Title: Life is no longer a game of Quidditch, Part 1.
Author: Zeft
Author Email: zeft_ml@hotmail.com
Category: General/Humor
Keywords: Oliver Wood, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: All four books
Summary: Oliver Wood has graduated from Hogwarts, and along with Percy, has discovered the trials of the working world. Set during the timeline of GoF, starting from the summer after PoA.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
***
The summer holidays had just begun. Oliver Wood was at home, in his room. Bored and alone.
He twiddled the quill between his thumb and forefinger. A blank piece of parchment lay on the desk in front of him. The inkpot was open and ready for work, but the words did not come.
He thought about what to write. He had any number of tasks to do, but none had any inspiration to go by, no first word to start a sentence.
A sharp tap came at the door. He swung his chair around. "Come in," he said quickly.
Emilia Wood strode into the room. She was a tall and thin woman, with highly accentuated cheekbones and a crisp manner. At 21, having worked two years at Obscurus Books, she had already been promoted. Wasting no time, she swooped down towards the desk and neatly deposited a letter onto it.
"This just came for you dear," she said. "From the Ministry, I believe."
"The Ministry? What would the Ministry want with me?" Oliver asked.
"I have no idea." Emilia conceded. She went on, "It looks like it's from the ministry. It has their seal."
"How can you tell?"
"Dad worked for the ministry all his life. We received letters with this seal, remember? After 15 years I learnt to recognise them," she laughed.
"Alright then."
Oliver tore the envelope open. It ripped right down the middle. He pulled the one piece of parchment out hurriedly, and let the envelope fall onto the floor.
"Oliver, you should really use a spell. No mess to clean up, and no ripped envelopes either." She chided. She bent down to pick it up, but Oliver stopped her.
"No need, I'll pick it up later. Tearing it open is much faster." He said.
Dear Mr. O Wood,
Upon receiptment of your letter regarding your interest in playing for Puddlemere United, we would be pleased to grant you an interview whenever you like. One of our club's managers holds a position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Go to the London Office and ask for 'Max Cornwall'. All you need to know, he can tell you.
Best of luck,
William Chess.
President, Puddlemere United.
Oliver pushed his chair back and stood up quickly. Beaming from ear to ear, he almost hopped towards the door. This was the chance he had been waiting for. No more sitting around writing letters to more clubs, watching as one by one his friends found employment…no, this was his dream job and there was no way he'd let this opportunity pass.
"Where are you going?" Emilia asked, mystified. Ever since the holidays had started, her 'little' brother had been in a state of perpetual gloominess. Not misery exactly, but certainly no ray of sunshine either. Even the prospect of good seats at the World Cup hadn't cheered him up for long.
"To the Ministry," Oliver smiled brightly.
"Some errand for dad?" she enquired.
"Nope," he replied, still smiling. Stopping just long enough to throw open the wardrobe door and grab a cloak, he continued, "it's a business trip."
Emilia's eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of business?" She asked, suspiciously. Only Quidditch could make him this happy, and only Quidditch had a possible death tag taped on.
"Career business."
Emilia looked even more confused. Her eyebrows knitted together. "Career business? What do you…wait a minute, let me look at that letter!" She was smiling now, caught up in her brother's joy. She walked over, and he handed the letter to her.
"-regarding your interest in playing for Puddlemere United," she read, "we would be pleased to grant you an interview…Oliver, this is good news!"
"I know. What luck eh?" he grinned, putting the cloak on. He fiddled with the clasp.
Abandoning the letter, Emilia was soon all business. She did up Oliver's clasp, and brushed down his robes with a simple spell.
"You'll want to make a good impression," she said, straightening his collar. "First impressions count." Her eyebrows knotted together anxiously again. "Perhaps you should wear the blue one? It looks bet-"
"It's alright," Oliver said hastily, before Emilia could start giving him tips. "I think my Quidditch skills are what they are gonna judge, rather than my fashion sense."
"Or lack of," she teased, smiling.
"Well, I look reasonable," said Oliver. "Can't wait to get onto a broom though. You think they'll have firebolts? Harry's got one, I think they'd have them too."
