Incongruous Compatibility, Part 1 of 2 - fic for magikcat112
Author: dark_branwen
Recipient: magikcat112
Title: Incongruous Compatibility, Part 1 of 2
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers through Half-Blood Prince.
Characters/Ships: Oliver/Penelope, past Penelope/Percy
Genre: Romance
Summary: When Penelope leaves Percy and the Ministry after learning the Dark Lord has returned, she finds herself out of a job. On the suggestion of a friend, she starts looking towards a career involving Quidditch and decides to become a sports agent for up-and-coming Puddlemere United player, Oliver Wood.
Length: 15,000
Notes: This story was definitely a challenge as these are two characters I’ve never written before. I hope you enjoy it! I had a lot of fun developing Penelope’s character and background. I admit that I have something of a fascination with strong women who can’t quite figure out how to navigate how to be strong without being rigid, which is what I attempted to do here. I also loved building upon what we know of Oliver and making him more than just ‘that bloke obsessed with Quidditch.’ He’s still obsessed with Quidditch, but muses willing, there’s more to him now. I sincerely hope nothing contradicts the books. All the information on Puddlemere United and all the trappings is accurate as far as I can tell. Thanks so much to my beta, and to the mods of this fest!
Penelope broke up with Percy Weasley the day everyone knew that Voldemort had returned.
When Percy came to the flat she nearly shared with him, white-faced and shivering underneath his overcoat, he told her what had happened. He told her about the Battle at the Department of Mysteries, the exoneration and death of Sirius Black, and that everything she had been told to believe was wrong. It was all a lie.
Something snapped inside of her like a cracking bone. She leapt off the couch, upending the breakfast she’d been having, and stalked back to their - really his - bedroom. She grabbed her largest bag, pulled open the drawers he had given to her, and proceeded to throw her belongings inside.
“Penny?” Percy asked, coming into the room as if he was a wanderer unsure of his footing. “What are you doing?”
Penelope scoffed. “I realize you were not in Ravenclaw, Percy, but really, I should think it’s obvious.”
“You’re not leaving.” A flat denial.
Penelope pulled her wand from her pocket and levitated the remaining articles of clothing into the bag. Then she slammed them shut with a violent flick of her wand. “Yes. I am.”
“Just like that?” Percy asked. His voice trembled in that way that made her want to hold him and stroke his ginger hair.
She turned to the bathroom and summoned her toiletries. “Just like that.”
“But you can’t!” he shouted, his voice already breaking. “You can’t- I need you, Penny. Now more than ever.”
Penelope thrust her hands into her hair, her fingers getting caught in the tangles as she twisted it into a bun. “You need me to hold your hand and tell you it’s all right, Percy, but it isn’t. I can’t stay.”
She saw his ears start to redden in the reflection of the bedroom mirror. A picture of them was tucked into the corner. She couldn’t remember where it had been taken, but she looked happy. They both did. “I know that I was wrong about You-Know-Who, but I don’t see why that means you have to leave.”
Penelope leaned forward onto the dresser, her fingers curling around the edge. “For a year, Percy, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I listened to your rational explanations. I held on to my faith in the government I worked for. I openly dismissed the evidence offered by the opposition as paranoia in deference to a madman and his boy soldier.”
She looked up and caught his eyes in the mirror. He was crying. She wasn’t. “But from the first, I believed Harry.”
Percy’s ears grew redder. “You never said.”
“I didn’t want to start an argument.” It was more a lie than the truth, but it wasn’t totally a lie. And though Percy would never have agreed with her, he deserved better than her real reasons.
“So you lied?”
“You never asked what I thought. You assumed that I believed the way you did.”
“Because it was the logical conclusion given the evidence!” Percy spluttered. “He’s a child! A child who saw his parents die, who was at the center of every catastrophe since the day I met him. I know the Muggles who raised him; I know how they mistreated him. Lashing out would only be natural. I was his Prefect for Merlin’s sake! I know how unstable he is.”
Penelope nodded. “But I didn’t follow the logic, Percy.” She reached behind her and grabbed her bag, looping it over her shoulder. “I just believed him.”
Percy swiped at his eyes as she turned. “Not very Ravenclaw of you.”
“I never was a very good Ravenclaw.”
Percy shifted so that he stood in front of the door, tilting his chin up in defiance. It was a good look for him. It really was too bad that he so rarely used it. “So you’re leaving me because I was wrong?”
“No,” Penelope murmured. “I’m leaving you because anyone who really followed the logic would have concluded some time ago that Harry Potter and Dumbledore weren’t lying. I’m leaving you because you held on to that because you wanted to disagree with your parents. To get back at your father. You wanted to make them angry, so you held on to your convictions.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You always were a stubborn swot.”
Percy’s eyes began to harden. For years, they had been nothing but softness and devotion for her, and even if it was only for her, it was enough. Now they were wet stones. It would have been the same gaze he turned on everyone, had it not been for the tears. “You were wrong too, you know.”
She raised an eyebrow. “About?”
He stepped out of the doorway. “You’re a very good Ravenclaw.”
She shut her eyes, but walked forward, gently pushing past him on her way out. When their shoulders brushed together, the spark that had left her stomach doing cartwheels while they were in school did not emerge. It was nothing new, but it still stung.
“I’ll send your things from my flat, shall I?” Penelope asked.
“This isn’t right,” Percy said roughly.
“Maybe not for you,” she muttered, striding away. “But it is for me.”
Then she walked out of his apartment for the last time.
An hour later, Penelope had arrived at her own home, unpacked her things, and sent an owl to the Ministry with her resignation. Then she curled up on her couch and covered herself in a blanket Mrs. Weasley had knit for her when she was still welcome in their home. She tucked herself in up to her chin, sliding her feet between the sofa cushions. She lay there for the rest of the day, and she didn’t cry.
“I am never dating a Gryffindor again.”
-----
A few days later, Penelope had calculated that she could survive the rest of the month on her current funds thanks to the pathetic salary she had received from the Ministry. This meant that procuring a job was a necessity that could not be put off to mourn a relationship or a career fallen by the wayside. She could, of course, waste valuable time and energy looking through the Daily Prophet for want ads, but she knew that there were far better resources available to her than that.
Everyone knew that there were various flaws with the house system of Hogwarts; after all, it was the only magical school in Europe that employed such measures. It was easy to see how it could inspire a gang mentality, which made inter-house relations a bit of a bear. However, Penelope also knew that there were advantages to it as well. Chief among those was the ability to network.
The housing systems acted a bit like social fraternities common to universities in the United States. It built up an instant camaraderie between members of the same house even if they were decades apart in age. It also meant that even if two classmates had never been friends as such, they still felt a sense of ingrained loyalty.
So when Penelope got in touch with Duncan Inglebee, a boy from her year, her house, and a Beater on the Quidditch team, he was not the least bit surprised. Nor was he averse to meeting her for dinner to discuss what resources and connections he had with which he could find her some gainful employment. As the son of one of the foremost executives in the Nimbus Broom Racing Company, he had quite a few connections.
It was her bad luck that the return of the Dark Lord didn’t exactly make this a hiring market.
“I don’t want to be a research assistant, Duncan,” Penelope sighed, stabbing at her chips with unusual vehemence. She didn’t mind eating fried food as a rule, but when she couldn’t afford the more appetizing items on the menu thanks to her financial situation, it put her in a bit of a mood. “And I couldn’t even stand it for a while to make ends meet.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Really? And I’d been saving that one for a fellow ’Claw.”
Out of politeness, Penelope did not gag at the nickname. “Duncan, I know we weren’t the best of friends, but think back to our time at school. Do you remember ever seeing me study?”
Duncan flashed a smile, and she found herself blinking overmuch. He had surprisingly white teeth. “Well, I was a bit focused myself.”
“Oh, right,” Penelope murmured, frowning. “I’d forgotten. That’s how I got away with this.”
Duncan’s smile immediately vanished, his mouth hardening into something grim and threatening. “Penelope, I certainly hope you are not implying that because we were too busy studying, you managed to cheat on your exams. Because if that is what you are implying, don’t think I won’t march to Hogwarts right now and have them revoke your Head Girl status.”
Penelope scoffed, waving her fork at him. “Please. As if I would risk the wrath of our house. I heard the conspiracy theories the little ones cooked up to discover the deception of Hermione Granger. I’m fine with my hands staying hands, thanks.”
His face changed back to his original so quickly it may as well have given her whiplash. “Well, that’s all right then. What did you mean?”
Penelope grasped her straw between her fingers and began to swirl the remaining ice around in the glass, creating a little tornado. “Everyone in Ravenclaw studies like mad. That’s the stereotype, yeah? I never did.”
“Never studied?”
“Well, not never-ever never,” she clarified. “But not much, and not just by Ravenclaw standards. Charms and Defense and Potions all came surprisingly easy to me. It’s not that I didn’t try at all; I just never had to try very hard.”
Duncan stared at her for a moment, then snorted. “I can think of a few girls in our year who’d like to strangle you for that.”
“I’d deserve it a bit, wouldn’t I?” Penelope said, returning to her cooling chips. “Any other ideas?”
Duncan scratched at his chin, overemphasizing the five o’clock shadow that seemed too elegant not to be deliberate. “I suppose an editor wouldn’t suit you either.”
“Not likely,” Penelope agreed. “I need to do something active, or I’ll go barmy. Something that requires movement and engagement. And I don’t mean delivering mail and running idiotic little errands. That’s all I ever did at MoM, and there were times that I wanted to swallow my wand.”
“I can imagine,” Duncan agreed. “Well, I’d offer to look into what’s open at my dad’s company, but I doubt it would be anything other than secretarial work. And something tells me you don’t do well with bosses.”
