rewritten

If you're reading for the first time - let me know with your Hogwarts house!

June 15 - 1991

     Small sobs echoed off the cold walls of the desolate changing room. Well, not completely desolate. Gryffindor's quidditch team captain sat rigidly in the far corner of the room with his knees up to his chest and hands pulling at his hair, tugging ferociously at the migraine that held itself there. He shook with a violent stream of anxiety flying through his veins like a snitch in the air.

His name was Oliver Wood, and he - his brown eyes dragged up, trailing the clock on the wall - had ten minutes until his final play of the season. Ten minutes until he would need to be out there, front and centre, ready to win against Ravenclaw. He needed to win.

It was his first year as captain and it would be an understatement to say that he had done everything in his power to get himself and his team this far in the competition, he couldn't lose all that now. However, the Scottish boy's nerves had other ideas.

Perhaps it was the growing pressure from the crowd. Or his untamed, desperate will to win. But before each game, when the crowd whirled and hurled their supports from the stands above, it was as if an electric chain reaction set off within him. The feeling started in the pit of his stomach, then rose to his chest with shaky breaths. He could handle that. But as the anxiety manifested over his skin, setting alight to the paling tissue, he became a forest fire of doubt, burning wildly with his defences crumbling. And that was uncontrollable.

They were incredibly important to him, these games. They were his keep, his mind's focus throughout the day. Every day. He worked hard at it, and his skills paid off. He was good. He was destined for more; bigger stadiums, louder crowds, professional teams. And that's why no one could know. No one could know of his tremors, the prickling worries that splintered his mind. He would keep it a secret, and has done for years; not even his team knew.

He had to keep up a strong front. He had to lie. Push through and ignore the flooding heart wrench that tightened a noose round his neck. But with every game, the closer he got to the Quidditch cup final, the noose tightened.  It encircled his skin and tugged with pinching, pricking and punching pain. It was getting harder, more suffocating to keep up his Gryffindor braveness, the façade that everybody else saw.

But he had to. And he had to do it alone.

Oliver's eyes stayed on the clock, losing himself in the rhythmic beat of the clock's tick and chime. He thought that would calm him, the song of time lulling him into a daze that would, eventually, calm his nerves. But the ticks nor the chime did any good. His attempts failed, and so his tears would continue to paint his face, watercolour his cheeks as they fell onto his chapped lips. They tasted of salt, and the boy cringed, rushing to wipe them from his mouth. He wished for them to stop. This wasn't him.

Suddenly, he was whipped from that tear-stained cesspit of hate and confusion when the crowd's gruelling cheers echoed into the changing rooms, rolling over him in tidal waves. Heart still pounding, Oliver jumped up, sniffling before he brushed himself off, shaking his hands out as he did. It was time, he knew that now. There was six minutes to go. So, with one last shaking breath and moment to chastise himself, he set off with his broom, striding large and gaping steps. He weaved amongst the benches of the changing room before finally breaking out of the door.

All until he crashed into something, rounding the corner into another force that sent him hurling back. He gripped his broom tight. Nothing could happen to his broom, he thought rapidly. Whatever he crashed into would be fine, but his broom was his main concern as he looked down to it quickly, feet coming to a standstill from his fall back. The broom was fine as he gave it a once over, but the something - or someone - was far from fine.

They yelped, cursed, then thudded onto the ground unceremoniously. Oliver looked up then down to the girl at his feet. He couldn't see much, only her white hair that crowned her head, falling over her face. The Gryffindor's brows screwed together as he gulped, taking a step back from her pile on the floor. The anxiety that once burned within him now simmered as surprise flashed through.

"Merlin's beard" She whined, not taking note of his stance a few feet away. Instead, she only growled, shaking her head as she cleaned off her black and blue robes.

A Ravenclaw, Oliver observed cautiously.

He pondered what she'd be doing on this side of the stadium until his manners kicked in. He flipped his broom into his left hand, then held out his right to help the girl up. The girl, who mumbled profanities, finally looked up as his hand reached her peripherals. She straightened her back, feet sprawled in front of her, staring at the kind gesture. Then, her eyes moved up to him, and he could finally look at her. Really look at her.

