To Celebrate Finals Being Done: An Unexpected Rose
Third semester of law school complete, finals are in the can! Feel like I might have failed them all. We'll see. To celebrate, a rare flash of fandom. I'm posting a little thing I did for a fest a long while ago but am pretty sure I never reposted. It was one of those "choose two numbers" events and my picks turned out to be Oliver Wood and Rose Weasley. I did a little May/December meet cute.
Apologies to book purists, but book Oliver is so one-dimensional and uninspiring that when I write Oliver, I do write the Scotsman. He's the one who made that character anything. Well, also a little bit of credit to Col for declining to have the Scotsman do his version of an "English accent," which sounds like a Weegie mostly holding his breath while being well rogered over a hard surface. As such, please accept my attempt at typing a Glaswegian accent as the homage it was intended to be.
Hope you all are having a lovely holiday season. XOXO SCP
Somehow, Oliver Wood had reached the ripe age of fifty without truly understanding how much could change in a single day. To be fair, he had lived a life interrupted by a minimal amount of surprise or uncertainty. In the grand scheme of things, even the war was little more than a minor, if irksome, inconvenience. From the moment he was born, exactly upon the day that he was due, Oliver had thrived beneath a lucky and steadfast star. He had determined early that he should do well in school, but not too well-and so it was. At thirteen he decided that he would become the Gryffindor quidditch Captain and play professional quidditch once he graduated, and those things simply came to be. Throughout his life, it seemed that Oliver Wood need only make a choice and The Fates would shape it into reality.
One of the decisions that Oliver made, nearly thirty years ago now, was that romance was not for him. It wasn’t a choice he had made from necessity; plenty of lovely women had attempted to pin him down. He had been named “Most Eligible Wizard” by The Daily Prophet four times, the articles waxing poetic over his muscular build, dark eyes, and breathtaking, if infrequent, smile. Even now, no less fit but with silver touching his temples and a few threads shot through his dark auburn hair, he had no shortage of feminine company if and when he wished it. But no, Oliver was too pragmatic for such things. Love was a meaningless construct, and he was settled in his ways. No matter where he spent the night, it was best to greet each sunrise alone.
Somehow, Rose Weasley had reached the tender age of twenty-one without ever learning that some things were impossible. She had the intelligence of her mother-though in her case, it had taken the form of Slytherin cunning-but the absolute pigheadedness of her beloved father, who, along with her Uncle Harry, had always shamelessly indulged Rose, much to her mother’s forbearing irritation. Throughout her life, it seemed that Rose Weasley need only want something, and it would be hers.
The day she came to Oliver Wood’s door, what Rose Weasley wanted was a quidditch manager. She was a chaser for the Appleby Arrows, and their Captain. They weren’t a top team, but they weren’t terrible. Unfortunately, their manager had recently abandoned them without a trace, and she had taken with her the 100,000 Galleons that she had embezzled from their coffers. For several months, Rose had been attempting to hire a replacement, but even though she and all of her teammates had agreed to take half their usual pay, they were still struggling to come up with a salary tempting enough for a BQL-quality coach. This might have deterred a weaker-willed woman from seeking Oliver out, but not Rose. Accustomed to having her way, Rose didn’t just want a manager for her team, she wanted the best.
Oblivious to the fact that it was Oliver Wood’s fiftieth birthday, Rose arrived at his home directly from a team meeting and practice. She was still in her fitted, dusty quidditch uniform, her voluminous hair struggling to escape her high horse’s tail. Not for a moment did it occur to her to wait before rushing off to her unannounced visit.
Oliver was halfway through a glass of extremely fine Loch Tatha Firewhisky and one-third of the way through a biography of famous Squib Friedrich Engels when he felt the wards around his townhouse ripple. A glance at his mantel clock confirmed that it was far too early for his visitor to be any of the group of friends who were taking him out for his birthday dinner. His brow dipped slightly with mild irritation as he set aside his book and glass.