Penelope valiantly tried not to think about the various demerits and reprimands she’d received from her various employers at the Ministry. Apparently they found her cheeky.
Idiots.
“A bit hard not to have a boss if I want to find work.”
“Always self-employment.”
“As what? A dog-walker?” She paused. “Actually, dogs aren’t so bad.”
Duncan looked ill. “Please. Don’t debase yourself that much. The house would have to disown you.”
Penelope sighed, tearing her napkin. “If you have any better ideas, please, tell me.”
To her surprise, Duncan gave the matter due consideration. After a moment, she saw his eyes light up - the proverbial light bulb. “You liked Quidditch, didn’t you? Never played, but you were a fan.”
“Still am. Support the Harpies.”
Duncan leaned forward conspiratorially. “I happen to have heard of a certain reserve Keeper for Puddlemere United who is in need of a sports agent. He was recruited right out of Hogwarts, so he was left to negotiate the terms of his contract himself. And since he’s in Gryffindor, word on the pitch is that he got a crap deal.”
It took an avid Quidditch fan to know the reserve players of a team they did not support. Penelope was a very avid Quidditch fan. “Oh, Duncan. Really?”
“What’s wrong with the idea? I think you’d be great! You’re… assertive.”
“Oh, thanks,” she drawled, knowing what ‘assertive’ really meant in male-speak.
“Bloody brilliant of course,” Duncan continued undeterred. “And if what you said about not trying is true, you must have a good head for numbers. You were always tops in Arithmancy.”
Penelope held up her hands before he could continue to list her attributes. “The only thing I don’t like about the idea is who you’re talking about.”
“Wood? What’s wrong with him?”
Penelope bit her tongue to keep from saying ‘Gryffindor.’ “I always thought he was insufferable. Possibly even deranged. I love Quidditch, but… well, we all heard the rumors about his broomstick.”
“Yeah,” Duncan murmured, chuckling. “And that he liked to put the Snitch up his-"
“The point is,” Penelope interrupted, “that I don’t think we’re suited.”
Duncan shrugged. “I don’t know about that. And I also don’t know what alternatives you have.”
There were alternatives of course. Penelope knew he was exaggerating grossly. But the fact remained that without further study, she would not be qualified for jobs more intellectually stimulating. And people were likely to be fleeing to the schools, whose protections were often better than people could provide for themselves. Furthermore, she couldn’t handle a desk job. She would go absolutely insane if she went with a desk job. There may have been options, but she couldn’t think of anything more promising than dog-walker.
And independent of Oliver Wood, the idea of being a sports agent was intriguing. She liked negotiating. She always drove a hard bargain. She wasn’t especially good at persuading people gently, but she definitely had the determination to hammer at them until they gave in. And it would involve her in Quidditch, something she’d always loved more than she cared to admit.
“Well,” Penelope said, pushing her plate of cold chips away, “may as well give it a go.”
-----
When Oliver had first gotten recruited for Puddlemere United, his friends and family and fellow teammates had informed him that he was in for quite a shock when he began practicing. “It’s nothing like school,” they said. “Much more strenuous. You probably won’t be able to stand afterwards.”
Oliver had learned in short order that this was not true. He had run much more challenging practices when he was captain. They didn’t even start until nine in the morning for Godric’s sake!
So, while most of his other teammates - even the more seasoned ones - had to drag themselves off the pitch, Oliver always did his best to keep a spring in his step. After all, he’d just finished doing what he loved to do, and comparatively, it hadn’t been that hard. He had attempted to explain to their trainer what more they could do, but she’d informed him that he was an overenthused git who needed to get a girlfriend or at least get laid on a more regular basis, otherwise she would be forced to slaughter him.
Everyone had always joked that Quidditch was his only love. However, when he tried to use it himself, people mostly just looked sad.
As he strode off the pitch, Oliver was sidelined by the sight of a slightly familiar woman leaning against the door to the showers. Perhaps Quidditch was his mistress, but Oliver was still male, and he had a certain appreciation for the female form. Saying she was fit would have been an unforgivable understatement. She was dressed in a Muggle ensemble - black pencil skirt, purple blouse, and high heels that would have sunk into the mud if it hadn’t been for some kind of charm. Her long, shapely legs seemed to go on for longer than the law should have allowed, and Oliver found himself thankful that Muggles favored less fabric all together. She was definitely a woman with curves in all the right places. He didn’t place her until he got closer and saw her wildly curly brown-black hair twisted into a bun that could barely contain it. He remembered that she’d used to wear her hair down against her Ravenclaw robes. He remembered her skin like burnt almonds and the way she smiled with only one corner of her mouth.
Penelope Clearwater had definitely done some growing up.
“Penelope!” Oliver bellowed, pulling off some of his Keeper’s gear. “This is certainly a surprise.”
The right side of her mouth crept up farther. “I’m surprised you remember me, Oliver. Since you’re a big Quidditch star now.”
He returned her smile, trying to remember if the chip in his front tooth was that obvious. He did need to remember to get that fixed one of these days. “Never forget a fellow Quidditch fan. Even if you never did bet on my team.”
“House loyalty, Oliver.”
“You must have known we were better.”
“That’s why it was more than few sickles.”
Oliver laughed that too-loud-uncomfortable laugh everyone indulged in when talking to pseudo-strangers. He planted his broomstick on the ground like he was claiming the pitch, and said, “So, what brings you here? Autographs from the rest of the team?”
“Not why I’m here, but I may take you up on that later,” Penelope said, pushing off the door. “A little Inglebee bird told me that you’re in need of representation.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “You a barrister now?”
“I meant an agent.”
Oliver had suspected that. He’d just hoped he was wrong. “Inglebee… Duncan, right? Bloody sod’s been trying to get me represented for an age.”
“Along with everyone else I hear,” Penelope said. “You’re the only player on the team without some kind of endorsement deal.”
He shrugged. “Don’t need them.”
“And I’ve heard rumors about your pay.”
“I’m just a reserve player, and a newbie besides.”
She scoffed. “Next you’re going to tell me that money doesn’t matter to you.”
“Well, it doesn’t,” he admitted. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is play Quidditch. I’m playing. And I’ve got enough to keep me fed and bed. Don’t need anything else.”
Penelope got the same look on her face that a lot of people had when they discussed this subject. Like she wanted to ram her head through a brick wall. “Oliver, I can get you a better deal than that.”
“Probably,” he agreed. No one had been very close with Penelope, aside from Percy Weasley of course. But she’d always struck Oliver as rather saucy. She seemed like a woman used to getting her way by force. “But it doesn’t matter to me.”
She narrowed her gaze. It looked like there was lightning flashing in her eyes. “Oliver, as much as you think this noble hero persona will endear you to the adoring female masses, it does not endear you to me.”
Oliver began to lean away. “Okay….”
“And more importantly, it will not endear you to your trainer, your manager, or the owners of the team,” she pressed on. “Quidditch is competitive on and off the field. If you want to be more than a reserve player, you have to show that you’re willing to put up a fight. It’s perfectly clear that your thought process begins and ends with a fanatical love of Quaffles, but I can fight for you. You’re expected to have someone to do that. Frankly, I’m amazed you haven’t been chewed up trying to navigate this on your own thus far. You will never do more than sit on the sidelines and pray for the day when Wadcock’s too ill to mount his broom. Which, as I recall, has not happened once since you joined the team.”
Oliver glanced away quickly. It had been a long held frustration that Geoffrey Wadcock had never had to sit out a game for any reason. The man was irrationally muscular, to the point where he was often mistaken for a Beater by non-fans. It made him something of a flying brick wall. He seemed impervious to injury and illness, which left Oliver perpetually grounded and moping on the sidelines.
“You think you could get me in the air?” Oliver asked.
“I know I can.”
Oliver scratched the back of his head. He didn’t lie when he said that he didn’t give a rat’s piss about the money. It wasn’t that he was too altruistic or noble to take it. It wasn’t even that he’d grown up around haughty Purebloods and saw what too much financial solvency did to people. He just honestly didn’t need it, and he wasn’t the sort of guy who found himself wanting much more than he needed. The argument could be made, he supposed, that playing Quidditch and flying a broom until his thighs chafed was not necessary for his survival, but it wasn’t an argument he’d listen to long enough for the other person to make their point.
The pay didn’t matter. Exposure didn’t matter. He had about as much use for fame and fortune as You-Know-Who had for a Marvin the Mad Muggle costume on Samhein.
But if she could get him in the air….
“I really hope that you’re not just grandstanding, Penelope Clearwater,” Oliver sighed. “If you are, I will be one sad little man.”
Penelope beamed at him so brightly that the corners of her mouth were nearly on level with one another. “Ravenclaws never grandstand; we never say we can do anything unless we know it’s true.”
Oliver didn’t have to ask who the Wizarding World considered the real show-offs were. “Well, I’ve caught a whiff of myself now, so I’d best be getting into the showers. There’s a pub across the way - McLachlan’s Magical Mead. Bugger me if the name isn’t the stupidest in the tri-county area, but they have a home brew that makes Ogden’s look like Pumpkin Juice. Meet me there in an hour after I’ve run back to my place and grabbed the papers.”
For a moment, Oliver thought Penelope was going to hug him - and though he wouldn’t normally be opposed to the idea, he was in no mood for her to smell him at such close quarters. In the end, she stuck out her hand and gave him a firm, businesslike shake. His inner sixteen-year-old couldn’t help but be mildly disappointed.
“You won’t be sorry,” she vowed, the gleam in her eyes reminding him of her assurances that Ravenclaws kept their promises.
He shrugged amiably. “If you say so.”
-----
Indeed, Penelope had said that Oliver would not be sorry. However, after fidgeting outside the pub for an hour and then spending another hunched over the documents while her steak pie went cold, she was fairly sure that she was going to be.
