Chapter 1 ~ That Bloke
"If you feel like leaving,
I'm not gonna make you stay.
If you feel like leaving,
You can run you can hide,
But you can't escape my love."
- "Escape" by Enrique Inglesias
Oliver rolled over in his Quidditch-embroidered blankets and sheets, trying to fall asleep, although knowing it was highly impossible. He groaned and shifted in his bed. "Why can I never get a decent sleep when I need it the most?" he thought as he opened one of his eyes.
His entire room was like a Quidditch stadium. Stickers of Quaffles, Snitches, Bludgers, and Broomsticks were imprinted on the wall, although enchanted so that they swayed gently back and forth. His team's poster, The Puddlemere United, was taped to his wall. He could see himself smiling like a mindless idiot with the rest of his team. Oliver groaned and stuffed his head into his pillow again.
There was a sudden knock on the door that startled him. "Come in," he said, sitting up in his bed.
The door opened and an elegant woman in her early 40s strolled in with a large plate filled with bacon, eggs, and an enormous stack of chocolate pancakes. Oliver almost began to drool, but stopped himself in the process.
"Good morning, Oliver!" the woman greeted, kissing Oliver on the cheek.
"Morning, mum!" Oliver replied.
"Thought you'd want some breakfast in bed today," she told him, handing him some utensils. "To get away from your father."
Oliver smiled in thanks as he began to eat. "Thanks mum," he said thickly through a mouthful of bacon.
His Muggle father, named Joseph, was always trying to pursue Oliver to do something else besides Quidditch. "Why don't you always do something else for a change? Like be a businessman or something?" his dad always asked. And Oliver would always reply, "Because Quidditch is a passionate thing that I enjoy. What's the passion in being a businessman? What IS a businessman?"
Oliver ate the rest of his breakfast eagerly, his mother watching in complete silence. "He may be right you know," she said out of the blue.
"What are you talking about?" Oliver asked.
"Well, you know…you're father," his mother replied, biting her nails as she said so.
"You really shouldn't bite those nails," Oliver reminded her. "And besides, you're SIDING with him? You really want me to be a businessman? A stupid bloke who always wears a suit and always carries a briefcase and makes phone calls all day, yelling at people while doing so? That has no passion; and it doesn't involve flight. That's what I want, mum."
His mother sighed. "I suppose so. Just take his thoughts into consideration."
"I have, about a billion times. And the answer will always remain the same – no."
Her mother turned around on her slipper and said, "Well you better hurry up; you don't want to miss practice."
Oliver stood up and took off his Quidditch t-shirt that he always had on when he went to bed. He glanced in the mirror and sighed. "That's all the girl's go for, don't they?" he asked his reflection. "Looks. An 18-year old Quidditch Keeper with looks. Why don't they ever get to know the personality?"
Oliver piled on his Quidditch robes and grabbed his Firebolt II. He concentrated hard on Puddlemere United's stadium, and with a quick POP, apparated there.
He was immediately greeted by cheers from his teammates. The Chasers, Rose Wittle, Samantha Connell, and Melanie Turmitt, all winked at him as they headed for their lockers, getting their broomsticks. The Beaters, Daniel Ewler and Jude Neetman, waved quickly as they headed onto the pitch. And the Seeker, and Oliver's best friend, Mark Cleese, patted him on the back.
"How've you been doing Olly?" Mark greeted, smiling cheerfully.
"Pretty good thanks," Oliver lied, clasping his broomstick carefully.
"I don't buy it, Ol," Mark sensed, leading Oliver onto the pitch. "What's going on? Come on ~ you can tell me!"
Oliver sighed. Mark always seemed to know how Oliver felt, even when Oliver was trying to hide it. "My father," he began, but those were the only two words that came out of his mouth.
"Aye, you're father," Mark said, in his thick Irish accent. "Bloody right lad, ain't it?"
"Ah…not exactly," Oliver answered truthfully.
"What's up?" Mark asked.
"He's asking me to stop playing Quidditch…" Oliver said.
