Life is no Longer a Game of Quidditch

by Zeft

Set during GoF. Oliver Wood has graduated from Hogwarts and now faces the trials of the working world. Playing Pro-Quidditch isn't a breeze, esp. with anti-social captains, dodgy contracts and Voldemort's impending return. *Chapter 3 now up!*

2. A brief Interlude

Life is no longer a game of Quidditch-Part 2: A brief interlude

Author: Zeft

Author Email: zeft_ml@hotmail.com

Category: Humor, Drama

Keywords: Oliver Wood, Weasleys.

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: GoF, QTTA

Summary: Oliver does a little shopping, finds some admirers and pays a visit to the Weasleys.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

***

A grey mist filtered lazily through the town of Two Bridges. It was almost dawn. The mist traveled up a hill and wound itself round a large house.

The house was old, and made of stone. It was dark and imposing no matter how much the owners tried to liven it up. The townsfolk stayed away from this house; it had bad vibes, they claimed.

The first rays of sunshine descended from the sky and shone onto the lawn behind the house. Nobody from town had seen this place; it was hidden from view by the three story house.

High in the sky sat a wizard on a broomstick. He was neatly positioned in front of three large hoops, a Quaffle tucked under one arm. The sunlight illuminated the figure, so that it was plain to see from the ground the look of grim determination on his face.

Oliver Wood's mouth was set in a hard line. He looked to the left, then let his light brown eyes sweep over the area. Satisfied, he let loose and zoomed towards the house, stopping at about midway. One mighty throw released the Quaffle high up, and it arched towards the house.

Oliver had just enough time to race back to the goalposts before the Quaffle changed its course. This was no ordinary Quaffle; Oliver had purchased it especially from Quality Quidditch Supplies during the summer after his 4th year, and when he heard that the shop was offering to charm any equipment for training purposes, he asked for one. This particular Quaffle, when released, was designed to zoom towards the nearest goalposts, in the same fashion as if it had been thrown by a chaser. It was very good to practice with, and Oliver never left home for long without it.

The Quaffle zoomed towards the goalposts erratically. Oliver traced its path steadily. As it came closer, he made a sudden decision. The right goalpost. He swerved in front of it. True to form, that was indeed where the quaffle was heading. Oliver grabbed it easily with one hand and shoved it roughly under one arm.

He sighed and let the Quaffle go. It was getting too predictable. Perhaps he ought to buy a new one, or get it enchanted again? Three years practicing with the same Quaffle had gotten rid of all the uncertainty, he could practically prophesize where it was heading to next.

But practice was practice.

Oliver retrieved the Quaffle again, and for the next hour, proceeded to train. He would fly to the middle of the yard, toss the Quaffle towards the house and fly back to the goalposts. When it came around, he stopped it from going past most of the time, except for when he momentarily lost his concentration from the boredom. Then he would start the process all over again.

That exercise did wonders for the arm muscles, and Oliver felt sure he could have been a Beater if he wanted too.

It was getting late in the early morning, and Oliver had to stop and descend. The Muggles that lived in the town would have woken by now, and it would be a sorry sight for him if any of them had witnessed his training. By nature, Oliver was not all that fond of rising early, but it was the only time he could possibly train without fear of unwanted spectators. Either early morning, or in the middle of the night, and the latter was out of the question, unless the quaffle and the posts were glow-in-the-dark.

Oliver touched down on the grass gently. Taking his wand from his pocket, he banished his broomstick back to his room, hoping that it didn't hit Emilia on the way. He conjured up a handkerchief, and wiped his sweat-soaked forehead. It looked to be a hot day, and already his shirt clung to his body in places.

The sun was beating down unmercifully, and Oliver took off his robes. Underneath he wore a collared shirt and loose pants, and that was still too stuffy. He dawdled his way back into the house.

Grabbing a cold bottle of butterbeer, he sat down in the kitchen. Twisting the lid off easily, he swung his head back and took a swig. In one breath, half the bottle was gone. A blissful cold chill went down his throat, and Oliver mopped his brow again. Most of the sweat was gone, but his cheeks were still rather flushed from the adrenaline rush.

