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Percy Weasley had been preparing for his career counselling session with Professor McGonagall for three months.
Three months.
Not because he was uncertain about his future. Quite the opposite, actually.
The future was one of the few things Percy felt he truly understood. The world was unpredictable. Families argued. Friendships changed. Exams became harder. People disappointed you.
Plans didn't. Plans stayed exactly where you left them.
So, Percy planned. By the beginning of October, he had already begun drafting potential career pathways. By Christmas he had refined them. By Easter he had revised, expanded, reorganised, and colour-coded them.
He had a five-year plan.
A ten-year plan.
A twenty-year projection that accounted for Ministry restructuring, promotion opportunities, additional qualifications, and three possible economic downturns.
His future stretched before him in neat rows of ink and parchment. It was orderly, predictable, and safe.
Even Percy occasionally looked at the mountain of paperwork and thought it might be slightly excessive. Only slightly.
The stone corridors of Hogwarts echoed around him as he climbed the moving staircase toward Professor McGonagall's office. Outside the tall windows, grey clouds rolled across the Scottish sky, rain pattered softly against the glass, blurring the mountains in the distance into smudges of blue and silver.
Students hurried past in groups, laughing and chatting about Quidditch, homework, Hogsmeade weekends. Percy ignored them all. His attention was fixed entirely on the stack of folders clutched tightly against his chest. Each one had been arranged alphabetically. Twice.
By the time he arrived outside McGonagall's office, he was fifteen minutes early. Naturally.
Professor McGonagall's office smelled faintly of parchment, old books, and wood polish. Tall shelves stretched up the stone walls, filled with carefully organised volumes, sunlight struggled through the rain-streaked windows, painting pale rectangles across the floor.
The strict Transfigurations Professor sat behind her desk quietly reading a thick sea-blue hard-cover book, though having not expecting him in for the next ten minutes, she looked up over the rims of her glasses.
Percy walked in happily and deposited his folders in front of her with a soft but undeniably significant thump.
Professor McGonagall looked at the large stack of folders with a quick tired look on her face, too quickly for Percy to notice as he was perfecting his folders in a straight line. She then looked up at him again, waiting for him to finish, then looked at the folders again. "Mr Weasley," she said carefully, "what exactly is all this?"
Percy couldn't help smiling as pride swelled warmly in his chest. "My career proposal, Professor."
McGonagall stared. "Proposal," she said flatly.
"Yes, Professor."
The silence somehow deepened. There were six folders. Six. Each labelled as so: MINISTRY PATHWAY A, MINISTRY PATHWAY B, MINISTRY PATHWAY C, CONTINGENCY PLANS, ALTERNATIVE ADVANCEMENT OPPORTUNITIES, and LONG-TERM PROFESSIONAL GOALS.
Professor McGonagall stared at them as though they might bite. Slowly, she removed her spectacles.
Percy, misunderstanding entirely, "Oh," he said brightly, reaching into his bag and handed her a seventh folder. "I also prepared a summary version."
Her eyes widened slightly, "You prepared a summary?"
"Only twenty-three pages," Percy said simply.
For one brief moment, Professor McGonagall looked as though she regretted every career-related decision she had ever made.
Somewhere in the castle a clock chimed.
Percy thought she might be impressed, though she looked more resigned than impressed.
Percy launched into his presentation before she could stop him. "I have carefully evaluated my strengths, academic achievements, leadership experience, and future opportunities within the Ministry of Magic."
He slid a chart across the desk and McGonagall looked at it. There were graphs. Actual graphs.
"By age twenty-five," Percy continued, "I hope to have secured a senior administrative position. By thirty-five I should be eligible for departmental leadership consideration."
McGonagall examined another page. There was a timeline. There were arrows. There were footnotes. The footnotes had footnotes.
"Have you," she asked slowly, "considered simply applying for a position after graduation?"
Percy blinked. "Without a plan?"
McGonagall made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of surrender.
For the next twenty minutes Percy explained every detail: his projected career trajectory, his educational goals, and his anticipated salary progression. At one point he even produced pamphlets for her.
Professor McGonagall accepted them with the expression of a woman who had seen many strange things in her life and was adding another to the list.
Finally Percy finished, McGonagall looked exhausted and Percy looked utterly delighted. "I believe that covers everything."
"Everything?" she said slowly.
"I left out the retirement projections," Percy said with an airy wave of his hand, "didn't think those mattered yet."
Yet. McGonagall visibly flinched, but before she could reply-
BANG.
The office door flew open, and both of them jumped. A gust of cold air swept into the room carrying the scent of rain, damp grass, and fresh earth.
