Name: I've forgotten it. I'm making more space in my brain to remember Quidditch plays by erasing all non-essential information.
Age: See above reason.
Hair: A bit flat, actually. I have some grass stuck in it too. Don't ask me how, because I have no idea.
Current Mood: My knees are almost knocking together, okay. Don't ask, because I don't want to be the first contestant here to faint or suffer an aneurism.
Current Location: Puddlemere United Quidditch Pitch
I land awkwardly on the Puddlemere Quidditch Pitch, stumbling head-ward and trying not to twist an ankle. Not that I'd really need it for the trials, being 600 feet in the air perched on a broomstick. But still, this said a lot about my sporting prowess, my sense of balance and general athletic ability as a whole. Ie: Don't put your money on the Scottish kid. Oliver Wood accident waiting to happen. Yeah, I might as well turn around and go home now. Instead I look around sheepishly to see if anyone noticed. A bunch of girls in multi-coloured robes giggle nearby. Smooth, Wood. I focus my attention on the Pitch, taking in as much as I can. I figure with the rate I'm going my, trial will last a grand total of two seconds, so I might as well make the most of the experience.
I stare at Puddlemere's Pitch in awe. I've stopped trying to blend in and looking like I can tell one end of the Pitch from the other. Everyone is sauntering around like they're Puddlemere's managers or whatever, but I figure every detail I take in now can colour my day-dreams for the next few months. The Pitch is humongous. If Hogwarts had a Pitch this big, suicide runs would live up to their name. I know all Quidditch Pitches are supposed to be the same regulation size, but this one still looked bigger. It could have something to do with the grandstands that loomed taller than the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, the state-of-the-art motion capture screens, the flashing slogans and banners that papered the boundary of the pitch. Oh yeah, and the hundreds of people scattered all over the grounds.
I look at my feet to avoid staring at the crowd of hopeful Keepers. The grass under my feet is an almost fluorescent green. The Keeper's hoops have been polished so the brass looks like gold. No matter how many times I casually drop it into the conversation, Filch is yet to award anyone a detention that involves polishing the Hogwart's Hoops. Of course, I'm not exactly on speaking terms with Filch, so perhaps that might be a contributing factor to the reason our hoops are going that greenish shade neglected brass gets.
A loudspeaker announces Keeper trials are beginning. Despite the fact that ever since I'm arrived I've felt so obviously second-rate, I feel a splutter of hope, coupled with a surge of adrenaline. I've given myself pep-talks, trying to let myself down gently, but nobody listens to me, especially myself. My heart-beat picks up as I walk over to the tent, with the rest of the Keeper try-outs. Some of the crowd mill over to the stadium seats to watch us trial, waiting for their turn. One side of the tent has desks, where we sign our names and details. It's just like a Hogwarts trial only much, much worse. I don't even remember trialling for The Gryffindor team. Obviously it wasn't this traumatic.
"Okay, here's the drill." The squat-looking judge barked self-importantly. Merlin, I hope I don't sound like that when I give the team orders. Note to self: listen to self more. "We will pair you off randomly against each other. The person with the surname that comes first in the alphabet will have possession of the Quaffle first, with the intent being to score as many goals against the Keeping partner as possible in five minutes. After five minutes, you will swap. The person with the lowest score – as in, the person whom lets the fewest amount of Quaffles through their hoops - will progress to the next round, while the other, unfortunately, will leave us. You will not be assessed on your throwing technique, but your catching technique. We are trialling Keepers, not Chasers. Got that?
"If there is a tie, or neither scores against the other, both will progress to the next round. Previously we used to assess each triallee individually against Charmed Quaffles, but it took too long and no triallee managed to save a single Quaffle."
That sounds encouraging.
"If you make our final ten, we will give you a break of one week, to rest and heal and judge whether today was a once-off occurrence. You will also be tested for magical enhancers during this time. You will then, if you make the final ten, play a series of mini-games against both yourselves and members of the Puddlemere team." I breathe a little faster at this news. Several people gasp audibly. The tension in the tent ratchets up a few notches. Currently my pulse was flittering faster than the wings of the Golden Snitch.
Wordlessly the judges raised their wands, and along the longer-sides of the Pitch - the north and south sides - small Hoops sprout out of the ground. They were half the height of regulation Hoops, but they were grouped in threes. It looked like we would be playing mini-games along the width of the Pitch, not the length.
"There is a height imposition of 40 feet: triallees are only allowed to fly as high as the top of the Quidditch Pitch stadium." Another judge barked.
"We will be watching you on the motion capture screens, and every time a Quaffle is let through a Hoop, it will make a noise to alert us. We will keep tally, as well as the other officials that will be walking up and down the Pitch." Our names were then read out and we took out place at one of the groups of small Hoops.
In the blink of an eye I was hovering a few feet off the ground, eye to eye with my first partner, John Goatshead. I was defending the Hoops first. It's times like these I curse having a surname at the end of the alphabet. The whistle blew after what felt like only five seconds. I hadn't let any Quaffles through my hoops. I hadn't lost the first round. Perhaps because of this relief, maybe I threw poorly. Or perhaps it's because Keepers aren't used to trying to score; we defend instead of attack. Or maybe John was just a good Keeper. Whatever the reason, he didn't let any Quaffles through either. We tied, and shook hands amiably at the end of the first trial, both intensely relieved we hadn't been the first round to be rejected. I could handle bombing out in the next round; as long as I hadn't been in the first group, it proves I have at least some Quidditch potential.