The rest of the bottle was finished off in a more controlled fashion. Oliver slouched in his chair and sipped his drink slowly. His breathing slowed down, and it didn't seem quite so hot anymore. It could have been the fact he was out of the sun, though. The kitchen was located at the back of the house, where the insulation was thickest. There were also several large trees on either side, and they shielded the kitchen from the extremes of the weather.

A couple more sips, and the bottle was empty. Oliver knew that Emilia frowned upon drinking anything even *mildly* alcoholic after such vigorous exercise, so he disposed of the evidence thoroughly by tossing it into a garbage bag by the stove, and levitating the whole bag of rubbish out into the large trashcan at the back of the garden. Emilia would never find out.

Oliver got up and pushed the chair back under the table. Usually he would not have bothered, but there was a little pang in his chest that told him he shouldn't have trained that morning, and subsequently he felt that he should destroy all evidence that he did.

Oliver felt much too hot and alive to go back to bed, so he wandered absentmindedly into the living room. Plonking himself down on the sofa next to the coffee table, he subconsciously undid the top two buttons of his shirt and picked up the latest copy of the '1993 Diagon Alley Finance Statement.' It was thin yet substantial, and was perfect for fanning himself off with.

After a few minutes Emilia wandered down from her room.

'Up so early?' She yawned. 'It's the weekend.'

Oliver shrugged. 'I'm used to it. I'm going out after breakfast.'

Emilia looked more awake now. She rubbed her eyes and blinked. 'Where to?'

'Diagon Alley. I'm meeting some friends.'

'Could you drop something off for me then?' Without waiting for an answer, Emilia walked over to a chest of drawers. She bent over and pulled out the bottom drawer, Oliver could hear the shuffling of papers.

'Here,' she straightened up and turned back to Oliver, 'drop this off.'

Oliver took the bulky package from Emilia. It was a large rectangular box, wrapped up in brown mouldy paper. 'What's in it?' he asked, and shook the box.

'I can't remember,' Emilia admitted. 'Odds and ends, I guess. Bunch of documents, mementos, God-knows-what.'

'Is it valuable?' Oliver stood up and shoved the box under one arm. He wanted to know how much care he'd need to take.

'If that means that you are going to throw it round the place, then the answer is yes.' Oliver rolled his eyes. Emilia continued, 'Seriously, do take care of it, will you? Treat it as something precious.'

Oliver stood up and placed his right arm over his chest, in a mock pledge of allegiance. 'I'll pretend it's the last antique Oakshaft 79 in existence. That good enough for you?'

'Perfectly, but be back by five.'

'I'll be off,' Oliver said, then Disapparated.

Diagon Alley was crawling with visitors. It must be discount day today, Oliver thought, walking down towards Gringotts with Emilia's box under his arm. He was a frequent shopper at the Alley, and yet had never seen a crowd of this magnitude before. The stores were literally packed, café tables jammed with families, little children and parents, bags of products shoved under.

Up ahead, the great big Gringotts bank loomed. Its whiteness stood out from the other shops that looked almost dingy in comparison.

Oliver strode through the first set of doors, and onto the second. The silver doors were engraved with a familiar poem, warning thieves to beware of stealing from this bank.

The doors led to a large hall. Oliver's shoes squeaked on the marble floor. Hundreds of goblins sat on tall schools, serving their wizard patrons. Oliver made for an empty counter in a corner no one seemed to have noticed yet.

'Morning. What can I do for you?' An elderly goblin peered at Oliver closely.

'I'd like to deposit this,' Oliver took out the parcel from under his arm and placed it on the counter-top, 'into Ms. Wood's safe.'

The goblin looked down at something Oliver couldn't see. A big record book, by the sound of the rustling pages. He frowned, then looked up at Oliver again.

'We have 49 "Wood's" registered here. Could you be more specific…?'

'Yes yes, of course. Ms. Wood, the one that lives in Devon?' Oliver said, wishing he had made it clearer earlier. He leaned onto the parcel, trying to see what the goblin was doing.

'Saltram House, if that helps,' he said, after a short silence. The goblin nodded. 'Leave it here, we'll see to it. Unless you want to ride down to her vault-'

'No, that's okay.' Oliver said hastily. His sister's vault was way down below, and Gringott's carts weren't famed for their comfort.

