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rarepair_shorts2010-03-02 12:02 am
rarepairs_mod) wrote in rarepair_shorts2010-03-02 12:02 am
Fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ssquirrel_fic
Author: peskywhistpaw
Recipient:ssquirrel_fic
Title: Percy Weasley’s Guide to Proper Spectator Etiquette
Pairing: Percy/Oliver
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,654
Summary: In which Percy Weasley attends a Quidditch match and obviously never fails to follow his own rules. Obviously.
Author's Notes: I know this probably isn’t as fluffy as you were hoping, but I did try. Although the sweetness, I think, is more in the implications than anything else. I hope you enjoy it!
Percy Weasley’s Guide to Proper Spectator Etiquette
Percy Weasley did not like Quidditch.
Well, all right. Maybe a little bit.
Admittedly his heart did flutter a bit when the two Seekers went in for a particularly steep dive, plummeting so fast to the ground that it appeared as if they were never going to pull up in time. He even felt a swell of pride in his chest when his preferred team was victorious.
But it wasn’t as if he actually always had a preferred team. And he certainly wasn’t going to leap about like an overexcited baboon every moment of the match. No, Percy would sit comfortably in his seat as a proper, polite spectator should. He would not wave or flap his arms and risk accidentally slapping someone upside the head. But most of all, he would not scream into the delicate ears of his immediate neighbor, because to do so would be rude and possibly damaging.
It hardly mattered that everyone else did it. Everyone else screamed and jumped and waved, but Percy did not. That was what distinguished him from the barbaric masses: he was an upstanding citizen, and an upstanding, occasional Quidditch spectator; he laid out rules for himself, and he followed them, because he was responsible. He was considerate. And he prided himself on his controlled behavior, so much so that when the flailing arm of the fellow next to him knocked off Percy’s glasses, Percy merely retrieved them with his wand and a polite “Excuse me.”
So naturally, he was only slightly miffed when that same fellow turned to look at him quizzically and asked, “What for?”
“I’m sorry?” Percy replied. He had resettled into his seat by then, and had been about to return his attention to the game when the man had spoken.
“What for?” the man repeated. His face was painted black and white, and there was a large black magpie splashed across his bare chest.
Percy frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t quite understand your meaning.”
The magpie opened its beak in a silent squawk, and pecked at a few stray chest hairs.
“Me neither,” said the man. “You said excuse me, and I asked what for? Then you started apologizing. What for?”
“I said ‘excuse me’ because you knocked off my glasses,” Percy told him. Only, at that moment, the crowd surrounding them erupted into a deafening cheer, and his explanation was lost to the noise.
“What?” the man shouted.
“I said,” Percy shouted back, “that you knocked off my glasses, and that was why I said ‘excuse me!’”
But just as quickly as the noise had come, it died down into an anticipatory silence, and so Percy found himself yelling at the top of his lungs to several hundred curious (and quiet) Quidditch fans.
“Oh.” Percy flushed scarlet from head to toe, and sunk down in his seat.
“That doesn’t make much sense,” muttered someone a few rows behind him. “What’s he excusing himself for if he’s the one who got his glasses knocked off?”
The man next to Percy scooted as far away as possible.
Soon enough, however, the crowd had resumed its usual antics, and Percy’s embarrassment had faded from everyone’s minds – except for Percy’s, of course, and that of the man with the magpie on his chest, who kept darting his eyes suspiciously at Percy every minute. But Percy, being distinguished and dignified, allowed himself only the first three of those minutes to wallow in his recent humiliation. At least, visibly. Internally, he felt rather as if he might curl up and die, and could barely focus on his own breathing, much less the match. Outwardly, though, he put on a smile, and straightened in his seat, fixing his gaze forward toward the general area in which he supposed the players must be flying.
Even so, that moment of “I said that you knocked off my glasses, and that was why I said ‘excuse me!’” kept playing repeatedly in his mind in some sort of vicious loop, and each time, he had to fight the urge to flinch. This was why Percy didn’t like Quidditch, and didn’t often go to Quidditch matches – much less the British and Irish League Cup. People and their unpredictable lack of rules always spoiled it for everyone else.
Everyone else, of course, being Percy. And this didn’t happen with merely Quidditch, it happened everywhere, and –
Suddenly, there was a collective intake of breath that sounded like the hissing of a giant, angry snake. The noise pricked at Percy’s ears uncomfortably, drawing his focus momentarily back to the match.
