Weaslewood

Chapter 2: When Did I Grow So Used To You?

Despite what many romance books would have you believe, most people don't have much of a recognizable smell. You could know someone for years, your whole life even, and not be able to remember what they smelled like. People smell like sweat, and perfume, and deodorant, and shampoo, and whatever strong scents are around them at the time. There isn't much to a person's smell, not really.

Some people, however, are an exception. Maybe they just happen to produce a stronger scent than normal. Maybe they are around something so often that they take on its smell, like a zookeeper that always smells vaguely of wet fur. Maybe it's a quirk of their magic, like how the Potters' hair refuses to be tamed.

Whatever causes it, some people do have a smell. Some special scent that instantly brings them to mind when one smells it, even if they haven't known them for very long.

Percy Weasley was one of those people; inexplicably, he almost always smelled like parchment and ink. The scent lingered on his clothes, on his bookbag, even on his skin and hair. It was one of the first things others noticed about him, though they tended to forget about it after a while. It was just something that was a part of him, like his Weasley-orange hair or his glasses or his name.

Oliver Wood had teased him about it once upon a time, during their first few weeks at Hogwarts together. But eventually he too grew used to his dormmate's smell and stopped thinking about it, and so the teasing stopped also. It was for the best, really, as Percy had been frighteningly close to becoming a stalker and an arsonist — Oliver never shut up about the broom collection he had at home and how unfair it was he couldn't bring it with him — in retaliation.

Oliver was a fanatic. So was Percy. Percy was intense and demanding. So was Oliver. For quite a while, their dormmates thought themselves to be in Hell and considered dropping out just to escape them. Soon enough, most of their House was considering the same thing. At least, those that weren't considering drop-kicking them into the lake for the squid to deal with, anyways.

Then something truly wondrous happened, at least as far as the poor Gryffindors were concerned — Percy and Oliver turned on each other.

Percy suddenly couldn't care less if the others left trash laying about, because he was too busy yelling at Oliver over his sweaty socks smelling up the dorm. Oliver didn't rant at them for not taking Quidditch seriously anymore, not ever since Percy revealed his distaste for the game and summoned down the athlete's wrath upon him. They were each so distracted by the other, they couldn't bother anyone else.

Stuck fighting each other, they stopped being the bane of Gryffindor House and instead became its main source of entertainment. For a while, at least.

For, as you see and as has been said before, people tend to grow used to the traits of others. Certain things that once were annoying can even, on occasion, become pleasant.

Percy did not like Quidditch. Listening to Oliver rant about the personal lives of famous players and rattle off statistics that were seemingly meaningless once drove him up the wall, distracting him from things he considered far more important than some silly game (Oliver's first successful hex was performed due to Percy saying such out loud). At some point, however, he grew used to it. It became a calming white noise that he would nod along to as he studied. It was comforting, even.

Oliver thought the other to be an arrogant, pompous prick for constantly scolding him over his cleanliness and homework and anything else he was supposedly doing wrong. Then he grew older and his workload grew bigger and he was entirely sure he would've ended up in the hospital wing at least once from fainting due to forgetting to sleep and eat if it hadn't been for Percy nagging him about self care all through Quidditch season.

By their Sixth Year, the two had gone from mortal enemies to unlikely friends. Well, actually, they had been friends for quite a while at that point.

Sixth Year was still a rather important milestone for them, however, due to that being the year they learned to brew a certain potion in particular.

Amortentia.

Oliver looked down at the potion in his cauldron, frowning at its mother-of-pearl sheen. He was sure he'd gotten it right. Percy had held his Quidditch books hostage all week to force him to study for Potions. He was sure he'd gotten it right. And yet...

It smelled like all his favorite things, just as it was supposed to. Like the wood of a broomstick, and the rubbery scent of the quaffle, and his favorite soup that his mother would make for him. But it also–

"Why the bloody hell does it smell like broomstick polish?!" Percy yelled, standing up to glare at his potion. Oliver didn't even flinch, used as he was to Percy's outbursts whenever he thought he'd gotten something wrong.

Besides, he was distracted trying to figure out why his own potion smelled of parchment and ink.

Percy did not like Quidditch. He didn't understand it, nor did he care to. What he did understand, however, was the intricacies of spellwork. In particular, he knew how to cast a Sonorous so powerful that his nasally voice could be heard even over a screaming crowd.

This proved useful when a stadium full of idiot jocks were cheering for a certain team and were making it difficult for Percy to cheer for the only player he actually cared anything about.

It also proved useful when he wanted to scream at said player for almost getting hit in the head with a bludger.

Oliver didn't mind the scolding. He would simply smile, shake his head, and get back to the game.

He was, after all, more than used to the other saying things like 'stop being reckless and take proper care of yourself, you bloody idiot'.

It was many years ago that he learned to recognize the words for what they were: a way to say 'I love you...'

'...you bloody idiot'.