A short while later, Oliver stepped into the bright sunshine, his pockets rattling with coins. It wasn't much, but there would always be ways to spend money.

Oliver knew that he would probably need some new dress robes. His old ones were faded, and were much too small, seeing as the last time he used them was in 5th year.

As soon as Oliver stepped into Madam Malkin's, the old witch greeted him herself.

'Hello dearie, how may we help you?' She asked, bustling over.

'New robes,' Oliver mumbled. Madam Malkin led him over to the back of the shop, where a row of stools stood.

'Stand up there, while I take your measurements. It won't take a minute.' She smiled reassuringly.

Oliver thought it was a bit pointless standing on top of the stool. He was already tall, and the footstool made him even taller. Madam Malkin didn't seem to notice. She whisked out her tape measure, and it started to take down figures.

'What colour would you like?' Madam Malkin asked, a few needles stuck in her mouth. 'Dark blue looks good on you, or perhaps a nice black.'

'Blue will do. Too much black reminds me of Snape.' Oliver shuddered.

'Who's Snape?' Madam Malkin asked, as she fetched the robes.

'The Potions Master at Hogwarts. He's horrible. He gave me a detention where I had to scrub all the school cauldrons clean.'

'What did you do?'

'I accidentally chucked a quaffle at the back of his head.'

Unless Oliver's eyes were deceiving him, he saw Madam Malkin suppress a smile before saying, 'Tut tut. You deserved it, then.'

'No, I didn't.' Oliver protested. 'It didn't even hit him. It just whooshed past his head and hit Warrington instead.'

'One of the students?'

Oliver nodded. It was quite a memorable incident. 'A Slytherin. It was unfair, I had to endure his taunts that I couldn't throw straight.'

'Well, I'm sure those accusations were unfounded.' She smiled and gestured for Oliver to follow her into another room.

'Now, what style would you like? We've got plenty of dark blue ones.'

'Er…' Oliver took a good look around the room. Hanging up in sets, were a lot of dress robes. Every size, colour and style imaginable, and some quite unbelievable. The room looked too big to be real. 'What's the difference?'

'Well, it's really a matter of opinion,' Madam Malkin said. 'What kind does your girlfriend like?'

'If I had a girlfriend, I would've brought her along. This stuff is better left to the girls.'

Madam Malkin looked surprised. 'A man like you with no girlfriend? I wonder where all the young witches have gone.'

Oliver overlooked the compliment. He moved closer to see the dress robes better, though it didn't help much. While sorting through a few absentmindedly he muttered, 'I haven't got time for a girlfriend.'

'No time for a girlfriend?' Madam Malkin looked shocked. 'What do you do for a living?'

Oliver felt a blush appear. Truth be told, he didn't have a paying job yet. Percy had one at the Ministry, and Seth had gone off to Scotland do odd jobs for a wizard company. He was counting on getting a place in Puddlemere United, but nothing was certain yet. Oliver had enough experience to know that first impressions count, and it would all come down to what happens on the day of the trial.

Madam Malkin's question also unearthed a worry Oliver had forgotten until now. Chaser was usually the most attractive position on a Quidditch team. Keepers had to put their body on the line, Seekers needed too much talent, and not many people had the strength to fly around and knock bludgers for a whole game.

The problem with that was that although Marcus Flint's specialty was Chaser, Oliver knew he could play Keeper if he thought the sheer number of Chaser applicants would hamper his chances. Marcus Flint may lack the brains to do schoolwork, but he have a few cells, and was just the type of person who would steal someone else's position.

'I play Quidditch,' Oliver mumbled, hoping Madam Malkin wouldn't hear him and let the matter drop.

'A Quidditch player? Oh I daresay that's very attractive,' she said, giving her approval. 'You'll find yourself some pretty fans in no time.'

'Great,' Oliver said automatically. He had moved onto another rack of robes when a bell chimed.

'Another customer, I'll see to them, while you keep looking, all right luv?' Madam Malkin said, then rushed off.

