Part IV

...

A high-pitched warbling caused Oliver's eyes to flicker open, recoiling at the early morning light that made his eyes water and sting. He closed his eyes again and buried his face into the soft confines of his pillow, listening to the sounds around him. Hermes was no doubt perched proudly on the highest point in the dormitory, piercing green eyes remaining vigilant, watching everything and everyone. He warbled again, this time louder. Oliver found the sounds difficult to ignore. Despite the fact that silence is a contributing factor to any owl's way of life, aiding greatly in hunting and midnight vigils, Hermes was a terribly vocal creature. He was also terribly solitary, which could easily be confused with pretentiousness according to the twins, and refused to reside in the owlery, preferring the high crevices in the dormitory or the canopy atop of Percy's bed. Thus, it had become routine to hear the bird announcing his presence early morning. Percy found this to be extremely useful. Oliver, however, did not.

Not today. Especially not today.

He was furious. Still. At Flint. At Percy. At everybody. So much was at risk – why did not one else realise this? Surely somebody as intelligent as Percy could see what Oliver had to lose if these ridiculous rumours surfaced. Were his glasses so fogged over than he could not see the important details and only caught a glimpse of the tiny, non-important aspects? Quidditch wasn't just some game to him. To others it was a mere game that brought about the various different moods to people. They would play for fun, support their teams with blood, sweat and tears and at the end of the match, they would either celebrate or lament before continuing with their lives. This was not the case with Oliver. No, Quidditch was his everything. His passion. His drive. His dream. He would go pro after school – or die trying. Being Captain of the Gryffindor team would go in his favour. Winning the cup would be even better. Either way, everything he did at school, all these achievements, would go in his favour.

Now someone was trying to take this away from him. I'm gonnae break his face when I next see him.

At least he had Quidditch practice to distract himself. Only an additional hour of sleep and he would be right as rain.

Screech.

Screech.

"Shut the bloody bird up!" Oliver shouted, though his voice was muffled into the pillow and came out as nothing but a string of gibberish.

Screech.

Squawk!

"Oi, Weasley!" he growled as he shot up, snapping a glare to the redhead's bed, which was perfectly made and showed no sign of being slept in at all. He looked around but could see no sign of Percy. The door to the shared bathroom (each dormitory had their own bathroom) was open ajar. Percy would always close it.

Hoot.

"'Am up!" he shouted at the owl, eyes narrowing upon seeing Hermes staring down at him. He threw the covers aside and stood up, childishly refusing to straighten the bed, and marched across the room to where his scarlet Quidditch robes were hanging. "See!"

Hermes hooted once more before opening his wings and taking flight, quickly darting out of the open window. Pulling on his robes, Oliver watched until the bird disappeared into the thick morning mist, stifling a yawn behind his hand. It was far too early.

"Might as well wake the team – why waste time sleeping?" he grumbled lowly.

…

The Quidditch Captain entered the second year's dormitory, not caring about the noise he made as he walked with heavy footfalls to Harry's bed and began to shake him awake.

"Whassamatter?" said Harry groggily.

"Quidditch practice," Oliver briskly replied. "Come on!"

Harry blinked, squinting as he stole a quick glance at the window, seeing the blanket of thin mist covering the pink and gold flecked sky. The birds were loud, the chorus of songs announcing the new day. What a racket.

"Oliver," Harry croaked, "it's the crack of dawn."

Oliver grinned broadly, an impish glint present in his eyes as he leaned closer to Harry. "Exactly! It's part of our new training programme. Come on, grab your broom and let's go." He looked around the dormitory, briefly wondering how and why Ron could willingly support The Chudley Cannons – they were bottom of the league. "None of the other teams have started training yet, we're going to be first off the mark this year…"

Silencing a yawn with his hand, Harry climbed out of his bed, shivering slightly at the bitter cold that hit him, and reached for his glasses before he began to look for his robes.

"Good man," Oliver beamed, slapping Harry on the back and almost knocking him down in the process. "Meet you on the pitch in fifteen minutes – don't be late!" he added before rushing out of the room to wake the other members of the team.

…

It was like a miniature forestry wonderland inside a large, and slightly odd shaped, tank. Small bushes quivered in the corners as if an invisible breeze was rushing through the leaves. The crisp foliage that littered the ground was alive with insects and tadpoles swam freely in the vast pool of cloudy water. The end of the tank was a mountained dirt bank, its highest peak tipping above the corner sides with an avalanche of dust occasionally falling down the sides. A dark crevice opened at the foot of the mountain, a large hairy leg peeking out was the only visible sight. Slowly, the leg twitched and moved forward, followed by seven additional legs and a large black and orange tipped body. The arachnid scurried across the foliage with such speed, stalking its pray before striking.

Oliver grimaced as he witnessed the carnage. The spider itself did not bother him. In fact, he had grown used to the twins bringing the eight-legged creature to practice and declaring it their official mascot. Funnily enough, the only times they would do this was when their younger brother would come and support Harry.

"Warm up!" they would declare gleefully, sniggering loudly as they used magic to charm the spider to float around Ron's head.