“For the first time in the history of magic, the rumor is not nearly as bad as the truth,” Penelope lamented. “How could you have agreed to this sum?”
Oliver shrugged, shoveling chips into his mouth as if it was about to go out of style. “Already answered that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but this is so much worse than I could have imagined,” Penelope said, driving her fingernails into her bun. She’d pulled it too tight, and it was giving her a headache, but damned if she was going to pull it down in this humidity. “This is well below average for reserve players, especially someone of your caliber.”
Oliver smiled at the praise. “Why, Penelope, I had no idea.”
“Just because I’m house-loyal doesn’t mean I can’t tell a fantastic Keeper when I see one.” She just barely stopped herself from adding, ‘Even if your complete lack of sense makes me want to hex you blind.’ “And it extends even beyond the pay. Your health benefits are utterly atrocious. It all but says that they won’t pay for a mediwizard unless you’re hemorrhaging your guts out your nose, and even then, they’d dither around before doing it.”
Oliver patted his nose as if to reassure himself that his spleen wasn’t poking out of a nostril. “I’ll be honest; most of that legal jargon went right over my head.”
Through the grace of God or some other divine intercession, Penelope did not roll her eyes. Though, if she were in a more charitable mood, she would have admitted that some of it was making her go cross-eyed. “This is why you get a lawyer or an agent to look these things over before you sign them. It’s a magical contract; it’s not like you can break it and then apologize for it later hoping no one gets sued.”
For a moment, Oliver looked mystified, but then he snapped his fingers, spraying bits of potato onto the paper. “I forgot. You’re Half-Blood, aren’t you?”
Even when the Dark Lord had been little more than a specter on the back of Quirrell’s head, this had been a sensitive topic. Penelope gave him a look that would have given even Professor Snape pause. “Does that make a difference?”
Oliver just kept smiling at her, and she wondered if he was a moron, brave, or a brave moron. “No, I was just wondering how you knew Muggle law, and then I remembered. I never cared a flip for anyone’s parentage.”
Coming from a Pureblood, even one from a family as diametrically opposed to the Malfoys as one could get, Penelope found this hard to believe. She took a swig from her pint to get the sour taste out of her mouth. “My point is, in addition to your salary being a joke worthy of the Weasley twins, your benefits are so scant that they may as well be non-existent. Not to mention the fact that if you’re caught so much as looking at the manager of another team the wrong way, they’ll have you tied up in litigation faster than a Firebolt can fly.”
Probably because Oliver had consumed more drink that her, he chuckled and murmured, “I love a woman who uses Quidditch metaphors.”
Leaving aside her shock that Oliver Wood knew literary terms at all, Penelope gave him a withering look. “Down, boy. I didn’t offer to be your agent so that you could play find the Snitch in my knickers.”
Oliver guffawed, choking on his lager. Once he’d spelled away the mess, he had the decency to look chagrined. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I know you’re spoken for.”
Penelope could not stop from wincing. She’d dreaded having this conversation with anyone, much less Oliver Wood of all people.
“How is Perce? I heard he got a promotion at the Ministry that’s got his superiors spitting acid.”
Penelope remembered when he’d gotten that promotion, the first of many, she had no doubt. He’d come home lit up like a Christmas tree - late for dinner and obviously buzzed. She’d started to lay into him for not bothering to tell her, but he’d grabbed her and spun her around in a dance that couldn’t quite decide between the jitterbug and the foxtrot. Then he’d told her about it, and Percy, who even in the privacy of their own apartment seemed endearingly bashful when he saw her naked, made love to her right there on the living room floor. The sex had been spectacular and entirely worth the rug burns.
“Penelope?”
She shook herself out of her daydream and took another long drink of her beer. “Percy and I… Well, we aren’t…” She trailed off, waving her hands in a series of vague gestures she hoped were unmistakable.
And Oliver Wood, who as far as she knew had seen her only as Ravenclaw Quidditch Fan 17, gave her a look of unabashed sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that. Percy was my roommate, and even if he didn’t talk to anyone much, anyone could see how happy you made him. You seemed happy too.”
She had been happy. Penelope knew she had been. Other people could trick themselves into being happy, but she was so naturally suspicious of everyone’s intentions that she was far more likely to fool herself the other way. She’d been happy because Percy made her happy. Because he was the one Pureblood in the whole damn castle whom she believed when he said he didn’t care who her parents were. Because he was so unfailingly polite that he shifted his gaze when she stepped out of the shower. Because she saw his stubbornness and ambition as a virtue, not a hindrance, and because at first, what flaws she did see could be overlooked.
But eventually weeds take root and before you know it, the garden’s been dead for months for want of care.
“Thank you,” she murmured, running her finger around the rim of her mug. Then she smiled, chuckling. “You know, I tend to forget Percy had roommates. From First Year on, he seemed like the sort who did better on his own, and that’s after I knew he had more siblings than fingers on one hand.”
Oliver laughed in that fond tone everyone always used remembering the Hogwarts of their youth - without the trolls and basilisks and other things of course. “Percy was a loner, but even living with four other boys, he’d perfected the ability to be by himself in a room full of other people. Suspect he got it from living with such a big family. He was so… insulated. It was like he was born with the ability to cast a world-wide Silencing Charm, and he could shut us all out so he could bury his nose in his book.” Then Oliver rolled his eyes, but not unkindly. “Course he didn’t, or he wouldn’t have known the exact right moments to look at us disapprovingly over the spine.”
Penelope snorted quietly. “That’s my Percy all right.”
Except he wasn’t hers anymore, and she’d made the decision for him not to be.
The awkward silence that settled over them was about as stifling as a Devil’s Snare around your throat. Like most Gryffindors, Oliver couldn’t abide it. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“That is highly dependent on what the question is.”
Oliver gave her a conciliatory nod, but pressed on. “I’m your first client, aren’t I?”
Penelope stared, self-consciously aware that her mouth was hanging open. After a moment, she recovered her senses enough to want to kick herself for doing something so obvious as to let him see through her. “How did you know?”
Oliver shrugged. “Just knew.”
He just knew. Typical. A Slytherin would have asked around and saved the information for when it would prove useful. A Hufflepuff would suspect but tactfully keep silent unless it was necessary to speak up. A Ravenclaw would have done the research, discovered the truth, and been satisfied just with being right. But a Gryffindor led with their gut and laid it all to bear with an affable tone and a charming smile.
This was why Penelope did not like Gryffindors as a rule.
“That doesn’t mean-"
“I know,” he said, holding up his hands. “My guess is that you’re a sight brighter than 95% of the other agents in the country. It doesn’t seem like a very Ravenclaw job, does it?”
Her own voice echoed back at her from the week before. I never was a very good Ravenclaw. “Not as such, no.”
“Not nearly enough reading,” he joked, badly, and by the look on his face, he knew it. “So what did you do before this?”
Penelope pursed her lips. She wasn’t especially in the mood to bare her soul to him, but talking about former occupations was hardly Earth-shattering information, and not anything he couldn’t have picked up elsewhere. She supposed it was her penchant for secrecy talking. “I worked at the Ministry, Department of Magical Games and Sports, specifically in the Ludicrous Patents Office.”
Oliver wrinkled his nose. Quidditch players were notorious for despising all of the red tape and paperwork involved with the sport. “I never understood why it’s called the Ludicrous Patents Office. Don’t see anything ridiculous about Quidditch.”
If they’d been friends, she would have patted him on the head at that comment and said, “Of course you don’t.” But they weren’t friends. “Ludicrous comes from the Latin word for ‘game,’ so really what we do - or did in my case - is all to do with game-related enchantments. Different ways to hide the pitch, spells for referees, among other things.”
Oliver snorted. “Leave it to a Ravenclaw to know the etymology for ludicrous.”
Penelope pointedly did not blush.
“Why did you leave? I’m tempted to make a joke about the patents getting too ludicrous for you, but I don’t think it would land anymore.”
Penelope nodded in agreement. Then she drank the rest of her lager, of which there was a sizeable amount. If she was going to tell him this, and she suspected she had better if she wanted to solidify his trust in her, she damn well wasn’t going to be completely sober for it. Ignoring his wide-eyed look, she told him.
“You-Know-Who is why I left,” Penelope muttered, pausing to hiccup. “The Ministry absolutely ran themselves ragged over the last year, diverting resources towards proving that Harry Potter was madder than a cockatrice in heat. It was embarrassing, frankly. I stuck it out more for Percy’s sake than anything, but after the battle at the Department of Mysteries, the truth about Sirius Black coming out, and everything else… I just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore.”
Oliver glared darkly into his pint. She’d never seen him up close during a match, but she rather suspected that this was the look he used when his team was down in points. “You thought he was back as well, huh?”
“I suspected,” Penelope sighed. “I just… I suppose it’s different for me than others since I got wrapped up in that Basilisk business.” She paused, only to marvel at how she could dismiss being turned to stone and just narrowly avoiding an untimely demise with ‘that Basilisk business.’ “But I just wanted to believe Harry. Well, I did and I didn’t, of course, and I didn’t see him bring back Cedric Diggory’s body, but I can venture a guess as to how he looked.
“Everyone assumed that because Potter had lost his parents and because he’d been nearly killed by teachers and werewolves and Basilisks that he’d gone around the bend when Cedric died. But I always thought that if he was going to lose it, he would have done it sooner. I saw plenty of that boy with Percy, and what others saw as instability, I saw a fierce determination to stay sane at all costs. And when they weren’t saying he was mad and claiming he was a liar, I knew it had to be rubbish. Anyone who survived the Killing Curse by a fluke of luck no one aside from Albus Dumbledore has been able to figure out wouldn’t go around joking about it thirteen years later.”
