The next morning, Caitlin awoke at half past six. This was because she was used to waking up at five for swim training, and thus what seemed to most as ungodly early, was in fact a pleasant lie in by her standards. Either way, she was determined to (in the absence of a practice partner) throw a ball against a wall for a few hours to keep her lacrosse skills sharp.

Caitlin threw on a pair of the leggings she used for sport, contemplated the weather for a moment, remembered there was still snow on the ground, and grabbed a hooded sweatshirt before putting on her runners and grabbing her lacrosse stick-bag. There was bound to be a flat wall with which she could practice. After all, she was in a mediaeval castle. Skipping off down the stairs, she realised that she had no idea whatsoever as to how she was meant to get to the great hall.

All she knew was that it was in a downwards direction. Slinging the strap of her stick bag over her chest (after watching an unfortunate accident, she had learned that one never went down a flight of stairs with one's stick-bag on one's back), she ventured off in a downwards direction. Eventually she made it to the hall, where she saw that the only other students awake were seven people sitting at the Gryffindor table. One of them waved her over.

"You're up early." Remarked Neville.

"Are you kidding? Back home I would wake up at five in order to be ready for swim training at half past. This is a pleasantly late wake-up for me." Caitlin responded, sitting down next to him and grabbing some toast. "Say," she continued, "there wouldn't be a pool around here, would there?"

Ginny laughed. "No. There wouldn't. Or at least no-one's found one."

"Yet." Muttered Neville. "Say, I don't think you've met the Gryffindor Quidditch team. There's Harry, our captain and seeker; Dean Thomas," he indicated an imposing looking boy for African descent who seemed to radiate the vibe of 'yes ladies, there IS enough of me to go around', "who is one of the beaters along with myself; Ron, our keeper; and our chasers, Ginny, whom you know; Owen Griffiths, who is Welsh" Owen, a lanky boy with curly dark hair made a rude gesture at Neville, "and Adele Lucas, who despite hailing from Essex is actually a lovely person."

Adele rolled her eyes and said 'Oh come off it!' in a manner which made it painfully clear just how much she was indeed from Essex. Which was extensively. Adele herself had golden brown hair which she had twisted into a messy bun, giant eyes, and curves which could only be described as ghetto-fabulous. She also wore a lot of black.

They ate their respective breakfasts quickly and headed out to the Quidditch pitch. Caitlin, after admiring its prettiness and bigness, found a flat stretch of the support wall on the outside (Neville had mentioned that after it had been burnt down the previous year, it had been rebuilt in a slightly less flammable manner. Hence it being stone), and set to work, throwing the ball against the wall with her stick as if passing, and then catching it again. Every so often she would miss, at which point she would sprint after the runaway ball, swearing fruitily.

After about an hour and a half, by which time she was working with her left hand instead (one never knows when being a southpaw will come in handy, and it's always best to be prepared), when she missed a ball, and having turned to sprint after it, she collided with a tall and rather firm figure.

"Shit." She muttered. "Sorry." She squinted into the glare (tall firm person was standing right in the sun, which was being all reflecty and bright).

"It's my fault." Said tall firm person, who seemed to be Scottish. "My mother always told me not to stand too close to girls with strange weapons."

"It's a lacrosse stick." Elucidated Caitlin. "It's not a weapon unless I'm in the middle of a game." She smiled in her cutesy 'don't question me, I'm adorable' manner until she realised a moment later that having died her hair electric blue there was no way in hell that that shit was going to fly any more.

"I'll take your word for it." Said tall, firm and Scottish, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't say I've seen you before, and with your hair I'm sure I would have remembered it. Are you new?"

"Caitlin West." She said, offering a hand, which was shaken. "I'm the 'no-wand kid'." She made inverted commas as best she could with a four foot carbon-fibre stick in one hand.

"Oooooh!" said tall, firm and Scottish with an air of sudden understanding. "Oliver Wood, Quidditch master. I hear you've been sorted into Ravenclaw."

Caitlin nodded.

"Have you thought of giving Quidditch a try? Anthony's holding try-outs and you look like you could hold your own."

Caitlin grinned. "But for the fact that Quidditch is a sport played on flying broomsticks… and I've never been on one… ever. Nor do I have access to one for to rectify the situation."

