I own nothing.
Why Oliver was so obsessed with Quidditch...
Sometimes the words of others stuck longer than the ones told to yourself. Oliver was not one short of said "words". His father, a rather stoic and emotionless wizard, always looked at Oliver as though he was a mere stranger rather than a son. To Oliver, it was nothing more than a sideways glance and, if he was lucky, a brisk nod. His mother was gentler though still stern; she carried herself just as proudly as his father though she had a graceful demeanor about her. But she was silent.
"Good for nothing, lazy, boy!"
Oliver stopped behind the corner upon the fourth to last stair and crouched low, listening in on what his mother and father were talking about. It was, without a doubt, about him.
"No good at school, grades...not even magic!" his father muttered ruefully, shaking his head. "At this rate he will never move forward. One step forward then ten feet backward with this boy."
"He tries," his mother reasoned.
Oliver was grateful for his mother's support though he did not want her to pity him. A failure, he may be, but he did not want anyone to consider taking the blame. He held his breath, listening harder.
"He's gifted in Quidditch. He could end up on the Scottish Quidditch Team," his mother said softly. The footsteps indicated the wife's attempts to calm her husband's roiled anger.
"It's about the only thing he's good at," the father grunted malevolently, curling his lip with each passing word. "But he was knocked out from a single hit with a bludger. The boy's got hardly any talent there. His team can't even win a game."
"You're just bitter because he was sorted into Gryffindor. That Quidditch team is a fine one at that," his mother castigated with a sense of defiance.
Oliver sighed; his mother did not come from Gryffindor. She was a proud Ravenclaw though his father, who was a Ravenclaw as well, disdained the red and gold house.
"Let us hope he can keep his skills sharp," his father said after a pause. "I tire easily with useless things."
.oOo.
Oliver sat beneath an old tree far from the lake but far from the castle. He had his head in Katie Bell's lap; this girl had seized his attention within the first few sentences she spoke. Katie was not an overly intelligent girl nor was she the prettiest albeit Oliver cared for neither of those traits. It was Katie's ability to simply be there for him when he needed her most.
He did not know if this feeling was infatuation, affection, platonic, or somewhere in between, but he found himself always cherishing the moments he spent with the girl.
"Wood," Katie said, looking ahead with a sense of calmness. "Oliver, why did you hate me at first?"
Oliver was a little taken aback by the question but he shrugged. "I never hated you, Katie. I never really hated anyone. I was skeptical of you, sure, but something about you just...seemed too different."
"Is being different so bad?" Katie inquired, raising an eyebrow though it was not aimed at him.
"No," Oliver said.
"But I mentioned Quidditch and...and suddenly you ended up liking me?" Katie said, tone rising a pitch in confusion.
Oliver pulled Katie down gently while he rose up a little, gifting her with an affectionate kiss. Right then and there, the Scot had concluded he was more than infatuated with the girl before him.
Katie smiled gently though she pulled away and brushed loose strands from her hair tie from her eyes. She seemed to regard the other for a few deep moments before smiling a little more.
"I thought Quidditch was your only love," she jested with a light tone.
Oliver chuckled though her words brought back haunting memories. His nerves, which seemed to have quelled for the past hour, had come back up. It was yet another Quidditch match; it was not against Slytherin, though those were intense, too, but against Ravenclaw. Something about seeing those blue and silver colors flash past on broomsticks made Oliver worry.
"It's more than a hobby, Wood," Katie pressed, seemingly prying the truth open ever so gently. "It is more than a hobby. To you, it is like life or death; I see this in you, Oliver, so tell me I am right."
Oliver merely pursed his lips, looking up at the girl with his eyebrows slightly drawn. He wore that troubled expression he always wore when he was feeling conflicted.
"My father..."
Katie drew in a soft inhalation and looked at Oliver sweetly, bending to flower his lips with a gentle and supporting kiss. He hummed contently at that, smiling in appreciation of the gesture.
"What about him?"
"You know how he's like," Oliver said, eyes fluttering open to look at hers. "Quidditch is the only thing keeping him from disowning me. I haven't got a clue where his loathe came from or where this disappointment and rage came from either. Mam...she convinced him I'm not..."
Oliver had to pause for his throat began to close, threatening to choke him if he continued talking. He drew in a shaky breath, unable to meet her eyes once more but Katie murmured sweet nothings and encouragement to continue his story.
"That...that I'm not useless," said he. "It's the only thing I'm good at. Not school...not magic...not anything really. I just...want to solidify it for myself more than anything. I want to know I am actually good at the one thing people say I'm good at."
Katie's shoulders sagged a little, a frown settling upon her features.
"You've got a great personality, Oliver, but a fool's mind. Don't waste your life proving your worth to your father. He should already see it," she said after she thought about what to say. "I'm just...I'm glad I understand—"
"Why I am so obsessed with Quidditch."
Oliver supplied the carefully chosen words ever so helpfully, a ghost of a smile plastered on. He did not have the heart to tell her it was most likely far too late.