Title: Quaffles, Quills and the Quixotic
Rating: PG-13 (or for those still working on this letter thing- T)
Chapter: 1/5
Word Count: 10,000 (3,031)
Warnings: Eventual slash, swearing and violence.
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Bloomsbury books, Warner Bros or J.K Rowling. This story is a non-profit piece and strictly should be considered an entertainment piece.
A/N: Feedback much appreciated; virtual cookies will be supplied with each D
Part 1: The Quill
The first time you encounter one another, an irreparable bond of hatred is formed between you.
This entanglement occurs when you're just a hapless first year; a little too enthusiastic for some tastes and without some of the fundamental knowledge that is required for survival. It's this gap in information that sets you apart from the rest of your year and, at the same time, it's the reason your paths initially cross. Your fellow classmates have all inherited these 'facts' from their families and you, unfortunately, haven't had that opportunity and you've been left blind in comparison. It's this wisdom that leads them all to be tentative and docile whilst around the older students and they're more than happy to be insignificant in the grander scheme of things. On the other hand, you're lacking this insight and so you're quite a bit different from the rest of the year. You're brazen and bold when confronted with the other years, you're simply not afraid of them and you're always trying to make a mark on the school in any way you can.
So, the first way you decide to gain recognition is by being the top of your year and proving yourself to be a gifted student. That's why you're in the library on that Monday night rather than being in the common-room playing exploding snap. You've perched yourself at one of the desks that weren't really designed for eleven-year-olds judging by their size, trying to finish your homework. Around you are numerous scraps of parchment that were originally your attempt at essays (but they didn't quite make the cut) and dust-incrusted tomes heavy enough to break toes, making the work space disorganised and cluttered but somehow that works for you.
In front of you there's your fifth attempt at the essay, that's not including the other drafts that you'd started writing on previous evenings, but your concentration is beginning to wilt. So far you've only got one of the four inches required and curfew is approaching at an alarming rate. To be honest, you're probably worse off now than you were at the beginning of the evening which is always a good sign. You sigh and tell yourself to focus; so you turn your attention back onto the last paragraph you wrote, which turns out to be a load of nonsensical drivel that has to go. It is with some sick sense of satisfaction that you start massacring it, putting all of your frustration into it.
The pleasure is short lived as there's a sickening crunch before the ink begins to blot on the page, signalling only one thing and sure enough when you examine your quill the nib has snapped off, leaving behind a jagged edge. But what makes it even worse is it's rendered another essay useless as the ink is already beginning to soak through. Desperate to salvage it, you attempt to soak some of the ink into your sleeve. That proves to be a useless endeavour; the fibres are already weakened to the point when you peel it away from the desk it simply tears. You curse miserably and without thinking you slam your head down against the desk and that earns you a reproachful glare from Madame Prince and several startled looks from the fourth year Ravenclaws; but you don't particularly care, at this point you don't really believe your night can get any worse.
Now you face a problem on what to do next, because you need to start your essay afresh and you can't do that without something to write with. You know for sure there's a quill in your room and if you remember rightly, there should be one in your bag because your Mum decided to put one in there for occasions like this. You lean down and start rooting through your bag, trying to find the softness of the feather in amongst the parchment, the books, the inks and the various other bits and pieces you've thrown in there. Unfortunately your search turns up nothing that could be used as a writing instrument, but it does turn up 'Surviving the School: Hogwarts for Beginners' which you can't remember ever seeing before (probably something else your Mum decided to put in there), but it's not like you're going to need it.
You're now definitely stranded in the library trying to do homework without anything to write with and isn't that embarrassing? You could, quite easily, trek up to your room and fish out that extra quill from your trunk but that takes time, time which you don't have. There's another option which doesn't require as much walking and would be a lot faster, but it has the potential to humiliate you. But you're not one to get flustered so easily and so you get up from your table and stroll over to Madame Prince, affixing your best (and most charming) smile upon your face to help your cause.
You approach her desk with caution, being careful not to make much noise to disturb her (or to give her an excuse to throw you out) and mentally preparing what you're going to ask. Her desk is wedged between to oversized and overstuffed bookshelves labelled 'returns' and 'loans' in which the books are constantly moving about to assemble themselves in alphabetical order but seem to be confusing themselves further. Madame Prince is currently sat at her desk sorting through lists and writing what appears to be threatening overdue letters to people and she looks like she's enjoying it. You hesitate for a moment, deciding that perhaps it's best to leave the librarian up to her own devices, but that second of uncertainty is too much because her attention snaps to you as if your breathing was disturbing her.
