fic: forget not that the earth delights (oliver wood, g)
Last fic of the day, I promise!
Title: Forget Not That the Earth Delights
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR.
Summary: He did not have to remind himself that this was his last year -- his last chance and their last chance as team -- to win it.
Rating: G
Characters: Oliver Wood
Word Count: 1410
Author's Notes: For barefoottomboy, who requested, "Oliver Wood, light, blurry, 3pm." Dear, I somehow managed to forgot to write your February request, so accept this slightly longer ficlet as an apology! I also never thought that I would ever write a fic about Quidditch and flying, but my recent re-read of the HP books must have inspired me somewhat. All comments, concrit, and reviews welcome.
--
Chang's got the Snitch! Chang's got the Snitch, and she and the rest of the team join their supporters on the pitch to celebrate Ravenclaw's victory over Gryffindor to take this year's Quidditch cup.
For reasons unknown, Lee Jordan's commentary of his first ever -- and, to date, only -- Quidditch Cup final had managed to remain firmly lodged in some corner of his brain. He knew, of course, that there was nothing productive to be found in dwelling upon it. With last year's tournament having been unexpectedly cancelled, however, it was the last significant match in which Oliver had played. And, in a very, very bad way, it had proved to be wholly unforgettable.
And, as for Gryffindor, here's some revolting trivia for you: this was apparently our worst defeat in two -- no, sorry, how many years was that again, Professor? What in Merlin's -- sorry, Professor, I won't swear again, I promise. Anyway, here's your corrected revolting trivia: this was Gryffindor's worst defeat in not two but three hundred years, but I suppose that's what happens when you're down a man and, er, nothing else is working.
Oliver shook his head, collecting his thoughts, determined to revisit his memories of the match only during some other, less pressing time. Yawning, he set his quill down and arched against the back of his chair, reveling in the cautious bending of his spine as he exhaled slowly and turned his blurry eyes toward the ceiling. Returning to a normal sitting position, he nonetheless kept his gaze directed upward. There was something comforting in staring at such blankness when he had been conscious since his owl tumbled though the window of his room at sunrise and awoke him in the shivering of a summer day not yet born. But he shook his head again: aimless reverie was as distracting as past Quidditch horrors, and, if there was ever a time he needed to remain focused, it was this summer.
He recalled still the weight of Professor McGonagall's hand upon his shoulder as she anointed him captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Too many years of finishing near the bottom of the table, she had said, a grimace creeping onto her face. It is time for a change, and, Wood, I'm confident that, if anyone can reverse our fortunes, it is you. And he had wanted to protest her decision, for he was only a Keeper, only just finishing his second year at Hogwarts and his first year on the team, but, when bestowed with such an honor, he could only nod wordlessly as he and McGonagall began to discuss the many improvements that would have to occur if Gryffindor were to ever again have even the slightest chance of capturing the cup.
He did not have to remind himself that this was his last year -- his last chance and their last chance as team -- to win it.
He picked up the scroll of parchment stretched out along his desk and reviewed the lines, arrows, and cramped notes he had been writing upon it all morning. All of his players were extraordinarily talented, this he knew, and, yet, something was not present among his team. He thought of the dropped passes, the silent swish of a Beater's bat as it made contact with air rather than iron, his Seeker tumbling from the heights of his Nimbus, the Quaffle mere inches away from his outstretched hand, but, then, Quidditch was, above all else, a game of the inches, angles, and milliseconds that span the difference between triumph and humiliation. The disappointment had mounted over the years, and they had been, each of them, rendered powerless, too nervous, too frightened to trust one another, to function as the seamless unit of team that the sport required them to be.
So they needed to practice more, he had decided. They needed to employ strategies, fly in schemes designed in such a way that required each player to be constantly aware of where the others were, and, placing the parchment back on the desk and picking up his quill, Oliver continued working. If Chaser A approaches the scoring area from above, he thought, scribbling a note on his sketch of the pitch, then she is able to take advantage of greater acceleration, but she makes herself vulnerable to a Bludger attack from below, which would require -- shaking his head, he scratched out to the note and began again -- if Chaser A and B approach the scoring area from above --
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Oliver?"
Turning around, he found his mother standing at the door, a wet plate in one hand and a towel in another. "Oh, hi," he says after a moment.
"Would you like some lunch? I set some leftovers out for you."
"Thanks, Mum, but I'm not hungry."
"It's three in the afternoon." She raised her eyebrows.
He shrugged. "I've got a lot of work to do."
"Quidditch again?"
