5: Skirt

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TW: Clear. Rating: PG

"Scottish and Irish people are completely different, ye huddy," Wood lectured a first year.

"He's right," I agreed.

"Scottish people are better," Wood continued.

"Rubbish! My arse with that, maggot!" I argued.

"It's not my fault if ye can't handle it, leprechaun."

"Don't you have to write your mam to send you your skirt?" I teased.

"I got tired of that one after the tree hundred t'erty t'erd tiome."

Quickly, the teasing escalated to such a thick-accented argument impersonating the other's thick accent that it became impossible for any English person to understand.

"JUST KISS HER ALREADY!"  George yelled across the common room.

We turned to them, enraged that anyone dared to interrupt our bickering.

"Maybe if the bassa let's me wear the skirts," I hissed.

Not only did Fred and George seem shocked, but Wood blushed so he matched his scarf, looked so mad he could take both the twins' jobs, and sounded like he was choking.

"I win, bollix," I ended, pushing my way past the twins as I reached the stairs to my dorm.

"Arse like a bag a washin'," he muttered.

I looked back at him. That kind of stung. I thought we were just joking around. But I guess not. I could feel my face flush and heart sink a little. I turned around and climbed the stairs before Wood could see.

I sat on my bed and tried to understand whether or not Wood was actually upset. And if he wanted me to hear that. If he did, was he just throwing the most Scot insult he could think of or did he mean it? Was that the first thing that came to mind when he thought of me?

How could I have ever bought George's bs about Wood having a thing for me? Honestly, he either despises me enough to use those words or thinks of me like a sister almost, someone you can insult and it doesn't mean shite. But either way, it made one thing clear.

George was wrong, end of story.

Tap tap tap.

Errol was pecking at the glass window. He finally learned not to fly into the damn thing. I opened it, and he flew in. He landed on my bed and looked at me blankly. I took the note from him and stroked his head with one finger. He cawed hoarsely but refused to fly over to the water we kept out for our own owls.

"Wood's panicking; thinks you heard his slip of the tongue. If you didn't, can you come down here and tell him to stop crying? If you did, can you come down here and tell him to stop crying? He didn't mean it, really. I think he's prepared to set every last kilt ablaze to make you happy. Or to kiss you. Because you and I know he would love a little shifting tonight. Or any time. Maybe if he's lucky an Aussie kiss? Only joking, he'd kill me if he knew that one. But seriously, I'm surprised if you don't hear the wailing."

- George

Did he really not mean it? There's no way Oliver Wood was crying, though. Moaning and groaning, maybe. That boy knows how to pout. That's why Gryffindor isn't allowed to lose Quidditch matches.

But maybe next time he won't say it.

I wrote underneath, "Yeah, I heard him. And based off that, you're the dumbest apeth in Hogwarts. If Wood's throwing a fit, tell him to go to bed like he's any other ankle biter. He isn't my holy show."

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