The Cannons

Promptly at 9:00, Oliver's alarm blared to life. The high-pitched ringing cut through the silence of his new apartment, and he winced, feeling a surge of irritation. He had been struggling to adjust to the unfamiliar sounds of the city and the sterile stillness of his new space. The alarm seemed to pierce through his already thin patience, making him want to hurl the clock against the wall. He lay in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, hoping that if he remained motionless, time would stop, too. But he knew that wasn't going to happen. After five minutes of relentless noise, he finally rolled out of bed and silenced the alarm with a groan.

Today was shaping up to be one of those days he'd rather forget. When he'd signed on with the Chudley Cannons, they had scheduled what they called "media day"—a whole circus of events designed for media exposure. He was scheduled for media training, where he would learn the ins and outs of handling reporters and fans. There were also several photo shoots planned: Oliver in his new uniform, mid-flight, pretending to stop a quaffle, and, most dreadfully, the annual Cannons Calendar shoot. Oliver usually enjoyed attention from witches, especially when he was playing quidditch, but this felt contrived and forced.

Despite his reservations, he knew he had to proceed; after all, those calendars were a big deal and sold very well.

Oliver could have sworn that his bed was charmed to try and not make him leave it because this morning, getting out of bed was dreadful. Once he had finally done the undoable and gotten up, he grabbed a bit of parchment and a quill, and he wrote to his friends, Fred and George Weasley, to meet him near their joke shop to grab a coffee with him. Oliver had not visited his friends much while he lived in Scotland, so he was making up for the lost time by seeing them as much as he could before quidditch practice started and all his time was gone again.

He wandered through his nearly empty apartment, searching for something to eat. The place felt devoid of warmth and character. He had left most of his belongings in Scotland, including anything that reminded him of Penelope, his former partner. All he had brought with him were his quidditch gear, clothes, and his owl, Nimbus. The new couch, bed, and table he'd bought did little to make the space feel like home. There were no blankets, no trinkets, no personal touches. He didn't even grab his quidditch posters from the attic. He thought he would write Penelope, asking her to send them, when he eyed the pile of unopened letters from her sitting on his coffee table. Oliver had a pang of guilt. He had been avoiding them, assuming that it would do no good to open them. After all, he could buy new posters.

When he had finally decided he would eat at the coffee shop with the twins, he went to take a quick shower, hoping the warm water might wash away some of his anxiety. As he was about to step into the shower, a loud thud came from the bathroom door. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he opened the door to find Nimbus perched there. This was unusual for the bird because he would typically set Oliver's mail on the table if he were occupied at the moment. But as Oliver looked at the bird, he realized why the bird was so urgent. There was a bright red envelope lying on the ground next to the bird, and Oliver knew exactly what it was. It was unmistakably a howler.

"Why can't she just leave me alone!" Oliver muttered, frustration evident in his voice. He picked up the howler and paced into the living room. "My leaving and ignoring her letters was not enough indication that I didn't want to speak to her." Oliver looked at the bird as if waiting for a response. "No, you take this back to her. And the rest of those letters, too."

He knew that howlers did not work like that. He knew better than to defy a howler; they had to be opened. As he peeled back the corner of the envelope, it immediately flew into the air and erupted into a cacophony of sound.

"OLIVER BENJAMIN WOOD, YOU DO NOT GET TO UP AND LEAVE THE HOUSE WITH NO WARNING, NO HESITATION, NO REGRETS. YOU DO NOT GET TO MAKE A MOCKERY OF ME. FOR ALL MY FRIENDS AND MY FAMILY TO FIND THAT YOU LEFT ME BY READING ABOUT IN THE PROPHET. FOR ME TO FIND OUT ABOUT IT BY COMING HOME FROM MY TRIP AND FINDING ALL YOUR STUFF GONE AND YOUR RING ON THE KITCHEN TABLE. AND NOW YOU'RE IGNORING MY LETTERS, NOT EVEN BOTHERING TO OPEN THEM I PRESUME. YOU ARE TO COME BACK HERE AND APOLOGIZE TO ME AT ONCE!"

