A/N: For anyone wondering this fic is based on a match I found on the Wikia page of Puddlemere, under the 1998-1999 section ( wiki/Puddlemere_United). Basically, I was looking for any info on what teams had any rivalries with Puddlemere, but there weren't a lot of specifics except for this one match, so I made do with this.

IWSC Season 3 Round 6 - School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Theme: Wartime Struggles, Main Prompt: (character) Oliver Wood, Additional Prompt: (emotion) admiration

Word count: 1545

The match was going smoothly, or so Oliver had thought. Of course, the occasional booing was ever so present, especially when Wilda was carrying the Quaffle, but it had seemed like the security measures had worked. What more, not only was Puddlemere leading by quite the margin, but Oliver was seemingly having the match of his life. The crowd's cheers truly elevated him, it had seemed.

That was, for the first hour or so of the game.

"It's the end of the Harpies' timeout!" the announcer's voice boomed across the stadium at Ilkley Moor. "After another wondrous block from Oliver Wood, it's time for Puddlemere to initiate another attack. They are currently leading 110–30, in big part thanks to the outstanding manoeuvres of their newly acquired Chaser, Wilda Griffiths. Wood is scanning the field, seemingly looking for an opening, but… What's that?"

The announcer went silent for a second. Oliver narrowed his eyes, his irises darting back and forth across the Quidditch pitch, looking for Wilda, who was nowhere to be found. He was confused; according to the playbook, she was supposed to be up ahead on the left field while Trevor flanked from the right, but she wasn't there. In fact, she wasn't on the right either, not in the centre. She was not on the pitch at all.

The announcer continued, his pitch higher by a good octave or so. "Griffiths is not on the field! What happened?"

Several things happened next, as Oliver tightened his grasp on the Quaffle. About a dozen or so colourful spells shot across the pitch, coming from the Harpies' stands; at the same time, a flurry of Puddlemere fans hopped over the fences and stormed across the field to retaliate, countering the rabid Harpies supporters with their own jinxes and curses. Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver also saw Benjy Williams zooming off to the far end of the pitch, seemingly in a hurry, while the rest of the players, Puddlemere and Holyhead alike, sat still on their brooms, occasionally looking at one another and exchanging confused glances, headshakes, or shrugs.

Still holding the Quaffle for dear life, Oliver spotted the referee on the pitch. Unsure what else he was supposed to do, he steered his broom downwards and landed on the grass next to the man, handing him the odd-shaped, bright red ball without a word. The referee nodded, opening his mouth to say something—perhaps a 'thank you,' though Oliver would never learn exactly what—when a witch, clad in dark green—a Harpies fan—tackled him to the ground before letting out a cackle. Before she could move on to Oliver, though, a jet of bright red hit her in the back, and she toppled over, stunned.

For a second, Oliver stood still, processing what just happened. He eyed the referee, nursing his head from the fall, then he looked up, his eyes glazing over as he watched the scene unfold. There were numerous raging duels on the pitch, Puddlemere and Holyhead fans facing off against each other, blinded by rage.

Bang, came a sound from somewhere in the distance, followed by an explosion of debris that knocked a few wizards and witches back. On the Puddlemere stands, Oliver noticed two Harpies supporters as they lit a fire and cheered, jeering on the group of brown-clad matchgoers that had lifted their wands at them.

For a fleeting second, Oliver felt empty, like his body didn't belong to him. He watched the destruction with amazement, almost a sort of sick admiration as his heart kept pounding in his chest, blood rushing into his ears. In a way, it was remarkable, and in that same way, Oliver could sympathise with the Harpies fans. After all, a star player like Wilda, getting transferred so suddenly, and for such a large sum of money? He would have been shaken too.

Yet… It was just that. A transfer. Yes, an esteemed transfer, and a rather high-profile Chaser, too, but still, just a transfer. It happened all the time in professional Quidditch.

He did not have time to ponder for too long, however, as a pair of hands pushed him forward. Oliver lost his balance and toppled onto the green, face down, unable to turn back to see who his assailant had been. From above came an angry shout, "That's what you get, you dirty cheats!"