"And that, my wee skeptic," he said, summoning her lost ball with a flick of his wand and handing it to her, "is why Hogwarts is in possession of a large collection of communal broomsticks. So that the new students can discover whether or not they have any hidden talents."

He waited while Caitlin packed everything back into her stick-bag and then led her to what looked to be an oversized shed. Oliver opened the shed, revealing it to be full of what looked to be aerodynamic brooms. Caitlin's mind returned to the familiar land of mindfuck. Oliver looked over the selection, then looked Caitlin up and down before handing her a broom.

"A Silver Arrow 1066. Good speed and the best manoeuvrability you'll find anywhere." Oliver selected a broom for himself and then walked outside and placed it on the ground, indicating that Caitlin ought to do the same. Once she had, he began instructing.

"Place your hand over the broom, concentrate on it, and then say 'up'." At his command, the broom he was standing next to flew into his hand. "Give it a go."

Caitlin took a deep breath, told her dignity to take a hike – the possibility of flying was worth the risk of looking like an idiot if the broom wouldn't behave – and said 'up'. The broom thunked into her hand with the same reassuring weight of her lacrosse stick. She grinned.

"Now, you get onto the broom," she got on the broom, "and kick off." Caitlin kicked off, and experienced the same sensation that comes from being on an elevator going swiftly upwards. That was because she was flying. She took a moment to squeal like a fangirl. She somehow got the gist that brooms worked using the concept of gyroscopics, and leaned to the side to test out her theory. She was right. After a minute or so of flying around in loops, climbing and diving, Oliver flew up to her. "Fun, isn't it." He said. "Now let's see your ball-handling skills." Caitlin raised her eyebrows at that turn of phrase. "Oh grow up." Said Oliver, before heading for the ground and indicating she should follow.

They walked back into the storage shed and came out with a rectangular wooden box, which was shaking of its own accord in a manner most disconcerting. "Why is it doing that?" asked Caitlin as they set it down.

"Do you know what a bludger is?" asked Oliver.

"A ball of metal which flies around trying to mutilate players." Answered Caitlin.

"Well it'd be the bludgers that are doing that. But we, of course, are here to work with a Quaffle." He opened the crate, revealing a red ball with four evenly spaced indentations on it (Caitlin immediately and inexplicably thought of a carbon atom) as well as two metal balls which were held in with chains, but were yet trying to escape. Oliver removed the Quaffle and tossed it to her. Having played extensive waterpolo in her time, Caitlin caught it easily and began tossing it from hand to hand, seeing if its indentations messed with the aerodynamics. They didn't. Apart from the fact that it fell as if sinking through a substance less dense than that filling it (A/N), it was like an oversized waterpolo ball.

"You seem to be figuring it out alright." Noted Oliver. "How far can you throw?"

Caitlin tossed the ball into the air experimentally. "Stay there." She instructed, turning and jogging about 30 metres away with the Quaffle. She then turned, and threw what was the equivalent to a shot for goal in Waterpolo – fast, hard and with a bit of spin just to mess with the goalie. If easily went the distance to Oliver who caught it as Caitlin ran back.

"Where'd you learn to throw like that?" asked Oliver, impressed by the diminutive muggle girl.

"Waterpolo." She replied.

"Let me get this straight. You can throw like that… while swimming."

"Yeah. I'd never have to throw that far because the pool's 30 metres long at most. And the risk of interception at that kind of distance is insane. But in theory, yeah."

"Un. Believable. Muggle schools must be something else entirely. Want to give it a go on a broom?"

Caitlin mounted up. "You never went to a muggle school?"

"There are prep schools for the students of witches and wizards. They're basically just feeder schools for the magical high schools. I went to one such prep." He tossed her the ball, and they threw passes at each other for a while until Oliver was confident that Caitlin was proficient with a Quaffle on a broom. He indicated that they should make their way back to the ground. "You, my dear," said Oliver as he picked up one end of the crate and Caitlin took the other, "are a natural born Quidditch player. I am honestly at a loss as to how you picked that up so quickly having never been on a broom before in your life. Now I'm off to take a look at how Harry's team are shaping up, but once that's done, we should be able to use the other goal hoops to give you a little practice actually shooting against a keeper."

"Thanks, really." Said Caitlin. "But why are you giving me all this help?"

