Author's notes: Don't ask what inspired this, I'm still trying to figure it out myself. This angsty Oliver is not *my* Oliver, he simply wrote himself - I had no choice in the matter. Written in only a few hours, don't expect anything wonderful here, this snippet was written in a completely different way to how I normally write, and I'm still trying to figure out where it came from and why. I literally stopped mid-Flint fic to write this, without having any idea what it was going to be about, or anything, really. I never once paused to consider where to go with the story line or where character development was going, in fact, I didn't think at all, it just flowed out from start to finish. Completely and utterly going against my writing process, I might add =)

Special thanks as always to Weasleytwin2, my fabulous beta who I simply cannot do without. I haven't the words to discribe how much I appriciate her =) And to A'jes', because few things have the ability to light up my day as wonderfully as finding an email from her in my inbox. *hugs* Warning: Very light slash reflections thrown in. Deal.

He'd always thought that love was something that simply was never going to happen to him. There was no time, no room - his life was Quidditch, there was no place in his heart for anything or anyone else. Perhaps after a long successful career, he would settle down with someone, or if loneliness did become so crushingly heavy that he needed the sensual comfort of another person, a trophy mate. Superficial affection that required little emotional attachment he could do. Casual sex was something that had come easily in the past and was sure to in the future.

But this, this hadn't been part of the plan. Hadn't been part of the well crafted and religiously followed guide that had been his life to date.

He had been five when his father had decided he would be a Quidditch star. Jason Wood had been a brilliant chaser in his own day. Light and fast, he had quickly carved a name for himself in the amateur leagues, before his potential had stuttered, then levelled out stagnantly. The 1975 rookie of the year was the next year's biggest disappointment, and the young Wood had faded from the Quidditch scene bitterly fragile, and at a complete loss on his change of fortune. Some joy had returned, when his first son showed a shimmering promise, flying at 4, debuting in the minor leagues while only 14. At 19, Adrian Wood was set to be the next big Quidditch star, and dear old dad couldn't have been prouder.

And then, against his father's strict orders, Adrian had joined the war against Voldemort. He could still remember the uproar that had exploded when Adrian had calmly told his father that nothing could stop him from going; the spiteful fragments of conversation that had floated up the stairs to where he was supposed to be asleep.

Adrian had left that night, doomed to be one of the many never to return. And *he* had been doomed to live out the legacy of not only his father, but his deceased brother as well.

There had never been any choice, his father had never asked if his son was prepared to or even desired to take on such a burden. It was only due to luck - or perhaps genetics, that he had fallen deeply into the beloved obsession that his father and brother had had for the game. It made the drill-like coaching lessons from his father, if not exactly enjoyable, then bearable. It became routine to be up before dawn, practicing various moves in the weak light. He strove to please his father, who had closed himself off completely since the death of his oldest son. Each rare compliment was treated with wonder; each acknowledgement with a hidden joy. If his father sometimes called him Adrian, it was something neither discussed.

It had been all set out. Father had coached him until he had entered Hogwarts, where he had stuck to the strict routine that had been instilled in him as a 6 year old. Hogwarts would be followed by minor league representation, then regional, then finally international. There was little room in the scheme for anything else - anything else would after all simply complicate matters, and serve as a barrier to reaching the ultimate goal.

Falling in love certainly hadn't fitted in there anywhere. Yet, here he was, gushing like the school boy he had never made any pretence of being, over another student.

It wasn't that he hadn't had romantic liaisons in the past, although 'romantic' was perhaps window dressing it to a fair extreme. The short lived relationships had never been about anything other than sex - great sex even, but with an emotional shallowness that met his need for no attachments, no distractions.

Now? Now he was distracted. Most definitely distracted. Distracted and confused and dazed and completely out of his depth.

Perhaps if it had been someone else, it would have been different. Being a team player inevitably led to a socialising atmosphere, and he had bonded on some level with many of the other players, even though they could never quite understand his fanatic dedication. It would have been easier if his devotion had been the focus of one of the twins, or Angelina. Even Flint or Cedric would have been better to deal with, or one of the superficial friends who clung to his popularity as though it gave their life meaning.

But as that old muggle saying went, in for the penny, in for the kilogram. Or something like that. If one was going to fall, might as well go all the way.

As much as his father would oppose even the thought of a relationship that might somehow draw his attention even partly from Quidditch, he knew father would snap like a fickle strand of straw if he knew exactly where his devotion lay. Oh, it was not that his son tended to often prefer his bed partners to be male, that was a prejudice that most of the wizard world had long been past, and at times it surprised him the animosity that some of the muggle born wizards could show towards such unions. No, it was the fact that instead of being some equally talented Quidditch player, or at least one of appropriate standing, his affections lay with someone who rarely flew at all, certainly never on a Quidditch pitch. With an awkwardness that breathed uncomfortability, doubled with a stand offish nature, his father would have hated him on sight, and few people who knew either boy would ever believe that one was the unrequited desire of the other.

But by the Gods, he was beautiful. The rich brown eyes that burned with intensity, no matter how desperately they tried to hide behind those glasses. The lean frame that could have leant to a gangly appearance yet seemed to instead lend itself to a natural elegance. The wine red hair that was always unruly and wild, no matter how often he tried to tame it.

