The Defeat

Oliver announced the devastating news to his team at that night's Quidditch session. Their months of training had been structured with the purpose of beating Slytherin – but Hufflepuff was a whole other team. Slytherin were strongest in attack and had ruthless Beaters, while Hufflepuff were known for their superb defensive strategies and, worst of all, they had a new Captain – Seeker, Cedric Diggory. If they had played Hufflepuff when they were meant to, Oliver would have been able to observe them fly against Ravenclaw. Now, he was facing the unexpected and uncertain with one training session left before the match. His entire team would be thrown off their form. The evening became progressively distressing, especially at his teammates' response – they were calmly indifferent. Well, that was how Oliver interpreted their reaction. Further aggravating his annoyance, the girls giggled at the mention of Diggory.

"I was afraid you'd take it like this! We mustn't relax! We must keep our focus! Slytherin is trying to wrong-foot us! We must win!"

"Oliver, calm down!" said one of the twins, looking slightly alarmed. "We're taking Hufflepuff very seriously. Seriously."

xxx

Was he dead, yet? Surely, he had drowned. Life was no longer worth living with the fresh and raw defeat to Hufflepuff. Over and over, he saw the match replay in his mind. Potter gaining on Diggory and the Snitch…the mass of hooded Dementors…his Seeker plummeting to the ground just as the whistle blew to signal the end of the game and the end of his life. To make matters worse, the Whomping Willow had destroyed Potter's Nimbus Two Thousand – it was the ultimate racing broom – and it had been splintered into pieces. He now felt as though he had his own Dementor stalking him, for a feeling of heavy despair seemed to have permanently settled in the pit of his stomach. He sincerely believed that he would never be able to experience joy again.

He had lost.

Oliver was slumped against the shower wall of the change room, still fully dressed in his Quidditch gear. He had turned the shower on full force to a piercing cold temperature and his robes were soaked. How long he had been in there was beyond him, but the stands above were now quiet and empty, and he had no inclination to leave anytime soon. Nothing was worth living for anymore. The world had ended.

As Oliver lay defeated, he heard someone enter the change room and call his name. It was a sweet voice that was like sunshine penetrating the grim atmosphere hanging over Oliver. Slowly, he lifted his head from his hands and blinked through the veil of falling water.

It was Spinnet.

She too was still dressed in her Quidditch robes, which were slightly damp and muddy from the match, and her sandy hair was drying in wayward curls. When her eyes absorbed the scene of her despairing Captain, they filled with pity.

"Oh, Oliver," she sighed.

Oliver wasn't sure what surprised him most – Spinnet's presence or her use of his first name. Spinnet walked into the shower, her boots splashing around in the water from the overflowing drains, and turned the tap off. She then settled herself down next to Oliver and the couple sat in silence for several minutes.

Oliver was grateful for the company; sharing his gloomy and grim mood with another was somewhat comforting. Soon, Spinnet broke the silence,

"I'm sorry," she whispered in a barely audible voice, "I know how much this meant to you."

Oliver could not reply; he merely nodded and made a strangled noise. Then Spinnet did something else that astonished Oliver even more, she took hold of his hand. From where Spinnet had touched him, Oliver felt warmth spread up his arm like electric shocks. He experienced a swooping sensation in his stomach. But it didn't last long. Spinnet gave his hand a quick squeeze then pulled her arm back. It left Oliver feeling oddly empty.

Again, they returned back to silence until Spinnet spoke once more.

"Harry's awake," she said; and when Oliver's face remained impassive, added, "Madam Pomfrey says he'll be fine."

At her words, all of Oliver's hopelessness and misery surged to his lips in the form of rage.

"What good is that?" he blurted, "We lost! I lost! The Cup…the Cup is gone…"

There was a pause before Spinnet replied.

"Oliver Wood," Spinnet said angrily; and from her tone Oliver instantly regretted his outburst.

Oliver reluctantly turned his head and met Spinnet's eyes for the first time since she had entered the room. Her eyes were now narrowed into slits and her face was contorted with indignation.

"How dare you?" she whispered vehemently. "Harry – your Seeker, your friend – just fell from his broomstick fifty feet in the air into a hoard of Dementors, miraculously survived and all you care about is the Cup!" she leapt to her feet in disgust, "You're pathetic! Harry almost died for you and the stupid Cup!"

Spinnet began to pace in front of Oliver as he gapped blankly at her, until she rounded on him again.

"I'll tell you what you're going to do. You are going up to the hospital wing once you've wiped off that depressing stupor off your face and you are going to tell Harry that in no way was any of this his fault."

She stepped out of the showers, grabbed a freshly laundered towel from a nearby pile and hurled it at Oliver before storming away.

For a while Oliver did not move until he reached his hand upwards, turned the shower knob and the familiar, icy water penetrated his skin. If possible, he felt even worse than he had earlier.

xxx

Oliver eventually went to visit Potter in the hospital wing the following day. He still felt incredibly depressed over his loss and could not understand why no one else was mourning with him. Most of the team were avoiding him, either because they were scared Oliver would have a nervous breakdown in front of them or were angry at his reaction – namely, Spinnet.

Several days later, Oliver had completed the initial stages of grief in reaction to losing and progressed into the next phase: perseverance, or what the Weasley twins referred to as lunacy. After brooding over Gryffindor's loss and wallowing in his defeat, and isolating himself in a corner of the common room every night while muttering to himself and poking his Quidditch diagrams with his wand, Oliver had conjured a solution – he had decided that a once a week early practice was simply not enough.

The twins had been snoring loudly in their beds until Oliver woke them. His eyes had a maniac glint and the Weasleys were sure he had developed a twitch over the past days.