"Honestly?" Oliver squinted at her for a moment. "Because I spend the majority of my time teaching eleven and twelve year olds how to fly, when it is painfully obvious that if they had any aptitude for it, it would have shown up long ago. But of course, flying is a compulsory class for the first two years, so when I'm not talking down petrified first years, I'm writing incident reports for when the second years injure themselves. By the time I get students in third year and above, who chose the subject of their own free will, they don't need teaching any more, so I'm just their babysitter so to speak. It's nice to get a beginner who's old enough to actually…" he seemed to be searching for the correct word.

"Learn?" prompted Caitlin.

"Exactly. Learn. Also, your hair's an entertaining colour."

"That was my aim when I dyed it." She admitted. "White just didn't suit me."

"White?" asked Oliver, eyebrows raised.

"Chemotherapy. First it fell out, then it grew back white. Hence my eyebrows also being blue. I thought I'd go for some continuity."

"You wanted continuity, so you dyed your eyebrows blue… to match your hair…"

"It made more sense than having blue hair and white eyebrows." Pointed out Caitlin, the epitome of logic.

They stowed the crate of balls, and Caitlin, reluctant to do something drastic like try shrinking her sticks to be secreted on her person, levitated them into the stands, separate from the people watching the practice underway. It seemed that with nothing better to do, people went to the Quidditch pitch to socialise, judging by the hundred or so people sitting in clumps in the stands. She then stood with her broom whilst Harry flew down to talk to Oliver.

"Oliver! Good to see you." Said Harry, giving Oliver a hug. Caitlin was struck by the fact that such an act ought to be a breach of protocol, but for the fact that perhaps when a staff member looked to be in their early twenties and seemed to be on a first name basis with the students, protocol was different. She resolved to ask George in the letter she planned to write that evening. So much mindfuck, and so little time to write it all down and ask for explanations.

"You too, Harry. I've come to see how the team's shaping up, and then would you be alright with me making use of the goalposts you're not using? I've been teaching wee Caitlin over here how to play Quidditch."

"Of course. Would it be alright if I got the other chasers to also have a go at you so that they can practice on someone who isn't on their team."

"Sure thing, mate. Anything to get Gryffindor closer to the Quidditch Cup." He clapped Harry, who immediately after rejoined his team in the air, on the back and then turned to Caitlin. "Head over to the goalposts over there, and stay on the ground for now, unless a bludger starts coming at you, in which case fly like hell to avoid it."

"Are they really that bad? Surely there are safeguards." Caitlin's brain was still operating in the OH&S ruled world of muggle sports.

Oliver snorted. "Two minutes into my first game, I was hit in the head by a bludger, and I woke up a week later in the hospital wing. They're brutal. Just try to stay safe."

Caitlin saluted half-heartedly and started walking over to the goal posts. She was next to one of the goal posts when she heard shouts which seemed to be aimed at her. She spun around to see a bludger about ten metres away – too close to avoid – and closing fast. So she did the only thing she could – dropped her broom and made an immediate shield between her and the bludger. As it was, the bludger hit the shield with enough speed that the force of the impact sent pushed her back into the goalpost. On the plus side, of course, the bludger had rebounded off her shield and went off on its merry way to attack someone else. Caitlin dropped her shield and focussed on getting herself un-winded. Because she'd hit the goalpost pretty darn hard.

Suppressing numerous obscenities, she held on to the post for support as she dragged in air to refill her aggravated and oxygen-deprived lungs. "Are you alright? I'm so sorry. That one just went off course and headed straight for you. Are you hurt…" Neville, was getting all horrified and chivalrously guilty, dismounting next to Caitlin and attempting to ascertain whether or not she was hurt. Oliver wasn't far behind.

"I'm fine." She wheezed. This was followed by a mild coughing fit, after which she straightened. "All good. Not injured at all, and I should have been paying more attention. It's no-one's fault, and as you can see, I'm alright." She was, perhaps, being slightly cheerier than usual to cover for the fact that the left side of her ribcage hurt like the dickens from where it had impacted and she was reasonably sure she'd be bruised come the next day.

Neville apologised little more before returning to training. Oliver just stood in front of her with arms crossed. "You're sure you're not injured?"

Caitlin drew herself up to her full height. All five foot five of it, which was a bit pitiful in comparison with Oliver's six foot two. "I'm sure. I'll be bruised tomorrow, but other than that, I am fine and dandy."

