Oliver Wood, Wood, Would You Love Me? by ficexchange
A gift for fizzingwhizbee;
The dangerous thing about being Oliver Wood’s mate was that you could never be sure when a previously normal girl would all of the sudden turn crazy. One day, minding your own business at lunch, you might have a perfectly fine conversation with a lovely fifth year girl about Charms homework (or more likely about how to get away with turning it in with a tiny burn mark in the corner that no, you did not want to explain); the next, she’d have crazy big eyes as she asked you one more time if Oliver had really just wanted to talk to you about Quidditch or if he had really asked you about her because he liked her and was trying to work up the courage to ask her out. Because you should tell her if he liked her. You really, really should. She knew they were soul mates, so it would be fine. Fine.
No, the Scotsman would give a thoughtless nod or a wave at whoever you were talking to, without really understanding that they never took it as it was intended: instinctive politeness after realizing they weren’t something important like a bludger.
Most of his mates were used to this by now. It had been happening since first year, after all, and wasn’t likely to change as he got older. Now, Fred and George Weasley weren’t his normal mates, though, and they liked fixing things. (Well, all right, maybe not ‘fixing’ things so much as ‘improving,’ and that only as long as you defined improving as making more entertaining.)
“Well, he’s ruined Katie Bell,” Fred said, walking past the wall in their room that divided Lee and their things from everyone else’s. (McGonagall had overreacted to a minor incident in third year that melted one trunk and suddenly they had their own private workspace. It was brill.)
“Katie always seemed like such a sensible girl,” George said sadly, tilting his head to the side as if the angle of his view was the reason the gelatinous grey glob on the table didn’t look like the squeaking rubber duck it was supposed to be. And maybe it was, because he took a lot of notes after a moment.
“So did Sarafina Giadi, before—”
“We agreed not to talk about that,” George said, poking the grey mass, and suddenly it was yellow and had a very duck-like bill.
“That was before he ruined Katie Bell,” Fred said, scanning the open notebook on the table. With a concentrated wand wave, the yellow-blob-with-a-bill became a plain wood wand. Both twins were mightily impressed with that. Then George picked it up and it exploded yellow goo all over them and their stuff and that wall that McGonagall had said would survive the apocalypse, while giving them a very stern look that others might not have interpreted as a challenge.
“Well, that settles it,” George said, wiping his eyes, “we should fix Oliver’s love life.”
“We’re very selfless,” Fred noted, using those handy cleaning spells he made sure his mother never knew he knew.
So they set about rather subtly making changes—tossing unsuspecting girls at Oliver in the hopes that he would pick one and start dating, officially stopping the other girls from going crazy. Unfortunately, Oliver seemingly refused to get with the program as he kept sizing the girls up as chasers or back up seekers while ignoring anything they said that didn’t involve Quidditch.
“This is pathetic,” George said, slumping in his seat in the common room as Oliver ignored one girl who was literally unbuttoning her shirt to get his attention. “I doubt he’d notice she was naked if she was holding a snitch.”
Fred leaned back, tilting his head. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Maybe we shouldn’t be helping the girls, but making Oliver avoid them all together.”
They hatched a brilliant plan over the next hour, immediately deciding to include Angelina—(“Don’t want her accidentally pranked. Last time—” “No. No. Don’t say it aloud. It’ll only anger her.”) Being the classy girl she was, Angelina did not slap them, but instead helped them come up with ways to make the prank better, and Fred fell in love with her.
“I’m serious. They invented these things with illegal love potions that make blokes associate their feelings about whatever the thrower says with that person,” Angelina was telling a group of younger girls the day their plan went into action. “I had to confiscate them all.”
“That sounds complicated,” a dubious one said. Fred did not like her one bit.
“It’s not. Watch. You just have to make sure you’re the first thing they see.” Angelina moved over to where a seventh year named Josh (who had to be brought in since the twins would have been suspect) was bent over a book in the corner of the room and tossed a Sparking Miniature Octagonal Killer Exploders (S.M.O.K.E.) bomb at his feet, which exploded in a very impressive, expressive way while she yelled. “Baguettes!”
