Many thanks to my reviewers! Note the plural!!! I'm ecstatic.

I'm also doubly excited: I'm going on holidays to ENGLAND in a few days! (I live in Australia). I'll get some real inspiration from the real UK.


Name: Katie Bell
Age: I think we're all aware I'm fifth year, okay?
Hair: Most likely looking like the love child of a brief but intense union between an octopus and shag-carpet.
Current Mood: I WILL EAT YOUR HEAD OFF SO DON'T BOTHER ME OKAY
Current Location: In bed, asleep. Or trying to.

"Oi, Bell!"
"Where's the fire," I muttered, before my brain sort of spluttered awake. Well, it jump started anyway. But one look at my Quidditch Captain standing over me got my heart well and truly racing.
"WOOD!" I screeched, "Why the Hell are you up here!" I bought my doona further up to my chin, although I wear perfectly decent Magpie's pajama's to bed. I tried to force some hysteria out of my voice, "This is the girl's bedroom. How did you get up here? The stairs aren't meant to let you." I eyed him warily, taking in his bright scarlet Quidditch robes that were almost blinding my poor, tired eyes. With his windswept, mussed hair and crooked grin, he looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine advertisement. Stupid Wood. I noticed that his broomstick was in one hand, and he was holding it out at me, as if to prod me awake again. Or to keep his distance from me. I wouldn't blame him. I was a living embodiment for the reason they invented caffeine.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine." He laughed. I usually don't feel up to either murder or joviality this early in the morning, but I could cheerfully throw him out the window right about now.
"What do you want, Wood?" I muttered.
"You." He replied simply. Holy hell, I think my heart just stopped, and I don't know why. I thumped my chest several times, trying to start it beating again. "Practise started half an hour ago. Everyone's waiting." He explained, looking at me like I was slightly mad. And with that he zoomed through the open window and out of my room. Oh. So that's how he got in here. Smart-arse.

We stood in the middle of the pitch, wind whistling around our ears and stinging our eyes. Our hair whipped around our face like the Whomping Willow's branches.
"Alright troops," Wood began, flying back and forth in front of us like an agitated hummingbird, the wind pushing him diagonally down the pitch. It would have been comical, if he wasn't deadly serious.
"This isn't a war Oliver," Fred reasoned.
"YES IT IS!" Wood bellowed. We were all taken slightly aback. "And Ravenclaw's the enemy. Even the weather is against us. Everything's against us. In fact, if they're not with us, they're against us."
"Did he hit his head or something?" Alicia whispered to me. Before I could even reply, Wood turned on her.
"What was that?!" He barked. Alicia noticeably cringed. I mean, Wood was extreme, but he usually wasn't this extreme until the last match of the season. "100 stomach crunches. Now Spinnet." He growled. Woah…talk about scary…
"Wood," I reasoned. The more level-headed of the team (hey, Fred and George made up almost half the team, so of course I would be more mature than them) I could usually appeal to Wood's deeply hidden logical side.
"What Bell?" He almost snarled. I recently got a detention from Snape for wandering the Halls after Quidditch practise yesterday, which was technically Wood's fault. I took the fall for him, and what thanks do I get? I've had enough snippy, snappy people yelling at me, and it's only first week back. If Wood can take his frustrations out on us, why can't we do the same?
"That's out of line Oliver James Wood, and you know it."
"You know what out of line is, Bell? Out of line is talking back to your Captain."
"Captain? More like dictator." I huffed.
"Bell, respect for your Captain, and respect for the rest of your team's morale. 100 push-ups ought to go some way to teaching you what I can't."
"What?!" I screeched
"Care to make that more?"
"Why the hell not?"
"Double!" Wood roared triumphantly. Damn him and his competitive nature.
"That all?"
"Triple."
"Why not –"
"Wood, any more and you'll kill her. You'll snap her little twig arms in half." George reasoned. The Weasley twins, the voice of reason (?!!). Wood rounded on him, nostrils flaring.
"300." He said finally, "She'll do them after practise, so she won't take up any more time." And with that we kicked off furiously into the dark sky.

Practise was hippogriff dung, to be completely honest. Complete and utter flobberworm mucus. Wood had explained the plays to us in the quiet of the locker rooms before practise had officially begun, but we were all struggling not to fall asleep. Wood was one of them. He kept losing his place and repeating his sentences, voice fading each time. Those of us still awake were listening to the wind thrash against the roof of the locker room. This is what nightmares are made of. And when we got out onto the field, none of us could remember the plays, blow us down.

Yeah, literally: blow us down. It took us about five minutes to push off from the ground. We had to wait for the wind to change directions. And with each passing minute, a vein in Wood's neck was throbbing larger and more frequently. This did not bode well for the rest of the team. Actually, it didn't bode well for Oliver either; if this wind didn't let down in the next few minutes he was going to have a coronary or something. And you know what, I'd leave his sorry arse here. I'm sure as hell not dragging him back up to the hospital wing.

When we finally managed to get our broomsticks airborne to at least several feet, from then on it was like the wind was playing a game with us, moving us around the pitch anyway it pleased. We got pelted not only with Bludgers, but with sticks, branches, roof tiles: anything not firmly Charmed down. It was like running the gauntlet or being a human dartboard. Plus, it was pointless trying to practise Wood's plays even if we remembered them. Every time I tried to throw a Quaffle to Angelina or Alicia it became more of a case of trying to chase it down than to purely catch it. And when it comes to throwing, I'm no weakling. My arms groaned with the effort of steering my broom on a straight course. Doing 300 push-ups was going to be freaking horrible.

Half the time we were blown out of the actual Quidditch pitch. We couldn't even hear Wood, which is a tribute to how forceful those winds must have been, but you sure as Hell don't hear me complaining if it means I don't have to listen to Wood whinge. I could see his jaw work though, so doubtless he was still yelling at us. Actually, I think he was just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think it was his form of therapy; dealing with his issues and working through his Quidditch game anxieties. As long as he wasn't giving me any more push-ups.

We lost Harry about an hour in. And then Fred hit a Bludger with all his might, but the wind suddenly kicked up and sent it right back in his face. We tried to catch him as he fell – almost every training session someone falls off their broom, so this is the one manoeuvre we have down-pat - but the wind blew him off-course. Eventually he ploughed into me and we both spiralled down into the soft sand at the base of the hoops. At least we landed somewhere within the Quidditch pitch. The rest of the team followed suit, except Wood who remained, still screaming at the wind. He waved his arms about frantically, making obscene gestures at the wind. He appeared to be trying to throw the wind back or something, like how you try to scoop the ocean out of your drowning sandcastle. It was a fruitless gesture and an utter waste of time, but I think it was some sort of intense personal competition between him and the forces of nature.

Alicia looked a bit cut that she hadn't been the one to save Fred, so I let her take him to the hospital wing. Small things. Angelina followed Alicia, and naturally George dogged her footsteps. I had no clue where Harry was. I wasn't even sure if he was in the country anymore.

Sighing, I rolled up my sleeves and dropped to my knees. No, I wouldn't do sissy push-ups. I elevated myself onto my toes. One…two…three

At 154, Wood dropped silently to the ground next to me. For some reason, he was barefoot. I was pretty sure the wind wasn't blowing hard enough to de-shoe anyone, but hey, I've been wrong before.

"You don't have to do them," Wood croaked hoarsely, voice stolen by the wind. I just kept on going. I made a commitment, and I'm going to follow through. Even if it killed me. 155…156…157


And now Oliver's POV to try to explain why he's being such a prick :)