Apologies for the long wait since the last update; I'm currently touring the US of A, and it's hard to fit in writing. Hope you enjoy the chapter!
"Wood?" McGonagall's voice is gentle – gentler than Wood thinks he's ever heard it – as she addresses him. They're stood in the first floor hallway, not too far away from her office and classroom, and Wood isn't entirely sure why she wants to talk to him.
Unless she wants to berate him for what happened in the Quidditch game. He didn't even manage to stay upright for five minutes – Merlin only knows how many goals Gryffindor conceded because of it. Well, actually, he does know: thirty five.
Because of him, Charlie Weasley's suffered his first major defeat as Quidditch Captain, Gryffindor are at the very bottom of the league table, and Slytherins have more ammunition than ever to attack his house. It wouldn't be surprising if McGonagall wanted him off the team…he's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to be on it.
"Yes, Professor?" Oliver replies, his voice quiet. It's more of a mumble, actually, and he doesn't look up from his feet.
"Come into my office, Wood," McGonagall states, her tone still friendly but a little firmer. It's clear that she won't take no for an answer – not that he'd be willing to fight with her today, anyway.
Without saying anything, Oliver turns and shuffles along behind her for the short walk down to her office, his head bowed and his hands in his pockets. He never expected to be kicked off the team like this – without even fighting it. As, realistically, there's nothing he can say; he deserves it.
"Take a seat, Wood – and for heaven's sake look at something other than the floor," McGonagall continues, shutting the door behind her before crossing the room to sit behind her desk.
Slowly, Oliver raises his gaze from the floor to the ordered, near empty desk directly in front of him, though he doesn't quite manage to meet McGonagall's gaze. He doesn't say anything, though, merely sits and looks blankly at a piece of parchment that would be difficult to read the right way up, let alone upside down.
"Are you alright, Wood?" McGonagall says, when it becomes clear that only she will break the growing silence in the room.
It takes him a couple of seconds to reply. "Yes, Professor, I'm fine."
She snorts at this, and it's so unexpected that Oliver actually lifts his head in shock. McGonagall snorting? Surely this is unheard of, at least for second years.
"Wood, you spent an entire lesson doing work without mentioning Quidditch or your latest manoeuvre once," she replies, her tone incredulous. "If there was ever criteria to suggest that you are not okay, that would certainly be high on there."
He doesn't say anything, doesn't know what to say. He entered the room expecting to be told that he was to no longer be the Gryffindor Keeper (and to leave immediately after), and instead…McGonagall is asking how he is.
"Have a biscuit, Wood."
"No thanks."
"Have a biscuit, Wood." Her tone is firmer this time, and she actually lifts the open tin and places it directly in front of his face. There's no way he can escape this time.
Slowly, Oliver reaches out and takes a digestive, holding it gingerly. Only when it becomes clear that McGonagall won't move the tin until he at least takes a bite does he take one.
"Areyoutakingmeofftheteam?" Oliver mutters, with the bite of biscuit still in his mouth. He didn't mean to ask, but he doesn't want to prolong his agony. If he's being taken off, he wants to go and find somewhere to hide for about four weeks, until he can face his peers again.
Hesitantly, he looks up at McGonagall's face to find her expression incredulous.
"Why would I be taking you off the team, Wood?"
He can feel himself blushing, but he just about manages to keep eye contact.
"Well...I...well...I didn't manage to stop any goals and I fell off the broom, so I sort of just thought that I'd be replaced...with someone who doesn't." His voice is almost inaudible by the end, and he can't look at McGonagall anymore; his attention instead reverts back to the tidy desktop.
There's a lengthy silence, and Wood isn't sure what is happening or what is going to happen; all he knows is that it's very awkward, and he wishes he could just leave the room and never come back.
"Listen to me, Oliver Wood, and listen very closely." McGonagall's voice is...different. He doesn't know how - but there's a quality to it that he would never have associated with his strict Head of House. "You have played one game for Gryffindor, where you were unfortunate to have been attacked by the other team. It was a deliberate attack on the newest member of our team - not even a more experienced player would have been able to avoid the bludger. Why on earth would you think I would overrule Charlie Weasley and remove you from the team because of an accident?"
Oliver continues to look at the desk, not daring to speak.
