Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.

Chapter 1

The Badge

At five in the morning, even August could be hard to discern from December. It was dark and dreary, and hardly anyone was even awake. Even the most notable Quidditch have not risen. Viktor Krum, the incredible but, as of yet, still relatively unknown Seeker, was still sleeping. Gwenog Jones, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, never stirred until ten. Charlie Weasley has never woken up at five to play Quidditch in his life, despite being one of the most talented Quidditch players that Hogwarts has ever seen.

Oliver Wood, on the other hand, hasn't slept in past five during the summer holidays since he was twelve.

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It was raining hard and there might have even been lightning, but Wood didn't care. He didn't pay attention to things as mundane as weather.Charlie Weasley was Wood's idol, but even so, Oliver hated it when Quidditch practice would be canceled because of the weather. This hadn't happen often; they had played through most conditions (to the rest of team's disgust), but Wood still felt that they could have practiced more. He remembered pestering Charlie about this so much on one Saturday when practice had been canceled, that Charlie had gotten up from his seat in the Gryffindor common room and dragged him over to a window.

"Look, Wood," Charlie had said, stabbing his finger out the glass pane. "It's like the Hagrid of all thunderstorms out there. What are we going to do it weather like that?"

Wood had just looked at him for a moment, and then said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Play Quidditch."

Charlie had moaned then, and sank to the ground with his head in his hands.

"If you don't want to go out, then that's fine, but at least let me-"

"No," said Charlie in a muffled voice; his head was still in his hands.

"But Charlie-" Wood had started again, almost physically unable to let the matter drop.

"If you say one more word about having Quidditch practice today or kill yourself trying to fly out there, you're off the team, and I am dead serious, mate, hear?"

Wood hadn't said anything to that, because while he had finally gotten the point (despite the fact that there was something lacking in Charlie's logic) he was also physically unable to utter a sentence that didn't use the word Quidditch. It had been kind of hard to find something to do indoors on a Saturday, but Wood had managed in the end. He'd found some new Keeper moves in an old library book.

He shook his head. It was essential that was absolutely focused on flying his broom right now. He had a lot of training to do.

"Oliver!" his mother called about four hours later, sticking her head out the front door. Actually, she had to call it more than once, very loudly, in order to make herself heard over all the wind. Finally, he heard her, though, and, only because his body did require food, landed. He entered the house, placed his broom down almost reverently, and walked into the kitchen. He was about to grab a plate of the waffles his father had made and take a seat at the table with his parents when his mother looked up at him.

"Out," she ordered, "Oliver, I will not have you in my kitchen like this. You're wet and muddy and," she glanced at his feet incredulously, "You didn't even bother to take your shoes off! Go change!"

"But Mum," he protested, " I'm just going to go right back out-"

"You're just going to go right back out?" she said, her voice rising, "Oliver, you've been out there since five in the bloody morning!"

Wood winced; his mother hardly ever swore, even though they did get into a lot of rows. His dad turned a page of his newspaper, completely ignoring the war that was erupting in his kitchen. "Look, Mum, I've got to practice! It's almost the end of the summer, and that means the season's going to start! Gryffindor hasn't won the Cup in ages, and Charlie Weasley left last year!"

"Exactly," she said, pointing her wand with unnecesary force at the waffle iron, which instantly began to clean itself. "It's the end of the summer, and I feel like I've hardly seen you! You rise before dawn and you're out there until midnight! It's the most obsessive, rigid, one-man training I've ever heard of, and you're only fifteen!"

"I'll be sixteen in November!"

"Like that matters!" she said, exasperated, "You're not a professional Quidditch player, and even if you were, I'd still say you were training too much."

"I know I'm not a professional," he argued, ignoring the last bit of what she'd said. There was no such thing as too much Quidditch. Not for him, anyway. "But I want to be, and if I don't train, I never will be!"

"I know you want to play professionally," she said tiredly, "And I know you want your team to do well this year. I get all that. I'm not asking you to stop practicing completely. I just want you to cut down on it some. Come on, even you have to admit that this has gotten to be a bit much."

