Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series and all related products is the copyright of J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros., and various companies I don't know about. This fanfic is intended for entertainment purposes and is not for profit. No copyright violation was intended. The storyline and any original characters that show up in this fanfic is the property of Mang Guo. Please do not post or reproduce this fanfic in any form without my consent.
____________________
Chapter One: The Woodchuck Family
In the corner, behind the chesterfield and hidden from view, he sits with knees pulled up, head down, and body shivering uncontrollably. He knows what is going on upstairs, knows what they will be saying. He wonders if there is something wrong with him. He thinks -- hopes -- that maybe it was an accident. Maybe, when he'd gotten carried away with his piano playing, banging angrily away at the keys, the vase, a family heirloom that had been passed down for seven generations, had fallen off the shelf from the piano's vibrations. Or maybe, a particularly strong gust of wind had blown through an open window...
The boy, however, knows that none of the possibilities are likely. After all, the vase had been halfway across the room, sitting on the topshelf of a bookcase that practically skimmed the ceiling. And the piano room didn't have any windows.
In a flash, the boy remembers something else that happened a week ago. Something equally strange, equally abnormal...
He'd been running from Oafus and his goons, and just as he'd dashed past several garbage cans in an alleyway, something peculiar occurred. The air became stifling, not unlike the dense, heavy texture it took on before a huge thunderstorm. His skin started prickling, and the hairs on his arms had seemed to stand on end, as if magnetized by or attracted to something in the air. And then it happened.
The garbage cans -- three in total -- shot out of the alleyway, and to his horrified amazement, had swooped past him and began chasing after Oafus and his lackeys. Stupefied, he'd watched on as his tormentors ran down the street with flying garbage cans close on their tail. The last word he heard from Oafus, as he'd skidded around a corner, was a scared shout: "Freak!"
Freak, the word echoed in his mind...
And now, a week later, something weird and creepy has happened to him again. Confused and frightened, not knowing what might be wrong with him, the boy remains hidden from the voices of the whispering servants upstairs, trying hard to hold back his tears. After all, as his father liked to say, boys don't cry.
____________________
Copse Valley, according to all who had been there before, was a grand, very magnificent sort of place. Lush, green hills surrounded the area on all sides, and a river originating from the mountains further up north cut an uneven line through the northwest hills, narrowing into a shallow stream in the lower valley where the ground sloped. Except for a large area west of the river, deciduous trees that formed the Copse Woods surrounded both sides of the waterway. A small town -- now with nearly two hundred years of history -- had been built on top of the cleared stretch of land on the river's west banks, and in the cool, bright summers, Copse Town enjoyed a prosperous flow of tourists.
However, the biggest attraction of Copse Valley wasn't the highly stylized, old-fashioned town, nor was it the slanting hills and thick forests that seemed to invite picnics and romantic strolls. In fact, the main source of interest resided in a majestic castle several kilometres out of town.
If one were to follow the Copse River southward, through the densely packed forest, and down several rocky inclines, one would eventually reach a small, glistening pond on the northeast corner of Woodchuck Park, the extensive patch of land that served as the castle's backyard. Directly adjacent to the pond, a few wooden steps led up to a silvery-white gazebo surrounded by a well-tended flower bed. Of most interest, through, was the immense herbal garden that took up nearly half of the yard: located in the south centre of the enclosure, the garden was the focal point of Woodchuck Park. If one were a botanist or an herbal specialist, some of the plants (such as rosemary, sage, and even the rare wormwood) may have been recognizable. For the most part, however, the herbs had obscure names like shrivelfig and fluxweed.
However, despite the curiosity of the townspeople and tourists, not one of them were ever able to say in absolute terms what was in Woodchuck park. Some claimed to have seen a swimming pool the size of a football field; others claimed to have seen a rather ordinary tool shed; most, however, concurred that every time they reached the trees that surrounded Woodchuck Park, they were always reminded of urgent business that needed immediate attention, and so were forced to turn back without catching a glimpse of what was really in the castle's vast backyard.
