UP IN THE AIR - OPEN

[erika]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ] these dry bones cry out WORDS- 800ish, most useless OUTFIT- CLICK TAGGED- OPEN NOTES- NONE waking at the crack of dawn was never an easy thing to do, especially when one was a teenager but it is something that lucy weasley has subjected herself to many times in past for many different reasons, to get the first shower being just one example, but rarely did she wake up before the crack of dawn. as difficult as it was sometimes it was also necessary and this simply happened to be one of those times. and really there was only one thing that could get lucy up that early, quidditch. not many people were aware that lucy hadn't always liked quidditch, or that there was a time when she was truly retched at it, but over the years it had become her refuge. when she was in the air nothing else truly mattered, she was able to think and sort things out in her mind, or not and just go completely blank. in reality the tranquility of what she referred to as her 'flytime' was a big part of the reason she hadn't tried harder to make the house team. it was a rare thing to be able to get on the pitch with no one else around, especially at this point in the season but lucy had tried all week and was determined enough to keep trying if need be. however, luce was nothing if not prepared and so she had checked the schedule, more than once, and knew that none of the teams had it booked for this early in the morning. and it was early. so early in fact that when luce had first gotten up she had needed to light a candle. not wanting to wake her roommates and suffer the consequences of such a heinous act she dressed quickly in her regular workout clothes, grabbed her equipment and hurried out of the room. she made a quick stop in the great hall to grab a muffin, not wanting to eat too much before flying, and then continued on her way to the pitch, ignoring the few others in the hall. as she made her away across the grounds towards the quidditch pitch. she couldn't help but marvel at her luck, it was england, in november, and so she had expected some truly horrid weather but while it was chilly the overall weather was decent and nothing she couldn't handle. as she made her way across the grounds she was consciously cataloging the conditions. she noted that there wasn't much of a breeze and also took note of the firmness of the ground, it had uncharacteristically not rained much the past few days and so the campus wasn't its usual sopping, muddy mess. ground conditions may not matter while in the air but luce was glad that she wouldn't have to clean her shoes after her little workout and it would help during her actual warm-up. finally arriving at the pitch lucy was pleased to know that her effort had paid off and no one else was around. not having the need for the changeroom she placed her belongings next to a nearby bench and began to do some stretching. anyone who did not fly took for granted just how physical it could be,(there was a reason all those pro players were so fit, after all)and with how busy she had thus far been this term lucy had not exercised nearly as much as she should have. she knew how important warming up was and not wanting to hurt, or make an arse of, she warmed up. once again grateful that no one was around to see her in her shorty-shorts she began a light jog around the solid ground surrounding the pitch, "yet another reason to be glad it hasn't rained." with a track as large as a full sized quidditch pitch one hardly needed to run more that one lap but as luce rounded out her third and approached the bench once more she noticed a figure near said bench. given that the sun was not yet fully up she couldn't quite make out the identity of this interloping scoundrel but regardless she would have words for them. she had been waiting too long to have her flytime disturbed by this shite. knowing that realistically one person wasn't that bad but also aware that this one person could very well be the first of several she approached in a huff, words ready, "OI! what do you think you're doing?" and then failing her. "the pitch is occupied dear, come back later." mentally cursing herself and her overuse of the word dear she mumbled to herself, "no time for weakness now, you awoke before the dawn for this, be scary." having gotten closer to the mystery menace she was now able to recognize them. donning her selfnamed 'grr' face she shot an arched look towards the person, "well?" these dry bones cry for you

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY GUNGOR

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[oliver]

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It’s quiet here. Peaceful, even, he wrote.

I don’t suppose you would understand that, would you, Father? History books say you weren’t much of a hippy. Or much of a nice person either, for that matter. I don’t ‘spose you had an owl, because I imagine you’d probably eat it. He brushed a feather from the tangles of his golden hair and rested his head against the cold wall, pursing his lips (as he always does when he is deep in thought) as he crumbled the letter in his fist, tossing it in the straw. The thrum of feathers and the cold darkness of early morning settled around him in a silent embrace of emptiness.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

It was a waste of time, writing these letters he would never send (not to mention writing to a dead person), and yet he did it anyway, without knowing why. He didn’t have the answer to a lot of questions anymore. He put away his parchment and the essay he’d written all of that night for potions, and blew out his candle. Before he left the owlery, he tossed a treat to gentle Serafina, who nibbled his shirt affectionately, then took flight to the rafters among the other stirring owls. Oliver shoved his hands in his pockets, took a couple steps towards the doorway, then had second thoughts.

