Harry Potter 1. The Quill

_**Title:**_ Quaffles, Quills and the Quixotic

_**Rating:**_ PG-13 (or for those still working on this letter thing- T)

_**Chapter:**_ 1/5

_**Word Count:**_ 10,000 (3,031)

_**Warnings:**_ Eventual slash, swearing and violence.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I am in no way affiliated with Bloomsbury books, Warner Bros or J.K Rowling. This story is a non-profit piece and strictly should be considered an entertainment piece.

_**A/N:**_ Feedback much appreciated; virtual cookies will be supplied with each D

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_**Part 1: The Quill**_

The first time you encounter one another, an irreparable bond of hatred is formed between you.

This entanglement occurs when you're just a hapless first year; a little too enthusiastic for some tastes and without some of the fundamental knowledge that is required for survival. It's this gap in information that sets you apart from the rest of your year and, at the same time, it's the reason your paths initially cross. Your fellow classmates have all inherited these 'facts' from their families and you, unfortunately, haven't had that opportunity and you've been left blind in comparison. It's this wisdom that leads them all to be tentative and docile whilst around the older students and they're more than happy to be insignificant in the grander scheme of things. On the other hand, you're lacking this insight and so you're quite a bit different from the rest of the year. You're brazen and bold when confronted with the other years, you're simply not afraid of them and you're always trying to make a mark on the school in any way you can.

So, the first way you decide to gain recognition is by being the top of your year and proving yourself to be a gifted student. That's why you're in the library on that Monday night rather than being in the common-room playing exploding snap. You've perched yourself at one of the desks that weren't really designed for eleven-year-olds judging by their size, trying to finish your homework. Around you are numerous scraps of parchment that were originally your attempt at essays (but they didn't quite make the cut) and dust-incrusted tomes heavy enough to break toes, making the work space disorganised and cluttered but somehow that works for you.

In front of you there's your fifth attempt at the essay, that's** not** including the other drafts that you'd started writing on previous evenings, but your concentration is beginning to wilt. So far you've only got one of the four inches required and curfew is approaching at an alarming rate. To be honest, you're probably worse off now than you were at the beginning of the evening which is always a good sign. You sigh and tell yourself to focus; so you turn your attention back onto the last paragraph you wrote, which turns out to be a load of nonsensical drivel that has to go. It is with some sick sense of satisfaction that you start massacring it, putting all of your frustration into it.

The pleasure is short lived as there's a sickening crunch before the ink begins to blot on the page, signalling only one thing and sure enough when you examine your quill the nib has snapped off, leaving behind a jagged edge. But what makes it even worse is it's rendered another essay useless as the ink is already beginning to soak through. Desperate to salvage it, you attempt to soak some of the ink into your sleeve. That proves to be a useless endeavour; the fibres are already weakened to the point when you peel it away from the desk it simply tears. You curse miserably and without thinking you slam your head down against the desk and that earns you a reproachful glare from Madame Prince and several startled looks from the fourth year Ravenclaws; but you don't particularly care, at this point you don't really believe your night can get any worse.

Now you face a problem on what to do next, because you need to start your essay afresh and you can't do that without something to write with. You know for sure there's a quill in your room and if you remember rightly, there should be one in your bag because your Mum decided to put one in there for occasions like this. You lean down and start rooting through your bag, trying to find the softness of the feather in amongst the parchment, the books, the inks and the various other bits and pieces you've thrown in there. Unfortunately your search turns up nothing that could be used as a writing instrument, but it does turn up _'Surviving the School: Hogwarts for Beginners'_ which you can't remember ever seeing before (probably something else your Mum decided to put in there), but it's not like you're going to need it.

You're now definitely stranded in the library trying to do homework without anything to write with and isn't that embarrassing? You could, quite easily, trek up to your room and fish out that extra quill from your trunk but that takes time, time which you don't have. There's another option which doesn't require as much walking and would be a lot faster, but it has the potential to humiliate you. But you're not one to get flustered so easily and so you get up from your table and stroll over to Madame Prince, affixing your best (and most charming) smile upon your face to help your cause.

