Golden Girl; 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓵𝓮𝔂

Fifth Year: The Sacred Art of Dream Interpretations

The Gryffindor Quidditch team huddled together at the edge of the darkening pitch, the damp chill of the evening settling into their bones. Oliver had insisted on this outdoor meeting to discuss the goals for the year before their first practice next week. Why it had to be held in the miserable weather was anyone's guess, though Bambi suspected it was for the dramatic effect of the tall banners waving against the towering stands. Shivering, she pulled her thick coat tighter around herself, her breath fogging in the cold air. There was an unmistakable urgency in Oliver's tone, which didn't surprise her; she knew him well enough to understand he'd do absolutely anything to win the Quidditch Cup this year.

"This is our last chance — my last chance — to win the Quidditch Cup," Oliver began, pacing back and forth in front of them. His voice carried the weight of years of frustration and hope. "I'll be leaving at the end of this year. I'll never get another shot at it."

He stopped, glancing over his team, his gaze steady. "Gryffindor hasn't won for seven years now. Okay, so we've had the worst luck in the world — injuries — then the tournament getting called off last year..." He swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to his throat. "But we also know we've got the best — ruddy — team — in — the — school," he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye.

"We've got three superb Chasers." Oliver pointed at Alicia, Angelina and Bambi.

Bambi straightened her posture, feeling a bit of pride despite the looming awkwardness between them.

"And we've got two unbeatable Beaters." he continued, nodding to Fred and George.

"Stop it, Oliver, you're embarrassing us," said Fred and George Weasley together, pretending to blush as they fanned their faces.

"And we've got a Seeker who has never failed to win us a match!" Oliver rumbled, glaring at Harry with a kind of furious pride. "And me," he added as an afterthought.

"We think you're very good too, Oliver," said George.

"Spanking good Keeper," said Fred.

Oliver resumed pacing, his boots squelching in the damp grass. "The point is," Oliver went on, resuming his pacing, "the Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it these last two years. Ever since Harry joined the team, I've thought the thing was in the bag. But we haven't got it, and this year's the last chance we'll get to finally see our name on the thing..."

He spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George looked sympathetic. Bambi knew how big of a deal it was for Oliver to win the Quidditch cup, he spoke non-stop about it last year, and got in a right foul mood for the remainder of the year after Quidditch was cancelled. This was his last year, and last opportunity to win the thing he'd been at for years.

"Oliver, this year's our year," said Fred.

"We'll do it, Oliver!" said Angelina.

"Definitely," said Harry, the determination clear on his face.

Bambi nodded vigorously, her enthusiasm matching their determination. "We've got this year in the bag,"

With renewed energy, the team launched into training, three evenings a week. As the days dragged on, the weather turned colder, and the rain came down in relentless sheets. Bambi reckoned it was the worst weather the grounds had seen in years. Pools of water formed in the soft grass around the pitch, turning it into a near swamp. Mud stuck to their boots and flew up to splatter their faces every time they kicked off into the air.

Oliver, determined as ever with his ambitions to win the cup, had the audacity to ask Bambi, albeit with a hesitant look in his eye, whether her emotions were responsible for the dreadful weather. Though she understood what he was getting at, the sharp look she shot him in response was enough to silence any further speculation on the matter.