When Oliver opened the door to her, his immediate expression was not what Rose had expected. She had fully braced herself for annoyance, anger-even ridicule. There was initially that flash of irritation, yes, but once she clasped her hands together and put on her brightest, most innocuous smile, Oliver’s eyes and mouth slid quickly into what could only be identified as resignation.
“Christ,” he said harshly, “tell me they dinnae.”
Flustered, Rose’s smile wavered slightly, but she drew on her Weasley reserves and pushed forward. “Mister Wood? I’m-”
Oliver waved a hand and then leaned against the doorjamb with one broad shoulder. “Oh aye, I know who ye are. It is nae as if they dinnae threaten tae do this every year. I reckon fifty was too much of a temptation tae resist.”
“Pardon?” Rose asked quizzically. “I’m only here to-”
“Well I think that’s obvious, lass.” Oliver stepped to the side. “Will ye be coming in, then?”
For the first time that day, Rose hesitated momentarily. While Oliver Wood wasn’t exactly a recluse, he did stay rather out of the public eye since his retirement. She wondered if perhaps the man was suffering from some type of mental deterioration that had not yet been reported. But the combination of her parents’ Gryffindor genes and her own Slytherin ambition urged her forward into the foyer.
“So that’s yer gimmick, then?” Oliver asked, closing the door. “Sexy quidditch player? Or did they special order the costume?”
Rose blinked, things falling into place. Wait, Oliver thought-he thought she was…”A stripper? You think I’m a stripper?!” she exclaimed, her voice going shrill on the last word.
Oliver stopped in his tracks halfway across his living room, where he’d been headed to refill his glass with Rose following closely behind. The furrow had returned to his brow. “I believe ‘adult entertainer’ is the respectful terminology,” he grumbled. Suddenly, her shock seemed to penetrate his reserve. He turned fully, mouth agape, glancing her over. “Yer nae?! Yer nae here fer my birthday?”
Much too amused to hold onto her anger, Rose’s full lips quirked. “Should I take that as a compliment? That I look like a present?” She watched as a dull, red flush made its way across Oliver’s well-defined cheekbones even as his expression turned wary. He reached up with one hand and rubbed at the back of his head.
“If yer nae, then why are ye here?”
She heaved a sigh, part relief at finally being heard, and part frustration. She should have been nearly finished with her spiel by now. “Mister Wood, my name is Rose Weasley, and-”
Oliver looked appalled. “Nae Ron’s wean?” At her nod, he looked her up and down again. “Yer what, fifteen?”
“Twenty-one.” Rose pursed her lips. “As I was saying,” she continued over Oliver’s muttered expletive, “I’m Captain of the Appleby Arrows and-”
“Why’n earth would ye play fer them? They’re rubbish.” Oliver turned toward the antique walnut cellarette to his left and busied himself refilling his glass.
Rose crossed her arms tightly, and tapped her toe on the rug, attempting to keep her temper in check. “We’re not rubbish. We merely lack a good manager.”
“That’s the truth,” he agreed. He took a sip from his glass, and made to resettle into his chair, but paused and glanced back when the silence from his guest seemed to stretch unnaturally long. Her expression seemed expectant, and he mentally recounted her last statement. “Ye must be joking.”
“Not at all. To be perfectly frank, we likely can’t afford to pay what you’re worth, but we-”
“I’m retired, lassie.”
“From playing. And we both know that you likely had at least three more good years. All the columnists said so. You could still have a long career as a manager. And don’t call me that, dammit, I’m twenty-one!”
For the first time that afternoon, Oliver looked genuinely amused as he set aside his glass and crossed his arms, mirroring her stance. “I’d forgotten that Granger is yer maw. Christ, tha’ took me back. But yer wasting yer time, la-Miss Weasley. I’ve nae any desire tae manage a team. Especially nae a comedy o’errors like yer Arrows.”