You approach her desk with caution, being careful not to make much noise to disturb her (or to give her an excuse to throw you out) and mentally preparing what you're going to ask. Her desk is wedged between to oversized and overstuffed bookshelves labelled 'returns' and 'loans' in which the books are constantly moving about to assemble themselves in alphabetical order but seem to be confusing themselves further. Madame Prince is currently sat at her desk sorting through lists and writing what appears to be threatening overdue letters to people and she looks like she's enjoying it. You hesitate for a moment, deciding that perhaps it's best to leave the librarian up to her own devices, but that second of uncertainty is too much because her attention snaps to you as if your breathing was disturbing her.

"Can I help you?" She asks in a tone that's half between scolding and sarcasm, and she raises a brow at you. "Or would you prefer just to stand there?"

You can't quite tell whether that's supposed to be a joke or not, but you decide it's better off if you just ignore it and get on with what you came here to do. So, you turn up the voltage on that smile and try to make yourself look timid to encourage her to feel sorry for you.

"Sorry to bother you," and that sounds _completely_ sincere, "but I was wondering if you had a spare quill I could borrow?"

She looks at you as if you've grown another head, and you've got to resist the urge to look because you're yet to learn that not even the seventh years can do that.

"A quill?" She reiterates and you nod because yes, you do know what you asked for, "whatever for?"

If there was a desk nearby you would have probably slammed your head down against it because it can't be that hard to figure out why you'd need a quill. But instead of answering with the sarcastic retort, like you would do today, you just smile and explain the story.

"I can't help you there, I'm afraid." She says and you wonder whether it is entirely accidental that she flourishes her quill a little more than she normally would. "This is a library. We lend books, not quills."

You nod dumbly and stalk back to your table without anything for your troubles except the knowledge that Madame Prince is a sarcastic witch when she wants to be. It's now going to be a case of asking other students for a quill and that's even more embarrassing. For all you know you could be nicknamed 'quill-boy' (creativity is not your strongest suit) by some of the elder students for this; but it is a sacrifice you're willing to make.

Looking around the room there's not that many students about, only the really 'dedicated' ones who spend most of their time in the library. There's a group of Hufflepuff girls on the table nearest to yours and you know that they'd definitely have a quill to lend and they wouldn't really create too much of a fuss. You get up, but the scraping of your chair on the stone attracts their attention. They all give you a slightly wide-misty-eyed stares that send shivers down your spine (not a pleasant sensation) and you can almost hear the high-pitched _'isn't he so cute'_ squeals they're going to give you. You decide it's probably in your best interest to give that table a miss. Instead you make your way over to the Ravenclaw table, in which they're all completely immersed in books whilst making notes, the prospect of which bore you but would probably excite Percy, so you slowly change your path towards the only other occupied table right at the back of the room.

It's a spot that's pretty much obscured from the watchful gaze of the librarian, and a sufficient distance away from the Ravenclaws so they won't protest at the disruption which makes it the perfect spot for a group of Slytherins up to no good. Of course, you don't know this, so you're more than happy to approach them. It's also, quite conveniently, placed in between the forbidden section and the potions books, a place not many people dare to tread (though you don't know why). To you, they all look pretty harmless, sat around a book and not making a sound making them all look pretty studious; you assume they'd be more than happy to help you. You cough slightly to announce your presence so they don't get angry at you for interrupting their study session, and the book slams closed and six pairs of eyes snap up and glare at you.

Apparently, they didn't want to be disturbed.

"What do you want Gryffindork?" One spits, eyeing you with open hostility. Your smile falters at that, because that was not expected, "we don't like Lions coming where they don't belong."

You immediately retort that you don't see how you don't belong there, because it seems like they're trying to imply that you're not smart enough to be in a library and that's not fair. It earns you a laugh. That simple sound puts you at ease because your Dad always dealt with his problems with humour, and so can you because you follow your Dad. But when they stop laughing, or guffawing in some cases, they don't look impressed nor do they look less like they're going to kill you. In fact, if anything, they look angrier.