“OUCH!” cried the commentator rather a bit too gleefully. “KEEPER AVERDON OF PUDDLEMERE GETS ANOTHER BLUDGER TO THE HEAD. COULD IT BE FOUL PLAY FROM THE MAGPIES, OR JUST A COINCI – OH! AVERDON HAS FALLEN OFF HIS BROOM! PUDDLEMERES’ GOAL POSTS ARE LEFT UNGUARDED. NO WHISTLE YET, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE MATCH IS STILL IN PLAY. HERE COMES BELZY – ”
I SAID THAT YOU KNOCKED OFF MY GLASSES, screamed the memory inside of Percy’s head. And that was all it took to snatch his attention away from the injured Keeper for another few moments.
Because it only took a few moments for embarrassment of a different sort to come crashing down upon Percy’s shoulders, once again.
“ – AVERDON UNCONSCIOUS WITH A BROKEN LEG, PUDDLEMERE IS SENDING RESERVE KEEPER OLIVER WOOD ONTO THE PITCH IN AN ACT OF DESPERATION. BUT DON’T WORRY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WOOD IS NO STRANGER TO – ”
Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Percy felt his heartbeat speed up, perspiration suddenly beading from his hairline and trickling along the back of his neck. Oliver Wood? Here? Puddlemere United? He supposed he had known this at some point or another – known it and eventually forgotten it, or perhaps he’d just filed it away somewhere, because it was Quidditch, and Percy didn’t like –
“Oliver Wood? Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” someone groaned.
Before he could stop himself, Percy turned round and snapped, “What? What is wrong with Oliver Wood?”
The someone, who turned out to be a pretty blonde woman wearing black and white, stared at him with an ugly scowl. “Excuse me?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Oliver Wood,” Percy told her rather angrily.
He would know.
Sort of.
Maybe.
Not that he thought about it much anymore. Or wanted to think about it. Or that there was really much of anything to think about, if he was being absolutely honest with himself. Because he was, of course. Obviously.
(Ahem.)
“No,” the woman snapped, dragging him back to the present. “There’s no need for anyone from Reserve. Averdon would be just fine if they’d give him a potion. Calling on Reserve, honestly. This is the League Cup! I don’t care if it’s Puddlemere, it’s unprofessional, is what! Wood has no idea what he’s doing.”
The man beside her laughed. “Lucky for the Magpies, I say! That’ll make for an easy win.”
The woman sniffed. “I didn’t come here to watch an ‘easy win.’ I haven’t been to a League Cup in years. I expected a long match to make it worth my coming for.”
“It isn’t exactly for you, though, is it?” interjected another woman.
By this time, everyone was once again ignoring Percy.
“What, you rather they didn’t have no Keeper at all?”
“All their good players are already on the pitch!”
“Down with Puddlemere!”
“Is that the snitch?”
“Shut yer traps and watch the match!”
“THE QUAFFLE GOES BACK TO COLLINS – AND WOOD’S BLOCKED IT!”
“HA!” Percy cried, leaping to his feet and pointing wildly at the blonde woman. “YOU’D BETTER. BLOODY. BELIEVE IT!”
He stood there motionless for a moment, chest heaving, a wildly exhilarated flush to his face. He could feel his glasses perching at a skew on his nose. Now, there was a rather large collection of people staring at him – staring, or shifting away uncomfortably. But this time, Percy didn’t care.
Suddenly. Miraculously.
It was as if, in the blink of an eye – or the brief mention of a name – Percy had changed completely.
“Which side are you on, anyway?” someone grumbled.
Percy turned to the match just in time to see one of the two Seekers diving for the glittering, golden snitch. The Seeker passed right beneath Oliver Wood, who, not to be distracted, still had his eyes glued to the now motionless Quaffle. Percy’s heart fluttered.
“ – AND I DON’T BELIEVE IT! TALLERY DIVES FOR THE SNITCH, AND HE – YES, HE’S GOT IT! PUDDLEMERE WINS THE LEAGUE CUP!”
“YEEEEESSSSSSSS!” Percy screeched, pumping his fist into the air.
“Oi! Sit down!”
“Get out of here, you bloody idiot!”
“Mummy, what’s wrong with that man’s face?”
So, really, Percy Weasley did not like Quidditch.
Well, all right. Maybe he did. A little.
Maybe a lot.
Admittedly, he couldn’t help but cheer when the stands across from his erupted into a frenzied undulation of screaming blue and gold. He didn’t even frown when someone began chucking popcorn at the back of his head. In fact, he seemed perfectly oblivious to the fact that he was making an enormous fool of himself in front of hundreds upon hundreds of people – something which, for the past hour or so, had been the source of his greatest dread. He wasn’t even all that upset when he was eventually jostled out of the stands by aggravated Magpies supporters.
So maybe, just maybe, Quidditch could get Percy Weasley, perfectly proper and polite spectator, to live a little. To stand up for once, instead of stiffly sitting back and looking on with disinterest.
Or maybe, just maybe, it had more to do with a certain handsome Keeper who shot Percy a wide grin as he passed over him during a victory lap.
Maybe.