She looked up and saw that Oliver had finished off his lager as well and had gestured for another round. She was tempted to refuse, but she could hold her liquor well enough, and she was in the mood to be less than sober.
“I believed him too,” Oliver confided.
“I hope you’re not expecting my shock and awe to make an appearance.”
He shook his head, tearing a chip in half. “Nah. There were plenty of other Gryffindors who didn’t believe him, though, so don’t think it’s out of my own house loyalty, of which there is an abundance. But I’m the Gryffindor who coached him, and…” He frowned, pausing while the waitress dropped off the beer and asked if there was anything else they needed. After she’d gone, Oliver continued.
“Everyone thinks Gryffindors are stupid,” Oliver said, grinning at Penelope’s almost imperceptible twitch. “Not as stupid as Hufflepuffs mind, but they think all we do is rush in where demons and angels both fear to tread and don’t bother to consider the consequences. I suppose that’s true of some if not all to an extent, but… I have a theory.”
Penelope had heard that phrase bandied about her own common room on an endless loop during her seven year tenure at school. Hearing it come out of Oliver’s mouth made her feel as though her grandfather were throwing Greek at her over Christmas like he always did.
“Ravenclaws think with their heads, yeah? Well, Gryffindors don’t. We think with our guts - our instincts.” Oliver paused, rubbing a foam mustache away with his sleeve. “And every Gryffindor this applies to probably develops some sort of specialized sixth sense of a sort. For example, I’m a fantastic Keeper because I’m a damn good guesser at where the Quaffle’s going to be when. I know it’s more than guessing of course - it’s having good eyes and the sense to use them and plenty of other things. But I make damn more saves due to luck than I ought to.
“And with Harry… Well, he’s been fucking up Dark Lords since the cradle, yeah? So when he says there’s something nasty going on with You-Know-Who or his merry band of Death Eaters, I see nothing to do but believe him and stay out of his way.”
“You always were the consummate strategist, Wood.”
If Oliver had been a peacock, Penelope was willing to bet he would have fluffed his plumage in pleasure.
She sighed and pushed her chair back, leaving her second beer only halfway finished. “I’d better get going. I’m going to need to glare at these for awhile longer to make sense of the various ways in which you have screwed yourself over.”
Oliver smiled, and he looked a little apologetic. “I haven’t thanked you, have I? That makes me rather a giant tit.”
Penelope smirked. She was so used to Percy and his careful evasions of four-letter words. She rather liked that Oliver used them about as much as articles and conjunctions. “Just give me the 15% we agreed upon once I’ve straightened your mess out for you. That’ll be thanks enough.”
She slipped her spring coat on, subconsciously touching her bun, anxious to get home and take it down. Then she stopped and said, “Oliver.”
“Hm?”
“If Ravenclaws think with their heads and Gryffindors with their instincts, what about the other houses?”
Oliver gave it a moment’s consideration. “Well, Puffs with their hearts I suppose, since they’re always going on about what’s fair to everyone.”
Penelope nodded. “And Slytherins.”
This time, Oliver didn’t pause. “With their cocks or the female equivalent.”
Penelope squawked, momentarily scandalized. “I cannot believe you just said that!”
“Oh, we all know what went on in those Common Rooms when they filched things from Snape’s storeroom.”
Penelope valiantly attempted not to laugh, but it was something of a rousing failure. She waved her hand, nearly upending a passing waiter’s tray. “Night, Oliver.”
“Good night, Penelope.”
On her way home to her flat, Penelope decided that as far as Gryffindors went, maybe Oliver Wood wasn’t that bad.
-----
Even if Puddlemere United didn’t see fit to find a purpose for him in actual games, Oliver knew he was dead useful when they were running skirmishes. Sometimes it was the reserves against the first string, and other times they mixed it up a bit. Oliver never really cared how they did it, so long as they did it. He would have gone as mad as a Lestrange if they’d hired him and then never let him kick off the ground to feel the wind in his face.
Practicing schedules had not been the surprise he’d been promised, but sometimes, he still found himself awed by the intensity that was a professional Quidditch game. Keeping track of the Quaffle took nearly as sharp eyes as a Seeker, and he had to be just as fast.
He watched Darcy pass the ball to Quinn, watched Quinn pretend to fumble so that it dropped into Slattery’s waiting arms, all so Slattery could perform a behind-back-toss back to Darcy. Then it sailed over to Quinn who, as the only male Chaser in the first string, threw the Quaffle with as much force as a Beater with a Bludger.
But Oliver knew it was coming, and although Quinn tried to disguise his aim, Oliver knew which hoop it was going for. He swooped down and knocked the ball away with the end of his broom, sending it sailing over Quinn’s head and directly into the arms of one of his Chasers, Mallory. He zipped back towards the other goalposts so quickly that he was a little more than a navy blur on the wind.
Of course, Wadcock never let the Quaffle get through his hoop either. It was a rare day when one of these skirmishes didn’t wind up tied zero to zero. The primary difference between Oliver and Geoffrey was in the latter’s tendency to show off. In an utterly unnecessary move that could have caused more harm than healing, Wadcock swung off his broom just as Mallory let the Quaffle fly with a vicious twist. Holding on with one hand, Wadcock kicked the ball away from the lower goalpost, and then swung back up, looking all the world like a Muggle cowboy remounting his steed.
Wadcock was a damn good Keeper, but he was a show-off, and he took unnecessary risks. If Oliver was his captain, he’d have boxed Geoffrey’s ears five times over for pulling those stupid tricks at practice, and then saving his truly spectacularly stupid moves for games so that he could shine for the press. Even now, he let Geoffrey know what he thought of it, and if Wadcock ever did kill himself or come damn close to it, Oliver would have had his spot in a flash.
It was really just bad luck that Wadcock never seemed to get hurt.
“All right, ladies and gents,” their trainer, Lowry, called out in her usual fit of pique. “You’re all rubbish, but you’re unfed rubbish. Go eat something, and I swear, if it’s not according to the nutritional standards you’ve all been given, I will make vegetables grow out your ears and make you eat them.”
No one even winced at the threat anymore; they knew it was true, but no one had the bad sense to eat chips and stuff in front of Lowry. Oliver started to drift to the ground to pack it in, but then he saw a familiar curly head bobbing in the stands. He looked closer, saw it was indeed Penelope descending the stairs, presumably to talk to him, and then banked to his right. No sense making her walk if she didn’t have to.
“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” Oliver said genially. “Finished glaring at my contract yet?”
“Not nearly,” she muttered, a bit crossly. He noticed she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail this time. It was more favorable than a bun, but he still preferred it down. To his further dismay, she was wearing those blue trousers Muggles were so fond of. “But I’ve more or less got it worked out. Only one mystery left really.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Why in the name of everything that’s holy are you on reserve?”
Oliver would have been tickled at the compliment if it weren’t for all the trappings. “Er.”
“Wadcock isn’t better than you; he just looks better,” Penelope snapped. He swore that her hair somehow managed to get bigger when she was angry. “I’d never noticed before because I hadn’t seen you play side by side until today. He wastes time with those fancy maneuvers, and even if Puddlemere’s record is great on an off-year, it would be better if he didn’t go off pulling stunts so he can get a hot shag with the latest Witch Weekly centerfold.”
It was such a cliché to say that woman were cute when they were angry. Growing up around any number of Gryffindor girls who would hex his balls off at the intimation that they did had taught him that much. And Penelope also did not look cute when she was angry.
Damn it if she didn’t look scorching though.
“What is the matter with everyone that they prefer Wadcock over you?” she asked indignantly.
Oliver frowned, leaning against the front of his still airborne broom. “How much do you know about Quidditch history?”
Penelope blinked. “Well, I’ve read the book, but I didn’t memorize it. And I haven’t touched it since I was 11.”
This surprised Oliver not at all. He knew Ravenclaws didn’t have much of a penchant for rereading; they did it once, and they did it right. “Does the name Joscelind Wadcock ring a bell?”
It didn’t, not at first, but then he saw Penelope make the connection. She was definitely cute when she realized something, but he supposed that was a regular pick up line in her house. “They’re not related?”
“He’s her nephew.”
Penelope let out a groan. “Bugger.”
“I hear she was initially a bit disappointed that he didn’t turn out to be a Chaser, but he doesn’t have the build for it. About three seconds later, she decided she preferred he played a different position. This way he wouldn’t break her record of most goals in a season.”
“Nepotism,” she snarled. “I am so bloody sick of it. I cannot tell you how absolutely rankled the Ministry is with it, and now it’s even in Puddlemere United.”
He felt tempted to pat her shoulder, but that seemed far too familiar. “I must say, I’m impressed you’re this passionate about it. I know.” He banked away before she could swat at him. “You’re my agent, and you’ll fight for me. I suppose I’m just… not used to people giving me much thought.”
She gave him a smile that was trying very hard not to be pitying, but she failed somewhat miserably. He felt very much like a starving puppy in Quidditch robes. “Oliver, you’re single-minded to an unhealthy degree, and you don’t have a head for business. That doesn’t mean you deserve to get jerked around and mistreated because of it.”
Oliver knew she didn’t think much of him intellectually, and that was all right. He knew he wasn’t stupid, and that was all that really mattered to him. Still, it was nice to hear this compliment from her, however warped. “I’m off to get a bite. I wouldn’t mind company.”
She raised her eyebrow. “What about your teammates?”
“They’re still a bit shirty with me for asking the trainer for Saturday practices.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“Me either!”
She gave the matter due consideration, which he appreciated. He didn’t want her to come along out of politeness and then have things be awkward the whole way through. Finally, she shrugged. “Why not? Everyone needs to eat.”
He smiled at her, and hoped it wasn’t so bright that she balked.