"Well, well. It looks like we have a smart mouth here." The apparent leader says, addressing his friends as if you don't exist, or can't understand. You go to open your mouth to snap at them to treat you with respect but before you can do that he cuts over you. "What's your name?" He demands.

You try and process the question because it's caught you slightly off-guard and you don't quite understand what they're getting at. Is this their attempt at being civil? Or an apology without actually apologising? Or is it something else entirely? For a few moments you're reluctant to answer but you can't figure out why else they'd want to know your name apart from to allow them to get on friendlier footing, so you give them the benefit of the doubt;

"Oliver Wood." You finally reply brightly, breaking the tense silence and you stick out your hand like you've seen your parents do. "Yours?"

That's when they break out into bouts of laughter and you frown because they're laughing at _you_ and you can't see why. It must be something you did, or said, you guess but you don't exactly know what it is. The first thing you can think of is ink smudges all over your hand because you're pretty new to this whole quill thing, but on inspection it appears clean but they haven't accepted the gesture, so you quickly drop your hand to your side.

"Look _Wood_," and the venom he puts onto your name makes you instantly recoil because it _hurts_. "If you're here for a reason, spit it out before I have to force it out of you."

You've never experienced a threat before, but you've watched TV and so you know how to recognise one. The one thing you don't understand is what you've done wrong because threats are reserved for people you hate and why on earth would they hate you? It's not like you broke their favourite toy (like you managed to do to Jacob's _Action Man_ with your accidental magic, he hated you for _two_ weeks after that one) nor did you do anything to offend their families (that's why the Mitchell brothers hate the Beales on that _Eastenders _show your Mum likes) so it's beyond your comprehension why they're being this way.

Later on you'll discover that what you did was much worse than all of that put together. What you did was break the rules, and as obscure as it sounds, that's not tolerated. The information that you're missing is all about the unspoken rules of the school; vital knowledge that isn't easy to come by. It's these rules that keep the school hierarchy in place; with the elder students ruling over the younger and it keeps the house divisions solid. The problem is you're a serious threat to that existence just because you're oblivious. You're not afraid of standing up to the older students and you're more than happy to talk to them without prompting. Possibly what's worse is that you couldn't care less about house affiliations and if you encourage others to follow you, there's a chance that the rules will mean nothing.

Unfortunately, there are some people that still believe this hierarchical existence is the best way of keeping order. And this group is one of them. It's just your bad luck that you run into a group like that so early on.

Anyway, they're all still scowling at you because they're not used to first years hanging around when they're threatened. A normal eleven-year-old would be terrified at the prospect of anyone older than them displaying hostile intentions and they'd hightail it out of there as soon as. You, however, are not going anywhere soon because you've come here for a reason and why should they get to scare you out of it? Instead, as a sheer act of defiance you stand straighter and glower right back at them to show you're not afraid.

"I need to borrow a quill." You say, noting that they have several unused quills on their table and so it shouldn't be such a problem for them to part with one to help you. But no one makes a move to offer you one, which would of made more sense, instead one of them grabs at the feathers before you can make a move to snatch one (_you weren't going to steal one anyway_).

"_What?_" And apparently that's a cue for them all to get to their feet and surround you so you can't escape and now you're stranded in amongst a sea of angry Slytherins all of whom are taller and broader than you are. Suddenly you don't feel as brave as a few moments ago because you don't think this can end well.

"And why on earth would we give you one?" Their leader snarls, giving you a nice glimpse of his gnarled teeth which are rather troll-like. You look at him incredulously wondering whether he's actually joking, but he looks quite sincere. "Come on Wood; give me a reason and I'll think about giving you one."

"I need it to finish my homework." You say and you're quite surprised how strong you sound despite actually being petrified, you didn't even stammer. "I have a History of Magic essay to do and I broke my quill."

