Oliver Oblivious
Oliver realizes that something is missing in his life: a girl. On his quest for the perfect girl, he keeps bumping into Katie Bell, strangely enough. But oblivious Oliver doesn't realize that what he was looking for was right under his nose.
Chapter One:
The Proposition
Oliver was restless.
When the word restless comes to mind, most can hear the rhythm of impatient fingers rapping on the table or the scuttling of pacing, anxious feet. Others envision figures tossing and turning in a tangle of sheets with worried thoughts running through their heads. But Oliver was not tapping his fingers on the glossy table, and his feet were planted firmly on the marble floor.
Nonetheless, Oliver was restless. He was restless with his life; his life felt incomplete. Many would snort at this declaration, which was most understandable. Oliver Wood was the same figure that was splashed across the pink, glossy cover of Witch Weekly sitting on his kitchen table, bearing the legend of the successful Quidditch captain of the Puddlemere United. He also inherited good looks from his family, his soft, hazel eyes glittering in the faint sunlight pouring through his glass, kitchen windows and his eternally windswept brown locks. Though his nose was distinctly crooked from a nasty Bludger incident, his weathered face was quite handsome in a rugged, worn way. He had good friends as well, often engaging him in high-stakes games of Exploding Snap and occupying the dusty corner of the Leaky Cauldron with bottles of firewhiskey.
Oliver's life was as he had imagined it. He was a professional Quidditch player with good friends and good looks. But as he flipped through the article in Witch Weekly, his face grinning up at him, the one thing missing from his life glared up at him obnoxiously.
Wood, with his dashing looks and charm, is surprisingly single…
His eyes narrowed at the bold, black words: single. A frown tugged at his lips. "Single, single, single," he muttered to himself, staring at the word, smirking tauntingly up at him. He closed the magazine and pushed it across the table. "I'm twenty-three now. Shouldn't I have a girlfriend by now?" He stared at his reflection in the mirror hanging innocently on the kitchen wall, its vintage, gold frame scratched from wear. His brows knitted together above his nose.
"Whatever you say, dear," it drawled lazily. "You have a piece of hair sticking up in the back, did you know? By the way, you look ravishing."
His hand hurriedly ran down the back of his head, smoothing his locks carefully. He stood up, eyeing the remnants of his breakfast and snatching up the Witch Weekly in his hands. He tucked it in the pockets of his blue robes, emblazoned with intertwining, gold bulrushes. As he emerged from the kitchen into the entrance hall, a house elf bounded down the marble staircase, its large ears flapping wildly.
"Master needs Twinky?" she squeaked, bowing deeply, the loose flaps of her toga fluttering. "Master goes to Quidditch practice?"
"Yeah, Twinky," Oliver said beaming down at the house elf kindly. "I'm going to practice. No, I don't need anything. You can rest."
The house elf's eyes bulged. "No, no, no, Master! Twinky will never rests, sir!" she squeaked wildly, shaking her head, her ears threatening to slap her face.
"Okay," Oliver said amused. "I'll be back 'round seven or so…maybe a little later."
"Good practice," he said landing gracelessly into the mud puddle, splashing the dirtied waters onto the hems of his robes.
The team grumbled irritably, their blue robes obscured with grime and mud, their hair plastered to their heads. The rain continued to beat relentlessly down upon their heads, spilling from the grey clouds in the sky. They trudged through the thick mud collecting on the grass, gripping their broomsticks tightly as the wind howled nastily. "It would've been good if you hadn't made us practice for three hours straight," someone mumbled angrily.
Affronted and dripping, Oliver trailed behind them. "You know," he said annoyed, "you're like my old Quidditch team at Hogwarts. Always complaining--we need to get the Puddlemere United into the World Cup."
"I think we're pretty good, Wood. The next match is the Magpies, and we always win against them," a particularly muddy Joscelind Wadcock said reasonably. The team muttered in consent as they headed toward the locker rooms.
"But they got a new player!" Oliver roared. "That could change everything! You don't underestimate people!"
"Oh, shut it, Wood," Joscelind said rolling her eyes as she disappeared into the locker room, her muddy footprints staining the clean, marble floors.
"You have to take the Magpies seriously!" Oliver yelled after her his eyes nearly bulging as he stormed into the locker room on the left, plopping himself down on a bench and stripping off his muddy robes. "Wadcock isn't taking it seriously," he announced.
"We heard, Wood," Jonathan Gimpsky said amusedly. He shrugged his broad shoulders at Oliver and balanced his Beater club atop the tangled pile of his muddy robes.
"Yeah, but--" He wiped the mud from his face, revealing his reddening skin. Gimpsky strode over and smacked him on his shoulder. "You'll get over it when we get drinks at the Leaky Cauldron."
