Round 3 of QLFC: Holyhead Harpies.
Theme: Write about the Holyhead Harpies.
Position: Chaser 2
Word Prompt: 2251-2500 words
Chaser Prompts:
1. (word) eulogy
2. (genre) parody
12. (word count) 2345
A/N: This is 100 percent crack!fic. Just warning you all! Thanks to Amy (xxcallmeamyxx) for beta'ing, and Lizzie for inspiring, like she always does.
WC: 2,345 according to Pages, not including AN or any of this stuff above that line right below this statement.
Contrary to popular belief, Oliver had not always wanted to be a Quidditch Keeper. Originally, from the time he was six to the time he was ten years of age, he'd fancied himself an alchemist.
"No, that's not right," the narrator mumbled, clicking away at her computer. "Erase that last bit." She pressed the backspace button and tried again.
Originally, from the time he was six to the time he was ten years of age, he'd fancied himself a wandmaker.
"Yes! That's much better," she said, beaming.
He played Quidditch as a hobby, almost an afterthought, and spent most of his days reading books about types of wood. However, he loved to listen to professional Quidditch matches on the wireless radio every Sunday at 6 PM.
"Da! Da! Da! Where's the wireless radio? I can't find it anywhere and the game is going to happen this evening!" Oliver yelled, running through the house. He opened and shut every drawer and cabinet he could find, searching for the radio with no success.
"Da! Where is it?" He finally reached the kitchen, where his father was enjoying a cup of coffee and reading the Daily Prophet.
"Wait one second—I live in England. I don't even like coffee!" Mr. Wood interjected, looking up from his newspaper to stare at the narrator.
The narrator paused. "Why not? Coffee is delicious."
"I'm British."
"So? Have you ever tried coffee?"
"No, but I'm a British book character. We're always drinking tea! Tea is just as delicious as coffee!" Mr. Wood said, agitated.
The narrator shrugged. "Fair enough. You can drink tea. Just carry on with the story! Oliver, go back outside and do your entrance again. Mr. Wood, you're about to look up and see ten-year-old Oliver searching for his radio. Everyone ready? Go!"
The narrator changed the coffee into tea, and Mr. Wood went back to his paper, slightly happier than before.
Oliver ran back into the room, breathless. "Da, where's my radio?"
"I don't think you'll need your radio today, son!" His father said, looking up from the Daily Prophet. There was a big smile on his face.
"Why not? I have to listen to the game! It's tradition!"
"Check under your plate. I think you'll find something better than a wireless radio." He watched as Oliver lifted his breakfast plate, pulling out two tickets to see the Holyhead Harpies vs Pride of Portree Quidditch game.
"Harpies vs Pride? I'm a Puddlemere fan!" He groaned, looking at where the narrator sat typing at her computer.
"So? The Puddles have their BYE round this week. They aren't playing."
"But you're the narrator of this story! They don't have to play in real life, just in here!"
The narrator clenched her fists in annoyance, stretching her fingers out before placing them back on the keys. "Oliver, I'm a Harpy, so that's why the Harpies are playing this match. Also, we just defeated the Prides, so they're the last team I played! Let's just say they've been on my mind recently. Call this my victory lap."
"But I want to see Puddlemere United play!"
"Well, too bad!" the narrator said, frowning at her characters. "I'm the narrator. This is my story."
"Fine! Just don't expect me to be happy about it."
The narrator went back to typing. "Oliver, let's take it back to where you've just found the tickets under your plate."
"Oh, wow. Thanks so much, Da." Oliver said, pulling the tickets from beneath the plate. His voice was more monotone than Percy Weasley's, and he didn't look enthused.
"Oliver! Happy," the narrator hissed, and Oliver plastered the fakest smile on his face.
"Thank you so much, Da! I can't wait to go with you!" He turned and stuck his tongue out at the narrator, who just rolled her eyes and kept writing.
"I thought you would enjoy it! We'll leave in an hour." Oliver nodded with excitement, jumping up to leave the scene.
"Don't forget—next scene, you wear your Harpies jersey!"
The characters left the room, and the narrator wiped the sweat from her brow. This writing thing was turning out to be harder than she thought.
"Alright, new scene everyone! Harpies, Prides, you're up in the air. Start tossing that Quaffle around! Woods, you're in the stands. Oliver! Where's your Harpies jersey?!"
