A/N: This story has been rewritten. If you have not started at Chapter 1, please do!
Chapter Five
Bigger Than My Body
…someday I'll fly, someday I'll soar…
The next few weeks passed in a flurry of paperwork. I was writing out résumés, sending notes to my old professors for letters of rec, and filling out three different applications – one for the actual job, one for an interview and one for temporary security codes to enter the actual department. Clearly, the Ministry enjoys their bureaucracy.
My desk became a mess of half-filled papers, owl treats and capsized ink bottles. Oliver would routinely wander in to remove my stone-cold, half-drunk mugs of tea, pat me on the head and replace it with a steaming cup. I became an expert (a frazzled, frizzy-haired, sleep-deprived expert) in dealing with the varied moods of my favourite post-office owl, Elladora, with only a few bite-marks on my fingers. A week after I had sent in my last forms to the Ministry, Elladora flew in, hooting cheerfully as she whapped me over the head with her outstretched wing.
"Ouch. Thanks, dear." She dropped a letter onto my lap and snapped up a treat off of my desk and flew back out of the window. I ripped open the wax seal. Elegant, curly black text spilled down the parchment.
I froze.
"OLIVER-"
xoxox
"You'll do fine." Oliver slung an arm around my shoulder. "Augh! HAIR! OLIVER!" The letter had scheduled my interview for three days later, and now, here I was at the door. Freaking. Out.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry."
I frantically checked that my unruly hair was still tight in it's uncharacteristic bun.
"How'd you manage that, anyways, Kitten?"
"Lots of magic- wait. Kitten?"
He blushed. "Well...you know...Katie always goes to Kates, then Kate, then Kat...but you're more of a kitten than a cat..." He trailed off. I considered it.
"I like it, actually. It's better than Squirt." That was Fred and George's nickname for me during first and second year. I beat it out of them, although occasionally they called me Squirt just to aggravate me. My mind clicked back into interview mode, which is, coincidentally, surprisingly similar to panic mode.
"Ol-do I look alright? Organized? Professional? They won't like me, I know they won't...I only got an 'Acceptable' on my Transfiguration OWL...I knew that would come back to haunt me, Ol- I don't know how to file – will I have to know how to file? I'm a terrible organizer." My voice was rising in terror. He cut me off with a hand over my mouth. "Katherine Bell." He spoke very clearly and slowly. "You. Will. Do. Fine. You are a very accomplished witch, and you look fantastic, you're charming, you're smart, they'll love you." I bit back a reflexive urge to correct his grammar. He released my mouth, watching me closely. "Okay..." I said, slowly, breathing deep.
"Great." Not missing a beat, Oliver grabbed my arm and spun. "Wait-Oliv-noo-" My yells were swallowed as we were sucked into a vortex of apparition.
xoxox
Oliver kissed me on the forehead as I turned to him, heart pounding, the sternly lettered Department of Magical Law Enforcement glinting on the door in front of us. "I'll be waiting," he whispered, smiling. "You'll be brilliant." And I smiled weakly, and walked through that door to face my interviewer.
The little man sitting at the desk did not look as though he belonged in the Law Enforcement. He had a dry, cardboard-like face. He probably shined his shoes every evening; he probably collected stamps or something equally colorless. He looked as if I punched him hard enough, he wouldn't bruise or fall, but just tear straight through, paper-thin. "Ms. Bell." he had a squeaky, hissy voice. It immediately put me in mind of a pubescent snake, if there is such a thing. "Um...yes?" He focused on me blearily. His glasses magnified his eyes crazily. Trelawney?
"Most excellent." He sounded as though he were informing me that my warts were, unfortunately, incurable. I blinked. "I am Mr. Parker," gesturing to the chair in front of the desk. "This is a necessary part of our application, Ms. Bell. We take only the most high-quality, well-rounded candidates. So, Ms. Bell...you want to join the Magical Law Enforcement Squad?" Of course. Why else would I be here, dingbat?
"Uh, yes, Mr. Parker." He nodded stiffly. I found myself wondering if it hurt to crease his parchment neck. "Hmm... on paper you seem an," his mouth twisted unpleasantly, "adequate candidate. What practical experience do you have, Ms. Bell? We don't need wizards who..." he looked me up and down, coolly. "buckle under pressure." He sneered, as he spoke the last words, as though expecting me to stutter and tell him of some little dueling club I'd fought in. I stiffened.
