Name: Oliver Wood, the soon-to-be-departed.
Age: Too young to die
Hair: Thankfully it'll leave this world looking damn fine, as always
Current Mood: Blind panic
Current location: Racing around my room, looking for Bell's Herbology essay.
I, Oliver James Wood, am a dead man walking. I didn't do Bell's essay. Well, actually, I did, but I handed in the wrong one. See, I liked her drawing so much I keep her little sketch. I had been distracted that night in the library. Bell's hair was trailing over the desk, and it smelt like raspberries. RASPBERRIES. How is a man supposed to concentrate?
And then by the time I got Bell into bed and tucked in, I was completely exhausted. So I went down to the library and gathered up her stuff to do at a later time. And I did, I swear I did. Not that Bell will believe me. I wrote a better essay, but I think, in all my stressed-out stupidity, I handed her the wrong one. I've just got so much to worry about. My trial for Puddlemere is tomorrow. But Bell always reads over her essays before she hands them in, I tell her to. Otherwise she won't learn anything, and then she won't pass her exams and then her mother won't allow her to play Quidditch. Right? So she'd know that Herbology essay was the wrong one? I hope to God so.
Well, I guess we'll find out at practise.
Just a short chapter this week. Of course, I may be persuaded to write more and do another chapter post sometime this week. So, persuade me. I'm listening. I'm listening intently