She looked at him, seeming to realize even as she said it that he'd never agree. "NO!" he roared, "CHARLIE WEASLEY-"

"Oh, I'm sure Charlie Weasley didn't practice every second," she snapped.

"Well, he had brothers to play with, didn't he? I'm all by myself," he said, then forced a laugh, "Heck, I reckon, I reckon just having Fred and George as brothers on the ground is good enough conditioning for anybody."

His mother ignored his small attempt at humor, "See? You even admit it yourself! You've told me that Charlie could end up playing for England, and even he didn't train as much!"

"But-"

"No buts," she said firmly, "Think about it. You're going to get hurt one day, overexerting yourself like this, and then you won't be able to play at all!"

"I'm not going to get hurt!" he said hotly, although inwardly he admitted that she could have a point, "You don't understand-"

"You're right," she yelled, flaring up once more,"I don't bloody understand! You-"

"Karen, give it a rest," his dad said, at last looking up from his newspaper, "Oliver, you're training too much, got it, bud? It's too much. You're either out there, or else you're reading books about it. From now on, you're going to limit yourself to your morning session only, and instead of training in the afternoon, you're to spend that time with your mother and me, or else getting some homework done."

Wood sighed. His dad might not yell or argue with his son as much as his wife, but when he did lay down the law, Oliver knew he had to listen. Angrily, he sat down at the table and began to stuff his face with waffles. His mother took the seat next to him, still red in the face and looking almost as peeved as Wood. They ate in a stony silence until Wood's father put down his newspaper again and rolled his eyes.

"Come on, you two. Get over it," he said, sliding an envelope across the table to Wood, "Forgot to give this to you earlier. I reckon it's your Hogwarts letter."

Wood continued to eat, ignoring both the letter and his father.

"Oliver-" his father said in the quiet voice that always inspired more obedience in Wood than his mother's shouts.

"Fine," he said, grabbing the letter off the table and just barely managing to keep himself from asking why the hell his father cared about his booklist. He wasn't a wizard, and couldn't have told the difference between the book Wood needed for Transfiguration and The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.

The moment he ripped open the envelope, however, all the animosity he felt towards both of his parents disappeared. A scarlet and gold badge had fallen out and fluttered to the ground. At first, he was confused, because even though it was his fifth year, surely McGonagall would never make him a prefect? Then he realized what it was. All summer, he had obsessed over the fact that Charlie Weasley had graduated and Gryffindor needed a new Seeker. He never realized that they needed something else as well.

"I'm- I'm Quiddith Captain," he said, then laughed, full of sheer joy. Quidditch Captain. No one would be able to cancel his practice, not anymore. He jumped and yelled and even grabbed his broom and did lap around the living room. He felt as if he were on the top of the world. It was what he had always wanted.

Then he remembered that his parents were still in the kitchen, and realized that they must be ready to murder him. It was hard to care when he had that badge in his hand, but still, he really didn't want to die before he got to be Captain.

"Sorry, Mum," he said, reentering the kitchen and putting his broom away again. "Sorry, Dad. It's just-"

"Oh, Oliver," his mother said, crossing the kitchen and giving him a hug, "I still think you need to cut down and all, but- I'm so proud of you."

"So am I," his father grinned, then added under his breath, "I just wish you played a sport I understood. I always liked football..."

Hey all,

I really shouldn't be writing this, as I have two other ongoing fics that I absolutely NEED to update, but I couldn't help it. This idea just hit while I was watching the first movie the other night. This was supposed to be a oneshot, but it just got longer and longer.... I have the whole thing written now, though, save the very end. It should be about five chapters, depending on where I decide to split it. I'll probably update once a week, every Friday or Saturday. I hope you enjoy it. (And by the way, I listed it as Oliver/Quidditch in the summary as a sort of figurative joke. Sorry to disappoint anyone who expected a really wild fic in which Wood starts snogging a broom.... although I suppose he does come fairly close in the next chapter.) Anyway, thanks for reading!

-Julie Claire-