For Kimberley (xakemii) – happy birthday for the 22nd! Have fun and enjoy your special day! :) And I hope you enjoy this one-shot too :D
-wishing you could turn back time-
When you're eleven and clueless, all the tall brown-eyed boy is to you is Gryffindor's new Quidditch Captain and a brilliant Keeper who is apparently infamous for his long-winded prep talks. He's the boy who caught you flying on a stolen broom outside after school hours; the boy who, instead of yelling at you, merely grinned; and the boy who, before leaving, asked for your name and said "hope I'll be seeing you at tryouts next year, Bell".
You never can quite get him out of your head after that and he becomes the boy you watch take warm up laps around the Pitch when you're bored and the boy who makes you giggle and nudge Leanne when he passes by, because it's immensely fun to watch your best friend blush in front of her crush while said crush merely walks on obliviously, broomstick on shoulder. Other times you just sit there in the empty stands, watching longingly as the Gryffindor team fly in the air playing impromptu games, laughing and looking so carefree with the wind in their hair and their robes fluttering after them. And he would be the boy who would come out of the changing rooms and yell at them to come down and "discuss some plays". They would land, groaning good-naturedly, teasing and pushing and chasing each other all the way back inside.
When you're twelve and innocent, the boy becomes that intimidating Quidditch Captain figure who glares at the assembled group of hopeful maybe-Chasers and gives you all a long-winded speech about teamwork and effort in which you learn nothing from except the fact that you really do like that elusive Scottish accent of his. You wonder if he'll recognise you and perhaps widen your chance of getting on the team but afterwards it doesn't matter because you are on the team now, along with reserve Alicia Spinnet and he's grinning at you two like Christmas has come early or something.
And now the "Quidditch captain" becomes "Wood", who you sit next to during breakfast and tease and prank on with the twins and who you kind of justalittlebit like because he's sweet and kind and adorably oblivious sometimes. When he's not thinking about Quidditch, that is.
When you're thirteen and you think you're older than you actually are, "Wood" becomes "Oliver" who grins at you when you make a particularly good goal and ruffles your hair after each practice with a "good job, Bell" or when you're particularly lucky, "good job Katie." You still like him, except now it's a reallyreallyreallylike, would-jump-off-a-cliff-if-he-asked-you-to-with-that-smile kind of like. He likes you too of course, but only as friends and you know that perhaps you won't ever be anything else to him.
But now you're fourteen and too young and much too old and it's his last year. And it's been a fantastic three years on his team, because he always cheers you up when you're down , and hugs you first when Gryffindor wins, and sits with you under the stars on the Quidditch pitch every night without fail, to talk about nothing and everything. He helps you with Transfiguration homework and you snap at him when he decides to go off and drown himself in showers after defeat and it's like some donkey chasing after the carrot over the ever-growing distance, you think mournfully – he's so close, yet so freaking far.
But he's going at the end of this year and you can't help but count every minute gone by in his presence. Each time you walk back to the Common Room with him after practice, or help him study for pop quizzes late into the night, the recurring thought of it's his last year keeps coming back to you and you don't know what to do but cling desperately to his very presence so that not a minute is wasted. But in the blink of an eye, the minutes turn into hours and the hours into a day and you find yourself lying awake each night in bed trying to still your thumping heart and that nagging awful feeling that you won't have enough time left. You grasp futilely at every day slipping by, blurring into months, into a year, until it's the very last day, the Quidditch cup is theirs and that fake smile seems to be plastered on your face permanently while your heart breaks and aches and squeezes and bleeds at those fatal four words: it's his last year. So you sit with him under the stars on the Quidditch pitch one last night, talking about nothing and everything as always, the smile splitting and bruising your cheeks, your falsely cheery voice almost choking you, and before you know it, it's midnight, and he's getting up to leave for bed.
"Oliver!" The name slips out of your mouth without volition.
He turns back to you curiously to see you barrel into him, scrabbling desperately for some last extra seconds with him and clutching at them for as long as you can, all the while wishing so much that you could tear away those three wretched years between the two of you and crumple them up and throw them away behind you so that you could be leaving with him. You're sobbing into his chest and he's laughing and patting your hair and saying things like it's okay Katie, I'll send you owls, I'll miss you too.
But you know you he doesn't know what you mean by holding so tightly to his waist and burying your face in his jumper that smells of broomsticks and grass and flying high into the sky. Because he's too Quidditch-obsessed and can't think of anything else, let alone a clingy fourth year three grades below him and you will never have the bravery to ever tell him (some Gryffindor you are, you think ruefully). So slowly, very slowly, you let him go, and even though he wipes your wet cheeks and smiles his lovely smile and promises that he won't forget his "star Chaser", you know that he will become that boy that you will let go forever as a forgotten first love.
But the first day of the summer arrives with a very familiar barn owl clutching a roll of parchment reading:
Got reserve for Puddlemere United! Thought I should tell my favourite Chaser first. Oh, and I have two family tickets to the World Cup so you'd better be free then! Remember to write -
Much love,
Oliver W
You smile when you read it, and fold the letter in half and slip it into your pocket. It stays there for the rest of the holidays, along with all the other letters written in the same scrawling hand which reminds you of sunshine and wood and grass and wind in your hair.
Because Oliver has become the boy that you're not quite willing to let go of yet.
I have a love/hate relationship with this story :P Tried something a little different here and I hope it worked. Review?