Oliver Wood stormed inside like a one-man natural disaster and looked as though he'd personally fought the Scottish weather and lost. Mud splattered the legs of his Quidditch robes, his sleeves were rolled unevenly to his elbows, his dark hair stood in every possible direction, soaked from drizzle and tangled by wind. A leaf drifted lazily from somewhere near his ear and landed on McGonagall's carpet but Oliver didn't notice. He was carrying his broom under one arm like a soldier carrying a rifle, his cheeks were flushed from flying, his brown eyes were bright. Alive.
"Sorry I'm late, Professor!" He wasn't remotely sorry.
Percy stared at him. Merlin.
Oliver was dripping on the floor; actual puddles were forming by his feet.
Oliver caught sight of him and grinned immediately; the expression transformed his entire face into something wonderously bright.
Percy hated that. Or at least he told himself he did. Because every time Oliver smiled like that with those twin dimples, it felt like someone had kicked open a window in an otherwise sensible room.
Oliver dropped into the chair beside him, placing his broom between their two chairs, and mud instantly transferred onto the upholstery. Percy made a strangled noise from the back of his throat, eyes widening in alarm, and McGonagall's eye visibly twitched.
Oliver looked delighted to be there. Not because of the counselling session, it was simply because Oliver Wood approached life with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever chasing a thrown stick.
Everything interested him.
Everything excited him.
Everything except paperwork.
Especially paperwork.
The contrast between them could not have been greater; Percy looked like he had arrived for a Ministry interview while Oliver looked like he had fallen off his broom into a swamp.
"Wood," McGonagall said.
"Career counselling, right?" Oliver asked quickly.
"Yes."
"Pure barry!" Oliver said brightly.
Percy watched Oliver with growing horror. Oliver was grinning, sweaty, muddy, and completely unconcerned. The complete opposite of Percy in every possible way, and somehow it was infuriatingly distracting.
"So," McGonagall began, "have you considered your future career options?"
"Yep!" Oliver said.
"Excellent," McGonagall said with a small smile.
Oliver's grin widened as he crosses one leg over the other and leans slightly closer to his dormmate. Percy watched him closely, eyes narrowing while his heart fluttered traitorously in his chest.
"I'll play professional Quidditch!" said Oliver.
McGonagall then waited, as if for more information.
Oliver waited too, confused with the silence.
Percy waited as well, curious.
"...And?" McGonagall asked.
Oliver frowned. "And what?"
"Which teams?"
"Oh!" Oliver immediately brightened. "Well, first off is Puddlemere United," he said as he counted on his fingers. "Holyhead Harpies." Another finger. "Falmouth Falcons." Another. "Montrose Magpies." Another. "Wimbourne Wasps." He nodded decisively, "My top five."
McGonagall blinked.
Percy blinked too, looking the Quidditch captain up and down with his curious eyes.
"Those are your plans?" McGonagall asked.
"Yep," Oliver said.
"Your entire plan?"
"Pretty much."
Percy looked physically pained as he thought, that's it?
Oliver noticed immediately. "What's that face for?" he asked quietly.
"That is not a plan," Percy stated at once.
"It absolutely is!" Oliver bit back.
"No, it isn't!"
"It is if it works!"
Percy opened his mouth, wanting to say something clever but he knew not to argue with his dormmate. There was no use. Oliver was all about Quidditch and has been for the past five years. He was obsessed! So, he closed his mouth as words appeared to fail him.
Oliver looked incredibly pleased at this, at Percy's loss of words.
McGonagall looked immensely tired. She had been sitting here in her office listening to career counselling all day. "Mr Wood," she said patiently, "professional sports careers can be unpredictable."
"I'll be fine," Oliver said, waving an airy hand.
"What if you're injured?"
"I won't be."
"What if you're not selected?"
"I will be."
"What if-"
"I'll practice more."
McGonagall stared past her glasses at him.
Oliver smiled radiantly, and unfortunately for Percy, it was very distracting. Percy thought the confidence Oliver had was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous, and somehow quite genuine which Percy hated mostly because a tiny part of him admired it.
Oliver leaned back in his chair, extending his arms casually over the backs of both chairs, "Anyway, that's all sorted."
Percy continued to stare at the Gryffindor Quidditch captain beside him, though quiet as he was, all he could hear was the loud sound of his heart beating against his chest. He could feel Oliver's thumb brushing against his shoulder, it was only a gentle warm tingling touch, yet it was all he could feel on the outside.
"That's all?" McGonagall asked slowly.
"Yep!" Oliver said with a nod.
McGonagall glanced at Percy, then at the mountain of paperwork beside him, then at Oliver, then back at Percy. The comparison was almost comical; one student had enough documentation to run a small government, while the other had shown up looking like he'd lost a fight with a swamp. "Mr Wood," she said carefully, "I generally expect more detail."
Oliver looked at the clock on the wall above the door, then immediately stood up, "Oh, bloody brilliant! I've got to go."