No, it was the creature that the spider was devouring that brought a grimace to Oliver's face. A worm. It reminded him of a time where he was forced to watch his older brother, Rob, feed his unofficial pet, a bookworm, to the family owl as revenge for allowing the worm to munch on his expensive and rare Quidditch books. The memory still caused Oliver to choke up inside. That worm, Boo, was his best friend for most of his early years, despite the fact that they were viewed as nothing more than a nuisance. It encouraged him to read more. He would read a page and then rip it out, smiling as he watched the worm nibble on the corner of the pages before devouring the entire page. Oliver was determined to discovered whether the myth of bookworms were true. The more text they devoured, the more intellectual they became – they assimilated what they ate. Legend had it that if they devoured enough text, they would be able to verbalise their thought process (language depending on the text devoured). Unfortunately, Oliver never got the opportunity to learn whether this was fact or fake, much to his own dismay. He never really forgave his brother for that either…

Shaking his head, Oliver turned away from the tank and walked to where the twins were sleeping. One was wrapped tightly within the confines of the warm duvet, whereas the other was asleep on his back, arms draped over the pillow, one leg dangling off the bed and the blankets strewn around him. If Oliver were to hazard a guess, he would say that George was the human caterpillar and Fred was the other. It mattered very little which was which when Oliver conjured two pails of water and watched with a satisfied air as the twins jumped up with a yelp and shivered when the cold morning air hit their sodden clothes and skin.

"Whattha…"

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauties," Oliver grinned. "Quidditch practice in five!"

George shook his hands, water splattering everywhere. "Come back in three hours and we may reconsider," he yawned, despite the beaming light reflecting off the richly coloured décor and glazing him in vibrant glow, causing his eyes to slam closed.

"Make that four," Fred chimed in.

"I shidnae listen to Percy. Told me you were a pair of early birds and suggested an early morning start," the older boy grumbled, over linking his arms.

"Naw, yer shouldn't listen ter tha' wee git. Tha' wee munchkin is gonna git what's comin' ter 'im,"Fred said, imitating his accent.

Oliver arched a brow. "I'm Scottish, not Irish by the way."

"At this time of morning, you could be speaking dragonese and it would all sound the same," he replied briskly, silencing George with a glare.

Oliver sniggered and turned on his heel, shouting over his shoulder, "two minutes," as he left.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, George?" Fred asked, pushing himself off the bed and ridding himself of his wet clothes, throwing them haphazardly on the floor.

George stretched, popping the stiffness out of his neck and back, the joints cracking noisily. "Already one step ahead of you, Fred," he replied, holding up and small vial of clear liquid.

The twins grinned to each other, elated at the reaction they would soon squeeze out of their brother once he consumed their little concoction.

…

Oliver stared at the archway leading to the girl's dormitories. He really hadn't thought this one though. The idea seemed fantastic at the time. Now, however, he was beginning to see the error of his way. How was he to wake the girls if he couldn't enter their dormitories? Curse the original founders of Hogwarts! Boys were just as trustworthy as girls were. His reasons for wanting to enter the girl's rooms at five o'clock in the morning were genuine.

He sighed and slumped against the stone wall, resisting the urge to slide down to the ground. Perhaps he could go back upstairs and convince Hermes to perform a few of his infamous wakeup calls? It was the best, and only, idea he currently had. It would have to do. He was about to turn when he heard the district sound of heels against stone tiles. A young girl with bushy brown hair and a handful of books entered the common room.

"Oi!" Oliver said suddenly, causing the girl to jump and almost drop her books. He clicked his fingers. He couldn't for the life of him remember the name of the girl who hung about with his Seeker. He snapped his fingers again, hoping she would fill in the blanks.

"Hermione Granger," she offered, briefly wondering why the Captain of the Gryffindor team was looking at her as if she was his saviour.

"Right. Can you wake up Angelina, Alicia and Katie?" he asked her, quickly adding, "please?"

Hermione stared at Oliver. "Are you sure it's wise to be waking people at this time of the morning?"

Oliver grinned. If he wasn't used to Percy's general attitude then he may have been offended by Hermione's standoffish and condescending tone.

"I'm up, as are you. Harry and the twins are awake and I believe Percy may be skulking around here somewhere. That makes at least six up at this ungodly hour. That's more than enough for this to be classified as sacrilegious, widnae you agree?"

The girl said nothing. What Oliver said made no sense whatsoever but who was she to argue with a sixth year, especially one as brash and outspoken as Oliver Wood.

"Do whatever it takes, Granger," he told her, crossing his arms and regarding her with a snappish eye before walking off. "Oh," he said, suddenly stopping. "Mind Angelina, she can be rather – well, you'll find out…"

To be continued...

I always wondered how Oliver managed to get the girls up ridiculously early when boys can't enter the dorms. This was my take. Also, you could probably guess that I took the text with Harry from the book and added my own little spice. I also realised I made a slight boo-boo with when the twins started Hogwarts. Not sure why, but I was convinced that they started in Percy's four year, not his third - not sure why I thought that. So, that is a little continuity error in my fic ... not that it will matter in the long run.