Despite these minor setbacks, all agreed on the grandeur of the castle: like its backyard, the castle was enclosed and obscured by trees, but the front was only protected from curious eyes with a simple gate. Passersby were therefore afforded a clear, unobstructed view of a long driveway that led up to and around a small fountain. Near the entrance, the driveway broke off into two separate directions, one leading east behind the castle, and the other to the west. The entranceway had been pushed to the forefront so that the stairs and front doors jutted out.
To the left and right of the doorway were two colossal windows that stretched from ground level up to the parapets. During the day, the windows' ruby red curtains were drawn aside, and if one were lucky, small figures could sometimes be seen scurrying up and down between the castle's three levels. At night, though, the heavy curtains remained closed, and the only signs of life came from the occasional outline of someone walking in front of the torch lights on the parapets.
This area -- the castle, the Park behind the castle, and even the trees surrounding Park and castle -- was known as Woodchuck Estate. A family of three lived on this estate: Argil Woodchuck, the father; Hyacinth Woodchuck, the mother; and Olivier Woodchuck, their son.
The father was an Englishman who had met the mother during a business trip to France. After a hasty courtship and an even hastier wedding, the two had a child on the day of their first anniversary. The mother, a frail, young woman, named their son after her deceased brother, Olivier.
And so, for nearly six, wonderfully glorious years, the family of three lived blissfully in Woodchuck castle. But on the week of Olivier's sixth birthday, a vicious storm descended over Copse Valley. The wind blew sharply, and the rain that fell in torrents seemed to drive mercilessly into one's skin. Mrs. Woodchuck had gone into town earlier in the day to do some shopping, and when the storm blew in with such ferociousness, had found herself unable to leave the small clothing shop she had escaped into.
While waiting for the storm to blow over, Mrs. Woodchuck struck up a conversation with a visiting tourist from her homeland. Talking to him, she realized that she truly missed France, and so on impulse, made an appointment to meet the French tourist again the next day.
When she finally made her way home early in the morning, she was met with the strangest sight: her husband, back toward her, was on the driveway. Squinting, she noticed that an owl had begun its descent from the sky. The bird seemed to have a letter grasped in its claws, and to Mrs. Woodchuck's great astonishment, it dropped the letter into her husband's waiting hands. Mr. Woodchuck fumbled around with the letter for a few seconds before managing to unroll it. He took a while to read through the message, and then, to Mrs. Woodchuck's greater astonishment, he pulled out a long, approximately foot long stick, muttered something while waving it, and then --
The letter vanished.
Mr. Woodchuck then proceeded to enter the house, but as he turned toward the door, caught sight of his wife. Her face was paler than usual, and her eyes were wide with shock and some other hidden emotion. He froze for a second before hastening to her side and helping her into the castle, whereupon he waved his wand (for she now recognized that it was indeed a wand), and a cup of steaming hot chocolate appeared out of nowhere.
Afterward, when the empty cup had been laid aside, and a bit of colour had once again returned to her cheeks, he explained everything.
That day, Mrs. Woodchuck discovered that her husband was a wizard.
The following day, she met with the French tourist and never returned to Woodchuck Estate.
____________________
When it became clear that Hyacinth Woodchuck would not be coming home, Mr. Woodchuck resolved to change the family name to Wood. He also decided that his son's French name reminded him too much of his lost love, and so, on the day of his sixth birthday, Olivier Woodchuck became Oliver Wood.
____________________
"Why didn't you tell me?" the boy asked coldly.
His father stared blankly at him. "Tell you what?"
The boy tossed the incriminating letter onto his father's oak desk. "Why didn't you tell me I was a wizard? Why didn't you tell me you were a wizard? Why didn't you tell me that the flying dishes, flying chairs, flying everything were some kind of creepy side effect of being a freak of nature?"
The father didn't reply. Instead, he picked up the letter, and after glancing at it, smiled thinly at his son. "Well, at least now I know you have actual magical potential. For a while there, I thought you'd never amount to anything better than spontaneous magical tantrums. Merlin knows I was scared stiff that your muggle of a mother had somehow contaminated our bloodline."
The boy froze. "Mother? What about her? And what's a muggle?"
His father sneered. "Muggles are non-magic humans, people like your mother. I don't know what ever came over me -- marrying someone out of the magic community."
