Quidditch Players

Attack

~~*~~

Marcus's fist collided satisfyingly with his opponent's temple, making him stagger sideways.

"Flint! What the hell?" Oliver Wood rubbed his head furiously. Marcus stared at him - hair still dishevelled from practice, the face, already slightly red from the cold, turning a more furious shade, his lips, pressed together tightly in anger -

Oliver regained his balance and charged at Marcus, shoving him to the ground. Marcus managed to grab Oliver's shirt just before it was out of reach and smirked in satisfaction when Oliver landed on top of him.

~~*~~

Intense

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"He's doing it again, Oliver!" Percy Weasley's face twisted in disgust.

"Huh?" Oliver had a hard time tearing his attention away from Which Broomstick.

"Flint! He's staring at you!"

Oliver's head shot up, too late - Flint was talking to Higgs now. This was getting frustrating. Hardly a morning passed without Percy catching Flint staring, yet Oliver never once saw him look over, much less stare at him.

Oliver couldn't imagine that Percy was making this up - why would he? Oliver couldn't fathom why Flint would stare at him - surely seeing him during matches was more than enough. Why was Flint so interested in him? Despite his best intentions, Oliver found himself thinking about Marcus Flint more and more often.

~~*~~

Handshake

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Oliver was glaring at him, tips pressed tightly together. His face was flushed with excitement and his left leg twitched, eager to kick off the ground. He didn't hear Madam Hooch's request that he shake hands with Flint. He nearly jumped back when Flint thrust his hand forward.

Oliver stuck his hand out quickly, not wanting to spend more time than necessary on formalities when there was a game to be won.

Flint grabbed his hand and held on, squeezing tightly while staring unblinkingly at Oliver, who tried to yank his hand back. Unsuccessfully. Flint was gripping his hand relentlessly, his mouth spreading into a smile ... a grin ... something that was neither evil nor friendly. And Oliver gripped back and glared, fascinated by Flint's facial expression.

Madam Hooch's whistle sounded. Both boys squeezed one last time before letting go and kicking off the ground. There was a match to be won.

~~*~~

Studious

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Marcus Flint's nose wrinkled as he entered the library. He didn't like the smell; parchment and leather - disgusting! He could count on one hand the times he actually needed to study here; he preferred to threaten some of his more studious classmates to copy their essays.

Marcus had left his copy of 'Quidditch Through The Ages' at home, and he absolutely needed to check some facts before the next practice. Contrary to what most people thought, Slytherin did not win by brute force alone.

Breathing shallowly through his mouth, Marcus moved along the bookcases. When he reached the Quidditch section, his eyes scanned the titles to find what he needed and leave, quickly. Only, the book was not there. Marcus cursed under his breath.

He looked around, hoping against hope that the book was lying around somewhere, when his eyes caught sight of a familiar head of brown hair, resting on a table. Oliver Wood was sleeping in the library! Clearly, he was an even bigger idiot than Marcus had thought!

Marcus's fists clenched. How he would like to just grab the Keeper and give him a good punch! But no, they were in the library. Such an opportunity going to waste. Marcus sneered down at Oliver, whose mouth was slightly open slightly and brow creased in concentration. Sucker! Marcus forgot time as he stood and watched. A noise to his right startled him. For fear of being discovered, he quickly made his way out of the library. Slytherin would have to rely on brute force after all.

Marcus never noticed that Oliver was using 'Quidditch Through The Ages' as a pillow.

~~*~~

Finally

~~*~~

Oliver slipped slowly into the mountain of bubbles. Once his body was immersed in the water and his head cushioned on violet bubbles, he sighed contentedly. Nothing like a bath after a hard Quidditch match, especially one against Slytherin; those were always rougher than the other matches.

Oliver floated in the warm water, oblivious to how much time had passed, until the sound of an opening door made him look up. Flint! Oliver glared at the Slytherin. Trust him to come pick a fight now.

To Oliver's surprise, Flint merely stuttered, "Um, sorry. I'll just go, I guess."

Had Flint been Bludgered in the head this afternoon? Oliver decided he should be civil in return at least. "I was about to leave anyway. The water is still warm." Still warm? Wood, you idiot! Oliver blushed, hoping that Flint wouldn't see through the bubbles and steam. He smiled to cover up his blunder.

Flint smiled back, and for the first time, Oliver saw not a rival, but a boy much like himself: competitive, and fanatic about Quidditch. A boy he could stand to get to know better.

~~*~~