My Harp's Strings
Challenge Seven: Quidditch Players
Team: Kenmare Kestrels
Title: My Harp's Strings
Author: IrishEspressoGirl
Main wizard(s): Darren O'Hare
Other characters: OC
Ratings/Warnings: PG
Genres: Romance
Word count: 967
My Harp's Strings
by IrishEspressoGirl
I learned how to play the harp when I was seven years old. My dad, you see, is the manager of the Kenmare Kestrels, Ireland’s oldest Quidditch team. A die-hard fan, my dad encouraged me to join the other fans in playing the harp at an early age. I was overjoyed to learn, and I approached the task with great determination. I was sure to make my harp the most jubilant of them all.
Having grown up with the team, I was around the Quidditch stars for my entire life. The flash of emerald green as the Seeker dove toward the snitch sent shivers down my spine. The easy toss of the Quaffle from a Chaser to a goalpost thrilled my heart, making it feel as if it would jump out of my chest with excitement. The merry tunes of the harpists and the gold medallions tossed out by the leprechaun mascots made me jump and dance with glee.
In 1947, my father landed the recruit of a lifetime. Darren O’Hare, the most talented Chaser in the League at the time, was downright beautiful. His muscular arms were sculpted to perfection, and he made throwing the Quaffle, the largest ball in Quidditch, look graceful and elegant.
I was only seventeen--fresh out of Hogwarts--when he joined the team, and after only a few sessions of watching him practice shirtless, I was in love. I wished he would hold me with as much care as he held the Quaffle.
Darren was a few years older than I was; he had trained with a minor Quidditch team before my dad found him, so, naturally, he was an experienced wizard, while I was naïve and foolish. Of course, I didn’t realize until much later exactly how different our levels of contact with the opposite sex were, but you can see perfectly looking back.
After nearly a month of watching practice, I finally drew the attention of our star Chaser.
"Hey, what’s your name?" he asked me as he hovered near the metal bar separating the pitch from the stands one day after practice.
I, of course, was incredibly shy at the time, and the musical sound of his voice struck me mute. True to my Irish blood, my pale skin turned as red as my flaming hair, and I began to sputter incoherently.
Darren was patient with me, though, and he waited quietly while I worked up the nerve to answer his question.
"I’m Eveleen," I answered finally, timidly. "But most people call me Evie." In truth, I hated the nickname, but once I’d begun talking, I couldn’t refrain from over-explaining.
"It’s nice to meet you, Eveleen," he said with a wink.
He flew off then, leaving me to ponder the sweetness of his tongue forming my name in a thick Irish accent.
The nervousness of the initial meeting over, subsequent practices found me gazing incessantly at his incredible form as he flew across the pitch, tossing the Quaffle back and forth with his teammates, until my father’s whistle sounded to end practice. He began to fly to where I sat after each practice. Before much more time passed, I was waiting anxiously at the bottom of the stands until he returned from the changing room following every session.
It started out innocently enough. We’d sit on the bottom stair and simply talk. He let me do most of the talking, I remember, but it was a novel activity for me; in all my years at Hogwarts, I’d never spent time alone with a boy before. Since nothing severe was going on, I didn’t see the need to inform my father of my activities, of which I’m sure he would not have approved, it being 1947 and all.
Eventually, we abandoned mere talking in our meetings in favor of another, more exciting, activity involving our tongues. Still, I did not divulge my activities with to my father; instead, I took to telling him that I was over at another witch’s house or something else equally mild.
Naturally, our relationship progressed to a point past summer love. As seems to happen with many young witches, once I’d given up my purity, my wizard prince slowly pulled away, and I found myself alone and confused.
I continued going to practices and waiting at the bottom of the stands, but of course, he stopped seeking me out. After several weeks without a returned Floo, I became desperate for communication; I decided that the best course of action would be to corner him just outside of changing room.
I watched all of the other players become smaller and smaller as they walked away from the pitch. None of them could see me standing silently in the shadow of the stands near the entrance as I waited.
After nearly half an hour of waiting, I was about to give up when I finally heard some scuffling from the other side of the door. I stepped forward to approach him as he exited the changing room.
He was a vision of wizardry. His tanned skin, unusually dark for an Irish wizard, and his brown hair, slicked back and still wet from his shower, glistened in the sunlight. For a moment, I could not peel my eyes from him.
When I finally, did, though, I felt my heart break into a million pieces as my gaze reverted to the blonde entangled in his arms.
He saw me, of course, and as he walked by, he reached out his hand and tousled my red hair.
"Hi, kiddo," he said.
A single tear slid down my cheek.
Unable to tell my dad of my devastation, I continued to attend the Quidditch practices and matches, but from then on, my harp’s strings vibrated with the sadness of my heart.
~*~END~*~
A/N: Thanks to seaislewitch for proofing for me! You're a star!