Though Emilia would be the one of the last people to declare herself a Quidditch fan, living in the same house as Oliver you couldn't help but pick up all the fancy terms.
"They are very good brooms, aren't they?"
Oliver groaned. "They aren't very good, they are the best." He stressed. "Which
Broomstick has already pronouced them the-" "Yes, yes, I know," she said. "-only been on the market for a year as well." He finished.
One last look deemed Oliver respectable, and he swept out the door. Emilia followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen. The last embers of a fire were just seen in the fireplace, and Oliver walked over.
"I don't think you should go by floo," said Emilia, looking at the fireplace and wrinkling her nose. "The soot could-"
"-ruin my robes?" Oliver said, eyebrows raised.
"Well yes," she answered.
"Fine fine, I'll Apparate." He compromised with a sigh. He knew Emilia was just being helpful, but sometimes the helpfulness verged into nagging. He already had a mother, he didn't need another.
"I'm only doing it because I care," she said.
Oliver turned towards her and shook his head, a slight smile evident. "You don't know how many times I've heard that line-"
"I do, because I'm the only one that uses that line."
"True," Oliver admitted.
"It's just that you've looked quite unhappy since you got back from Hogwarts, and I know this job will make you extremely happy, so I want you to get it. And since I know nothing about Quidditch, this is the only way I know how to help." Said Emilia. She hugged her brother briefly and kissed him on the cheek quickly. "Good luck," she murmured, as Oliver held his wand up and Disapparated.
***
The dizziness eased as Oliver's feet touched solid ground. Strange, he thought, looking down on the wooden floor, I could have sworn the ministry had carpet.
"Oi, where'd you come from?" A voice came from behind.
Oliver looked at his surroundings for the first time. It was dark and dingy, with wooden floors and tables. Old wizards sat around, having a drink and discussing what was in 'Transfiguration Today'.
He turned towards the barman. "This isn't the Ministry, is it?" he asked, even though he was pretty sure of the answer.
"Ministry? No sir, this here's the Leaky Cauldron, I'm the bartender, Tom." Tom answered with a guffaw. "Ministry's up the road somewhere. You Apparated, dincha?" he asked.
"Yes, yes I did," said Oliver. He was dimly aware that some of the patrons had stopped drinking and were looking at him in interest.
"Your first time?" At Oliver's nod, Tom continued, "You can't Apparate into the Ministry. Anyone who tries comes straight here." Oliver didn't respond. "It's good for business," Tom chuckled.
"How do I get to the Ministry then?" asked Oliver.
"Well, you can't Apparate, but you can walk." Tom answered. "Not very far, just a couple of streets up that a way." He gestured with his thumb, then scratched his chin thoughtfully, "you mind miss it though, last time I checked it was just a door, so Muggles won't notice you see, gold door, I think."
"Gold door?" repeated Oliver.
"Yes sir, the only gold door on the street. Go right, it's on the second street, on this side of the road."
"Thanks. I'll be off then." Oliver said. He straightened his cloak with as much dignity as he could muster, then turned towards the door. Faint sounds of traffic could be heard.
"Watch out for the cars!" Tom yelled out, his way of saying good luck.
A roar of traffic greeted Oliver as he stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron. Muggles were walking about, some of them giving him weird looks. He then realised that he was in his robes, and also wearing a rather large and swishy cloak. Mentally chastising himself, he drew the cloak around him tightly in an attempt to look inconspicuous, then set off in the direction Tom had indicated.
Muggles swept past him quickly. Some of them gave him suspicious looks, but dismissed the thought after deciding it was none of their business. Having been bullied into doing Muggle Studies by one of his friends, he was familiar with some of the things he saw. Like cars, for instance. Oliver knew what they were and what they did, but he didn't understand why in the world people would be willing to sit in them for hours. Judging by the road he was on, they didn't seem to be able to move very fast, and made entirely too much noise.
The third door on the second street was a golden colour. Checking the doors on the other side of the road quickly, Oliver concluded that this must be the one Tom was talking about. It was rather plain, just a regular door, only it wasn't brown.
Oliver reached for the doorknob and turned it until he heard a click. Making sure no one was watching, (everyone seemed to have vanished) he pushed the door open.
