The crunching of leaves meant two things: the fast approach of autumn and the nearing of semester exams. The looming Christmas holiday that hid just behind quidditch season sent professors into a panic of assignments and practicums, causing a flurry of activity across all the castle as students scurried from class to library--from library to dorm.
Robes and pointed hats darted across cobblestone and Rory could swear not a single corner of the castle was quiet for longer than an awkward pause. His surprise when the twins invited him to study in the common area was immeasurable.
"So, how does it feel to be one of the girls?" Fred lightly commented as he sprawled across the floor in front of the fireplace.
Rory quickly realized that some members of the study group were less concerned with their grades.
"Knock it off, Fred," he barked in retort.
"I'm just asking," the redhead pulled his hands back in surrender, a smirk pulling at his lips.
"And I'll just shove my foot right up your-"
"Ladies, ladies," Lee fussed, putting his book down slightly to peer over the edge disapprovingly. "No fighting in the common room."
"If we go into the corridor, can I sock him in the nose?" Rory asked bluntly.
"Lee," Fred pleaded quietly, looking up at him with a worried smile.
"Sure," he shrugged, unconcerned with Fred's nose getting any more crooked, "Knock yourself--or, well, knock him out."
However, there was one serious exception to the careless nature the group had taken on.
"Rory, what's this rune again?" George held up a ripped piece of parchment with a rune hastily scrawled on it in blotchy ink, but Rory could still just barely make it out.
His ears burned as he turned to speak to George, a fluttery feeling immediately invading his chest as the sound of his name coasted in George's voice. There was something about the fact that there was an entire common room to sit in, yet George chose to sit right beside Rory, that made him feel special--like he was chosen. That conscious observation he made every time George called his attention made his face feel hot and his heart thud against his chest.
This routine was getting old. The blushing, the racing thoughts--Rory found himself wishing that he'd gotten a crush on someone he didn't see so often. Someone a bit further away. But, then again, that spot was already filled by someone who wasn't quite as far away as Rory had hoped.
Oliver Wood, sitting at the far end of the common area, was hunched over a long piece of parchment. Books splayed out across the surface in front of him, and every so often he'd lean forward to flip to a different page, just barely making his jumper ride up. Rory watched his head tilt to the side as he concentrated, eyes lingering just a little too long on the nape of his neck. Of course, he could only look over in brief glances--what sort of shit would he get if his friends noticed where his eyes strayed?
"Hey! I didn't appoint him as the only guy chaser," Fred carried on, despite the fact nobody really cared.
"What's this about Roland being the only male chaser?" Angelina and Katie came in hot from the stairwell to the girls' dormitory, bags tucked under their robed arms. "Is that a piss poor attempt at an insult?"
"No, no," Fred sputtered, scrambling to sit up--looking like a deer in headlights, "I'm just- Well, I was just saying he's one of the girls now."
"He sure is," Angelina replied without missing a beat, shooting a wink Rory's way, "He's got ten times better luck with the ladies now. Better watch out, Freddie."
Rory felt his eyes blink shut slowly in pure disbelief as he watched Katie hide a giggle behind her hand, following Angelina out into the corridors. His eyes darted over to see Fred in absolute shock, jaw hanging open as he stared where Angelina had stood.
"Pff," Lee hissed out silent laughter, just barely hidden behind the cover of his book. "Don't let her get to you, you've got great luck with the ladies...Freddie."
"Ugh," he groaned, a hand slapping against his forehead as he collapsed back on the rug. "I thought it had been nice when she called me that on our date, but to use it against me like this?"
Fred opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling as he hissed breath out between his teeth, "It's sort of...enticing."
"Blegh," George spat out immediately, shivering in disgust, "Don't use that word."
"Enticing," Fred sneered, "Enticing, enticing. Enticing."
"Ugh," he grunted, "Gross."
"Don't tell me you like it when she's...rude to you?" Lee scoffed, sitting up and completely discarding his loose attempt at studying for herbology. Rory felt his eyes move from George, looking toward Fred for his answer.
