A/N: Why, oh why would I dare take on another project? Because when a story needs to be written, it needs to be written, and you can't sleep until something's written down. And I really have no idea how I'm going to go about starting this, but it's well worth a shot, 'cause this idea has been haunting me for months now. So watch me fall into the overhaul of Harry Potter fanfiction (or, more correctly, Oliver Wood fanfiction).
For those who are wondering, if there are those who are wondering, I am working on a non-Oliver fic. Won't say more, though.
Let the musical influences thrive!
Disclaimer…one per story, now, not one per chapter…I don't own a thing. No money being made. I'm a penniless sitar player – I mean…writer…who happens to love Oliver Wood with a passion, and admire Rowling's genius. However, a few original characters are mine and mine alone.
~Within Spitting Distance~
"I don't want to write this."
"You do too."
"I don't want to write this."
"Derek Olin wants you to."
"Tell him he can forget it."
Slim but calloused hands slapped the wooden table in front of Oliver Wood. He jumped, then glared at the firm woman before him. She'd not only burst into his room to pester him about a worthless, useless, completely pointless assignment, but she'd just caused him to drop his slice of melon onto the floor.
"You're getting me another melon," he growled, reaching down to pick up the fallen fruit.
She scowled, brushing black hair from her dark face, and she bent to grab the melon before his hand was halfway to it. "I'm sorry, did I disturb the precious Oliver Wood's precious lunch?" She flung the melon piece at him. "I'll get you another melon once I have my answer."
He leaned forward on his elbows, covered his face with his hands. "The world doesn't want an autobiography about this Quidditch player-"
"Oh, come now! There are plenty of autobiographies about Quidditch players, all best-sellers!"
His glare barely met her eyes through his fingers. "I didn't say a Quidditch player, Lei, I said this Quidditch player."
Lei drew her face close to his and hissed, "These aren't my orders, Wood. These come from Derek Olin."
"Derek Olin. I'm shaking." He straightened, rubbing his face. "I see the geezer everyday, and not only do I see him, I listen to him bitch about faking in front of the hoop, about leaving the Keeper's box, about the wood quality of my broom – the wood quality of my broom, for Pete's sake! The thing flies, and it's not good enough for him. No one's gonna care if my broom is oak or maple or painted with a mahogany finish. And then, when all of his shouting has finally come to some sort of end, it's my turn. The geezer doesn't scare me."
"I'm all too aware of that," Lei retorted, arms crossed. "But need I remind you that, as head coach, he has the power to retire you."
Oliver scowled, dropping his head onto the table and covering it was his arms. He knew Olin wouldn't retire him, as Lei threatened, but he also knew that benching was a completely fair option, and one that he knew too well. His inability to work with Olin landed him grounded for a game more than once. "Why," he muttered from beneath his arms, "does Olin want an autobiography from me?"
"You're big news, Wood!"
He shook his head awkwardly. "If he wants his ruddy autobiography, why doesn't he talk to Quinn? At least a book from him would make sense." It'd make complete sense; Scott Quinn, Seeker, was captain.
There was a heated silence as Lei glared at him, but he didn't raise his head. He'd wait her out. He had the patience, and more than patience, he had the motivation. He disliked both Olin and Lei, he couldn't stand either of them, but he prided himself in being able to out-wait the both of them. A smile crossed his face when she didn't say a word as she left.
His grin faded quickly when he realized he was alone. He raised his head carefully, just to make sure she was gone, before pushing himself away from the table and his barely touched lunch.
An autobiography. Olin wanted him to write an autobiography, and he had his prized assistant asshole in charge of the project. If Oliver actually wanted to write out his memories, he'd be sure Lei would turn them down, make him write about how abusive his father had been, how he wanted to make his family proud but somehow never managed, and how his Hogwarts love had dumped him for his arch rival. She'd make him write a sap story, an angst story, one that didn't even mildly reflect his life, because a sappy angst would sell, and the blunt truth wouldn't.
He slumped in his chair, arms limp, staring ahead of him to the closed window across the room. The inn was nice, providing picturesque views of the Irish greens, but they were greens he was tired of seeing. He saw those bloody greens every day from the best view available, perched on a broomstick fifty feet in the air. At one point he would have loved that view, would have loved being so high, so free, would have loved the exhilaration of a conquered fear of heights, the thrill of living life at a dangerous pace. But he had grown tired of a game that had lost its glamour to the slimy hands of fame.