And stepped into a large hall. The polished floor squeaked under his shoes. A large couch lay on one side, a reception desk on the other. Oliver made for the desk immediately.
"Excuse me," Oliver cleared his throat. He took out his letter and looked at it. "I'm looking for Mr Cornwall, department of Magical Games and Sports?"
"5th floor, 3rd office." The young witch said crisply. Oliver just looked at her. He now knew where to find Mr Cornwall, but not how to get there.
The witch must have noticed, for she added hastily, "you can Apparate," she paused, then decided she ought to explain in more detail. "you can't Apparate into or out the building, but once you're in, you can Apparate to different offices. There are some stairs, but no one uses them, and I'm not quite sure where they are."
"Ahh…" Oliver replied, understanding. He slid his arm off the counter and held up his
wand.
A second later he was on the 5th floor. Gone were the polished floors, replaced by royal blue carpet.
Oliver walked down the corridor slowly, looking for office number three. All around him, people in the department were rushing about whispering to one another. They obviously could tell he wasn't part of the ministry, because as soon as they saw him they stopped talking.
Max Cornwall's office was rather plain, though he must have been important to have
his own office, Oliver passed several cubicles just out in the open.
He knocked on the door, and it opened by itself. Oliver walked in, and for the first time, felt self-conscious. These people in the Ministry were all more important than he was.
"Just getting back to work, Ludo…" the man at the desk said hastily. He quickly pushed something out of view, then realised that the man in front of him was not the Head of the Department checking up on him. "You're not Ludo."
"No, I'm here about Puddlemere United." Oliver replied.
The man beamed. "Ah yes, Wood is it?" Oliver nodded. "Excellent. I'm Max Cornwall, just take a seat," Max waved his hands around, then conjured up a chair with his wand. It dropped to the ground.
Oliver drew the chair towards him and sat down, pulling it a little closer to the desk.
"Excellent," Max exclaimed again, rubbing his hands briskly. He bent over and opened a desk drawer, and took out a stack of parchment. He set the pile on the desk in front of him, then sat down.
"Don't worry, you won't have to write anything," Max said heartily. He was rather a jolly fellow, in a way reminding Oliver of Father Christmas. "I'll do all the writing, you just have to answer the questions."
He took up and held the first sheet of parchment close to his face. "Boring details first, date of birth?"
"17th April, 1976."
Max scribbled the answer down quickly.
"Aries, I take it?" Oliver nodded. "Impatient people, Arians are, you did go to Hogwarts, didn't you?" Max plunged on.
"Yes," answered Oliver. His first thought was the object to being called impatient, but decided since he had never paid any attention in Divination, and didn't hold with any astrology beliefs anyway, he may as well keep quiet.
"Did you play Quidditch at Hogwarts?"
Oliver almost laughed out loud at this question. Did he play Quidditch? Who wrote these questions? Composing himself for a moment, he said to Max:
"Yes, I played Quidditch at school, for Gryffindor." He told a breath, and continued, "I was on the team since 2nd year, and I became the captain in my 4th." Max was scribbling furiously. He looked up and nodded for Oliver to keep talking.
"In my 7th year, Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup and broke Slytherin's 7 year record." He said, then smiled at the memory. It was a beautiful day, the sun was out, but not enough to pose problems, Alicia, Angelina and Katie were in top form, so were Fred and George, and Harry, what a seeker! It didn't hurt that he had a Firebolt either. 200 Gryffindors were out in the stands, and of course they all ran onto the pitch after the victory…holding the Cup aloft was probably the best moment…
"Ah yes, I heard about Slytherin's record. One Slytherin chap came and saw me earlier today. Big bloke with blond hair, his name escapes me at the moment, I think he mentioned you."
Oliver's breath stopped short at his throat. He didn't like the message his brain was sending him. He only knew one person that fitted the description of blonde, big, and looking for a career in Quidditch. Oliver sent a silent prayer up to the powers that be that Marcus Flint had gone to work on his father's estate in Wales instead. It wasn't an unreasonable request.
"Flint, Marcus Flint?" Oliver ventured cautiously.
"That's the very one!" Max's face lit up. "Do you know him?"
