A/N: Well, I just saw Prisoner of Azkaban, and...well. I think that Alfonso
could have spent a little less time on the special effects, and a little
more in developing the plot. Me being the Quidditch freak that I am, I
sorely missed the Ravenclaw and Slytherin matches, as well as the tension
of the Quidditch final. (I also missed Oliver, but we're not going to say
anything about that.) Not a lot was made of important things like Cedric
Diggory, or the Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs plot points, or Black
being the Potter's Secret Keeper, or Pettigrew returning to Voldemort.
Several of my favorite scenes were changed beyond recognition, or ignored
all together...shall I go on? It was a fairly good movie, but not a very
accurate representation of the book.
But ignoring all that, seeing the movie inspired me to write this little short chapter and pop it out for your enjoyment...or torment, which have you. It's fairly short, and sets up later events. That being said, you go see the movie, and tell me what you thought about it and my story in your reviews. (Hint, Hint!)
Disclaimer: There's a list at least five pages long of who Harry Potter belongs to. My name is not on it anywhere.
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Oliver rolled over onto his back. He was feeling better than he had in a long time. Using his uninjured arm, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His head swam, and his vision blurred. He shook his head furiously to clear his sight. When his head stopped feeling like it was strapped onto a bucking broomstick, he looked around his cell. The walls were damp, and water dripped from the ceiling. The air was freezing, and Oliver suspected that he would soon have a nasty cold.
He cradled his right hand to his chest and used his left hand to pull himself to the door. When he arrived at the door, his foot brushed against something. The sound of it echoed in the small chamber. He looked back and saw two pieces of broken wood. He sadly picked them up and looked at them. It was his faithful wand that had seen him through seven years at Hogwarts, his O.W.L.s and his N.E.W.T.s, and two years of living on his own. And now it was gone.
"Twelve and a half inches, willow with dragon heartstring," he murmured to himself. "Good wand for...oh bloody hell, was it Transfiguration or Charms work?" He shrugged. Seeing as he was going to die here, it didn't make much difference. It wasn't so much the losing of the wand that hurt, it was the destruction of a keepsake. His mum and da had been so proud when he had found his wand. His da had even taken a picture of him holding it, ignoring the wreckage of the shop behind Oliver.
Oliver suddenly sat up straight. His mum and da! What had Voldemort said about them? Oh Christ, he had killed them hadn't he? Oliver hit the door feebly with his left hand. his parents were dead, and here was, wasting away in prison. He should be dying right now, to avenge his parents and for freedom in the true Scottish way, but here he was, fading without a struggle. He should be out kicking Voldemort's arse, but he was too much of a coward to even stand up.
Oliver leaned his head against the cool wood of the cell door. He had never felt so bad in his entire life, and that was counting the time that Gryffindor had lost to Hufflepuff in his seventh year. His right hand sat uselessly in his lap, the fingers bent into all sorts of macabe positions. He hung his head and let several tears fall out. He had no idea how he was going to get out of this one.
Though it wasn't his fault, if one looked at it in the right way. Who knew that giants were that touchy about personal space, and that grumpy when they had been disturbed? The Order certainly hadn't told him anything of the sort before they sent him off. Speaking of the Order, they had yet to make his appearance. Oliver's hand stole down inside his robes to gently stroke the phoenix feather. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. And when you had nothing, something went a long way.
Oliver smiled at his twisted logic, and withdrew his hand. How dearly he wished for human contact that wasn't a Death Eater! How he longed to feel the wind in his face and the kiss of the sun! How he yearned to feel the lovely swooping feeling in his stomach that only came with riding a broomstick! How wanted anything more than to not be stuck in this miserable dank cell! Again, Oliver Wood found himself thinking longingly of Snape's class.
Oliver let himself pout and be miserable for maybe about five more minutes. Then he took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He straightened out his index finger on his right hand while trying not to scream. The pain hit him in the stomach like he had been punched there. He did the same thing with his other fingers: straightening out the bone with his left hand while letting out muffled screams with his teeth clenched tightly shut. He was biting his lower lip so hard that he tasted the warm coppery taste of blood in his mouth. When all the bones were relatively straight, Oliver stopped. He leaned his head against the door and let out whimpers and moans of pain. Now the really hard part was going to start.
