iv had started to go a little bit crazy from being at the shop so much. It also didn't help that the family lived in a flat just above the Diagon Alley shop, which meant she didn't even have a commute to decompress from the day's ongoings. Olivia decided it was time for a short break and left the shop under the watch of one of her workers.
Liv had decided to visit her old stomping grounds at the professional quidditch stadium just outside of London. The season was out, so the only folks who would be around were coaches and players, but Liv still had enough pull that she was sure that she would be able to go in and see everybody.
It was strange seeing a mix of players from Liv's old cohort and newcomers playing alongside one another. Sure, she followed quidditch fervently, but it was strange to her to think that if she hadn't retired early to have children that she might have been one of the new "old guard."
Today was the Magpies' turn to use the field, which got Olivia excited immediately. Whenever Montrose was in town that meant one thing to Liv: Angie was in town! The blonde made her way to the hallway outside of where the changing rooms were and waited, hoping to surprise her old friend with a trip out for lunch.
She missed her locs. She had worn them through one season of quidditc, but they weren't exactly aerodynamic - not that her current hair was either, and she liked the feel of the wind through her hair, but her quick dives, spins, and rolls had sent her locs whirling and smacking in her face. (Her hair had been nearly eight inches longer then.) She had changed styles later, not bothering to try a headband in perceived futility and, wearing goggles at times, she didn't want the extra strap. But Angelina missed her locs. She'd tried them after Hogwarts, ever more comfortable in her own skin, and throwing herself headfirst-eyes-closed into a rediscovery of self. She'd needed a demarcation at that time in her life, to feel the process of growth stretching her heart until she could look back to see the stretchmarks on her memory to mirror the fading scars from that last war. There was nothing civil about war. And still the word seemed inordinately ambiguous. It was a biscuit in coffee, brittle, buttery with implications, and altogether incapable of retaining the morass of meaning that drained from it, violently tried to drown from it.
Flying became even more important in those days. Until that one day where, with idle, abject objectivity she had entertained the curiosity of what it would be like to just fall. She'd never fallen from a broom since first year, or that time in fifth year when she had taken a bludger to the elbow. This was a butterfly's foating trails, not precognition, even if it did come true, but she saw herself falling moments before she realized her hands went slack o nthe broom, before self-preservation could scrabble in. But that series of events had lead to others, and certain orbits of people that lead to where she was now so though she could discount the actions and emotions and logic, she couldn't discount what had come of it.
Angelina touched down on the springy earth, and shaking out her hair. There would be a gap between training sessions, only a month or so. But she would make an appointment to get her locs back, with the surety of her reclaimed, blazoned sense of self. Life was darkly, starkly messy like that. You couldn't altogether separate the good from the bad, but you could reframe things, and multiply the good.
She exited the changing roomss, and nearly walked past the blonde without a second glance, intent on returning to boy George, and Freddie and Rox, only her observant mind kicked her into a double-take. "Olivia Wood. Tell me that's you? I see they didn't revoke your rights to enter as you please.