"OH! He didn't?!" Mark cried exasperatedly, mounting his broom. "That's terrible! You should put a curse on him immediately! Probably the Jelly- Legs curse, although I'm quite fond of Petrificus Totalus…"
"Stop!" Oliver cried, although he smiled. "I'm not going to put a curse on my own FATHER, Mark!"
"Why not? I do it all the time!" Mark said.
"Because," Oliver began, "he's my father. I'm not going to put a curse on him just because he doesn't like my career."
Mark shrugged. "I guess so. Or maybe you're just merciful."
"I am not!" Oliver argued. "I'll tell you one thing, though ~ we won't show any mercy to the other Quidditch teams though! We'll snatch the Quidditch Cup right underneath their brooms!" He mounted his broom and flew in the air, cackling all the way.
He flew towards the goals, ready for any Quaffle that came flying his way. He stopped his "keeping" however, when he noticed a pack of girls in the stands, laughing and pointing.
"Oh my God!" one of the girls shrieked. "Oliver Wood is looking at me!"
"No way!" the other girl cried. "He's looking at ME!"
"Oh, for bloody sake," the third girl said while rolling her eyes. She didn't look very happy. "What's so special about that bloke anyway?"
"That bloke?" Oliver thought, catching a Quaffle while listening to the fans' conversation.
"Everything is special about him!" the first girl countered, her annoying shriek ringing in Oliver's ears. "He's so gorgeous…"
"…And talented," the second girl added.
"And cute…" the first girl explained.
"And did you hear his accent?" the second girl cried. "He's like Mr. Perfect!"
"I bet you don't even know what he likes!" the third girl yelled, stopping the whole practice.
"Of course we do!" the first girl argued. "QUIDDITCH!"
The third girl rolled her eyes again and stood up from her seat. "You guys are pathetic. I'm out of here."
Oliver squinted his eyes and looked at the third girl. She looked very familiar. "OY!" he shouted, but he was interrupted by a sudden Quaffle, which struck him in the head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Are you all right?" Oliver's father, Joseph asked.
It was after the practice, which ended abruptly by Oliver's accident. He had a minor concussion and a bruised eyebrow, but besides that, he looked fine.
"Victoria! Fetch the boy some ice, please! I think his eyebrow is cut!" Joseph instructed.
"Why do I look like, a bloody nurse?" Oliver's mom, Victoria, cried back. "Why can't he just use a spell to make his cut go away?"
"Sorry…I don't know spells!" his father yelled back, shrugging.
Oliver groaned. "It's all right, dad. I got it."
"I told you ~ you should quit that bloody team! Quit Quidditch altogether! It just results in accidents all the time!" his father roared.
"You can get accidents from anything!" his mother countered. "Accidents happen all of the time! You could be driving to work one day and all of a sudden get hit by another car! Accidents always happen!"
His father remained silent for a while, but soon thundered, "I know that dear! But the risks for more accidents are higher while playing Quidditch!"
"Give it a rest dad," Oliver insisted, rubbing his head.
He stood up and headed for his room, where his wand lay, propped against his bookshelf. He hadn't used it in a while ~ he usually just apparated and disapparated and gone to Hogsmeade. He didn't feel the need to use his wand now. All he needed was his broomstick.
He sat down on his bed, rubbing the dust from the wand on his robes. "Let's see if I remember this," he wondered, pointing the wand at his eyebrow. "Repario Jurimento!" A spark shot out of the wand and placed itself on Oliver's eyebrow; it was immediately healed. "A-ha!" Oliver cried in triumph. "I'm still a great Wizard!"
An owl suddenly fluttered to his window. "Hello Chippy!" Oliver greeted, to his sandy-brown owl. "You got letters for me?"
Chippy bit his finger affectionately and stuck out her right leg, which had a piece of parchment rolled around it.
Oliver took off the letter and game Chippy some water and some food before he flew off again. "I wish I could do that," Oliver sighed desperately. "Just soar off whenever I feel like it; without a broomstick."
He unraveled the parchment and glanced at the letter.