In fact, Oliver's worries about the Magpies faded away as he sat among his rowdy, clean Quidditch team, a firewhiskey in his hand. He folded his Quidditch robes carefully on his lap, his hand slipping onto the pocket, feeling something hard. "Oh, yeah!" he said suddenly, cutting through the conversation concerning a hag and a goblin. He placed the Witch Weekly on the table. "I got on the front cover," he said.
"Oho!" Joscelind said grabbing the magazine. Jeers and whistles erupted from the group, red tinged in their faces from the mead and firewhiskey on the battered table. "'Oliver Wood, captain of the Puddlemere United, shares all with us. Wood, with his dashing looks and charm, is surprisingly single--"
"That," Oliver said loudly, "is why I'm going to get a girlfriend."
Silence fell across the table, followed with a loud ruckus of laughter. "Just because of this magazine?" Joscelind asked as the laughter subdued and was reduced down to a few chuckles.
"No, because my life is incomplete," Oliver said smartly.
"You sound like a girl, Wood," Gimpsky snorted.
"What are you going to do? Post up ads for a girlfriend?" Joscelind snorted, flicking her muddy brown ponytail over her shoulder.
"No," Oliver said rolling his eyes, "more like…"
"--girl hunting?" Gimpsky finished, a sparkle in his grey eyes. Oliver snapped his fingers and pointed to the smirking man,
"Exactly! Like a quest for the perfect girl…"
Joscelind rolled her eyes. "So basically, you're going to watch girls and go up to one you think is pretty and ask her on a date?" she asked doubtfully. "Shouldn't you let fate do its work? You know, by chance? Isn't this a little desperate?"
"I don't believe in fate," Oliver said rolling his eyes. "That's for girls." A scoff slipped through Joscelind's lips. "Besides, my handsomeness makes up for my desperation."
Sniggers ran through the group.
"Damn," Oliver muttered to himself, examining the leather glove in his hand. He gave his wand a wild flourish; the mud caked on the glove stubbornly sat there. He sighed deeply, a tinge of irritation passing across his face. He stuffed the glove in his jeans pocket and ate the last of his dripping sundae, walking onto the crowded streets of Diagon Alley. He ignored the jeers and shouts of the street vendors, attempting to press a pendant into his hands.
"It has unicorn blood in it, sir--the blood--" Oliver shuddered at the wizard's yellowing teeth, bared in a grin at him, his face heavily scarred and wrinkles weighing his thin skin down. He quickened his pace as he set his sights on the store across the street, Quality Quidditch Supplies. A small crowd of boys formed around the glass window, their exclamations floating down the street to Oliver's ears.
"Yeah, the Firebolt 2000...look at its sleek handle and cushioned seat. Good acceleration on that," a boy said excitingly as Oliver drew closer, staring indifferently at the shiny broomstick behind the glass. "Best racing broom on the market--most of the Quidditch teams have those brooms…'cept the Chudley Cannons, 'course--they haven't won in ages."
The bell on the door chimed merrily as he pushed the glass door open, stepping into the shop. "Hi, do you need any help?" a voice asked. Oliver pushed his aviators from his nose up to his head, staring up at the witch on the step ladder, struggling with a large box of whistles. Finally, she slid the box onto the shelf and jumped off the ladder recklessly, pushing her black locks off her shoulders. She stared up at Oliver, beaming.
"I'm just going to get some gloves for Keeping," he said trailing off quickly as he noticed the witch's smile slide off her face and a pure incredulous look replaced it.
"O-Oliver Wood?" she nearly shrieked, her sapphire eyes sweeping up and down as she stared at him, her mouth gaping.
He nodded quickly. "Oh…wow!" she said excitedly. "Can I--" She lowered her voice considerably. "…get your autograph?" Her body was shaking with excitement as she hurried off to the counter to grab a spare piece of parchment and a quill, thrusting them eagerly into his hands. He quickly scribbled his name across the parchment and handed it back to her.
"I'm going to get my gloves," he said pointedly. She ignored him, her eyes bulging as she stared down at the parchment clutched tightly in her fingers. He slipped past her into the depths of the store, pausing before a large selection of gloves. As he silently debated on dragon skin or the simplicity of leather, a familiar voice graced its presence.
"Wood?" The soft, sweet voice was laced with incredulity and surprise. He inwardly groaned, bracing a tight-lipped smile on his face, prepared for the quill and parchment. He turned quickly, his brows furrowing in recognition.
"Bell?" he said incredulously.
Katie Bell's lips quirked into a small smile, her brown eyes glittering. Her dark brown waves tumbled down her shoulders, curling on the grey shoulders of her cropped, wool blazer. Her hands pulled down the plain, white shirt she wore underneath the jacket, slipping quickly into the pockets of her jeans.
"Hey, Wood," she said cutting through the silence. "Saw you in the Witch Weekly." She grinned. "Very dashingly handsome, Quidditch Nazi."