Because of the tie, I don't know if I should be thankful I didn't bomb out in the first round, or be nervous that I didn't score more points. After finishing the first round I didn't feel any less nervous: I hadn't gotten a handle on the skill level of any of the competition. When I play Hogwarts games, you can bet what each team will pull. Slytherin always try sneaky, underhanded tactics, so you have to be on guard for illegal moves. Hufflepuff try to just bull-doze their way across the pitch with minimum passes and plays. Ravenclaw is the exact opposite, with simple, well though-out tactics and manoeuvres. My point is, you always know what's coming. I had no idea what they were going to throw at me next. I wish I had Bell here, she's excellent at picking up player weaknesses and poor defences.
The next contestant threw me completely. She almost caused me to lose the trial. I didn't even hear her name, I was too busy gawping. She had long, ash blonde hair, and a light, trilling laugh. Something flashed in my head: Veela. My Mother's Grandmother was apparently half-Veela, so I was well aware of the tricks Veela played. Feeling slightly relieved that I knew the tactics of my opponent, my head cleared just as the first whistle blew. I blocked all the Quaffles she threw at me; not that they had much force behind them to start with. When it was my turn to throw, I hurled them at her with no remorse. No doubt she had an easy win last round by bamboozing and dazzling her first opponent. But not Oliver Wood. Looks shouldn't get you everywhere, I thought as her long hair fell blew into her face and tangled around her wrists for the forth time. By the time the final whistle blew, she had let six Quaffles through. She stormed off the Pitch without shaking hands, her face transforming and elongating into the ugly bird/demon-like form Veela's try to desperately to hide.
The next 11 contestants flew past me. I couldn't believe my good luck. I had met quite a few good players that kept me on my toes, but by some fluke of fate, I had gotten through all the rounds. There were only twenty contestants left: one round remained to cut the twenty down to the final ten.
My final opponent was someone called Callidus Venenum. "Cally" she muttered under her breath. Again, I cursed having a surname beginning with "W". All thoughts flew out of my head as the first whistle blew. If I just blocked every airborne scarlet-colour thing that was being lobbed my way for another five minutes, I would have made it to the final ten. I would get to trial with actual members of Puddlemere United. There was a loud 'ping' behind me. It took several seconds for me to register what the noise was: I had let a Quaffle through my hoops.
I stared at Cally in horror. She smiled politely. "Concentrate." She offered, before pelting the next Quaffle to my left. She reminded a bit of Bell, for some reason. I spent the next few minutes throwing myself around my Hoops, desperate not to let the Quaffle through. I stopped most of them deftly, but there were a few heart-pounding moments where I just brushed the Quaffle with my finger-tips. I didn't let anymore Quaffles in, and at the end of the first whistle I was having trouble breathing. I didn't know if I had enough in me to make a good game against this Cally.
The second whistle blew and it was Cally's turn at the goal-posts. I pegged the first Quaffle at her on her left side, seeing as I'd noticed she'd been right-handed when she'd been throwing the Quaffles at me. She kicked the ball back to me easily, the small smile on her face seemed to be challenging me with "Is that all that you've got?" Heaven help me, her expression was so much like Bell's I couldn't help being annoyed at her. I threw the next few balls with wild abandon, trying to find her weak defence. As the minutes wore on, she amazed and impressed me more and more with her Keeping skills. While I'd been flopping around the Hoops like a winded fish, she blocked each Quaffle with purpose and poise. I'd never seen anyone so graceful and deadly at defending Hoops. Even the Veela hadn't guarded her Hoops with as much elegance as this Cally.
I kept an eye on the count-down timer, and had given up hope of making the final 10. I had just under ten seconds left to score, and my opponent was just too good. I could handle loosing to her: she was much better than I could ever be. As the final seconds ticked down, I noticed her glance furtively at the clock. Without thinking, without aiming, without winding up, without breathing or hoping, I pitched the Quaffle with everything I had left. I almost fell off my broom with the effort. Startled, Cally lunged at the Quaffle, brushing it with her fingers, but there was too much force behind the throw. The Hoop let out a ding as the final whistle blew. We had tied. It was 1:1. I had made the final 10.
Cally didn't even look annoyed she'd let a Quaffle in. After all, she'd made the top 10 too, hadn't she? She grinned at me. "I should have been concentrating." She admitted sheepishly as we shook hands. I had to make a conscious effort to tell my fingers to let go. "See you next week." She smiled.
My heart jumped at the thought. I wasn't sure if I was more excited at the chance to play Puddlemere, or see Cally play again. I made my way back to judge's tent confused and exhausted.
For once, Oliver's POV is longer than Katie's. I was going to chop this chapter in half to make it more easier on the brain (apologies if I lost anyone back there or bored them to death), but the introduction of the new character needed to be included this chapter to keep it up to date with Bell's POV (doing two POV's is hard – it's much harder when the two people aren't even in the same place, having the same experiences).
And ahaha – new character! What are our first impressions? Biatch, or likable enough? Ooooh, if you knew the plans I had in store for her. And Oliver. Ooohooo. Bwhahahaha