She came back almost immediately with a group of girls in tow. Oliver moved away, to give them space. He knew that girls like to shop, and should be avoided at all costs when they are doing so.

Strangely however, they didn't start attacking the racks. Nor did they have a conference about which colours were good and which colours were to be avoided at all costs. Instead they fixed their attention onto him.

'Is he the Quidditch player?' One of them asked Madam Malkin.

'Yes,' replied Madam Malkin. 'He needs some fashion advice.'

'W-what?'

All at once the girls started talking.

'I say dark blue.'

'No, black.'

'Are you really a Quidditch player?'

'Wow, I haven't seen you around here before.'

'What's your name?'

'Don't mind them luv, since you couldn't decide, I asked them to help you.'

Oliver slid a few inches away from the group. They had now started to attack the racks, and left him alone for a bit. However, it seemed like no time at all when the most elegant one, (Oliver assumed she was their leader), stepped forward with one pair of dark red robes.

'Here,' she thrust the clothes into his arms. 'Go into the change rooms, put these on and then come out and show us.'

Outnumbered seven-eight, including Madam Malkin to one, Oliver had no choice but to obey. He felt that there would be serious consequences if he didn't.

Oliver stepped into the change rooms, whipped the robes on as fast as he could then stepped out again.

The girls came over to give their opinion. They stared at him for a bit, Oliver felt his cheeks reddening.

'Turn around.'

He obeyed.

After what seemed like ages, they gave their verdict.

'Nah, different colour.'

Although the girls were only doing shopping, Oliver had to marvel at their efficiency. As soon as one outfit was rejected, another one was offered straight away. He was now in the change room, just slipping on the fourth pair of robes.

Oliver stepped out, and trudged over the waiting group.

'Oooh…very nice.' One girl voiced her approval.

'I believe we have a winner,' another girl said, smiling.

'Good, are we all satisfied?' Oliver said, exasperated. All he needed now was for a disagreement to spring up, and it'll be another 10 minutes in here, at least. It was past noon, and Oliver's stomach was rumbling.

'No, it's perfect.'

Five minutes later, Oliver paid for his purchase, and shoving the bag under his arm, strode out of Madam Malkin's very quickly in the hopes that the girls wouldn't follow.

No such luck, in seconds they had caught up with him.

'It was very good of you, letting us help.' One girl said, almost running to keep up with Oliver.

'mn-hm,' he mumbled, not having anything useful to say.

'I know, come and have lunch with us-' Oliver's ears pricked up at the mention of food. '-We'll treat.'

He stopped abruptly, weighing up his chances. Going would mean he would also have to listen and talk. Not going would mean he would miss out on free food. It was a tough decision.

'Show me the way,' he grinned. The girls were delighted.

As soon as they were all comfortably seated in a booth, (Oliver was squashed in the middle), the girls started to introduce themselves as they waited for the food.

'-I'm Michelle Holly, I work at Flourish and Blotts-'

'-The name's Indigo, I'm studying at Ana Gio, it's a famous fashion house-'

'-Do you come here often? I live around here, I'm Sarah-'

'My name's Gem, I'm surprised I haven't seen you around-'

'-Quidditch eh? Which team are you on?'

Oliver was beginning to think it wasn't such a good decision after all. He nodded mutely at most questions.

'Puddlemere,' he answered.

'Ooh!' squealed Sarah. 'That's my favourite team!'

'I just love a Quidditch player,' Gem declared. 'It's such a dangerous job. Which position do you play, Oliver?'

Oliver didn't once remember mentioning his name, but he supposed Madam Malkin must have told them when she was telling them about his dilemma.

'Keeper. It's the most interesting position, I get to do everything.'

'I thought the Chasers did everything.'

'Nope, Keepers do much more work. Trust me, I was Gryffindor Captain for 4 years.'

Indigo, Michelle and Gem looked suitably impressed at this.

'Can you introduce me to anyone on that team?' Sarah purred.

'Er…I suppose Fred and George, I know where they are in the holidays, no one knows where Harry Potter lives-'

'Did you say Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?' asked Sarah, who looked starstruck.

'Of course I did. He's my star Seeker. Better than Charlie Weasley.'