The howler's voice was shrill and accusatory, leaving Oliver feeling battered and deflated. As the envelope burst into flames and disintegrated, he let out a long, weary sigh and sank back onto the couch. He had expected as much, but hearing it out loud still stung.

After his shower, he knew his day was going to be awful. He had just hoped the twins would meet him for coffee. They had always been a source of levity and mischief, and he hoped their company would lift his spirits. The twins and Oliver had always had fun back in school even though Oliver often had to watch from the sidelines due to his role as quidditch captain and had to 'show some responsibility.' As they got older and graduated, Penelope didn't like the idea of Oliver losing a hand or foot and messing around with the boys, so he often had to stay out of the tricks, too. But now everything was different. He wasn't a quidditch captain, and there was no one telling him not to do things, so he relished the chance to visit the Weasley's shop constantly; he had to have been almost a dozen times in the three weeks he had been in London. If you didn't know him, you could easily confuse him with the bounds of school children at the shop losing themself in its vibrant, chaotic atmosphere.

A small part of him envied Fred and George's success. They had achieved their dreams and built a thriving business. He hoped his own journey with the Cannons would lead to a similar level of fulfillment so he didn't have to envy them for the rest of his life secretly. However, Penelope didn't think it was right for them because one day, they were going to have a family, and he would be gone a lot. This is true, and that is what stopped Oliver in the past. But this was a dream of his, and he only had a limited window of opportunity. There are few professional quidditch players over 35, and even less recognizable ones. That's why he tried out for the cannons; while doing it, he felt immensely guilty because he had lied to Penelope about it because he knew if she had known they would fight, and he was sick of the fighting, it felt like that's all they ever did.

By the time Oliver reached the twins' shop, it was just past 10:00. The shop was still closed, not opening till 12, but he could see the twins inside, busy with stock. He tapped on the window to get their attention. Fred glanced up, his face lighting up with recognition. He waved his wand, unlocking the door.

As Oliver entered the shop, it was like his first time all over again. He loved being here; there was always so much to look at.

"What brings you in, Oli Boy?" Fred stopped stocking and sat on the steps to talk to Oliver,

"I owed you two about going for coffee. I'm having a rough day, and it's about to get worse," Oliver replied, his eyes roaming over the shop's ever-changing assortment.

"Sorry, we've been down here all day and haven't had the chance to read any letters. If you have a few minutes, we can finish this and grab a coffee with you. Would that work well with this long day you have?" The last part of his sentence came out in a teasing manner, but Oliver couldn't get the howler out of his head, so he missed the joke.

"Yeah, that would work for me." Oliver took the spare few minutes to tell the twins about the howler Penelope had given him.

"Sounds like a load of shite," Fred said dismissively. "She's clearly just looking for attention." Fred held the door open for the other two boys to leave and begin the walk to the coffee shop.

"I don't know, mate. If you ask me, I think you should return her letters and let her know you are completely done with her." George advised sensibly; he was always the more rational twin.

George's words echoed in Oliver's mind. "Screw that. Why be cordial? She made your life hellish, and you were nothing but polite." Fred snapped back

"hellish is a bit much," Oliver countered, though he couldn't deny the relationship had been challenging.

"Oliver, she didn't let you have any fun. She practically moved you away from all your friends, squashed your dreams of playing quidditch professionally, and took away many years of being able to sleep with any witch you want." Oliver knew Fred had only added the last part to make the topic seem lighter than it was. Fred only wanted what was best for Oliver, but Oliver still felt a bit of guilt about letting his friends talk about Penelope like that.

“I don’t think it was that extreme, but she did have a way of making me feel like I was living for her and not for myself.”

“Mate, it sounds like you need to focus on yourself now. You’re out of that relationship, and you’ve got a chance to make something great with the Cannons. Don’t let her pull you back,” George said, his tone firm but encouraging.

"Honestly, I think you should write her back if it's to apologize or to say you are done for good. It gets rid of the up-in-the-airness of this whole thing. Maybe even writing her back will give you a bit of closure that you know you made the right choice." Georges's words brought Oliver a bit of comfort about the whole situation with Penelope. He decided that he would write her back when he got home tonight.