"I fought alongside Harry Potter, and the rest of the Order of The Phoenix in the Second War, I took the equivalent of a low-level aurors course living out in the woods, in hiding for a year and I was a part of the vigilante Dumbledore's Army, and kept in contact with the DA in Hogwarts under the Carrow's reign, shipping in anything and everything I could. I do not buckle under strain." I finished with a slight sneer of my own. Take that. He raised his eyebrows, a surprised little "Oh." escaping his lips. "Well, Msss. Bell, we have a practical exam, that you will need to take...at a later date...if you could just, uh, fill out these questionnaires, and we'll uh, owl you at a later date to tell you the time for your practical." I blinked. "That's it?" He stared at me.
"It? Oh, Ms. Bell. I promise you, our practical exam is quite..." he smirked, "rigorous." 'Rigorous', is it? Bring it on, shorty. Bring. It. On.
xoxox
Frankly, I think the questionaires were the most interesting part of the whole interview. Once Parker had left, I set to inking in my answers, marveling at how little he had asked me. The forms, on the other hand, were quite thorough.
(Favourite food? Shepard's pie. Or steak...yum. And potatoes...
If you could be a Victorian writer, who would you be and why? Uh... was Shakespeare Victorian? No...he was Elizabethan... um... Muggleborn? Yes.
Are you/have you ever been a Deatheater? Why would I be doing this if I were a Deatheater? (That's a NO.)
Would you prefer blue or purple robes? Blue. (Puddlemere colours! Woot!)
Do you subscribe to Witch Weekly? What does this have to do with anything? Who wrote this thing?)
It was quite brilliant, as such things go. CardboardMan (I've already forgotten his name...oh dear) collected the finished sheets, dropped a massive stack of papers into my arms, hissed "Study materials." and ushered me out. Oliver was sitting on the bench, the picture of anxiousness, tapping his foot and staring at his hands.
"Katie! How'd it go?" He sprang up, rushing over to me.
I grinned up at him. "Perfectly." I shifted the pile of papers. "This'll be easy. They'll never know what hit 'em."
Oliver smiled, relief flooding his face. "That's my girl," he whispered, and brushed some hair that had escaped my bun off my face. (It really cannot stay neat.) His hand lingered on my cheek and for some odd moment there, I though he just might kiss me.
Then, of course, the papers slid off the top of the pile, crashing to floor with a very disproportionate noise. Goodbye, moment.
"Oh, sorry-" Oliver said, breaking away to scrabble on the floor to pick up my scattered papers. We both busied ourselves chasing down stray sheets.
"I was wondering, Kates," Oliver began, turning to grab a pile, "There's a practice today in, uh, twenty minutes, I think," he stood up triumphantly with a messy stack of loose sheets, "And I was wondering if, well, you'd like to come watch." He neatly placed his pile on top of mine, then firmly took the entire stack from my arms. "I undestand, of course, if you don't…"
"Hey! I can do that- oh, fine. Be all chivalrous. See if I care...oh. I'd love to come, Ol! I mean, are you kidding? Course I'd want to watch!"
Oliver beamed.
xoxox
"Alright team!"
I started. An absolute bear of a man, with a huge, booming voice came striding into the changing room. He had red hair, and a close-cropped beard. His accent- Scottish - was just as strong as Oliver's. I was frozen. He turned to me.
"Where are they? You the only one? Hm..." He turned to contemplate his team's continued absence, then did a doubletake. "Hang on! Who're you, then? Sent to spy on me team, I shouldn't doubt! I'll tell you-"
Oliver came rushing in at that point. "No-Coach-she's with me. It's okay. This is Katie. My, uh, my...roommate." He said the word as though it had another meaning, and interestingly enough, Coach seemed to take it as such.
"Oh. Oh. Sorry," he began, rather guilitily.
"It's totally fine," I smiled cheerily, "In fact...it reminded me a lot of another quidditch captain I used to know." I caught Oliver's eye out of the corner of mine and he grinned, knowing exactly what I was referring to. "Ah. Good. Then," he began awkward, then picked up a head of steam and rounded on Oliver, who looked suddenly serious,
"Where is the rest of my team, Wood?"
"Uh," Oliver looked nervous, edging sneakily away towards the door he'd just come through. "I, uh, don't. Um. I think they're-" he dashed back inside.
"Hrmmph." Coach/Bearman growled, and sat down to wait. "Y'see, Bell," How does he know my last name? "We do this, oh, ev'ry afternoon practice. The little buggers are always out partying or doing something equally unprofessional. I mean, is that hard – when you have practice every damn Monday at the same bleeding time – to know to not do stupid things on a Sunday?" He glared. I was saved having to answer by a crack!
"Evans! Where have you been?" A tall, trim man had appeared out of nowhere. He looked distinctly rumpled and very tired.
"Sorry, Coach. Kelly's been sick, you know, and I've had to deal with the twins and, God knows they've got a set of lungs when they feel like it-"
"Excuses! Winners do not make excuses! Go change!" The man looked as though he might protest, but then just rolled his eyes and strode away. Tom Evans, I thought, Oliver's voice in my head, center chaser. Nice guy, twin one-year-olds. Oldest guy on the team.
