A/N: Not mine. All JKR's.

Oliver walked into the stadium for practice on Tuesday morning in two moods at once. He was excited for his appointment with Hermione this afternoon. He was anxious to hear what she had discovered so far and what the next step in the plan would be. Being completely honest with himself, he was anxious to just see her again. The other emotion fighting in his system was a sense of intense frustration, stemming from the conversation he had with the coach last week.


Flashback

Oliver knocked on the coach's door after leaving Fred and George's. A gruff 'Enter' was heard and Oliver walked into the office.

"Close the door, Wood and take a seat," Coach McManus barked.

Oliver closed the door quietly and sat in the only chair unoccupied by papers and diagrams.

Coach McManus looked over his glasses at Oliver. In front of him was the best Keeper he had ever coached. Natural talent, good health, willingness to put in the hours. That was what made a good player in Quidditch; that was what made a captain. Sometimes, he really hated his job.

"See the game between the Wasps and the Harpies?" McManus said forcefully.

'Didn't the guy know how to talk other than yelling?' Oliver wondered. "Yes, sir. Recognized some plays that we implemented last season, but other than that, no new tactics that are a threat to us."

"Hmm, yes. Caught that too. Rather surprised to see that Seeker lose the Snitch while he was right on top of it, eh?" Coach said in his loud manner.

"Seemed like his balance was off on his broom tail to me," Oliver commented.

"Poor maintenance obviously," Coach remarked. "Our brooms are all satisfactory, I take it?"

"Yes, sir. I made sure to inspect each one before the very next practice."

"Hmm, yes, good. Knew you would, o'course, but just asking." The coach rubbed his chin.

"Here's the thing, Wood. Management has their eye on a new Keeper for the reserve team. Hot shot out of Hogwarts. When Hughes broke his back at that last practice, he decided he was done. Too many injuries to recover fully anymore, so he said."

"I was aware of his desire to return to teaching, sir. He wanted to know how I felt about it," Oliver replied.

"And?"

"I told him that my life is centered on Quidditch. I can't make the decision to leave it for someone else, just like I would expect it not to be made for me. You take the choice away; you take the ability to choose for yourself. Regret is a lonely teammate on the pitch, sir," Oliver said with a bit of sorrow, looking at his hands. He had known good players over the years that were traded when Management had decided they outlived their usefulness; 'business, bah.'

His eyes came back up and caught his coach observing him keenly.

"Good point. Yes, well, with Hughes out, and the new reserve on standby, awaiting the final touches on his contract, your safety is paramount. This new guy will take a while to groom to our playing style. When we play Ireland next week, I don't want any funny business, you got me?" Coach growled. "No death-defying flips and saves and what-not!"

"Sir?"

"I know your abilities, Wood. You are an amazing player, and an excellent captain and leader. But, I don't want you to end up on a stretcher, and I sure as bloody hell don't want the team to suffer because you are injured. Without a reserve, we would be as good as grounded. Ireland is a take-no-prisoners team. We lose our line of defense on the hoops, and they will exploit it for all it is worth," McManus said with force.

Oliver tried to digest this. 'They want me to play it safe? How can I not give it 150 percent, when that is all I know how to do?'

"We clear, Wood?" Coach barked again.

"Uh, sir. I am not sure I understand you. You want me, to play it soft?" Oliver asked incredulously.

"Absolutely NOT! I just don't want you to take un-necessary chances. If it entails you flying upside down or moving in a manner not meant for the human body, then don't do it!"

"Sir-"

"Wood, that is it. End of discussion. Play with feeling, but no tricks and don't take chances."

End Flashback


Practice the next day was one of the hardest and most difficult of Oliver's life. He was guarding the far left hoop when Ted, a Chaser, pulled a classic fake out move and shot at the far right hoop. Oliver executed a perfect backwards flip and roll and stopped the shot. Coach McManus called for a three minute break and proceeded to give Oliver an earful in front of the team. Oliver flew back up dejectedly after the break and played with only the barest minimum of effort. It was not nearly enough to keep the team from scoring, but it appeased the coach. Oliver had dreaded each and every practice since.

He wasn't used to this. He lived for Quidditch. For as long as he could remember, it had been his dream, his desire, and his life. All he was as a person was wrapped up in the singular most exhilarating profession known to wizard-kind. 'Well, that is not entirely true,' he thought begrudgingly. He adored his family. His father had passed away a few months after he had been moved up to the active team. Up to that point, he almost never missed a match. Oliver thought of him often, especially when he was working on his own with a spelled Quaffle. He could hear his father encouraging him when he made an amazing save. But when he had passed away, Oliver's mother started coming to them. She was one of his most avid fans and could get quite irate when he would get fouled and the referee was distracted. He recalled one time that she had reprimanded Coach McManus quite loudly for his shoddy treatment of the team after a heart-wrenching loss, in full view of the fans and officials. Coach had made sure to keep his rants confined to the locker room after that. He smiled. His mum was the greatest.