It sounds pretty reasonable in your mind and you're pretty sure it's what Percy would say too (because everyone comments on how 'grown-up' and polite he is) so you don't understand why they're still ready to pounce. After all, you'd expect them to be pretty sympathetic because it's bound to have happened to them at some point in the last couple of years and they've probably experienced how frustrating it is so you'd expect them to be happy to help.

But again, no one makes a move to offer you one and so you deduce it'll take a little more convincing to get them to part with some of their stationery.

"Please, I have to get it done tonight. I'll bring it back, or even get you a new one. I promise!"

You don't have time to realise what is coming until it hits you, quite literally, square in the face. Slowly the initial shock of the blow ebbs away, allowing the white-hot pain to slowly engulf the area surrounding the impact. It's like nothing you've ever felt before; it's a mixture of the sting from ice-cold water combined with the searing heat you can only associate with being burnt. There's the thick, distinctive metallic taste of blood in your mouth where your teeth have scraped into the tender flesh of your cheek and it puts in a tingle; adding to the discomfort you're feeling. There's also tears fighting to escape and there's a febrile sob just waiting to be unleashed, but you can't do that because it'd give them a sick sense of satisfaction. Instead you don't make a motion to show how much it hurts; you just push your way through them and retreat back to the safety of the common-room.

It's not until a few weeks later do you decide that you hate them for what they did; because it takes a while for the real repercussions to surface. You could handle the bruising on your face and the concerned looks you received, you could handle the laughter that people bestowed on you afterwards but you couldn't handle the 'abysmal' you received on your essay, nor the detention that followed. It's at that point where you swear to make them suffer by _embarrassing_ them for ruining your chance at making your mark.


	2. An Interlude

_**Part 2: An Interlude**_

"His name is Marcus Flint," Percy says completely out of the blue one Sunday afternoon when you're both down by the lake, supposedly relaxing. It's such a flippant remark that at first you're not quite sure how to react or what to say; instead you feign interest in your search for the perfect skimming stones. "He's a Slytherin; year above us apparently." And again, no response from you.

The redhead slams his book shut and glares at you from over the top of his glasses in a way that is scarily reminiscent of Dumbledore and makes you feel extremely uncomfortable. You look up at your friend with an innocent expression, the very same look that normally gets you out of trouble, in an attempt to placate him. Percy, though, seems immune to your charm and continues glaring at you wholeheartedly.

"You wanted to know these things." Percy snaps and his voice has more bite to it than a December wind. "Have you ever heard the saying; don't ignore the messenger?"

You're pretty sure the term is _'don't shoot the messenger'_ but you figure that now is not the time to be clever because Percy doesn't take kindly to being corrected at the best of times.

"Sorry," you say offering him a sheepish smile for all his troubles. "How'd you find this all out?"

"Charlie told me," matter-of-factly.

"Oh right." A pause before adding: "Thanks Perce."

There's a few moments silence; Percy seems to have turned his attention back to his book, whilst you are this time truly looking for the rock that'll help you break your four-skim record.

"Oliver?"

"Hmm,"

"Why are you so interested in him?"

You almost choke on your own saliva at the question. It almost sounds as if Percy is _implying_ something; something that you don't even want to think about. Of course, you never told Percy the reason you wanted the information because Percy probably would have tried to get McGonagall involved and that would leave you without a chance for revenge. This is a much easier way of getting the knowledge, even if you have to deal with these insinuations.

"I am **not** interested in him." That's not at all convincing and you know it.

"Then why do you want to know about him?"

"Can't I just be curious?" You whine and it's easy enough to see that Percy doesn't buy it because he doesn't believe in curiosity without interest. "It's just…" You trail off because the end of that sentence would have ended in 'complicated' which would have made you sound like some hormonal teenage girl.

"It doesn't bother me if you are." Percy continues as if you haven't said anything to deny it, "I just wish it wasn't a Slytherin."

