Of course Oliver had heard about you. The Hogwarts rumor mill, though never totally accurate, had done its job spreading the word about a North American transfer student.

When you showed up in the middle of the bloody semester, people had started fawning. At first it was simply your looks and your personality, and the simple fact you weren't British. But all Oliver cared about was your quidditch history- he knew they had a more aggressive and rather impressive playing style across the pond.

Oh, he was hopeful. The confidence, the total lack of fear when you were called up individually to be sorted in front of the entire school. Gryffindor energy, no?

But nope. A Slytherin.

Oliver was stood in the entrance of the stadium, arrived 'early' for when they had their own practice so he could watch a pleased Flint run you through complicated drills. He'd no doubt bench one of their chasers for you. The speed, confidence, pure skill and instinct was enough to make any lesser player salivate...

He wanted to yank his hair out, even more so at the Weasley twins beside him letting out little bewildered chuckles every two minutes.

"How could this happen-? A month before the season starts," Oliver finally choked out, tone strained.