Dear Oliver,
Hope you're all right. That was a pretty nasty hit. I think that fan club distracted you, am I right? Bloody females. Always distract you. Anyways, if you're not feeling too good you don't have to come to practice tomorrow but try to come for Saturday ~ we need to practice for the Quidditch World Cup, you know…even though it's still 4 months away…we still need to practice! Anyways, if you're still not feeling all right, I guess that's okay. But you better be ~ after the practice the team was thinking of going out to get a Butterbeer! Owl me back soon.
- Mark, Seeker and Captain of Puddlemere United (pretty good one too, eh?)
"You don't have to brag about it!" Oliver said, reading the last line. He looked out his window, trying to look for Chippy, but he was long out of sight. "No point in writing a letter now I guess ~ I got no one to send it for me!" Oliver cried, jumping on his bed.
He lay on his back and glanced again on the too familiar poster of his team. He looked at his picture again, and wished that he was absent on the day the photo was taken. "I look like SUCH an idiot!" he thought, closing his eyes. "And that's all girls go for, right? Looks…they must not like me in that picture if I look like an idiot!"
Oliver opened and closed his eyelids constantly. He didn't know whether to stay awake or go to sleep. Another sudden knock on the door made him decide.
"Want some dinner?" his mother gestured, bringing in the familiar plate piled with delicious foods.
"Sure…thanks, mum!" Oliver answered.
"Are you sure you're all right? You haven't been hit by a Quaffle in a while," his mother asked, beginning to eat off of another plate, containing her food.
"I'm fine mum," Oliver assured her, finishing his dinner off. "Honestly."
"Honestly?" his mom asked, cocking her head. "I haven't heard that word in a while. You've always been making excuses…and lies."
"HAVE NOT!" Oliver protested, setting his plate on the ground.
"See ~ there's another lie!" his mom chuckled. "Listen ~ me and your father are going out tonight ~ if you maybe wanted to do something with your friends, then we…I have no problem with it. Your father may, but who bloody cares right now? We're…concerned about you, Oliver. Not because of the businessman-job thing, but because you may be a bit obsessed with Quidditch. It may be blinding you from other good things in life. Like trips, friends…girlfriends."
"MUM!" Oliver reacted.
"Sorry, it's just that," his mom began, trying to find the right words. "It's just that ~ there's all these fan clubs for you, all these girls obsessing about you ~ maybe you should find the right one."
"'All these girls' that you're talking about are just obsessed with the way I look and play ~ they barely know a single thing about me, except that I really enjoy Quidditch," Oliver explained, remembering the three girls from the Quidditch Practice. Then he remembered the third girl, who had walked off in a huff. "Maybe someday I'll find a girl who doesn't think that way."
"Let's hope so," his mother sighed, picking up Oliver's plate and stacking it upon her own. "Now, listen…if you're bored or if you wanna go out with your friends, that's fine by me. All right? Just be home by midnight."
"Okay, mum, thanks," Oliver responded, trying to get his mom to leave. "Have a great time tonight."
"You too, sweetie," she smiled, as she closed the door behind her.
"I doubt it," Oliver sighed as he propped his head against a fluffy Quidditch pillow. "If only I could get away from this all…for just one night."
He rested his head on the pillow, and stayed asleep in his room ~ maybe it was a great night after all. The only way he could escape his trying-to- help-but-not-really-helping mother. The only way to escape his father torturing him to take another job. The only way to escape his ballistic and hysterical fans, and also the mean ones. The only way to escape…everything.
"If I only I could escape it forever," Oliver sighed, as he dazed off into a peaceful sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's the first chapter of my Oliver Wood story! I hope you enjoyed it ~ I really love Oliver Wood and I wanted to make a story. Tell me what you think!
And please ~ no flames. Strictly nice things, and if you really don't like it, make it in a professional way (e.g. "I didn't enjoy this because…" NOT like this "This sucks! I hate this story!") If you do like it great – and if you do, I'll keep writing about my favourite boy (and hopefully it's yours too!)