She didn’t.
Part Two
Recipient: magikcat112
Title: Incongruous Compatibility, Part 1 of 2
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers through Half-Blood Prince.
Characters/Ships: Oliver/Penelope, past Penelope/Percy
Genre: Romance
Summary: When Penelope leaves Percy and the Ministry after learning the Dark Lord has returned, she finds herself out of a job. On the suggestion of a friend, she starts looking towards a career involving Quidditch and decides to become a sports agent for up-and-coming Puddlemere United player, Oliver Wood.
Length: 15,000
Notes: This story was definitely a challenge as these are two characters I’ve never written before. I hope you enjoy it! I had a lot of fun developing Penelope’s character and background. I admit that I have something of a fascination with strong women who can’t quite figure out how to navigate how to be strong without being rigid, which is what I attempted to do here. I also loved building upon what we know of Oliver and making him more than just ‘that bloke obsessed with Quidditch.’ He’s still obsessed with Quidditch, but muses willing, there’s more to him now. I sincerely hope nothing contradicts the books. All the information on Puddlemere United and all the trappings is accurate as far as I can tell. Thanks so much to my beta, and to the mods of this fest!
Penelope broke up with Percy Weasley the day everyone knew that Voldemort had returned.
When Percy came to the flat she nearly shared with him, white-faced and shivering underneath his overcoat, he told her what had happened. He told her about the Battle at the Department of Mysteries, the exoneration and death of Sirius Black, and that everything she had been told to believe was wrong. It was all a lie.
Something snapped inside of her like a cracking bone. She leapt off the couch, upending the breakfast she’d been having, and stalked back to their - really his - bedroom. She grabbed her largest bag, pulled open the drawers he had given to her, and proceeded to throw her belongings inside.
“Penny?” Percy asked, coming into the room as if he was a wanderer unsure of his footing. “What are you doing?”
Penelope scoffed. “I realize you were not in Ravenclaw, Percy, but really, I should think it’s obvious.”
“You’re not leaving.” A flat denial.
Penelope pulled her wand from her pocket and levitated the remaining articles of clothing into the bag. Then she slammed them shut with a violent flick of her wand. “Yes. I am.”
“Just like that?” Percy asked. His voice trembled in that way that made her want to hold him and stroke his ginger hair.
She turned to the bathroom and summoned her toiletries. “Just like that.”
“But you can’t!” he shouted, his voice already breaking. “You can’t- I need you, Penny. Now more than ever.”
Penelope thrust her hands into her hair, her fingers getting caught in the tangles as she twisted it into a bun. “You need me to hold your hand and tell you it’s all right, Percy, but it isn’t. I can’t stay.”
She saw his ears start to redden in the reflection of the bedroom mirror. A picture of them was tucked into the corner. She couldn’t remember where it had been taken, but she looked happy. They both did. “I know that I was wrong about You-Know-Who, but I don’t see why that means you have to leave.”
Penelope leaned forward onto the dresser, her fingers curling around the edge. “For a year, Percy, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I listened to your rational explanations. I held on to my faith in the government I worked for. I openly dismissed the evidence offered by the opposition as paranoia in deference to a madman and his boy soldier.”
She looked up and caught his eyes in the mirror. He was crying. She wasn’t. “But from the first, I believed Harry.”
Percy’s ears grew redder. “You never said.”
“I didn’t want to start an argument.” It was more a lie than the truth, but it wasn’t totally a lie. And though Percy would never have agreed with her, he deserved better than her real reasons.
“So you lied?”
“You never asked what I thought. You assumed that I believed the way you did.”
“Because it was the logical conclusion given the evidence!” Percy spluttered. “He’s a child! A child who saw his parents die, who was at the center of every catastrophe since the day I met him. I know the Muggles who raised him; I know how they mistreated him. Lashing out would only be natural. I was his Prefect for Merlin’s sake! I know how unstable he is.”
Penelope nodded. “But I didn’t follow the logic, Percy.” She reached behind her and grabbed her bag, looping it over her shoulder. “I just believed him.”
Percy swiped at his eyes as she turned. “Not very Ravenclaw of you.”
“I never was a very good Ravenclaw.”
Percy shifted so that he stood in front of the door, tilting his chin up in defiance. It was a good look for him. It really was too bad that he so rarely used it. “So you’re leaving me because I was wrong?”
“No,” Penelope murmured. “I’m leaving you because anyone who really followed the logic would have concluded some time ago that Harry Potter and Dumbledore weren’t lying. I’m leaving you because you held on to that because you wanted to disagree with your parents. To get back at your father. You wanted to make them angry, so you held on to your convictions.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You always were a stubborn swot.”
Percy’s eyes began to harden. For years, they had been nothing but softness and devotion for her, and even if it was only for her, it was enough. Now they were wet stones. It would have been the same gaze he turned on everyone, had it not been for the tears. “You were wrong too, you know.”
She raised an eyebrow. “About?”
He stepped out of the doorway. “You’re a very good Ravenclaw.”
She shut her eyes, but walked forward, gently pushing past him on her way out. When their shoulders brushed together, the spark that had left her stomach doing cartwheels while they were in school did not emerge. It was nothing new, but it still stung.
“I’ll send your things from my flat, shall I?” Penelope asked.
“This isn’t right,” Percy said roughly.
“Maybe not for you,” she muttered, striding away. “But it is for me.”
Then she walked out of his apartment for the last time.
An hour later, Penelope had arrived at her own home, unpacked her things, and sent an owl to the Ministry with her resignation. Then she curled up on her couch and covered herself in a blanket Mrs. Weasley had knit for her when she was still welcome in their home. She tucked herself in up to her chin, sliding her feet between the sofa cushions. She lay there for the rest of the day, and she didn’t cry.
“I am never dating a Gryffindor again.”
-----
A few days later, Penelope had calculated that she could survive the rest of the month on her current funds thanks to the pathetic salary she had received from the Ministry. This meant that procuring a job was a necessity that could not be put off to mourn a relationship or a career fallen by the wayside. She could, of course, waste valuable time and energy looking through the Daily Prophet for want ads, but she knew that there were far better resources available to her than that.
Everyone knew that there were various flaws with the house system of Hogwarts; after all, it was the only magical school in Europe that employed such measures. It was easy to see how it could inspire a gang mentality, which made inter-house relations a bit of a bear. However, Penelope also knew that there were advantages to it as well. Chief among those was the ability to network.
The housing systems acted a bit like social fraternities common to universities in the United States. It built up an instant camaraderie between members of the same house even if they were decades apart in age. It also meant that even if two classmates had never been friends as such, they still felt a sense of ingrained loyalty.
So when Penelope got in touch with Duncan Inglebee, a boy from her year, her house, and a Beater on the Quidditch team, he was not the least bit surprised. Nor was he averse to meeting her for dinner to discuss what resources and connections he had with which he could find her some gainful employment. As the son of one of the foremost executives in the Nimbus Broom Racing Company, he had quite a few connections.
It was her bad luck that the return of the Dark Lord didn’t exactly make this a hiring market.
“I don’t want to be a research assistant, Duncan,” Penelope sighed, stabbing at her chips with unusual vehemence. She didn’t mind eating fried food as a rule, but when she couldn’t afford the more appetizing items on the menu thanks to her financial situation, it put her in a bit of a mood. “And I couldn’t even stand it for a while to make ends meet.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Really? And I’d been saving that one for a fellow ’Claw.”
Out of politeness, Penelope did not gag at the nickname. “Duncan, I know we weren’t the best of friends, but think back to our time at school. Do you remember ever seeing me study?”
Duncan flashed a smile, and she found herself blinking overmuch. He had surprisingly white teeth. “Well, I was a bit focused myself.”
“Oh, right,” Penelope murmured, frowning. “I’d forgotten. That’s how I got away with this.”
Duncan’s smile immediately vanished, his mouth hardening into something grim and threatening. “Penelope, I certainly hope you are not implying that because we were too busy studying, you managed to cheat on your exams. Because if that is what you are implying, don’t think I won’t march to Hogwarts right now and have them revoke your Head Girl status.”
Penelope scoffed, waving her fork at him. “Please. As if I would risk the wrath of our house. I heard the conspiracy theories the little ones cooked up to discover the deception of Hermione Granger. I’m fine with my hands staying hands, thanks.”
His face changed back to his original so quickly it may as well have given her whiplash. “Well, that’s all right then. What did you mean?”
Penelope grasped her straw between her fingers and began to swirl the remaining ice around in the glass, creating a little tornado. “Everyone in Ravenclaw studies like mad. That’s the stereotype, yeah? I never did.”
“Never studied?”
“Well, not never-ever never,” she clarified. “But not much, and not just by Ravenclaw standards. Charms and Defense and Potions all came surprisingly easy to me. It’s not that I didn’t try at all; I just never had to try very hard.”
Duncan stared at her for a moment, then snorted. “I can think of a few girls in our year who’d like to strangle you for that.”
“I’d deserve it a bit, wouldn’t I?” Penelope said, returning to her cooling chips. “Any other ideas?”
Duncan scratched at his chin, overemphasizing the five o’clock shadow that seemed too elegant not to be deliberate. “I suppose an editor wouldn’t suit you either.”
“Not likely,” Penelope agreed. “I need to do something active, or I’ll go barmy. Something that requires movement and engagement. And I don’t mean delivering mail and running idiotic little errands. That’s all I ever did at MoM, and there were times that I wanted to swallow my wand.”
“I can imagine,” Duncan agreed. “Well, I’d offer to look into what’s open at my dad’s company, but I doubt it would be anything other than secretarial work. And something tells me you don’t do well with bosses.”
Penelope valiantly tried not to think about the various demerits and reprimands she’d received from her various employers at the Ministry. Apparently they found her cheeky.
