It was dinner time up at the castle, and everyone was inside eating and
trying to keep warm: although it was still early September, the weather was
already getting quite chilly, and students and teachers alike weren't keen
on staying outside in the cold evening air. Not even Hagrid could be seen
out on the grounds. One person alone stood on the Quidditch field, and
stood quite still; as a matter of fact, if it weren't for the white fog
that came out of his nose in short, sharp breaths, you might have thought
he was made of stone.
Oliver Wood stood right in the middle of the field, his hands on his hips, his eyes focused on some point across the ground, looking petrified and wearing a glowering expression that would have alarmed even the Weasley twins. His broomstick lay still at his feet, as did the wooden crate from which the Bludgers were trying to free themselves. Wood didn't so much as bat an eye lid when the two ferocious balls nearly succeeded in their attempt, knocking the crate over to the side. He just stood there, motionless, his glare getting more fierce every second. He was still wearing his Quidditch robes, and they were in a sad state indeed: the left sleeve was torn, and the whole of the lower part, from the hem to the knees, had been burned.
An owl swooped down right towards Oliver and brushed the top of his head. At this, Wood seemed to wake up suddenly from his torpor and burst out, rather like a Howler that's been left unopened for too long. He beat his arms in the air frantically, trying to get at the perplexed owl, and yelling himself hoarse for a good five minutes, until he realised the owl was well out of reach and had been so for quite a while. He then let out an enraged cry and sank back into his indolent posture, sitting cross-legged on the wet ground, his head in his hands. A most uncaptainish position, he thought bitterly, but at the moment, it is true, he was more than distressed. Practices were not going well. He didn't understand: he just couldn't believe his team's lack of enthusiasm and cooperation.
He recalled their first practice two weeks ago: all he'd done was announce that they would be under intensive training this year, and Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet had all started shrieking in protest, Harry Potter had simply rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, and the Weasley twins had threatened to go on strike. Of course, at first, Oliver had thought it was only the back-to-school pressure that had led to such a reaction. He gave a hollow laugh: he was proved wrong only one week later, when Fred and George really did come down to the field brandishing banners that flashed in bright orange and red:
Gryffindor Quidditch Team Protesting Against Overly Intensive and Nastily Exhausting Practices - we demand at least five hours of actual rest a day AND the time to both attend classes and eat -
So, they thought three hours of training six days a week was too much, did they? They thought classes were more important than Quidditch, did they? Oliver grinned sardonically: ooh, he'd tried to get the silly idea out of their mind, that Quidditch wasn't their number one priority. He'd killed himself explaining why it was so important to train so hard (did they realise the English National Team trained eight hours a day, seven days a week?) and why it was particularly important for him - er, for them - to finally win the House Cup. He had even launched himself into telling an anecdote his friend Academeus had owled him, about a boy who had exceptional talent, and. but, of course, he didn't have time to finish, as they were all gone before he'd even gotten to the important part of the story.
And today. today! Wood was still in shock. He looked down in disbelief and disgust at what was left of his robes, and the ferocious light that seemed to have gone out in his eyes came full back. To tell the truth, he wasn't sure how it had all happened - he was hardly even aware that his beaters were plotting a way to take what they called revenge for Oliver's lack of cooperation and understanding regarding their strike (the nerve they had! As if Oliver was the uncooperative one!) until the dungbombs had hit him full in the face and legs. He shuddered: it was a most unpleasant experience, hitting the muddy ground after a twenty-feet high fall during which your robes were on fire and you were gasping for air, real air, not dungbomb-filled putrid gas. Of course (and this was Oliver's only consolation) Fred and George weren't looking remotely amused anymore when they had rushed over to set out the fire and see if he was still alive, and neither was the rest of the team: the twins were stammering weak apologies, Katie was hitting them both, and Alicia was shrieking hysterically about attempted murder, detention and Professor McGonagall. But then, when he finally had enough feeling back in his legs to stand up and start admonishing the whole team and threatening them with extra practice hours, they just left him there and went back up to the castle, without even bothering to escort their captain to the Hospital Wing! Search as he might, Oliver couldn't find any good reason to that. Because, honestly - they really had deserved that scolding. All of them had. They didn't respect his position as captain half as much as they should - and he was going to change that, dungbombs or not.
He'd have to write to Academeus again - things really were not going well. Academeus, he thought, had more experience in Quidditch team training than he did: Academeus had been captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch Team five years running, and he was now training the Puddlemere Reserve Team. He had always been renowned for his outstanding skills, if not in Quidditch, at least in training: he had secured victory for his team at the National League for three years in a row, as his players were all in exceptionally good shape (though some spoilsports will say they looked surprisingly submissive and slightly paranoid), while he himself only stopped one goal from being scored and was unable to dodge several Bludgers. The only incomprehensible thing about Academeus Prune, was that none of his players lasted more than one season under his thumb; and while former players of the Reserve Team asserted they had suffered multiple injuries and sometimes even temporary periods of insanity because of lack of rest, Oliver still admired Academeus as the most effective trainer of his acquaintance.