Her main character strolled onto set dressed head to toe in Puddlemere blue. "I told you, I don't like the Harpies. I'm wearing my Puddlemere jersey."
The narrator narrowed her eyes, then began typing on her computer furiously. "Oliver Wood walked into the stadium, dressed head to toe in Harpies gear!" she said aloud, and Oliver frowned as his Puddlemere blue melted into the green of the Harpies.
"That's so not fair!"
"Oh, shush. Just get into place and finish this scene! Please, just cooperate. You can leave afterward; I'll only need adult Oliver after this."
Mr. Wood sat down in his chair, and Oliver sat down beside him, a scowl still on his face. Above, the Harpies and Prides began to race around, throwing the Quaffle back and forth with precision.
"Harpies second Chaser SCORES! The Prides' third Chaser tries to throw to the first Chaser, but—I can't believe it! Their first Chaser misses the ball!" The Quaffle goes flying through the air, directly into Oliver Wood's hands.
"Hold it!" The first Chaser of the Prides yells, and everyone in the scene pauses. "I would never miss the ball. That's just unrealistic! I'm the best Chaser this team has, and I'm being unfairly treated! I demand a rewrite!"
"Oh, shut up. This is totally valid," her Captain said, glancing at her nails. "Just practice harder next time and maybe you'll improve."
The Chaser crossed her arms tightly and flew out of the stadium in a huff.
"Well... just carry on. We don't really need her," the narrator said, barely even glancing up from her computer.
Gwenog Jones, the Captain of the Harpies, flew down to where Oliver held the Quaffle, staring at it in awe.
"That was a great catch, kid. You like Quidditch?"
"Uh... yeah." His eyes were like saucers as he stared up at the Harpy.
"If you keep working on that, you'd make an amazing Keeper. You could play professionally one day. Not with the Harpies, since you're a guy, but you could definitely play for Puddlemere or maybe even the Magpies. You've got the talent to make it in the big leagues."
Oliver's jaw dropped. "Th-thanks. Here's your Quaffle, sir—I mean, ma'am."
Jones winked. "Enjoy the rest of the game. After we win, maybe you'd like an autograph." She flew back into the sky.
"And, SCENE!"
"You never said I was going to meet Gwenog Jones!" Ten-year-old Oliver said, bouncing in his seat like a puppy. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You weren't acting like you deserved it! Honestly, the only reason I kept that bit in there was because I have to use the word 'harpy'." The narrator slipped her laptop into her bag, swinging it on her shoulder. "I've got to rush off to Hogwarts. I'm meeting seventeen-year-old Oliver there to finish this story. Thanks for all your work, guys." She hurried from the stadium, and the scene dissolved in her wake.
Oliver Wood was pacing in the locker room at Hogwarts Quidditch Stadium, attempting to mentally prepare himself for his very last game. He knew there were going to be Puddlemere scouts there tonight, which was exciting. At the same time, though, he was so nervous he thought he would be sick. If this game didn't go well…
"Don't think like that, Oliver," he said aloud, placing a palm on a nearby locker to try and steady himself. "You can do this. You're an amazing Keeper. You catch the Quaffle almost every time. Just remember—there's a magnet in your hands and there's a magnet in the Quaffle, and they're meant to stick tog— oh, Merlin, are you really making me say this? This is so cheesy!" he said, glaring up at the narrator.
"Oliver! You're supposed to be so obsessed with Quidditch nothing else matters to you. You are a Quidditch Nazi. In fact, the Weasley twins often call you a Quidditch Nazi. Is this sort of pep talk really that far out?"
Oliver frowned. "Well, when you put it that way..."
"See? The narrator is always right!"
"Can't I just say 'You're going to win this thing' and just be done with it?"
"If you really want to, you can say that, too."
Oliver beamed. Then, he composed himself, breathing in and out like good actors are meant to do. "You're going to win this thing," he told himself and nodded firmly. He was just beginning to adjust his arm guards when the rest of the team walked in.
"Ollie-wollie, why are you here so early? Are you trying to get in an extra little make out session with the Quaffle?" Fred Weasley said, grinning from ear to ear.
