Chapter One: A Little Flying Practice
God, this was the most embarrassing day ever. Really. It's enough that I fell down the main stairs. Lucky for me it was during dinner time so no one was around. No one except Oliver. That's what made it worse. Worse than if everyone else in the whole camp saw. I didn't care if every member of the Puddlemere United Team, reserve and otherwise, saw. As long as Oliver didn't.
What terrible luck I have! Confound my blasted feet that fail me so! It's only when I'm on my feet; on the ground. Flying high on my broom, I'm smooth, graceful, and poised as a swan. Yet, the moment my feet touch the ground, all hell ensues. I have come to the conclusion that it is the Puddlemere United Training Camp's fault for having stairs in their facilities. Stairs and Page Adley do not mix. When I get my own house, it's not going to have stairs lest they remind me of this day.
It's all the stress that I've had lately. It must be. For me, the most stressful time of year is autumn; the off-season. The time when every member of the regular and reserve teams are sent off for two full months of training and conditioning. Two full months were I am kept in close quarters with the man who makes my heart beat fast, the butterflies in my stomach flutter, and make me lose the coordination I expertly had on the pitch (me falling down the stairs is an excellent testimony to that): Oliver Wood. So anyway, before I begin to lose focus on what I was saying, there I was, lying face up on the floor, wishing I could disappear, when I heard his footsteps, quick and light, coming toward me. Oh God, I thought. Why? Why did he have to see that?
"Oi! Page, are you alright?" I felt his fingers wrap around my arm and hoist me to my feet (oh, those bloody feet again). My eyes caught his and I'm sure I blushed, though he probably took it as embarrassment so I didn't think too much of it.
"Uh...yes. I'm ruddy brilliant. Damn stairs," I muttered. Oh yes, what a lady I am. Sometimes I can't help but curse. I really must work on that. He continued to look at me silently so, as an afterthought, I added, "Thank you."
"Are you sure you're not hurt?" he persisted. Smile, I told myself.
"Absolutely. I'm quite used to injury." I looked up and grinned roguishly. "If I can survive the Falcons incident, then a couple of stairs isn't much at all." Oliver winced, thinking back to last season.
"That was an immense beating you took." He was right. That was an experience. It was a mid-season match against the Falmouth Falcons (a team known for their violence). I was in for Joscelind Wadcock, who had been out unconscious since the last match. After taking a right nasty elbow to the face (which broke my nose), I was hit by a Bludger in the chest and was nearly knocked of my broom. As luck would have it, fifteen minutes later, I took another Bludger to the face and was knocked out, falling nearly thirty feet to the ground. Luckily, we still won. Seems rough but this is not at all uncommon in the League matches. I guess I'm one tough bird. "Well, off to dinner then? I'm starved." He flashed a brilliant smile as I agreed.
"I can't wait for training to start," Oliver proclaimed as soon as we sat down. He was helping himself to basically everything on the dinner table. I soon followed suit. Oliver has a strange way about him. He is always anxious when it comes to Quidditch. That is to say, he never truly relaxes about it, no amount of practice being enough. I suppose that at one time, it would have seemed very unusual to people, but here he was quite at home. Here he can be neurotic about Quidditch with all the other neurotic people. As I said, he's got a strange way about him, and not in that the sport was always his top priority. Despite his desperate fixation on Quidditch, he is the most relaxed person I had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Although he is quite the perfectionist.
"Neither can I. I haven't felt so giddy since school," I joked.
"Now I still can't imagine why your father would ship you off to Beauxbatons when you live quite near Hogwarts in the first place." He had a point. I hardly understood the reasoning myself.
"Well, I think he was torn at first," I returned. "My mum, being the muggle she is, didn't understand the prestige of Hogwarts and just loved the idea of me speaking French. I suppose she just convinced my dad." I took a few bites of my chicken. "God, I hated all those prissy girls." I heard a snort from next to me and the following: "Weoam, waatt ferneded oot wooell venn." I turned to see Eddie Snyder, a reserve Beater, speaking through a mouthful of food.
"Ed, you might want to say that a little less clearly as I almost understood you." I gave him a good-humored smile as I heard Oliver laugh from across the table. Eddie chewed his food a bit more, swallowed, and then repeated himself.
