Chapter II: Into the Eye of the Storm
"Wood! Heh, I thought it was you," said Marcus Flint, the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, as he strolled through the hallways. "What do you want, Marcus? I've got class, and, as you know, Snape gets pretty angry if anyone's late," Oliver answered. "This won't take long, I promise," replied Marcus. Marcus pulled him over to a secluded corner of the castle, and pushed him up against the wall. "Wha, what are you doing, Marcus?" Oliver asked, a surprised look on his face. "Come on, Wood. You can't tell me that you haven't waited for this moment to come," purred Marcus, as he began to run his hand through Oliver's smooth, brown hair, twirling a few locks around his index finger. Just as Marcus leaned in for the kiss. "Hey! What's going on, guys?" Fred and George appeared in the hall, puzzled looks across their faces. "What are you doing, guys?" Fred asked. "Oh, uh, nothing. Nothing at all, Fred, George," Oliver stammered. He was breaking into a cold sweat. Had they seen? What's wrong with Marcus? He's acting really strangely, Oliver thought. Marcus released him, brushed him off, and pushed past the twins, frustrated. "Jeez, what's with him?" wondered George. "I think something's wrong with Marcus, but it's nothing to worry about. C'mon, you don't want to be late for class, do you? McGonagall will blow a gasket if she hears that all three of us were late! Let's get a move on!" Oliver exclaimed.
* * *
"Well, well, well. If it isn't our little Gryffindor Quidditch captain! Go on, give me your excuse. I've heard them all," Snape said caustically. He walked in quietly, and made a beeline for his seat. "Well, sir, I was a bit tied up. You see, I was on my way to class, when another student, who shall remain nameless, pulled me over to talk. I'm sorry, sir," Oliver apologized. "I'll let you off the hook this time, Wood, but next time, I should hope that you won't let some student pull you away from your studies. Now, let's get started, shall we?" Snape asked. The class resumed, as usual.
* * *
Oliver gazed up at the clock, eager to go to Quidditch practice. Quidditch was his life, and he took it very seriously. Gryffindor's team met at least once a day, sometimes twice a day, and three days a week. The objectives for each practice were pretty routine: learn new techniques/strategies and master older ones. The hands of the clock seemed to move slower as class dragged on. Oliver waited in anticipation. When his class finally adjourned, he sped off toward the Quidditch field. When he got there, the whole team was waiting for him.
"Hey everyone. Ready to sharpen your skills?" he asked. "Oh boy, get ready for another one of Oliver's speeches," Fred whispered to George. This caused George to groan. "Is something wrong, George?" Oliver asked. "Oh, no, Oliver. Everything's okay," George answered. After Oliver looked away, Fred began to mock him, which in turn, sent George into a fit of suppressed giggles: "Are you all ready to bust your arses for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year for the sole purpose of making your beloved captain look better than the other captains? Yadda yadda yadda," he whispered to George, making his voice sound exaggeratedly dopey and ridiculous.
"Okay, I don't even want to know what's going on over there, but you two had better shape up! We have a match against Slytherin coming up next week, and I expect that the two of you will be ready for whatever they have to deal out," Oliver barked, growing a tad annoyed. At that moment, George stopped giggling, and the two of them snapped to attention. "Sorry, Olly. Please continue," Fred apologized as he hung his head low. George stood there for a second, then Fred nudged him, and he hung his head as well. "I accept your apology, gentlemen. Shall we continue with our objectives now? Or would you like to make a mockery of your captain some more?" Oliver asked sternly. The twins continued to hang their heads low, which indicated to Oliver that they were ready to listen and cooperate.
* * *
That day, practice dragged on like a snail walking in quicksand, what with Fred and George's shenanigans. But eventually, they began to take their practice seriously and cooperated with their captain, to some extent. Before long, Oliver grew weary of constant interruptions, and decided to end practice early. Of course, it was getting late and he was getting tired, as well. They had worked diligently until sunset. The sun was like a gold medallion, hanging loosely around the delicate neck of the universe. It descended slowly, staining the azure blanket of the sky a deep, bittersweet crimson, extending as far as the eye can possibly see. Oliver was fascinated by the myriad of colors that now decorated the atmosphere like wallpaper. He sighed, and walked back to his room through the brisk air of the night. He hummed a sweet melody to himself, thinking of Percy, hoping that he was back in their room, waiting for him.