"If you feel like leaving,
I'm not gonna make you stay.
If you feel like leaving,
You can run you can hide,
But you can't escape my love."
- "Escape" by Enrique Inglesias
Oliver rolled over in his Quidditch-embroidered blankets and sheets, trying to fall asleep, although knowing it was highly impossible. He groaned and shifted in his bed. "Why can I never get a decent sleep when I need it the most?" he thought as he opened one of his eyes.
His entire room was like a Quidditch stadium. Stickers of Quaffles, Snitches, Bludgers, and Broomsticks were imprinted on the wall, although enchanted so that they swayed gently back and forth. His team's poster, The Puddlemere United, was taped to his wall. He could see himself smiling like a mindless idiot with the rest of his team. Oliver groaned and stuffed his head into his pillow again.
There was a sudden knock on the door that startled him. "Come in," he said, sitting up in his bed.
The door opened and an elegant woman in her early 40s strolled in with a large plate filled with bacon, eggs, and an enormous stack of chocolate pancakes. Oliver almost began to drool, but stopped himself in the process.
"Good morning, Oliver!" the woman greeted, kissing Oliver on the cheek.
"Morning, mum!" Oliver replied.
"Thought you'd want some breakfast in bed today," she told him, handing him some utensils. "To get away from your father."
Oliver smiled in thanks as he began to eat. "Thanks mum," he said thickly through a mouthful of bacon.
His Muggle father, named Joseph, was always trying to pursue Oliver to do something else besides Quidditch. "Why don't you always do something else for a change? Like be a businessman or something?" his dad always asked. And Oliver would always reply, "Because Quidditch is a passionate thing that I enjoy. What's the passion in being a businessman? What IS a businessman?"
Oliver ate the rest of his breakfast eagerly, his mother watching in complete silence. "He may be right you know," she said out of the blue.
"What are you talking about?" Oliver asked.
"Well, you know…you're father," his mother replied, biting her nails as she said so.
"You really shouldn't bite those nails," Oliver reminded her. "And besides, you're SIDING with him? You really want me to be a businessman? A stupid bloke who always wears a suit and always carries a briefcase and makes phone calls all day, yelling at people while doing so? That has no passion; and it doesn't involve flight. That's what I want, mum."
His mother sighed. "I suppose so. Just take his thoughts into consideration."
"I have, about a billion times. And the answer will always remain the same – no."
Her mother turned around on her slipper and said, "Well you better hurry up; you don't want to miss practice."
Oliver stood up and took off his Quidditch t-shirt that he always had on when he went to bed. He glanced in the mirror and sighed. "That's all the girl's go for, don't they?" he asked his reflection. "Looks. An 18-year old Quidditch Keeper with looks. Why don't they ever get to know the personality?"
Oliver piled on his Quidditch robes and grabbed his Firebolt II. He concentrated hard on Puddlemere United's stadium, and with a quick POP, apparated there.
He was immediately greeted by cheers from his teammates. The Chasers, Rose Wittle, Samantha Connell, and Melanie Turmitt, all winked at him as they headed for their lockers, getting their broomsticks. The Beaters, Daniel Ewler and Jude Neetman, waved quickly as they headed onto the pitch. And the Seeker, and Oliver's best friend, Mark Cleese, patted him on the back.
"How've you been doing Olly?" Mark greeted, smiling cheerfully.
"Pretty good thanks," Oliver lied, clasping his broomstick carefully.
"I don't buy it, Ol," Mark sensed, leading Oliver onto the pitch. "What's going on? Come on ~ you can tell me!"
Oliver sighed. Mark always seemed to know how Oliver felt, even when Oliver was trying to hide it. "My father," he began, but those were the only two words that came out of his mouth.
"Aye, you're father," Mark said, in his thick Irish accent. "Bloody right lad, ain't it?"
"Ah…not exactly," Oliver answered truthfully.
"What's up?" Mark asked.
"He's asking me to stop playing Quidditch…" Oliver said.