Whatever the case, he had a feeling he was going to be lingering quite a bit longer after the match than he had originally anticipated.
Because maybe there was really a lot to think about, after all.
peskywhistpawRecipient:
ssquirrel_ficTitle: Percy Weasley’s Guide to Proper Spectator Etiquette
Pairing: Percy/Oliver
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,654
Summary: In which Percy Weasley attends a Quidditch match and obviously never fails to follow his own rules. Obviously.
Author's Notes: I know this probably isn’t as fluffy as you were hoping, but I did try. Although the sweetness, I think, is more in the implications than anything else. I hope you enjoy it!
Percy Weasley did not like Quidditch.
Well, all right. Maybe a little bit.
Admittedly his heart did flutter a bit when the two Seekers went in for a particularly steep dive, plummeting so fast to the ground that it appeared as if they were never going to pull up in time. He even felt a swell of pride in his chest when his preferred team was victorious.
But it wasn’t as if he actually always had a preferred team. And he certainly wasn’t going to leap about like an overexcited baboon every moment of the match. No, Percy would sit comfortably in his seat as a proper, polite spectator should. He would not wave or flap his arms and risk accidentally slapping someone upside the head. But most of all, he would not scream into the delicate ears of his immediate neighbor, because to do so would be rude and possibly damaging.
It hardly mattered that everyone else did it. Everyone else screamed and jumped and waved, but Percy did not. That was what distinguished him from the barbaric masses: he was an upstanding citizen, and an upstanding, occasional Quidditch spectator; he laid out rules for himself, and he followed them, because he was responsible. He was considerate. And he prided himself on his controlled behavior, so much so that when the flailing arm of the fellow next to him knocked off Percy’s glasses, Percy merely retrieved them with his wand and a polite “Excuse me.”
So naturally, he was only slightly miffed when that same fellow turned to look at him quizzically and asked, “What for?”
“I’m sorry?” Percy replied. He had resettled into his seat by then, and had been about to return his attention to the game when the man had spoken.
“What for?” the man repeated. His face was painted black and white, and there was a large black magpie splashed across his bare chest.
Percy frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t quite understand your meaning.”
The magpie opened its beak in a silent squawk, and pecked at a few stray chest hairs.
“Me neither,” said the man. “You said excuse me, and I asked what for? Then you started apologizing. What for?”
“I said ‘excuse me’ because you knocked off my glasses,” Percy told him. Only, at that moment, the crowd surrounding them erupted into a deafening cheer, and his explanation was lost to the noise.
“What?” the man shouted.
“I said,” Percy shouted back, “that you knocked off my glasses, and that was why I said ‘excuse me!’”
But just as quickly as the noise had come, it died down into an anticipatory silence, and so Percy found himself yelling at the top of his lungs to several hundred curious (and quiet) Quidditch fans.
“Oh.” Percy flushed scarlet from head to toe, and sunk down in his seat.
“That doesn’t make much sense,” muttered someone a few rows behind him. “What’s he excusing himself for if he’s the one who got his glasses knocked off?”
The man next to Percy scooted as far away as possible.
Soon enough, however, the crowd had resumed its usual antics, and Percy’s embarrassment had faded from everyone’s minds – except for Percy’s, of course, and that of the man with the magpie on his chest, who kept darting his eyes suspiciously at Percy every minute. But Percy, being distinguished and dignified, allowed himself only the first three of those minutes to wallow in his recent humiliation. At least, visibly. Internally, he felt rather as if he might curl up and die, and could barely focus on his own breathing, much less the match. Outwardly, though, he put on a smile, and straightened in his seat, fixing his gaze forward toward the general area in which he supposed the players must be flying.
Even so, that moment of “I said that you knocked off my glasses, and that was why I said ‘excuse me!’” kept playing repeatedly in his mind in some sort of vicious loop, and each time, he had to fight the urge to flinch. This was why Percy didn’t like Quidditch, and didn’t often go to Quidditch matches – much less the British and Irish League Cup. People and their unpredictable lack of rules always spoiled it for everyone else.
Everyone else, of course, being Percy. And this didn’t happen with merely Quidditch, it happened everywhere, and –
Suddenly, there was a collective intake of breath that sounded like the hissing of a giant, angry snake. The noise pricked at Percy’s ears uncomfortably, drawing his focus momentarily back to the match.
“OUCH!” cried the commentator rather a bit too gleefully. “KEEPER AVERDON OF PUDDLEMERE GETS ANOTHER BLUDGER TO THE HEAD. COULD IT BE FOUL PLAY FROM THE MAGPIES, OR JUST A COINCI – OH! AVERDON HAS FALLEN OFF HIS BROOM! PUDDLEMERES’ GOAL POSTS ARE LEFT UNGUARDED. NO WHISTLE YET, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE MATCH IS STILL IN PLAY. HERE COMES BELZY – ”
I SAID THAT YOU KNOCKED OFF MY GLASSES, screamed the memory inside of Percy’s head. And that was all it took to snatch his attention away from the injured Keeper for another few moments.