Oliver grimaced. "Yeah, we've met before. Several times."
"Well, this Flint person's coming to our trials next week, on Monday. You don't mind if I schedule you for the same day do you?" Before Oliver could answer, Max had already grabbed his quill and a different piece of parchment. "-Seeing as you two are acquainted with it other, it would be better this way, I think."
"Your thoughts are lousy," Oliver replied quickly, then realised his mistake. Had Emilia been with him, she would have whacked him lightly on the head. Fortunately, Max didn't seem to have heard properly.
"Pardon, what did you say?"
"I said, it sounds lovely." Max beamed, and Oliver let out his breath.
"Come at about 7am then. Apparate here, and I'll take you there myself. The actual location is very hush-hush."
"Sounds okay. Now about the rest of the interview…?"
"Are you familiar with first grade Quidditch? Watch any of the League matches?"
"I do. I watch most of the Puddlemere United ones, and most of the Montrose games as well. I feel as though Montrose is a team with the best strategies, and their games are always very entertaining. Their captain, Sean Bobby, has fantastic technique and skill."
Max nodded absentmindedly. His eyes never made contact with Oliver's, as he kept his head bent towards the parchment all through the afternoon.
"The other chap said as much," Max murmured. "He was a Falmouth fan himself, if I recall correctly."
Oliver groaned inwardly. Why did it seem this was turning into a recount of what Flint said? Wasn't the interview supposed to be about him? Max asked some more questions; mainly to do with Quidditch techniques and his knowledge of them, but after his answer, Max would tell what Flint said. It wasn't a direct comparison, but it made Oliver felt oddly stiff all the same.
"Well that's the end." Max slapped the stack of parchment with his hand in final sort of way. His side of his palm was smudged with ink, and his fingers were cramped from all that writing. Why he didn't use an enchanted quill, Oliver didn't know. It wasn't his fault that he tended to ramble on length about Quidditch.
"Your hand okay?" He asked Max.
"Yes, it's perfectly fine," Max said, clenching then unclenching his fist. "A simple spell will put it to rights." He stood up and walked around the desk. "I'll see you out the door."
"No, it's okay. I'll see myself out." Oliver replied hastily. He was anxious to get home, and walking out with Max would certainly mean more pointless conversation.
Oliver turned around and walked out the door. He disapparated almost immediately.
And ended on the ground floor. He cursed. The lady at the reception desk gave him a nasty look.
Oliver took one step out the door and then apparated home, not caring whether any muggles noticed or not. Marcus Flint had killed his good mood without even being present.
***
Emilia Wood was a very nice lady. She worked hard through all seven years at Hogwarts, graduated with honours and found a respectable job. For two years she toiled from seven in the morning till six at night, and still found the time to help around the house. She was taking a well deserved break from work, and was now walking around her home, looking for odd jobs to do.
Emilia started to set the table for dinner. There would be only two places, one for Oliver and one for her. The elder Woods were currently on a holiday of their own, visiting Uncle Alberto in Russia. They had generously asked Emilia to join them, seeing as she was on holidays as well, but she declined, knowing full well that Oliver could not be left alone in the house, lest he attempt to cook for himself.
She was dressed very casually in her pajamas, having chosen to ditch her usual formal robes for something more comfortable. Emilia swished and flicked her wand, and instantly cutlery zoomed from the kitchen drawers and onto the table.
"I'm back—What the…?" Oliver Apparated into the kitchen, and ducked just in time to avoid being decapitated with a spoon. At the sound, Emilia poked her head into the room.
"Is that you, Oliver?" She wondered, looking around.
"Yeah, I'm down here," replied Oliver. He looked up from where he was kneeling on the tiled floor. "Is it safe to get up?" he asked.
"What?" Emilia wondered, then realised. "Oh, yes, sorry about that, I was setting the table." She laughed and held out her hand. Oliver took it gratefully, and got up.
"What's with the pajamas?" he asked, looking at her. "I don't think you've ever worn pajamas round the house." He flashed a grin. "Is Ian coming over tonight?"
Emilia made a face of mock outrage. She sniffed. "No, Ian is not coming over tonight, otherwise he would have told me."
"Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise," Oliver offered, making his way into the dining room. The room looked the same as it always had. High vaulted ceilings, an elegant 8 seater table with hard-backed chairs. Two sets of plates and cutlery were laid side by side.
"You didn't have to go through all this trouble," Oliver said, taking his usual seat. He took a sip of pumpkin soup while Emilia sat down. "You know I'd eat anything."
"Yes, but not everybody has your iron gut." She replied cordially.
The conversation soon dropped and all attention was on eating. The clinks of knives and forks could be heard quite plainly in the quiet room. Emilia made small talk, about the Ministry and what was happening in town, but Oliver made no attempt to give satisfactory answers. His mind had drifted back to the interview, and subsquently the thought of Marcus Flint being present at the trials. It was a silly worry really, he had nothing to be afraid off. But he still was grateful that Emilia hadn't brought up the subject yet.
"So, how did your interview go?"
Oliver's stomach clenched. He didn't want to discuss that topic. Had it been up to him, he would have gone to bed without telling a soul what had happened. But, Emilia had put down her fork, and was waiting intently for an answer, a real answer, not like the ones he had been giving all night.
He made sure to swallow first, lest he somehow choke on his words. "I only have two words to say: Marcus Flint."
Emilia looked very concerned. "Oh Oliver…tell me what happened." She finished, in a more resolute tone. "He wasn't there, was he?"
"No…he wasn't there, but he went and saw Max yesterday," said Oliver. "And guess what?"
"What?" Emilia held her breath, prepared for the worst. She knew her brother was touchy about Marcus Flint. This could not mean anything good.
"He is coming to the trials on Monday as well!" Oliver seethed. He banged his fork down on the table, which made the plates jump up and rattle.
Emilia at first looked surprised, then confused as to what to say next. She opened and closed her mouth briefly, then wet her lips.
"Perhaps…perhaps, no wait," She fumbled for the right words, while Oliver still sat fuming silently. Whether his mood would improve or not would depend entirely on what she said next.
"You've faced Marcus Flint many times before, haven't you?" she began.
Oliver's eyes narrowed. Telling him he had nothing to worry about because Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup wasn't going to help, that's what he had told himself all afternoon already.
"If you're going to tell me everything will sort itself out, then-"
"No, that's not what I was going to say," Emilia cut him off. "I was going to say that you two don't play the same position, so he can't be going for the same spot as you are."
"That doesn't help me. He's still coming, and I'd love it if he didn't."
"True, but it's one less thing you have to worry about. From the numerous times you've told me, Marcus plays chaser, right?" Oliver nodded uncertainly. He couldn't tell where his sister was going yet.
"So, if they put you up against him, the every point to you is a point against him." She reasoned.
"Or, every point against me is a point to him." Oliver reasoned back.
"I'm pretty sure you told me that Marcus Flint was a big git that couldn't shoot for crap from a range 15 yards dead centre?" her eyes flashed, and her tone changed. "Or is this some other person who just happens to have the same name?" Emilia looked at her brother, and could tell she had struck a chord. He became very still, gripped his spoon very hard, looked down at his plate and refused to meet her eye.
"He's changed," Oliver muttered, "for the better."
"So have you," Emilia said, though perhaps too quickly. "How can you be sure he has, anyway?"
Oliver suddenly felt smug, he knew an answer that Emilia could not rebutt in any easy way. "Your boyfriend told me," he said to her. When she opened her mouth to argue, he said, "Ian saw him practising at in the village field. And don't look at me like that, you know that they live in the same village. Everybody knows the Flints, they've got the biggest estate. And, your boyfriend is a Quidditch buff, so I trust his opinion."
Emilia was speechless for a moment. When she did speak, however, it was not with her usual positive voice, she sounded quite dejected. "When did you see him? Why didn't he come and see me?" Oliver was no pyschologist, nor a mind reader, but the last question puzzled him. He couldn't tell if Emilia was joking or not, and this bothered him.
"Well, er, it was the last day of Hogwarts, I saw him in Diagon Alley after I got off at King's Cross. He was working late at the shop, and I walked past. He saw me, and called me over. Then we started talking about Quidditch, and he said-"
"But he told me that he had never worked overtime before." Emilia said in a low voice. Her shoulders slumped.