"I've only got one more chance at winning the cup for Gryffindor," he sighed, explaining it for what felt like the hundredth time since arriving home for the summer holidays a week ago. "You know how important this is to me. If I can't win it while I'm captain -- "
Smiling, his mother shook her head. "You will win. It's more a matter of whether you blind yourself first, crouched over your charts all day like that. I suggest you take a break, rest your eyes a bit. You know your father just took your broomstick to Quality Quidditch Supplies yesterday to get it professionally polished and fixed up, just like you had asked. Why not give it a go?"
Oliver looked at his notes before eyeing the horizon beyond his window. Outside, a perfect summer day seemed to reign, and he placed his palm on the glass, feeling the heat pulse against his skin.
"Mum," he said, turning around to face her, but she had already left. With a frown, his gaze flickered toward his notes again, but, cursing quietly to himself, he nevertheless threw his quill down and bolted down the stairs, where his mother had returned to drying the dishes. He avoided her glance and walked toward the closet, where he found his broom -- he noticed that its handle was now free of the scratches that had accumulated over the years -- propped against the wall. Taking it in hand, he walked back to his mother's side. "I guess I'll, er, see how it flies. I was wondering if you could -- "
"Disillusion you?"
Oliver nodded. His family's backyard was surrounded all sides by fifty-foot pine trees (though Muggles, of course, were oblivious to the Engorgement Charm that had been cast upon them), which were tall enough for ordinary flying purposes. However, he could not possibly judge the true state of his broomstick with such a height restriction, so he had to resort to his mother's skillful spellwork. He shivered involuntarily as the charm enveloped him and his broom, and, giving her a smile that she could not see, he strode out of the house.
Standing in the middle of the backyard, he held the broom out before him. Not a single birch twig was out of place as he ran his fingers across the tail of the broomstick, and, as he gripped it more tightly, he smiled to find it as immaculate as he had on the day he first spotted suspended in the window display of Quality Quidditch Supplies. Now, to see if it flew as well as it looked -- he swung his leg over the broom, and his hands assumed their proper position around the handle, as his father had taught him to do when he was younger.
Tilting his face upward, he forgot to measure the hardness of the ground as he kicked off from the grass, the speed of the wind as he tilted the broom upward, and, as he sped toward the sun, the light dissolved all thoughts of tactics and stratagems, breathing their remnants into the air. He gave his broom a nudge, pressing it to accelerate faster; free, he recalled a time before Hogwarts, before the pressures of captaincy, before knowledge of Quidditch, even, which he felt had known for a lifetime -- and Oliver, child, barely able to totter along the ground but inexplicably gifted when braced against the sky.
--
Signing off, V.M. Bell
Title: Forget Not That the Earth Delights
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR.
Summary: He did not have to remind himself that this was his last year -- his last chance and their last chance as team -- to win it.
Rating: G
Characters: Oliver Wood
Word Count: 1410
Author's Notes: For barefoottomboy, who requested, "Oliver Wood, light, blurry, 3pm." Dear, I somehow managed to forgot to write your February request, so accept this slightly longer ficlet as an apology! I also never thought that I would ever write a fic about Quidditch and flying, but my recent re-read of the HP books must have inspired me somewhat. All comments, concrit, and reviews welcome.
--
Chang's got the Snitch! Chang's got the Snitch, and she and the rest of the team join their supporters on the pitch to celebrate Ravenclaw's victory over Gryffindor to take this year's Quidditch cup.
For reasons unknown, Lee Jordan's commentary of his first ever -- and, to date, only -- Quidditch Cup final had managed to remain firmly lodged in some corner of his brain. He knew, of course, that there was nothing productive to be found in dwelling upon it. With last year's tournament having been unexpectedly cancelled, however, it was the last significant match in which Oliver had played. And, in a very, very bad way, it had proved to be wholly unforgettable.
And, as for Gryffindor, here's some revolting trivia for you: this was apparently our worst defeat in two -- no, sorry, how many years was that again, Professor? What in Merlin's -- sorry, Professor, I won't swear again, I promise. Anyway, here's your corrected revolting trivia: this was Gryffindor's worst defeat in not two but three hundred years, but I suppose that's what happens when you're down a man and, er, nothing else is working.
Oliver shook his head, collecting his thoughts, determined to revisit his memories of the match only during some other, less pressing time. Yawning, he set his quill down and arched against the back of his chair, reveling in the cautious bending of his spine as he exhaled slowly and turned his blurry eyes toward the ceiling. Returning to a normal sitting position, he nonetheless kept his gaze directed upward. There was something comforting in staring at such blankness when he had been conscious since his owl tumbled though the window of his room at sunrise and awoke him in the shivering of a summer day not yet born. But he shook his head again: aimless reverie was as distracting as past Quidditch horrors, and, if there was ever a time he needed to remain focused, it was this summer.
