Name: Oliver James Wood.
Age. 17. And ¾. Not that we count that anymore, because teenagers are more mature than that. Ahem.
Hair colour: Weird brown sandy colour. And quite messy at the moment.
Current mood: Exasperated at the Gryffindor team in general and a certain Chaser specifically.
Current location: Quidditch pitch.
She was day-dreaming again. I could tell she was day-dreaming; she tilts her head at an odd angle and has this cute, goofy smile on her face. I'm her Captain, I have to pick up on these things, okay? I have to know about this, so I can get up her when I catch her doing it. Sure enough, Fred sent a Bludger flying her way, and before I could even warn her about it, she copped it fair in the jaw. She had such a look of surprise on her face, I didn't know whether to laugh or streak over there to see if she was alright. So instead I just bellowed the first thing that came to mind.
"What the hell, Bell? What were you doing, giving a weather forecast or playing Quidditch!" It came out a bit harsher than I intended; I was still worried about how much damage that Bludger had done to her. Purely in terms of her Quidditch performance, or course, because I'm her Captain and I worry about things like this.
Of course, she had to answer back. Obviously there was no permanent damage done. But damn her if at the end of the day she didn't have a point. She was right; there was a storm coming. I hoped it was nothing serious.
I called practise off when the rains came. I still harboured a fool's hope the storm would blow over. But I was sadly mistaken when I walked out of the locker room and was blown away by the force of the winds. I swear, I must be cursed. It was my last year at Hogwarts, I wanted my name on that cup. How was I going to get accepted into any of the half-decent professional Quidditch teams if my school team couldn't even win one match? Was I really that poor a Captain? I don't blame my team for our losses though, I blame myself.
It was only after we reached the warmth of the Great Hall I noticed how cold it was outside. I'd been too lost in worrying about my team and the game I hadn't even noticed we'd left the Quidditch pitch/Angelina, Alicia and the Weasley's were chatting as usual unconcerned, but Bell was frozen to the bone. I wanted to hug her, wrap her in my arms and warm her. Instead I put a hand lightly on her shoulder and she spun as if I'd cursed her.
"Make sure you look after yourself." I told her. I was worried perhaps my tone was too concerned. My brain went into damage-control. "I don't want one of my Chaser's out of the game with a cold." Smooth, Wood. She just smiled wanly and disappeared behind a painting that took her to the Gryffindor landing. If I could kick myself, I would.
Memo to self: Fred Weasley is going to pay for that Bludger to the back during practise today. Big time. And seeing as I can't tell the two twins apart, George Weasley is most likely going to end up paying too. He probably deserves it anyway. What am I saying, he's George: of course he deserves it.