Cowboys and Angels

moment twenty: the folly of youth (October 1989.)

Oliver walked through the corridors, shaking his head. He moved steadily, but he was unfocussed, as if he didn't really know where he was going.

And truth be told, he didn't. He was still getting over what had just happened.

Following last weeks' rout - the score was 360-30, in favour of Slytherin, and hardly the best debut Oliver could have had as resident Gryffindor Keeper now that Bertram had left at the end of last year - Mason had announced a meeting.

And announced he was stepping down as Captain.

Oliver still couldn't wrap his mind round it. It was if there'd been a revolution in Heaven.

Hell, this was worse. This was Quidditch.

Oliver had offered to resign as well, but Mason (who was still going to be on the team as Chaser) had talked him out of it, claiming he was the best Keeper Gryffindor had at the moment. And perhaps he was. So he stayed because Mason (God) asked him to, and then Curtis had been elected in Mason's place as Captain.

She was certainly a very capable strategist - in Oliver's opinion to some extent the best Gryffindor had - but she wasn't as good on the ground, which meant that Slytherin's Seeker invariably got the Snitch.

Then she and Mason had nominated Oliver for Deputy Captain, and the entire team had supported it unanimously. When he'd asked Mason why, he'd been told in the two matches he'd played as reserve keeper last year, he'd shown potential. Besides, the team needed new ideas, and Oliver was the fresh blood that would provide them, Mason was sure.

As Oliver walked through the corridors on a high, disbelieving, a shape moved out of the shadows from a nearby passageway, and resolved itself into Marcus Flint. "Wood."

"Flint." Oliver instantly tensed at the sound of that voice, a belligerent, almost thuggish expression coming over his face. He was going to be ready for the fight when and if it came.

"Heard you got made Deputy Captain now. And resident Keeper for Gryffindor."

Oliver didn't miss a beat. "Really? Wow, that must have taken a lot of work, Flint, hearing the same things as the rest of us."

Flint grinned. It wasn't pretty. "It's been fun braining you, Wood. Next time I'll do it on purpose."

"Oh, I'm scared," Oliver retorted sarcastically. He had heard things of his own as to why Flint was acting overly hormonal. "Jealous I actually got the position I wanted, Flint? After all, you only just got made a Chaser this year."

The Slytherin stepped closer. Oliver refused to give him the satisfaction of backing away. "You're making it easy for me, boy."

"Oh, fuck off, Flint. You can't hurt me and you know it."

Flint shrugged. "Perhaps. I almost feel pity for the poor bastard who gets it in your place, then." Chuckling, he walked back into the shadows. "Be seeing you, Wood."

Later that week, when Percy claimed he'd fallen down the stairs again - Oliver watched him from across the common room, and his eyes narrowed.

moment twenty-one: the crime of innocence (January 1990.)

He read, curled up on his bed. He was always reading now, as if he could find some kind of salvation from the wisdom of the ancients, some definitive answer to his problems.

Percy had abandoned the library some weeks previously, when finally, they had invaded him sanctum, and proved just how defenceless he was. He had been pouring over some notes for an upcoming Potions test - Snape was certainly more rigorous in his assessment than other teachers, and Percy relished the challenge, as much as it made him anxious - and they had swaggered over to his table. He'd been so absorbed in his study he hadn't even noticed, except when he'd felt Flint's breath, hot and moist on his ear, and flinched, turning. The Slytherin grinned back, and then made some show of going through his notes, while the others lounged round the table.

When Madam Pince had come over to ask if everything was alright, and cast a keen eye over the assorted Slytherins, Flint had whispered softly in Percy's ear. "You tell her about us, Weasley, and I'll let Bole have his way with you."

Percy managed to stammer out, that no, everything was just fine, these were his friends, and Madam Pince had nodded, and gone on her way. With a crooked grin, Flint had pulled back, ruffling Percy's hair. "You did well, Weasley." The others were grinning as well, and they shifted themselves, moving back into the stacks, heading outside the library. Remembering to wave their 'friend' goodbye.

They were waiting for him when he left, of course.

So he had fled from the library, abandoning the sanctuary he remembered for safer hideaways. Now most of the time he could be found curled up on his bed, largely abandoned, reading a book.

As he had been sure, books at least were not prone to reject him. To relieve his rather desperate loneliness, Percy had made the first attempts at socialisation in this, his third year, and been fobbed off. Most of the other students didn't mean to be harsh, or cruel; they were merely unsure how to act around this painfully stiff young man, who embarrassed them with his penchant for being right, and knowing what they should have known. Besides, they reassured themselves that he wouldn't have enjoyed their pastimes anyway, whether Quidditch or Chess, or a Hogsmeade weekend, and thereby banished the twinge of guilt they might have felt.

There was therefore no-one to lead him through what had been happened, and he was forced to look for solutions from within, and his books. He came to see that the Slytherins treatment of him - even the Gryffindor's awkward reluctance to associate with him - must invariably derive from jealousy. They were envious that while they frittered their lives away on meaningless pursuits, he would instead be honing his abilities, studying for seventh year, preparing his chosen career path. They beat him up or shunned him because in the end they knew he would be victorious, and they couldn't stand that. It all made perfect sense to Percy when he told himself such things, and he started looking down on his fellow students with a kind of affectionate condescension, the way in which one may view pets, or toddlers. They couldn't help the fact they were so silly, and they lashed out at Percy in self-denial.

He was the better one. The smart one. The one who would succeed.

It didn't matter if he was popular, because popularity was nothing, pointless, ephemeral. It would be here today and gone tomorrow, due to the callous vindictiveness of the petty crowd. It didn't matter if he could play Quidditch like Oliver for example, or have all the women (and half the men) almost swooning when he favoured them with a cheery grin. He didn't need to be Oliver Wood, no matter how feted or loved he was. Oliver was no slouch in the mental department either, from the few times he'd asked Percy to help him out with Transfiguration - his one academic weak point.

Truth be told, he didn't see what everyone saw in Wood. For all his strengths, Oliver was clearly more interested in the short term view, and therefore could never be truly worth the respect or friendship of someone like Percy. Not that Percy had many friends. But that was simply because he was so picky. In contrast, Wood courted public opinion - but no, that was unfair. Oliver didn't seek adoration; it simply happened. People trusted Oliver, they liked him, and he was easy around people, even if the only thing he ever talked about was Quidditch. Barbaric game. For people like Flint, and Pucey, and Higgs...and Wood, it seemed, although Percy hesitated before assigning him to the same mental category as the others.

He heard the growing babble of conversation from the common room downstairs and sighed, realising that the team must have come back after Quidditch practice. It was all a bit too much, especially when one was trying to study.

He searched through the pages, absorbing knowledge like a sponge, and none of it availed him. Desperate, friendless, forsaken and alone, Percy built a tower of illusions around himself, and kept pushing people away for all the right reasons.