"Now that this is settled, I expect you to be more like yourself, Wood," McGonagall continues, when it becomes clear that the conversation is almost entirely one-sided. "Whilst it was enjoyable to have a lesson without any Quidditch interruptions, I would almost prefer to hear an analysis of a sloth-grip roll in comparison to this silence. It's very unlike you."
She stands up, and Oliver takes this as his cue to stand up. He's not entirely sure that he believes that he'll still be on the team come dinner time - Charlie is still the captain, after all - but at least McGonagall is on his side. He thinks, anyway.
Oliver stands up slowly, and makes eye contact once again with McGonagall, who smiles a little.
"Thanks, professor," he mumbles as he makes his way towards the door. "I do appreciate it, really."
"Don't tell everyone about the biscuits," McGonagall warns, seconds before Oliver leaves the room. "I only have a limited supply until the Christmas holidays - I can't afford to run out."
Oliver's not entirely sure he believes her.
.
Later that day, Oliver makes his way down to the Great Hall for dinner. He's made a series of excuses to his fellow Gryffindors to avoid spending time with them; despite the conversation with his Head of House earlier, he still blames himself for the catastrophic loss. It seems pretty straightforward to him: he fell off his broom, leaving his team without a Keeper, meaning the team suffered its worst defeat.
However, he's determined to at least pretend that the issue isn't bothering him, particularly whilst he's in the Great Hall. Though he can't be certain, Oliver's pretty sure that McGonagall will be trying to work out whether he has taken on board her advice from earlier. Whilst it was nice to know that his stern Head of House actually cares about him, it was still a little weird - and not something he would want to repeat in the middle of a hall of his peers.
As he approaches the Gryffindor table, he stops in his tracks, causing the person behind him to crash into his back. He can't approach his friends, all of whom are grouped together towards the centre of the table, because sitting right next to Percy is his older brother, Charlie. Who is sure to be disappointed in Oliver, no matter what rhetoric he speaks. Whose very presence makes Oliver want to run straight out of the hall.
Before he can even think about abandoning the room, however, Charlie turns around with a smile.
"Ah, Wood, I was beginning to get worried that Peeves had locked you in the dungeons," Charlie says, causing his younger brother to splutter loudly. "Perce, shift over a bit, let your friend sit down. It's not very fun to try and eat roast beef and gravy when you're standing up."
As Percy begins to shift over, Oliver shakes his head and mutters, "it's fine, Percy, don't bother...I'm not hungry anyway."
"But it's your favourite?" Percy replies, his voice betraying his confusion. "And I didn't see you at lunch either - you must be starving!"
With this, Charlie turns to face Oliver again, his expression thoughtful.
"Actually, yeah I'm not that hungry either," Charlie comments, though Oliver can see that the plate is still half full. "Fancy going for a walk, Oliver? I could use some fresh air."
The inflection within Charlie's voice indicates to Oliver that he doesn't really have a choice in the matter; indeed, they're outside of the Great Hall in less than a minute, with Charlie setting a brisk pace towards the side door.
"So you missed practice today," Charlie begins, his voice perfectly steady. "Everything okay?"
Oliver nods.
"You know, pal, it's pretty hard to have a conversation when only one person's talking."
Oliver blushes. "Sorry," he mumbles.
They come to a sudden stop approximately one hundred metres from the Quidditch pitch. Just being this close, Oliver can feel his chest getting tighter, his breathing more rapid. He wants to be here...but how can he be?
"Look, Oliver, I'm not going to pretend that I'm great at pep talks and stuff - I'm fifteen, not a superhero," Charlie continues, looking Oliver directly in the eyes. "But I know that you're beating yourself up over what happened, no matter what anyone says to you. So let me say it to you: it was not your fault."
"Yes it was!" Oliver exclaims, half-shouting. "If I'd been older, better, maybe I could have missed the Bludger. And if not, maybe I could have stayed on the broom."
Charlie smiles, which annoys Oliver more than the pep talk. "Kid, you got on the team because you were the best of the players who turned out. Plus, I'd seen you play, so I knew it wasn't just a fluke performance."
"But…" Oliver begins, but Charlie cuts him off.
"You know who James Potter is, right?"
Oliver nods. How could he not know of the legendary James Potter?
