Amnesty Day: Never Ever Drop A Quaffle
Title: Never Ever Drop A Quaffle
Rating/Warnings: PG
Characters/Pairing: Katie Bell, Oliver Wood/Marcus Flint (slight/implied)
Summary: Girltalk and a lot of frustration for Miss Bell.
Word Count: 886
Author's Notes: A lot of ramble, trying to get a feel for Flint/Wood
Registered purchases?: Yes, both
All she wanted to do was sleep. Not take a nap, no. To sleep. To dissolve into the pillows. To melt into the bed.
But no.
She had to stay awake because someone wanted to play bloody Quidditch all night.
Katie wanted very much to throw a tantrum. Better yet, she flirted with the idea of throwing the Quaffle at one Oliver Wood's head.
"KATIE?" His voice floated through the freezing night air. She made to swat it unconsciously, shivering with cold and annoyance.
"WHAT?" She bellowed back, shoving on her gloves and Quidditch whatnot.
Oliver appeared, lightning fast, in front of her nose as she reached her broom. Damn his new Firebolt 20.
"Ready to play, darling?" he teased, completely oblivious to her replying snarl.
"Happy, are you?"
She kicked off viciously, not waiting for an answer. And certainly not looking forward to a couple of hours trying to get a Quaffle pass her ex-Quidditch Captain either.
Girlfriends of hers - normal girlfriends, granted - would drop by for a spot of tea if they were feeling down. They'd go to a pub and get utterly wasted, if it were Angelina, with her troubles with Lee that always worked out; Katie could look forward to days of Angie gushing about make-up woohoo with Jordan after a couple of days. If it were Alicia, they'd go out shopping and then return to gossip about old flames and such.
But no. Not Oliver Wood.
He didn't care that she might not necessarily want to hear about a certain someone's seemingly flirty looks in the middle of the night, on a rickety old broom, mid-way through a Quidditch practice.
No. Not Quidditch Captain Oliver Bloody Wood.
It was about Quidditch, so it simply had to be on her small lawn, playing damned Quidditch while everyone else had their good night's sleep.
Merlin, if she had to think about the Q-word again, she'd explode in mid-air.
"So Katie."
She threw the ball half-heartedly. So it began. "Yes, Oliver, what?"
He caught it effortlessly and passed it back. "What do you do when a guy doesn't… you know… get it?"
"Didn't we have this conversation a week ago?" Katie said, wearily feinting left and throwing right.
"Yeah, but this time's different. I… He stood me up."
Forlorn. Mr Oliver Wood, object of fangirlish obsession of a million girls in Britain was a lovesick puppy. Katie rolled her eyes.
"What? Passed him a note during Transfiguration class?" She mocked, waiting for the Quaffle.
He frowned and dropped the leather sphere. Katie stifled a gasp. That one action went against Oliver's Sacred Rule #1: Never Ever Drop A Quaffle.
He didn't answer.
"What happened, Oliver?"
Well, seeing as she'd gotten up after an hour of sleep just for the weekly chilly session, Katie was determined to make the most of her time.
"I… er… I invited him around for Butterbeer, at the pub, you know, after the game on Thursday. He owled back, said that he'd be a while, so I waited five minutes and left."
She blinked.
"You left?"
"Yeah."
"After five minutes."
"Yes, Katie."
"WHY?"
He looked astonished. The bloody cheek of him.
"Well, the code says that you shouldn't wait more than five minutes for a bird… or a bloke… to turn up!"
"WHAT SHITTY CODE IS THAT?"
"I… I don't know exactly…" He looked horrified. Katie wanted very much to hit him with her broom. "Did I… do something wrong?"
"YOU THINK?"
"Oh."
She gave up. Right then and there. Flew straight down to the ground and made one hell of a landing. Her bed was calling.
"Wait! Katie! So I should owl Marcus then?" She heard him scramble to his feet and stomped off to her broom shed.
"Yes, darling Wood. Mail your precious Flint, make a fire, have some Firewhiskey and for Merlin's sake, do not stand him up this time!"
Katie crashed open her front door and shut it right in Oliver's face.
Elated. She was highly tempted to throw her flowerpot in his face. Russell, her owl, gave a condescending hoot directed at Oliver's whoop of joy.
She tore off her robes and was heading towards her bedroom when she heard a timid knock.
"WHAT?"
"Er… Katie… By any chance, could I borrow your owl?"
She gritted her teeth, plastered a fake smile on her face and grabbed poor Russ by his plump tum.
Oliver yanked his head back as she flung open the window and thrust a very irritated owl into his face.
"Now," the madwoman inside said menacingly, "owl him, find a cupboard, have a good long shag and stay away from me for a good month. Hear me?"
He nodded and gingerly took Russell into his hands.
Katie rushed to her cool bed and snuggled contentedly under the sheets to the sound of a satisfying cry of pain from one Quidditch Captain Oliver Wood being pecked hard by a furious owl.
886/50 = 17.72 + 10 (bonus) = 27.72 = 28 points!