The boy stared searchingly into his father's eyes, and some of the anger seemed to leave him. "I'm sorry dad. I didn't mean to yell." He paused, before adding, "Was that why? I mean, did mother leave us because she knew? Because... she found out?"
The father's face turned red. "You will not mention her again. I forbid it. Now, if you don't mind, Oliver, I have things to do, and you need to be in bed. Tomorrow, we're heading out to buy your school supplies." Then, without answering his son's question, he turned and strolled out of the room.
Oliver, however, already knew the answer to his question. His mother, a woman he remembered only vaguely, had left them because they were wizards. But it wasn't only his mother who had ran from him. A long time ago, when he'd still gone into town to try to make friends, a boy named Oafus had ran from him. He remembered now, with wry amusement, that Oafus had called him a freak.
Squaring his shoulders, Oliver picked up the letter from his father's desk. He headed up the stairs to his room, and before falling asleep, resolved to hate every moment of every day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
____________________
The next day, at around the same time that Oliver's father was pulling him into a fireplace to be "floo'd" somewhere called Diagon Alley (just the name, the Floo Network, made Oliver wonder about the stability of the Wizarding World's methods of transportation), another eleven year old boy was preparing for his first trip to Diagon Alley as a soon-to-be official Hogwarts student.
Percy Weasley was a tall, scrawny, and rather bookish kind of boy. At present, though, with his wavy carrot-red hair in disarray, large brown eyes shining with anticipation, and wide, enthusiastic smile, he might've been considered fairly good- looking. Unfortunately, his face was usually hidden behind some book or other, so few ever realized what Percy Weasley really looked like. If he ever did smile (and if one were ever lucky enough to see him doing so), it was more often than not because the occasion called for it. At the moment, however, his smile was genuine.
"Father," he called impatiently. "Hurry up! We haven't got all day, you know?"
"Yes, yes, Percy, but... Just a sec'," a muffled voice came from upstairs, followed by a loud thump.
Exasperated, Percy stormed to the staircase, nearly tripping over the long, navy blue dress robe he'd donned on for the occasion. "Dad, what are you doing? You said we'd be going right after I finished breakfast, and I'm finished now, so let's go!" When all he got was more loud thumps, followed by a louder crash, he decided to investigate. Storming up the stairs, he started, "Dad, what are you --"
Percy stopped and stared. There, on the second landing, just outside his room, was his youngest brother, staring innocently up at him. His father, though, was scurrying around the room, waving his wand and casting spells left and right. And when Percy got a closer look at his room, he saw why. The books on all five of his bookcases had somehow toppled off the shelves, and one bookcase had actually fallen over on top of his desk. His set of quills had fallen onto the floor, and pieces of parchments could be seen fluttering onto the ground. A bottle of ink had tumbled off his desk and was currently making a circuit around his room, leaving intricate, inky black patterns trailing behind it. In other words, his usually spotless room was now in complete shambles.
"Dad, what happened?" Percy asked calmly, if a little shrilly.
Twisting around, Arthur Weasley smiled haphazardly. "Oh, Percy. Sorry son, but it looks like our visit to Diagon Alley may have to be delayed. Ron decided to choose this most inconvenient moment to display a spectacular show of his wizarding potential. Sorry about the mess... Although I suppose we should be relieved that Ron's finally shown us some of his magic. He's probably one of those late bloomeys the muggles talk about... "
Percy, however, could care less if Ron was a squib, a bloomey, or the next Merlin. He just wanted to get his hands on his first year textbooks. "Dad, forget about the mess. We can clean it up when we get home, all right?"
Mr. Weasley hesitated. "But your mom... if she sees this --"
"She'd understand," Percy interrupted, and began dragging his father downstairs. "Besides, she'd be just as relieved as the rest of us, now that we know for sure Ron isn't a squib."
Mr. Weasley continued dragging his feet all the way down the stairs, but when he found himself inside the kitchen and in front of the fireplace, with Percy already pulling out a jar of floo powder, he could only shrug helplessly. Reaching for the jar, he said, "Well, you remember how to use this, right? Just take a pinch -- mind you, just a pinch -- and then --"
"Yes, yes, dad," Percy broke in impatiently, tossing his bit of powder into the fireplace. The flames had barely turned an emerald shade of green when Percy stuck a foot in, yelling eagerly, "Diagon Alley!"