"Can I help you?" She asks in a tone that's half between scolding and sarcasm, and she raises a brow at you. "Or would you prefer just to stand there?"
You can't quite tell whether that's supposed to be a joke or not, but you decide it's better off if you just ignore it and get on with what you came here to do. So, you turn up the voltage on that smile and try to make yourself look timid to encourage her to feel sorry for you.
"Sorry to bother you," and that sounds completely sincere, "but I was wondering if you had a spare quill I could borrow?"
She looks at you as if you've grown another head, and you've got to resist the urge to look because you're yet to learn that not even the seventh years can do that.
"A quill?" She reiterates and you nod because yes, you do know what you asked for, "whatever for?"
If there was a desk nearby you would have probably slammed your head down against it because it can't be that hard to figure out why you'd need a quill. But instead of answering with the sarcastic retort, like you would do today, you just smile and explain the story.
"I can't help you there, I'm afraid." She says and you wonder whether it is entirely accidental that she flourishes her quill a little more than she normally would. "This is a library. We lend books, not quills."
You nod dumbly and stalk back to your table without anything for your troubles except the knowledge that Madame Prince is a sarcastic witch when she wants to be. It's now going to be a case of asking other students for a quill and that's even more embarrassing. For all you know you could be nicknamed 'quill-boy' (creativity is not your strongest suit) by some of the elder students for this; but it is a sacrifice you're willing to make.
Looking around the room there's not that many students about, only the really 'dedicated' ones who spend most of their time in the library. There's a group of Hufflepuff girls on the table nearest to yours and you know that they'd definitely have a quill to lend and they wouldn't really create too much of a fuss. You get up, but the scraping of your chair on the stone attracts their attention. They all give you a slightly wide-misty-eyed stares that send shivers down your spine (not a pleasant sensation) and you can almost hear the high-pitched 'isn't he so cute' squeals they're going to give you. You decide it's probably in your best interest to give that table a miss. Instead you make your way over to the Ravenclaw table, in which they're all completely immersed in books whilst making notes, the prospect of which bore you but would probably excite Percy, so you slowly change your path towards the only other occupied table right at the back of the room.
It's a spot that's pretty much obscured from the watchful gaze of the librarian, and a sufficient distance away from the Ravenclaws so they won't protest at the disruption which makes it the perfect spot for a group of Slytherins up to no good. Of course, you don't know this, so you're more than happy to approach them. It's also, quite conveniently, placed in between the forbidden section and the potions books, a place not many people dare to tread (though you don't know why). To you, they all look pretty harmless, sat around a book and not making a sound making them all look pretty studious; you assume they'd be more than happy to help you. You cough slightly to announce your presence so they don't get angry at you for interrupting their study session, and the book slams closed and six pairs of eyes snap up and glare at you.
Apparently, they didn't want to be disturbed.
"What do you want Gryffindork?" One spits, eyeing you with open hostility. Your smile falters at that, because that was not expected, "we don't like Lions coming where they don't belong."
You immediately retort that you don't see how you don't belong there, because it seems like they're trying to imply that you're not smart enough to be in a library and that's not fair. It earns you a laugh. That simple sound puts you at ease because your Dad always dealt with his problems with humour, and so can you because you follow your Dad. But when they stop laughing, or guffawing in some cases, they don't look impressed nor do they look less like they're going to kill you. In fact, if anything, they look angrier.
"Well, well. It looks like we have a smart mouth here." The apparent leader says, addressing his friends as if you don't exist, or can't understand. You go to open your mouth to snap at them to treat you with respect but before you can do that he cuts over you. "What's your name?" He demands.
You try and process the question because it's caught you slightly off-guard and you don't quite understand what they're getting at. Is this their attempt at being civil? Or an apology without actually apologising? Or is it something else entirely? For a few moments you're reluctant to answer but you can't figure out why else they'd want to know your name apart from to allow them to get on friendlier footing, so you give them the benefit of the doubt;
"Oliver Wood." You finally reply brightly, breaking the tense silence and you stick out your hand like you've seen your parents do. "Yours?"
That's when they break out into bouts of laughter and you frown because they're laughing at you and you can't see why. It must be something you did, or said, you guess but you don't exactly know what it is. The first thing you can think of is ink smudges all over your hand because you're pretty new to this whole quill thing, but on inspection it appears clean but they haven't accepted the gesture, so you quickly drop your hand to your side.
