Charlie Weasley has burn scars on his hands and wrists, cropped hair, torn robes. An easy smile, even now, and Oliver is as intimidated and impressed by him as he'd been ten years ago when he'd made the Gryffindor team.
"Oliver!" says Charlie. "You made it out for the battle?"
"Yeah," says Oliver. He touches the side of his head where his hair is matted with blood and nods, smiles weakly. They're both adults but just being back in Hogwarts is making him feel ridiculously young and stupid. "You too!"
"Yeah," laughs Charlie.
It hits Oliver suddenly that Charlie must not know about Fred. That Charlie only just arrived with the reinforcements and that he wouldn't have seen any of his family. He feels his own smile disappear. He can't imagine how it'd be to come too late to a battle and find your brother dead and your family grieving.
Charlie's smile falters and Oliver panics.
He isn't the person to break that news. He isn't family. He's barely a friend. Just the Keeper. Just the kid Keeper from when Charlie was in school.
"Percy's back," he blurts instead.
"Percy?" repeats Charlie, incredulously. He shakes his head. "Well, that's something."
Oliver nods. "You should go find your family," he says.
"Probably," says Charlie, and half smiles again. "They're probably-"
He tips his head at the crowd still swarming around Harry Potter in the middle of the Hall. Oliver suspects he's right. "I don't like crowds much," continues Charlie. "It can wait a minute."
"No," says Oliver. "No. No it can't."
Charlie's smile drops. "Did something-"
"It's," says Oliver, and they both stop.
"Ollie, who is it?" says Charlie.
Ten years ago Oliver Wood had been a second year with lofty goals and a love of sports, and Charlie Weasley had been a god.
Or if not a god, very nearly one. Oliver still remembers watching Charlie hurtling at the Snitch, the first game against Slytherin in Oliver's first year. He'd nearly crashed into a group of fourth years in the stands but had pulled out of the dive just in time. Oliver still remembers that dive- the expertise, the grace, the beauty of it.
He'd started to pay closer attention to flying lessons.
Just now Charlie doesn't look particularly godlike. He's kneeling over Fred's body, in the Great Hall. There are tear tracks on his face.
"Did you see George?" he asks. "It'll be- it's gonna be hard on him."
Oliver hadn't seen George since the cease-fire. "Sorry."
Charlie shakes his head.
They stay there, crouched over Fred in the Great Hall, until the rest of the Weasleys get there and Oliver feels uncomfortable.
It's almost certainly unwise to stand on any of the balconies when the castle's been hit with so many violent spells overnight. The Ravenclaw Tower is cracked dangerously, chunks are blown off the Astronomy Tower, there's entire floors that are in shambles, but Oliver stands on the highest balcony he could fly to and stares at the Quidditch Pitch.
It's pathetic of him to be thinking about Quidditch at a time like this but Quidditch has always been so untouchable in his mind. Even You-Know-Who hadn't tried to mess with Quidditch; it'd gone on just the same as it'd always gone on.
Games and goals and games and goals and no sign of the war.
But the pitch is burning still, a small team of Ministry officials trying to control the flames. Five of the goalposts are broken. Most of the stands are caved in. The devastation is shocking in its completion. As near as Oliver can figure, the Death Eaters had wanted the damage to reach out, to encompass the entire school. Hagrid's hut is mostly destroyed too.
When Oliver was eleven years old the pitch had been home to the players, to the fourteen students on brooms who, as far as he was concerned, could have done almost anything. As he watches it burn he thinks bitterly that it's about time that he grew up a little. About time he realised that Quidditch was a sport and nothing more.
The last remaining goalpost shatters into the fire and Oliver turns away.