"So he was the Gryffindor Captain a few years back, obviously before my time here," Charlie begins. "And he was a pretty darn awesome Chaser apparently, as well as Captain. But his first game in charge, things went completely pear shaped for him. I mean completely. Every single thing that could go wrong did. He lost the game by over six hundred points.
"He was devastated. But did he let it get him down? No. In fact, he led the team to the greatest comeback in Hogwarts history - he snatched the title at the end of the year by ten points."
Oliver smiles. He hadn't ever heard this story of the ultimate Chaser, James Potter, before this point.
"So what I'm trying to say, Oliver, is that even though you had a bad game, it isn't your fault. And you shouldn't beat yourself up over it because we've got another two games to pull it out of the bag. And we will." Charlie grins.
Oliver nods again, his brow furrowed. "I guess you're right," he says slowly. "I didn't intentionally fall off my broom - next time I'll be so much better!"
And for the first time, he believes it.
"Good," Charlie replies, taking a step away from the pitch towards the castle. "Now come on and get some food, I can't have my star Keeper starving."
They walk back to the castle together, chatting about statistics and the likelihood of Puddlemere United being promoted, until it hits Oliver.
"Charlie, how did you know that I was mad at myself about the game?" He has to ask. He's a twelve year old boy, after all; inquisitive is his middle name.
"Well it was pretty obvious," Charlie replies. "But my brother was really worried about you. I haven't seen him this worried since the Minister for Magic got lost Apparating home from America. He's a good once to have around, kid."
Before Oliver can say anything else, Charlie has disappeared into the swarm of students entering the Great Hall, leaving Oliver to think about how lucky he is to have a friend like Percy Weasley.
"Can you pass me the turkey?" Percy asks Oliver, shouting to be heard over the ruckus that is the Hogwarts Christmas Feast.
Unfortunately for the Gryffindor boys, their greatest rivals are standing directly behind them.
"You trust Wood with passing you something?" A voice says, one which Oliver identifies as belonging to Marcus Flint, Slytherin Chaser.
"Yeah, I think it's more likely that he's going to fall on the floor and cry than you get some turkey," another boy, Graham Montague, adds. "Not that you need the turkey anyway, Weasley."
Oliver blushes, though his hands ball up into fists. One quick glance at the staff table indicates that nobody is looking their way - not even the raven-sharp McGonagall has noticed a problem - so he prepares to take matters into his own hands.
Before he can, however, Percy's standing up and facing the two boys.
"Leave him alone," Percy says, his voice sharp and authoritative. "Did you get lost on your way to the Slytherin table again? As that's pretty common for you both, isn't it?"
He is, of course, referencing to the fact that the entire Slytherin team camped out near the Gryffindor table in the aftermath of Oliver's accident, only leaving when McGonagall threatened to shut down their Quidditch team.
"It speaks!" Flint shoots back, his tone barbed. "We always just thought that you were the mute geek Weasley."
"Mute, badly dressed geek Weasley," Montague adds. "Who apparently can't fly."
"What a loser," Flint continues, mocking now. "I guess it was just too hard to live up to his better older brothers."
This time, Oliver doesn't look up at the teachers' table before retaliating. Instead, he stands up, turns around and digs his wand out of his pocket. Before the older boys have time to react, he shouts, "petrificus totalus!"
Immediately, Flint falls to the ground, his arms by his sides and his legs locked together.
Unfortunately for Oliver, McGonagall must have noticed the Slytherin boys loitering, and is only seconds away when he casts his spell.
"Wood!" She shouts, her wand out and pointed down at Flint to perform the counterspell. "Detention for a week. What on earth made you think it would be appropriate to curse a fellow student at dinner?"
"He started it, Professor," Oliver attempts to argue, albeit in vain. He's still riled up, furious on behalf of his friend for wizarding prejudice.
McGonagall shoots him a fiercely angry look. "There are no excuses, Wood. Now sit down before I make it a month of detentions. Same to you, Weasley." Her attention turns to Flint and Montague as she says, "if I see either of you on this side of the hall again, it will be detention for a week. Am I clear?"
Both Oliver and Percy sit back down, their friends silent in awe (and probably shock), with their forks halfway to their mouths. The offending turkey is still to Oliver's right, so he takes advantage of the lack of movement to pick it up and pass it to Percy.
"Thanks for that," Percy mutters as their friends start their conversations again. "You shouldn't have jinxed him, but thanks."
