Playing For Keeps

*~*Civility Is Overrated*~*

Carl Warrington strode out of the locker room, his hair still damp from the shower and too lazy to charm it dry. Well, well! Of all the people! Cass Flint, taking up the open Chaser position for the Holyhead Harpies!

Cass had been in the same year as him when they´d been in school. Friends, almost like brother and sister. She and big brother Marcus had had a rather stormy, strained relationship, with most and most vicious arguments usually centered about the sport that both of them loved.

Warrington would sometimes let her borrow his broomstick to practice. And she was damn good. Quite enormously talented, in fact. Unfortunately for her, she had not been allowed to play on the Slytherin Quidditch team. And really, it was as much a loss for the team as it was for her.

Flexing his sore shoulder a bit, he noticed someone leaning against the wall of the women´s locker room. Rather tall for a woman, a copy of Beater´s Bible in front of her face, held up by slim but tanned and strong-looking hands attached to leanly muscled arms clad in the crisp white sleeves of a blouse. Long legs were clad in functional khaki trousers, and brown leather boots. She had a simple but well-made moss green cloak draped but unfastened over her clothing, and she put her book down when she heard his footsteps approach.

Dark hair, smoke-violet eyes... eyes that lit up with an almost-mocking merriment when she saw who it was. "Hello," the simple word was spoken in a coolly amused voice.

"Hello to you too," Warrington greeted with a smirk, "You´re the one who nearly cracked my skull open... Brocklehurst, is it?"

The young woman rolled her eyes in ineffable mock-contempt, "If you think that I´m a Ravenclaw, obviously I didn´t hit you hard enough this time, hmm? The name is Skyler Zabini."

"Ah... yes, Zabini. Must be related to Blaise, I suppose?"

"Yes. He´s my self-appointed royal pain-in-the-arse," Skyler said candidly, with a grin.

"Ah... older brother, then. I´m Carl..."

"Warrington. Yes, I know. Cass remembers you. Called you a swarthy git."

"Tell her thanks, then. Actually, I should go and see her. Assuming that she´s not in the shower or something... or it might not be good for my health..."

"Well, seeing as to how you play Quidditch, which by definition is dangerous and can be quite `not good for your health´... Although I do have to agree that disturbing Cass in the shower or something might be bad. Knowing her, she´d probably concuss you with her shampoo bottle." Skyler said helpfully.

"Why, does she use a lead shampoo bottle or something?" Warrington asked with genial sarcasm.

Skyler shrugged, "Oh, knowing Cass, even if the thing were made of marshmallows, she´d still find a way to concuss you with it. But hmm... wonder what she´s up to. Usually she´d be out of the locker room and reading Quidditch Through The Ages by now."

"Perhaps she has a secret lover who is visiting her and they´re shagging in the shower?"

"Doubtful... very doubtful," Skyler laughed wryly. "I´d like to see some bloke try... he might not have any means to shag anyone ever again."

* * *

Contrary to Carl Warrington´s speculations, Cass Flint was not being accosted by a paramour in her shower. Oliver Wood had caught sight of her as she had stepped out of the locker room, now dressed in plain blue trousers and shirt, but still wearing the self-same scowl that she´d had on the pitch.

She did not see him, but he had addressed her. "Oi, Flint."

Cass Flint had halted in her tracks at the unfamiliar voice, but did not speak. Oliver walked up to her and stopped in front of her. She did not look at him.

"That was a good game you played," he began, "You´re quite talented... more than I´d expected, really."

His compliment seemed to have the complete opposite effect to what he´d expected, and finally, she looked up, though her expression was positively lethal.

"Sod off! Don´t you dare patronize me!" she hissed.

Wood blinked, "I wasn´t..."

But the girl glared up at him, eyes spitting flames, "Oh, I´m better than you expected, hmm? Just because I´m not one of you bloody Gryffindors or one of the blokes doesn´t mean that I´m shite on the pitch!"

Oliver Wood felt his irritation rise, and he matched her scowl with a frown of his own, "Look here, Flint. I generally don´t go about chasing after girls like you and telling them how good they are at Quidditch. And I wasn´t bloody patronizing you, I was just telling you that you played a good game! Bloody hell..." he gave Cass a sneer that any Slytherin could have been proud of, "Would it kill you to be nice and smile once every now and then?"

Jutting out her chin and staring him straight in the eye, Cass gave a vicious nod, "For you? Yes it would!"