Because it only took a few moments for embarrassment of a different sort to come crashing down upon Percy’s shoulders, once again.
“ – AVERDON UNCONSCIOUS WITH A BROKEN LEG, PUDDLEMERE IS SENDING RESERVE KEEPER OLIVER WOOD ONTO THE PITCH IN AN ACT OF DESPERATION. BUT DON’T WORRY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WOOD IS NO STRANGER TO – ”
Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Percy felt his heartbeat speed up, perspiration suddenly beading from his hairline and trickling along the back of his neck. Oliver Wood? Here? Puddlemere United? He supposed he had known this at some point or another – known it and eventually forgotten it, or perhaps he’d just filed it away somewhere, because it was Quidditch, and Percy didn’t like –
“Oliver Wood? Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” someone groaned.
Before he could stop himself, Percy turned round and snapped, “What? What is wrong with Oliver Wood?”
The someone, who turned out to be a pretty blonde woman wearing black and white, stared at him with an ugly scowl. “Excuse me?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Oliver Wood,” Percy told her rather angrily.
He would know.
Sort of.
Maybe.
Not that he thought about it much anymore. Or wanted to think about it. Or that there was really much of anything to think about, if he was being absolutely honest with himself. Because he was, of course. Obviously.
(Ahem.)
“No,” the woman snapped, dragging him back to the present. “There’s no need for anyone from Reserve. Averdon would be just fine if they’d give him a potion. Calling on Reserve, honestly. This is the League Cup! I don’t care if it’s Puddlemere, it’s unprofessional, is what! Wood has no idea what he’s doing.”
The man beside her laughed. “Lucky for the Magpies, I say! That’ll make for an easy win.”
The woman sniffed. “I didn’t come here to watch an ‘easy win.’ I haven’t been to a League Cup in years. I expected a long match to make it worth my coming for.”
“It isn’t exactly for you, though, is it?” interjected another woman.
By this time, everyone was once again ignoring Percy.
“What, you rather they didn’t have no Keeper at all?”
“All their good players are already on the pitch!”
“Down with Puddlemere!”
“Is that the snitch?”
“Shut yer traps and watch the match!”
“THE QUAFFLE GOES BACK TO COLLINS – AND WOOD’S BLOCKED IT!”
“HA!” Percy cried, leaping to his feet and pointing wildly at the blonde woman. “YOU’D BETTER. BLOODY. BELIEVE IT!”
He stood there motionless for a moment, chest heaving, a wildly exhilarated flush to his face. He could feel his glasses perching at a skew on his nose. Now, there was a rather large collection of people staring at him – staring, or shifting away uncomfortably. But this time, Percy didn’t care.
Suddenly. Miraculously.
It was as if, in the blink of an eye – or the brief mention of a name – Percy had changed completely.
“Which side are you on, anyway?” someone grumbled.
Percy turned to the match just in time to see one of the two Seekers diving for the glittering, golden snitch. The Seeker passed right beneath Oliver Wood, who, not to be distracted, still had his eyes glued to the now motionless Quaffle. Percy’s heart fluttered.
“ – AND I DON’T BELIEVE IT! TALLERY DIVES FOR THE SNITCH, AND HE – YES, HE’S GOT IT! PUDDLEMERE WINS THE LEAGUE CUP!”
“YEEEEESSSSSSSS!” Percy screeched, pumping his fist into the air.
“Oi! Sit down!”
“Get out of here, you bloody idiot!”
“Mummy, what’s wrong with that man’s face?”
So, really, Percy Weasley did not like Quidditch.
Well, all right. Maybe he did. A little.
Maybe a lot.
Admittedly, he couldn’t help but cheer when the stands across from his erupted into a frenzied undulation of screaming blue and gold. He didn’t even frown when someone began chucking popcorn at the back of his head. In fact, he seemed perfectly oblivious to the fact that he was making an enormous fool of himself in front of hundreds upon hundreds of people – something which, for the past hour or so, had been the source of his greatest dread. He wasn’t even all that upset when he was eventually jostled out of the stands by aggravated Magpies supporters.
So maybe, just maybe, Quidditch could get Percy Weasley, perfectly proper and polite spectator, to live a little. To stand up for once, instead of stiffly sitting back and looking on with disinterest.
Or maybe, just maybe, it had more to do with a certain handsome Keeper who shot Percy a wide grin as he passed over him during a victory lap.
Maybe.
Whatever the case, he had a feeling he was going to be lingering quite a bit longer after the match than he had originally anticipated.
Because maybe there was really a lot to think about, after all.