"Ah, well, when you say it like that," Fred sheepishly commented, his ears flushed red quickly. "I mean, I guess so. It's sort of like we match."
"George is right," Lee abruptly said, "You're gross."
"I'm a romantic," Fred corrected with a hefty eye roll, "And you know what? I like a good challenge."
"Calling your crush a challenge usually doesn't mean it's a good idea," George mumbled, his words falling on deaf ears.
Rory tried not to listen as Fred began a long-winded ramble about how he was planning a step by step, foolproof way to convince Angelina to pay him enough mind going on a second date; clearly, their first one had just gone so well.
Instead, what Fred had mentioned earlier popped back into his head. He was the only chaser that was a boy, how had he not noticed that? They'd been attending quidditch practice for a few sessions now, and it never occurred to him. Clearly it didn't bother neither Angelina nor Katie, so why did his brain immediately list out all the differences between the two of them and him?
Chasers tended to be smaller and more agile, they had to zip all over the field and aim for quaffle goals. Angelina and Katie definitely fit the bill for that, but there Rory was--nearing five foot eight and finally beginning to thicken up a bit. His shins continued to ache like he'd never stop growing, when he thought about how it felt to stand beside the girls, he couldn't help but get a sour feeling in his stomach.
The only thought that popped into his head as he glanced across the common area once more was this: Oliver had appointed him. If someone as passionate and determined as Oliver had still managed to pick Rory for his team, that had to mean something.
"Bollocks," Rory's attention was called to Ron, cursing loudly under his breath as he and Harry filed into the common room. "It's complete bollocks, rubbish even."
"What's bollocks, your intelligence level?" George snickered, the shaking of his shoulders reminding Rory how close the two of them were sitting.
"Ha ha," he dryly responded, "You're so funny."
"I know," the twin replied arrogantly, looking back at his list of runes with a satisfied look on his face--like he'd met his 'Bully Ron' quota for the day.
"What's bollocks?" Rory decided to take the bait next, eyes bouncing between Ron and Harry as the two clearly debated whether or not to actually tell him.
"Snape confiscated Har- our library book." Ron readjusted his bag loudly, eyes shifting to the floor briefly.
"What? What for?" He felt his face screw up in confusion. Sure, Snape was an asshole, but he wasn't known for sabotaging a student's studying habits--well, not too often, anyhow.
"Something about not being able to have it outside." Harry muttered the words lowly, but his irritation leaked through in several places, his jaw ticking silently for a moment.
"That's a new one," Lee breathed out, rolling his eyes.
"That's not a rule," Rory huffed, "That's never been a rule."
"Well, in Snape's world it is," Ron grumbled, "He took it up quick, said he'd be on the lookout if we checked out another."
"What was it? The book," Rory asked, sitting up on the edge of the couch, "Perhaps Dean has an old copy of mine you can use."
Ron glanced quickly at Harry, almost like he was asking permission to answer. When he had expected skepticism, or even irritation, Rory was shocked to find Harry looking nothing more than...ashamed. Disappointed, or embarrassed, even.
"Quidditch Through the Ages," he mumbled, eyes completely stolen by the floor, "I was trying to study for the upcoming match."
Rory felt his eyes dart over to Oliver, who was still completely occupied in the farthest corner of the common area--unaware of what his star seeker had just admitted. Once he turned his gaze back to the two first years before him, all he could feel was a low burn in his chest. How dare Snape mess with Gryffindor's quidditch team--he knew Harry was their seeker and was clearly trying to rile up some drama before the game.
"That's rubbish," he immediately spit out, "Come here, George can lend us one of his books. He might even have just that one."
He turned to look over his shoulder, back at George who was still burrowed into the corner of the arm rest, eyebrows furrowed together. The boy looked back at him with an odd expression, with his lips pursed like he hadn't quite made up his mind on how to feel about whatever this was.