As he watched his son disappear into the fire, Arthur Weasley shook his head incredulously. "That boy," he muttered as he tossed in his own portion of floo powder, "is unbelievable. With all the books he's read, you'd think he would know better than to flap those arms around in the Floo Network."
Sighing in resignation, he called out Diagon Alley, stepped into the green flames, and soon found himself swept up in a dizzying ride.
____________________
"One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore," Oliver read, while rubbing at his right elbow. "I'm going to be working with herbs and fungi? This has got to be a joke. Are you telling me I'm going to some so-called magic school to play in the dirt?"
Argil Wood frowned at his son, momentarily distracted from his search for the Flourish and Blotts bookstore. "You're going to be using herbs and fungi to make potions. And for your information, the herbs and fungi are cleaned of dirt before being sold. The wizarding world isn't so far removed from the muggle world, you know? Customers still appreciate quality products and customer service."
Oliver snorted. "Well, you could've fooled me. The guy back at that Quality Broomsticks store sure was in a hurry to get me out of there. As if I would even think of stealing a broom."
His father shot him another look. "The store's called Quality Quidditch Supplies, and I would appreciate it if you would stop criticizing every little thing in Diagon Alley. This is part of your world now. It might do you some good if you tried to enjoy this trip."
Oliver rolled his eyes, but he dropped the subject. Instead, he started complaining about how long it was taking him to buy all his school supplies. "Dad, we've gotten lost three times. Don't you know your way around?"
"I haven't been here for nearly five years, and some things have changed, all right?" Mr. Wood shot back in exasperation. "Honestly, it might help if you looked for it too, instead of being difficult and complicating matters --"
"Is that the one?" Oliver interrupted, pointing at a shop several stores down the street. "Something seems to be going on over there."
Indeed, the shop which Oliver had correctly assumed to be Flourish and Blotts was surrounded by people. Most of them were female, but quite a large crowd of men had formed around the shop as well. On the store's doorstep stood a man who appeared to be the shopkeeper, and he was frantically waving his arms. As Oliver and his father approached, they overheard his desperate pleads to the crowd. "Please, I must remind you all that Mr. Lockhart's book signing does not begin until four in the evening. Until then, please make room for actual book buyers."
Beside him, Oliver felt his father stiffen. "Of all the days he chose to do a book signing, why today?" Oliver was about to ask him what he meant by that, when his father handed him a sachet full of gold galleons, pushing him in the direction of the shop. "Go find your books. I'll wait for you out here."
As Oliver watched his father turn away, he thought he heard him muttering something about a lying, cheating, good-for-nothing scumbag.
____________________
"The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble," Percy frowned as he browsed the bookshelves. "The book should be here if everything's alphabetically arranged." He moved further down the row of books, neck craned as he tried to make out the titles of the books on some of the higher shelves. So absorbed was he in his search, that when he bumped into someone behind him, he barely even noticed. "Sorry," he mumbled, sidestepping the other person as he continued his way down the aisle.
"Well, you should be sorry!" a voice called after him. "You made me drop all my books!"
Percy turned, startled. "Oh, I'm sorry, were you talking to me?"
The boy glared at him. "Well, duh! Who else bumped into me? A ghost? A goblin? Or wait, maybe it was the great Merlin himself!" Rolling his eyes angrily, the boy leant over and began picking up his books.
It was then that Percy noticed the boy's strange attire. He was wearing a pair of very loose, neon green pants with three vertical stripes running along the side of each leg. His shirt was of a similar colour, except the stripes ran across the shirt arms, and emblazoned across the chest area, on the shirt's left side was the word, adidas. He must come from a muggle family, and that's probably a badge of some sort, Percy mused. Bill and Charles had something like that on their school clothes, to identify them by their house names. So, Percy deducted, Adidas must be his name. Pleased that he had solved the puzzle, Percy tried to make amends. "I apologize, Adidas. Really, I was in the midst of looking for a book, and didn't see you. I'm Percy Weasley, by the way, and I'll be going to Hogwarts this year. Are you a first year student as well?"