He recalled still the weight of Professor McGonagall's hand upon his shoulder as she anointed him captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Too many years of finishing near the bottom of the table, she had said, a grimace creeping onto her face. It is time for a change, and, Wood, I'm confident that, if anyone can reverse our fortunes, it is you. And he had wanted to protest her decision, for he was only a Keeper, only just finishing his second year at Hogwarts and his first year on the team, but, when bestowed with such an honor, he could only nod wordlessly as he and McGonagall began to discuss the many improvements that would have to occur if Gryffindor were to ever again have even the slightest chance of capturing the cup.
He did not have to remind himself that this was his last year -- his last chance and their last chance as team -- to win it.
He picked up the scroll of parchment stretched out along his desk and reviewed the lines, arrows, and cramped notes he had been writing upon it all morning. All of his players were extraordinarily talented, this he knew, and, yet, something was not present among his team. He thought of the dropped passes, the silent swish of a Beater's bat as it made contact with air rather than iron, his Seeker tumbling from the heights of his Nimbus, the Quaffle mere inches away from his outstretched hand, but, then, Quidditch was, above all else, a game of the inches, angles, and milliseconds that span the difference between triumph and humiliation. The disappointment had mounted over the years, and they had been, each of them, rendered powerless, too nervous, too frightened to trust one another, to function as the seamless unit of team that the sport required them to be.
So they needed to practice more, he had decided. They needed to employ strategies, fly in schemes designed in such a way that required each player to be constantly aware of where the others were, and, placing the parchment back on the desk and picking up his quill, Oliver continued working. If Chaser A approaches the scoring area from above, he thought, scribbling a note on his sketch of the pitch, then she is able to take advantage of greater acceleration, but she makes herself vulnerable to a Bludger attack from below, which would require -- shaking his head, he scratched out to the note and began again -- if Chaser A and B approach the scoring area from above --
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Oliver?"
Turning around, he found his mother standing at the door, a wet plate in one hand and a towel in another. "Oh, hi," he says after a moment.
"Would you like some lunch? I set some leftovers out for you."
"Thanks, Mum, but I'm not hungry."
"It's three in the afternoon." She raised her eyebrows.
He shrugged. "I've got a lot of work to do."
"Quidditch again?"
"I've only got one more chance at winning the cup for Gryffindor," he sighed, explaining it for what felt like the hundredth time since arriving home for the summer holidays a week ago. "You know how important this is to me. If I can't win it while I'm captain -- "
Smiling, his mother shook her head. "You will win. It's more a matter of whether you blind yourself first, crouched over your charts all day like that. I suggest you take a break, rest your eyes a bit. You know your father just took your broomstick to Quality Quidditch Supplies yesterday to get it professionally polished and fixed up, just like you had asked. Why not give it a go?"
Oliver looked at his notes before eyeing the horizon beyond his window. Outside, a perfect summer day seemed to reign, and he placed his palm on the glass, feeling the heat pulse against his skin.
"Mum," he said, turning around to face her, but she had already left. With a frown, his gaze flickered toward his notes again, but, cursing quietly to himself, he nevertheless threw his quill down and bolted down the stairs, where his mother had returned to drying the dishes. He avoided her glance and walked toward the closet, where he found his broom -- he noticed that its handle was now free of the scratches that had accumulated over the years -- propped against the wall. Taking it in hand, he walked back to his mother's side. "I guess I'll, er, see how it flies. I was wondering if you could -- "
"Disillusion you?"
Oliver nodded. His family's backyard was surrounded all sides by fifty-foot pine trees (though Muggles, of course, were oblivious to the Engorgement Charm that had been cast upon them), which were tall enough for ordinary flying purposes. However, he could not possibly judge the true state of his broomstick with such a height restriction, so he had to resort to his mother's skillful spellwork. He shivered involuntarily as the charm enveloped him and his broom, and, giving her a smile that she could not see, he strode out of the house.
Standing in the middle of the backyard, he held the broom out before him. Not a single birch twig was out of place as he ran his fingers across the tail of the broomstick, and, as he gripped it more tightly, he smiled to find it as immaculate as he had on the day he first spotted suspended in the window display of Quality Quidditch Supplies. Now, to see if it flew as well as it looked -- he swung his leg over the broom, and his hands assumed their proper position around the handle, as his father had taught him to do when he was younger.
Tilting his face upward, he forgot to measure the hardness of the ground as he kicked off from the grass, the speed of the wind as he tilted the broom upward, and, as he sped toward the sun, the light dissolved all thoughts of tactics and stratagems, breathing their remnants into the air. He gave his broom a nudge, pressing it to accelerate faster; free, he recalled a time before Hogwarts, before the pressures of captaincy, before knowledge of Quidditch, even, which he felt had known for a lifetime -- and Oliver, child, barely able to totter along the ground but inexplicably gifted when braced against the sky.
--
Signing off, V.M. Bell