Scotland was through to the knockout stages of the 424th Quidditch World cup, no little thanks to their fanatical Captain and Keeper, Oliver Wood. Whilst most players were either commiserating the end of their campaign or relaxing in preparation for the next stage of matches, Wood had used his player pass to train solo on the highest stadium in South America, in the solely magical Peruvian village where the Scots would play Tibet.
It was late evening, and the stars were beginning to twinkle above the Andean sky. Wood was feeling tired, but that was normal, as the air was thinner so high above sea level. Wood continued on, blocking another attempt by the Quaffle to get by him. It wasn't as good as a real Chaser, but he figured his team had earned their rest…in the morning, though…
Wood started to notice he was starting to save reflexively. Well, he'd thought through enough strategy, and he was beginning to read the Quaffle too well to be challenged. The weather was taking a turn for the worse, and Wood gathered up his Quaffle and prepared to fly back to his lodgings.
Snow was beginning to fall as Wood flew above the streets of the village. He was just about to descend when something caught his eye in the distance. Wood frowned, and then looked again. Perhaps he'd just imagined it?
No. There it was again. Wood didn't lose sight of it, as he focused, he realised that two tiny dots were moving up and around the mountainside.
Flying closer, he realised the dots were a pair of persons; what were they doing? The weather was turning bad, and Wood figured he should just head home.
But…why we're those two out at this hour? Wood didn't know anyone as focused on Quidditch as he was…It would be best if he knew what they were up to – nothing untoward, Wood hoped – at a discreet distance. Wood gently accelerated his broomstick.
By the time he reached the mountainside, the figures were not in sight. The snow had thickened, lowering visibility. Wood circled around the mountain, gently ascending. As he lights of the village disappeared behind his back, a dull darkness enveloped him.
He was now on the windward side of the mountain, and snow and chill winds buffeted him; rugged up as he was, Wood had to cast warming charms on himself.
You should turn back. Wood told himself.
But he didn't. Climbing up and continuing on, Wood found himself in severe weather extremely quickly. His broom was buffeted around, and it was all he could do to keep control. He had to, must, needed to go back. Wood was fanatical, but even he (rarely) knew his limitations.
The wind turned again; it was a blizzard. Wood felt something whizz past him and figured enough was enough; if there was any reports of missing persons in the area; he'd inform the authorities. He wasn't staying up here when the wind was throwing snitches around.
Wait. Snitches?
It was only a fraction of a second, but that glint of gold was nearly unmistakable. Wood manoeuvred himself behind a jutting piece of mountainside to protect himself somewhat from the ferocious, bitter wind. Something massive whizzed over his head, and then a second, laughing mass swooped through the grey.
Wait? Laughing! Here he was, freezing, and these daredevils were treating the weather like one would at a Sunday picnic.
"Insanity." Wood muttered, waiting for his chance to leave.
The Scottish team filed into their team meeting room. Most of the boards were covered in their captains tactics, but the most insightful message had a board reserved for itself.
THOSE POTTERS ARE CRAZY!