Oliver Wood didn't really like boys. Honestly, he didn't much like girls either, but he assumed that one day he'd meet a good one. That's how it worked, right? You don't like them all but you'll like at least one? At sixteen, Oliver still hadn't found one. Not the one, mind you, just… one. One girl that caught his eye for more than a second, or made his heart stutter in his chest. Neither had he found – not that he'd been looking, more of an observation – a single boy that gave him pause. He was still young though, he reasoned with himself. He had plenty of time to find some sort of happy ever after. Besides, he had other things on his mind.

You see, Oliver liked Quidditch. He liked strategy. He liked winning. He liked ice cold pumpkin juice after a hard day's flying. He liked the thump of the quaffle off the end of his broom. He liked books. Not like the massive tomes Percy kept stacked by his bed, but silly fiction novels that made Percy scoff and roll his eyes. Oliver liked Percy. He liked that Percy's bed was next to his, and that Percy was quiet most of the time, and how Percy looked at him when he talked. He had this way of making Oliver feel like every word he said was important. Like he wanted to hear everything. So Oliver just… kept talking.

They had nothing in common. Oliver thought about that a lot. How they could appear so different to outsiders yet complement each other so well. He was thinking this aloud one day, filling the silence as Percy scribbled away on rolls of parchment next to him. Oliver's own essay sat in front of him, very rudely not writing itself, but Oliver was busy wondering.

"Do you think we'd be friends if we didn't share a room? We've nothing in common. Don't get me wrong, Perce, you're great, but I think I only think that now because I know you."

Without looking up, Percy responded, "What would you think if you didn't know me then?"

It was the longest a silence had ever settled between them. Oliver thought, and thought, and thought. He wasn't sure. He couldn't just look at Percy and unknow him.

Percy looked up from his parchment, glasses perched on the very end of his nose. His eyes took Oliver by surprise – had they always been so blue? Sky blue, good flying day blue. Percy blue. With a sharp jolt, Oliver realised just how close those blue eyes were. Percy's face, so close. Dangerously close. "I'd think – I think I'd think – "

"Oliver?" Percy murmured, but it was quiet. Full of something Oliver couldn't quite name. Something that made Oliver's chest flutter the tiniest bit, like that first kick-off from the ground on match day.

"Oh," Oliver said. All of a sudden, there it was. There it had been the whole time: Percy Weasley. Sitting there, with his glasses all but sliding off his face, and all his freckles, and his blue, blue eyes. "Oh," he said, and pressed his lips to Percy's.

You see, Oliver didn't really like boys. Or girls. But he liked Quidditch. He liked Gryffindor Tower, and the warmth of the fire. He liked Exploding Snap. He liked treacle tart, and new parchment, and the hand knitted scarf his gran sent him last Christmas.

And, as it turned out, Oliver very much liked Percy Weasley.

Written for Hunger Games - Training Round; Count Your Buttons - glasses, Oliver Wood, young; Showtime - 13. Percy Weasley; Shannon's Showcase - 17. Best friends; Emy's Emporium - Italy, 2. Hogwarts, bonus: someone seeing their identity with fresh eyes; Lo's Lowdown - Courfeyrac: write about best friends.