Josh made a show of shaking his head, but not acknowledging the smoke.
“Angelina, did you say something?” He turned, and she made sure she was about an inch way from his face. “Oh! Hi. Is that a new perfume? You smell delicious.”
The girls she had been talking to were gaping.
“Thanks,” Angelina said when he pulled her into his lap and began kissing her hand. Fred would talk with him about overselling it later.
But Josh wasn’t done: “Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with—”
“I want a dozen!” yelled the little black-haired girl who was clearly the ringleader.
So there were exactly four people who were not surprised when a fourth year Hufflepuff tossed a S.M.O.K.E. bomb at Oliver’s feet at dinner that nightand yelled, “Chaser!” while doing a little jig in front of him.
Oliver just sort of stared blankly. “You want to be a Chaser?”
George was grinning. “This is going to be so much fun.”
“SEEKER!” The shriek resounded through the Great Hall, as a third year launched herself at Oliver in an attempt to make sure she was the first thing he saw. The plan failed.
As Oliver was trying to make his escape, two sixth years joined the group with similarly timed: “Bludger!”
It was a total of nine girls who made the valiant attempt to win him over with a S.M.O.K.E. bomb, but the grand finale came a few minutes later, when the song the twins had created started blaring through the Great Hall.
“Oliver Wood, Wood, Wood. Oliver Wood, Wood, would you love me? I’ll be the snitch to your Seeker, the hoop to your keeper. I’ll cut my hair and buy a broom, I’ll be the horse to your groom. Oliver Wood, Wood, would you love me?”
Angelina was giving them a look that mixed disappointment with pity, which Fred waved off. “It’s hard to rhyme broom, okay?”
“Yeah, it was that or tomb or boom, and those were even weirder,” George agreed as the song pranced on in the background.
The scene had most people gossiping, but the really clever ones were either glaring suspiciously at the twins (Snape) or trying not to smile at the spectacle (Sprout). McGonagall was much too invested in Quidditch and house loyalty to congratulate them, but they could discern a bit of appreciation in her angry, angry eyes.
“I’ll love you till the end, even if you don’t lend… me your heart. I’ll be the field to your stands, as I stare at your hands. Oliver Wood, Wood, would you love me?”
The song stopped with another rousing melody, and Fred wiped a fake tear. “Ah, music.”
“More powerful than anything taught here,” George said, nodding.
“Hey, mates,” Oliver said, quickly squeezing in to sit beside them. “Tell me that was your doing.”
“What was?” Fred asked.
George shook his head at his twin. “Too much. You should have gone with denial over ignorance. Clearly we can tell something weird is afoot.”
“They can’t all actually want to be on the team, can they? I would have to make a second reserve team, and I think the field schedule wouldn’t be possible,” Oliver said, dodging a girl reaching out for him like a crazed person as the song began anew.
Angelina just buried her face in her hands while the twins shook their heads. “That’s what you’re most concerned about?”
“What? We have a really good chance at winning this year,” Oliver said, as if he had already forgotten this whole embarrassing meal and the beautiful, beautiful song.
“We’re going to have dial up the drama next time,” Fred said.
George nodded. “Maybe if something explodes—“
“Or at least lights up brightly.”
“Maybe we should give the girls brooms,” Fred said, throwing a large balloon into the middle of the room, where it exploded and released the antiserum to the compelling potion in the S.M.O.K.E. bombs.
“Maybe if the brooms were on fire,” George suggested, pulling out the notebook they used to critique their pranks. A canary flew out of his bag when he opened it, but he didn’t have time to catch it.
“You can’t light girls on fire,” Angelina said.
“Oliver could light me on fire,” one girl sighed a couple seat down.
“And the song needs some work. It’s repetitive,” George remembered, dipping his quill in ink.
“Next time, let’s include fireworks,” Fred suddenly thought, and they spent the rest of the meal tweaking their ideas and ignoring the girls. It wasn’t anything new for them to be obsessing crazily over the Quidditch captain. And it wasn’t new that Oliver didn’t notice.