Quidditch Isn't Everything

Synopsis: After winning yet another game, Oliver Wood reflects his decision on leaving Makoto for Puddlemere United. His conclusion?…Quidditch isn't everything.

-:-

Twenty-two-year-old Oliver Wood released a sigh of complete and utter restless exasperation as he sat motionless on the well-furbished pristine-white feather down bed of the Wizarding world's finest hotel. One leg was drawn close to his chest, an arm wrapped loosely about the extremity while the other leg remained outstretched straight across the bed.

Something…something was wrong, not right…though there really SHOULDN'T be anything wrong. He was on one of the finest Quidditch teams in all of Britain and Ireland, furthermore had just caught the winning snitch for the championship AND were now well on their way for the League's Cup.

He should be happy…shouldn't he? Money was no question, girls flanked after him to no days end, and of course, he was playing Quidditch professionally, his DREAM. He had everything he wanted…well, MOSTLY everything he wanted.

Puddlemere United's star seeker scowled darkly at that, viciously shoving the thought aside. He remained motionless in the darkness of the room, brooding heavily over..over…

Then, suddenly he got to his feet, absently shoving his feet into a near-by pair of black sneakers. He stalked over to a large fine oak-wood trunk set right in front of his bed, swinging the lid open. The twenty-two-year-old didn't bother with the lights, feeling about and grabbing the first shirt he could find.

After tugging on the garment, he quickly swiped his key-card off the night table and shoved it into the pockets of his shirt, jotting down a quick note to tell his mates where he was lest they wake and find him gone.

Once that was done, he spun his heel and prowled out of the room, quietly shutting his door behind him. The halls of the hotel were brightly lit in contrast to his pitch-black room, searing his unready eyes. After a squinting moment, eyes adjusting, he quickly fell into movement once more, making fast strides down the red-carpeted halls.

He paid no heed to his state of dress; black sneakers, a pair of silk burgundy red boxers and a baggy long-sleeved hooded sweatshirt, burgundy as well with 'GRYFFINDOR' written across the front in big bold gold lettering. His hair was probably a disheveled mess, he guessed, heavy bags weighing under his eyes.

As he made his way passed the lobby, he absently waved towards a few late-night fans, a gaggle of girls giggled in their adolescent giddiness, wafting whispers of how 'he was waving to ME', 'no ME', 'nuh uh ME', 'he's in his BOXERS!' hitting his ears.

He couldn't help but to chuckle under his breath and even though he'd had this nearly every waking hour for the past six years, it was still enough for a faint pink to blossom on the young man's cheeks. As he stepped out, tinted glass doors swinging shut behind him, he couldn't help but to gulp in a deep breath of the cool night air.

So refreshing.

Now enthused with a new sort of energy, he swerved to his left and began the relatively short walk towards the hotel's gardens. His head remained bowed the entire trek, the tips of his nose and ears reddening slightly from the chilling air.

But he showed no signs of ware or irritation from the bottoming temperatures, making fast strides across the grassy hill, hands jammed into the pocket front of his hoodie. When he reached the top, Oliver quickly seated himself atop its peak, knees bent and slightly drawn to his chest. His head hung low and arms hung loosely about his drawn legs, one fist clenched and the other hand clamping about his wrist to hold himself in place.

To hold himself from running away…from himself.

-:-

(Oliver)

You wanna know when your psychotic? You know you're psychotic when you have money coming out your ass, the ability to choose any given female within a hundred mile radius, are one of the best Quidditch players in the entire galaxy and are still not happy.

That's when you're psychotic, completely twisted.

This is everything a person could ever want and need – everything I could ever want and need. Not that many people can say they've accomplished their life goals at twenty-two.

But I can.

And perhaps that's it…I accomplished too early and now I'm bored. I have nothing to strive for, nothing to..to live for. One of my sole purposes in life, at least in my mind, was to become a professional Quidditch player.

Given that, I'm done…so what now?

The cool late night-early 2 in the morning breeze wafts by me, engulfs me, surrounds me, enthuses me with a refreshing energy

…with her scent…

I allow myself to fall back, arms and legs spread wide, in eagle formation and I just peer up at the lightening sky. The sky is a blur of soft euphoric colors, only highlighted by the sparkling stars, swirls of pink…and emerald green.

…her eyes…

I shut my own eyes, taking in a deep breath, inhaling the sweet aroma of grass after a morning's rain and dear GOD it's her…it's her isn't it? And in the darkness that I've enshrouded myself, lids shut tight…I can…I can almost see it…those sparkling emeralds that were her eyes.

…no, don't…

And I'm 15 again, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain with her tiny face in my sweaty palms, eyes squeezed shut as I rushed at her…

…to this day, I'm still amazed how nice her lips felt against mine…

She remained tense and stiff as a board in my hold and please, please, please let me have at least landed NEAR her lips…don't make me look like a complete and fucking idiot…

And that's the day it happened…the day the…the the illness, feeling…whatever the hell it was. All I knew was that I couldn't close my eyes without seeing those emeralds…

…I still can't.

'I'm not 15 any more,' I think bitterly to myself, blinking away the tears that had formed about my eyes and it burns, burns so bad…

'I haven't been 15 for a long time…'

The stars above me twinkle with its sinister laughter, laughing at the irony of it all…and I can't help but to laugh myself. Bitter, forced.

My hand feels about my sweatshirt pocket, fingers scouring searching, twist and brush across a glossy surface, they clench and pull it out. A picture.

I bring it up to my face, hover it a few inches from my eyes, the emerald sky lights me. It's her and me, sitting in a pristine whit gazebo after the Yule Ball…she's smiling, dress a shimmering emerald green…just like her eyes…

And I'm smiling too, rather stupidly I might add…in my tuxedo, holding her close…and I look so happy, my eyes look alive…I can't help but to wonder how my eyes look now.

JUST STOP IT OLIVER!

-and I'm 15, sitting in my dormitory with my head cradled in my hands. Quidditch or her…Quidditch or her…don't make me choose, please don't.-

Six years of complete and utter regret, wonder, what if…what if I had stayed…

The answer is quite simple really…

…I'd be happy.

Not to say my mates aren't enjoyable companions, they really are. Playing Quidditch everyday for a living is one of the best feelings in the world…

…being with Makoto however…IS the best feeling in the world.

I can't believe it took me six years to see that...that…

…Quidditch isn't everything.

Makoto is.

But it's too late, isn't it? She's gone, from Hogwarts, from me…she's been gone and it's all my fault. She's probably happier anyway…and that's all that matters.

Right?

-:-

I do not like how this came out, not at all. It's quite a wonder why I posted it…that I am still contemplating as I type. I might revise it later, when I fine time or just in the mood. Hope you guys enjoyed it. Yeah.