"What are friends for?" Oliver replies, smiling. "And detention with McGonagall gives me a chance to put forward my proposals for first year broom restrictions again. I've developed some new ideas and…"
"If you mention that to her again, I don't think you will ever be allowed a broom again," Percy laughs, stuffing a piece of turkey into his mouth.
"Just you wait and see, Perce."
"Oliver, did you actually go to bed last night?" Percy asks as he makes his way down into the Gryffindor Common Room to see his friend,
Oliver yawns, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his now very messy hair. "No, I didn't have time," he says through his yawn. "I finished the flyers at about two am, and had the banner enchanted by three, but it took me ages to figure out how to multiply the number of flyers. I screwed up a few times."
"Is it really that important?" Percy pleads, though there's a note of defeat in his voice.
Oliver stands up at this, his expression defiant. "Of course it is, Percy! The rights of others should not be infringed on because McGonagall doesn't want first years flying - or even anyone other than the Quidditch team! It's stifling young talent, and I will not stand for it!"
"Someone's been reading the dictionary," Patrick Sullivan, fellow second year, jokes as he jumps down the last few steps of the dormitory stairs. "I wouldn't have thought you would know what a dictionary was to be honest."
Oliver ignores the friendly jibe, and instead passes a bunch of flyers to both Patrick and Percy.
"So, I think I've got the key points down, and it's pretty accessible. It might be a struggle to get the sixth and seventh years to support it as they're almost gone - they don't necessarily care about the longevity of the sport - but we shouldn't give up. Their voices could really add some weight to our campaign."
Oliver watches in anticipation as his friends read through the document.
"Oliver...are you sure you can say these things on a flyer?" Percy asks, his voice wary. "You've said that 'the ban on first years flying is likely to lead to lead to a situation in the near future where there aren't enough Quidditch players to run the tournament'. Is that actually likely to happen?"
"Yeah, actually, because she's trying to restrict access to brooms for people like you, who aren't on the team," Oliver explains anxiously. "And if that happens and someone gets on the team but actually doesn't want to play, there's going to be less people to replace them as they can't fly. It's all very logical really: McGonagall's aim is to remove Quidditch from the face of Hogwarts."
His friends are unresponsive, stunned by Oliver's revelation of his theory for McGonagall's ban. Unfortunately for him, his other friends respond much faster.
"You've completely lost it, Ol," Fiona Jones comments as she takes a piece of parchment from Patrick's hand. "There's no way that McGonagall is going to let you spread this campaign...and she's going to make your life hell in Transfiguration. You'd be best to give up before you begin."
"That's why I'm not asking for permission - or going to class," Oliver replies proudly. "I figured that if I'm not there - if I'm campaigning instead - she can't get mad at me."
His friends exchange looks, though Oliver is unconcerned. He knows that they're probably not going to wholeheartedly support him in this venture; he's the only Quidditch player after all, and they just don't get why it's so important to him.
"She's going to murder you, Oliver," Patrick warns, though he keeps a tight grip on the flyers in his hand. "And she'll end up murdering us all along with you."
For the first time, Oliver smiles. "What...you're going to campaign with me?"
Percy takes a deep breath before replying, twiddling with a piece of lint in his left hand jacket pocket. "I...I can't skip lessons, I'm sorry. But I'll campaign with you at break time and after classes, when there's more people around."
"Same," Fiona adds, jumping lithely over the sofa to where Oliver's makeshift work station lies, a random mixture of craft supplies and books. "You know I think you're barking, Ol. But there's no stopping you when you get like this, so I might as well get a front row seat for when McGonagall finds out about this."
.
All in all, twelve first and second year students commence the campaign on the first Monday in May, everything spearheaded by Oliver. It's relatively coherent - indeed, he thinks his father would be proud of the organisation involved in getting everyone and everything right where it needs to be.
The campaign starts at breakfast, where Oliver proudly displays his banner above the door into the Great Hall. Fiona and Paul grab food for everyone from inside the hall, whilst the others stand outside the door, setting up their posters. They start to hand out flyers to intrigued students passing by, though they make a deliberate point of not even making eye contact with Marcus Flint or Graham Montague.