Oliver blushed but ignored the comment. "Guys, this is the best team," he began, launching into his standard speech. The Weasley's joshed their way through it like they always did, the girls blushed and smiled when he mentioned they were the best chasers, and Harry just sat there looking like he was going to puke. Everything seemed normal.
"Alright, let's all meet up outside!" The rest of the team exited the locker room as Oliver bent down to adjust his leg guard. The door banged shut behind them.
"Need some help with that, Ol?" a female voice asked him, and Oliver looked up to see Katie standing before him.
"Why aren't you outside with the others?" He asked.
"It's your last game. You've been an amazing captain, Oliver, and I've really appreciated the last three years. I'm going to miss you next year. I just wanted to—to tell you that," she muttered, blushing.
Oliver blushed as well, trying to stamp down the feelings that were welling up inside. He'd had a crush on Katie Bell for ages, and he wished he could say something about it.
"Hold on, what?!" Oliver yelped, staring up at the narrator. "I don't like Katie! I like the Quaffle!"
The narrator stopped, and both she and Katie stared at Oliver in shock. "What are you talking about? You've got to be in love with Katie. You're my OTP!"
"Well, I don't love her! I never loved her! I won't ever love her! I refuse to love her," he yelled, pushing Katie away from him.
"Thank Merlin you don't! I don't love you either. I'm in love with Alicia! We've been hooking up with each other for months now," Katie said, a look of disgust crossing her face as she thought about hooking up with Oliver.
"No! Stop it!" The narrator cried, slamming down her hands in annoyance. "Katie loves Oliver, Oliver loves Katie. That's the way it's always been!"
The rest of the team piled into the locker room to watch the drama. "What's going on?" someone asked.
"She wants me with Oliver!"
"But you're a lesbian. Everyone knows that!" George Weasley said.
"And Oliver really does make out with the Quaffle," Fred added.
"I refuse to change what I'm writing!" the narrator said, clutching her computer closer. "This is MY story. MINE!"
Fred and George advanced on the narrator, swinging their beater bats menacingly. "We'll see about that!"
Harry darted in, snatching the computer away from the narrator as the Weasley twins held her down.
"Suddenly, the narrator's head exploded from all the pressure of writing this much!" he typed out, and that's exactly what happened.
The Gryffindor Quidditch team glanced around. "What do we do now? How do we finish the story without a narrator?"
Oliver glanced at the computer, then sat down and placed his fingers on the keys. "I guess we write it ourselves. Let's begin with... 'The Gryffindor team won the match, which also won them the Quidditch Cup. Oliver received his beloved Quaffle upon his win, and he was able to live happily with it. He was also offered a place on Puddlemere's team as their reserve Keeper, and thus left school with a job.'"
"My turn, my turn!" Fred said, grabbing the computer. "'Fred and George began a new line of Eulogy Cards, inspired by the death of the narrator. They summed up the life of the dead person in the form of a haiku.' What should we write for the narrator?"
George thought for a second. "How about this: Narrator: you sucked. This shall be your eulogy. Refrigerator."
"George, that makes no sense," Angelina said.
"Exactly! But it takes up word space!"
Harry frowned. "Why are we taking up word space?"
Oliver sighed. "Because, Harry, the narrator had to go and choose the word count prompt. This story can't be over until it's exactly 2,345 words."
Katie checked the word count at the bottom of the page . "Hey, look! It's at 2,158 words now! We're almost there guys! What else can we say?"
"Weasley's Wizard Wheezes will be coming out with mail orders soon!" George yelled.
"Oliver and Katie are secretly blood siblings!" Fred yelled, but Angelina quickly silencio'd him for that.
"Fred, that's not even close to being right. Katie and I are just old family friends."
"2,230 words. Anyone else got something to add?"
"No. We do need to figure out how to get rid of this body, though..." Harry said.
"How about this: 'The narrator's headless corpse dissolved in golden light as she was brought to her next life,'" Katie suggested, hands poised at the keys.
George snorted. "Is she really worth some beautiful golden light?"
Oliver shrugged. "As annoying as she was, she did have her clever moments. That Quidditch match, for instance."
Alicia glanced over Katie's shoulder. "You're now at 2,329 words and counting. What else should we say?"
"Say something noteworthy," Fred suggested.
Katie smiled. "Let's end with this: And they all lived happily ever after!"