"I am not interested in him!" You shout and the sheer ferocity of the gesture catches him completely off-guard. "You don't have a clue, do you? He's the one who hit me!"

All of the colour quickly drains from Percy's face, making his freckles look like flecks of blood upon his skin. He's probably sickened by the insinuations he's just made; at the same time he's bound to feel angry too because you didn't tell him any of this and he's your best friend. But those thoughts don't occur straight away, instead:

"Surely you can go to Professor McGonagall now you know his name. She'd make sure…"

You'd expected that a little later on, but at least it puts you back on familiar territory, you know exactly how to handle him in his _'person of authority'_ rants.

"We're not getting McGonagall involved." Sharp, short and stubbornly; enforced with the arm folding.

"But—"

"No." No room for arguing this time.

"Fine," he exaggerates his sigh to make sure you know how displeased he is. "Exactly what do you suggest we do, then?"

"I don't know _yet_." You hate how young and desperate you sound at that little omission, but as of yet you actually don't know how you're going to enact your revenge. What you do know, however, is that you want to make it excruciatingly painful for the Slytherin. "But no teachers and no one else is going to find out about this."

You know that Percy already senses that you're planning something nefarious and he really doesn't like it; but instead of arguing, he stays quiet and starts reading again.

* * *

You're both on your way to the last lesson of the day, quite conveniently it's situated in the lowest reaches of the castle-- the furthest distance possible from your dormitory, when you and your arch nemesis bump into one another again. It's been weeks since your last encounter and you can't quite fathom how it is possible that you've successfully avoided one another that long; but now you're face to face once more and, as you keep telling Percy, you can't be held responsible for what happens.

It's a pretty innocent collision; too many people and too little space, but of all the luck the person your shoulder thumps into is none other than Marcus Flint.

"Watch out you little tossers." At first, it doesn't seem like he knows who knocks him and instead he just shouts it in the vague direction of where the hit came from, but when his gaze picks you out he smirks. "Oh, it's just the plank."

He's got a little habit of calling you a plank after finally making a connection between your name and the material of the same title; you can't help but think he's an idiot for not seeing the opportunity earlier. As always, you don't actually acknowledge the comment because it winds him up even more because he assumes you're being insolent (actually he wouldn't even know what that means) and as always he barrels his way towards you, snarling like a rabid dog, with his Slytherin cronies trailing behind.

Once more he proves to have no grasp of personal space because he stops only an inch away from your face in a bid to be more threatening. Fortunately (or unfortunately if you're the Slytherin), you're not intimidated by people who crowd your space and so the tactic doesn't faze you.

"Don't you know your place in the world?" He asks as he grabs a fistful of your robes. "How dare you touch even touch me…"

Your knuckles catch him on the chin and it catches him completely unaware; his grip on your front loosens and you take it as your opportunity to make a break for it, sprinting straight down the corridor towards your lesson.

Stationed round the corner is Percy, loitering (but attempting to make it look like he's not hanging around), probably waiting for you to appear. He obviously wasn't expecting you to be back so soon, nor so intact, because it takes him a while to register you running past. He catches on soon enough though, quickly racing after you in the daring escape from the Slytherins. Though, when you sneak a glance over your shoulder, you realise that it's not _quite_ escaping because they're catching up faster than you expected and Percy is right within their grasp.

Good plan; poor execution as always.

The door to Potions is only a couple of hundred metres away, but it's inevitable they're going to catch Percy before then because he's not as fit as you are. You make a split-second decision and deliberately slow; and Flint isn't too much of an idiot to waste an opportunity like it, so he speeds up. He dives towards you and he catches you around the midsection and the impact against the stone floors isn't as painful as it potentially could have been which you're thankful for but that doesn't mean you're not going to have bruises from it.

You scramble up from the floor and away from the grasp of the elder; but when a hand clamps around your ankle you realise you're not going anywhere, despite how many times you kick out at him. Instead you look back and curse when you see the others have done precisely what you didn't want them to do…they've surrounded Percy.