Oliver gave a snort of half-disgust, half-bemusement, "Blimey... you´re a nasty piece of work, even for a Slytherin!" The words came out almost involuntarily, and Cass gave a sharp inhalation of surprise and anger. And then, she drew back her hand and slapped him across the face.

"Hmph!" whirling around in a fit of fury, she stormed off. Oliver stared moodily after her retreating back for a moment, then scowled and stalked off himself in the opposite direction.

* * *

When Oliver Wood met with his teammates again, he was in a very bad humor indeed. The others gave him wary glances, then one by one, they filed away, to celebrate their Quidditch victory without having to deal with a fuming captain. Harry ventured to invite Oliver to drinks, but his request was met merely with an irate sort of grunt, and the Seeker walked off as well.

One person, however, stayed behind, and Oliver was sure that Warrington loitered about for the express purpose of irritating him further. Pointedly ignoring his Chaser, Oliver started putting away his Quidditch robes.

"So, how did it go?"

"Sod OFF, Warrington," Oliver growled. Needless to say, Warrington blithely ignored the order.

"Oh, sorry to see that you weren´t successful in chatting up the opposition," Warrington´s voice sounded anything but sorry, and Oliver reflected that his Chasers... well, one in particular, needed to do more bludger drills. He made a mental note of that for the next practice.

But for the meantime, he settled for glaring at the Chaser, "I´m not in the mood for this."

"But I am," Warrington smirked, as if this settled everything, "Too bad... it would have been interesting and fun if you had succeeded in getting in their good graces."

"THEN WHY DON´T YOU `CHAT THEM UP´?" Oliver snarled.

Warrington grinned smugly, "Already did. It went quite successfully, too. You, my man... are lacking some essential Slytherin charisma."

"Thank GOD I´m not a Slytherin," Wood growled, "That little Flint chit is one nasty, belligerent bint... absolutely barking mad, that one..."

Warrington raised an eyebrow, and his expression sobered, much to Oliver´s surprise, "Cass? Well... ah... you don´t really understand... but then, that´s only to be expected." And as Oliver blinked in mystification, Warrington picked up the bag in which he´d put his uniform, walked out of the locker room, and Disapparated.

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?!" Oliver Wood asked to no one in particular.

* * *

Oliver Wood was a Gryffindor. He had the Gryffindor courage, daring, high-mindedness and quick, sometimes reckless impulsiveness. This generally played in his favor in Quidditch. He was bold and innovative; an excellent captain because of his willingness to take the initiative, and his high, idealistic spirits served as a natural motivator for his team.

He also had the comfortable Gryffindor tendency to not dwell much on things after they´d stopped affecting his life. He didn´t tend to hold grudges.

So, by the time that three days had passed since the game against the Holyhead Harpies and the subsequent altercation with the irascible Ms. Flint, he was once again at peace with the world.

The team went out to celebrate their victory as a whole group, going to a popular, new establishment in Hogsmeade known as "The Fat Fwooper". Despite the rather outlandish name, or perhaps because of it, most of the `younger set´ of the day liked to gather there, and enjoy the more social, quick environment than that of the more traditional Leaky Cauldron, or the more widely populated Three Broomsticks.

The Puddlemere United team, some more willingly than others, basked in the admiration of the rest of the patrons, signed several autographs, and took a few pictures. And... had drinks bought for them by a few avid fans.

"So... what´ll happen next, Captain?" one eager young man of about eighteen that, to the Gryffindors on the team, bore a disturbing resemblance to Colin Creevey on Alihotsy, asked, practically quivering in excitement.

"Er, well... the next game this season is Holyhead Harpies against Falmouth Falcons," Oliver ventured, "And... well, we´re waiting for results to see who´s going to be on the national team when we compete for the World Cup..."

"Ohh, the Harpies!" the young man beamed, "That was a brilliant game! Their new Chaser... what´s her name?"

Oliver scowled, "Flint."

"Cassandra Aurora Flint," Carl Warrington supplemented, "Age 24, former alumna of Hogwarts School in Slytherin House."

"Is she any relation to Captain Flint of the Falmouth Falcons?" the young man turned his attention to Warrington, grinning like a jack-o´-lantern, "Ooh, if she were his wife... that´d be interesting, wouldn´t it?"

"Actually, that would be sick-making," Warrington deadpanned, "Marcus Flint is her older brother."

"Ohh! That would still be interesting then! He´s a Chaser too, isn´t he? Who´s better, d´you think, Mr. Warrington, sir?"

Warrington smirked, "Well... I guess we´ll see during the game, hmm?"

