Harry Potter | Aidan Lynch | fanfiction
ARCHIVAL POST INFORMATION
Originally Posted: January 18, 2005.
Cross-posted: Semi-private writing journal.
Additional Notes: Again, the way Aidan Lynch is portrayed here is based on a really weird interpretation of mine from a now-defunct Marauders-era roleplaying game. I was very very VERY tired when I wrote this, and I probably shouldn't have posted it, but here it is. Yes, I KNOW it makes no sense! Arg! Original Author's Notes retained, as per usual.
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Author: Moony.
Title: Case Studies in Quidditch Academia.
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Character: Aidan Lynch.
Rating: PG for promotion of Lynch-bashing.
Words: 666 words (oh my).
Author's Notes: Whoo, no more writing at 2:00am for me, because I don't think this makes even the slightest bit of sense, and I swear that it's nothing like what I originally had in mind. Long and rambling. Might edit or even completely re-write it later. Oh well, I tried. I will write something more serious and hopefully better after this.
The study and intellectual fuss over Quidditch and its star players was pointless, an editorial claimed. Absurd, a waste of time and Galleons, never going to contribute to the progression of liberal wizarding democracies and magical technological enlightenment and all of those other Big Words and Ideas that the subjects of the field had almost certainly no understanding of or interest in, unless one were to ever propose the immediate implementation of a Quidditch State.
Perhaps some of the field's greatest supporters even agreed with the doubters at one point. The sport hadn't a quirk for everyone to theorize over since Barry Ryan had announced that he was switching his pre-game diet from refined sugar to brown sugar (was brown sugar honestly a better performance enhancer, or was he just leading the other teams on? Inquiring minds wanted to know). The 1994 Quidditch World Cup, however, revived this particular couchside academic field. After all, how in Merlin's name could Aidan Lynch -- the all-time record-setter for the most spectacular crashes (while walking to and from the locker rooms) and the most Wronski Feints fallen for in a single career, among many other illuminating accomplishments -- have been selected for one of, if not the most elite and sought-after contracts, at least in Ireland? If it was assumed that the country's scouts were in a right state of mind at the time, then perhaps it was simply a matter of Lynch having been an excellent player at first, only to degenerate soon after signing on the dotted line and long before the contract could be terminated. Some philosophized that his lack of motor skills must surely be attributed to smacking his head one time too many times (tragedy!), but his mother always crossed her arms and snorted when the idea was proposed to her at the press conferences each week.
"If you're all suggesting that smacking a clever boy's head would make him stupider, then you clearly haven't known Aidan-dearest as a child. By your logic, he should be a genius by now, although I suppose he could be by the League's standards."
The Irish National Side Seeker himself animatedly regaled Daily Prophet reporters with how his older brother (a fine role model, as all siblings are) taught him everything he knew about the fundamentals of object permanence, which every decent player should be quite knowledgeable of:
"It's very much like the debate about the falling tree in the forest -- "
"Oh no! Was the tree hurt?"
"No, stupid, but you will be if you don't shut up. As I was saying, it's like the thing with the tree: if a tree falls down in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"
"Ooh, good question! I don't know, I've never seen a tree fall down before. Can we knock over Mammy's favourite tree in the front-yard and listen?"
"The point is, it's like goalposts in Quidditch: if you can't see the post, is it really there?"
That was an excellent question as well. He squeezed his eyes shut, scrunched his face an expression that suggested he'd been sucking on an entire citrus fruit bowl for hours and tapped at his forehead with a great deal of concentration (this was, as he had observed, exactly how one went about "thinking"). Surely the answer to the question was a "no". After all, he didn't recall having ever flown into anything when had his eyes closed or looked behind himself. It was always when someone shouted "look out!" (a hex!) and he opened his eyes or turned around that he found himself getting intimately well-acquainted with one of the hoops.
From then on, he proudly announced, he's always tried to fly, as often as possible, without looking at where the hell he's going.
When he's finished his story, he excuses himself for a bit of relief, and spectacularly dashes smack into a cinderblock wall, a good few metres to the right of the door.