There's a yank on your ankle and over you go again, straight onto the floor and your head thumps against the stone hard enough to render you temporarily dizzy. At the same time it knocks some sense into you because you realise how bad an idea this actually is; and there is no way this is going to end pleasantly for Percy, or you, but Percy's your main concern at the moment.

"Let him go Flint," you say and what is it with this sounding braver than you feel? "It's me you're after, not Percy."

"And exactly why should I do that?" As if this whole event wasn't bad enough, you're now showered by his spittle. "Give me a good reason, and I'll think about it." The line is vaguely familiar from that night you've temporarily blocked out of your memory.

"You can beat me as much as you want if you just leave him alone." Valiant for a thirteen-year-old.

"Isn't it cute? Wood protecting his Weasel of a boyfriend," they all laugh at that one. "I always thought you were a bit of a queer."

You don't protest because what's the point? You'll be more than complacent until they let Percy go, then you can lash out and make them all eat their words.

"Let him go." Marcus instructs and the gangly tall one puts Percy down and sends him on his way with a punch in the stomach for his troubles. Percy gives you a nod on the way past and quickly rushes into the classroom and you catch a snippet of the sarcastic welcome he receives from the Potions Master.

"Now, we've got you all to ourselves." The grin-smirk he gives you makes you feel physically sick but you _'suck it up'_ (a phrase that's particularly common in your Dad's army movies) because you've done this to yourself. You make a mental note to next time just meekly shy away.

You push yourself to your feet, ignoring the pounding headache and try and muster your best glare and then you leap towards Flint, your fists already outstretched-- you're not giving up without a fight. The Slytherins were expecting that though, you guess, because before you can even get near your target they've got a hold of you and rendered your limbs immovable.

"Not a chance," one of them hisses and you close your eyes because you don't want to see their self-satisfied smiles and you don't want to see the blows ahead of time. Instead they permeate the blackness of your mind with streaks of colour and the heat that reminds you of bonfire night.

You don't know how long it is before the explosion of pain eases. When it begins to settle you are left with the faint awareness that you're sore and aching all over. You open your eyes and the Slytherins are still there, but they're not hitting you, they're just standing there looking at you.

"That's just a warning." Is it just your imagination or does Flint not sound all that vicious? "Next time we'll get your boyfriend too." He doesn't leave you with a warning kick, or punch, instead he just saunters off back up the corridor-- laughing at you.

You wait a couple of minutes until you're sure they're not going to be coming back before hoisting yourself up and limping towards the hospital wing to get patched up. It takes a while for you to figure out a way to walk without aggravating one of the wounds you sustained, but eventually you manage to get to Pomfrey's realm, a place you're really too familiar with.

"Ah, Mr. Wood, I was wondering when I'd be seeing you again." She says, as you settle yourself onto the bed that has pretty much been designated yours. "It's been more than two weeks; I was starting to think your clumsiness had been cured."

You smile and shake your head. Even though it is obvious that the injuries are not caused by your clumsiness, Madame Pomfrey never questions and never tells; she just heals you up and sends you on your way knowing that you'll be back in a couple of days in exactly the same state.

"Now where does it hurt most today?" Because Poppy's given up healing all of the bruises and you really don't blame her.

"My ribs," and when she lifts the shirt there's angry red marks that are already beginning to take on a purple tint. "And I think I might have cracked my head open."

She clicks her tongue and bustles off to retrieve the ointment to heal the bruising and ease the discomfort; a stash of which you have hidden underneath your bed because apart from Percy, no one else knows about the fights.

"You know Mr. Wood," she says returning with the jar in-hand, "I wish you'd channel these energies into something less harmful." And she applies the cream whilst it's still freezing cold despite being able to warm it; another courtesy quickly dropped after your fifth trip in two weeks. "May I suggest something?" She doesn't wait for your response. "The Gryffindor Quidditch team are looking for new recruits and I've heard you're quite a talented flier."

"Maybe," you say and you both know that's your polite dismissal of the idea.


End file.