His game robes were lying on his bed, washed but wrinkled, unfolded. Their colors were bland: black and white, with naught but two magpies, one on the chest and the other on the back. The team was successful enough, having lost only one match for every five played. He'd considered it early in his Quidditch career, when he tried out for very select teams. There had been a tie between him and a Dayton Mayhill at the tryouts for the Falmouth Falcons, which Mayhill won after Oliver was accepted as reserve Keeper for the Puddlemere United. While playing for Puddlemere, he'd kept an eye on other high-ranking teams, notably the Pride of Portee, the Wigtown Wanderers, the Kenmare Kestrels, and the Montrose Magpies. He'd lost the tryout for the Prides to a Tyler Young, and he'd only visited a tryout for the Kestrels. After the Wanderers suffered a devastating loss to the Magpies, he set up an interview with the Montrose captain, Scott Quinn. Scott recommended him to Derek Olin, and he quickly replaced Alesia Snyder for Keeper, demoting Snyder to the reserve position. Not an interesting story, as far as he was concerned. He couldn't believe that Olin thought fans might enjoy reading something as simple as that. But then, he always managed to be surprised as to what fans would do, and what lengths they would go to just to get within spitting distance of him.
Groaning, he grabbed his notebook usually reserved for observations of opposing teams, tactics learned from the third coach Jason Heuer, broom pricings around the world, as well as the occasional doodle he made when he was the victim of boring, sleepless nights. Scott always gave him trouble for keeping a notebook instead of a blank book with scroll paper, but Oliver could see no difference. And besides, Muggles had, for whatever reason, put lines on their paper, which nearly put an end to his inability to write in a straight line for more than a sentence.
He opened a bottle of ink, dipped the quill tucked inside the notebook into it, scribbled a few times around the corner of the paper, then scrawled none-too-neatly 'Within Spitting Distance.'
How does one start an autobiography? Why is one even considering starting an autobiography right after he said he wouldn't? He sat back, dropping his quill on the notebook. Both Olin and Lei were crazy. A bloody autobiography. The world would supposedly know everything there was to know about Oliver Wood. There wasn't much to know, and he found himself wondering if his finding a broomstick under the Christmas tree when he was five would be worth reading. Would they want to know that he used to be deathly afraid of heights? The star Keeper for the Montrose Magpies had been terrified of anything higher than ten feet. Even if he wanted to write about, would Lei allow that to get published? Would she allow a chapter about him screaming at his parents for trying to make him get on a broomstick? That might be dramatic enough for her, he thought, but it certainly wasn't something he was proud of.
Who wants to read a book about a twenty-six-year-old who made the best of Quidditch because he was given a broom when he was five? Especially since that twenty-six-year-old didn't see the same enchantment in Quidditch that he saw ten years ago.
Ten years ago. Merlin, he felt old. He was nothing compared to Olin, who was bordering fifty-five, and even Scott had a seven year lead on him in age. But he could say that things weren't the same as they were ten years ago, and he felt old. Lei would not publish that, guaranteed. If his back didn't hurt, if he could still pull off flips and dives and insane saves at the goals, if fourteen-year-old girls could fawn at his picture in the Daily Prophet, then he sure as hell wasn't old. Slumped in the chair, though, staring at the words 'Within Spitting Distance,' he felt older then Olin.
He knew what he wanted to write: the flat out, blunt, boring truth. He wanted to write something that would make Lei angry with him, so he could shrug and say, "Told you so." His life wasn't worth sharing with the world. So what if the world thought he came from a messed up, alcohol-loving family? So what if the world thought he'd survived a tainted childhood so he could become a professional Quidditch player? So what if the world thought he'd done it all to make his family proud? It didn't affect his game, and wasn't that what Quidditch was all about? The game?
He could write about Quidditch tactics. Tricks he knew backwards and forwards, how to sneak your way around a foul, how to find the fake-outs in your opponent before he pulls it off. That would be worth reading. That would be worth Olin and Lei breathing down his neck.
But a ruddy autobiography? Where was the game in that?
Closing the notebook, he stood. He stared at the robes sprawled on the unmade bed. Flying wasn't as attractive now as it had once been, but flying was better than writing. He removed his shirt, tossed it onto his chair, and briefly contemplated going out without a top, but one thought of Lei walking around the inn's grounds compelled him to slip into a light T-shirt.
~~
"I could kill him!"
Neither Lei Feng's shout nor her slamming the door behind her, then opening it and slamming it shut again, was cause for the man on the double-sized bed to move. He lay on his back, head cushioned by his arms, bare of feet and chest. Lei frowned at him for a moment before deciding he wasn't worth the trouble she'd get for his sympathy.
"This that Wood guy again?" the man asked after a moment's silence. He raised himself up on his elbows to look at Lei lazily.
Lei ignored him. She ripped off her coaching robes while asking, "Have any firewhiskey left?"
"I could kill this guy for you, you know," the man half-suggested, lowering himself back onto the bed.
