Chapter 1 : orange
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There was something to be said about an already-fit bloke once he decided to don a pair of Quidditch robes. Of course, without the robes the bloke would be quite the thing to look at, because, well, he was already fit, but when Oliver Wood decided to suit up in his red and gold robes that literally clung to his body like they were made out of some sort of satin fabric of the gods, it was then that he became a true sight to behold.
And it made him the number one reason Prosper Potts had chosen to brave the horrendously cold weather to watch the Ravenclaw-Gryffindor match, perched in the very first row of the stands and, quite noticeably the only Hufflepuff student in attendance.
Perhaps she was taking rather extensive measures to get to see Wood in his Quidditch robes, but Prosper had rationalized that it wasn't very often that one got to see a sight so magnificent, and wasn't it all rather worth it in the long run? Sure, she could be tucked away in the castle, sipping on hot coco and listening to the crackling fireplace as she read a novel on the wonders of the magical world...but no, she had a duty to cheer her man onto a win, and cheer she would.
'Course, he wasn't exactly her man, but they had taken part in a grand total of five (five!) conversations, and Prosper figured that had to count for something.
Of course it did -- you're soul mates, remember?
"Go Ollie!" she let out an involuntary cheer as she watched the lion fly past her, an internal squee bubbling it's way to her mouth as he gave her a sideways glance as her few past. He noticed! She wasn't surprised -- Proper's friends always told her that her voice was much louder than she even realized, and it was certainly paying off when it came to getting his attention. Although she couldn't help but grimace slightly when she saw him nearly get struck by a bludger as soon as his attention was brought back to the game from her. "You're doing brilliant, love! Keep up the good work!"
And keep up the good work he did, with a goal for Gryffindor just moments later and tossing her a wink her way after the fact.
'Course, it was those two actions that set Proper into a swoon-turned-faint, but her last thought before blackout was that it was all worth it in the name of love.
Once she had been revived in the Hospital Wing, the 'Puff gazed up into the face of the anxious healer with a look of pure terror, snatching the poor woman's robes in a death grip and yanking her towards her face before she could even emit a sound of protest.
"You have to tell me," the girl's voice shook as she spoke, genuine fear in her eyes at the thought that she had missed it, that she had been forced to leave, and without the presence of his good-luck-charm the poor Oliver Wood had been set into such a fit of terror that he had forefit the game and caused the Gryffindors to lose. Or perhaps he had been so distraught that he had got himself a terrible injury just so he could be in the hospital wing next to her. A thrillingly romantic notion, but she certainly hoped he didn't, because it would be such a shame if he were to damage his beautiful body...
His muscular, athletic, beautiful body...
Focus, Prosper. Information now, drool later.
Another pathetic groan escaped her lips, as if it would make Madame Pomfrey feel so much pity for her that she would allow the girl to leave early, although it would actually likely only make her situation worse. "You have to tell me..." Groan, to which the healer rolled her eyes."Who won the match?"
If Prosper noticed the woman scoff, she called no attention to it. Rather, she waited with bated breath for the woman's answer, huffing in annoyance when it was easily the last thing she wanted to hear.
"How on earth should I know, girl?" The older woman snapped, forcibly removing her collar from Prosper's grip and giving her an admonishing look. "The game's likely only just ended, or it's at the very last bit -- you were only out for a couple of minutes, so you can stop moaning like you've come back from the dead. Wood did play quite the game however, boy's got a real passion for the sport. And that young Harry Potter, well..."
Sitting herself up from the bed with a roll of her eyes, Prosper glared at the witch's back. "No offence, Madame P, but even if he is Harry Potter, I couldn't care less about his seeking skills -- not when the question of my poor Oliver's happiness is on the line. They've been training for this game for weeks, you know; it's a very important one, although I'm not sure I can remember why." Something about semi-finals, perhaps? She had heard Oliver speaking about it with the team when she had been observing them on the grounds one day, although now she couldn't for the life of her remember what he had said. "You see, the day he was talking about it he was wearing his hair all messy from the wind, and..."
"No offence, Miss P," Madame Pomfrey interrupted her with an uncharacteristic smirk, one that nearly sent Prosper into a huff all over again. "But even if Mister Wood was wearing his hair all messy, I really couldn't care less about your infatuation with him." Passing a foul-smelling potion to her, the healer laughed at her grimace. "Drink this, and it'll cure your light-headedness. Then you can run off and tell Wood how dashing he looked on his broom -- I'm sure every boy would love to be the reason a girl drops into a dead faint with just a wink."
After pounding the potion back, the blonde gave the older -- and still smirking -- woman a sheepish glance, hoping she was simply much more observant than the rest of the castle. "Do you reckon it was that obvious? That he was the reason? I mean...you don't think he knows, do you?" Because Prosper could handle the entire school knowing about her obsession, but if Oliver Wood knew, well, she thought she just might die all together.