"Right, George?" Rory hesitantly prompted.
His mouth opened to respond, then shut quickly. "Right," he agreed after a moment, biting his bottom lip, "Third pile from the left."
The urge to tell George a thank you burned in Rory's throat, but he just gave a nod and stood to lead the boys to his dorm. A thank you seemed cheap, like an afterthought, at that point.
He pushed that thought away, instead focusing on how weird it felt to have other people in his dorm for the first time. Not even Dean had stepped beyond the threshold of the doorway, now there were two bright eyed first years studying the mess that was Fred's fourth of the room with due diligence.
Rory's legs moved on their own, like he'd done this a thousand times--it felt like he'd done this a thousand times. Like he'd lived beside George his whole life, plus decades before that. Like he knew just where George's things were.
Harry and Ron's bags and robes were tossed somewhere, anywhere, as Rory let his fingers drift along the spines of the books in the third pile from the left. A gold, shining title gleamed at him in the candlelight, 'Quidditch Through the Ages: Collector's Edition'.
It almost felt like he was back in that bleak little grey room, knelt on the floor with Dean peering over his shoulder hungrily as he explained quidditch concepts and flight patterns--popular trends throughout the years. Ron would chime in every so often, pointing out particular players, or something specific to seekers.
At most, ten minutes must have passed, before George came into the room like a silent storm.
"You do know it's curfew by now?" He asked sharply, approaching the foot of his bed.
"You know when curfew is?" Ron stood, bewildered.
"Yes, I'm not daft," George sneered, "You've got that entirely covered."
"Piss off, George," Ron bit back, devolving into some sort of bickering that fell to the wayside of Rory's attention.
Rory glanced over at the clock, haphazardly thrown sideways across Fred's floor--how had so much time passed already? They hadn't even gotten halfway through the book, not even to the best parts! But Ron and Harry were already standing, mumbling apologies and appreciations with their eyes speaking to the floor.
"Thank you, Roland, really," Harry muttered, "I appreciate it a lot."
"Any time," he sputtered, watching the two walk out before sliding the book back into its place.
George walked past him to place his bag beside his dresser, and Rory turned his head up to watch George leave his robe on its hook. It was small, some tiny movement--a twitch in his face--but Rory continued to stare at him as he stood. George's eyes met his for the briefest of moments, and for a second--well, Rory could have sworn George'd just scoffed at him.
"What's this all about?" Rory asked quietly, leaning back on his bed and scouring the backside of George for any clue he could.
"Whatever do you mean?" He replied mockingly, head tilting in irritation.
"George," he said sternly, "I haven't done anything, what-"
"You did a lot," his head turned a bit as he said it, like he was barely holding himself back from looking over his shoulder at Rory. "You've helped a great deal. I don't think the quidditch prodigy could've done it without you."
"What?" Rory replied incredulously, "You're mad about me helping Harry?"
"I-" George bit his bottom lip, still seemingly refusing to fully turn and look at Rory. "Yeah, I guess I am."
"Mind explaining why?" The upset in Rory's voice was thinly veiled, and he felt himself swallow harshly as he watched George contemplate gracing him with an answer at all.
"I do, actually," he muttered.
Rory's mind stammered for an excuse to keep talking to him as George grabbed his towel and stalked out of the room, leaving him there, sitting on his bed, slack jawed. His mind was racing and his heart felt like it was going to leap from his chest. What had just happened? What the hell was that?
The room fell quiet, the only noise being the idle chat from the common area and the beginnings of a rainstorm pittering softly against the stained glass panes of their dorm room. Something in Rory's stomach turned over, and a sour taste blossomed on his tongue as he looked down to the floorboards.
"And then he just stormed off?" Maggie asked skeptically, arms crossed as her history book balanced on one knee.
The grounds near Hagrid's hut had become slightly overgrown as autumn sunk its claws into the environment around them. Leaves crinkled in the wind and Rory could smell the distinct chill in the breezes that blew by every so often. He hadn't even bothered to unpack his books, there were more important things to discuss than dark cloud constellations or rune definitions.