Then, his attacker kicked Oliver in the side for good measure. Oliver, raising his head somewhat, could just about make out the pair of boots making their way away from him before he had to close his eyes again as his head began throbbing.

He lay on the grass for what must have been minutes, being stomped on every now and again, all the while wondering what he had done wrong to deserve this.

"Oliver," came a soft voice from beside him, just as Oliver was about to drift off. Contorting his face, Oliver squinted, his hazy vision just about making out a mass of cherry red hair.

"Wilda?" he said.

"Come," the Chaser said, grabbing Oliver by the wrist and helping him stand. A stabbing pain shot through Oliver's knee as he got to his feet, his mind still foggy from the fall. Wilda helped him onto her broomstick, and before long the two of them were in the air again, with Oliver holding onto the witch for dear life, for fear of falling off.

Wilda did not say a word until they landed a few minutes later, in some sort of suburban area that Oliver did not recognise.

"Where are we?" Oliver asked as he climbed off the broom, limping to the nearest bench that he could plop himself down on.

"The outskirts of Keighley," Wilda said. She did not sit down next to Oliver; instead, she leaned on her broom, her eyes gazing off somewhere into the distance. "I always find it funny how nobody ever bothers to come into town after matches; it's quite a lovely place, really."

Oliver stared at her for a moment, considering her words.

"Besides," she continued. "It's quiet. I like coming here to think."

"About?" Oliver asked, his mind not straight enough to consider whether he sounded rude or not.

"Whatever's on my mind." Wilda shrugged. "The transfer, mostly." She stayed silent for a second before continuing. "You know, it's been quite difficult. For me personally, that is."

"I can imagine why," Oliver said. "The Harpies fans seemed furious today."

"That's not even half of it." Wilda sighed before reaching for Oliver's chin, moving it so as to force the brunette to lock gazes with her. "I've been getting threats from Harpies fans since the transfer. They're calling me a 'traitor.' Everyone…" she trailed off, averting her gaze for a second. "Even the Puddlemere side is blaming me for the hostility."

Wilda let go of Oliver's chin, biting her lip as she went back to leaning on her broom. "Sorry. You must be shaken enough already, what's with being beaten up so badly earlier."

Oliver reached out to grab Wilda's wrist, pulling her down onto the bench so that she sat next to him. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I'm just surprised you're telling me this."

"I trust you." Wilda shrugged. "You always seemed helpful, like when you first introduced me to the team, or when you helped me get my kit back from those gnomes," she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.

"What happened?" Oliver asked. "During the match, I mean. Where did you go?"

"I went back to the changing room while the Harpies had that timeout. I just couldn't bear it, the jeers and boos," Wilda explained. "I sat there for a few minutes, just thinking things over. Then, I heard the riot. I didn't think much of it first, but there was the bang, and then the team came back, so I asked them what had happened, but you weren't there, so I got worried, and I went looking, and then I saw you, lying on the pitch, and I thought…"

Oliver raised his hand, halting Wilda in her rant.

"Sorry," she said, hanging her head.

Oliver placed a hand on her shoulder, tilting his head so he could look her in the eyes. "Hey," he said. Wilda raised her head back up, a single tear glistening in the corner of her right eye. "Thanks for helping me out there."

Wilda's lips curled into another small smile.

"You know," Oliver continued. "I really look up to you. You're one of the best Chasers around, yes, but you're also a strong person, stronger than I am. Being able to stand up from failures, constantly being in good form, having that headstrong attitude… I've always respected you for that. And you know, this is no different." Oliver paused for a second. "It's a lot, but it'll get better. If I've learned anything from the past few years, it's that it always gets better."

The pair stayed silent for a few minutes, Wilda lost in her thoughts and Oliver keeping his gaze trained on the witch's face.

"Perhaps," she said finally, glancing at Oliver for a moment. "So, what say we go on a walk? I'll show you my favourite park in Keighley."