Originally Posted: January 18, 2005.
Cross-posted: Semi-private writing journal.
Additional Notes: Again, the way Aidan Lynch is portrayed here is based on a really weird interpretation of mine from a now-defunct Marauders-era roleplaying game. I was very very VERY tired when I wrote this, and I probably shouldn't have posted it, but here it is. Yes, I KNOW it makes no sense! Arg! Original Author's Notes retained, as per usual.
-----
Author: Moony.
Title: Case Studies in Quidditch Academia.
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Character: Aidan Lynch.
Rating: PG for promotion of Lynch-bashing.
Words: 666 words (oh my).
Author's Notes: Whoo, no more writing at 2:00am for me, because I don't think this makes even the slightest bit of sense, and I swear that it's nothing like what I originally had in mind. Long and rambling. Might edit or even completely re-write it later. Oh well, I tried. I will write something more serious and hopefully better after this.
The study and intellectual fuss over Quidditch and its star players was pointless, an editorial claimed. Absurd, a waste of time and Galleons, never going to contribute to the progression of liberal wizarding democracies and magical technological enlightenment and all of those other Big Words and Ideas that the subjects of the field had almost certainly no understanding of or interest in, unless one were to ever propose the immediate implementation of a Quidditch State.
Perhaps some of the field's greatest supporters even agreed with the doubters at one point. The sport hadn't a quirk for everyone to theorize over since Barry Ryan had announced that he was switching his pre-game diet from refined sugar to brown sugar (was brown sugar honestly a better performance enhancer, or was he just leading the other teams on? Inquiring minds wanted to know). The 1994 Quidditch World Cup, however, revived this particular couchside academic field. After all, how in Merlin's name could Aidan Lynch -- the all-time record-setter for the most spectacular crashes (while walking to and from the locker rooms) and the most Wronski Feints fallen for in a single career, among many other illuminating accomplishments -- have been selected for one of, if not the most elite and sought-after contracts, at least in Ireland? If it was assumed that the country's scouts were in a right state of mind at the time, then perhaps it was simply a matter of Lynch having been an excellent player at first, only to degenerate soon after signing on the dotted line and long before the contract could be terminated. Some philosophized that his lack of motor skills must surely be attributed to smacking his head one time too many times (tragedy!), but his mother always crossed her arms and snorted when the idea was proposed to her at the press conferences each week.
"If you're all suggesting that smacking a clever boy's head would make him stupider, then you clearly haven't known Aidan-dearest as a child. By your logic, he should be a genius by now, although I suppose he could be by the League's standards."
The Irish National Side Seeker himself animatedly regaled Daily Prophet reporters with how his older brother (a fine role model, as all siblings are) taught him everything he knew about the fundamentals of object permanence, which every decent player should be quite knowledgeable of:
"It's very much like the debate about the falling tree in the forest -- "
"Oh no! Was the tree hurt?"
"No, stupid, but you will be if you don't shut up. As I was saying, it's like the thing with the tree: if a tree falls down in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"
"Ooh, good question! I don't know, I've never seen a tree fall down before. Can we knock over Mammy's favourite tree in the front-yard and listen?"
"The point is, it's like goalposts in Quidditch: if you can't see the post, is it really there?"
That was an excellent question as well. He squeezed his eyes shut, scrunched his face an expression that suggested he'd been sucking on an entire citrus fruit bowl for hours and tapped at his forehead with a great deal of concentration (this was, as he had observed, exactly how one went about "thinking"). Surely the answer to the question was a "no". After all, he didn't recall having ever flown into anything when had his eyes closed or looked behind himself. It was always when someone shouted "look out!" (a hex!) and he opened his eyes or turned around that he found himself getting intimately well-acquainted with one of the hoops.
From then on, he proudly announced, he's always tried to fly, as often as possible, without looking at where the hell he's going.
When he's finished his story, he excuses himself for a bit of relief, and spectacularly dashes smack into a cinderblock wall, a good few metres to the right of the door.