"OH! He didn't?!" Mark cried exasperatedly, mounting his broom. "That's terrible! You should put a curse on him immediately! Probably the Jelly- Legs curse, although I'm quite fond of Petrificus Totalus…"
"Stop!" Oliver cried, although he smiled. "I'm not going to put a curse on my own FATHER, Mark!"
"Why not? I do it all the time!" Mark said.
"Because," Oliver began, "he's my father. I'm not going to put a curse on him just because he doesn't like my career."
Mark shrugged. "I guess so. Or maybe you're just merciful."
"I am not!" Oliver argued. "I'll tell you one thing, though ~ we won't show any mercy to the other Quidditch teams though! We'll snatch the Quidditch Cup right underneath their brooms!" He mounted his broom and flew in the air, cackling all the way.
He flew towards the goals, ready for any Quaffle that came flying his way. He stopped his "keeping" however, when he noticed a pack of girls in the stands, laughing and pointing.
"Oh my God!" one of the girls shrieked. "Oliver Wood is looking at me!"
"No way!" the other girl cried. "He's looking at ME!"
"Oh, for bloody sake," the third girl said while rolling her eyes. She didn't look very happy. "What's so special about that bloke anyway?"
"That bloke?" Oliver thought, catching a Quaffle while listening to the fans' conversation.
"Everything is special about him!" the first girl countered, her annoying shriek ringing in Oliver's ears. "He's so gorgeous…"
"…And talented," the second girl added.
"And cute…" the first girl explained.
"And did you hear his accent?" the second girl cried. "He's like Mr. Perfect!"
"I bet you don't even know what he likes!" the third girl yelled, stopping the whole practice.
"Of course we do!" the first girl argued. "QUIDDITCH!"
The third girl rolled her eyes again and stood up from her seat. "You guys are pathetic. I'm out of here."
Oliver squinted his eyes and looked at the third girl. She looked very familiar. "OY!" he shouted, but he was interrupted by a sudden Quaffle, which struck him in the head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Are you all right?" Oliver's father, Joseph asked.
It was after the practice, which ended abruptly by Oliver's accident. He had a minor concussion and a bruised eyebrow, but besides that, he looked fine.
"Victoria! Fetch the boy some ice, please! I think his eyebrow is cut!" Joseph instructed.
"Why do I look like, a bloody nurse?" Oliver's mom, Victoria, cried back. "Why can't he just use a spell to make his cut go away?"
"Sorry…I don't know spells!" his father yelled back, shrugging.
Oliver groaned. "It's all right, dad. I got it."
"I told you ~ you should quit that bloody team! Quit Quidditch altogether! It just results in accidents all the time!" his father roared.
"You can get accidents from anything!" his mother countered. "Accidents happen all of the time! You could be driving to work one day and all of a sudden get hit by another car! Accidents always happen!"
His father remained silent for a while, but soon thundered, "I know that dear! But the risks for more accidents are higher while playing Quidditch!"
"Give it a rest dad," Oliver insisted, rubbing his head.
He stood up and headed for his room, where his wand lay, propped against his bookshelf. He hadn't used it in a while ~ he usually just apparated and disapparated and gone to Hogsmeade. He didn't feel the need to use his wand now. All he needed was his broomstick.
He sat down on his bed, rubbing the dust from the wand on his robes. "Let's see if I remember this," he wondered, pointing the wand at his eyebrow. "Repario Jurimento!" A spark shot out of the wand and placed itself on Oliver's eyebrow; it was immediately healed. "A-ha!" Oliver cried in triumph. "I'm still a great Wizard!"
An owl suddenly fluttered to his window. "Hello Chippy!" Oliver greeted, to his sandy-brown owl. "You got letters for me?"
Chippy bit his finger affectionately and stuck out her right leg, which had a piece of parchment rolled around it.
Oliver took off the letter and game Chippy some water and some food before he flew off again. "I wish I could do that," Oliver sighed desperately. "Just soar off whenever I feel like it; without a broomstick."
He unraveled the parchment and glanced at the letter.