Oliver frowned slightly. She laughed. "Are you playing Quidditch now?" he asked, picking up a pair of dragon skin gloves. "Dragon skin or leather?" he added to Katie. She pointed her finger at the leather gloves hanging limply on the wall.
"Really?" he said picking the black gloves off the hook, placing one on his hand.
"Dragon skin is more expensive, and it clashes with a lot of things," Katie said simply. "And I'm not playing Quidditch; I'm actually here on my lunch break. I write for the Prophet."
"You would've made a good Chaser," Oliver said disappointedly, gripping the leather gloves tightly. "Still fly?"
Katie smiled ruefully and shook her head. He stared at her incredulously. "What?" he exclaimed. "But flying is…I couldn't live without flying!"
"I know," Katie said rolling her eyes. "I haven't gotten on a broom since Hogwarts--three years."
He shook his head in disbelief. "But working for the Prophet has its perks. I get to go to Quidditch games," Katie said helpfully. "I saw the Puddlemere one against the Wasps."
"Yeah, won by hundred and eighty points," Oliver said a dreamy look crossing his face. He remembered the adrenaline rushing through him as they descended in a tangled group of blue robes.
"So what have you been up to?" Katie asked conversationally as they walked toward the counter.
"Quidditch," he said automatically. "And…" He paused, wondering if Katie would burst into hysterical laughter and tease him. He stared down at her earnest face. "And I decided I would find a girlfriend." His tone was somewhat defensive, as though he was steeling himself for Katie to argue against the notion.
"Good for you," she merely said with a smile.
"Yeah," Oliver said breathing deeply. He handed the gloves to the overly excited witch, still gripping the parchment in her hand.
"Fourteen Galleons," the witch said breathlessly, her eyes glittering. Oliver reached into his jeans pocket, extracting a pouch and dumping the gold on the counter. He counted fourteen Galleons, sliding the large, gold coins across the counter in exchange for the leather gloves. He tucked them carefully into his pocket with the pouch.
"Have you started?" Katie asked as they emerged from the store, slipping through the large crowd gathered around the glass window. "Looking for a girlfriend?"
"No," Oliver said. "I just noticed I was ready for a relationship yesterday." He carefully placed the sunglasses back onto his nose; he noticed Katie slipping on her oversized sunglasses as she squinted at the blazing sun.
"Hm," Katie merely said. "Where are you heading to?"
"Uh…" He realized he had no idea and shrugged. She smiled, the crisp, autumn wind blowing her locks into her face.
"Want a quick drink at the Leaky Cauldron? My lunch break ends in twenty minutes. If we're quick, we can get down a few glasses of firewhiskey," Katie said grinning.
"Okay," he said relenting. He decided he had nothing better to do, and the proposition of a firewhiskey drew him in.
"Maybe you'll find your dream woman at the Leaky Cauldron," Katie said laughter embedded in her voice.
"Do you think it's stupid I'm looking for a girlfriend? Is it desperate?" Oliver asked. Katie paused, staring up at him with a shadow of a smile on her face. He couldn't see her eyes behind her sunglasses.
"No," she decided. "A lot of people decide they want to be in a relationship and look for it instead of sitting around, waiting for it to come…which it may never come. If that makes sense," she added.
"It does," he reassured her. "I just felt like something was missing from my life."
"Yeah," Katie said as they walked into the dusty Leaky Cauldron, pulling off her sunglasses. "You got the career and friends down, right?" She waved at Tom, the toothless bartender grinning at them.
"Two firewhiskeys," Katie said as she reached the counter, placing herself on the stool. Oliver followed suit, perching awkwardly on the edge of the hard stool. As Tom passed them two glasses of firewhiskey, he contemplated Katie sitting beside him, sipping on her glass quietly. He would have never thought he would be sitting beside Katie Bell, one of the Chasers on his Gryffindor Quidditch team. He barely paid any attention to her in Hogwarts, save for practices when she glowed with talent.
"Hey, Wood," she said breaking into his thoughts suddenly. He blinked at her confusedly. "I need to go…I have about five minutes to get to the office--it takes about three minutes to walk there."
"Oh, okay," he said quickly, standing up. She gave him another small smile.
"Well," she said breaking the awkward silence lingering between them, "it was nice…you know, talking to you. And seeing you. I hope your quest for a girl goes well." She smirked slightly. "I'm gonna go see your Magpie game, too. So good luck with that." She waved.
"Bye," he said bemusedly. She disappeared through the door, her waves bouncing behind her.
A/N: Shall I continue? Horrible idea? Stupid? Really, tell me the cold, hard truth of the matter and I shan't bother you with this horrendous story again. If not, you could do me a favor and review. I'm quite the greedy review whore.
In the duration of this story, I might go deeply into the details of what Katie's wearing because I love fashion. And I recently saw The Devil Wears Prada, too. And imagine Katie, if you will, as Rachel Bilson. Snort. I'm such a nerd. End A/N.