Name: I swear, I don't know who I am anymore
Age: I look a lot older than 16 at the moment
Hair: All starchy and hair-sprayed
Current Mood: Sort of mollified and over it at the same time
Current location: Back in my dorm with Ange and Alicia, after a long jaunt at the Hogsmeade.
"All done!" Angelina beamed, stepping back to admire her handiwork, regarding me as Leonardo might have regarded the Mona Lisa. Might have. Might being the operative word. And although the catch-phrase of this entire little mission was "self-discovery through retail therapy" I think dolling people up is Angelina's private form of therapy. She seems to thrive off it.
"Maybe just a teensy bit more hairspray…" Alicia suggested, holding up the huge bottle that was now almost completely empty.
"No! No more!" I choked, thinking of all the chemicals I'd already inhaled.
"Come on Katie, just one more spray." Alicia pressed, knowing how close to the end of my tether I was.
"Gah! I'm bailing!"
"Finally!" Alicia exclaimed, her cajoling tone vanishing. "We've been trying to hint for ages now that you need to stop hiding in your room and go out and show the world the improved Katie Bell, but you keep wussing out." I suppose that's true; I never make it past the mirror before backing out and pleading with Ange to tone down some of the smokey eye makeup.
"And people have the gall to say I'm tactless." Alicia huffed.
"Fine, I'm going. I need some fresh air anyway."
Internally I chided myself: This time, Katrina Anne Bell, you're going to make it past the mirror. Just wander around the grounds for a few hours so Ange will feel like you made an effort. The truth was, I didn't mind my new look: the clothes were nice, and I'd steered Ange and Alicia away from tight dresses and tall heels. I won't bore you with the all inane details of my recent purchases, but my casual clothes hadn't differed too far away from my old normal, apparently 'tom-girl' sports clothes, only they had a more rock-chick vibe. The few skirts Angelina had forced me to buy were slightly floaty and bohemian (My logic was with an ankle-length skirt, the only things I could flash were ants). As a final treat, Ange bought me an expensive, elegant evening-type gown, and Alicia bough the shoes. Both gushed that with my hair up in a chignon (whatever the hell that is, but I'm betting not a Quidditch move), I'd look exactly like some Muggle actress called Audrey Hepburn. All in all, I love the look, but maybe not so much the elaborate hair and makeup. Ange promises she'll tone it down for school, and assures me she just got over-excited.
I hesitated at the door.
"Go get 'em tiger." Alicia enthused. "My little Katie's all grown up."
Angelina pouted for a second, momentarily saddened by her loss of a guinea-pig, before Alicia asked her, "Hey Ange, could you braid my hair?" Angelina beamed: she was in seventh heaven again.
I made it out through the doors of the Great Hall undetected, and was just about to bolt for the safety and seclusion of the Quidditch Pitch, when who should storm past me than Oliver Wood.
"Hey Wood, how was the trial?" I asked, but he was a man on a mission, and acknowledged me with blind eyes.
"…Harry…has a Firebolt…a Firebolt…We'd blow the competition out of the sky…and McGonagall took it away… I've got to go and convince her…what was she thinking…hard to believe she champions Gryffindor, with that kind of attitude…nice hair by the way Bell." And he was off, taking the stairs two at a time.
The last time Wood worked himself into this much of a state about Quidditch was the first game of his Captaincy, and Fred and George rocked up to the game in pink tutu's and danced Swan Lake in front of him as he explained last-minute manoeuvres. He didn't bat an eye then, so I should be grateful of his reference, if not rather vague, to my hair. And besides, this was all an exercise of self-discovery: it wasn't to impress Oliver.
My arse it wasn't - I spent hours slogging through clothes racks and sitting through Angelina wrangling my hair and murdering my scalp: I want some appreciation damnit! Just one whole-hearted compliment that isn't about my flying, that's all I ask of him. Fricken hell; just give me something to justify all the pain and torture.
"OLIVER WOOD!!" Came a strangled cry, mirroring my own thoughts. It sounded like someone else was just as pissed off at him as I was. I sprinted up the stairs, eagre to render assistance. I wasn't racing to defend my Captain – I was going to help whoever was laying into him. Just thought I'd clarify that.
I skidded to a halt outside of McGonagall's office door. It was closed, but obviously it wasn't doing an effective job.
"Well, what was I supposed to think?!" came Wood's incredulous bellow.
"Just because I confiscated a broomstick does not mean Snape has cast an Imperious spell over me, or that I accepted bribes from the Slytherin team to sabotage your game." McGonagall said tersely.
"Well, if you're not being brainwashed, why else did you confiscate the broom?"
"Did it ever occur to you I confiscated the broom because it might be dangerous to Potter?"
Wood let out a loud scoff. "I'm sure Potter can handle a broomstick, Professor." I could almost see McGonagall's lips pursed in barely controlled fury.
"A jinxed broomstick? I am looking out for Potter's life, Wood: Heaven knows Harry's had enough close-calls over the past years. Or would you rather your prized Seeker, the Boy Who Lived, die needlessly for the sake of a mere Quidditch game?"
I couldn't quite catch Wood's mumbled reply, but I take it he said something along the lines of,
"Who cares, as long as he catches the Snitch before he bites the dust." I braced myself; Oliver was asking for it.
