Between Goals and Glances

unlikely teammates

Harry pounded on the door again, louder this time.
"Oliver! Wake up!" he shouted. "We're going to be late for practice!"
Inside, there was a muffled groan, followed by the sound of footsteps. Finally, the door creaked open to reveal Oliver Wood, hair tousled and eyes half-shut.
"What is it...?" he mumbled.
"You're late for Quidditch!" Harry replied.
"WHAT? "Merlin's beard, how stupid can I be?" Oliver groaned, running his hands through his hair. "Go tell the others I'll be there in three minutes!"
"Okay, hurry!"

Oliver dashed around his room, scrambling to get ready before the entire practice was ruined. Six minutes later, Oliver sprinted onto the quidditch pitch,the crisp morning air hitting his face and his heart pounding. Instead of finding his team mid-practice, he saw them lounging on the bleachers.
"What are you all doing?" he demanded, exasperated.
Jennifer, his sister and newest member of the team, looked up curiously. "Potter said something about a flint. What's a flint?"
Oliver groaned, rubbing his temples. "The most insufferable thing to roam the halls of this school," he muttered, stalking toward the Slytherins on the far end of the pitch.
Jennifer turned to Harry, eyebrows raised. "Seriously, what's a flint?"
Harry chuckled. "Marcus Flint. He's the Slytherin team captain. And-"

Before he could finish, Oliver's voice cut through the air.
"I TOLD YOU, FLINT! YOU NEED A WRITTEN NOTE FROM THE TEACHERS TO USE THE PITCH!"
He had gotten down and into Marcus's face.
Marcus crossed his arms, smirking as he rolled his eyes. "Relax, Wood. We're just here for a bit of practice."
Jennifer stepped forward, her hand tightening around Oliver's arm. "Let's go, Oliver," she said, her voice low but firm. "He's not worth it. We can practice tomorrow."
Marcus laughed, his voice dripping with mockery. "That's right, Wood. Hide behind your little girlfriend. Can't stand up for yourself, can you?"
Oliver saw red. Before Jennifer could stop him, he lunged at Marcus, landing a punch square on his jaw.
The boys' fight was shortly cut by McGonagall who stormed across the pitch, her robes billowing behind her. "Enough!" she barked, yanking Oliver by the collar as Snape seized Marcus's arm.
"Both of you to my office-now"

McGonagall folded her hands on her desk, her lips a thin line. "I should've expected this from you two."
Marcus smirked. "It's just a bit of fun, Professor."
"Fun?" McGonagall snapped, her voice icy. "This is the fifth time this term you've disrupted Quidditch practices. And now, your petty squabbles have wasted enough of my time."
Marcus smirked confidently, but McGonagall silenced him with a withering glare.
"As I was saying... You two will have to practice together for the whole semester... without fighting! Or else quidditch will be CANCELLED"
"But Professor, you can't cancel Quidditch! That's-" said Marcus
"Cruel" added Oliver for once agreeing with Marcus.

McGonagall adjusted her square spectacles, her voice sharp enough to cut through stone. "You should have thought of that earlier"
"Practice? With him?" Oliver said, his voice rising in disbelief.
"You heard me, Mr. Wood," McGonagall replied, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Marcus rolled his eyes. "This is ridiculous."
"What's ridiculous," McGonagall said, her gaze icy, "is your inability to behave like reasonable people. Consider this your final warning."

Oliver stormed back into the common room, throwing his broom down with a frustrated sigh.
“What happened? Did they suspend you?” someone asked.
“No,” Oliver groaned. “Worse. I have to practice with Flint for five months.”
“Oh bloody hell that's cruel.What will you do?”
“I'll think a way out of it” says Oliver dragging his tired self to his room.

Although hes had a long he was unable to sleep all night so first thing in the morning he got ready  and stormed to practice although it was still 4 am. Oliver tightened his scarf as he trudged onto the frosty pitch, the cold biting at his cheeks. The faint glow of the moon cast long shadows over the empty field—or so he thought. A dull thud echoed in the still air, followed by the swoosh of a Quaffle slicing through the dark sky. There, near the goalposts, Marcus Flint hovered on his broom, his silhouette stark against the dawn’s faint light.