"Jason Lytle!" she snapped. "I need him!"
He reached into his mouth to pull a piece of breakfast from his teeth. "Oliver Wood's so important to you. I get it."
Lei turned in tight circles, part of her wishing her boyfriend would kill Oliver, and part of her wishing she could kill her boyfriend. "Do you have any firewhiskey left?" she demanded.
"Gonna pay me for it?" He ran his fingers through his shaggy brown hair.
"It's bloody firewhiskey! Costs barely a Sickle at any bar! What in the name of Merlin would you want for it?"
"Sorry, but there hasn't been a decent fuck between us in weeks."
Lei ceased her desperate search for firewhiskey to stare at him. His grin was cocky, surefire, and he'd begun to squirm. She rolled her eyes and stood with her arms folded, not daring to believe that the horny young man beginning to display himself had original caught her eye because of a Valentine's Day rose and a sweet, sappy note. "I've got a Sickle," she told him fiercely, "so save yourself the trouble of getting undressed." She grabbed a dragon-skin coat and flung it over her shoulder. He moaned softly, desirably, as if that would draw her attention to the bed and thus entice her, but she walked out into the inn's hall, slamming the door behind her. She could not believe him.
But he had been right: there hadn't been a decent fuck between them in weeks.
~~
Scott lobbed a poorly made Quaffle at Oliver. "An autobiography, eh?"
The throw wasn't tricky, which meant Oliver barely had to move to catch it, but it wouldn't have mattered if he'd missed it; neither man had bothered to mount their brooms.
Scott laughed as he caught Oliver's return throw, shaking his head. "Merlin Almighty, the Magpies are a long line of autobiographies! Best Quidditch players in the world-"
"Don't flatter yourself," Oliver muttered behind an amused grin.
"-and naturally, the best players write their life histories, and usually there's more than one version, too." Scott bounced the Quaffle between his hands, tried to roll it behind his shoulders, dropped it, shrugged, chucked it at his teammate. "All best sellers, too, Feng wasn't lying about that. But see, what she didn't tell you is that those buyers are all girls who want the books only because the guy's picture is on the front. And he's usually all prettied up, too, in some uniform used only for that one shoot, and he's got make-up on. Bloody eyeliner!"
Oliver leaned back to hurl the Quaffle into the air, well over Scott's head. "You ever been asked to write somethin' like this?"
Scott shook his head and answered while trying to keep an eye on the ball in the air. "But I have been asked to write a short article on Seeker secrets for the Witch Weekly. Maybe they think prissy little girls with shoes taller than themselves want to know the best ways to pull off this dive. I dunno. It's beyond me."
"Probably a commission from the Wanderers."
The Seeker tilted his head as if considering, causing a few locks of black hair to drift to one side of his face. His bangs were the only bits hanging loose, however; Anja Severin, one of the Chasers, had put the rest of his hair up in poor imitations of pigtails.
"Did you do it?" Oliver asked, leaning his head back to watch Scott's high throw.
"See, you gotta learn how to cheat." Scott smiled and winked. "Studied the Seeker from the Wasps, and wrote the article based on him." He rose to his tiptoes as he caught the Quaffle, bouncing lightly. "Now…the question is, how do you cheat out of an autobiography?"
Oliver shrugged. "I was going to write out everything that happened."
"No child abuse? No drinking and drug dealing and early loss of virginity?"
"I'm not a fiction writer."
Scott whistled. "Gonna piss Feng off, no lie," he muttered. He giggled suddenly, not noticing the raised eyebrow Oliver gave him. "Man, I want a camera." His eyes lit up. "Hey…hey, hey, hey, we could do that!"
Oliver twirled the Quaffle between his fingers, in turns staring at the red ball and at the Seeker. "Do what?" he asked cautiously.
"Make a camera to mold into your eye….oh, it'd be perfect! It'd take pictures when you blinked…wait, that'd be a lot of pictures…but it'd take pictures only like, say, when you winked, and then…I could actually see the look on Feng's face when you give her the truth! Oh, who gives a fuck about Quidditch if we could do somethin' like that?"
Oliver would have laughed if it didn't seem so possible. He knew two guys, guys he'd known since he was thirteen, who might actually have the means as well as the enthusiasm to pull it off.
~~
Within Spitting Distance. By Oliver Wood.
Who gives a fuck about Quidditch anyway?
~~
A/N: To be continuuuuuuuued. ^.~ Okay, I'm goin' places with this one. Plaaaaaaaaces. This won't be one of my fwuffy womances, with Oliver being the heart-warming hero. *heavy sigh* I was aiming for a better, longer first chapter, but compare it to some other first chapters of mine, and this is like a novel. .o Please stay tuned?