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Tug Of War by platform 9 3_4
Chapter 1 : Muffins
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 27


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Disclaimer: JKR owns the magical world of Harry Potter. Sadly I own zilch.











 

Super quick authors note: Hellooo! So this is a story that just wandered into my mind one day, so I put pen to paper and out popped this! I hope you enjoy it! :)

 

 










 
Stella Wood

This piece of awesome was made by by shudder@tda

 











 

Let me start off by telling you the two unspoken rules of quidditch.

 

Forget the rules about foul play, penalties etc. These rules are different.

 

They aren't written down in a handbook. They're just kind of known. I make them sound so serious and daring. But in reality they're both fairly simple.

 

The first one is that to play quidditch, you have to enjoy it. Pretty standard stuff, right? 

 

But being the incredibly moronic person that I am I've already broken this rule.

 

I should explain. From the first moment I held a broom I knew it wasn’t for me. 

 

I mean, hello? I was supposed to straddle this thing, kick off the ground and somehow, somehow rise into the air. 


 
And then to top it all off I’m supposed to swoop around in the bloody air, and I’m supposed to stay on! More like hang on for dear life.

 

And then I was supposed to concentrate on the game as  well?

 

That’s pushing it a bit.

 

Anyway, my point is that if I knew, from the first moment I touched a broom, that I would hate it, then why the hell am I standing on a quidditch pitch, wearing quidditch robes, holding a broom and staring about at my teammates like someone who actually enjoys quidditch?

 

You know how you wake up in the morning sometimes and think, who am I? What is my purpose here? What does it all mean?

 

Yeah, I know, clichéd high school girl questionning her purpose in life.  Well, relax because I don’t wake up in the morning and question my purpose. The first things I think of when I wake up are…muffins. What? They’re yummy and they come in all sorts of varieties. My personal favourite is blueberry.

 

But muffins aren’t the point.

 

The point is that I really should think a little, you know? Maybe question what I’m doing with my life when I wake up in the morning. Not just automatically get dressed and run down to the quidditch field for practice without a second thought.

 

Because when I held that broom for the first time, I knew that I would hate it.

 

Problem is, playing quidditch is in my genes.

 

My dad used to be the keeper for Puddlemere United. Now he’s their coach. He’s absolutely obsessed with the sport.

 

And when I say obsessed I mean really obsessed. He loves it so much I’m sure he’d marry it if he could. But, I’m glad he didn’t, because then I wouldn’t be here. And that would be bad. Really bad.

 

I tend to get carried away and say awkward and inappropriate things. Just stop me if it gets too weird.

 

So, like I was saying, my dad’s been training me to be a quidditch champion since I could walk. And annoyingly I got all the quidditch genes.



It was pretty half and half, my chances of being good at it I mean. My mum is rubbish at quidditch. She can barely get a few feet off the ground. And she isn’t a big fan of it either.

 

Somehow I got dad’s skill and mum's lack of interest. Yippee.

 

As soon as I went to Hogwarts my dad said, “Now Stella, it doesn’t matter what house you’re in. Just get on the team.”

 

Thanks dad. Very Supportive.

 

Sense the sarcasm.

 

So now, here I am, sixth year, Gryffindor keeper. Dad couldn’t be prouder.

 

Except that the more I play quidditch, the more I hate it. I get queasy and nautious. The other players get a thrill, a sort of adrenaline rush, but I just get scared. No, terrified is more correct. I'm not competitive. I don't care who wins a match because I'm already putting so much into staying upright on my broom that I find it difficult to also play at the same time.

 

Now, you’re probably thinking, if you hate it so much, then why don’t you quit, you crazy bint?

 

Well, that question can be answered with two words.

 

James. Potter.

 

James is the captain of the team. He's a Potter, and he’s also a git. He’s a pompous, arrogant git, and I think I’m in love with him. 

 

He doesn’t like me much. In fact, he doesn’t like me at all. He knows I hate quidditch, and he’s forever whineing about how he's wasting his time trying to get me to cooperate.

 

Oh yeah, and as far as quidditch obsession goes, he’s almost as obsessed as my dad.  And that’s saying something.

 

I sometimes wonder why I’m in love with someone who doesn’t like me and who loves the one thing I despise (meaning quidditch).



I think I might have been dropped on my head as a baby. That would explain why I’m so fucked up.

 

Which brings me to the second unspoken rule of quidditch:

 

Don't ever fall in love with your captain.

 

Especially if they know you've broken rule number one.

 

Things will only go downhill from there.