Idiots.
“A bit hard not to have a boss if I want to find work.”
“Always self-employment.”
“As what? A dog-walker?” She paused. “Actually, dogs aren’t so bad.”
Duncan looked ill. “Please. Don’t debase yourself that much. The house would have to disown you.”
Penelope sighed, tearing her napkin. “If you have any better ideas, please, tell me.”
To her surprise, Duncan gave the matter due consideration. After a moment, she saw his eyes light up - the proverbial light bulb. “You liked Quidditch, didn’t you? Never played, but you were a fan.”
“Still am. Support the Harpies.”
Duncan leaned forward conspiratorially. “I happen to have heard of a certain reserve Keeper for Puddlemere United who is in need of a sports agent. He was recruited right out of Hogwarts, so he was left to negotiate the terms of his contract himself. And since he’s in Gryffindor, word on the pitch is that he got a crap deal.”
It took an avid Quidditch fan to know the reserve players of a team they did not support. Penelope was a very avid Quidditch fan. “Oh, Duncan. Really?”
“What’s wrong with the idea? I think you’d be great! You’re… assertive.”
“Oh, thanks,” she drawled, knowing what ‘assertive’ really meant in male-speak.
“Bloody brilliant of course,” Duncan continued undeterred. “And if what you said about not trying is true, you must have a good head for numbers. You were always tops in Arithmancy.”
Penelope held up her hands before he could continue to list her attributes. “The only thing I don’t like about the idea is who you’re talking about.”
“Wood? What’s wrong with him?”
Penelope bit her tongue to keep from saying ‘Gryffindor.’ “I always thought he was insufferable. Possibly even deranged. I love Quidditch, but… well, we all heard the rumors about his broomstick.”
“Yeah,” Duncan murmured, chuckling. “And that he liked to put the Snitch up his-"
“The point is,” Penelope interrupted, “that I don’t think we’re suited.”
Duncan shrugged. “I don’t know about that. And I also don’t know what alternatives you have.”
There were alternatives of course. Penelope knew he was exaggerating grossly. But the fact remained that without further study, she would not be qualified for jobs more intellectually stimulating. And people were likely to be fleeing to the schools, whose protections were often better than people could provide for themselves. Furthermore, she couldn’t handle a desk job. She would go absolutely insane if she went with a desk job. There may have been options, but she couldn’t think of anything more promising than dog-walker.
And independent of Oliver Wood, the idea of being a sports agent was intriguing. She liked negotiating. She always drove a hard bargain. She wasn’t especially good at persuading people gently, but she definitely had the determination to hammer at them until they gave in. And it would involve her in Quidditch, something she’d always loved more than she cared to admit.
“Well,” Penelope said, pushing her plate of cold chips away, “may as well give it a go.”
-----
When Oliver had first gotten recruited for Puddlemere United, his friends and family and fellow teammates had informed him that he was in for quite a shock when he began practicing. “It’s nothing like school,” they said. “Much more strenuous. You probably won’t be able to stand afterwards.”
Oliver had learned in short order that this was not true. He had run much more challenging practices when he was captain. They didn’t even start until nine in the morning for Godric’s sake!
So, while most of his other teammates - even the more seasoned ones - had to drag themselves off the pitch, Oliver always did his best to keep a spring in his step. After all, he’d just finished doing what he loved to do, and comparatively, it hadn’t been that hard. He had attempted to explain to their trainer what more they could do, but she’d informed him that he was an overenthused git who needed to get a girlfriend or at least get laid on a more regular basis, otherwise she would be forced to slaughter him.
Everyone had always joked that Quidditch was his only love. However, when he tried to use it himself, people mostly just looked sad.
As he strode off the pitch, Oliver was sidelined by the sight of a slightly familiar woman leaning against the door to the showers. Perhaps Quidditch was his mistress, but Oliver was still male, and he had a certain appreciation for the female form. Saying she was fit would have been an unforgivable understatement. She was dressed in a Muggle ensemble - black pencil skirt, purple blouse, and high heels that would have sunk into the mud if it hadn’t been for some kind of charm. Her long, shapely legs seemed to go on for longer than the law should have allowed, and Oliver found himself thankful that Muggles favored less fabric all together. She was definitely a woman with curves in all the right places. He didn’t place her until he got closer and saw her wildly curly brown-black hair twisted into a bun that could barely contain it. He remembered that she’d used to wear her hair down against her Ravenclaw robes. He remembered her skin like burnt almonds and the way she smiled with only one corner of her mouth.
Penelope Clearwater had definitely done some growing up.
“Penelope!” Oliver bellowed, pulling off some of his Keeper’s gear. “This is certainly a surprise.”
The right side of her mouth crept up farther. “I’m surprised you remember me, Oliver. Since you’re a big Quidditch star now.”
He returned her smile, trying to remember if the chip in his front tooth was that obvious. He did need to remember to get that fixed one of these days. “Never forget a fellow Quidditch fan. Even if you never did bet on my team.”
“House loyalty, Oliver.”
“You must have known we were better.”
“That’s why it was more than few sickles.”
Oliver laughed that too-loud-uncomfortable laugh everyone indulged in when talking to pseudo-strangers. He planted his broomstick on the ground like he was claiming the pitch, and said, “So, what brings you here? Autographs from the rest of the team?”
“Not why I’m here, but I may take you up on that later,” Penelope said, pushing off the door. “A little Inglebee bird told me that you’re in need of representation.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “You a barrister now?”
“I meant an agent.”
Oliver had suspected that. He’d just hoped he was wrong. “Inglebee… Duncan, right? Bloody sod’s been trying to get me represented for an age.”
“Along with everyone else I hear,” Penelope said. “You’re the only player on the team without some kind of endorsement deal.”
He shrugged. “Don’t need them.”
“And I’ve heard rumors about your pay.”
“I’m just a reserve player, and a newbie besides.”
She scoffed. “Next you’re going to tell me that money doesn’t matter to you.”
“Well, it doesn’t,” he admitted. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is play Quidditch. I’m playing. And I’ve got enough to keep me fed and bed. Don’t need anything else.”
Penelope got the same look on her face that a lot of people had when they discussed this subject. Like she wanted to ram her head through a brick wall. “Oliver, I can get you a better deal than that.”
“Probably,” he agreed. No one had been very close with Penelope, aside from Percy Weasley of course. But she’d always struck Oliver as rather saucy. She seemed like a woman used to getting her way by force. “But it doesn’t matter to me.”
She narrowed her gaze. It looked like there was lightning flashing in her eyes. “Oliver, as much as you think this noble hero persona will endear you to the adoring female masses, it does not endear you to me.”
Oliver began to lean away. “Okay….”
“And more importantly, it will not endear you to your trainer, your manager, or the owners of the team,” she pressed on. “Quidditch is competitive on and off the field. If you want to be more than a reserve player, you have to show that you’re willing to put up a fight. It’s perfectly clear that your thought process begins and ends with a fanatical love of Quaffles, but I can fight for you. You’re expected to have someone to do that. Frankly, I’m amazed you haven’t been chewed up trying to navigate this on your own thus far. You will never do more than sit on the sidelines and pray for the day when Wadcock’s too ill to mount his broom. Which, as I recall, has not happened once since you joined the team.”
Oliver glanced away quickly. It had been a long held frustration that Geoffrey Wadcock had never had to sit out a game for any reason. The man was irrationally muscular, to the point where he was often mistaken for a Beater by non-fans. It made him something of a flying brick wall. He seemed impervious to injury and illness, which left Oliver perpetually grounded and moping on the sidelines.
“You think you could get me in the air?” Oliver asked.
“I know I can.”
Oliver scratched the back of his head. He didn’t lie when he said that he didn’t give a rat’s piss about the money. It wasn’t that he was too altruistic or noble to take it. It wasn’t even that he’d grown up around haughty Purebloods and saw what too much financial solvency did to people. He just honestly didn’t need it, and he wasn’t the sort of guy who found himself wanting much more than he needed. The argument could be made, he supposed, that playing Quidditch and flying a broom until his thighs chafed was not necessary for his survival, but it wasn’t an argument he’d listen to long enough for the other person to make their point.
The pay didn’t matter. Exposure didn’t matter. He had about as much use for fame and fortune as You-Know-Who had for a Marvin the Mad Muggle costume on Samhein.
But if she could get him in the air….
“I really hope that you’re not just grandstanding, Penelope Clearwater,” Oliver sighed. “If you are, I will be one sad little man.”
Penelope beamed at him so brightly that the corners of her mouth were nearly on level with one another. “Ravenclaws never grandstand; we never say we can do anything unless we know it’s true.”
Oliver didn’t have to ask who the Wizarding World considered the real show-offs were. “Well, I’ve caught a whiff of myself now, so I’d best be getting into the showers. There’s a pub across the way - McLachlan’s Magical Mead. Bugger me if the name isn’t the stupidest in the tri-county area, but they have a home brew that makes Ogden’s look like Pumpkin Juice. Meet me there in an hour after I’ve run back to my place and grabbed the papers.”
For a moment, Oliver thought Penelope was going to hug him - and though he wouldn’t normally be opposed to the idea, he was in no mood for her to smell him at such close quarters. In the end, she stuck out her hand and gave him a firm, businesslike shake. His inner sixteen-year-old couldn’t help but be mildly disappointed.
“You won’t be sorry,” she vowed, the gleam in her eyes reminding him of her assurances that Ravenclaws kept their promises.
He shrugged amiably. “If you say so.”
-----
Indeed, Penelope had said that Oliver would not be sorry. However, after fidgeting outside the pub for an hour and then spending another hunched over the documents while her steak pie went cold, she was fairly sure that she was going to be.