"I did tell you to keep a look out."

"I'm fine!" protested Caitlin.

"Mount up then, it's time for you to practice against an actual keeper."

And so she did. It was like waterpolo, but with less biting, no risk of anyone ripping her clothing off to try to pull her focus, and three smaller goals. And the whole flying thing. Which, Caitlin realised with mild horror, was starting to feel worryingly natural. WAS NOTHING SACRED?

At half past twelve, Harry signalled for his team to return to ground, at which point they all went off to lunch, vacating the field for the Ravenclaw team who were to use it in the afternoon. Caitlin retrieved her sticks and walked with Oliver to the storage shed to sign out the broom – it was apparently like a library, students could sign out brooms for personal use.

"Not to be inappropriate, but why are you teaching?" asked Caitlin. "Clearly your passion is playing Quidditch, and I know my judgement doesn't count for much, but you could probably be playing professionally."

"I was playing professionally for four years, with Puddlemere United. I got drafted to their reserve team straight out of Hogwarts, and two years later I was on the championship team. I wrecked my shoulders and upper back, to the extent that I couldn't play professionally. Most players get about ten, fifteen years before they're injured out, I was just unlucky. So I came back to the place where I learned how to play Quidditch to give younger kids the same opportunities I had."

"And to get a reference for when you hope to coach a real team." Caitlin pointed out the obvious.

"Aye, that too." Laughed Oliver. They were walking back to the school building. "So what are they doing for your subjects?"

"Professor McGonagall said that I'd be trialling all the classes to see where my competencies are, and we'd go from there. Except for something called Charms, which apparently I'm not suited to at all."

"You wouldn't be. It's all about wandcraft."

"And the rest of the subjects aren't?"

"Well, of the compulsory subjects, there's Defence Against the Dark Arts, which is quite magic based, but from what I saw earlier with that bludger, you'll be fine. Then there's Charms, which we've already established you won't be doing; Transfiguration, which could be an issue, but if professor McGonagall thinks you've got a chance, you probably do, seeing as she's the one teaching it. Potions wand free all the way, as are Herbology, History of Magic and Astronomy; so all in all you'll probably manage fine. The electives are all magic related, but not magic based. There's Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, which is crazy voodoo done with numbers which I've never quite grasped, Muggle Studies, which you'd no doubt ace, although they still haven't found anyone willing to teach it. Having said that, there aren't exams for Muggle Studies, so I don't really think that's an issue. Then there's Care of Magical Creatures, self explanatory, and Divination, which is basically a waste of time. And then for the students who are seventeen, there's Apparition training if they're in such a way inclined."

Caitlin nodded slowly. This could be fun.

"Oh, and of course there's flying, but I'm reasonably sure you've worked out what that entails by now." They'd reached the Great Hall. "I'll see you at the Ravenclaw try-outs." Said Oliver as he headed off to the staff table. Caitlin ran up to the common room, finding it surprisingly easy to locate, and stopped in front of the gargoyle.

"What goes 'round the house, and in the house, yet never touches it?" it asked.

"The sun." she answered.

"Very good." The wall opened, and Caitlin was free to run up to her dorm, deposit her sticks, and then head back down to the great hall where she saw Isabel and Anthony and the rest of the Quidditch team.

"Caitlin!" he waved her over. "Oliver told me you'd be trying out today. Interested in giving Quidditch a go?"

She shrugged. "It seems fun. He showed me the ropes, and I've even learned how to fly." She couldn't suppress the little 'fangirl' dance she did at the end of the sentence.

"You'll fit in fine with that attitude." Remarked Isabel with a grin.

And for the record, she did. Because despite lack of experience, there's nothing more efficient at goal scoring than a Waterpolo player.

A/N: JKR uses, in her accompanying novel, Quidditch through the Ages, the allusion of a quaffle being charmed so that it would fall slowly 'as if through water' if dropped, to remove the necessity to dive sharply whenever it is dropped. A Quaffle, being filled with air, which is infinitely less dense than water, would float like a motherfucker in such a situation. Thus, in order for it to sink slowly through the air as if a solid falling through a medium more viscous than air, thus having its descent slowed as JKR was no doubt attempting to explain, albeit without really thinking it through, it would have to be falling through a substance less dense than that filling it. Let's say it's falling through helium.