Rose huffed a breath that feathered her fringe. “But that’s exactly it! Think what a coup it would be!” She framed an imaginary headline in the air before her with her thumbs and forefingers. “‘The Legendary Oliver Wood Turns Around Flailing Quidditch Team!’ Even if we only made it to the quarter-finals, you’d have a lock on Manager of the Year.”
Oliver raised a brow and scratched his chin.
“And all for-for three-quarters of the salary that a coach of your caliber would usually earn. They might even give you England’s Good Samaritan Award, as well,” Rose troweled it on, reaching out and laying her hand on Oliver’s forearm in her excitement. A little zip went up her arm from fingertips to shoulder, and her breath caught in surprise.
Oliver blinked, glancing down at her hand and then up into Rose’s face. After a long moment, he shook his head. “I appreciate th’ offer, Miss Weasley, but I’m afraid I have tae decline.”
Rose’s shoulders slumped as she dropped her hand, but a mere second later she drew herself up and met his gaze again. “Well, then I shall simply have to persuade you. Maybe by tomorrow you’ll have changed your mind.” She turned and strode toward the doorway. “I’ll come again at noon.”
Oliver jumped to his feet and rushed after her. “Now Rose, ye cannae be showin’ up whenever ye like.”
She reached the front door and turned, hands on hips. “I’m going to come every single day, Oliver, until you change your mind.”
He eyed her with slight suspicion. “Ye mean about bein’ yer manager, aye?”
Laughter floated in Rose’s blue eyes, and to his shock she blatantly slid them from the top of his head down to his feet and then up again. Her lips curved slowly into a Mona Lisa smile.
“Why, of course. Noon, Oliver.”
He turned his face away, lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck again in nervous habit. “I willnae be home ‘til one,” he mumbled.
“Two, then.” Rose turned a bit and laid her hand on the knob, cutting her eyes back to him. “Two, Oliver?”
He sighed and did his best to muster a glare. “Aye, as ye will.”
Rose nodded with satisfaction and left, pulling the door closed behind her. Oliver stared at the unyielding surface for long moments.
“Well, damn.”
The unexpected had finally found Oliver Wood.
Apologies to book purists, but book Oliver is so one-dimensional and uninspiring that when I write Oliver, I do write the Scotsman. He's the one who made that character anything. Well, also a little bit of credit to Col for declining to have the Scotsman do his version of an "English accent," which sounds like a Weegie mostly holding his breath while being well rogered over a hard surface. As such, please accept my attempt at typing a Glaswegian accent as the homage it was intended to be.
Hope you all are having a lovely holiday season. XOXO SCP
Somehow, Oliver Wood had reached the ripe age of fifty without truly understanding how much could change in a single day. To be fair, he had lived a life interrupted by a minimal amount of surprise or uncertainty. In the grand scheme of things, even the war was little more than a minor, if irksome, inconvenience. From the moment he was born, exactly upon the day that he was due, Oliver had thrived beneath a lucky and steadfast star. He had determined early that he should do well in school, but not too well-and so it was. At thirteen he decided that he would become the Gryffindor quidditch Captain and play professional quidditch once he graduated, and those things simply came to be. Throughout his life, it seemed that Oliver Wood need only make a choice and The Fates would shape it into reality.
One of the decisions that Oliver made, nearly thirty years ago now, was that romance was not for him. It wasn’t a choice he had made from necessity; plenty of lovely women had attempted to pin him down. He had been named “Most Eligible Wizard” by The Daily Prophet four times, the articles waxing poetic over his muscular build, dark eyes, and breathtaking, if infrequent, smile. Even now, no less fit but with silver touching his temples and a few threads shot through his dark auburn hair, he had no shortage of feminine company if and when he wished it. But no, Oliver was too pragmatic for such things. Love was a meaningless construct, and he was settled in his ways. No matter where he spent the night, it was best to greet each sunrise alone.