'Ooohh…' was the general reply.

'I remember Charlie,' Sarah said dreamily. 'He was a Gryffindor hero.'

Pretty soon afterward the food arrived. Oliver ate in silence, but the girls chatted away. Having his head bent down towards his plate, Oliver did not notice Michelle trying to catch his eye.

'Oh my gosh!' Sarah exclaimed, in the middle of her salad. Everyone looked up. Seeing everybody's blank stares, she added, 'There's a sale down at the Lower End. I came all the way down from Devon, no way am I going to miss this!' She shoved the last few spoonfuls of mashed potato into her mouth, then stood up. 'Who's with me?'

A few girls left with Sarah, after dishing out their portion of the bill. Only Michelle and Indigo were left. They had all finished eating, and the dishes were cleared away.

'So, you did say Keeper was the position with the most work, but I don't believe you. Explain?' asked Indigo, feigning a look of interest.

'It's quite simple really. The Chasers might look like they do all the work, but it's not true. There's only one Quaffle between the three players. Keepers, have to defend all three goals by themselves.'

'But Chasers fly up and down the pitch, that takes energy, doesn't it?' argued Indigo.

'Flying for long distances is less tiring than trying to do a several complete turns in a few seconds.'

'You must be quite good, I've never seen much Quidditch myself.'

'It's a really good game, you should watch more of it.' Oliver said enthusiastically. Maybe these girls weren't so bad to talk to after all. 'If you want to catch Quidditch at its best, there's no better game to watch than the World Cup final.'

'When's that on?'

'In about three weeks, my family's got tickets.'

'It's pity I haven't got tickets. The World Cup sounds interesting.' Indigo said, choosing her words very carefully.

'The World Cup is gonna be one hell of a game. Ireland vs. Bulgaria. Bulgaria has arguably the best Seeker in the word, Krum, but no Keeper's a match for the Irish Chasers. It'll be worth every knut.'

'Well since a guy like you says so, I have no choice but to accept it as the truth.' Said Indigo coyly. Michelle felt that she needed to say something at this point.

'I think it's wonderful that England is hosting the Cup this year. They always hold it in some obscure country, where no one knows how to speak the language. Last time it was in Egypt, and it was boiling hot.'

Oliver turned his attention back to Michelle, quite surprised that she went to the last World Cup final. The girls he knew weren't into that sort of thing, not extensively, anyway.

'You went to the last Cup final?' asked Oliver. Michelle nodded. 'Was it as good as they described it on the Wireless?'

'Better.'

Oliver felt a pang of envy. Due to parental reasons, he missed out on seeing the 1990 Cup final. His parents were overseas on a business trip, and they wouldn't let him go all the way to Egypt by himself.

'No way I'm missing this one. I've got six prime tickets.'

'After seeing the last one, I wouldn't miss one for the world.' Michelle agreed. They both shared a smile.

Indigo was watching Michelle and Oliver with an increasing sour look on her face. It was time to use her charm again.

'Oh Oliver, who do you reckon will win?' She said sweetly, but not sweet enough to cause cavities.

'I don't know. It's good that I can't tell. If everyone can tell who will win, there's no suspense, no pressure.'

'Very true,' Indigo agreed. She stretched, showing off her body. 'I'd love to watch a game up close, see what's so good about it. It'll be nice to try something new…'

This did the trick.

'Say, why don't you come to the World Cup with me? I've got a spare ticket.'

Indigo pretended to look surprised, then extremely grateful. 'Really? You're inviting me to the World Cup? Oh, that's so nice!'

Oliver shrugged. 'No big deal. You can come to my house the night before, we have to leave early.'

Indigo looked as though all her dreams have come true. She positively glowed. Michelle, on the other hand, wasn't looking as good.

'It's getting late, I have to leave now,' she said.

'I'll come with you,' said Indigo hastily.

After a quick exchange of whereabouts, Michelle left with Indigo in tow.

With a full stomach, Oliver was more content to wander up and down Diagon Alley. Michelle and Indigo had disappeared, presumably to join their friends.

Walking up towards The Leaky Cauldron, Oliver saw a very familiar redhead. Percy Weasley was coming in from the opposite direction. Arms full of books, he had not caught sight of Oliver yet.