After all, what chance did she stand with a bloke who looked like an Adonis every time he stepped into a pair of red and gold Quidditch robes, when Prosper couldn't even be bothered to wash her hair more than once a week?
"I think any boy would be a fool not to notice you, Miss Potts," the witch told her with a conspiratorial wink, and even though it wasn't an answer, not even close, it was enough to set her nerves at ease for the time being.
The time for contemplation was later -- now she had a Gryffindor to catch.
When Propser arrived at the Quidditch pitch, energized from the potion Pomfrey had given her but still exhausted from the dead-sprint she had pushed herself to in order to get there in time to catch the ending of the game. However, to her only mild surprise but vast-disappointment, the game appeared to be long over; members of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor were nearly half-way back to the castle, and she cursed herself for getting so wrapped in thoughts of Oliver doing a victory lap that she had missed such a glaring sign of her lateness.
But she knew exactly where she could find him, and she wasn't going to wait a moment longer.
Prosper allowed herself a quick moment of contemplation before doing anything rash -- how is this in any way a good idea what can you possibly gain from this what on earth do you think you're going to get out of this how will this make him notice you he won't even be able to see you -- before deciding to toss every doubt she had ever had out the metaphorical window, casting a disillusionment charm on herself before sneaking into the Gryffindor team's locker room.
It was mainly curiosity, really. She had seen Oliver the Quidditch Player and Oliver the Beautiful Gryffindor and Oliver the Charmer but she had never seen Oliver the Quidditch Captain, and wouldn't the locker room be the perfect place to start? And then after she took the charm off herself she could go find him on the grounds and casually start up conversation on the game, apologize for fainting and make him fall in love with her all at the same time.
After all, curiosity killed the cat, not the badger. No, curiosity got the badger a fine piece of man candy and inherent bragging rights for the rest of her wonder-filled life.
As she snuck her way into the room, careful not to make any noise, Prosper was exceptionally disappointed to find them empty. Where had all the players gone? She supposed that most of them had gone back to the castle rather quickly, which meant that they were excited for something...which clearly meant a win for Gryffindor!
Which also meant that she had missed any chance she might get to charm the pants off of Oliver Wood, bringing about another wave of sorrow.
Letting out a quiet squeak of shock, Prosper pressed herself against a row of metal lockers and prayed to Merlin that none of them belonged to the person entering her area of the locker rooms. How horribly embarrassing would that be, being caught masquerading as a shelf of little storage units? With that and her fainting incident combined, the girl figured she would have to drop out of Hogwarts all together -- Oliver may find a fainting incident flattering, but a stalking incident? Not so much.
"Lo? Someone there?"
She knew that voice, and she knew the body that followed it.
Sure enough, the one and only object of her many desires came strutting around the corner like he owned the place (which he basically did), and he was very noticeably in a state of undress. Rather, he was practically entirely naked, save for the red silk boxers he was wearing, and Prosper found herself holding in a squeal of excitement.
He then proceeded to dress, back turned to her, into a black turtle-neck and dark jeans, and it was done so agonizingly slowly that, even though things were happening in the reverse order she might have liked him to, Propser was finding herself closer and closer to just saying "to hell with it" with the disillusionment charm and pouncing on him. Nothing inappropriate, of course -- just a little snog, she didn't want him to think she was desperate or anything like that -- but enough to just be able to say that she had done it.
And she was nearly about to, too, when she heard the voice call out once more, sending her heart careening down into the pit of her stomach.
"You can come any time now, Potts. 'S not 'xactly the best charm you've cast on yourself, there -- I can still see your shoes."
Oh god oh god oh god please no, please no.
Wait, how did he know it was her?
But she was already stepping forward and taking the charm off herself, apparently incapable of notdoing something he told her to. Why was she doing that? It was like her body had a will of it's own, and she was grinning innocently at the devilishly handsome (and notably fully-clothed) boy in front of her, entirely dis-disillusioned and entirely the colour of his boxers.
His boxers, which were still the image at the forefront of her mind.
"I didn't come in here to spy on you, and I swear I'm not thinking about you in your skivvies!" she burst out, mentally cursing herself as soon as the words were off of her tongue. Propser could see that Oliver was trying to contain his laughter, but couldn't he see that it wasn't funny? That this was literally her worst case scenario on a list of thousands of them, and now not only did he think that she was a locker room Peeping Tom but also that she was fantasizing about him in his red silk boxers?
Of course, both things were completely and entirely true, but the fact of the matter was that he couldn't know they were true, because if he did then her chance at achieving her one and only dream would be down the drain, and Prosper Potts did not just give up on things.
Not bloody likely, and most certainly not Oliver Wood.