"I...um...don't you, uh, think that was a little...er...harsh?" I looked at him sideways, nervously. He sized me up for a moment, then smiled.
"Oh, aye, it's harsh. But they know I'm not angry. Otherwise we'd not get this sort of insubordination-" he raised his voice at two girls who had just walked in.
"Sorry coachie!" giggled the short, curvy blonde one, grinning cheekily. The other, slenderer and a bit taller had black hair and blue eyes. She simply looked apologetic, and both hurried into the changing room. The blonde-Hannah Hendricks, beater. Oliver said she seemed sweet, but on field, she's deadly. And then the only other girl. Charlotte Greene, seeker. Quiet.
"We should have been on the pitch a minute ago!" Coach yelled after them. He sighed, and checked his watch again. Suddenly, he muttered, low under his breath, "Three...two...one..." Bang! Went the door and Crack! split the air. I stared. One man stood in the door, Weasley-red hair in a mess, gasping, "Hey Coach, got hung up by -you! Damn!" The other, a tall black wizard, grinned rogueishly at the man in the door. "Beat ya - I'm going, I'm going," he added, catching Bear-man's expression. Kieran Dawson, chaser - redhead. Jordan Meyers – the other beater. Oliver says they're like Fred and George. What fun.
xoxox
The players, all uniformed now, filed out of the changing rooms. "Wait-where's Farrow?" Coach stood up, glancing down the line.
"Here, Coach, here. I was intelligent and apparated directly into the changing room. On time, I might add," a little man with very blonde hair said, smugly. Oliver rolled his eyes. Ah. Eric Farrow. Oliver says he's a twit. A twit that, unfortunately, is a brilliant flyer.
"Right," began Coach Bard (Bard! That was it...) in the clear tones of a pre-practice lecture. The team immediately fanned out to sit down. Oliver wedged himself next to me. I let the coach's words wash over me, catching confused glances from a variety of players, and a particularly disapproving one from Farrow. I already disliked him and his stupid weaselly little face.
Oliver edged closer to me. "So. That other quidditch captain. Used to know, Bell? What's that about?" he whispered out of the side of his mouth.
"Oh, you know, he was a decent enough captain, but well, just not a good person to be around. I just couldn't stand him."
"You wound me, dear. I take that to heart, I do."
"Oh, you thought it was you? That's cute."
"Wood? Got something to add?" I jumped at Coach's voice, immediately feeling like a student again.
"Uh, yes," Oliver began, "I was just going to say that while theory and form are...extremely...important, for moves like the sloth grip roll and the Hawkshead Formation, the only way to truly get them it to practice them on the field." He grinned up at Coach, confidently.
"That's...that's a good point, Wood," Bard conceded, "Onto the pitch, kids."
xoxox
"NO! Farrow - pass the quaffle to Evans! No - I don't want you to make an attempt on goal! PASS THE QUAFFLE!" Meyers, apparently deaf, went to fake out Oliver, and attempted to score on his left hoop. He wasn't a very good scorer. Ever from here in the stands, I could see the twist in his body towards the left hoop, entirely ruining his amateurish feint. Ollie saw it too, and caught the quaffle easily. But even despite this, I could see why he was on a team. He moved effortlessly, thoughtlessly, totally in sync with his broom. It killed me to admit it, but despite all of his unpleasantness, Farrow was just really one of those natural flyers – you could practice all your life, and you'd still never fly as well as say, him or Viktor Krum. Or even, I reflected, Harry.
"STOP! Stop, Farrow, you moron! You need to listen to me! The point of the Hawkshead is to intimidate - something you cannot do." I smirked. I was liking Coach more and more. "And then you need to pass to Evans, he'll fly up and reverse drop to Dawson who will attempt goal. You are not a good strong scorer! I bet Bell here could score better than you!"
"Actually," said Oliver, grinning mischievously, "She can. Bell was my strongest scorer at Hogwarts. She's a solid Chaser, and knows Hawkshead like the back of her hand.
"Is that so?" Bard looked thoughtful. "Well then, Bell, get on up here. Let's see if you can show Farrow something." Coach grinned mischievously.
"Oh, no, I couldn't-" I began, but Farrow interrupted, not in the least cowed. "Oh please, Coach," he sneered, "We all know she's not better than I am. You need me. Just cause Wood's in love with her doesn't mean she's any good."
You did not just go there.
"Never mind. I can. Hand me that broom."
Watch your back, Farrow.
Prat.
Rewritten & updated! Please R&R! =]
Bigger Than My Body – John Mayer