"OLIVER JAMES WOOD!" The Professor's self control smashed. I swear the door rattled on its hinges. I could actually hear her sucking in air, as she took some calming breaths before she continued.
"For starters, Mr Wood, that was a rhetorical question; the answer should have been so painfully obvious it goes without being said. Secondly, if that's your attitude to the lives of your team-mates, I'm going to seriously re-consider your Captaincy! There are times, Mr Wood, when you're maturity levels would have difficulty competing with that of someone five years of age. This argument would be a chief example."
Wood made some more sulky replies. I pressed my ear to the door to hear more clearly. I heard some half-hearted mutters of "Deepest betrayal," and "Slytherin conspiracy," in Wood's low Scottish brogue, but McGonagall seemed to have a handle on her temper. Pity. I was looking forward to hearing Wood yell some more.
"No, I'm not hearing any more of it Oliver." She stated evenly. "Incidentally, I have some more news that relates to your team, but I think I'll wait until you've calmed down sufficiently. You can wait outside me office until you're remembered yourself." And before I could move away from the door, damn Wood and his lightening-quick reflexes had crossed McGonagall's office and wrenched the door out from under my ear. I was thankful the door didn't open outwards, or my jaw would be in a lot of pain right now.
"Bell?" Oliver looked momentarily stunned, until storm clouds billowed over and clouded his face. "Having fun eavesdropping?" Okay, so on the minus side I'd been well and truly busted, and Wood was sooo not in a good mood. I'd have to give the team a heads up before he called next practise. On the plus side, I got to hear Wood yell some more, like I wanted. Unfortunately his Highlander fury was directed at me. However, I was no shrinking violet when it came to screaming matches.
"God Oliver, way to write the 101 of how not to get a Firebolt back."
Oliver regarded me with cold fury, eyes smouldering in slow-burning anger.
"Butt out Bell; this doesn't concern you." He kept his voice low, trying not to attract McGonagall's attention. So he blew me off. Just like that. Again. Second time today. Bloody hell, you wear a bit of mascara and people think they can walk right over you. I gave him a shot to his shoulders, shoving him against the wall.
"It's about the team; it bloody-well concerns me."
Oliver squared his shoulders and set his jaw. Oh-o. Oliver shoved me back hard. A lot harder than what was really necessary, to be honest. "It's a Captain thing. I'm Captain." This was the angriest I've seen Wood, and for once he actually looked like he could hurt someone. Antagonising him further would not be a good idea. Fortunately I'm not always full of good ideas. In fact, sometimes I have some real clunkers of ideas. Like goading Wood again.
"Perhaps not for much longer, by the sounds of it."
"Well, for now I'm the Captain, and I'll handle it my way."
"You were 'handling' it," here I hooked my fingers in quotation marks, "about as delicately as a five-year-old pitching a hissy-fit."
"Bell, if there's acting five years of age, it's you."
And then suddenly Oliver looked a lot taller, and the ground looked a lot closer. I glanced around, confused. Oliver looked horrified and amused at the same time. Let's just say, it was a weird face.
Now, I don't pretend to know everything, I especially don't understand what just happened to happened to, but what I do know is if Wood's pulling that face, I'm willing to bet my broomstick it means he's done something bad.
"Oliver Wood, I'm going to kill you!" I shrieked, trying to crush his throat. Only I didn't seem to be tall enough to reach, so I latched onto his leg instead.
And that's when McGonagall chose to open her door again.
"Good Lord," she muttered, shocked, hand at her throat. Oh-o. I swiftly let go of Wood's leg and took a step to the side. If McGonagall was shocked, this was bad. After all, The Weasely twins were in her House. This was the Chamber-of-Secrets-massive-serpent-slithering-around kind of bad
She seemed to recover herself, and her eyes narrowed at Wood. "Oliver Wood, so help me, if you maim, slaughter or endanger any more of your team-members, I will call this next match off." She ushered us both into her room and we took a seat. I struggled to climb onto the chair. When I finally scaled the chair and settled, my feet barely grazed the floor. Something was wrong here.
"What did he do?" I ask, but then the horrible truth dawned on me. My voice, my size. My mind flashed back to the last thing Oliver had said.
"Bell, if there's acting five years of age, it's you."
Wood had turned jinxed me back to a five-year old.
Oh yeah, Oliver is in the poo now. Oliver's perspective will be done later in the week, sorry: exam block tip-toeing up on me.
And, by the way: Ahem (does best drill sergeant impersonation in Oliver's voice) -
'C'mon guys – you weren't supposed to like Cally this fast. Where's your team support – you're meant to be going "boo-hiss; that painted hussy's muscling in on Katie's territory." Where's Katie's defence: are you going to lay down and take this?'
You better bloody not, that's all I'm going to say. Although secretly I'm glad I made the new character likable enough. To explain Oliver's somewhat promiscuous actions, Oliver Wood is more infatuated with Cally's skills at Quidditch than Cally herself, but yes, on some subliminal level how Cally plays reminds Wood of Bell, so he likes that aspect of Cally too. He also thinks Bell doesn't like him, so could Cally be the next best thing? Let's just say poor Oliver Wood is very confused right now. It's a good thing he'll never see her again, save for the 2nd Puddlemere trial, right?
Bwhahahaha