Intro:

There comes a day when everyone has a choice to make. Lines must be drawn and sides have to be picked. No one will ask you if you're ready- instead opting to rip the last small fragment of security out from under you.

There comes an hour when you will stand with your brothers and fight for the only thing that will help this world make sense to you. You will claw your way forward, bleeding for every inch, killing for every mile that moves you forward because what better life to fight for than your own?

The time eventually comes when you stop hoping for your future and you start praying for the meek because in the end only the ones too afraid to fight will survive- all the brave killed off by time and cruses.

When the time comes- who will you stand with?

Chapter 1: Live wire/Fire starter

In the light of the fading sun he couldn't even make out his own shadow. The lines of his legs slowly faded away below him and he had to shift his weight from side to side to reassure himself he was on sold ground. He looked around. Nothing to his left, nothing to his right. The thick night air hung in a cloudy haze before pooling at his feet. It swirled around in ribbons of whites, grays and blacks. He could feel it, the shear weight of his work pushing down on his shoulders threatening to break him. All of the words, the memories- they rattled around his head and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, silently willing the screaming in his mind to stop.

"This is it," he thought to himself. "Another chance to live or die… my life… my choices this time."

With a solitary mental step he took his place, nerves shaking him to his core. He looked so lost, eyes red and tear stained against the night sky. No one could see his face of course- all emotions hid behind layers of porcelain and façade. In the distance voices rolled over the hills and echoed off the trees. The sounds of drowning souls lost adrift and mourning those already fallen. It was a somber dirge carried on the wings of a cold night breeze as they lay and wait.

The night was dead, but the sky was alive with burning green light and he had to shut his eyes to block out the blur of green, black and death. The outlines of a skull still lingered behind his eyelids.

This night, this dark night of nights felt different as if he was walking towards his own funeral. And he would be if he didn't keep his cool. This was no time for games, only shear and utter confidence would do in this situation.

He inhaled deeply. Every breath matters when it could be your last. He was here- in the middle of war, the middle of death, the middle of hell. The life he was living no longer belonged to him- it belonged to them. It was the dark that now owned his soul. It didn't matter what anyone tired to tell him or how important anyone who really knew his job tried to make him seem or the false sense of protection any of them offered- he was owned. Owned by a life he chose, a path he laid for himself that now had to be walked. He was no longer a person, just a body for one side and a source of information to the other- a mess of jumbled numbers and letters. If they ever found out- if they ever figured out that he didn't… that he was… they would kill him. The thought ran a shiver down his spine.

Too late now- there were no choices left for him to make- the decisions had been made a long time ago, nothing to lose by what he was about to do. Eyes closed tight, the words a solemn whisper from his lips. Open your eyes and fight.

---------------------------------------------------------

Oliver's head was swimming. Every heartbeat pulsed inside his skull, every second felt like mounting pressure behind his eyes as he struggled to stay awake and upright in his chair. Last night marked another sleepless night for him- having stayed up all night with the Order discussing plans and new courses of action. It was a small price to pay really, but it was hard to remember that when his body felt like it was slowly shutting down on him. The bags under his eyes hung in heavy shades of purple as a shaky hand struggled to hold his notes in front of him. A mug stained with too much coffee and not enough washing was perched closely at his right. Drinking the damned stuff was an annoying habit he picked up soon after joining the Ministry. He had tried like hell to keep his normal daily routine- up early, morning workout, healthy breakfast, work, home, plenty of rest. It worked out fine for the fist few months until he got more involved with the Order.

After Dumbledore's death things went from bad to worse and monthly meetings became weekly and then daily. Feeling helpless Oliver had volunteered to help out on secret missions- mostly night- that led into day- which left little time for sleep. Sometimes he couldn't remember which he was doing work for- they Ministry or the Order- both lines blurring together in a mess of secrets and undercover work. The Order was, in fact, the reason he got his gig at the Ministry. There was an opening for an information trafficker of sorts. They needed someone reliable with no obvious ties to the Aurors and the Order wanted someone who could pass along vital information to them without being suspected. It was an easy fit. Who would suspect a quidditch obsessed Captain from Puddlemear United forced out of the game by the war? Oliver's real motive behind it all was purely quidditch based. The more good he could do the quicker the season could start back up- so he agreed.

The job was fairly simple. It was Oliver's responsibility to meet with undercovers the Ministry had in place. It was simple because all he had to do was collect their reports, take down additional information they gave him and pass it along to the appropriate people. He never knew their names- only regarding them as the number letter combination they came pre-assigned with, their bodies and faces always hidden by dark robes, hoods and shadows. Oliver was sure it was some kind of concealment spell meant to make them look intimidating. When it came down to it, Oliver really didn't know anything about them other than what he needed to get the job done.

He was surprised at how easy the transition had been. Oliver had always had an obsessive personality. He poured himself heart and soul into quidditch- when that was taken away it was almost as if a piece of him had died. The job had just been something to fill time and a way to repay some kind of debt he felt to the people that had risked their lives for the magical community over the years. Once he started Oliver found himself pouring more and more time and energy into his work and reports. Wanting to be as diligent as possible he would often stay late working well into the early hours of the morning. Soon playbooks became file folders, moves became identification numbers and the intensity he showed on the pitch came to light at the Ministry. He was tenacious, never letting one of the undercovers make excuses for a failed job, forgotten information and especially not for breaking the rules. Maybe that is why the Order thought he would be so perfect of the position. On the pitch rules were in place to keep everyone safe, to give everyone a level playing field. The same went for his work, undercovers were not to give information to anyone but him. This job was his lifeblood now- this- and only this- is what kept him grounded.