"What?" Fred said groggily as he started to stir. When he caught sight of Oliver he sighed and began to roll over, saying, "We've been over this – it's not that I don't find you attractive, but I just don't think this," he gestured limply between Oliver and himself, "is going to work. Now, if you don't mind…" But Oliver pulled back Fred's sheets, causing him to groan in displeasure.

George, in the next bed, had also roused but, in attempting to get out of bed, had stumbled and become tangled in his hangings.

"Merlin! Wood – we're trying to sleep!"

Lee Jordan had poked his head out at the commotion – disturbed from his rest.

Ignoring this, Oliver said, "Come on, Weasleys! Out on the pitch!"

Oliver waited until he saw the Weasleys begin to clamber for their robes before turning to leave. However, a voice stopped him when he was halfway to the door.

"Hold on, Wood…" George said as he gradually straightened up from attaining a sock from under his bed; comprehension dawning on his face. "Is it just me or is this déjà vu?"

"No…I think you're right, George," replied Fred, catching on, "Wasn't Saturday training yesterday?"

"Yes," said Oliver bluntly, "I've added a Sunday morning session."

The twins stopped dead and stared at Oliver in disbelief until Fred said, in a deathly calm voice, "It's Sunday?"

When Oliver nodded to confirm this, the twins leaped up from their positions in sync and grabbed Oliver on either side under his shoulders – dragging him out of their dormitory. Oliver may have been taller and broader than the stocky twins, but he was slowly beginning to realise that he should not have come between them and their Sunday sleep in.

Oliver struggled against the twins, but his arms were pinned down against his sides.

"OI! Let me go!" he shouted, his face turning as red as the Weasleys' flaming hair.

They ignored Oliver's protests and took him down the stairs, across the common room, through the portrait hole until they reached a broom cupboard. Here, Fred retrieved Oliver's wand from his pocket, pushed him inside and magically locked the door; before Oliver had a chance to scramble to his feet. Now, Oliver was plunged in complete darkness and he pounded his fists on the door.

"What are you doing?" he bellowed, "Let me out!"

"No. I don't think we will," one of the twins said evenly – George, Oliver thought.

"Think of it as a sort of service, Wood," added Fred.

"It has come to our attention recently – "

" – around five minutes ago – "

" – that you need serious help."

"Ever since the match, you've gone round the bend – "

" – lost your marbles – "

" – cracked – "

" – you're dragon dung crazy."

"Anyway, the point is you're taking Gryffindor's loss far too seriously."

"You need to relax, Oliver."

"We lost the match, not the Cup."

Oliver fumed with frustration, "Let me out, Weasleys! I swear I'll…"

"What? Kick us off the team?" exclaimed Fred incredulously. "Yeah sure…we're only the best Beaters in Gryffindor."

"We're doing this for your own good," George concluded.

Then Oliver heard footsteps retreating and he began banging harder and calling at the top of his voice, "Weasleys!"

But no one came back and the castle remained deaf to Oliver's cries.

It was fifteen minutes before Oliver's doubt set in, gave up yelling and kicked a bucket in anger. However, if anything, this only enraged him further as his toe was now throbbing painfully.

He was wasting time in here. Why could no one see that they had to train more frequently and harder? Why was he the only one being logical? His entire team didn't share his view and it drove him insane. Spinnet, the twins – they couldn't be right…could they? So what if he had a vigorous passion for Quidditch? There was nothing wrong with having a hobby. Clearly, there was something wrong with everybody else. Sure – maybe he got a little overenthusiastic sometimes and maybe that did drive people away…like Spinnet. Oliver settled miserably on a bucket and ran a hand through his hair; dishevelling it. Maybe he did need to sort out his priorities…

Filch received a horrible fright when, in the early hours of the morning, he was searching for Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover and, instead, discovered a student residing in his broom cupboard. His pouchy face contorted into rage and its colour passed dangerously from its usual red into a putrid purple; clutching his chest and spluttering in anger about students pulling pranks and plotting his death. Oliver ignored his howls and threats of detention, getting to his feet glumly. His time in the closet had made him depressingly aware of how his quest for the Cup had made him incredibly lonely.

He meandered slowly back to Gryffindor tower after dodging Filch and stopped to gaze out of a window. The frozen lake was just visible in Oliver's view and a golden sun was gradually rising along the horizon; its rays attempting to burst through the snowy clouds. Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver saw a matted, orange cat streak into the Forbidden Forest. The defeat wasn't the only thing bothering him lately.

Admittedly, there was still a chance to win the Quidditch Tournament; hope was not lost. What made him drown further in his desolation, was Spinnet's outburst. No one had ever confronted Oliver so bluntly about his obsession with Quidditch and no one, not a single soul, had referred to Quidditch as 'stupid' in his presence. But Oliver had detected disappointment in her voice and his insides squirmed at the thought. Why was he upset by Spinnet's reaction? Why should Oliver care about what she thought of him? Storm clouds were beginning to converge as Oliver stared out at the grounds. There was so much Oliver did not understand about people, they weren't as straightforward and as easy to comprehend as Quidditch. Eventually, Oliver left his post and trudged along the corridors; thunder clapping outside.

A/N: Hi everybody! Sorry I have taken a while to update, but my awesome Beta has now returned from soaking up the sun and has edited my fanfic. Also been reading The Casual Vacancy, which I didn't like at first but I am now really getting into it :) I recommend you read it, if you haven't already :) Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and Chapter 4 is well in the works :)

Also a thank you to DZAuthor AKA DZMom who gave me the idea of the twins locking Oliver away :) And also to JK Rowling, as I copied an excerpt from Book 3 from the Quidditch session.

Thanks to all my reviewers, favourites and followers! Reviews are much appreciated xx