* * *
"Wood! Heh, I thought it was you," said Marcus Flint, the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, as he strolled through the hallways. "What do you want, Marcus? I've got class, and, as you know, Snape gets pretty angry if anyone's late," Oliver answered. "This won't take long, I promise," replied Marcus. Marcus pulled him over to a secluded corner of the castle, and pushed him up against the wall. "Wha, what are you doing, Marcus?" Oliver asked, a surprised look on his face. "Come on, Wood. You can't tell me that you haven't waited for this moment to come," purred Marcus, as he began to run his hand through Oliver's smooth, brown hair, twirling a few locks around his index finger. Just as Marcus leaned in for the kiss. "Hey! What's going on, guys?" Fred and George appeared in the hall, puzzled looks across their faces. "What are you doing, guys?" Fred asked. "Oh, uh, nothing. Nothing at all, Fred, George," Oliver stammered. He was breaking into a cold sweat. Had they seen? What's wrong with Marcus? He's acting really strangely, Oliver thought. Marcus released him, brushed him off, and pushed past the twins, frustrated. "Jeez, what's with him?" wondered George. "I think something's wrong with Marcus, but it's nothing to worry about. C'mon, you don't want to be late for class, do you? McGonagall will blow a gasket if she hears that all three of us were late! Let's get a move on!" Oliver exclaimed.
* * *
"Well, well, well. If it isn't our little Gryffindor Quidditch captain! Go on, give me your excuse. I've heard them all," Snape said caustically. He walked in quietly, and made a beeline for his seat. "Well, sir, I was a bit tied up. You see, I was on my way to class, when another student, who shall remain nameless, pulled me over to talk. I'm sorry, sir," Oliver apologized. "I'll let you off the hook this time, Wood, but next time, I should hope that you won't let some student pull you away from your studies. Now, let's get started, shall we?" Snape asked. The class resumed, as usual.
* * *
Oliver gazed up at the clock, eager to go to Quidditch practice. Quidditch was his life, and he took it very seriously. Gryffindor's team met at least once a day, sometimes twice a day, and three days a week. The objectives for each practice were pretty routine: learn new techniques/strategies and master older ones. The hands of the clock seemed to move slower as class dragged on. Oliver waited in anticipation. When his class finally adjourned, he sped off toward the Quidditch field. When he got there, the whole team was waiting for him.
"Hey everyone. Ready to sharpen your skills?" he asked. "Oh boy, get ready for another one of Oliver's speeches," Fred whispered to George. This caused George to groan. "Is something wrong, George?" Oliver asked. "Oh, no, Oliver. Everything's okay," George answered. After Oliver looked away, Fred began to mock him, which in turn, sent George into a fit of suppressed giggles: "Are you all ready to bust your arses for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year for the sole purpose of making your beloved captain look better than the other captains? Yadda yadda yadda," he whispered to George, making his voice sound exaggeratedly dopey and ridiculous.
"Okay, I don't even want to know what's going on over there, but you two had better shape up! We have a match against Slytherin coming up next week, and I expect that the two of you will be ready for whatever they have to deal out," Oliver barked, growing a tad annoyed. At that moment, George stopped giggling, and the two of them snapped to attention. "Sorry, Olly. Please continue," Fred apologized as he hung his head low. George stood there for a second, then Fred nudged him, and he hung his head as well. "I accept your apology, gentlemen. Shall we continue with our objectives now? Or would you like to make a mockery of your captain some more?" Oliver asked sternly. The twins continued to hang their heads low, which indicated to Oliver that they were ready to listen and cooperate.
* * *
That day, practice dragged on like a snail walking in quicksand, what with Fred and George's shenanigans. But eventually, they began to take their practice seriously and cooperated with their captain, to some extent. Before long, Oliver grew weary of constant interruptions, and decided to end practice early. Of course, it was getting late and he was getting tired, as well. They had worked diligently until sunset. The sun was like a gold medallion, hanging loosely around the delicate neck of the universe. It descended slowly, staining the azure blanket of the sky a deep, bittersweet crimson, extending as far as the eye can possibly see. Oliver was fascinated by the myriad of colors that now decorated the atmosphere like wallpaper. He sighed, and walked back to his room through the brisk air of the night. He hummed a sweet melody to himself, thinking of Percy, hoping that he was back in their room, waiting for him.
* * *