Somehow, Rose Weasley had reached the tender age of twenty-one without ever learning that some things were impossible. She had the intelligence of her mother-though in her case, it had taken the form of Slytherin cunning-but the absolute pigheadedness of her beloved father, who, along with her Uncle Harry, had always shamelessly indulged Rose, much to her mother’s forbearing irritation. Throughout her life, it seemed that Rose Weasley need only want something, and it would be hers.
The day she came to Oliver Wood’s door, what Rose Weasley wanted was a quidditch manager. She was a chaser for the Appleby Arrows, and their Captain. They weren’t a top team, but they weren’t terrible. Unfortunately, their manager had recently abandoned them without a trace, and she had taken with her the 100,000 Galleons that she had embezzled from their coffers. For several months, Rose had been attempting to hire a replacement, but even though she and all of her teammates had agreed to take half their usual pay, they were still struggling to come up with a salary tempting enough for a BQL-quality coach. This might have deterred a weaker-willed woman from seeking Oliver out, but not Rose. Accustomed to having her way, Rose didn’t just want a manager for her team, she wanted the best.
Oblivious to the fact that it was Oliver Wood’s fiftieth birthday, Rose arrived at his home directly from a team meeting and practice. She was still in her fitted, dusty quidditch uniform, her voluminous hair struggling to escape her high horse’s tail. Not for a moment did it occur to her to wait before rushing off to her unannounced visit.
Oliver was halfway through a glass of extremely fine Loch Tatha Firewhisky and one-third of the way through a biography of famous Squib Friedrich Engels when he felt the wards around his townhouse ripple. A glance at his mantel clock confirmed that it was far too early for his visitor to be any of the group of friends who were taking him out for his birthday dinner. His brow dipped slightly with mild irritation as he set aside his book and glass.
When Oliver opened the door to her, his immediate expression was not what Rose had expected. She had fully braced herself for annoyance, anger-even ridicule. There was initially that flash of irritation, yes, but once she clasped her hands together and put on her brightest, most innocuous smile, Oliver’s eyes and mouth slid quickly into what could only be identified as resignation.
“Christ,” he said harshly, “tell me they dinnae.”
Flustered, Rose’s smile wavered slightly, but she drew on her Weasley reserves and pushed forward. “Mister Wood? I’m-”
Oliver waved a hand and then leaned against the doorjamb with one broad shoulder. “Oh aye, I know who ye are. It is nae as if they dinnae threaten tae do this every year. I reckon fifty was too much of a temptation tae resist.”
“Pardon?” Rose asked quizzically. “I’m only here to-”
“Well I think that’s obvious, lass.” Oliver stepped to the side. “Will ye be coming in, then?”
For the first time that day, Rose hesitated momentarily. While Oliver Wood wasn’t exactly a recluse, he did stay rather out of the public eye since his retirement. She wondered if perhaps the man was suffering from some type of mental deterioration that had not yet been reported. But the combination of her parents’ Gryffindor genes and her own Slytherin ambition urged her forward into the foyer.
“So that’s yer gimmick, then?” Oliver asked, closing the door. “Sexy quidditch player? Or did they special order the costume?”
Rose blinked, things falling into place. Wait, Oliver thought-he thought she was…”A stripper? You think I’m a stripper?!” she exclaimed, her voice going shrill on the last word.
Oliver stopped in his tracks halfway across his living room, where he’d been headed to refill his glass with Rose following closely behind. The furrow had returned to his brow. “I believe ‘adult entertainer’ is the respectful terminology,” he grumbled. Suddenly, her shock seemed to penetrate his reserve. He turned fully, mouth agape, glancing her over. “Yer nae?! Yer nae here fer my birthday?”
Much too amused to hold onto her anger, Rose’s full lips quirked. “Should I take that as a compliment? That I look like a present?” She watched as a dull, red flush made its way across Oliver’s well-defined cheekbones even as his expression turned wary. He reached up with one hand and rubbed at the back of his head.