Silence.
Oliver was not a person you'd readily call perceptive. He was at the best of times, ignorant. But even he wasn't so thick as to know that silence usually meant something was wrong. Being silent was a strategy he had used plenty of times before. It ran in the family.
"He told about Flint, and then…" Oliver looked at Emilia plainly. A little nod of the head indicated that she was still listening, but her eyes were a little red at the corners. Oliver took no notice of that. "He wished me good luck. And then I said goodbye and left."
Emilia said nothing. There was nothing for her to say. Seeing as Oliver had finished his dinner, and that she wasn't in the mood to eat, she began to clear the plates from the table silently by hand. Using her wand would have made the task a lot easier, but magic was a tricky art, and a bad mood might have sent the plates scurrying out the door.
Oliver stood up. "Do you want me to help?" he asked. He knew he had done something to upset her, the problem was that he didn't know what and doing manual labour was the only way to cheer her up.
"No, I can do it myself." Emilia answered in a slightly higher pitched than usual voice. She sniffled uncertainly, then shook her head. It was utter nonsense to behave like this, and she resolved never to shed a tear again that evening.
"Okay then. I'll be in my room." Oliver slipped out the door quietly, not wanting to cause any more unnecessary disturbance. He knew most likely he was somehow the cause of her unhappiness at the moment, but rather that rectify the situation, he decided to just excuse himself all together. It was much simpler.
Emilia carted the plates to the sink silently. Her thoughts were all in turmoil, making heads or tails of it required more energy or brainpower than she was willing to exert at the moment. The cutlery made ominous clinking sounds as they tumbled into the sink. The whole room was silent, except for her laboured breathing and sounds of the china.
Emilia left the silverware in the sink, not feeling much up to work. She bid and early retreat, and climbed up the back stairs to her room. Had it really been a week since she last saw Ian? It seemed like much more. Physically, he wasn't that far away. She could visit him at work whenever she liked. Diagon Alley was a lively place, and the boss never objected.
She opened the panelled door with a sigh. Oliver's room was just down the hall, but she knew he would be in bed already. There was nothing in his room save a bed, a desk and a few items of Quidditch memorabilia. Hers, however, was filled with a variety of objects. The bookshelf was cluttered with her old schoolbooks, a photo album of her friends, other bits and pieces which were entirely useless, but she couldn't bear to part with them.
On the desk sat a very plain notebook. It was quite tattered, though spellotape had repaired the cover. Inside were lots of doodles and messages, silly things that the Hufflepuffs used to write to each other in History of Magic class. On the last page was a large doodle of a Quidditch match. It was rather a bad picture, just fourteen stick figures on brooms, with smiley faces watching the match. The artist was Ian.
When Emilia first looked at the picture, she saw what looked like some flies, and a whole bunch of grapes cut in half, with one that was brown and rotten. When she told Ian what she thought, he laughingly replied that it was a Quidditch match; the flies were the players, and the cut open grapes were the crowd, and the brown rotten one was her. When she asked why she was the 'rotten' one, he replied with a blush that since his people all looked the same no matter what, he coloured her hair in to show that she was better looking than the rest of them. Emilia turned a bad shade of pink after that, and avoided him for the rest of that day.
Of course, that was nine years ago, in one dreary History of Magic class. Emilia had left Hogwarts three years ago, left the security of the Hufflepuff common room and out into the world. Diagon Alley, to be precise. She slid into bed with a remorseful sigh. Her holiday didn't seem to be helping her any more, she'd rather much be at work again. There's nothing like hard labour to take one's mind off their troubles.
Emilia wiggled under the bedsheets and pulled them up to her shoulders. She adjusted her pillow for comfort, and turned the light off with a snap of her wand. The room was instantly bathed with the soft blue hues of moonlight instead. Another flick of the wand drew the curtains together, and the moonlight lingered for a second before the room was cast into darkness.
***
A/N: Hooray! It's finished! And it's not that short! Anyway, all comments, reviews, criticism will be appreciated. Special thanks goes to Gemini for all her help. Much is appreciated.