He somehow managed to tear five strips of cloth off his robes. Starting with his right thumb, he pulled them tightly around the mangled digits. Being left handed did have its advantages, he reflected as he pulled the cloth tighter. He still had his strong hand to help him. When he was done wrapping his fingers, he let himself fall to the ground. As he was slowly drifting off the pain became less...less...less...
,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
When Oliver awoke, it was into a world of pain. His fingers were throbbing, his feet felt like someone was stabbing them with pins and needles, and he had a roaring headache that made him feel like he had just taken a Bludger to the head. Oliver let out a groan of agony. He then set his mind. Sitting around on his bum wasn't going to help anything. He found a space in the wall and linked his left hand into it. Using the muscles that were so helpful in Quidditch practice, he started to stand up. The Quidditch muscles suddenly found another use. Using his legs and his left arm, he staggered to his feet.
When he was finally standing straight, Oliver let out a grin of triumph. "Yes!" he whispered to himself, throwing his right arm up in victory. He took a shaky step forward. Almost immediately, his head started swimming and he felt slightly tipsy. He waited for the feeling to pass and took another shaky step, and another. Soon he had crossed the entire width of the cell in his tentative steps. It felt good. His former despair lifted to be replaced with a sort of melancholy hope.
He did not doubt that he would die, but at least he would be privileged enough to thwart Voldemort's plan. He would die as Albus Dumbledore wished him to: like a true Gryffindor, with honor and courage. He would die standing on his feet like his father would have wished him to, a defiant Scotsman to the last. He would die like his father had undoubtedly had: fighting to the very last breath. The thought that he would have made his parents proud nursed his growing strength.
He made several trips around the cell, conditioning his muscles with each trip. Soon he felt as strong as he had the day he was captured. He loosened up his muscles, rolled his shoulders, and leaned against the wall, waiting for someone to come. When he did hear voices, he pushed off from the wall, and stood at attention. He felt the curious feeling that he had before every Quidditch mate: the feeling of his sense leaving him and only of concentrating on the most important details, while seeing everything else as a cohesive whole. The lock clicked, and the door opened.
With a wild yell, Oliver rushed forward.
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Every man dies, it's just a question of how and when. But not every man truly lives. ,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Please review.
But ignoring all that, seeing the movie inspired me to write this little short chapter and pop it out for your enjoyment...or torment, which have you. It's fairly short, and sets up later events. That being said, you go see the movie, and tell me what you thought about it and my story in your reviews. (Hint, Hint!)
Disclaimer: There's a list at least five pages long of who Harry Potter belongs to. My name is not on it anywhere.
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Oliver rolled over onto his back. He was feeling better than he had in a long time. Using his uninjured arm, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His head swam, and his vision blurred. He shook his head furiously to clear his sight. When his head stopped feeling like it was strapped onto a bucking broomstick, he looked around his cell. The walls were damp, and water dripped from the ceiling. The air was freezing, and Oliver suspected that he would soon have a nasty cold.
He cradled his right hand to his chest and used his left hand to pull himself to the door. When he arrived at the door, his foot brushed against something. The sound of it echoed in the small chamber. He looked back and saw two pieces of broken wood. He sadly picked them up and looked at them. It was his faithful wand that had seen him through seven years at Hogwarts, his O.W.L.s and his N.E.W.T.s, and two years of living on his own. And now it was gone.
"Twelve and a half inches, willow with dragon heartstring," he murmured to himself. "Good wand for...oh bloody hell, was it Transfiguration or Charms work?" He shrugged. Seeing as he was going to die here, it didn't make much difference. It wasn't so much the losing of the wand that hurt, it was the destruction of a keepsake. His mum and da had been so proud when he had found his wand. His da had even taken a picture of him holding it, ignoring the wreckage of the shop behind Oliver.