“If yer nae, then why are ye here?”
She heaved a sigh, part relief at finally being heard, and part frustration. She should have been nearly finished with her spiel by now. “Mister Wood, my name is Rose Weasley, and-”
Oliver looked appalled. “Nae Ron’s wean?” At her nod, he looked her up and down again. “Yer what, fifteen?”
“Twenty-one.” Rose pursed her lips. “As I was saying,” she continued over Oliver’s muttered expletive, “I’m Captain of the Appleby Arrows and-”
“Why’n earth would ye play fer them? They’re rubbish.” Oliver turned toward the antique walnut cellarette to his left and busied himself refilling his glass.
Rose crossed her arms tightly, and tapped her toe on the rug, attempting to keep her temper in check. “We’re not rubbish. We merely lack a good manager.”
“That’s the truth,” he agreed. He took a sip from his glass, and made to resettle into his chair, but paused and glanced back when the silence from his guest seemed to stretch unnaturally long. Her expression seemed expectant, and he mentally recounted her last statement. “Ye must be joking.”
“Not at all. To be perfectly frank, we likely can’t afford to pay what you’re worth, but we-”
“I’m retired, lassie.”
“From playing. And we both know that you likely had at least three more good years. All the columnists said so. You could still have a long career as a manager. And don’t call me that, dammit, I’m twenty-one!”
For the first time that afternoon, Oliver looked genuinely amused as he set aside his glass and crossed his arms, mirroring her stance. “I’d forgotten that Granger is yer maw. Christ, tha’ took me back. But yer wasting yer time, la-Miss Weasley. I’ve nae any desire tae manage a team. Especially nae a comedy o’errors like yer Arrows.”
Rose huffed a breath that feathered her fringe. “But that’s exactly it! Think what a coup it would be!” She framed an imaginary headline in the air before her with her thumbs and forefingers. “‘The Legendary Oliver Wood Turns Around Flailing Quidditch Team!’ Even if we only made it to the quarter-finals, you’d have a lock on Manager of the Year.”
Oliver raised a brow and scratched his chin.
“And all for-for three-quarters of the salary that a coach of your caliber would usually earn. They might even give you England’s Good Samaritan Award, as well,” Rose troweled it on, reaching out and laying her hand on Oliver’s forearm in her excitement. A little zip went up her arm from fingertips to shoulder, and her breath caught in surprise.
Oliver blinked, glancing down at her hand and then up into Rose’s face. After a long moment, he shook his head. “I appreciate th’ offer, Miss Weasley, but I’m afraid I have tae decline.”
Rose’s shoulders slumped as she dropped her hand, but a mere second later she drew herself up and met his gaze again. “Well, then I shall simply have to persuade you. Maybe by tomorrow you’ll have changed your mind.” She turned and strode toward the doorway. “I’ll come again at noon.”
Oliver jumped to his feet and rushed after her. “Now Rose, ye cannae be showin’ up whenever ye like.”
She reached the front door and turned, hands on hips. “I’m going to come every single day, Oliver, until you change your mind.”
He eyed her with slight suspicion. “Ye mean about bein’ yer manager, aye?”
Laughter floated in Rose’s blue eyes, and to his shock she blatantly slid them from the top of his head down to his feet and then up again. Her lips curved slowly into a Mona Lisa smile.
“Why, of course. Noon, Oliver.”
He turned his face away, lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck again in nervous habit. “I willnae be home ‘til one,” he mumbled.
“Two, then.” Rose turned a bit and laid her hand on the knob, cutting her eyes back to him. “Two, Oliver?”
He sighed and did his best to muster a glare. “Aye, as ye will.”
Rose nodded with satisfaction and left, pulling the door closed behind her. Oliver stared at the unyielding surface for long moments.
“Well, damn.”
The unexpected had finally found Oliver Wood.