It felt amazing to feel the wind slice through his hair, and even though the cold has not hampered at all by his robes, Oliver Wood could not convince himself to perform a heating spell on himself. It felt like a kind of repentance, to be doing what he had loved since he was five years old but freezing in the act. There had been no practice scheduled for the day, considering it was Christmas Eve, but when he had woken up that morning, Oliver had felt the desire to just fly and not worry if a Quaffle was roaring toward him and the hoops.
Thoughts had been springing up in his mind for weeks now, and he thought that this afternoon broomstick ride would ease some of the guilt he felt before he was expected to go to his parents' house for the evening. The pressure to abandon his lifestyle that revolved around only Quidditch had tightened over his chest ever since the stories of his former classmates risking their lives for the fight had become ever more present as the days passed. He was soaring through the skies, doing the only thing around which he had dreamed of founding his life, while Harry, practically still a boy and four years younger than Oliver, was on the run and headlining the rebellion.
His feet skimmed the grass, and he tumbled out of the air. He quickly grabbed the broom, tucking it under his arm, and he begun to walk across the pitch towards the locker rooms. The cold had seeped into his bones, and he was eager to wash it all away under the stream of the shower. But he knew that even if the warmth turned his legs to bright red splotches, it could not wash away the guilt he felt.