"And then he just stormed off," Rory repeated, fuming. "The nerve of him! I should've given him a piece of my mind then and there--or something."
"Mm," Maggie hummed, leaning forward on her palms, "You know what I think that sounds like?"
It could've been Rory's anticipation, but the wind seemed to pick up just as Maggie spoke those words. He watched with bated breath as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, adjusting her glasses as her hand went back to the ground.
"What?" He prompted, coming closer as his eyebrows raised.
"It sounds like you're daft."
"Oh, piss off," he reared back instantly, feeling his face screw up in frustration. "What do you mean I'm daft, he wouldn't even talk to me! He scoffed at me."
"Yeah, you know why?" Maggie looked at Rory like he was missing something very important. "He was jealous, Rory."
Rory stilled for a moment, his hands still buried in the grass that was becoming brittle and dry with the onset of autumn. It crumpled between his fingers and flaked into dust as Maggie's words slowly turned over in his head.
"What?" He breathed out quietly, "The fuck he was."
"It's so obvious," she huffed, rolling her eyes, "He had you all to himself, cuddled up on the sofa, and you left to hang out with his kid brother and the chosen one? He can't measure up to that--or at least he doesn't think he does."
"I wasn't...hanging out," Rory sputtered, feeling humiliation wash over him as his head felt hot at the mention of George having him 'all to himself'. "I was helping Harry, y'know. Quidditch stuff. He knew that, I even asked him for the book."
"Feelings don't care about logic," Maggie shook her head, "George wanted you to be with him."
"I..." He didn't really know what to say about that. Just the4 thought alone that George could have possibly been jealous...in relation to Rory. It was a bit much to take in, George hadn't shown any- well, interest in Rory like that before. Could that mean..?
"Does that mean he could like me back?"
She averted her eyes to the grass, eyebrows furrowing as she stewed in thought. Minutes passed, maybe hours, but Rory stared unblinking as he waited for his verdict. He watched as the breeze caught her hair, and she tucked a few stray pieces into her scarf.
"I don't know," she finally admitted. "I obviously can't say for certain. But, it's promising. I will say that."
George was angry with him, whether it was justified or not didn't matter. What did matter, according to what Rory got out of his conversation with Maggie, was that he cared enough to be angry. The two barely spoke for what felt like years, but Rory was carefully counting down the days until their first quidditch game--he was painfully aware that this spell of fury aimed at him wasn't going to be short-lived.
But he had something he hadn't mere days ago: a tiny, tiny thread of hope that he held onto with white knuckles and aching palms.
Now, Rory would most definitely consider himself a patient person. Whether or not he was actually a patient person, well...
Perhaps it was because the entire team was soggy with dampened spirits as they stood in a semicircle on the pitch, rain drizzling in an on and off storm, as Oliver stood across from them. Perhaps it was because Rory hadn't felt George's gaze on him, not even once, for weeks. Perhaps it was because Rory hadn't laid in George's bed for what felt like his entire lifetime.
"I want you all to review the flight patterns we went over today," Oliver announced loudly, the heavy, commanding tone in his voice sending a shiver down Rory's spine.
Everyone was dismissed with Oliver's free hand, as the other clutched his broom. Well, nearly everyone, anyhow.
"Thomas," he called, and Rory turned to look over his shoulder to find Oliver's steely gaze settled on him. "You're helping with cleanup."
If it wasn't for the fact that the team captain was currently staring him down, daring Rory to have some sort of negative reaction--he would've rolled his eyes and let out a groan that embodied how his muscles felt. But Oliver was looking at him, so he squared up his shoulders and turned around to walk back toward him without so much as a slump of the shoulders.