“For the first time in the history of magic, the rumor is not nearly as bad as the truth,” Penelope lamented. “How could you have agreed to this sum?”
Oliver shrugged, shoveling chips into his mouth as if it was about to go out of style. “Already answered that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but this is so much worse than I could have imagined,” Penelope said, driving her fingernails into her bun. She’d pulled it too tight, and it was giving her a headache, but damned if she was going to pull it down in this humidity. “This is well below average for reserve players, especially someone of your caliber.”
Oliver smiled at the praise. “Why, Penelope, I had no idea.”
“Just because I’m house-loyal doesn’t mean I can’t tell a fantastic Keeper when I see one.” She just barely stopped herself from adding, ‘Even if your complete lack of sense makes me want to hex you blind.’ “And it extends even beyond the pay. Your health benefits are utterly atrocious. It all but says that they won’t pay for a mediwizard unless you’re hemorrhaging your guts out your nose, and even then, they’d dither around before doing it.”
Oliver patted his nose as if to reassure himself that his spleen wasn’t poking out of a nostril. “I’ll be honest; most of that legal jargon went right over my head.”
Through the grace of God or some other divine intercession, Penelope did not roll her eyes. Though, if she were in a more charitable mood, she would have admitted that some of it was making her go cross-eyed. “This is why you get a lawyer or an agent to look these things over before you sign them. It’s a magical contract; it’s not like you can break it and then apologize for it later hoping no one gets sued.”
For a moment, Oliver looked mystified, but then he snapped his fingers, spraying bits of potato onto the paper. “I forgot. You’re Half-Blood, aren’t you?”
Even when the Dark Lord had been little more than a specter on the back of Quirrell’s head, this had been a sensitive topic. Penelope gave him a look that would have given even Professor Snape pause. “Does that make a difference?”
Oliver just kept smiling at her, and she wondered if he was a moron, brave, or a brave moron. “No, I was just wondering how you knew Muggle law, and then I remembered. I never cared a flip for anyone’s parentage.”
Coming from a Pureblood, even one from a family as diametrically opposed to the Malfoys as one could get, Penelope found this hard to believe. She took a swig from her pint to get the sour taste out of her mouth. “My point is, in addition to your salary being a joke worthy of the Weasley twins, your benefits are so scant that they may as well be non-existent. Not to mention the fact that if you’re caught so much as looking at the manager of another team the wrong way, they’ll have you tied up in litigation faster than a Firebolt can fly.”
Probably because Oliver had consumed more drink that her, he chuckled and murmured, “I love a woman who uses Quidditch metaphors.”
Leaving aside her shock that Oliver Wood knew literary terms at all, Penelope gave him a withering look. “Down, boy. I didn’t offer to be your agent so that you could play find the Snitch in my knickers.”
Oliver guffawed, choking on his lager. Once he’d spelled away the mess, he had the decency to look chagrined. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I know you’re spoken for.”
Penelope could not stop from wincing. She’d dreaded having this conversation with anyone, much less Oliver Wood of all people.
“How is Perce? I heard he got a promotion at the Ministry that’s got his superiors spitting acid.”
Penelope remembered when he’d gotten that promotion, the first of many, she had no doubt. He’d come home lit up like a Christmas tree - late for dinner and obviously buzzed. She’d started to lay into him for not bothering to tell her, but he’d grabbed her and spun her around in a dance that couldn’t quite decide between the jitterbug and the foxtrot. Then he’d told her about it, and Percy, who even in the privacy of their own apartment seemed endearingly bashful when he saw her naked, made love to her right there on the living room floor. The sex had been spectacular and entirely worth the rug burns.
“Penelope?”
She shook herself out of her daydream and took another long drink of her beer. “Percy and I… Well, we aren’t…” She trailed off, waving her hands in a series of vague gestures she hoped were unmistakable.
And Oliver Wood, who as far as she knew had seen her only as Ravenclaw Quidditch Fan 17, gave her a look of unabashed sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that. Percy was my roommate, and even if he didn’t talk to anyone much, anyone could see how happy you made him. You seemed happy too.”
She had been happy. Penelope knew she had been. Other people could trick themselves into being happy, but she was so naturally suspicious of everyone’s intentions that she was far more likely to fool herself the other way. She’d been happy because Percy made her happy. Because he was the one Pureblood in the whole damn castle whom she believed when he said he didn’t care who her parents were. Because he was so unfailingly polite that he shifted his gaze when she stepped out of the shower. Because she saw his stubbornness and ambition as a virtue, not a hindrance, and because at first, what flaws she did see could be overlooked.
But eventually weeds take root and before you know it, the garden’s been dead for months for want of care.
“Thank you,” she murmured, running her finger around the rim of her mug. Then she smiled, chuckling. “You know, I tend to forget Percy had roommates. From First Year on, he seemed like the sort who did better on his own, and that’s after I knew he had more siblings than fingers on one hand.”
Oliver laughed in that fond tone everyone always used remembering the Hogwarts of their youth - without the trolls and basilisks and other things of course. “Percy was a loner, but even living with four other boys, he’d perfected the ability to be by himself in a room full of other people. Suspect he got it from living with such a big family. He was so… insulated. It was like he was born with the ability to cast a world-wide Silencing Charm, and he could shut us all out so he could bury his nose in his book.” Then Oliver rolled his eyes, but not unkindly. “Course he didn’t, or he wouldn’t have known the exact right moments to look at us disapprovingly over the spine.”
Penelope snorted quietly. “That’s my Percy all right.”
Except he wasn’t hers anymore, and she’d made the decision for him not to be.
The awkward silence that settled over them was about as stifling as a Devil’s Snare around your throat. Like most Gryffindors, Oliver couldn’t abide it. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“That is highly dependent on what the question is.”
Oliver gave her a conciliatory nod, but pressed on. “I’m your first client, aren’t I?”
Penelope stared, self-consciously aware that her mouth was hanging open. After a moment, she recovered her senses enough to want to kick herself for doing something so obvious as to let him see through her. “How did you know?”
Oliver shrugged. “Just knew.”
He just knew. Typical. A Slytherin would have asked around and saved the information for when it would prove useful. A Hufflepuff would suspect but tactfully keep silent unless it was necessary to speak up. A Ravenclaw would have done the research, discovered the truth, and been satisfied just with being right. But a Gryffindor led with their gut and laid it all to bear with an affable tone and a charming smile.
This was why Penelope did not like Gryffindors as a rule.
“That doesn’t mean-"
“I know,” he said, holding up his hands. “My guess is that you’re a sight brighter than 95% of the other agents in the country. It doesn’t seem like a very Ravenclaw job, does it?”
Her own voice echoed back at her from the week before. I never was a very good Ravenclaw. “Not as such, no.”
“Not nearly enough reading,” he joked, badly, and by the look on his face, he knew it. “So what did you do before this?”
Penelope pursed her lips. She wasn’t especially in the mood to bare her soul to him, but talking about former occupations was hardly Earth-shattering information, and not anything he couldn’t have picked up elsewhere. She supposed it was her penchant for secrecy talking. “I worked at the Ministry, Department of Magical Games and Sports, specifically in the Ludicrous Patents Office.”
Oliver wrinkled his nose. Quidditch players were notorious for despising all of the red tape and paperwork involved with the sport. “I never understood why it’s called the Ludicrous Patents Office. Don’t see anything ridiculous about Quidditch.”
If they’d been friends, she would have patted him on the head at that comment and said, “Of course you don’t.” But they weren’t friends. “Ludicrous comes from the Latin word for ‘game,’ so really what we do - or did in my case - is all to do with game-related enchantments. Different ways to hide the pitch, spells for referees, among other things.”
Oliver snorted. “Leave it to a Ravenclaw to know the etymology for ludicrous.”
Penelope pointedly did not blush.
“Why did you leave? I’m tempted to make a joke about the patents getting too ludicrous for you, but I don’t think it would land anymore.”
Penelope nodded in agreement. Then she drank the rest of her lager, of which there was a sizeable amount. If she was going to tell him this, and she suspected she had better if she wanted to solidify his trust in her, she damn well wasn’t going to be completely sober for it. Ignoring his wide-eyed look, she told him.
“You-Know-Who is why I left,” Penelope muttered, pausing to hiccup. “The Ministry absolutely ran themselves ragged over the last year, diverting resources towards proving that Harry Potter was madder than a cockatrice in heat. It was embarrassing, frankly. I stuck it out more for Percy’s sake than anything, but after the battle at the Department of Mysteries, the truth about Sirius Black coming out, and everything else… I just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore.”
Oliver glared darkly into his pint. She’d never seen him up close during a match, but she rather suspected that this was the look he used when his team was down in points. “You thought he was back as well, huh?”
“I suspected,” Penelope sighed. “I just… I suppose it’s different for me than others since I got wrapped up in that Basilisk business.” She paused, only to marvel at how she could dismiss being turned to stone and just narrowly avoiding an untimely demise with ‘that Basilisk business.’ “But I just wanted to believe Harry. Well, I did and I didn’t, of course, and I didn’t see him bring back Cedric Diggory’s body, but I can venture a guess as to how he looked.
“Everyone assumed that because Potter had lost his parents and because he’d been nearly killed by teachers and werewolves and Basilisks that he’d gone around the bend when Cedric died. But I always thought that if he was going to lose it, he would have done it sooner. I saw plenty of that boy with Percy, and what others saw as instability, I saw a fierce determination to stay sane at all costs. And when they weren’t saying he was mad and claiming he was a liar, I knew it had to be rubbish. Anyone who survived the Killing Curse by a fluke of luck no one aside from Albus Dumbledore has been able to figure out wouldn’t go around joking about it thirteen years later.”