Dear Oliver,
Hope you're all right. That was a pretty nasty hit. I think that fan club distracted you, am I right? Bloody females. Always distract you. Anyways, if you're not feeling too good you don't have to come to practice tomorrow but try to come for Saturday ~ we need to practice for the Quidditch World Cup, you know…even though it's still 4 months away…we still need to practice! Anyways, if you're still not feeling all right, I guess that's okay. But you better be ~ after the practice the team was thinking of going out to get a Butterbeer! Owl me back soon.
- Mark, Seeker and Captain of Puddlemere United (pretty good one too, eh?)
"You don't have to brag about it!" Oliver said, reading the last line. He looked out his window, trying to look for Chippy, but he was long out of sight. "No point in writing a letter now I guess ~ I got no one to send it for me!" Oliver cried, jumping on his bed.
He lay on his back and glanced again on the too familiar poster of his team. He looked at his picture again, and wished that he was absent on the day the photo was taken. "I look like SUCH an idiot!" he thought, closing his eyes. "And that's all girls go for, right? Looks…they must not like me in that picture if I look like an idiot!"
Oliver opened and closed his eyelids constantly. He didn't know whether to stay awake or go to sleep. Another sudden knock on the door made him decide.
"Want some dinner?" his mother gestured, bringing in the familiar plate piled with delicious foods.
"Sure…thanks, mum!" Oliver answered.
"Are you sure you're all right? You haven't been hit by a Quaffle in a while," his mother asked, beginning to eat off of another plate, containing her food.
"I'm fine mum," Oliver assured her, finishing his dinner off. "Honestly."
"Honestly?" his mom asked, cocking her head. "I haven't heard that word in a while. You've always been making excuses…and lies."
"HAVE NOT!" Oliver protested, setting his plate on the ground.
"See ~ there's another lie!" his mom chuckled. "Listen ~ me and your father are going out tonight ~ if you maybe wanted to do something with your friends, then we…I have no problem with it. Your father may, but who bloody cares right now? We're…concerned about you, Oliver. Not because of the businessman-job thing, but because you may be a bit obsessed with Quidditch. It may be blinding you from other good things in life. Like trips, friends…girlfriends."
"MUM!" Oliver reacted.
"Sorry, it's just that," his mom began, trying to find the right words. "It's just that ~ there's all these fan clubs for you, all these girls obsessing about you ~ maybe you should find the right one."
"'All these girls' that you're talking about are just obsessed with the way I look and play ~ they barely know a single thing about me, except that I really enjoy Quidditch," Oliver explained, remembering the three girls from the Quidditch Practice. Then he remembered the third girl, who had walked off in a huff. "Maybe someday I'll find a girl who doesn't think that way."
"Let's hope so," his mother sighed, picking up Oliver's plate and stacking it upon her own. "Now, listen…if you're bored or if you wanna go out with your friends, that's fine by me. All right? Just be home by midnight."
"Okay, mum, thanks," Oliver responded, trying to get his mom to leave. "Have a great time tonight."
"You too, sweetie," she smiled, as she closed the door behind her.
"I doubt it," Oliver sighed as he propped his head against a fluffy Quidditch pillow. "If only I could get away from this all…for just one night."
He rested his head on the pillow, and stayed asleep in his room ~ maybe it was a great night after all. The only way he could escape his trying-to- help-but-not-really-helping mother. The only way to escape his father torturing him to take another job. The only way to escape his ballistic and hysterical fans, and also the mean ones. The only way to escape…everything.
"If I only I could escape it forever," Oliver sighed, as he dazed off into a peaceful sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's the first chapter of my Oliver Wood story! I hope you enjoyed it ~ I really love Oliver Wood and I wanted to make a story. Tell me what you think!
And please ~ no flames. Strictly nice things, and if you really don't like it, make it in a professional way (e.g. "I didn't enjoy this because…" NOT like this "This sucks! I hate this story!") If you do like it great – and if you do, I'll keep writing about my favourite boy (and hopefully it's yours too!)