragrant
bath oil—a frivolity that Percy never even gave a second glance—and looked
extremely pleased.
“This will work well.” He said it more to himself than Percy. Before Percy had
the chance to ask what the bath oil was for, Oliver grabbed him by the arm and
led him into one of the stalls. He locked the door, poured some oil onto his
hand and set the bottle on the top of the toilet. Then he flipped Percy around
so that he was facing the wall and trapped Percy’s left wrist with his own left
hand above Percy’s head. Percy felt his body tense with fear. Oliver paused,
seeming to sense it as well.
“Don’t worry, Percy. I won’t hurt you. Although this might be…uncomfortable…at
first. Bending over a bit will help.” Having nothing else to go on, Percy
followed Oliver’s advice. “Alright, this may feel weird, but please trust me.
I’m going to stretch you out some. If it hurts more than you can stand, I swear
I’ll stop. Okay?” Still unclear of what was about to be done to him, Percy
nodded again. He felt something cool somewhere lower down, and he couldn’t
understand what Oliver was doing there. Then that cool thing was pushed
inwards, and Percy jolted in pain.
“Are you alright? I have to do fingers first, otherwise you’ll never be able to
handle my cock.” The situation dawned on Percy who, with growing horror, tried
to believe what Oliver said. The finger pushed further and further up his
arse—somewhere he could safely say he had never imagined would have a finger
stuck up it—until Percy felt a pop as though something had punctured and nearly
fainted with nerves and a burning feeling.
“Relax, Percy.” Oliver’s voice sounded like a spirit or a dream, faint but
distinct. “You’ve got to relax.” Percy blinked back tears; his pain threshold
had never been high. Then he braced himself, taking deep breath after deep
breath and willing his muscles to loosen. The finger shifted and Percy felt a
small surge of discomfort, then it hit something and he jolted for a different
reason entirely. The finger rubbed the spot again and a soft groan escaped from
Percy’s throat. Oliver removed his finger, much to Percy’s surprised dismay,
and then hastily replaced that one with two. More pain, more pain, and finally
such extreme pleasure that Percy tried to push back on the fingers every time
they slid away, willing them to touch it again. Then the fingers were pulled
out and Percy heard Oliver reach for the bottle. This was going to be it. For
several seconds, Percy silently hyperventilated in nervous fear. He felt two
hands take hold of him by the waist and something cool but definitely larger
than a finger tried to push its way inside him.
Percy grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Thankfully, Oliver pushed his
cock in faster than he had with his fingers, and Percy just waited for that
final rush of pain before it was totally in. When it came, Percy winced and let
out a strangled sob and Oliver stilled, his hands sliding across Percy’s
abdomen and chest, pulling Percy up from bending over and pressing him closer
to him and the wall. Percy adjusted to this new position and as soon as he
rested the side of his head on the chill wall, Oliver made his first short
thrust. Percy whimpered quietly and Oliver began to move in and out. The first
few strokes didn’t hit that spot, though there was something about this whole
situation that made Percy start to whimper louder. Then, with a subtle shift,
Oliver’s cock hit it dead-on, and Percy’s spine arched with a breathless cry.
Both his hands were pressed against the wall above him, he was trapped between
a star athlete and a panel of metal—in any other circumstance this would have
been a very bad thing. One of Oliver’s arms held him fast across his chest, his
other hand was teasing around Percy’s once again erect penis; he had completely
missed his re-arousal. And Oliver’s hips were thrusting his cock into Percy’s
arse with increasing speed and force. Percy pushed back, pawing at the smooth
walls, feeling Oliver’s cock sink within him, groaning with each thrust that
rubbed against that wonderful spot. For the first time that he could recall,
Percy’s mind wasn’t occupied with duty or responsibility or any other
respectful ideal whatsoever.
After what probably was several minutes but what felt like much less to Percy,
he could hear Oliver grunting behind him. Warm lips started to suck at the back
of his neck, teeth nipped across the top of his shoulder and back again. The
hand on his penis began stroking lazily, but Oliver’s thrusts were reaching
what Percy felt had to be a fever pitch. His own body was being pummeled, but
for reasons that he was purposely ignoring, he liked it. A lot. Once he got
past relinquishing his power—the only thing that had ever gotten him what he
needed or wanted—the feeling of being completely at the mercy of Oliver was
thrilling. He would have done almost anything Oliver asked him to because it
was such a release from the rest of his life.