"I said, that turned out good then. All those goody-goody girls and none of them on their school teams. Good preparation playing with the guys. You gotta be used to getting roughed up to make it in the League." Eddie knew what he was talking about too, and a couple years younger than Oliver and I at that.
"Good point," I affirmed. After a few minutes Eddie finished his dinner and went back upstairs.
"Every year I feel like I'm back at school, not being able to pay attention in classes, just waiting for Quidditch to start," Oliver voiced.
"Same here, only now there's no classes so there's nothing to do for a week." He laughed.
"Why do we even show up so early each year?" He mocked our behavior. "We don't have anything to do until Monday." His words certainly brought a smile to my face.
"In the futile hope that they'll start early without telling us?" I heaped more potatoes onto my plate. "There really is nothing to do around here." Glancing up, I saw Oliver looking at me, with that familiar glint in his eye.
"I've got an idea." I smiled. I love his ideas. "Up for a little flying practice?"
"Last one there's a Mountain Troll!" I shouted, jumping up from my seat, sending my chair tumbling behind. He scrambled from his seat too, nearly knocking over one of the younger players. Both of us dashed from the dining room out to the main hall.
"You know I'm going to win," I heard him pant.
"In your dreams, Wood," I replied. Broom, I thought, as he turned to run upstairs to his room. I, on the other hand, continued on down the hallways to the back doors, calling out "Accio Broom!" After a moment, it caught up to me. Running out the door, I swung my leg over the handle and soared up into the sky. I was surprised I had made it that far without falling or something similar. Turning back to look over the building, he was nowhere in sight. I couldn't help but let out a cry of triumph.
"Took you that long, did it?" That was about the moment it found out how difficult it is to spin around on a broom as quickly as I would have liked.
"Oliver--how--"
"Oliver? What happened to 'in your dreams Wood'?" He laughed. "Never underestimate the speed of jumping out of bedroom windows." I couldn't help but crack up at that moment. It was times such as that that made me fall for him (oh, and don't be mistaken, I was not falling for Oliver. I fell a long time ago).
"Very clever. Well, you may have won the battle but the war will go to me." At that I shot off towards the pitch, weaving around every tree that I could find. He was right behind me the whole way, but couldn't catch up. "I thought I told you to ditch that old Firebolt and get the new 360!" I called back to him, referring to the new model; the Firebolt 360, fastest broom on the market. Phil, our team manager, was really encouraging everyone to get them for the advantage.
"It's in the post," I heard faintly from behind. When I reached the pitch, I weaved all around the stands, knowing that soon it wouldn't slow him down as much. He was catching up to me. I could feel it. I sent myself into a dive pulling up out of it quickly then rolling to the left. He was a bit thrown off but stayed close behind. Earlier I had teased him about his broom, but I know that it's about skill, not equipment; he was going to be able to catch me whether he had the 360 or not. At that point, I needed to do the only thing that Oliver wouldn't expect, so I set off toward the goal posts.
Were would he expect me to go? Weave between them, of course, so instead I aimed my broom right for the center hoop. It was big enough to fit through (just barely) and it might have been just crazy enough to work. I was almost there. Closer. Closer.
I made it! Albeit, I felt my foot nick the edge, but I made it! In my proud moment, I didn't notice that Oliver, too, had made it and, in my obliviousness, had caught up with me. I didn't realize it until he pulled me right off my broom. Good thing I wasn't afraid of heights or I would have fainted, and not had the chance to nearly wet myself. I clung to him like a goblin clings to gold.
"Calm down, Page," he said. "I won't let you fall." He turned so that I could swing my leg over the handle of his broom, behind him. Oh Merlin, I was on the back of his broom, holding on to him. I think that scared me more than the fifty-foot fall I almost took. He flew forward a bit and grabbed my broom, which luckily had stopped, and then took me down to the ground. "I guess I won that one."
"Damn, you're good." He handed my broom over, laughing.
"Come on, back up to the camp," he directed. "There's always next time."
Well this was a strange day. Definitely capital B for Bizarre but great nonetheless. Until tomorrow. Page Adley.