Meanwhile, Oliver's busy with some semi-permanent sticking charms, affixing the banner and some key pieces of propaganda to the walls and floor of the Entrance Hall. He's practised this spell more than any other over the last few weeks, and can safely say that he's a master of sticking charms.
"Wood, what is the meaning of this?" Almost immediately after the group had finished setting up their displays, McGonagall appears outside the hall, her expression disapproving.
Oliver swallows before he speaks. "I disapprove of your refusal to let first years fly - and same for non-Quidditch players. It is an infringement of their rights, per Wizarding Law #1235 of 1276, and is stifling an extremely important field in magical culture." He just about manages to pronounce the words he managed to memorise in preparation for this meeting, and he notices his teacher's expression is almost amused.
"Why am I not surprised?" McGonagall mutters, turning away from Oliver to face the others. "Very well, I understand that Wood has no regard for rules or authority, but what about the rest of you. Weasley, I'm surprised to see you here."
Percy blushes, his lanky frame attempting to melt into the background somewhat, but he doesn't move. "I...I think more people should be allowed to ride brooms...if they want to," he replies, his voice barely audible.
With a stern look at the students, McGonagall turns back to Oliver. "I expect this foolery to be over in time for class, Mr Wood. If not, there will be consequences."
Nobody responds, though Oliver continues to stare directly into the professor's face until she spins around and returns to the Great Hall. On her way, however, she barks, "no food outside of the hall, Jones, Harrison!"
All in all, Oliver thinks that the campaign's first day has gone remarkably well.
.
"If you thought McGonagall was mad before, you should have seen her face when you didn't come into class today," Percy comments to Oliver as he takes a seat next to him in the Gryffindor Common Room. The room's empty save for the two of them, which is why Oliver's decided to take a short break from recruiting. It isn't worth the hassle to go out into the corridors after hours; cleaning silverware with Filch is not worth trying to get a Hufflepuff on his side.
"What did she say?" Oliver asks, mid-yawn.
"Nothing...but you could just tell. It was as if you'd killed somebody, really...the exploding 'oppose McGonagall' cracker you left in there was maybe a bit much, though." Percy's rambling by the end, though he deigns to keep quiet about the fact that Oliver's other pranks didn't exactly go according to plan during the lesson.
Oliver shrugs. "That's fine. I knew she'd hate me for it, I just need her to come around. She might like me again by O. . Maybe."
Suddenly, there's a flash of light in the air above the sofa they're sitting on, and a parchment envelope appears. It floats slowly down into Oliver's lap, which allows him to see that the letter is addressed to him. Mr Oliver Wood is written on the front in purple ink, the handwriting extremely slanted.
"Who's it from?" Percy asks, his voice now more excited than tired.
Gingerly, Oliver opens the letter. He's half expecting it to be a Howler from McGonagall, or something equally brutal, so he's pleasantly surprised to find a short piece of parchment inside.
Dear Oliver,
I understand that you have taken issue with the decision made by Professor McGonagall and myself to restrict first years' access to broomsticks.
I am impressed with the effort and creativity you have put into your campaign, as well as the organisational skills required to achieve such coherent coverage. Therefore, I would like to invite you to my office at 8am tomorrow morning for a more thorough discussion, face to face. The password for the gargoyle is chocolate frog.
Yours Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
"I can't believe you're getting to meet the Professor Dumbledore, just because of a campaign!" Percy exclaims as soon as Oliver finishes reading the letter. "Do you want me to help you practice what you're going to say? He's an incredible wizard - they say that he's the only wizard You-Know-Who was scared of. And he defeated really bad guys a few years ago."
Percy continue to babble on about the actions of Professor Dumbledore, and Oliver tunes him out slightly as he thinks over his campaign with a smile. Not even a full day in, and he's got the highest authority in Hogwarts asking to meet him! Dumbledore must be scared that the campaign could start a whole rebellion where Quidditch becomes an official subject that all students have to participate in.
"Ah, no, it's cool thanks, Perce. I'm just going to go in and let him negotiate with me to get the campaign to end. Thanks though," Oliver replies when his friend prompts him. "I can't believe we've achieved this all already - haven't even had to miss a Quidditch practice to get it sorted, either."
Suddenly, all Oliver wants is for it to be eight tomorrow morning.
.
At eight o'clock on the dot, Oliver knocks on Professor Dumbledore's office door, and hears him say, "enter."