Nadia//Ravenclaw (who should be sleeping right now)
Rating/Warnings: PG
Characters/Pairing: Katie Bell, Oliver Wood/Marcus Flint (slight/implied)
Summary: Girltalk and a lot of frustration for Miss Bell.
Word Count: 886
Author's Notes: A lot of ramble, trying to get a feel for Flint/Wood
Registered purchases?: Yes, both
All she wanted to do was sleep. Not take a nap, no. To sleep. To dissolve into the pillows. To melt into the bed.
But no.
She had to stay awake because someone wanted to play bloody Quidditch all night.
Katie wanted very much to throw a tantrum. Better yet, she flirted with the idea of throwing the Quaffle at one Oliver Wood's head.
"KATIE?" His voice floated through the freezing night air. She made to swat it unconsciously, shivering with cold and annoyance.
"WHAT?" She bellowed back, shoving on her gloves and Quidditch whatnot.
Oliver appeared, lightning fast, in front of her nose as she reached her broom. Damn his new Firebolt 20.
"Ready to play, darling?" he teased, completely oblivious to her replying snarl.
"Happy, are you?"
She kicked off viciously, not waiting for an answer. And certainly not looking forward to a couple of hours trying to get a Quaffle pass her ex-Quidditch Captain either.
Girlfriends of hers - normal girlfriends, granted - would drop by for a spot of tea if they were feeling down. They'd go to a pub and get utterly wasted, if it were Angelina, with her troubles with Lee that always worked out; Katie could look forward to days of Angie gushing about make-up woohoo with Jordan after a couple of days. If it were Alicia, they'd go out shopping and then return to gossip about old flames and such.
But no. Not Oliver Wood.
He didn't care that she might not necessarily want to hear about a certain someone's seemingly flirty looks in the middle of the night, on a rickety old broom, mid-way through a Quidditch practice.
No. Not Quidditch Captain Oliver Bloody Wood.
It was about Quidditch, so it simply had to be on her small lawn, playing damned Quidditch while everyone else had their good night's sleep.
Merlin, if she had to think about the Q-word again, she'd explode in mid-air.
"So Katie."
She threw the ball half-heartedly. So it began. "Yes, Oliver, what?"
He caught it effortlessly and passed it back. "What do you do when a guy doesn't… you know… get it?"
"Didn't we have this conversation a week ago?" Katie said, wearily feinting left and throwing right.
"Yeah, but this time's different. I… He stood me up."
Forlorn. Mr Oliver Wood, object of fangirlish obsession of a million girls in Britain was a lovesick puppy. Katie rolled her eyes.
"What? Passed him a note during Transfiguration class?" She mocked, waiting for the Quaffle.
He frowned and dropped the leather sphere. Katie stifled a gasp. That one action went against Oliver's Sacred Rule #1: Never Ever Drop A Quaffle.
He didn't answer.
"What happened, Oliver?"
Well, seeing as she'd gotten up after an hour of sleep just for the weekly chilly session, Katie was determined to make the most of her time.
"I… er… I invited him around for Butterbeer, at the pub, you know, after the game on Thursday. He owled back, said that he'd be a while, so I waited five minutes and left."
She blinked.
"You left?"
"Yeah."
"After five minutes."
"Yes, Katie."
"WHY?"
He looked astonished. The bloody cheek of him.
"Well, the code says that you shouldn't wait more than five minutes for a bird… or a bloke… to turn up!"
"WHAT SHITTY CODE IS THAT?"
"I… I don't know exactly…" He looked horrified. Katie wanted very much to hit him with her broom. "Did I… do something wrong?"
"YOU THINK?"
"Oh."
She gave up. Right then and there. Flew straight down to the ground and made one hell of a landing. Her bed was calling.
"Wait! Katie! So I should owl Marcus then?" She heard him scramble to his feet and stomped off to her broom shed.
"Yes, darling Wood. Mail your precious Flint, make a fire, have some Firewhiskey and for Merlin's sake, do not stand him up this time!"
Katie crashed open her front door and shut it right in Oliver's face.
Elated. She was highly tempted to throw her flowerpot in his face. Russell, her owl, gave a condescending hoot directed at Oliver's whoop of joy.
She tore off her robes and was heading towards her bedroom when she heard a timid knock.
"WHAT?"
"Er… Katie… By any chance, could I borrow your owl?"
She gritted her teeth, plastered a fake smile on her face and grabbed poor Russ by his plump tum.
Oliver yanked his head back as she flung open the window and thrust a very irritated owl into his face.
"Now," the madwoman inside said menacingly, "owl him, find a cupboard, have a good long shag and stay away from me for a good month. Hear me?"
He nodded and gingerly took Russell into his hands.
Katie rushed to her cool bed and snuggled contentedly under the sheets to the sound of a satisfying cry of pain from one Quidditch Captain Oliver Wood being pecked hard by a furious owl.
886/50 = 17.72 + 10 (bonus) = 27.72 = 28 points!
Nadia//Ravenclaw (who should be sleeping right now)