By the time Oliver had stopped musing about his duties and grievances as captain, it was almost night time. He slowly gathered his things, wrestled the stubborn Bludgers well back into their place, closed the crate on his fingers, swore loudly for a few minutes, and made his way back up to the castle.
While he was walking, a thousand images passed through his mind: him catching the Quaffle before it entered the hoop; Harry catching the Snitch; him holding the House Cup; the twins beating a Bludger in Snape's direction; him playing for England; him shaking hands with the Minister of Magic; him being congratulated by Viktor Krum; him being cheered along by his devoted fans and team mates.
He suddenly stopped walking and dropped all he was carrying on the ground, a dazed look on his face. Then, without warning, a wide grin spread across his newly determined face. He picked up his things, and sped ever so fast towards the castle doors. He would make them see how important it was. They just had to win the Cup! And he was going to do all that was in his power, including making his team die in harness, to get it. This was real captain behaviour, he thought; this would earn him respect.
He entered the great hall and walked straight towards the team, with as much captain-like dignity as he could muster while sporting half torn and burned robes and carrying a foul odour about him. The maniac glint was back in his eye. The twins groaned at the sight of him.
"Doesn't anything ever subdue your obsession, Oliver?" George asked. "Not even a twenty-feet fall from a broomstick?"
Wood ignored him. Instead, he turned to the rest of the team and eyed them happily, as though he were about to give them a real treat.
"I've decided that after today's." Here, Oliver paused, obviously trying to keep his composure. ".today's incident, we should adopt a new training method. Now I'm not saying it will be less rigorous, don't worry: but we will work differently. I'm thinking week-end long practices, and also maybe one complete night during the week, so that you can have the evenings to yourselves - since that's what you seem to want so bad," he finished in a slightly miffed tone, as though he couldn't possibly understand why anyone would refuse to play Quidditch every day of the week if they had the possibility of doing so.
He surveyed the unenthusiastic and somewhat alarmed faces of his players, appearing to take no notice of the less-than-warm manner in which they had welcomed this new tactic. Instead, he grinned excitedly, clapped his hands and rubbed them together, and announced that he would be waiting for them up in the Common Room for a quick meeting before walking away.
"I'd surmised as much," sighed Fred once he was out of earshot.
"You know what this means." said George in a malicious tone.
"Too well," grimaced Angelina. "We're not going to be able to sleep until Christmas holidays."
"It means we're going to have to come up with a new plan," continued George in a conspiring tone.
All three girls groaned, but Harry added in a mutinous voice: "I don't know about you, but I don't intend on spending my week-ends from early morning until late night out on the Quidditch pitch. I say we have a meeting of our own after Oliver's in bed."
All six players grinned devilishly.
Oliver Wood stood right in the middle of the field, his hands on his hips, his eyes focused on some point across the ground, looking petrified and wearing a glowering expression that would have alarmed even the Weasley twins. His broomstick lay still at his feet, as did the wooden crate from which the Bludgers were trying to free themselves. Wood didn't so much as bat an eye lid when the two ferocious balls nearly succeeded in their attempt, knocking the crate over to the side. He just stood there, motionless, his glare getting more fierce every second. He was still wearing his Quidditch robes, and they were in a sad state indeed: the left sleeve was torn, and the whole of the lower part, from the hem to the knees, had been burned.
An owl swooped down right towards Oliver and brushed the top of his head. At this, Wood seemed to wake up suddenly from his torpor and burst out, rather like a Howler that's been left unopened for too long. He beat his arms in the air frantically, trying to get at the perplexed owl, and yelling himself hoarse for a good five minutes, until he realised the owl was well out of reach and had been so for quite a while. He then let out an enraged cry and sank back into his indolent posture, sitting cross-legged on the wet ground, his head in his hands. A most uncaptainish position, he thought bitterly, but at the moment, it is true, he was more than distressed. Practices were not going well. He didn't understand: he just couldn't believe his team's lack of enthusiasm and cooperation.
He recalled their first practice two weeks ago: all he'd done was announce that they would be under intensive training this year, and Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet had all started shrieking in protest, Harry Potter had simply rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, and the Weasley twins had threatened to go on strike. Of course, at first, Oliver had thought it was only the back-to-school pressure that had led to such a reaction. He gave a hollow laugh: he was proved wrong only one week later, when Fred and George really did come down to the field brandishing banners that flashed in bright orange and red:
Gryffindor Quidditch Team Protesting Against Overly Intensive and Nastily Exhausting Practices - we demand at least five hours of actual rest a day AND the time to both attend classes and eat -
So, they thought three hours of training six days a week was too much, did they? They thought classes were more important than Quidditch, did they? Oliver grinned sardonically: ooh, he'd tried to get the silly idea out of their mind, that Quidditch wasn't their number one priority. He'd killed himself explaining why it was so important to train so hard (did they realise the English National Team trained eight hours a day, seven days a week?) and why it was particularly important for him - er, for them - to finally win the House Cup. He had even launched himself into telling an anecdote his friend Academeus had owled him, about a boy who had exceptional talent, and. but, of course, he didn't have time to finish, as they were all gone before he'd even gotten to the important part of the story.