'Hello Percy.'

Percy looked around, trying to see over his books. 'Oliver?' He squinted.

'Yep. You look like you need a hand.' Oliver said, eyeing Percy's armload of books.

'Really? Thanks very much, here just take the top four-' Oliver took the top pile of parchment folders. They were a lot heavier than they looked.

'Where are you headed to?' He asked Percy.

'Home actually,' Percy answered. His glasses were beginning to slide off from all the sweat, so he shuffled sideways and dumped his load down on a nearby café table.

'Whew, that's better.' Percy said, re-adjusting his glasses. 'I've been to the Ministry this morning. Mr Crouch has given me an article to write. I've gotten the relevent files, and some sheets of parchment to write on.'

'How are you gonna get all this stuff home?' asked Oliver, mystified. Percy had a stack of files as high as his knee, a box of parchment and several books. 'I can help if you want.'

'No, that won't be neces--wait a minute, why don't you come for a visit?'

'To your place?' Percy nodded.

'You could help me get this home, and come have a chat at the same time. All my brothers are home at the moment.'

Oliver considered this. He had told Emilia he'd be home for dinner, but a visit couldn't take that long.

***

The Weasley house was the same as Oliver remembered it. Small, yet it gave a sense of comfort and warmth. All nine of the Weasleys were at home.

Oliver helped Percy dump his stuff in his room, then went back downstairs again, passing Charlie in the hallway. Oliver accidently banged against a bedroom door.

'Is that you Fred? I told you not to disturb me!' Came a female voice. The door opened, and Ginny Weasley poked her head out.

'Fred-' she said, then looked up. '-oh, wait, you're not Fred…' she trailed off, blushed then shut the door again.

Oliver ran into Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen.

'Oliver! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here?'

'Just a visit.'

'How is your sister?'

'She's fine.'

At that moment, Fred and George bounded in from the backyard. They stopped when they caught sight of Oliver.

'You aren't here to tell us what you'll do to us if Gryffindor doesn't win the Cup this year, are you?' asked George.

Fred butted in. 'If you are, don't worry, we've got it covered. Let's see-'

'-Quidditch practice at 4am in the morning-'

'-Top secret tactics, no talking to the other team on pain of death-'

'-Practice goes on come thunderstorms, blizzards or detention-'

'-And most importantly, if you happen to fall off, make sure it's after Harry's caught the Snitch.'

'Any we missed?'

'Yes, you forgot that you must, absolutely must, learn as much about the other team as possible,' answered Oliver automatically. 'How could you forget? It's what I say at the beginning of every season.'

Fred and George just stared, then burst out laughing.

'Shame on us,' said George, chuckling, 'how could we have forgotten that?'

'We don't deserve to be on the team,' said Fred with a straight face, 'we should be hexed, made Prefects-'

'-and forced to transfer to Slytherin.'

'Have you named a Captain yet?' asked Oliver. He was anxious to find out who would lead the team this year. Now that Gryffindor had the win they deserved, they couldn't afford to get lazy, or else Slytherin would grab the Cup again.

'Dunno, we'll figure it out later,' shrugged George. 'It's early days yet.'

Before Oliver could say something, Fred added, 'Don't worry, we like our name on that cup, we're not about to let Slytherin take it again.'

'Good.'

A snap came from outside. George poked his head out the door.

'Oh, so that's what happens when you add eye of toad to some crushed beetles.' A horrible aroma wafted in through the windows. Oliver held his breath as they trooped outside to look at the overturned cauldron. Ron, who flying was on his broomstick, skimmed over and dropped down to take a look.

'Funny, it wasn't supposed to be fluroscent pink,' Fred observed, picking up a stick. He cautiously poked a bit of the gooey pink liquid. 'Snape said it would be clear, like water.'

'Shows what Snape knows,' added George.

'Nah, you must have put too many eyes in.' Fred scooped up a glob of the pink stuff. Everyone stepped back in unison. 'What a waste of eyes.' He sniffed at it. 'Doesn't smell too bad, don't suppose we could test it on anyone?'

