Ron wouldn't even have recognized him, he didn't think, if he'd just passed by him in Diagon Alley. In fact he probably had passed him, loads of times, and just figured it was another prat in fancy robes who couldn't be bothered to look where he was going. Another bloke with a trashy bird hanging off his arm, like she was what he'd come down there to buy.

Oliver Wood was a star.

Not a star like he was at Hogwarts, with all the girls drooling after him and all the boys wanting to be him, but a real, honest-to Merlin, Keeper-for-the-National-Team, can-I-have-your-autograph-please star. A star who had to have a big, burly, Slytherin-looking wizard at each side of him while he made a public appearance at Quality Quidditch, just in case someone might dare to touch him.

Ron wondered whatever happened to the bloke who lounged around the Gryffindor common room after a match in nothing but his underpants and a smile, who let little second year Ron pester him about how to make the house team, and never once told Harry how jealous his best friend was.

Then he sighed and joined the rapidly-lengthening queue to get his broom signed.

Four letters -- W-O-O-D -- blazed in the air above the table where Oliver was seated, hair charmed immaculate just like it was when he was in the air during a match, which every so often would shower Oliver with a halo of red sparks. And his robes -- well, actually, the less said about the robes the better, Ron thought. He supposed they were fashionable. They reminded him of something his mother would have used for curtains.

He'd managed to catch the last match, after a long day at the ministry, or rather most of the last match as he'd had to leave around two in the morning, and the game had gone on past noon the next day. He hoped it would give him something intelligent to say when he got to the head of the queue.

He did notice there weren't too many blokes around. He supposed that was why Oliver looked faintly interested when Ron finally arrived, since there was clearly no glint of recognition.

"And what's your name then?" said Oliver, looking up at him and smiling a smile that was disturbingly white. Ron caught sight of a wand clenched in one of the bodyguards' fists.

"Ron," he said, and cleared his throat. "I saw your last match. You were great." Yup. Intelligent conversation.

"Did you now," said Oliver as he took the broom and tapped it with his own -- gleaming -- wand. "That was a right cock-up, there at the end."

"I didn't catch the end," he admitted. "Work, and all."

"Right, you and half the fans," said Oliver ruefully. "There you go, Ron." He started to hand the broom back, then paused and stared. "Ron? Ron Weasley?"

Ron grinned at him. "It's been a few years," he said. "Didn't think you'd know me."

"I'd know a Weasley anywhere," said Oliver. "How's your brother?"

"Which one?"

"The one in my year, Percy."

"Dead," said Ron.

"Oh," said Oliver, then thrust the broom at him. "I'm sorry to hear that. Good seeing you again, Ron."

Ron nodded and took his broom and, really, it was more than he'd expected. Oliver was, after all, a star. And not even a star like Harry, who was just famous forever and always and hated every moment of it, but a real living-the-life kind of a star.

Ron hung around for a little while after, telling himself he needed to pick up a few things anyway. Quality Quidditch Supplies was doing brisk business; they might run out of the gloves he wanted, and then he'd have to wait a few whole days to get them.

And of course, there were a couple of blokes milling about the store that were worth checking out. Made Ron wish he was still playing Quidditch, more than the few matches a year down at the Burrow when the family got together.

He was examining a particularly fine arse when he felt a jab at the small of his back. His reflexes weren't what they'd been a couple of years back, but they were still good enough that he had his wand drawn as he whirled around to face what was probably a rogue broom.

He saw one of the brutes first, then Oliver's slyly smiling face. "Fancy a Gryffindor reunion?" he said. "I need to get out of here before they eat me alive."

Ron used his already handy wand to shrink his broom down and drop it in the pocket of his suddenly-very-plain robes. "Let's," he said, even though the bloke he'd been watching was starting to watch back. It wasn't every day you got to talk to Oliver Wood. Well, it used to be every day, actually. But this was different.

"Owen, Clive, you may go," said Oliver, a little imperiously, Ron thought. But they went. All of ten feet away, then hovered. Ron suspected maybe they were being paid by someone else, to watch Oliver's back. Most people didn't want to kill him, though, they just wanted to... well, and who could blame them, either. "Don't mind the bodyguards," he went on. "You know how it is."

"Yeah, sure," said Ron faintly, and followed in Oliver's wake as he swept out of the store. Wouldn't be hard to follow those robes. "Where are we going, then?"

"Saw you, you know," said Oliver, leaning close to Ron's ear. His breath smelt of firewhiskey and eggs. "Watching that bloke."

"I was not!" Ron protested immediately and instinctively. "You're daft."

"Watching that bloke in the Quidditch shop," Oliver persisted. "Couldn't keep your eyes off him. In here, quick."

Ron went in there, quick, then wondered why he hadn't put up any protest. But then this was Oliver Wood, and he was a Gryffindor, and he was a star. There was a nook, a nook that a moment before he would've sworn was a brick wall. A rather comfortable nook, as nooks went, but he supposed nothing was too good for Oliver Wood.

"It's okay, you know," said Oliver, pressed up closer than he needed to be. "That you were watching him. I noticed him, too."

"You did?" said Ron. "Then you're..."

"...about ten minutes away from being pulled out of here by those brutes the team sends out with me whenever I go meet the fans. Do you want to or not, Weasley?"

Well, Ron never passed up the chance for a shag, of course. And he didn't think he'd have any trouble getting it up for Oliver Wood, though shooting his load before he got his trousers off was a bit of a worry.

"Well, go on, then," said Oliver, grinning at Ron's expression. Ron remembered that grin, or almost. "Pull it out already." And he pressed down firmly on Ron's head.

It didn't really get much clearer than that. And Oliver wasn't wearing anything under his robes. "Now there's a bit of a mouthful," Ron murmured, holding Oliver's cock on his palm.

"Not too much for you, is it?"

No, it was just about right, Ron figured, and fifteen seconds after he put his mouth around it, he came with a mild shudder.

"Merlin, don't bite it off, Weasley. Haven't you done this before?"

Loads of times, Ron thought at him, and sucked more carefully. It was a lot easier to concentrate anyway, now that his own prick wasn't hogging so much of his brain.

"Oh yeah, that's it," moaned Oliver, and Ron found the trick of it. Big bad Quidditch star Oliver Wood liked it soft and gentle. Ron tried to think of who he knew that he could tell. He even gave a little girly cry when he came down Ron's throat.

Ron covered his laugh with a mild cough, and discreetly wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He couldn't think of anyone he knew, though, who wouldn't laugh harder when they heard what Ron had done in his trousers.

Oliver flipped his robes back into place as Ron stood up. His hair was still perfect. "Good job," he said, and ran his thumb over Ron's lover lip, and smiled. "Thanks, Charlie."

"Ron," he corrected him.

"Right, Ron," said Oliver unapologetically. "You do look an awful lot like your brother, you know."

"Sure I do," said Ron. He was only a foot taller, narrower across the shoulders and nearly freckle-less compared. "It's the hair."

"Redheads," said Oliver, and grinned. "Good of you to come to the autograph signing. Take care of yourself, and say hello to Potter for me, would you? He did well for himself, didn't he, did us all a favour a couple of years back."

Just a favour, thought Ron, but smiled and nodded. And as Oliver slipped out onto the street again, he pulled the broom from his pocket and enlarged it, running his finger over the sparkling gold signature. He couldn't wait to tell.

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