Expecting to be forgiven (after all, in his opinion, it really had been a very excellent apology), Percy was surprised when the boy shot him a murderous look. "Oh, so you think it's funny, huh? Making fun of me and my clothes because I know nothing about wizards and witches and magical stuff. Wait 'till we start school. Then we'll see who's laughing, Mr. Know-it-all."
The boy stormed off, leaving Percy stunned and a little hurt. Had he said something wrong? Maybe Adidas was a squib and by asking him if he was a Hogwarts student, he'd somehow upset the other boy? Sighing, Percy turned back to the bookshelves, and as he did, caught sight of a sign hanging from the ceiling. It read: For all Hogwarts related textbooks, please enquire at the special services counter. Thank you.
Sighing again, Percy made his way to the back of the store where the counter was located. As he walked underneath the notice, he glared up at it in admonishment. Why didn't you show up earlier, you lousy excuse for a sign? You made me hurt Adidas's feelings.
____________________
"...And then afterward, he had the nerve to call me Adidas! I mean, I may not know much about wizards and whatnot, but did he have to make fun of my clothes? And just because I wasn't wearing depressing funeral cloaks and gravity-defying hats, he doesn't have the right to tease me!" Oliver ranted as he and his father made their way down Diagon Alley toward their last stop, Ollivander's.
Mr. Wood glanced at his son in amusement. "That other boy probably hasn't had much exposure to muggle lifestyle. He probably comes from a long line of wizard families."
Oliver tossed his head indignantly. "I don't care," he huffed.
His father smiled, and in an attempt to change the subject, dragged his son over to a makeshift ice cream shop. "Pick any flavour," he prompted. "It's my treat, for being invited to attend the best, and only, school of witchcraft and wizardry in England."
Oliver looked at his father, startled. Ever since his mother had left them nearly five years ago, he couldn't remember his dad ever looking so relaxed. "Are you sure?" he asked hesitantly.
Argil looked at his son, lips twitching in amusement. "Yes, I'm sure. Just as long as you don't order triple scoop chocolate ice cream like you did when you were five years old."
Oliver laughed. He remembered the occasion his father spoke of, and it had truly been a complete disaster. The midday sun, combined with scorching temperatures and his tortoise-like speed when eating ice cream, had resulted in his hands being bathed in a chocolate river. Naturally, his father wouldn't want to repeat the incident, and naturally, Oliver would. Grinning, he whispered his order to the ice cream man, and much to his delight, his father shot him a mock look of horror as Oliver received his quadruple scoop chocolate ice cream cone.
Making their way down the street again, with his father maintaining a safe distance from him and his ice cream, Oliver said, "I'm glad we came out today. I mean, I don't think this magic thing is for me at all, but it was fun spending the day with you." He hesitated before adding hurriedly, "It kinda' reminds me of the way things used to be when mom was still around."
Immediately, he knew that it had been the wrong thing to say. His father made a jerky motion with his head, as if he'd been startled or knocked in the forehead by something, and his lips thinned noticeably. Instead of responding to Oliver's comment, he quickened his pace. "Let's hurry up," he muttered stiffly. "We still need to get your wand."
Oliver bit his lower lip.
At that very moment, he was sure that he would have given up all the wands in the world to turn back time.
____________________
Author's Notes: Well, this is my first ever fanfic for the Harry Potter fandom, and first ever slash fic as well, so any and all types of feedback will be appreciated. =) Do let me know if there are any problems with formatting, canon issues, and things that don't make the story flow (i.e. spelling errors, sentences that don't make sense, etc.).
It has also been brought to my attention that Lockhart doesn't show up until the second book in the series. I realize that, but under the assumption that he's been an established "writer" (ahemplagiarizerahem) for a while, my fanfic has him showing up approximately six years before canon.
I'm aiming to post a new chapter once every week (some time between Friday and Monday), and the Percy/Oliver Writers Support Network at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/POWSN/ will get new chapters a week before they get posted onto fanfiction.net. (In a sense, that entire ML is my beta... ^___^;;;)
So, until next weekend...!
-- Mang Guo