Cowboys and Angels

moment seventeen: from little things, big things grow (November 1988.)

Oliver desperately, urgently tried not to vomit. It would make him look even more stupid in front of his teammates, and he didn't want to wreck things before they'd even started. He was after all, only a replacement. A reserve. They couldn't be expecting much from him. Bertram had had the bad luck to get bitten by one of Hagrid's creatures in class the other day, and his arm had swollen up like a balloon. He'd been ordered into bed by Madam Pomfrey and fed an apparently evil tasting concoction, and was expected to be unable to play Qudditch for two entire matches! Horrible. Oliver would rather have had the arm removed than not play Quidditch. Although he'd have to get used to flying that way, he thought; it would

throw his normal balance completely off...

But that wasn't the point. The point was the team captain - Mason, a burly Sixth Year, God in Oliver's eyes, was determined not to let Slytherin win again, and so they needed a Keeper. He remembered the second year who'd tried out for the team at the beginning of the year, and tracked him down with the help of McGonagall.

Which was how Oliver found himself sitting in the locker room toilets on a Saturday morning, dressed in some hastily found Quidditch robes that were a size too small, and trying not to be sick.

A tap at the door. "You alright, Oliver." It was Mason. God. God was asking him if he was alright.

Oliver dry-heaved.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he managed to stammer out a response. "Y-yeah."

"Fancy coming out then?" There was a sigh. "Look, I know this is nervous for you, it's your first game at school, and you haven't practised with the team." He and Mason had done drills last night until the dark had chased away their prospects for any more, but it was hardly the kind of preparation Oliver had wanted. Getting up from the toilet, he opened up the cubicle door, and managed a weak grin. "Wild horses couldn't stop me at this point."

"Good lad," Mason said and turned away to address the rest of the team, while Oliver moved into the semi-circle. "Look, I know you're all worried about this match, especially with Todd-" that was Bertram "-out. But we've got a replacement, and Wood here is jolly good, and he'll do just fine. We can't let Slytherin get off to a good start; they've won enough Quidditch Cups in the last few years as it is. You all know what to do: play well, play hard, don't foul, and we'll get there." He paused. "Keep your eyes peeled for Flint and Higgs; they may only be second years, but they're proving themselves the nastiest of the bunch."

He looked at each of them in turn, and softly asked, "Are we ready, Gryffindor?"

The team roared its assent.

When the Gryffindors took the field, Marcus' lips automatically curled at the sight of that tall Scottish berk, the one he'd already mentally labelled the cocksucker's boyfriend. He looked as though he might wet himself at any moment, and Marcus would have been all too happy to laugh at such a sight. He was determined though, and from what Marcus had heard, he could keep half-decently. Marcus himself had been relegated to Beater in the Slytherin Quidditch team, as they had enough chasers as it is; Higgs was a Chaser himself, although he kept shooting daggers into the back of Slytherin's seeker, a short, thin chap by the name of Reed. Despite all Marcus' experience, they had decided to put Higgs in as Chaser, and not him! They said his anger could be better spent on the Bludgers: it was amazing they won any games, but win they did.

Roughly two minutes into the game, Marcus did indeed take his anger out on a Bludger. And thwacked it right into the Keeper's head.

He fell off his broom like a dead weight, and quickly deputy umpires rushed onto the ground bearing a stretcher to cart him off. Flint was by this time too busy scanning the sky for any sign of the bludger to really notice. What the fuck did he care if some Gryffindor got brained? It was only a Gryffindor, after all.

Percy watched his first live Quidditch game in the stands, saw what had happened to Oliver Wood, wondered how on earth anyone could participate in such a barbaric sport, and swore off supporting the sport then and there.