'I'm not touching it!' Oliver and Ron said in unison, before looking at each other in surprise.

Ever since he let Fred and George onto his Quidditch team, Oliver had been discreetly subjected to a variety of the twins's jokes. Over time, he had learnt to grow wary, and now refused to eat anything they offered him. He should have guessed that Ron would have the same troubles.

'Keep your britches on,' said Fred. 'It's harmless.'

'That's what you said the time you fed me an Acid Pop,' said Ron.

'And the time you gave me a toffee that turned my hair red and gold,' added Oliver. 'It took days to fade away.'

'That was the day before Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw,' George reminded. 'We felt that you, as team captain, should set an example in patriotism.'

'By dying my hair in Gryffindor colours?'

The twins shrugged. 'It wasn't that bad,' said Fred. 'We would have done the same, but Snape found out what we were up to, and destroyed the potion before we had time to bottle some more.' Oliver gave them both a 'yeah right,' look.

'It's true,' said George. 'We got a detention for that.'

'No you didn't.'

'Course we did. We were late for training, and then you yelled at us for missing such an important session.'

'Oh yes! I remember now!' Oliver said. 'That was the training just before our most important match of the season, wasn't it?'

'Yep. You yelled at us quite a bit, I remember.'

'Served you right. What did I make absolutely clear? No skipping out on training, unless you have an extremely good reason like a cracked skull, or worse.'

Fred shrugged. 'Lighten up, Oliver. That was years back, and we still won.'

'Not by much! It was a very close shave! 120-160! That's appalling.'

'You're one of those people with a selective photographic memory, aren't you?' remarked George.

Oliver was taken aback, and lost some of his steam. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, when you want to remember something, you can, down to the last detail. But you've got no idea of anything else.'

'And the problem with that is…?'

George looked at Oliver, then shook his head. 'Nevermind.'

'I suppose we should clean this up,' Fred said, directing everyone's attention to the task at hand. The mess had started to spread, turning every tuft of grass in its path bright pink.

'I don't see why you can't leave it,' said George. 'Nothing wrong with pink grass, variety's good for the soul, you know.' He turned back to Oliver. 'You'll be staying for dinner, right?'

Oliver shook his head. 'I can't. Got to get back home soon.'

'Well, we'll accompany you to the door. It's not everyday that a Quidditch Cup winning Captain comes to visit.' Said Fred.

'What about the mess?' Ron reminded. He bent down to take a closer look, then changed his mind halfway and stepped away from it instead.

'Leave it here,' Fred dismissed with a wave. 'Guests come first.' He grabbed Oliver's shoulder and led him back into the house, with George and Ron in tow.

'Where're you going boys?' asked Mrs. Weasley. 'What's the-Merlin's beard, is that pink grass?'

'No, not at all Mum, it's just a trick of light,' answered Fred cheerily. 'Isn't that right Ron, George?'

'Absolutely,' replied Ron and George in unison. 'You must be seeing things mum,' added George. 'I suspect the gnomes are up to something. Probably dying their clothes pink.'

Mrs Weasley gave her sons a suspicious look while tossing some vegetables in a pan. They turned over automatically.

'Staying for dinner, dear?' She asked Oliver kindly.

'No, I'm going just now. Fred and George are seeing me to the door.'

'George!' Mrs Weasley said, exasperated. 'It's almost like you wanted him to leave.'

'No, we didn't. He decided to leave all by himself. We had no hand in it. Ain't that right, Oliver?'

Oliver nodded. 'I really must go-'

'-and besides,' George continued, interrupting Oliver, 'why do you always call out my name? You never call out Fred.'

'Are you sure you can't stay, Oliver?' asked Mrs. Weasley, ignoring her son. 'It's been quite a while since you last came.'

Oliver thought about it. Just how ticked off would Emilia be if he didn't show up?

'I don't know-'

'In that case, we'll make up your mind for you. You're staying.' George said firmly. He turned Oliver towards the kitchen table, drew up a chair and told him to sit down.

'George, let the poor boy make up his own mind.'

George ignored his mother. He had a better idea.

'I hear BallyCastle is going to cream Puddlemere next time they meet,' he said smugly.