 

And of course, I've gone and broken this rule too. I am a disgrace to the name of quidditch. 

 

I’m afraid I can’t offer a better explanation for my love for him, other than the fact that he’s hot. Yes, that's right, he’s a fit, hot quidditch captain. 

 

Ah, young love, purely based on raging teenage hormones and awkward sexual tension. 

 

“Wood!”

 

I mean, he’s really sexy. Even when he’s yelling at me, the way he is now.

 

“Wood!”

 

Mmm, just the way his hair sticks up. It looks like he spends his free time sticking his finger into an electric socket. I really shouldn’t be attracted by that.

 

“Wood!”

 

Merlin, look at his eyes, they’re hazel, with dark brown flecks. Like pools you could just dive into.

 

“WOOD!”

 

I snap out of my reverie and realise that the guy I’ve been practically drooling over for the last five minutes is glaring at me.

 

“Sorry?” I look at him, wiping the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand in case I've actually started drooling. Luckily I haven’t.

 

Well, maybe he hasn’t noticed I was looking at him.

 

“Get your arse up into the air like the rest of the team, instead of staring at me like a lunatic.”
 


Oh. 

 

Grudgingly I swing my leg over the broom and kick off hard.

 

I immediately feel queasy as I sail towards the goalposts. The rest of the team passes the quaffle back and forth. James catches it from Rose and chucks it in my direction. I throw myself forwards onto the broom and catch it between the tips of my fingers. I lean back and it slips, falling towards the ground.

 

“Come on Wood!” James yells, “You’re half asleep today! Go and pick it up!”

 

The things I do for love. 

 
 

*         *          *

 


“You know,” Rose smirks, “You don’t have to make James so mad. It turns out really badly for the rest of us.”

 

“He’s the one with the anger issues,” I mutter sulkily.

 

We’re sitting in the great hall at breakfast. I glance down the table and I see James with his mates, Fred and Cameron. They’re currently playing a game of ‘who can stuff the most food in their mouth at once’. James is winning. He's got a bit of fried egg dangling over his bottom lip.

 

The guy I'm inexplicably in love with, Ladies and Gentlemen.

 

“You’re the one who was too busy staring at him to pay any attention to what’s going on at practice,” Rose grins slyly at me.

 

Rose knows all about James and I. Or rather, the fact that there is no James and I, and how I want there to be a James and I.

 

I don’t even know if I want there to be a James and I. He’s still a git, whether I’m attracted to him or not. A fit arsehole is still an arsehole.

 

“I was not staring at him,” I lie.

 

“Of course you weren’t,” she chuckles.

 

“I wasn’t!” I insist.

 

She doesn’t even bother to answer this, because we both know I’m lying.

 

Rose has been my best friend since our first year, and I think she's awesome. People assume that because Rose is the daughter of Hermione Granger she's must be the smartest person in our year, but she’s not. She’s intelligent, obviously, but she enjoys breaking the rules once in a while. And she’s not a prefect. Her cousin, and our other best friend, Albus was made a prefect instead, and for that Rose mocks him mercilessly.

 

Her younger brother Hugo is best friends with my little brother Mark. So we’re all in one happy little circle of friendship. Plus Mark has had a huge crush on James and Albus’s little sister Lily since day 1. He deals with said crush by teasing her alot. If they were in the playground he would spend his time pushing her off the swings and pulling her pigtails.

 

I refuse to acknowledge that we share any DNA whatsoever. 

 

“You know what?” says Rose, “I think I’m going to lock you two in a broom closet. That’ll speed things up.”

 

I choke on my piece of toast, spraying crumbs over the table. Rose wrinkles her nose in disgust.

 

“Those are some lovely table manners you’ve got,” she says, “Maybe you and James really do belong together.”

 

My eyes begin to water as I start choking again.

 

“A broom closet?” I manage to get out.

 

“Yeah, you know, all that sexual tension overflowing.”

 

“There is no sexual tension,” I say sadly, “Plus that’s a tacky cliché.”

 

Rose shrugs. “Fine,” she says, “We’ll just have to wait it out.”

 

“Wait what out?” 

  

“You know,” she grins, “You like him. You argue. Finally you snog and he falls madly in love with you.”

 

How profound.

 

Although it does describe just about every dream I’ve ever had about James.

 

“Rose, when did you start reading all trash in Witch Weekly?”

 

Rose doesn't reply, and flips over the page of her magazine that lies on the table.

 

“Seven Steps To Your Dream Wizard,” she reads aloud, “Step One. Make him notice you.”