He retrieved his crumbled letter from the straw, carefully smoothed the angry wrinkles, and put it in his pocket.

Only stopping by his dormitory to change into his Quidditch workout clothes and to drop his bag off (and stowing his letter away among its brothers in the shoebox beneath his bed), Oliver passed through Great Hall, his footsteps soft and fleeting.

At first, it had been strange to see the hall so still and lifeless without the constant murmur of laughter and conversation, but he had become strangely fond of the silence enveloping the castle in these early hours. On his usual early morning schedule, he would run into the Fat Friar (or rather, the Fat Friar would pretend it coincidence that they would come across one another every morning, when really, Oliver saw him hiding behind an armored knight) and they would have a nice chat about the weather or the like. Once the Friar had delightedly discovered that Oliver was capable of civil conversation, rather than chucking vegetables through his pronounced stomach for ‘fun’, as other students called it, the ghost had promptly adopted Oliver as his target for lamenting the epic tragedy of his entire lifestory.

However, this morning, the Friar did not nonchalantly float from behind the knight, and Oliver realized it must be a much earlier hour than normal. He hurried out the doors before the Friar would zoom out of one wall or another and engage in typical conversation, consisting of tragic sob stories and leaving Oliver zombified in a bored stupor.

The wind stirred against his face, alive like a wild, feral animal, biting and cold, tangling his hair even more than the usual sleek golden array. Successfully dodging the cranky old spider (who had taken a particular fondness to his broom) and hoisting the old geezer back to his web with a twig, Oliver snapped the broomshed shut. Broom slung across his shoulder, he made his way to the pitch, the frosted grass snapping and crackling underfoot like bones.

He wasn’t thinking about anything, really, when a figure swathed in darkness and remarkably short shorts (not that Oliver minded that part, of course) jumped down his throat, demanding an explanation. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. The Weasley girls generally tended to terrify him on a regular basis—Victoire and Dominque for their intimidating beauty (he refused to admit that he was merely tongue-tied around pretty girls, and had come to the logical Ravenclawish conclusion that they were aliens), and Lucy, well, she scared the living daylights out of him on most occasions, though he knew it was harmless. Or, at least he hoped. She was a lot like Rose, in a way, both fiercely passionate and a bit hot-headed, and he figured that’s why the two cousins butted heads on more than one occasion. He liked Rose and Lucy for that though, their spitfire and barbed tongue, that could be both charming and deadly. He wasn’t as close as he’d have liked with Lucy, but he’d seen her a lot over the last years at Hogwarts, with Rose being one of his closest friends.

However, he snorted (with offense or laughter, it was difficult to distinguish between the two) and promptly made the decision to knock Lucy (who had clearly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed) off her high horse.

“Well, Lucy dear, this here is a magical, flying broom, you see,” he motioned towards it, drawing out his words nice and slow and comforting so that she might understand. “And this giant oval-grass thing is the pitch…” He gestured at the vast expanse with a broad sweep of his hand. “Now, call me crazy or correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the general idea has something to do with riding said magical, flying brooms, and this is where Quidditch players play Quidditch.”

Resisting the temptation to add more snarky comments, he put a heavy emphasis on the word 'player'. But if anyone’s words were truely harmless, they were Oliver’s. Feeling somewhat confident enough to approach the fuming Weasley, (because he was in possession of a possible weapon, though he felt that even with a sturdy broom, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the likes of Lucy Weasley) he closed the distance between them. He couldn’t very well see the expression on her face if they were still separated by a veil of darkness.

“Gryffindor punks, always strutting along like they own everything,” he teased, shaking his head. “Aren’t you cold?” He frowned with concern at her bare legs, feeling like entering the first stages of hypothermia by even looking at them. Despite those skimpy little shorts, he could see the warm sheen of sweat glistening on her face in the early morning light. “Gosh, Luce, I had no idea...you fly?”

oliver duval,
[style=text-align: center; font-family: times; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 3px; color: 665d6e;]you're my wonderwall.

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