Dandelions

A STEAMY START TO THE TERM

The next morning at breakfast, Rory could feel a pit of anxiety swirling around in his stomach, preventing any hunger from making its way to his lips. Fluffy pancakes with the most golden syrup he's ever seen are on his plate, a nice side of blueberries sitting pretty on the side as well--but neither of them look appetizing in the slightest. The silver of his fork pressed into his skin coldly, sinking the frigidness of the metal deep into his bones and leaving him feeling as if he couldn't, and didn't, really want to move.

However, his head was free to swivel as it pleased; yet, it only pleased to look in the direction of Oliver Wood chatting happily away with his friends about quidditch techniques--pouring over his diagrams and tactics with enthusiasm. Aside from a few quick glances, and hidden smiles when nobody was looking, Oliver hadn't paid much attention to Rory at all.

He looked back down to his plate, mildly tuning into some problem George and Fred were bickering over regarding one of their latest candy experiments. Was it wrong for him to feel a little used?

"Hey," George nudged him, "You alright?"

"Yeah," Rory's response was immediate, he hadn't taken any time to actually think about it, "I'm fine, just not hungry."

"Well, try to eat at least something."

Rory nodded silently, making an effort to separate a bite from his pancakes before putting it in his mouth. The urge to spit it out came up almost immediately, doing its best to paralyze his jaw and keep him from eating at all. But, he sighed internally, he knew if he didn't eat anything--even worse, if he spat something out, George would immediately go into mother hen mode and not leave him alone the entire day.

He couldn't have that.

"Rory," Oliver had said back in the Astronomy Tower the previous night, "Meet me at the pitch tomorrow at eight, alright?"

"What for?"

"Consider it some one-on-one practice," he remarked, his expression betraying nothing, "I've got to train my replacement."

"Replacement?" Rory had sputtered, "You're leaving quidditch?"

"Of course not," he'd snorted, "But being a great keeper is an acquired skill, Gryffindor will need someone capable to take it over when I graduate."

Now, as Rory left the Great Hall to attend his first class, he found himself replaying that last sentence over. Oliver was a sixth year now, and Rory was just a fourth year--what would happen when Oliver graduated?

Of course, he thought, he'd still be here, but where would Oliver be? Rory hadn't ever actually thought about what life was like after school, that seemed like it was for grownups like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, yet Oliver was just a boy.

To say that Rory's mind was somewhere else during classes that day was an understatement; Maggie was tasked with nudging him into focus during potions frequently, and the twins took turns poking him with their wands in Professor Bins' class. Though nobody asked them to, it's not like anyone else was particularly conscious during that specific period.

"What happens," Rory quietly asked Maggie during study hall, "When a student graduates?"

"Well, they leave," she whispered, flipping over a page in her textbook, "And they go get a job."

"What sort of job, how far away?"

"Oh my," she breathed in deeply then let it go, "Well, that depends on what sort of job they've picked."

"What about quidditch," he replied desperately, "How far would that take someone?"

"A professional quidditch player?" She snorted quietly, ducking her nose into her book, "That's about a one in a million chance, but I imagine traveling all over the world would keep someone busy and far away."