She was pale skinned, almost frighteningly so. Her jaw was thin, and pointed below her lips; the red lips, that contrasted her cheeks like blood on milk, like cotton amongst red satin and silk. Her eyes were dark blue, and Oliver wondered if they were really that colour, or was it just a trick of the light. He gulped. Who was this girl?

But she knew who he was. In fact, she's had specific instructions to never communicate with this boy, ever. So, as she took his hand, thanking him quietly, she was unsure. His hand was light, gripping around her with a perfect fit as he pulled her up. As he did, she couldn't help but stare at him. His brown eyes stared back, brown melting into blue. They stood opposite one another, the crowds cheering dimmed and the silence hung in the air, minds whirring with opposite feelings.

Who is she?

I shouldn't be talking to him.

It wasn't a particularly awkward silence, still Oliver yearned to fill it. His voice failed him, however, giving the girl more time to analyse his puffy, red eyelids.

He's been crying. She thought, her worry melting away and replaced with a new wonder; curiosity.

Oliver cleared his throat to speak, dropping his hand from hers as he realised he'd been clutching it this entire time. He rolled his shoulders back, "The Ravenclaw stands are on the other side of the pitch"

He kept a matter of a fact tone, the kind that Louis had told her about. The girl raised her eyebrows, looking off to where he pointed with an open mouth that threatened to pour her curiosity over him. Especially as he sniffed, taking a shaky breath. He was upset. She wanted to know why. Shaking her head, the girl realised he'd spoken to her, "Yes. I know. I was just looking for-"

She faltered. Perhaps she shouldn't end that sentence. She knew how Oliver felt about her brother. Oliver shuffled from foot to foot, the game a distant memory that placed itself in the back of his head. She was small, petite, he noticed.

"Never mind" The girl shook her head, tucking a strand of white behind her ear. She willed herself not to say what she was thinking, but her mouth worked before her mind, "Have you been crying?"

Oliver snapped out of his appreciation for her, taking a step back with a nervous chuckle, "What? No". He said it quickly, almost too quickly. He pushed the words out as if it were a race against time.

The girl didn't believe him. But figured she shouldn't care. Louis told her not to care. Not about him. She should leave right now and not get involved. If he was crying, she shouldn't feel bad. It was probably his fault. Don't get involved.

"It's okay if you have" She heard herself say, the words escaped from her. So much for not getting involved.

"Have what?"

"Been crying." She repeated, with a certain sting to it, making him sound stupid.

Such a Ravenclaw  her sulked internally, tearing his eyes from her hold finally. He looked down, ashamed but ready to deny it. He didn't know this girl. He couldn't automatically indulge in her like she expected him to.

"I haven't"

"Why were you crying?" She stepped forward, curiousness laced in her thick English accent. He tightened his hold around the broom, knuckles turning white as she ignored his denial. This caused the boy to once again meet her intense gaze, that pinned him to the spot momentarily. It was as if she was trying to figure him out just by reading his face.

Who was this girl? And why does she ask so many questions? Oliver recounted to himself.

"Doesn't matter" Oliver dismissed, brushing a little too harshly past her shoulder and out of the changing room, towards the pitch. The girl huffed from the sharp blow, but was seemingly unfazed as she spun round to follow him, nearly catching herself amongst his red quidditch robes. He growled internally as he heard her footfalls catch up with him, rattled by the idea that she saw through him so quickly. He made a left turn, carrying himself up the stairs that would eventually lead him to the pitch.

"It's really nothing to be ashamed of. You can talk to me" She offered, yelping when she nearly tripped up the stairs. She caught herself on the railing before he could turn around and ask if she was alright. He kept going, keeping the worry of his face.

"I don't even know you" He dismissed in a low voice. Her stomach twisted a bit at the way his scottish accent strengthened through the monotone. He turned to climb up another set, then she turned to follow. They clambered up the flights of stairs with her hot on his heals, "I'm only trying to help"

Oliver thinned his cheeks, quickening his pace. The girl, as strikingly pretty as she was, was incessantly insufferable. And oddly nosy, "I'm fine"

"Don't look it" She says through beating breaths, working hard to keep up with him. She noticed how the crowd got louder with every step they took, every flight of stairs that neared them the the green field, "You look pretty rough, actually."

Oliver growled outwardly now, huffing as he spun on his heel. Her white hair fell around her face as she paused abruptly, stopping herself from slamming into his chest. Laboured breaths sent her chest heaving up and down. He watched her take a few more steps around him, careful not to say anything rude to her.

