Hello! I'm so glad that you have stumbled across my story. I am aware this first chapter is short, but more has written and will be put up as soon as it is beta'd and (hopefully) once there is some positive interest in the story. I have a lot planned for these two; I'm looking forward to the rest of this, to see how everything unfolds!
Disclaimer: First, I do not own Harry Potter. It belongs to J.K. Rowling. End of story. Second, this story is gay, meaning that there is homosexual-ness, between two male characters. If you are squicked by that sort of thing…then why in the world are you reading fanfiction in the first place?
This story is dedicated in memory of all those who died in the war against Voldemort. Let us not forget the past, nor forget those days when things were still good and happy at Hogwarts.
The setting is in the midst of the third book. The italicized sections are direct quotes from the text of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Enjoy!
Oliver Wood was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. There was a quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed his six fellow team members in the chilly locker rooms on the edge of the darkening Quidditch field.
"This is our last change -- my last chance -- to win the Quidditch Cup," he told them, striding up and down in front of them. "I'll be leaving at the end of this year. I'll never get another shot at it.
"Gryffindor hasn't won for seven years now. Okay, so we've had the worst luck in the world -- injuries -- then the tournament getting called off last year..." Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to his throat. "But we also know we've got the best -- ruddy -- team -- in -- the -- school," he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye.
"We've got three superb Chasers."
Wood pointed at Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell.
"We've got two unbeatable Beaters."
"Stop it Oliver, your embarrassing us," said Fred and George Weasley together, pretending to blush.
Visible through the fake blush, a rosy, crimson tinge bloomed and worked its way across Fred Weasley's face. It was hastily subdued as Fred turned away to glance quickly out the window, into the blustery fall afternoon. A bunch of great, ominous grey clouds littered the horizon, so there was not much to see, but the mere action of glancing was distraction enough. The unexpected complement, thought directed at him and his brother, and its accompanying gaze of admiration had caught Fred off guard. If Oliver were to heed any notion of the thoughts that were now racing through the red-head's mind, the least Fred could expect was blushing. More likely, Oliver would be severely disturbed by the very prospect of such unorthodox things. Fred himself was fairly disturbed at some of the prospects his mind was now presenting. Where on earth had this sudden bout of infatuation come from?
George Weasley chose this particular moment to elbow his brother none too kindly in the side. Fred glared, and shoved him right back, disregarding the gravity of the moment. It had probably been good of George to draw Fred back to the current here and now, because they all knew this speech was important to Oliver at least and probably most of all. And if it was important to Oliver, Fred would probably do well to be paying attention.
"Amd we've got a Seeker who has never failed to win us a match!" Wood rumbled, glaring at Harry with a kind of furious pride. "And me," he added as an afterthought.
"We thing you're very good too, Oliver," said George.
"Spanking good Keeper," said Fred.
How he meant that, even Fred himself was not quite sure. The words had just sort of fallen out of his mouth. Sometimes, things just tended to happen that way. It was not in any way or form an attempt to draw Oliver's attention back towards himself after the captain's overt and sincere complement which had been directed at Harry.
"The point is," Wood went on, resuming his pacing, "the Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it these last two years. Ever since Harry joined the team, I've thought the thing was in the bag. But we haven't got it, and this year's the last chance we'll get to finally see our name on the thing..."
Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George looked sympathetic.
"Oliver, this year's our year," said Fred.
He tried his best to look especially sympathetic, as opposed to merely distracted.
"We'll do it, Oliver!" said Angelina.
"Defiantly," said Harry.
Oliver then delved into what the team was going to be practicing that evening. A large chart had been spread across the center table, depicting a particularly complex maneuver. The Slytherin players were marked as green Xs, and the Gryffindor players were represented by seven small, red Os laid out in formation upon the two dimensional Quidditch field. With a tap of his wand, Oliver directed the symbols to begin darting across the canvas in complex arrangements. His long winded explanation extended to cover what new tactics he would like to employ for much of the season.
Fred attempted to give the diagrams his undivided attention, but despite his own best efforts and the more forceful ones of his darling brother, Fred's attention remained severely divided for the rest of practice. While the team was out flying and running drills in the chilly evening air, silly thoughts crossed his mind. He began to wish that he had been more enthusiastic, or been more encouraging towards Oliver. Fred was annoyed that it had been Harry who had gotten in the last word of encouragement, and not himself. He wondered if there was any more he could do to help improve the captain's mood; He wished wistfully that there was something more he could do, beyond just being an unbeatable beater.
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