If only the desire had been on a purely physical basis, lust was something that could be easily dealt with. Lust was normal. Agreeing to browse the library for hours on end for some obscure Herboligy assignment simply because it meant basking in the overwhelming knowledge of the other boy was *not* normal, nor was the desire to listen to him babble on about whatever topic of interest the other boy had been carried away with now, as it meant being able to share his joy and enthusiasm.

Not normal at all. At least, not for him. This, this he didn't understand.

It would be foolhardy to even attempt to pinpoint when he had first developed feelings for Percy, there were so many occasions where it easily could have happened. It had been of course, a perfect setting for a romance to blossom, if one believed those sappy romance novels. The only two male Gryffindors in their year, they had had the overly large bedroom to themselves. It was something he had personally taken advantage of in their later years, easily sneaking up bed partners, enclosing his bed in a silencing curse to spare Percy some solace from his antics. There were times, he knew, when he had forgotten about the curse in the heat of passion, yet Percy had never spoken a word about it.

More often than not however, the room had been theirs alone. Much could be learnt about another person, in such an atmosphere. It was almost impossible not to learn the habits and traits of your roommate, as it was just as difficult to hide anything from him in return. And so much had been learned, so much shared. In different circumstances, neither would have confided in each other, and if there had been a few more students in the room, perhaps it would have all been simply buried under the daily bustle of student life.

But there had been only the two of them. So they had learned. He had learned that Percy despised the dark, although to what extent he had never been sure of. He had discovered in their early years, that it wasn't rare for Percy to cry himself to sleep, or to alternately spend hours into the night studying, before passing out from exhaustion at his desk. He had learned that Percy was driven by a desire to succeed as deep as his own, yet like himself, it was something that was rarely talked about.

In fact, they rarely truly talked at all. Perhaps it simply hadn't been necessary, or perhaps because even back then, neither boy knew really how to communicate with other people. Conversation was like sex, anyone could do it on a superficial basis, it was when one went searching for something deeper that problems arose.

They had had their moments, however. There were times even those who didn't know how to, needed to talk. Percy was the only person to know about Adrian, and it seemed it was only ever around him that Percy would ever relax slightly, away from the constantly critical spotlight that both others and himself put him under.

They were perfectionists, the two of them. Dedicated to an extreme that others couldn't begin to understand, driven by a need that others couldn't identify with.

Perhaps that was why he had fallen for the other boy. Because as he had learned about Percy, Percy had learned about him in return. He had quickly known which mornings Oliver was training for Quidditch, and what times he would be returning from his training. He'd been able to tell when Oliver was moody, or had had a bad night, all without a word being exchanged. He knew each of the subtleties that made up Oliver that no one else could even guess existed. But he didn't know this. And would never know of it, either. Never know how much Oliver wished to wrap his arms around that slim waist, to whisper clinched endearments in his ear. Percy would never realise just how deeply Oliver saw beneath his well worn mask, how he saw the pain that lived there, the insecurity and loneliness that was pushed aside for the sake of 'success'.

How much he loved him despite it. Because of it.

He'd never pondered before Percy if it was worth it, this sacrificing everything for that ultimate goal. It was so different to see someone *else* drive themselves constantly to the brink of exhaustion and then past it, to see them hurt and toil and abandon normality for a life of solitude.

Percy made him doubt, and doubt was something that he simply couldn't have.

They were so similar in many ways. Too many ways. Both too stubborn to break from the game plan that had stopped being merely a guide and engulfed them entirely in it's passion. Both too scared to attempt to live a life that *wasn't* clear cut and set out completely for them. Both not sure they wanted to in the first place. There was a sardonic pleasure; after all, that one could draw from deliberately pushing oneself too far.

Ironically, he believed that, like him, Percy knew they were setting themselves up for failure. Like a fading ember that was once a brilliant flame, he found his passion for the game dying, replaced with an empty apathy that was devoid of the flair and imagination that was needed at the top level. And Percy, who studied tirelessly, worked so damn hard, had lost the creativity and spontaneity that all great Ministers were made of. Their routines had stomped out what was supposed to lift them above the rest, yet they still played the game.

They didn't know how to do anything else.

And it was because of the game that he would never share his feelings with Percy. Doing so would be to jeopardise it, to reveal it as nothing more than a feeble facade. To allow oneself to feel such a wealth of emotions would be to lose the security that the denial offered. He wasn't brave enough for that, doubted he would ever be. And unlike Percy, who had somehow despite it all, grown into someone who flowed with hidden emotion, pulsed with desire and feelings that were always harshly repressed, he himself was nothing more than the game. Empty, shallow. There was nothing but superficiality behind his facade, no desire or dreams or emotions for anything other than Quidditch. And Percy. Percy who could inspire a love that could stir even the most unromantic of hearts, while at the same time believing that being loved was something he could never have. Percy who, beneath it all, longed to be love and to be loved back, yet even he couldn't love what was only a shell of a human, a marble statue that everyone envied the beauty of, but was a simple hollow brass mould inside.

No one could. Why would they want to? Who would be brave enough to love back?

This game was one that had been lost long before the two players had taken the field.