Oliver blinked rapidly trying to draw the file in front of him into focus. He needed to concentrate. He was convinced that he could learn everything he needed to know about an undercover in the first five minutes. Their attitude, demeanor- it was all laid out before him in a nice neat little package. All he had to do was look. It was almost a blessing really that he didn't get to know them by looks or name- no way to pass any kind of judgment. Their personalities and their work were forced to shine through- nothing left to hide behind.

Looking back down at the folder the black letters and numbers typed on the front stood out loud and clear: A1171975. Why couldn't they have easy codes to remember or colors for that reason? The only way he could ever tell them apart was a simple two step process: 1- was the person male or female, 2- the notes he wrote about each of them in their personnel files. He would store his own collection of notes and remarks about them in there along with all of their reports. It was the only way he could remember who gave him what information.

Oliver dealt with all sorts of undercovers. Most were fairly mundane- they became the eyes and ears of the Ministry out on the world, picking up on conversations in Hogsmeed and Knockturn Alley. Some worked in the shops that Death Eaters were known to frequent. Oliver even had one who was a nanny in the house of Death Eater. Undercovers never knew about each other of course- secrecy was of utmost importance. Oliver half expected one of the undercovers to come in and talk about a conversation they heard another undercover having- hadn't happened yet, but he knew they must have all crossed paths at one time or another.

This new one- this was different. His new case was an actual informant hidden deep within the Death Eater ranks. Placed there months ago they had been collecting information from within. Scuffling shoes out in the hallway quickly caught his attention and he laid the file back down. Leaning back in his chair Oliver drained his mug right as the handle of his door rattled and then turned. The heavy wood was pushed back far enough to allow a woman to stick her head in.

"Your new one is here." She smiled sweetly as he spoke.

"Ya- alright." Oliver replied, setting his mug down and crossing his arms.

She flashed him another smile before opening the door wide and pointing inside. The hooded figured stepped in and Oliver had to mentally check his laughter- an inappropriate response to a heavy stressed situation.

"So- are you…" Oliver paused, glancing down at the file again. "A1171975?"

The figured laughed, folding his arms over his chest. "Ya- sure- if that's who you want me to be then that's who I am."

"I don't want you to be anyone." Oliver retorted, annoyance punctuating his tone. "I need you to be A1171975 or else you need to get out of my office." Oliver leaned in resting his arms on the desk. "Understood?"

The man leaned back in his chair until it rested on the two back legs and raised his own legs until his heals rested on Oliver's desk. "Sure man, whatever you say."

Oliver couldn't help but smirk as he opened the man's file.

"Something funny?" The figured asked kicking his heals off the desk and slamming the chair back down.

"You're new," Oliver shook his head as he reached for his pen. Looking up he spoke again. "It will wear off."

"What will?"

"The attitude- I've seen it time and time before you. Coming in here thinking you are tuff shit, thinking you know much the Ministry needs you- Merlin's gift to Aurors. Trust me… this place… this job… it will wear on you." Oliver reached for his mug again and frowned once he remembered it was empty.

"Is that what happened to you?"

Oliver grabbed his wand and tapped it against the side of the mug, feeling relived as steam started to pour out of it. "Nothing happened to me."

"Sure it didn't- this is your dream job, the one you have always wanted- stuck in a small office, dealing with people like me day in and day out, living off of coffee just to stay awake." Oliver's grip on the mug's handle tightened. "It's all right there on your face man. I've been there too." His voice suddenly became a mere whisper. "I've been there too."

"Well then-" Oliver took a moment to squelch the venomous words rising in his throat. "Since you have me all figured out what do you say we work on you?"

The man looked around the room as he spoke. "Sure thing sport."

Oliver picked up his pen again and poised it over the paper. "For the record, please state your Ministry assigned designation number."

"Do you really want to go there again?" The figured was looking at an old quidditch photo Oliver had hanging on the wall as he spoke, slowly running his finger over the frame.

Oliver glared up at the other man without ever raising his head.

A loud sigh accompanied his answer, "A1171975."

"This says you haven't filed your report." Oliver could feel the pounding in head starting to come back. He pushed his palm against his temple and closed his eyes. "Why haven't you filed your report?"

"Didn't know I had to." He whipped around and sat back down in the chair across from Oliver's desk.

"Bull shit. Look-" Oliver stood up, kicking his chair back behind him. "There are a few things you have to do here. You have to stay anonymous, you have to talk to me, and you have to file your reports."

The man leaned in towards Oliver. Resting his elbows on his legs he began to wring his hangs. "And just why… exactly… do I have to talk to you?"

Oliver dropped the pen on his desk and ran both hands through is hair. This was becoming not only frustrating, but also a huge waste of his time. He turned his back to the man and looked out the charmed window-the one luxury he was provided. It wasn't a real window of course- just a charm to make the wall look like it had one. He could change it to reflect whatever weather he felt like and looking out on the warm grassy meadow he could feel his nerves returning to normal.

"You have to talk with me…" Oliver turned and faced the man again. "Because I am the only link, the only contact you will ever have with the Aurors as an undercover. The less they know about you the better. Talking with me assures anonymity. I take all your reports, all the information you give me and pass it along. I make sure they don't know who you are- because if they know who you are they could abuse that information, something could leak out and if that happens- you are as good as dead."

"So you don't trust them then- is that it?"

Oliver smirked back at the man. "What's your name?" He asked, grabbing his chair and sitting back down at his desk.

"My name is-"

"You see." Oliver quickly cut him off. Leaning back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, he finished his thought. "It's not them I don't trust- it's you."

The other man halted- frozen by the fear of almost giving up his identity.

"Now," Oliver asked, suddenly feeling empowered. "Where in the hell is my report?"