He wondered briefly if Oliver was alright; they weren't exactly friends - Oliver had asked him the occasional question every now and then regarding homework, as did most of the other second years - but then he remembered that honestly, Oliver was under the fine and capable care of Madam Pomfrey, and really, there were better things Percy could be doing with his time.

moment eighteen: hedgehog's dilemma (late November 1988)

Oliver had returned to the dorms in fine condition, and the Gryffindors had treated him to a hero's welcome. Percy privately thought they were just looking for a reason to raise their spirits after losing. Perhaps even worse, Oliver had publicly declared he would be playing again this weekend, despite what had happened in his first game. Percy had sniffed at that, when he'd heard, and decided that whatever great affection he seemed to inspire amongst the brain-dead, Oliver would not affect him.

The next day, on his way to the library, they had caught him. No Professors were around, and the pack of jackals had gleefully chased him down corridors one after the other until he'd near collapsed, panting, as they snickered and jeered amongst themselves. Since last year, they had replaced the additional two of their group with current first years - a nasty psychopath by the name of Tarquinius Bole, and Ransleigh Derrick, who always seemed to look as though he wanted to be somewhere else.

"You should take up Quidditch," Pucey had told him. "Get you fit in no time."

"Or kill you!" Bole had joined in, seemingly ecstatic at the prospect of someone getting killed.

Percy didn't respond, looking around for some method of salvation, some escape, something, and trembled, clutching his books to his chest. Higgs stepped forward, and Percy visibly flinched, causing Higgs to laugh - a sound that was soon taken up by the other Slytherins (albeit nervously in Derrick's case). Higgs reached out, watching as Percy leaned back, and grabbed one of Percy's books, yanking suddenly so that Percy stumbled forwards and the books dropped onto the floor, Percy immediately bending down to pick them up.

In response, Higgs slammed the palm of his hand against Percy's head and knocked him sideways, causing his glasses to slide off across the floor.

"Um, sure we should be doing this?" Derrick asked. He'd never seen them get physical before.

"Come on, Der, you chicken or what?" Higgs demanded. "It's easy. After all, what the little faggot can't see won't hurt him." To demonstrate his point, he towered over Percy - scrabbling around on the floor, quite blind without his glasses - and lashed out with a foot, catching Percy in the midriff and causing him to cry out in pain, and fall over.

"It's easy," Bole echoed, moving forward with a fierce light in his eyes, and laid in with another boot. Derrick backed away, seemingly unsure, and found himself backed up against Flint.

"Not going anywhere, are you Der?" Flint asked softly.

"Nah, nah, not at all," Derrick assured him. "Just, you know, keeping an eye out for McGonagall or someone."

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Good boy." Flint turned and made his way the huddled form of Percy, curled up into a ball against the fists and feet of the three other boys, and he picked up Percy's glasses up off the floor. Walking swiftly over to the main group, they stopped, parting to allow him access, and Flint knelt by Percy, who was sobbing and whimpering in pain. "There, there," Flint almost crooned. "It's stopped now."

Percy uncurled himself, lowering his hands from his face, well aware he was crying. He stared at Flint dumbly, and Flint reached forward, putting Percy's glasses back on with a gentleness one didn't expect from such a brutish form, and tapped Percy's nose lightly, grinning. He reached out and was handled a bundle of books and papers by Pucey, who'd been collecting Percy's things from off the floor. Shoving it in Percy's chest - who grabbed it, wincing - he never stopped grinning.

"Best get yourself seen to, faggot," he said, "We want you to be all nice and fresh for next time."

Percy stared at him, tears beginning to well up in his eyes, and he stayed like that for some time as the Slytherins left, their mocking laughter echoing down the corridor.

Some time later, he managed to raise himself, and shuffled his way to the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey. When asked how he had got so injured, he'd told her he'd tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs, and felt a slight twinge of loss when she believed him so easily.

Later in the Gryffindor dorms, only one person had bothered to take a look at the faded bruises on his body, the stiff way he walked - magical healing could make him better mainly by accelerating the healing process, rather than abrogating it completely - but Percy had fobbed Oliver off with a request to study, and pulled his curtains closed, so no-one could see him cry.