Percy suddenly missed the feeling of Oliver's gentle touch. He didn't understand it.
McGonagall blinked slowly at Oliver. "You've only been here five minutes!?" she said, raising her voice.
"Exactly!" said Oliver, glancing back at the clock again as he grasps the back of Percy's chair.
Percy froze; the warm feeling back again, so was the tingles. He wanted to look behind him, he really did, but he instead stared down at the quill holder on McGonagall's desk. He knows if he did look at the Quidditch seeker and they'd lock eyes, and he'd have to look into those deep pools of brown, he'd lose his marbles. He'd lose his dignity. Because Oliver Wood's brown eyes are really sparkly. All the time. Morning and evening. And it was unfair.
"You haven't completed the session," McGonagall added.
"Sure, I have!" Oliver replied quickly.
"You haven't."
"I told you my plan."
"You told me five Quidditch teams."
"That's the plan."
McGonagall looked ready to develop a headache. She closed her eyes with a long, tired sigh, reached a hand under her glasses and rubbed at her eyes.
Oliver reached over and grabbed his broom which had been leaning up against the Professor's desk, between the two chairs. "Can't lose any more practice time," he mutters quickly.
"Wood-"
"If you expect us to win the Cup this year, Professor, I've got work to do," Oliver said and was already halfway to the door.
Percy finally mustered the courage to look over at Oliver, which he stared at him in disbelief. "You're leaving?" he asked quietly.
Oliver grinned and winked, "See you later, Percy." And then he disappeared out the door. The door slammed behind him and silence immediately filled the office. Percy suddenly missed his presence, like warm sunshine filling a room, and yet he wouldn't mind hearing him talk about nothing else but Quidditch even if it was for hours. Because the more Oliver talked about Quidditch, the more the room he was in felt warm and sunny like a gorgeous summer's day.
McGonagall slowly turned toward Percy now that Oliver had left, who quietly turned toward her too. Neither of them spoke. Until finally, she said, "I believe Mr Wood's session was the shortest career consultation in Hogwarts history."
Percy couldn't help but let a small smile spread across his lips, "He didn't even sit down properly."
"No."
"He tracked mud across your floor."
"Yes."
"He gave no evidence whatsoever."
"No."
"He interrupted my presentation."
"Indeed," McGonagall said softly.
Percy paused, and then despite himself, a gentle laugh escaped from within him. McGonagall looked surprised seeing him laugh and Percy felt surprised in himself too which then another laugh followed. Because honestly? Only Oliver Wood could storm into a career counselling session looking like a disaster, announce he would become a professional Quidditch player, refuse to elaborate, and leave. And somehow make it seem completely reasonable.
McGonagall's lips twitched, "You're fond of him."
Percy froze, looking at her, stunned. "What?"
"You smiled."
"I did not."
"You did."
"I most certainly did not."
McGonagall raised one eyebrow, slow and studying.
Percy felt his ears turn red. That was ridiculous. Absurd. Oliver Wood was chaotic, unorganised, infuriating. His idea of planning ahead was deciding which Quidditch pitch he'd be practising on tomorrow. There was absolutely no reason for Percy Weasley to be fond of him. None whatsoever. A familiar grin flashed through his mind, bright brown eyes, mud-splattered robes, boundless confidence, and that stupid dimpled smile. Percy's ears became immediately hotter.
McGonagall made a thoughtful noise and smiled knowingly, "I see."
"You see nothing," Percy said quickly, raising his chin with annoyance.
"Of course."
Percy quickly gathered his folders with all the dignity he could manage, which wasn't much, because McGonagall was still trying not to smile. As he left the office, he spotted Oliver sprinting across the grounds toward the Quidditch pitch, broom in hand, hair still full of leaves, entirely unconcerned about the future.
Percy shook his head. Completely impossible. Absolutely impossible. And yet, as Oliver disappeared into the distance, Percy couldn't stop himself from smiling.
Maybe not everyone needed a twenty-year plan. Maybe some people could simply know where they wanted to go. And perhaps, Percy thought as he walked away, watching Oliver race toward the pitch without a single doubt in the world, that was its own kind of brilliance.
Percy spent so much of his life preparing for every possible future while Oliver simply chose one and flew toward it.
It should have frustrated him, yet somehow, it didn't. Somehow, it made Percy wonder what it might feel like to believe in something with that kind of reckless, impossible certainty. To believe in yourself the way Oliver Wood believed in Quidditch, to move through the world without a contingency plan, to trust that if things went wrong, you would simply find another way forward.
Watching Oliver fly up into the air, Percy felt something warm settle quietly in his chest. Admiration, perhaps. Envy, maybe. Or something dangerously close to affection. He wasn't prepared to examine that possibility yet. Fortunately, he had several plans for avoiding it. For now.