QWC-1999

Q W C - 1 9 9 9

Prologue

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January 17, 1999

Oliver was worried.

Very very worried.

Only 15 minutes ago, his sleep had been broken by an urgent phone call from his coach, asking him to come to his office as soon as possible, without any delay. It was not unusual for Francis Finnegan to call up members of the squad without any previous notice; what made this unusual was the hour, as declared by the clock on the wall of the darkened bedroom - 1 am in the morning. And the fact that the next game for Puddlemere United was two weeks away. Clearing his mind of his worried thoughts, Oliver had forced himself out of bed, and hastily pulled on some clothes. As he apparated into Francis's office he had realized that he was the only person to have been called.

In other words, Oliver was a little scared.

He stood nervously in the cluttered room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking around for the millionth time at the clock, the various posters, the messy desk covered with piles of parchment, all the while trying in vain to still the storm of uncertainty within himself, and distract himself from the faint sound of voices from outside. He attempted to examine what looked like new team strategies, but they could not hold his interest.

I am not going to be cut from the team. I am not going to be cut from the team. Come on, Oliver! You're the captain for crying out loud!!! Okay, it was a close match, but you played brilliantly yesterday . . .

'Ah there you are! Come in dear boy! Have a seat! How are you? I didn't wake you did I? What are you looking so worried for?'

A small, portly man had burst in through the door, looking flustered and unkempt: the small amount of hair on his head was standing on end, and his clothes were wrinkled. Francis Finneganhad always looked exactly the opposite of how a hugely successful Quidditch team coach ought to look, but that had never stopped him from being the tactical genius that he was. He ushered Oliver towards a chair and sat down on the desk himself, suddenly becoming rather serious.

'Wood, let me start by telling you how much I enjoyed working with you. Your work ethics, and your strategies . . .'

'Please don't cut me from the team!!' blurted out Oliver.

'What? What are you talking about?' Francis looked surprised.

Oliver twisted around nervously in his chair.

Francis continued, 'Look Oliver, you know how England's form has been. 15 straight losses! The team's become a national shame! Tonight, or that is to say late yesterday night the leadership of the board changed hands. That's what this whole hubbub has been about. However, the politics does not concern us. The new president has decided that this is the time for drastic changes, we need to revamp the entire squad and so. . .'

'What exactly are you saying Frank?' cut in Oliver.

'What I'm saying is that as of thirty minutes ago, you are the captain of the England national Quidditch team.'

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