Team: Kenmare Kestrels
Title: My Harp's Strings
Author: IrishEspressoGirl
Main wizard(s): Darren O'Hare
Other characters: OC
Ratings/Warnings: PG
Genres: Romance
Word count: 967
My Harp's Strings
by IrishEspressoGirl
I learned how to play the harp when I was seven years old. My dad, you see, is the manager of the Kenmare Kestrels, Ireland’s oldest Quidditch team. A die-hard fan, my dad encouraged me to join the other fans in playing the harp at an early age. I was overjoyed to learn, and I approached the task with great determination. I was sure to make my harp the most jubilant of them all.
Having grown up with the team, I was around the Quidditch stars for my entire life. The flash of emerald green as the Seeker dove toward the snitch sent shivers down my spine. The easy toss of the Quaffle from a Chaser to a goalpost thrilled my heart, making it feel as if it would jump out of my chest with excitement. The merry tunes of the harpists and the gold medallions tossed out by the leprechaun mascots made me jump and dance with glee.
In 1947, my father landed the recruit of a lifetime. Darren O’Hare, the most talented Chaser in the League at the time, was downright beautiful. His muscular arms were sculpted to perfection, and he made throwing the Quaffle, the largest ball in Quidditch, look graceful and elegant.
I was only seventeen--fresh out of Hogwarts--when he joined the team, and after only a few sessions of watching him practice shirtless, I was in love. I wished he would hold me with as much care as he held the Quaffle.
Darren was a few years older than I was; he had trained with a minor Quidditch team before my dad found him, so, naturally, he was an experienced wizard, while I was naïve and foolish. Of course, I didn’t realize until much later exactly how different our levels of contact with the opposite sex were, but you can see perfectly looking back.
After nearly a month of watching practice, I finally drew the attention of our star Chaser.
"Hey, what’s your name?" he asked me as he hovered near the metal bar separating the pitch from the stands one day after practice.
I, of course, was incredibly shy at the time, and the musical sound of his voice struck me mute. True to my Irish blood, my pale skin turned as red as my flaming hair, and I began to sputter incoherently.
Darren was patient with me, though, and he waited quietly while I worked up the nerve to answer his question.
"I’m Eveleen," I answered finally, timidly. "But most people call me Evie." In truth, I hated the nickname, but once I’d begun talking, I couldn’t refrain from over-explaining.
"It’s nice to meet you, Eveleen," he said with a wink.
He flew off then, leaving me to ponder the sweetness of his tongue forming my name in a thick Irish accent.
The nervousness of the initial meeting over, subsequent practices found me gazing incessantly at his incredible form as he flew across the pitch, tossing the Quaffle back and forth with his teammates, until my father’s whistle sounded to end practice. He began to fly to where I sat after each practice. Before much more time passed, I was waiting anxiously at the bottom of the stands until he returned from the changing room following every session.
It started out innocently enough. We’d sit on the bottom stair and simply talk. He let me do most of the talking, I remember, but it was a novel activity for me; in all my years at Hogwarts, I’d never spent time alone with a boy before. Since nothing severe was going on, I didn’t see the need to inform my father of my activities, of which I’m sure he would not have approved, it being 1947 and all.
Eventually, we abandoned mere talking in our meetings in favor of another, more exciting, activity involving our tongues. Still, I did not divulge my activities with to my father; instead, I took to telling him that I was over at another witch’s house or something else equally mild.
Naturally, our relationship progressed to a point past summer love. As seems to happen with many young witches, once I’d given up my purity, my wizard prince slowly pulled away, and I found myself alone and confused.
I continued going to practices and waiting at the bottom of the stands, but of course, he stopped seeking me out. After several weeks without a returned Floo, I became desperate for communication; I decided that the best course of action would be to corner him just outside of changing room.
I watched all of the other players become smaller and smaller as they walked away from the pitch. None of them could see me standing silently in the shadow of the stands near the entrance as I waited.
After nearly half an hour of waiting, I was about to give up when I finally heard some scuffling from the other side of the door. I stepped forward to approach him as he exited the changing room.
He was a vision of wizardry. His tanned skin, unusually dark for an Irish wizard, and his brown hair, slicked back and still wet from his shower, glistened in the sunlight. For a moment, I could not peel my eyes from him.
When I finally, did, though, I felt my heart break into a million pieces as my gaze reverted to the blonde entangled in his arms.
He saw me, of course, and as he walked by, he reached out his hand and tousled my red hair.
"Hi, kiddo," he said.
A single tear slid down my cheek.
Unable to tell my dad of my devastation, I continued to attend the Quidditch practices and matches, but from then on, my harp’s strings vibrated with the sadness of my heart.
~*~END~*~
A/N: Thanks to seaislewitch for proofing for me! You're a star!