 

She looks up at me and says, “Well we already know he’s noticed you. He spends half of practice yelling at you. So we can skip that.”

 

“Rose-“

 

“Step Two,” she ignores my protests, “Find something in common with him.”

 

Well, that’s hopeless. When it comes to interests we’re about as far apart as Earth and Mars. Even Rose looks a little troubled as she tries to think of something.

 

“Step Three,” she continues, moving past the awkward silence, “Wear something nice at a party to get his attention.”

 

“Look Rose this is bullshit,” I interrupt, “I don’t need James.”

 

Alright, that's a complete lie, but Rose closes the magazine decisively, “You’re right! You’re a strong, independent woman, and you don’t need a man! James doesn’t define you!”

 

God she’s weird. I mean, one minute she’s coaching me on how to get his attention, and the next she starts giving me a bloody suffragette style pep-talk. Seriously, Rose may not be defined by her intelligence, but her mood swings sure are noticeable.

 

“You don’t need him!” she repeats.

 

“Don’t need who?” comes a voice that makes my insides curl. I can tell James is standing right behind me.

 

“Oh, hi James,” says Rose, putting on a false smile.

 

“What’re you up to Red?” he asks suspiciously.

 

Rose glowers, the way she does whenever James calls her 'Red', and says, “I’m helping Stella get over someone.”

 

I almost jump over the table and tackle her in fury. Instead I go for a more passive option I give her a look that says way-to-be-discreet.

 

She avoids my eye. Crazy bint. I hate her, I really do.

 

“No, she’s not,” I say through gritted teeth. 

 

I can’t believe that after everything we’ve been through she would just tell him, flicking of her bright red hair over her shoulder as cool as cucumber.

 

Yeah, that’s right, Rose, I was lying when I said your hair was auburn, and not red. It’s completely red. It’s so red that its tomato red. Ha! Take that!

 

I just insulted my best friend in my head. Dear Merlin’s striped roller skates I need help.

 

“Really Wood?” asks James, sitting down beside me,  “Someone actually gave you the time of day?”

 

I ignore him, and ignore the loud thumping of my heart, now that I know he’s sitting inches away from me.

 

“Or maybe it’s someone who hasn’t even given you the time of day yet,” James guesses correctly, a smirk spreading across his lips. 

 

Arse.

 

Luckily he doesn’t seem too interested in my personal humiliation because he stands up.

 

“Well,” he says, “Wish I could stay and chat but I have no personal fascination with Wood’s love life. Or rather…her non-existent love life. I just came to tell Rose that Al was looking for you earlier.”

 

“Tell Al to stop looking,” Rose mutters angrily.

 

I raise an eyebrow at her. What’s going on between Rose and Al?

 

James walks away and I resist the urge to stare after him.

 

“He can be a prick sometimes,” Rose says kindly to me.

 

“You don’t think I know that?” I ask, but I refuse to be sidetracked, “What’s going on between you and Al?”

 

Rose looks annoyed.

 

“He keeps trying to tell me how Scorpius feels about me.”

 

That explains her anger, because if there’s one thing that Rose hates, it’s talking about Scorpius Malfoy.

 

He told her he loved her last year, and she told him to go and die in a hole.

 

She’s a real charmer, that Rose Weasley. 

 

You can’t really blame her, though. Scorpius used to torment her for fun when we were younger.

 

And yes, he's still a git.

 

But despite all of his gitfullness, she decided she’d give him a chance. And he went and blew it, of course. Don’t know why she trusted him in the first place. He is a Slytherin, after all.

 

Rose went looking for him to tell him that she was ready give it a shot...and found him snogging some girl from Ravenclaw in a broom closet.

 

Like I said before, it’s a tacky cliché.

 

And trust me, Scorpius paid for hurting my friend.  No, just kidding I’m not that evil. But I did knee him in the groin. While Rose watched. And laughed.

 

Since then he’s been begging for her to take him back, and as his best friend and Rose’s cousin Albus feels obligated to push them closer together. Rose is having none of it.

 

“Malfoy’s a douche,” I assure her.

 

“You don’t think I know that?” Rose smirks.

 

*                  *                 *


 

I’ve decided to take Rose’s advice to heart. Screw James! I don’t need him! He’ll clearly never be interested in me. I’m awkward, weird and I hate quidditch, which is enough of a turn-off for him, trust me.

 

I suppose I’m not that bad looking. I’ve got dark brown hair that’s wavy, and brown eyes that some would say are large, so I wouldn't say that I'm ugly. I've had two boyfriends, neither of which lasted long. 

