Gryffindor Pride

Gryffindor Pride.

Seamus hated crowds. Absolutely hated them. He probably had some kind of fear of crowds or confined spaces, all those people and sights and sounds and smells and absolutely no concept of personal space. Hermione had said something along those lines one day, rattling over several long and complicated words in the easy way she did, and leaving all her friends behind in the process. Seamus wondered sometimes if she did that on purpose.

He'd resisted such easy categorisation (mostly because the idea spooked him) and refused to answer any more of her questions. Then Dean had expressed surprise, because really, "all those bodies pressed together - sounds just like your idea of Heaven, Shame", and Ron had chipped it with the rejoinder that it couldn't possibly, because the crowd might, god forbid, include women. At which point Hermione rolled her eyes and professed pacifism and neutrality as Seamus chased the other two round the common room.

But now he was in a crowd. Well, not expressly in one. More at the front of one, and it moved like a living being, a sinuous line of contact between it and the security personnel. Seamus could feel the power of the crowd, its impatience at his back, and it was all he could do to stop himself from being thrown against the security men, which looked solid and imposing and quite unyielding in their matte black robes.

And rather hot, really, but Seamus' uniform fetish was something he preferred to explore another time.

The vast majority of the crowd were in fact, girls. And some middle aged women, but really, that didn't bear thinking about. Like Seamus, they wore Puddlemere colours somewhere on their body (Seamus had a scarf that he was rather fond of), and also like him, they were clutching at autograph books or posters or photos; scraps of paper, ink and memory that would be able to hold onto something of their hero.

They had been waiting for almost an hour after the game for him to go through the various required media conferences, shower, get dressed and emerge to face his adoring (and in Seamus' opinion, slightly obsessed) fans. And the fact he had an entire wall of stuff back home in Dublin didn't mean a thing.

The door leading from the team rooms opened and Seamus could feel the pulse of the crowd rising in expectation, higher and higher, the tension growing to an almost impossible pitch. Oliver Wood, clad in a set of devastatingly well-cut casual robes emerged into the corridor, and flashed them all one of his trademark grins.

It was unfair, Seamus decided in a flash of understanding, for anyone to be so bloody good looking, as well as athletically talented. If God was being fair, he'd be brain dead to compensate, but none of Oliver's interviews had suggested that. Terribly aware of his own gifts, was Oliver, but not stupid.

Then the screaming started and the crowd surged forward, coming into contact with the invisible line of wards set by Puddlemere's security personnel. Seamus felt himself being pushed ahead, and yelled out in pain as his body was squashed against the wall of air.

This, he decided, was bloody insane. Oliver immediately raised his hands up, and the crowd stilled. He gestured, and they stepped back, allowing everyone some room. Seamus took the time to brush down his robes, and found he could breathe normally again. He caught a glimpse of the poster he'd brought with him to have it signed, trampled under the crowd in the rush, and picked it up, swearing under his breath.

He hadn't noticed that Oliver had made his way down the small flight of stairs, or that the ward had been let down, or that the security detail had quickly snapped into formation around Oliver. He did notice a pair of very expensive boots at his feet, and looked up into the face of his idol.

"Ohmyfuckinggod," said Seamus.

Oliver extended a hand and helped him up. "Seamus Finnigan, right? Gryffindor Chaser now, or am I mistaken?"

"Yes," Seamus nodded, and tried not to babble. "I mean, not yes you're mistaken, but yes you're right, I suppose I should have said 'No' and that would have explained things better." It clearly wasn't working. "Uh. You know I play for Gryffindor?"

"Yeah. I went back earlier in the year, saw you play." There was that grin again. Seamus felt his heart plummet into his stomach.

"You saw me play?" he squeaked.

Oliver nodded, and clicked his fingers. A smartly dressed personal assistant immediately appeared, and pulled out a poster from a folder to replace the one that had been ruined. She handed Oliver a pen, he signed it, and she handed it over to Seamus, who took it reverently.

"Wow. Thanks."

Oliver smirked, and ruffled Seamus' hair. "Least I could do for the president and creator of my Hogwarts' fan club."

Seamus could feel himself blushing more than he ever thought possible. The crowd had moved to allow a small space around Seamus and Oliver, and Oliver agreeably continued to sign autographs and pose for pictures over the next few minutes. He whispered something in the ear of the P.A, but soon enough, Oliver gave Seamus a pat on the back and moved through the crowd to continue his publicity duties.

Of course, once Oliver was gone not two feet the fangirls descended, and some fanboys as well, pulling at his hair, his clothes, grabbing at the poster that had just been signed, and screaming like banshees or his mother after she'd had a few. There were even gropes as well (very disturbing) but what was more of a concern at that particular moment in time was the fact he seemed to be falling, balance upset by the heaving crowd.

And then the crowd parted like the red sea before Moses, and Oliver caught him before he got anywhere near a forty-five degree angle to the floor. "I've got you," Oliver whispered as he hauled Seamus back to the perpendicular, and those three words went straight the places Seamus didn't mention in polite company. Dusting Seamus off, Oliver glared at the surrounding crowd, and didn't move until they all noticeably stepped back from the Irish lad.