His sister was not anything to shake a stick at either. She was probably the most efficient business woman he knew. Her family always came first, but her career was a close second. His sister could take an almost bankrupt company and have it turning a profit in 3 months. She operated in the financial circles in the wizarding community and was a star. He was the famous athlete, but she could make a mountain of galleons out of a molehill of sickles. In his mind, she was the talented one. Their unflagging support of him and his chosen career had kept him up through the lean times and cheered him more when things were grand. Until this moment, he never fully realized what that meant to him. He was certain that wherever his road led, his family would be there, inspiring him fully.

Oliver stopped outside his team's locker room. He wouldn't go in there with this heaviness hanging over him. He would give as much as was asked, and if they wanted more, he would give it. This was his job, his life. He had never felt as unhappy as he did at this moment. He gave himself a mental shakedown, put on his game face, and opened the door.

The team walked out on the field moments later, ready for a stimulating practice. Coach McManus was out on the field already, speaking to a young man dressed in the Puddlemere blue practice robes. "Good day, team. This here is Michael Cook, our new Reserve Keeper. He will be guarding the other set of goals to get familiar with our style of play, in the event that our esteemed Captain decides to get himself injured."

"Why does Coach always blame us when the other team manages to swing a bludger our way?" Chaser Ted whispered to Oliver.

Oliver gave Ted a look and just shrugged.

"Got something to add, Hereford?" Coach roared.

"No, sir. I fully intended on schooling the pup properly sir."

"Hmm, well, GOOD! Now get up there and let's see your best!" Coach bellowed.

He looked pointedly at Oliver and gave him the nod. This meant that Oliver was supposed to play it soft again today. Oliver broke the eye contact and flew up to his end of the pitch. The chasers, seeker, and beaters were all in position as the coach let loose the trunk. The bludgers took off directly for the new Keeper. Beater O'Shaunessy flew directly in the path and knocked it cleanly to his mirror, Carson McBride. They were a great set of beaters, Oliver thought to himself. They could anticipate each other down to a second. The Chasers weren't anything to be ashamed of either. Ted Hereford could be a real git sometimes, but he knew his sport. The other two Chasers were last season trades from the Wasps and the Cannons. Isaac Andrews could play, but his sense of teammate interaction was a bit lacking; didn't like to pass the Quaffle. He would come along though. Liam Grey on the other hand, was a perfect Chaser. Focused, passionate, and a great team supporter. He would pass you the Quaffle if you had the better shot; that was the way he played. He and Andrews got along great on the street. Put them on a pitch though, and you had instant animosity. Of course, that left the exotically beautiful, but no-nonsense, Seeker, Simone Dubois. Simone was light, fast, and could fake out the best with her Wronski Feint. That made up the great Puddlemere United team this season, and it was looking like a new up-and-comer would be ready to fill his shoes when he retired.

Or maybe not.

Oliver was so caught up in his thoughts; he hadn't noticed the team working Mr. Cook hard. Coach was checking over the roster for the Ireland game on Friday and didn't notice. Oliver flew over to Ted and casually asked, "What are you doing to the poor boy?"

"Just making him feel welcome. You know how accommodating we can be," Ted grinned at Oliver.

Oliver's blood started to boil. "GET BACK IN FORMATION NOW!" he howled.

Coach looked up to see his team in shambles, no one was working the new kid, and no one was watching the opposite side of the pitch.

"WOOD!"

Oliver looked down.

"Get down here, NOW!" Coach roared again. "You other lackeys-20 laps around the pitch."

Oliver flew down to the Coach and slung his broom over his shoulder.

"I trust you to handle the team, Wood. Please tell me you have it under control? Because that is NOT, WHAT, IT, LOOKS, LIKE!" Coach bellowed.

"Sir, they were just-"Oliver started.

"I don't care what they were just, I want you all to start that new three-prong offense move we worked out the other day. Give the kids some pointers, we will play ½ pitch today," Coach finished.

"Yes, sir," Oliver conceded and flew up to opposite end of the pitch.

Michael Cook was sitting on his broom, surveying the other players. He had a confident air about him, and a blaze in his eyes to prove himself. He observed Oliver flying up to his position and nodded once. Oliver took a place on the left beside Cook. Looking out at the field, Oliver saw the Chasers all in a huddle, wondering what they were plotting. It could be anything, knowing them.

"So, great day to be flying, eh?" Cook asked tentatively.

"Yes, any day is a great day to be in the air," Oliver said absently.

Cook watched the team prepare for an assault and braced himself at his post.

"Watch Hereford, he will more than likely pull a fake to the left and shoot right," Oliver mumbled and flew upwards to observe.

Cook looked at Oliver real quick and then refocused on the attack. Hereford passed to Andrews, who dropped the Quaffle down to Grey. Grey then swooped up under Hereford and passed behind the back as he came around. Cook's eyes followed the Quaffle. Hereford caught it and burst forward in a shot. He worked the broom like it was a toy, and as Oliver predicted, he was aiming for the left hoop. At the last second, Hereford veered right, and took his shot like a bullet. Cook seen this and was able to block the shot, if only by his fingertips.

"Excellent! YES! That is good, keep that up," Coach bellowed from below.

Oliver nodded to Cook, who nodded back. The practice commenced.