And today. today! Wood was still in shock. He looked down in disbelief and disgust at what was left of his robes, and the ferocious light that seemed to have gone out in his eyes came full back. To tell the truth, he wasn't sure how it had all happened - he was hardly even aware that his beaters were plotting a way to take what they called revenge for Oliver's lack of cooperation and understanding regarding their strike (the nerve they had! As if Oliver was the uncooperative one!) until the dungbombs had hit him full in the face and legs. He shuddered: it was a most unpleasant experience, hitting the muddy ground after a twenty-feet high fall during which your robes were on fire and you were gasping for air, real air, not dungbomb-filled putrid gas. Of course (and this was Oliver's only consolation) Fred and George weren't looking remotely amused anymore when they had rushed over to set out the fire and see if he was still alive, and neither was the rest of the team: the twins were stammering weak apologies, Katie was hitting them both, and Alicia was shrieking hysterically about attempted murder, detention and Professor McGonagall. But then, when he finally had enough feeling back in his legs to stand up and start admonishing the whole team and threatening them with extra practice hours, they just left him there and went back up to the castle, without even bothering to escort their captain to the Hospital Wing! Search as he might, Oliver couldn't find any good reason to that. Because, honestly - they really had deserved that scolding. All of them had. They didn't respect his position as captain half as much as they should - and he was going to change that, dungbombs or not.
He'd have to write to Academeus again - things really were not going well. Academeus, he thought, had more experience in Quidditch team training than he did: Academeus had been captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch Team five years running, and he was now training the Puddlemere Reserve Team. He had always been renowned for his outstanding skills, if not in Quidditch, at least in training: he had secured victory for his team at the National League for three years in a row, as his players were all in exceptionally good shape (though some spoilsports will say they looked surprisingly submissive and slightly paranoid), while he himself only stopped one goal from being scored and was unable to dodge several Bludgers. The only incomprehensible thing about Academeus Prune, was that none of his players lasted more than one season under his thumb; and while former players of the Reserve Team asserted they had suffered multiple injuries and sometimes even temporary periods of insanity because of lack of rest, Oliver still admired Academeus as the most effective trainer of his acquaintance.
By the time Oliver had stopped musing about his duties and grievances as captain, it was almost night time. He slowly gathered his things, wrestled the stubborn Bludgers well back into their place, closed the crate on his fingers, swore loudly for a few minutes, and made his way back up to the castle.
While he was walking, a thousand images passed through his mind: him catching the Quaffle before it entered the hoop; Harry catching the Snitch; him holding the House Cup; the twins beating a Bludger in Snape's direction; him playing for England; him shaking hands with the Minister of Magic; him being congratulated by Viktor Krum; him being cheered along by his devoted fans and team mates.
He suddenly stopped walking and dropped all he was carrying on the ground, a dazed look on his face. Then, without warning, a wide grin spread across his newly determined face. He picked up his things, and sped ever so fast towards the castle doors. He would make them see how important it was. They just had to win the Cup! And he was going to do all that was in his power, including making his team die in harness, to get it. This was real captain behaviour, he thought; this would earn him respect.
He entered the great hall and walked straight towards the team, with as much captain-like dignity as he could muster while sporting half torn and burned robes and carrying a foul odour about him. The maniac glint was back in his eye. The twins groaned at the sight of him.
"Doesn't anything ever subdue your obsession, Oliver?" George asked. "Not even a twenty-feet fall from a broomstick?"
Wood ignored him. Instead, he turned to the rest of the team and eyed them happily, as though he were about to give them a real treat.
"I've decided that after today's." Here, Oliver paused, obviously trying to keep his composure. ".today's incident, we should adopt a new training method. Now I'm not saying it will be less rigorous, don't worry: but we will work differently. I'm thinking week-end long practices, and also maybe one complete night during the week, so that you can have the evenings to yourselves - since that's what you seem to want so bad," he finished in a slightly miffed tone, as though he couldn't possibly understand why anyone would refuse to play Quidditch every day of the week if they had the possibility of doing so.
He surveyed the unenthusiastic and somewhat alarmed faces of his players, appearing to take no notice of the less-than-warm manner in which they had welcomed this new tactic. Instead, he grinned excitedly, clapped his hands and rubbed them together, and announced that he would be waiting for them up in the Common Room for a quick meeting before walking away.
"I'd surmised as much," sighed Fred once he was out of earshot.
"You know what this means." said George in a malicious tone.
"Too well," grimaced Angelina. "We're not going to be able to sleep until Christmas holidays."
"It means we're going to have to come up with a new plan," continued George in a conspiring tone.
All three girls groaned, but Harry added in a mutinous voice: "I don't know about you, but I don't intend on spending my week-ends from early morning until late night out on the Quidditch pitch. I say we have a meeting of our own after Oliver's in bed."
All six players grinned devilishly.