"Look Wood," and the venom he puts onto your name makes you instantly recoil because it hurts. "If you're here for a reason, spit it out before I have to force it out of you."
You've never experienced a threat before, but you've watched TV and so you know how to recognise one. The one thing you don't understand is what you've done wrong because threats are reserved for people you hate and why on earth would they hate you? It's not like you broke their favourite toy (like you managed to do to Jacob's Action Man with your accidental magic, he hated you for two weeks after that one) nor did you do anything to offend their families (that's why the Mitchell brothers hate the Beales on that Eastenders show your Mum likes) so it's beyond your comprehension why they're being this way.
Later on you'll discover that what you did was much worse than all of that put together. What you did was break the rules, and as obscure as it sounds, that's not tolerated. The information that you're missing is all about the unspoken rules of the school; vital knowledge that isn't easy to come by. It's these rules that keep the school hierarchy in place; with the elder students ruling over the younger and it keeps the house divisions solid. The problem is you're a serious threat to that existence just because you're oblivious. You're not afraid of standing up to the older students and you're more than happy to talk to them without prompting. Possibly what's worse is that you couldn't care less about house affiliations and if you encourage others to follow you, there's a chance that the rules will mean nothing.
Unfortunately, there are some people that still believe this hierarchical existence is the best way of keeping order. And this group is one of them. It's just your bad luck that you run into a group like that so early on.
Anyway, they're all still scowling at you because they're not used to first years hanging around when they're threatened. A normal eleven-year-old would be terrified at the prospect of anyone older than them displaying hostile intentions and they'd hightail it out of there as soon as. You, however, are not going anywhere soon because you've come here for a reason and why should they get to scare you out of it? Instead, as a sheer act of defiance you stand straighter and glower right back at them to show you're not afraid.
"I need to borrow a quill." You say, noting that they have several unused quills on their table and so it shouldn't be such a problem for them to part with one to help you. But no one makes a move to offer you one, which would of made more sense, instead one of them grabs at the feathers before you can make a move to snatch one (you weren't going to steal one anyway).
"What?" And apparently that's a cue for them all to get to their feet and surround you so you can't escape and now you're stranded in amongst a sea of angry Slytherins all of whom are taller and broader than you are. Suddenly you don't feel as brave as a few moments ago because you don't think this can end well.
"And why on earth would we give you one?" Their leader snarls, giving you a nice glimpse of his gnarled teeth which are rather troll-like. You look at him incredulously wondering whether he's actually joking, but he looks quite sincere. "Come on Wood; give me a reason and I'll think about giving you one."
"I need it to finish my homework." You say and you're quite surprised how strong you sound despite actually being petrified, you didn't even stammer. "I have a History of Magic essay to do and I broke my quill."
It sounds pretty reasonable in your mind and you're pretty sure it's what Percy would say too (because everyone comments on how 'grown-up' and polite he is) so you don't understand why they're still ready to pounce. After all, you'd expect them to be pretty sympathetic because it's bound to have happened to them at some point in the last couple of years and they've probably experienced how frustrating it is so you'd expect them to be happy to help.
But again, no one makes a move to offer you one and so you deduce it'll take a little more convincing to get them to part with some of their stationery.
"Please, I have to get it done tonight. I'll bring it back, or even get you a new one. I promise!"
You don't have time to realise what is coming until it hits you, quite literally, square in the face. Slowly the initial shock of the blow ebbs away, allowing the white-hot pain to slowly engulf the area surrounding the impact. It's like nothing you've ever felt before; it's a mixture of the sting from ice-cold water combined with the searing heat you can only associate with being burnt. There's the thick, distinctive metallic taste of blood in your mouth where your teeth have scraped into the tender flesh of your cheek and it puts in a tingle; adding to the discomfort you're feeling. There's also tears fighting to escape and there's a febrile sob just waiting to be unleashed, but you can't do that because it'd give them a sick sense of satisfaction. Instead you don't make a motion to show how much it hurts; you just push your way through them and retreat back to the safety of the common-room.
It's not until a few weeks later do you decide that you hate them for what they did; because it takes a while for the real repercussions to surface. You could handle the bruising on your face and the concerned looks you received, you could handle the laughter that people bestowed on you afterwards but you couldn't handle the 'abysmal' you received on your essay, nor the detention that followed. It's at that point where you swear to make them suffer by embarrassing them for ruining your chance at making your mark.