They walked to the nearby café, a cozy little spot that had quickly become one of Oliver’s favorites in Diagon Alley. The familiar scent of fresh coffee and baked goods greeted them as they entered, and Oliver felt a small sense of comfort wash over him. The café was bustling with people, creating a warm, lively atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the cold sterility of his apartment.

The twins ordered their usual—Fred going for an elaborate concoction with extra cream and marshmallows, while George opted for a more straightforward espresso. Oliver, in turn, chose a simple black coffee, needing the caffeine boost more than anything else, and a blueberry muffin to ease his empty stomach. As they settled into a booth, the conversation turned lighter.

“So, how’s the new role treating you?” George asked, a teasing grin on his face. “Already getting tired of the celebrity life?”

“You have no idea,” Oliver replied, taking a sip of his coffee. “Between the photo shoots and the media training, I feel like I’m living in a circus tent rather than playing professional Quidditch.”

The rest of the conversation flowed easily, and Oliver found himself laughing more than he had in weeks. The twins had a knack for making even the most mundane topics entertaining, and their humor provided a much-needed distraction from his current worries.

As the twins finished their coffee, Oliver realized he had hardly had any on his yet. Fred and George insisted on walking Oliver back to the shop. The streets of London were buzzing with activity.

“Come by anytime, alright?” Fred said as they reached the shop. “You’re always welcome here. And don’t let Penelope or any other nonsense ruin your day.”

“Thanks, Fred. I’ll keep that in mind,” Oliver replied, feeling a bit more grounded thanks to their support.

George clapped him on the back. “Good luck with the rest of the day, mate. If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

As Oliver watched them disappear into the bustling street, he felt a renewed sense of determination. The day ahead still loomed large, but with the support of his friends and a bit of distraction, he felt better equipped to face whatever challenges awaited him.

Around quarter to 12, Oliver apparated to the Cannons' stadium, feeling the weight of the day’s media training pressing down on him. He was starting to contemplate if all this media training would be worth it in the end. Feeling like he could be a few minutes late without any consequences, he started to walk towards the office he was supposed to be at very slowly.
He was lost in thought, his coffee cup in hand, when he turned the corner and collided with a witch rushing past him. The hot coffee splashed across the floor and, unfortunately, all over her.

The witch froze, her expression a mix of shock and fury. She was dressed impeccably, her top now stained with coffee. For a moment, Oliver tried to place her—she seemed familiar, but his mind was too foggy with the morning’s events to make a concrete connection.

"Hey, what the hell? Have you ever tried looking where you're going?" she snapped, her voice sharp and agitated.

"You're one to talk," Oliver knew they had run into each other and that neither had honestly been looking where they were going. He had still been trying to place her when something clicked in his mind.

"I am on my way to an interview, and now my top is ruined—Oh my god, my top is ruined! This is a 70-gallon top, and you just spilled coffee all over it!"

The witch was a friend of Pansy Parkinson, a name that brought back a specific image from a Daily Prophet article.

He recalled a few months ago seeing a photograph of Parkinson’s 25th birthday party—a lavish affair with a lot of glamor and excitement. What he really remembers about the picture of Parkinson in the Prophet was a girl he had not recognized at the time. The girl in a short black dress had stood out. She was on top of a bar, dancing with abandon, her carefree posture catching Oliver’s eye, while Parkinson was caught smiling and holding up a drink to the camera, the other within the background of the photo had one hand in her hair and the other in the air, never even acknowledging the picture being taken or even realizing that it had been taken at all. Oliver had guiltily thought that the witch was really good-looking, and he loved that she had such a carefree feeling about her. He remembered feeling a pang of regret, wishing Penelope was more like that—carefree and spontaneous. Now, standing in front of him, this same witch exuded anything but carefree vibes. Instead, she was fuming, her frustration palpable.

"Look, it was an accident. I'm really sorry I didn't mean to —" Oliver said, trying to keep his tone calm as he took in her distressed state.

"You Gryffindors all think the world just revolves around you," she cut him off, her voice dripping with sarcasm and anger. “As if you can just knock into someone, and it doesn’t matter.”

“Wow, really? And you Slytherins just walk around in expensive clothes like they’re nothing more than a sickle,” Oliver retorted, his irritation mounting. “I said I’m sorry. What else do you want?”