It wasn't much, anyways. Just locking the equipment back into place and walking the trunk back to the dugout tent with Oliver holding the other handle. The two boys didn't even speak much the entire time, but Rory could feel Oliver's eyes glued to him, burning holes through his quidditch robes and letting the rain further soak into his bones. If it weren't for the constant drizzle of cold water running over Rory's head, he was sure there'd be steam rising off his head from how warm he felt.
The two slung the trunk into its typical resting place along the back wall, the locked box thumping lightly to the left and right as the bludger fought to get comfortable in its shackles. The rain was muffled from within the tent, and thunder cracked overhead to let Rory know he'd definitely not get any dryer on his journey back to Gryffindor Tower.
"Shit," he finally gave in, letting his shoulders slump as the thunder faded off.
He turned, expecting to find Oliver with his stony expression he always wore--and, more importantly, the approval to go home. Yet, the older boy looked puzzled, like he had something he wanted to say but hadn't quite figured out the words to use. Rory felt his blood rush in his ears, and was suddenly aware of every single bit of hair that was plastered to his head. He imagined he looked like a curly, sodden mess as he stood in front of Oliver.
"You're a good chaser, Roland." Oliver finally spoke, his voice underneath the sound of rain making Rory feel like all of his internal organs had just liquified.
"Call me Rory," he mumbled under his breath, unsure if Oliver had even heard him until he got his nod of approval he always vied for so desperately.
"You're a good chaser," he said again, this time with more certainty in his voice, "Rory."
He wanted to say thank you, or even reply with something smooth--but his brain completely blanked. All he felt himself do was nod, his lips pursing as he turned to walk out of the tent with his broom gripped so tightly it almost hurt. His brain thumbed through thoughts with reckless abandon as he trudged through the castle to reach his dorm, and Rory couldn't stop replaying the moment that Oliver looked right at him and said his name--just like that. Like it was the easiest thing he'd ever done.
Rory still hadn't said Oliver's name, not out loud, anyhow. It still felt weird to even think about it; Oliver was older than him, his team captain. It was almost a respect sort of thing, an unspoken rule, that he never say his first name. Did this mean he could do that now? Was that Oliver silently giving him permission? Was he special?
He needed to talk to Maggie.
"You," Rory turned to his left, some Ravenclaw with a shiny prefect badge gleaming on their robe, "It's ten to curfew, what are you doing about?"
"I'm-" He sputtered, glancing down to make sure he was still in his quidditch robes, still holding his broom, "I'm...on my way back from practice."
"Mm," the prefect looked over him with a disdainful look, "Better get a move on, then."
"Yeah," he nodded, muttering under his breath, "That's literally what I was doing."
Did nobody think that Rory knew what he was doing, or something? Sure, he's a little clueless about what to do with George--and he had no idea what that whole thing with Oliver just was--but he knows what he's doing most of the time. At least half of the time. Irritation washed over him in droves as he marched up the stairs toward the painting of the Fat Lady, shoes squelching and skin growing colder and colder each passing moment.
He needed to talk to Maggie.
Water dripped from his hair down the back of his neck, and he felt his chest heave as he breathed hard. The stairs creaked against their stone supports as Rory walked up to the boys' dormitory, hearing the last inklings of conversation amongst friends in the common areas before curfew reared its ugly head. He hoped briefly that everyone had passed out after practice, and he'd walk into a quiet, dark room.
But the image of George perched on the edge of his bed, eyes eagerly looking at the door in the hopes of Rory walking in popped up suddenly. Rory felt his feet move a little faster, and the air escape his lungs a little easier. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, pushing his broom inside and already beginning to pull his bag over his head.
Dark. The room was completely dark, and not a sound announced his welcomed arrival.
A snore sounded from Fred's bed and the corner of the room where George slept was pitch black. Any sort of energy that had been left in Rory's body, any flame of hope, extinguished itself in a single moment. Rory slowly changed out of his clothes and felt a silent sigh escape his body as he slammed himself face first into the pillow, not even bothering to think about the fact he hadn't gotten the chance to wash up.