Cautiously, Oliver opens the door to see a very peculiar office. There's portraits of dozens of witches and wizards on the walls, with piles of books scattered around the room. There are even gold machines at random intervals, the functions of which Oliver cannot even dream of.
"Ah, Mr Wood, I see you received my late night communication," Professor Dumbledore says, rising to his feet. His tone is friendly, but it gives Oliver no indication of whether or not the Hogwarts hierarchy are ready to capitulate to his demands. "Come, take a seat - I see you brought some flyers, excellent. I've already had the pleasure of reading one provided by lovely Professor McGonagall, but I do so enjoy your phrasing throughout the piece."
Taking a seat opposite the headmaster, Oliver remains as neutral as possible as he looks at Dumbledore.
"So, you know what my campaign is about then?" Oliver begins, unsure on how to proceed.
Dumbledore nods, a small smile slipping onto his face. "I can assure you, Mr Wood, I was aware of your campaign by the time you entered your first class yesterday morning. Professor McGonagall does not waste time in reporting such outrageous displays."
Oliver's heart sinks. The word outrageous is one he's heard many times during the course of his life so far; it was used by his tutor to describe his attitude to learning about basic anatomy, and by his mother when discussing the likelihood of the Wood family moving closer to their local Quidditch ground. It's never a good word - at least not in Oliver's world.
"And can I ask your opinion?" The words are out of his mouth before he can take them back, and there's a moment of silence as Dumbledore ponders the question.
"I cannot - and will not - overrule Professor McGonagall on a decision she has made for the good of the student body," Dumbledore begins gently, leaning forwards slightly towards Oliver. "However, I have great admiration for the skills you have exhibited in coordinating such an interesting and unique campaign. How long did it take you?"
"Three weeks," Oliver mutters, deflated. He's not going to win this, after all.
With this, Dumbledore smiles more widely than before, and claps his hands together. "Three weeks? Utterly remarkable, Mr Wood; I can assure you that you would do a far better job than many who work in the Ministry's campaigns office."
"Well, that's great to hear, but I probably should get going...thanks for letting me know that I've not achieved anything." Oliver's tone is deliberately dejected, an attempt to get his headteacher to feel bad enough that he allows the campaign to continue.
"But I have not finished," Dumbledore continues. "Whilst I am unwilling to overturn Professor McGonagall's first year ban, we have discussed the restrictions upon non-Quidditch players. Whilst we cannot give them the same access to broomsticks as Quidditch players, we have agreed that all students shall be permitted to fly on weekends, and summer evenings, within a certain area. Madam Hooch has also agreed to chaperone these students. Does this seem like an acceptable compromise?"
Oliver's immediate mental response is to say 'no', but he just about resists. He doesn't want to accept the offer; his driving force for the last year has been to allow first years to fly again, and this doesn't achieve that goal.
"May I remind you, Mr Wood, that compromise is an important part of negotiations," Professor Dumbledore adds, his tone light. "And to sweeten the offer, Professor McGonagall has also agreed to not punish you for both missing class yesterday and the many incorrect allegations within your flyer."
Sighing, Oliver nods. "I agree, Professor. It sounds better than not being allowed to fly, anyway. Can I also request that none of my friends are punished for their involvement, as it was all me? Oh, and for the changes to be announced at dinner tonight?"
Dumbledore takes a moment to ponder Oliver's suggestion, with one hand stroking his exceptionally long beard as he does so. It makes Oliver nervous - perhaps, again, he should have taken on Percy's advice for how to negotiate with someone so...scary. Well, not scary. Powerful. Authoritative. Important.
"I accept your amendments, Mr Wood, and I am glad that we have managed to come to this arrangement without need for further damage to school property," Professor Dumbledore responds. "Someone will also dispose of your propaganda in the Entrance Hall; I must congratulate you on performing such a well done temporary sticking charm. Not many of your peers could achieve that, I imagine."
A few moments later as he leaves the office, Oliver feels a strange sense of both triumph and defeat. He's achieved one of his goals, but at the expense of first years' rights to play Quidditch.
However, as he walks down one of the many moving staircases in the centre of Hogwarts, he's glad that he achieved something. Maybe first year players is something he can campaign for in the future.
For now, he just wants to fly.
Please let me know your thoughts!