"You sure 'bout that? I certainly hope you're not thinking 'bout Potter in his skivvies, because that would be a wee bit creepier -- even creepier than you castin' a disillusionment charm on yourself and sneaking into the change rooms." Crossing his broad arms across his chest and leaning against the shelf of lockers opposite her, Wood tossed her a broad smile that probably would have made her faint again were it not for Pomfrey's miracle elixer, likely knowing exactly what he was doing to her as he did so. Handsome sod. "Wanna explain that?"
Huffing and realizing she wasn't going to get out of it any time soon, Prosper gave him what she hoped was an apologetic and entirely charming smile, although she was certain it came out looking more like an awkward grimace. "I was curious," she stated rather matter-of-factly, hoping he would accept the vague reasoning. "You see, I'm writing an article for the school's new paper on Quidditch -- which is why I was at your game today, before I had to leave after my sudden bout of sickness -- and I figured that the changing rooms were the best place to start." Waving her hands around the red and gold, and all together unremarkable, area around them, she shrugged and hoped she was playing this off well enough. "How'd you know it was me, anyways? All you saw were my shoes."
Now it was Oliver's turn to look sheepish, and Prosper couldn't help but do a double-take. Oliver Wood, embarrassed? By her? It was like the fates had turned, like she was the beautiful and desirable one and he was the one who had been caught creeping.
But that was impossible, surely. Wasn't it?
"Pretty sure you're the only person in the castle who wears socks with sandals in winter, love." He tried to pass it off as blasé, but Prosper could see the blush rising in his cheeks, all while she was staring at him in utter disbelief. This was just too weird -- why was he blushing? He was entirely right; everyone knew of Prosper's detest for the confinement of winter footwear, so why would it be anything less than obvious that it was her?
"There's no school newspaper," she blurted out of nowhere, mentally cursing her tongue for running away on her when she was having a serious moment of contemplation. Why did her mouth always say the exact opposite things she wanted it to? Probably because her mouth just wanted to be on Wood's mouth, and until she found a way to get it there it was slowly going to ruin her life, the git. "I was actually looking for you -- I wanted to congratulate you on the game and all that, but then I got carried away and turned myself invisible and you were half-naked and..."
"Congratulate?" he interrupted her with a lopsided grin, cocking his head to the side as he did. "Why would you do that? We lost. Terribly, as a matter 'o fact."
"Oh," she said with a small frown, giving him an apologetic glance. "If I had known I would have like, brought flowers from someone's bedside in the Hospital Wing, and I probably wouldn't have, you know, watched you change or anything like that. I would have been significantly less creepy about the whole thing, if it helps."
He stared at her for a moment, simply stared, and Propser didn't really know what to do. One of the things that she loved about Oliver was that his gaze was super intense, but now it was too intense, like, looking-into-your-soul-and-reading-your-mind-I-know-what-you-did-last-summer level intense, and all she could do was stare back. Probably not as attractively -- she was certain that her face represented something of a disoriented owl, but she was feeling exceptionally awkward under the current circumstances and found herself out of options.
After at least a minute of silence she began to mentally flail, trying to think of ways she could escape the situation without him noticing. Another disillusionment charm, perhaps? But no, because he was still staring at her, and Merlin knew how well the last one worked out.
"Orange's always been my favourite colour, you know," he told her at last, a conspiratorial smile spreading across his handsome face, and Prosper frowned. What on earth was he on about? She was meant to be the crazy one in this fantasy relationship, although she was finding that the crazier he talked, the more attracted to him she became. How was was that even possible?
"Oliver, did you smack your head while you were playing? I think you should go see Madame Pomfrey, she's got this brilliant potion that'll make you feel like you've got all the energy in the world, and it'll stop you from talking nonsense."
"You know what orange is made up of, then? Yellow 'n red." Pushing off the wall, he took a step towards her before reaching out and grabbing a lock of her blonde hair, twirling it in his fingers as he spoke. And all the while Prosper was practically hyperventilating, hoping it wasn't obvious how absurdly happy she was, and how he was basically making her every dream come true by simply touching a part of her that she couldn't even feel.
Sensing that she still wasn't understanding, he chuckled before continuing. "You're from Hufflepuff, aren't you Prosper. Yellow and black. And I'm a Gryffindor, red 'n gold...aye, I'd say yellow and red make the perfect combination, wouldn't you?"
Before she knew what was happening there was a pair of lips pressed against her own, and they were delicate and soft and every single thing she had ever dreamed they would be and more, and oh, he was smiling against her lips, and Oliver Wood was kissing her and Oliver Wood's hand was beside her head and Oliver Wood Oliver Wood Oliver Wood Oliver Wood...
It wasn't a surprise when Prosper woke up to find herself in the hospital wing an hour later, her lips still swollen and her cheeks still flushed bright pink.
She knew curiosity always payed off in the long run.