"Yes, of course! Mr. Wood, sir... how did you feel during the game, playing against her?"

Oliver scowled, "She was a good Chaser." His tone indicated that he did not really wish to speak more on the subject, something quite unusual for him, as someone who was usually so vociferous on the subject of Quidditch.

"Oh boy! I hope we get to see more of her! That way she put that last shot past you, Captain... that was pure artistry!"

Oliver´s good mood deserted him for the rest of the evening, and the team, sighing, made their excuses and left the pub soon thereafter.

* * *

About a week after the ill-fated excursion to Hogsmeade and The Fat Fwooper, Oliver Wood found himself in Diagon Alley, depositing the earnings from the last Quidditch game into Gringott´s. Quidditch certainly paid well... and overall, it was a good, interesting job. After the defeat of Voldemort three years ago, the Aurors´ Guild no longer needed so many people in active duty. This resulted in several people, most notably Harry Potter, Cho Chang, Angelina Johnson-Weasley and Draco Malfoy joining up with Professional Quidditch Teams after leaving the Aurors´ Guild. Out of those four, the first three were still playing. Draco Malfoy had been the Seeker for the Falmouth Falcons for two years, before he had suddenly eloped with the last girl that anybody had expected him to. Now, Draco Malfoy and wife Virginia lived peacefully in a luxurious penthouse in London, and both worked for the Ministry of Magic; the former for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, the latter for the Department of Experimental Charms. And spent the rest of their time raising their two strawberry-blonde offspring.

The Falcons, replacing their Seeker, had done an ironic thing. Whereas Draco Malfoy had replaced Terence Higgs as Seeker in Hogwarts, now, the older Slytherin Seeker had taken over after Draco and Ginny had eloped.

But Oliver´s mind was not on either Terence Higgs or Draco Malfoy at the moment. His entire attention, temper and frustration happened to be focused on an entirely different Slytherin.

It was just his luck that, coming out of Gringott´s, who would he run into but that fractious Flint chit, coming out of Madame Malkin´s?

He had been bent on pretending not to be there when some thrice-damnable fan-girl had caught sight of both him and Flint and screeched out, in a voice loud enough to breach a Silencing Charm, that the two needed to stand together so she could take a picture of them that might one day be worth a million Galleons.

In Wood´s learned opinion, such a picture would never be worth anything. And moreover, he hated empty-headed, obsessive, bloody mercenary fans like these. One glance at Flint´s mutinous face told him that she shared this opinion.

He felt an almost irresistible urge to scream at the twit taking the picture, "SEE?! Even Flint here agrees that this is nonsense! Now go about your business and leave us bloody alone!"

Except, of course, that would be bad. It might look to the fan and the various others who had gathered round at the photographing flea-brain that he and Flint were close or something. People jumped to the most preposterous conclusions after all, and if they looked even remotely like they were in agreement on something, the Daily Prophet would have headlines talking about an impending marriage soon.

After pictures, autographs and numerous nosy questions, both Cass and Oliver were in more or less a towering rage at the world, and centering it on each other for the sake of convenience. As soon as the twits had left the scene, Cass wiped the painful, plastic grin off her face and scowled at Oliver.

"Bloody miserable sodding arses!"

Oliver glowered right back at her, "I did not want to deal with that nonsense today."

"Blast... this day has been going spiffingly so far," Cass muttered to herself, "An impending afternoon of genteel purgatory in the land of tea-cups, and having to take mug shots with a chauvinistic pillock..."

"Look here, Flint..." Oliver ground out between clenched teeth, "You´re no angel yourself..."

"Thank bloody Merlin for that... who in their right minds would want to be? And what´s it to you? None of your damn business how I behave, is it? I´ll do as I sodding please, Oliver Wood, and neither you nor any other will stop me," she hissed at him.

"Why would I want to even take the effort?" Oliver spat out, "I´d have to put up with your antisocial behavior on a regular basis!"

"Hmph! Antisocial, huh? Typical for a male... any female who isn´t a bloody porcelain doll is either gay or antisocial or both!"

"What the devil is it with you and jumping to the most illogical, horrid conclusions? Who skewered you with knitting needles as a child? Honestly!"

"I don´t have to put up with your shite! I´m leaving!"

"FINE!"

"FINE!"

It was becoming quite obvious that civility would be impossible. Perhaps... just perhaps, if they were really, really determined and willing to work at it, they might be able to act their own age.

Unfortunately for that hypothetical aspiration, neither of them were Hufflepuffs.