She looked up and saw that Oliver had finished off his lager as well and had gestured for another round. She was tempted to refuse, but she could hold her liquor well enough, and she was in the mood to be less than sober.
“I believed him too,” Oliver confided.
“I hope you’re not expecting my shock and awe to make an appearance.”
He shook his head, tearing a chip in half. “Nah. There were plenty of other Gryffindors who didn’t believe him, though, so don’t think it’s out of my own house loyalty, of which there is an abundance. But I’m the Gryffindor who coached him, and…” He frowned, pausing while the waitress dropped off the beer and asked if there was anything else they needed. After she’d gone, Oliver continued.
“Everyone thinks Gryffindors are stupid,” Oliver said, grinning at Penelope’s almost imperceptible twitch. “Not as stupid as Hufflepuffs mind, but they think all we do is rush in where demons and angels both fear to tread and don’t bother to consider the consequences. I suppose that’s true of some if not all to an extent, but… I have a theory.”
Penelope had heard that phrase bandied about her own common room on an endless loop during her seven year tenure at school. Hearing it come out of Oliver’s mouth made her feel as though her grandfather were throwing Greek at her over Christmas like he always did.
“Ravenclaws think with their heads, yeah? Well, Gryffindors don’t. We think with our guts - our instincts.” Oliver paused, rubbing a foam mustache away with his sleeve. “And every Gryffindor this applies to probably develops some sort of specialized sixth sense of a sort. For example, I’m a fantastic Keeper because I’m a damn good guesser at where the Quaffle’s going to be when. I know it’s more than guessing of course - it’s having good eyes and the sense to use them and plenty of other things. But I make damn more saves due to luck than I ought to.
“And with Harry… Well, he’s been fucking up Dark Lords since the cradle, yeah? So when he says there’s something nasty going on with You-Know-Who or his merry band of Death Eaters, I see nothing to do but believe him and stay out of his way.”
“You always were the consummate strategist, Wood.”
If Oliver had been a peacock, Penelope was willing to bet he would have fluffed his plumage in pleasure.
She sighed and pushed her chair back, leaving her second beer only halfway finished. “I’d better get going. I’m going to need to glare at these for awhile longer to make sense of the various ways in which you have screwed yourself over.”
Oliver smiled, and he looked a little apologetic. “I haven’t thanked you, have I? That makes me rather a giant tit.”
Penelope smirked. She was so used to Percy and his careful evasions of four-letter words. She rather liked that Oliver used them about as much as articles and conjunctions. “Just give me the 15% we agreed upon once I’ve straightened your mess out for you. That’ll be thanks enough.”
She slipped her spring coat on, subconsciously touching her bun, anxious to get home and take it down. Then she stopped and said, “Oliver.”
“Hm?”
“If Ravenclaws think with their heads and Gryffindors with their instincts, what about the other houses?”
Oliver gave it a moment’s consideration. “Well, Puffs with their hearts I suppose, since they’re always going on about what’s fair to everyone.”
Penelope nodded. “And Slytherins.”
This time, Oliver didn’t pause. “With their cocks or the female equivalent.”
Penelope squawked, momentarily scandalized. “I cannot believe you just said that!”
“Oh, we all know what went on in those Common Rooms when they filched things from Snape’s storeroom.”
Penelope valiantly attempted not to laugh, but it was something of a rousing failure. She waved her hand, nearly upending a passing waiter’s tray. “Night, Oliver.”
“Good night, Penelope.”
On her way home to her flat, Penelope decided that as far as Gryffindors went, maybe Oliver Wood wasn’t that bad.
-----
Even if Puddlemere United didn’t see fit to find a purpose for him in actual games, Oliver knew he was dead useful when they were running skirmishes. Sometimes it was the reserves against the first string, and other times they mixed it up a bit. Oliver never really cared how they did it, so long as they did it. He would have gone as mad as a Lestrange if they’d hired him and then never let him kick off the ground to feel the wind in his face.
Practicing schedules had not been the surprise he’d been promised, but sometimes, he still found himself awed by the intensity that was a professional Quidditch game. Keeping track of the Quaffle took nearly as sharp eyes as a Seeker, and he had to be just as fast.
He watched Darcy pass the ball to Quinn, watched Quinn pretend to fumble so that it dropped into Slattery’s waiting arms, all so Slattery could perform a behind-back-toss back to Darcy. Then it sailed over to Quinn who, as the only male Chaser in the first string, threw the Quaffle with as much force as a Beater with a Bludger.
But Oliver knew it was coming, and although Quinn tried to disguise his aim, Oliver knew which hoop it was going for. He swooped down and knocked the ball away with the end of his broom, sending it sailing over Quinn’s head and directly into the arms of one of his Chasers, Mallory. He zipped back towards the other goalposts so quickly that he was a little more than a navy blur on the wind.
Of course, Wadcock never let the Quaffle get through his hoop either. It was a rare day when one of these skirmishes didn’t wind up tied zero to zero. The primary difference between Oliver and Geoffrey was in the latter’s tendency to show off. In an utterly unnecessary move that could have caused more harm than healing, Wadcock swung off his broom just as Mallory let the Quaffle fly with a vicious twist. Holding on with one hand, Wadcock kicked the ball away from the lower goalpost, and then swung back up, looking all the world like a Muggle cowboy remounting his steed.
Wadcock was a damn good Keeper, but he was a show-off, and he took unnecessary risks. If Oliver was his captain, he’d have boxed Geoffrey’s ears five times over for pulling those stupid tricks at practice, and then saving his truly spectacularly stupid moves for games so that he could shine for the press. Even now, he let Geoffrey know what he thought of it, and if Wadcock ever did kill himself or come damn close to it, Oliver would have had his spot in a flash.
It was really just bad luck that Wadcock never seemed to get hurt.
“All right, ladies and gents,” their trainer, Lowry, called out in her usual fit of pique. “You’re all rubbish, but you’re unfed rubbish. Go eat something, and I swear, if it’s not according to the nutritional standards you’ve all been given, I will make vegetables grow out your ears and make you eat them.”
No one even winced at the threat anymore; they knew it was true, but no one had the bad sense to eat chips and stuff in front of Lowry. Oliver started to drift to the ground to pack it in, but then he saw a familiar curly head bobbing in the stands. He looked closer, saw it was indeed Penelope descending the stairs, presumably to talk to him, and then banked to his right. No sense making her walk if she didn’t have to.
“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” Oliver said genially. “Finished glaring at my contract yet?”
“Not nearly,” she muttered, a bit crossly. He noticed she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail this time. It was more favorable than a bun, but he still preferred it down. To his further dismay, she was wearing those blue trousers Muggles were so fond of. “But I’ve more or less got it worked out. Only one mystery left really.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Why in the name of everything that’s holy are you on reserve?”
Oliver would have been tickled at the compliment if it weren’t for all the trappings. “Er.”
“Wadcock isn’t better than you; he just looks better,” Penelope snapped. He swore that her hair somehow managed to get bigger when she was angry. “I’d never noticed before because I hadn’t seen you play side by side until today. He wastes time with those fancy maneuvers, and even if Puddlemere’s record is great on an off-year, it would be better if he didn’t go off pulling stunts so he can get a hot shag with the latest Witch Weekly centerfold.”
It was such a cliché to say that woman were cute when they were angry. Growing up around any number of Gryffindor girls who would hex his balls off at the intimation that they did had taught him that much. And Penelope also did not look cute when she was angry.
Damn it if she didn’t look scorching though.
“What is the matter with everyone that they prefer Wadcock over you?” she asked indignantly.
Oliver frowned, leaning against the front of his still airborne broom. “How much do you know about Quidditch history?”
Penelope blinked. “Well, I’ve read the book, but I didn’t memorize it. And I haven’t touched it since I was 11.”
This surprised Oliver not at all. He knew Ravenclaws didn’t have much of a penchant for rereading; they did it once, and they did it right. “Does the name Joscelind Wadcock ring a bell?”
It didn’t, not at first, but then he saw Penelope make the connection. She was definitely cute when she realized something, but he supposed that was a regular pick up line in her house. “They’re not related?”
“He’s her nephew.”
Penelope let out a groan. “Bugger.”
“I hear she was initially a bit disappointed that he didn’t turn out to be a Chaser, but he doesn’t have the build for it. About three seconds later, she decided she preferred he played a different position. This way he wouldn’t break her record of most goals in a season.”
“Nepotism,” she snarled. “I am so bloody sick of it. I cannot tell you how absolutely rankled the Ministry is with it, and now it’s even in Puddlemere United.”
He felt tempted to pat her shoulder, but that seemed far too familiar. “I must say, I’m impressed you’re this passionate about it. I know.” He banked away before she could swat at him. “You’re my agent, and you’ll fight for me. I suppose I’m just… not used to people giving me much thought.”
She gave him a smile that was trying very hard not to be pitying, but she failed somewhat miserably. He felt very much like a starving puppy in Quidditch robes. “Oliver, you’re single-minded to an unhealthy degree, and you don’t have a head for business. That doesn’t mean you deserve to get jerked around and mistreated because of it.”
Oliver knew she didn’t think much of him intellectually, and that was all right. He knew he wasn’t stupid, and that was all that really mattered to him. Still, it was nice to hear this compliment from her, however warped. “I’m off to get a bite. I wouldn’t mind company.”
She raised her eyebrow. “What about your teammates?”
“They’re still a bit shirty with me for asking the trainer for Saturday practices.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“Me either!”
She gave the matter due consideration, which he appreciated. He didn’t want her to come along out of politeness and then have things be awkward the whole way through. Finally, she shrugged. “Why not? Everyone needs to eat.”
He smiled at her, and hoped it wasn’t so bright that she balked.
She didn’t.
Part Two