 

Fine, one of them was Gregory Phillips. We were in the same kindergarten class. He offered me a bite of his cookie, and I offered him my juice carton. From there on began a beautiful, romantic relationship. It lasted about six hours.

 

But still, I have managed to attract some people.

 

I did have a boyfriend last year, for a new record time of about a month. He was a Ravenclaw named Oscar Jacobs. 

 

Oscar was nice to me, at first. Then he dumped me when I wouldn't shag him. 

 

After that he spent a week in the hospital, thanks to good old Freddie Weasley.

 

Based on my limited romantic experience, James would never go for me. And not just because of my complete lack of allure. For one thing, I'm a whole year younger than him. There are plenty of girls in his own year who he would probably rather go for. I probably have the same amount of sex appeal to him as a first year. Then, of course, there's the matter of his annoying good looks. The ones that I can't compete with.

 

James, Fred and Cameron are all ridiculously good looking. Really, it's like some God picked out the three best looking babies in England, and made sure that they were all put in the same year at the same school, and then gave them all equal amounts of pig-headedness. 

 

Cameron, with his blonde hair and baby blue eyes, hits on anything that breathes. His constant target is Rose, and James has given him warning after warning. It often goes like "Touch-her-and-you'll-wish-you've-never-been-born."

 

Fred spends a lot of his time shagging unfortunate girls (although they consider themselves very fortunate, which is very sad). All he has to do is flex his biceps and they all come running.

 

Which just proves that girls can be almost as stupid as boys.

 

I've never really understood Fred. I mean, he beat up Oscar after he dumped me. He defends every one of his female cousins from any guy who gives them a second look. He claims that they're all womanizers. Which is exactly what he is.

 

And then we come to James, definitely the best looking out of the lot (I may be a little biased.) He's less obviously flirty, but don't get me wrong. He's still a manwhore. 

 

His most popular pick up line is "I'm the son of the saviour of the wizarding world." I'm ashamed to say that it works every time.

 

All three of them are pigs, and they're all on the quidditch team, which helps to inflate their already over inflated egos.

 

"Stella!" 

 

It's Fred, looking overly enthusiastic as he swings an arm around me.

 

We're in the common room. James and Cameron are playing exploding snap with wild enthusiasm.

 

"Come and join us!" Fred grins.

 

"Thanks but-"

 

"I will not take no for an answer!" he insists with exaggerated grandeur, sitting me down on the couch. James takes one glance at me and immediately looks annoyed.

 

"What's she doing here?" he asks Fred, saying the word 'she' as though it's poisonous.

 

Gee, thanks. What do I see in this guy again?

 

I have no clue...

 

"Come on Jamesie," Fred leans back placidly, "Give little Stella a chance!"

 

Yeah James, give the girl who's been in love with you since forever a chance.

 

But little? Little Stella? As if I need to emphasize the age gap between me and James any more. I am a child in their eyes. They might as well buy me a pushchair, hand me a dummy and start singing the wheels on the fucking bus.

 

"Quit the team, and I might consider it," James says, finally looking me in the eye.

 

"But Stella's the best keeper we've had!" Cameron argues.

 

Yeah, come on James Potter. Recognize, bitch.

 

But telling Potter how awesome I am probably won't help. Especially if I tell him myself. So I keep my mouth shut.

 

"I don't care if you're the best beater the world's ever seen!" James said, "It's just a joke to you."

 

Hey! I take my stalk-James-time (also known as quidditch practice) very seriously!


 

Come on, come up with a quick comeback!

 

"Whatever Potter," I sigh, getting up.

 

Oooh, Burn. Wow, I can really blow people away with my words.

 

But I don't care how hot he is, whenever he starts whining about me not taking the team seriously I just want to fall asleep with boredom.

 

Often I just end up staring dreamily at him. Which pisses him off even more.

 

"At least consider quitting Wood," James smirks, "You'd have some extra time to work on your comeback skills, if you did."

 

Until now I didn't think it was possible to love someone, and yet hate them with every fiber of your being at the same time.

 

Which brings me back to my original question. What the hell am I doing?

 

I'm fighting to continue playing a sport I hate, so that I can continue to spend time with a guy who hates me, and who wants me to stop playing the previously mentioned sport.

 

Like I said, I'm an idiot.

 

It's the only rational explanation.


 












Authors Note: Hey guys :) So since this is a new story I've started I'd really appreciate feedback, whether it's positive or negative! Let me know if you want more :)

 

Adios muchachos! x

 


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