Oliver shifted in his chair with a sigh, gripping the sides briefly to relieve the weird feeling in his navel. Beside him, he heard his favorite quill, one given to him by his father, drop to the floor and groaned. Now he couldn't chew on it without getting a look. Maybe later, when the fall was all forgotten by his current company, he could sneak it back. Or clean it.
"Now, pay attention to this next part, because this is where it gets tricky. This is what separates us and them, do you understand?" Charlie spoke as he hastily scribbled out a play on his rather large, parchment-lined drawing board, grilling him as he'd been doing for the past hour.
"Aye, Captain," Oliver saluted dutifully, sitting upright in his chair, quill forgotten. He folded his hands and tried to see if he could discern what Charlie had been saying beforehand. He wasn't exactly paying the most attention.
"Before I show this to you," Charlie began slowly, as if getting ready to impart a really important message, "what do you think I've come up with?"
Oliver looked to his side, as if the answers would be somewhere in his peripheral. As if someone was recording him with a camera, and he was being given cue cards. "Um, well... I dunno, Charlie. You come up with some pretty elaborate plans. What do you got?"
Charlie made a face, a gleam in his eyes as he nodded in concession. "Well, that I do. But I won't be here next year, and maybe this responsibility could fall on you. Now, this one's an easy one. Don't blow it. What do you think I've got?"
"Well it would only make sense for you to..." Oliver trailed off, realizing that his plan to start talking and let the words pour out in a subconscious stream wouldn't work in this situation. He truly had no idea about the context of the play Charlie was drawing up, or any background information that could help him guess.
"Go on, then."
Oliver grimaced, realizing Charlie had done this intentionally. He just hoped that this didn't actually compromise his chances of being named quidditch captain next year.
"I wasn't paying attention," he admitted, reluctant yet forthright. "But, honestly, with any play you may need to—"
"What were you writing?" Charlie interrupted tiredly, waving off anything else Oliver might've said.
"I — what?" Oliver frowned, momentarily forgetting what he'd been doing prior. Noticing Charlie's gaze had landed on something, he followed it down to the piece of parchment innocently lying in front of him, his chicken-scratch writing displayed to be read by anyone who wanted. He felt his stomach drop.
Quickly, he turned the parchment over, uncaring of whether the words would smudge or how guilty it made him look. He just hoped Charlie hadn't seen who the letter was addressed to, or the contents of the letter.
"Come off it, Wood. Don't act so bashful when you were able to shamelessly write line after line while I'm trying to go over plays with you. Share with the class," Charlie teased, motioning to himself and the imaginary people around him.
Oliver glanced around the table and the library, as if able to see the imaginary people, before relenting with relative ease. What does it matter?
"I'm — it... it's a letter. For this person that I like," he stuttered out, wincing at how foreign it sounded coming out of his mouth.
Charlie let out a whistle. "A love letter, huh? Do I know 'em?"
Oliver cleared his throat. "Very well, actually."
"Gryffindor?"
"Mhm."
"And I know them very well..." Charlie muttered to himself, recounting his friends that he'd know very well. He didn't know Oliver was into older people like that, but who was he to judge? Everybody's had an innocent schoolboy crush before.
"Are they smart?" Charlie decided to ask. He had a lot of friends who weren't the sharpest tools, so that eliminated a few options.
Oliver grinned, more to himself as he answered the question. He couldn't help the dopey breathlessness in his voice, or the starriness in his eyes as he replied, "The smartest. Beautiful blue eyes, the most gorgeous red hair..."
Charlie's eyes widened. Wait a second...
"Oh, Oliver. Is it me?" He gasped, cringing slightly as the realization came over him. Of course he'd know himself very well! "I'm sorry, but you're too young. I'm your quidditch captain!"
Oliver spluttered, getting red in the face at Charlie's conclusion and rejection. "No! No, it's not for you. It's for your brother."
"Oh," Charlie replied simply, his facial expressions returning to normal.
"Yeah... can you give this to Percy? It's just, I'm a bit shy. A secret admirer of sorts, for now," Oliver requested, much to his embarrassment.
There was that feeling in his navel again as he thought about Percy reading the letter. How his eyebrows would adopt a curious furrow, how he'd squint at it because his glasses prescription wasn't quite right, how his lips would curl in delight... or maybe disgust. The latter thought had Oliver snapping back to reality, the daydream soured.
"If I deliver this," Charlie started seriously, leaning in and tapping on the back of the parchment, "then you have to pay attention to what I'm telling you. Play your arse off the next game, and the one after that. My brother doesn't settle for anything less than a dedicated quidditch player, and a prospective quidditch captain. Do you hear me, Wood?"
"Aye, captain," he replied, getting deja vu from earlier. With a smirk, he added, "anything for Percy's heart."
Charlie flinched at that, his nose wrinkling. "You stop that," he demanded, a grin threatening to split his face. "He's not yours yet. Now, plays to learn, and love letters to tweak."
Oliver nodded in agreement, focusing in on the task at hand, now with the promise of help from Charlie in his secret admirer endeavors.
"My little brother," Charlie tsked quietly, shaking his head before he began explaining the simple play that he'd made before all the mess.