'No way!' Oliver shook his head violently. 'You've got to be joking George. They slipped to 4th on the ladder last season. It's not happening.' Oliver squared his jaw determinedly.

George merely shrugged, and sat down. Fred and Ron did the same. 'You can't deny that Craig Moore is a brilliant Beater, no?'

Oliver sat down with a thump. He didn't see what Craig Moore had to do with this, even though he was a brilliant Beater. 'Brilliant's a bit weak. I'd go with 'brand spanking fantastic', myself.' None of the three Weasley boys said anything, so he added, 'How does this mean BallyCastle will whomp Puddlemere?'

'Well, seeing as dear old Craig's transferring to BallyCastle…'

Oliver was so stunned that the information didn't register in his brain immediately. He sat, unblinking for a few seconds.

'You're lying,' Oliver said after a bit. He glared at the twins.

'Suit yourself,' said George calmly, and with absolute sincerity, 'just don't complain when Puddlemere gets whipped.'

Now Oliver was deadly curious. He was dying to know whether the news was true or not. You could never tell with Fred and George. He didn't suppose he would find an article in the Daily Prophet; it was mainly a broadsheet that entrepreneurs and Ministry workers read. All high-brow stuff. Emilia had a subscription.

'I don't suppose you would have a copy of League Guide lying around, would you?'

Fred summoned one from the living room. It flew onto the table neatly. The four boys crowded around it.

'Here, it even says on the cover-' George pointed out the picture of Craig Moore, underneath, in glittering words was written: Moore's change of heart.

Oliver took the magazine from George's hands, flipped to the appropriate page, and started reading.

'An announcement made today by Puddlemere United Beater Craig Moore has shocked fans all around Britain. The 28 year old Quidditch player, dubbed one of England's finest, has decide that he would play his last few seasons for BallyCastle Bats, a North Ireland team.

'Puddlemere fans were outraged-Too right!-some choosing to voice there protests outside the BallyCastle headquarters. At midday, Moore stepped out and greeted his ex-supporters. Several wizards tried to throw hexes while he was answering questions, and had to be taken away by Ministry officials.

'It is not clear what caused this sudden switch, with some saying money and publicity was involved. "I don't know how Moore's got a right to complain if it's about his treatment at Puddlemere,' remarked one disgruntled fan. 'Can't have anything to do with publicity, he's [Craig] been on every bloody magazine cover since the grand final!"

'Others say it was because of disagreements between the Captain and the President that forced his hand.

'Moore refused to say just how much BallyCastle was paying him, though insisting that money was not the cause of his defection. "I simply wanted my training grounds to be closer to where I live," insisted the Irish player, "I have the upmost respect for Avalon [Puddlemere Captain], but I feel his 'young blood' policy is a bit too much."

Avalon could not be reached for comment. Whether this will spell the end of Craig Moore's career remains to be seen. One thing is certain, however, the first match of the '94 season is a must-see. Puddlemere vs. BallyCastle, October 15th."'

Oliver closed the magazine roughly. 'What a load of rot,' he said.

'Rot it may be, but it's definitely true.' George pointed out. 'League Guide does not gossip-hey, where're you going?'

'Home,' Oliver answered.

'What, you're not letting us accompany you to the door?'

'I'll Apparate,' replied Oliver. He took his wand out of his pocket. 'By the way, you've got some funny looking creatures in your yard.'

The last thing he saw before Disapparating was the sight of George, Fred and Ron bending over what looked like biscuits, only with legs.

***

Home, Oliver thought as his feet made the familiar thud on the hall tiles. He opened his eyes, and looked around. The grandfather clock by the mantle piece had just struck 7pm, the dark mahogany wood a stark contrast to the sky blue wallpaper.

He strode down the hallway quietly, the house was silent as a ghost. A little noise made him jump.

'Just where have you been?' demanded Emilia. She stood at the top of the stairs, wearing her bathrobe and bedroom slippers. She didn't look too pleased.

***

A/N: Special thanks to Gemini and WinterStorms, the former for her fabulous beta-reading, and the latter for her nagging. Couldn't have done it without you guys.

***

Chapter is finished.