m&mwp.
For the Writing Club [Film Festival] on the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Forum.
Oliver Wood was a hurricane, tearing through every nook and cranny of Hogwarts and upturning every cushion, blanket and mislaid robe.
He was missing something—a leather wristband. It was a small trinket, but one instantly recognisable to those on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He wore it every match, giving it two discreet taps when he left the dressing room and entered the pitch.
"I'm not superstitious," he would snap, usually provoked by the Weasley twins' teasing. "And it's not a bracelet!"
It wasn't that Oliver couldn't play without it. He just preferred not to. There was something comforting about the cold clasp rubbing against his wrist and the way the worn brown of the strap contrasted worn the dark polish of his broom.
The tapping… Well, the tapping he couldn't explain. It just felt right.
Okay. Maybe he couldn't play without it. And Gryffindor was set to play Slytherin in just under twenty-four hours. And no matter where he looked—his dormitory, the common room, the Great Hall, the classrooms—he couldn't find the blasted thing anywhere.
It was driving him insane.
And that was how Adrian Pucey found him. Tearing his hair out, ducking under the desks, and knocking over chairs in the library. In a particularly reckless moment, he even bumped into Hermione Granger's table, almost spilling her ink over her parchment. But even her trademark glare and a threatening wave of her wand had no effect on Oliver, who remained steadfast in his mission.
"Looking for something?"
Oliver didn't even look up when he responded, "Not now, Pucey."
"I think I can help."
"I'm busy."
But the fire in Oliver's eyes faded when he looked up, for dangling from Adrian's fingers was a brown leather strap.
"I..." Oliver was wide-eyed as he snatched at the wristband. "How'd you—"
"Saw it on Flint's nightstand. Thought you might want it back."
"Flint. That fu—"
"I reckon he thought it would throw you off tomorrow," Adrian explained. "I, however, would rather beat you fair and square."
Oliver continued to stare. He was sure that this had to be a trick of some kind. Maybe they'd jinxed the strap somehow, and he'd end up with a frozen arm in the middle of the game. But there was something in Adrian's eyes—sympathy, maybe—that made Oliver think that he was being honest. That Adrian, for some reason, really had just wanted to return the wristband to him.
"You wouldn't be able to beat us either way," Oliver finally managed to choke out.
Adrian gave a loud barking laugh. He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. "Right. See you on the field, Wood."
And then, without even a glance back, Adrian disappeared from the library's stack, leaving Oliver in his wake. It wasn't until the next day, sitting on his broom and hovering by the three golden hoops and watching as Adrian was zig-zagging through the air towards him, that Oliver realised he hadn't even said thank you.
"Focus, Wood!" Angelina Johnson shouted as the Quaffle flew past him and into the hoop.
"I am," Oliver retorted.
But in the corner of his eye, he could see Adrian's wide and knowing smirk. He steadied himself on his broom, eyes narrowed and determined. Now was not the time to be distracted. After all, he could thank Adrian later. But for now, he had a Quidditch match to win—fair and square.