"You think I'm upset because I could afford this shirt? I wish I could own a 70 Galleon shirt. It's not mine, and now it's wrecked, and I'll have to buy a new one." Oliver had just assumed she must have had money hanging around Pansy Parkinson and now felt a pang of guilt for ruining the shirt.

“Here, give me your contact information. I’ll make sure you get a new shirt.” He quickly reached into his backpack, found an old gum wrapper, and handed it to her. She used a spell to promptly leave her information on the wrapper before handing it back. She looked almost for a second as if a weight might have been lifted off of her before getting it back again.

“Thank you,” she said, her tone a bit more subdued. “Could you tell me how to get to the physical training offices?”

Oliver gave her directions, watching as she hurried off. He looked down at the gum wrapper, now marked with the name ‘Aurora Walker.’ Despite the stressful encounter, he found a small satisfaction in having made an effort to right his wrong. He smiled slightly, thinking that Aurora was certainly memorable.

When he reached the designated hair and makeup area, he was greeted by a flamboyant stylist with a jagged haircut and dramatic eye makeup. The stylist, who introduced himself as Aurelius, immediately began bustling about, taking inventory of the various cosmetics and hair products.

"Oliver, darling, you're late!" Aurelius exclaimed, his voice dripping with theatrical concern. "We've had to rearrange the schedule. Now, let's get you ready. We have puppies waiting for you, and they're not known for their patience!"

Oliver let out a sigh as he sat in the chair, wishing he had not lost his coffee for two reasons: one, he did not have any coffee, and two, he now had to buy a 70-galleon shirt. The only pro of this whole situation is that he did get a gorgeous witch's number, and that might be worth losing the coffee.

After a rigorous session with Aurelius, during which Oliver endured an array of products and a few questionable hairstyle choices, he was led to the area where the photo shoots were to take place. The studio was set up with various backdrops, and in one corner, a group of playful puppies scampered around, their tails wagging eagerly.

Oliver did his best to put on a smile as the photographer snapped pictures of him in various poses. The puppies were as adorable as they were chaotic, and despite himself, Oliver found the experience somewhat endearing. He even managed to relax a bit when he was directed to hold a particularly fluffy puppy, which nuzzled against him and seemed to enjoy the attention.

The calendar photo shoot was a whirlwind of activity. Between shots, Oliver found himself reflecting on the strange turn of events. He had come to the Cannons with high hopes, and now, between the howler, the impromptu meeting with Aurora, and the whirlwind of media day, his emotions were a tangled mess.

After several hours, the photo shoot concluded, and Oliver was finally free to head home. Exhausted, he made his way back to his apartment, the day having stretched into a grueling marathon of media obligations and unexpected encounters.

Upon arriving at his apartment, he was met with the comforting quiet of his empty space. He sat down at his small kitchen table, staring at the pile of unopened letters from Penelope. He had been putting off writing her back, but George's advice echoed in his mind. It was time to face it head-on.

He took out a fresh piece of parchment and began to write:

Dear Penelope,

I hope you're doing well. Although the decision to end our relationship was difficult for me, I believe it is the right path for both of us.

My move to London and joining the Chudley Cannons have brought realizations. I've come to understand that I need to pursue my own dreams and make choices that align with who I am. We are on different paths—we always have been—and we cannot continue in the same direction.

I'm sorry for leaving without enough explanation and for not handling things better. I know it wasn't fair to you, and I apologize for that. Communication had not been either of our strong suits.

This decision is about me needing to follow my dreams and find my own way. I hope you can understand and that you find someone who shares your dreams with you.

Sincerely,
Oliver Wood

Oliver set down his quill, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness. He folded the letter and placed it in an envelope, sealing it with a firm press. He planned to send it first thing in the morning. As he set the envelope aside, he felt a strange sense of closure, knowing he had finally confronted the unresolved part of his past. He was proud of himself for showing Penelope a kindness she may not have deserved.

Exhausted, Oliver crawled into bed, hoping that tomorrow would bring a better start. He fell asleep with the faint hope that the challenges of today were paving the way for a brighter and more fulfilling future. This was the first night in many nights where Oliver fell asleep happy.