The mere thought of being owned by Oliver Wood caused Percy to unexpectedly
orgasm again. He panted and moaned, frantically clawing at the metal wall, and
repeating Oliver’s name in a continuous mantra. In response Oliver’s arms
tightened around him, as if claiming possession, and he bit Percy’s
shoulder—not enough to draw blood but enough to leave a mysterious mark for the
coming weeks. Then he tensed and pushed deep inside Percy, who was still
shuddering.
“Oh, sweet Merlin.” Oliver whispered it amid his harsh breathing and loud
groans.
Feeling Oliver come inside him gave Percy an odd feeling of filthiness and
bliss. He decided to let them co-exist at the moment.
For a while Oliver leaned against Percy and Percy leaned against the wall, with
Oliver’s flagging cock still inside Percy’s arse. Percy should have been going
over and over this whole event in his mind already, analyzing every aspect and
reaching a logical conclusion. But instead he thought about Oliver’s arms
holding him, Oliver’s body pressed softly against him. He thought about Oliver
playing Quidditch and how the muscles just used to shag him senseless were
shaped by that game. He really did owe Quidditch something after all.
Finally, Oliver moved away and unlocked the stall door. Percy turned to face
him and Oliver smirked.
“I wish I’d come up with that particular pre-match ritual a while ago.” Percy
let out some tension with awkward giggles. Oliver walked back to where their
clothes were tossed about the floor, and Percy began to think how remarkably
lucky they were that no other prefects…or professors…or Filch…had come along
and discovered them. They dressed without talking, and when they finished
Oliver went to the door.
“You wait for a few minutes before coming back to the tower, just so it doesn’t
look suspicious.” Then he was out of the bathroom and gone.
Percy waited, just as Oliver ordered, and when he crept back into the seventh
year boys’ dormitory everyone was silent. Percy glanced at Oliver’s bed and
watched his chest rise and fall with sleep. He wondered if Oliver was dreaming,
wondered if this had all been a dream. In the morning Oliver would wake up and
be the Gryffindor Quidditch captain—and probably Cup champion—and Percy would
be Head Boy, and life would go on as if nothing had even happened.
Percy imagined—lying in bed and staring at the maroon awning—that telling
himself it was all a dream would make it easier to wake up the next morning.
                                      ---
When Harry caught the snitch right out from the Malfoy boy’s reach, every
Gryffindor went wild. Percy, who had only seen Oliver from afar that day—the
team got up early and spent the day in a huddle preparing—stared at him
continuously throughout the match without fear of suspicion, seeing as everyone
else was staring as well. He had to keep shifting on the hard wooden bench
because certain parts of him were still quite sore. He hadn’t ended up making a
bet with Penelope, which meant that he didn’t have to see her at all during the
match or after it. When Gryffindor won, everyone wearing a red and gold scarf
emptied out into the field, trying to get as near as possible to the Cup
champions. Percy held back, watching Oliver sobbing with happiness and
embracing every member of the team. Even if he wasn’t getting a hug—or even a
nod—from the boy who had fucked him in the prefects’ bathroom the night before,
Percy couldn’t hold it against him. If there was one person in the school who
deserved to win the Quidditch Cup it was Oliver Wood.
After fifteen solid minutes of euphoria the crowd began to disperse and the
team started making its way to the locker rooms. For nostalgia, Percy decided
to play look-out. He congratulated each player as they walked past, and held
his breath as he saw Oliver coming in last from the field, well after the
others had left. As he approached, Percy had the horrible image of nothing
being said between them. With all the courage he ever pretended to have, he
looked Oliver Wood in the eye and said,
“That was the most incredible match I’ve ever seen. Congratulations.”
For a second Oliver just stared at him. Then he sunk his hand into his robes’
pocket and pulled out what looked like a small square of parchment. He handed
it to Percy.
“Thanks.” That was all Oliver Wood said before walking past Percy into the
locker rooms. In his hand, Percy looked down at a picture of a young man in
striking Quidditch robes clutching his Nimbus 2000 and swaying nervously, an
intense look shadowing his face. For a wizarding photograph, the subject stood
remarkably still. Percy turned it over and read the clean dark words.
To Percy, the smartest person I know.
I thought you might like a more recent picture.
Just wanted you to know that Gryffindor is the best house and always has been,
only because you were in it. And I think you should consider being a bit nicer
to Penelope, at least for a couple of days. After all, it was her who told me
where you went last night.
Yours,
Oliver Wood
Percy stood slack-jawed for a minute, then cleared his throat to no one in
particular. Placing the picture carefully in the cover of his spells guidebook,
he made a mental note to ask Dumbledore—before his evening rounds—if private
nightly bathroom reservations could be arranged.
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