Oliver suddenly sat up straight. His mum and da! What had Voldemort said about them? Oh Christ, he had killed them hadn't he? Oliver hit the door feebly with his left hand. his parents were dead, and here was, wasting away in prison. He should be dying right now, to avenge his parents and for freedom in the true Scottish way, but here he was, fading without a struggle. He should be out kicking Voldemort's arse, but he was too much of a coward to even stand up.
Oliver leaned his head against the cool wood of the cell door. He had never felt so bad in his entire life, and that was counting the time that Gryffindor had lost to Hufflepuff in his seventh year. His right hand sat uselessly in his lap, the fingers bent into all sorts of macabe positions. He hung his head and let several tears fall out. He had no idea how he was going to get out of this one.
Though it wasn't his fault, if one looked at it in the right way. Who knew that giants were that touchy about personal space, and that grumpy when they had been disturbed? The Order certainly hadn't told him anything of the sort before they sent him off. Speaking of the Order, they had yet to make his appearance. Oliver's hand stole down inside his robes to gently stroke the phoenix feather. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. And when you had nothing, something went a long way.
Oliver smiled at his twisted logic, and withdrew his hand. How dearly he wished for human contact that wasn't a Death Eater! How he longed to feel the wind in his face and the kiss of the sun! How he yearned to feel the lovely swooping feeling in his stomach that only came with riding a broomstick! How wanted anything more than to not be stuck in this miserable dank cell! Again, Oliver Wood found himself thinking longingly of Snape's class.
Oliver let himself pout and be miserable for maybe about five more minutes. Then he took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He straightened out his index finger on his right hand while trying not to scream. The pain hit him in the stomach like he had been punched there. He did the same thing with his other fingers: straightening out the bone with his left hand while letting out muffled screams with his teeth clenched tightly shut. He was biting his lower lip so hard that he tasted the warm coppery taste of blood in his mouth. When all the bones were relatively straight, Oliver stopped. He leaned his head against the door and let out whimpers and moans of pain. Now the really hard part was going to start.
He somehow managed to tear five strips of cloth off his robes. Starting with his right thumb, he pulled them tightly around the mangled digits. Being left handed did have its advantages, he reflected as he pulled the cloth tighter. He still had his strong hand to help him. When he was done wrapping his fingers, he let himself fall to the ground. As he was slowly drifting off the pain became less...less...less...
,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
When Oliver awoke, it was into a world of pain. His fingers were throbbing, his feet felt like someone was stabbing them with pins and needles, and he had a roaring headache that made him feel like he had just taken a Bludger to the head. Oliver let out a groan of agony. He then set his mind. Sitting around on his bum wasn't going to help anything. He found a space in the wall and linked his left hand into it. Using the muscles that were so helpful in Quidditch practice, he started to stand up. The Quidditch muscles suddenly found another use. Using his legs and his left arm, he staggered to his feet.
When he was finally standing straight, Oliver let out a grin of triumph. "Yes!" he whispered to himself, throwing his right arm up in victory. He took a shaky step forward. Almost immediately, his head started swimming and he felt slightly tipsy. He waited for the feeling to pass and took another shaky step, and another. Soon he had crossed the entire width of the cell in his tentative steps. It felt good. His former despair lifted to be replaced with a sort of melancholy hope.
He did not doubt that he would die, but at least he would be privileged enough to thwart Voldemort's plan. He would die as Albus Dumbledore wished him to: like a true Gryffindor, with honor and courage. He would die standing on his feet like his father would have wished him to, a defiant Scotsman to the last. He would die like his father had undoubtedly had: fighting to the very last breath. The thought that he would have made his parents proud nursed his growing strength.
He made several trips around the cell, conditioning his muscles with each trip. Soon he felt as strong as he had the day he was captured. He loosened up his muscles, rolled his shoulders, and leaned against the wall, waiting for someone to come. When he did hear voices, he pushed off from the wall, and stood at attention. He felt the curious feeling that he had before every Quidditch mate: the feeling of his sense leaving him and only of concentrating on the most important details, while seeing everything else as a cohesive whole. The lock clicked, and the door opened.
With a wild yell, Oliver rushed forward.
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Every man dies, it's just a question of how and when. But not every man truly lives. ,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Please review.