He needed to keep it together. And she was making it hard with her constant need to know. She made sure to pull up her robes as she clambered up two more steps above him. She was now his height. They stared at each other eye to eye, Oliver's thinning with speculation, Hers widening as she caught her breath.

"Rowena, I really need to exercise some more" She chuckled out, leaning her hand back on the wooden railing. Oliver ignored the way her laugh sent his tummy reeling. He let her straighten up, biting the inside of his cheeks until she spoke.

"Hi" She smiled simply, happy she had caught up to him. He ignored her smile too, looking just past her to avoid this weird feeling that stirred inside, "Is there something I can help you with?"

His tone was sharp with impatient expectation, his game started in four minutes. She noticed his white knuckles that dug into his broom and the staccato voice. That was the sharpness that Louis told her about; the famed arrogance of Oliver Wood. Still, she ignored it. She couldn't find it in herself to just turn and leave. It was her personality, she was too curious. And if Louis found out? She'd have to grin and bear it.

Finally, she spoke.

"It's okay to be nervous before a game"

"I'm not-"

She cut him off.

"You are and it's fine. You just need to remember that all those people above you" She paused and pointed to the stands that they currently stood under. "Believe that you can win, even some of the Ravenclaws think it" She admitted with a shrug, thinking about how cocky Louis was in the Ravenclaw common room this morning, and how the quieter Ravenclaws had basically wished against him winning.

Oliver soaked in her words, still not meeting her eyes. He knew she was right. His ego had been fed, but he wouldn't show it.

"Just" She started, thinking on it for a moment. His arm burned suddenly, and it was only when Oliver pulled his attention back on her that he realised she'd placed her hand on his shoulder. He gulped at her touch, looking at her eyes that drifted as she pondered her next words.

Her eyes are light blue, not dark. And they have a little bit of grey in them. The boy's mouth almost edged into a smile as she corrected his earlier thoughts of her features.

"Just go out there and give what you got"

The line was simple. But Oliver found great comfort in it, in her words, in her smile that marked her face as he went to thank her. He suddenly regretted running from her, but reminded himself that it was for the better that he keep himself a closed book. Keep up the show. 

His thanks was cut off when a rowdy voice cut through the air behind the girl. The girl stepped aside, and as Oliver looked past her and up the stairs, he came face to face with Fred Weasley. His hand shot to his heart as the redhead, having nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden contrast of volume.

"Oi, Wood! Get your ass in gear. We've got a game in two minutes!" He bellowed, red hair bouncing onto his forehead as he trudged down the stairs to meet his counterpart. He had his famous, bright smile on. He was completely unaware of Oliver's troubles.

"Fu- don't scare me like that!"  The Scottish boy scolded, shaking his head before clapping his hand around the head of the Weasley in a light, yet meaningful slap. Fred winced but brushed it off with a hearty laugh knowing it was all in good taste. He watched as Oliver turned back round, confusion defining his features at the empty space where the girl once was. Where did she go?

His eyebrows closed together, eyes scanning the flights of stairs he's just stormed up. She wasn't to be seen. She'd gone so quickly, so quietly. He couldn't even apologise. He couldn't even thank her.

"Something wrong Wood? Looks like you've seen a ghost" Fred questioned, patting Oliver on the back as he, too, looked over the railing and down the flights of stairs.

Had I seen a ghost? no, that's stupid of course she was real. But what was her name?

Oliver retracted from the railing, biting at the pink skin of his lip. He shook the many questions that buzzed around his conscience for now, making room for a revelation within him.  He wasn't nervous anymore. He glanced at his hands, they weren't shaking. He breathed in, his inhale steady and calm. His heartbeat, thrumming smooth and accordingly. He looked back over the railing, knowing the source of his sudden calm. The girl who had been so insufferable, so relentless within such an impressively short amount of time; she calmed him. Somehow.

Oliver scoffed under his breath with a small smile, realising that maybe there was somebody out there who he could talk to. Who he could seek advice from. Someone who Oliver could drop the façade in front of. Someone like her.

If only he'd gotten her name. A worry for another time, he thought with a newfound grin etching his features. His dimple was large as he chimed, "Come on Weasley we've got a game to win!"