Revised chapter 1 to fix a continuity error kindly pointed out in the reviews.

March
Chapter 2: Homewreckers
Alhazred - ssjDOTalhazredATgmailDOTcom - alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom
Not For Profit work. Harry Potter and related materials © J.K. Rowling.

The problem with being Keeper was getting the chance to impress, or rather, the lack of those chances. His tryouts for the team had carried a similar problem, and though he'd overcome it enough to make the team, he now felt an unspoken obligation to impress all over again now that he'd actually been put into play.

None of Tutshill's Chasers had gotten by Oliver so far, but he was only twenty minutes out, and that could change. The next time a Chaser came at him, Oliver sucked in a breath and pushed it back out, forcing himself to un-tense. He almost, almost missed the catch. The Chaser abruptly tossed the Quaffle over his own head and jumped for it, batting it in Oliver's direction with his broom in a classic Finbourne Flick.

It was the move itself that gave Oliver what he needed; the broom swung just a little too far, and Oliver knew he was being faked out before the Quaffle was through the goal. He didn't know it before he ran out of time to move for an interception, but he had plenty of time to dive off of his broom at it.

It wasn't a catch, but it didn't need to be. The Quaffle bounced off of Oliver's arm and didn't go anywhere near the goal. Catching his broom with one hand as he fell, Oliver swung around and got his legs on it, righting himself by the time he was halfway down to the ground and bolting back upwards just in time to catch the Quaffle again; the same Chaser had figured on an easy score when Oliver had started falling.

With it in his hands this time, Oliver was free to throw it to someone on his own team and not worry about interception.

All in all, it hadn't made or broken the game. But Puddlemere had won, and the main team had invited him for drinks. The politics of professional play, things like the need to impress aside, Oliver had realized that night that he was happy. He was doing what he wanted to do with his life, and better still, he was good at it, if the compliments he'd been paid at the bar were any indication.

"Gotta be mental trying to dive off going after a Flick, never seen anyone do that before."

"Never seen anyone catch it either!"

"Must have balls made out of some pretty strong wood, Wood!"

He woke up the next morning with a hangover, because he'd been stupid and hadn't had any water after more than his fair share of Firewhiskey. The knock came at the window while he'd been rummaging for his water bottle, and he opened the blinds without thinking.

At first, the sunlight was blinding and downright painful. Soon, it grew from 'painful' to 'apocalyptic,' possibly magnified by thoughts of what the owl could possibly be bringing him. High on Oliver's list of adult Muggleborn pleasures was the inability of his parents to keep tabs on him magically, but it could've been, say, an owl from Puddlemere management telling him he'd been fired.

The letter the owl dropped off before fluttering away wasn't written on nice parchment with the Puddlemere stationary, though. It was a quickly scribbled note, and a short one, at that.

Wood,

Let's talk. Leaky Cauldron, 1:30. Lunch is on you.

-M. Flint

"Great," Oliver sighed. It was one-fifteen in the afternoon already. "Probably going to blackmail me."

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"You know," Oliver said, "For someone with a NEWT in Charms, you'd think I could make a bigger inside-space in a bag."

Shoving everything into his rucksack had become a chore. It wasn't that Oliver regretted taking as much as he had. Having fresh clothes to wear until there was a moment to pause in an alley or, Merlin forbid, a public bathroom to Scourgify what had already been worn was a nice thing. He wished he'd remembered his razor; a shaving charm was a poor substitute and the idea of asking Marcus to borrow his made him feel incredibly stupid.

"We'll work on that when we feel safe somewhere for more than ten minutes," Marcus said. There was a hint of humor in his voice, overshadowed by fatigue. His body jolted and rocked around more than Oliver's from the bus' tendency to hit every single pot-hole in the road; he just didn't feel a need to put effort into hanging onto a rail since he was sitting down. "Which, if we're lucky, might be soon."

"I still say you should let me pay for a hotel," Oliver said. "Not like I can't afford it."

"Won't be able to afford it forever," Marcus answered. "I don't particularly enjoy the night shelters, but..."

He let the thought hang in the air. Marcus' financial sense wasn't something Oliver lacked. What Oliver lacked was his level of pessimism. Of the two of them, Marcus had much less trouble believing that the 'war,' as it were, would go on for an extended period of time. He could plainly see the two weeks they'd already spent on the streets of London turning into two months, two months turning into six, six months turning into twelve.

"Yeah," Oliver nodded, but he wasn't looking at Marcus, or staring out the windows on the opposite side of the bus as the the rain beat down on it. He was twisting around in his seat, staring out of the window behind them. "Suddenly I think there's something to be said for staying on the move...look."

Craning his neck to look in the same direction, Marcus saw exactly what Oliver was talking about. "Christ." It was only there for a moment, black cloak swooping into the wind and rain behind the Dementor as it skimmed across the front of the buildings, ducking over a roof with unnatural agility not long after Marcus realized what it was. It was almost as invisible as it would be to a Muggle set against the cloudy night sky. They were on the last bus before tomorow morning, and for the first time, Marcus was truly thankful for a Muggle contraption. He was glad he didn't have to be on foot with a Dementor flying down the path to their destination. "I guess the rain's not going to let up anytime soon."

"You think they're raiding flats?" Oliver didn't look away, even though there wasn't anything to see anymore. "Looking for Muggleborn's trying to dodge registration?"

In a deadpan, Marcus said, "Yeah, I think they're raiding flats. Hope they're not doing worse."

"Well, look on the bright side," Oliver gave a chuckle, "If we're out on thestreet, they won't think we're hiding, and they can't see us looking suspicious."

Taking a deep breath, Marcus let out a sigh. "Wood, I don't know how you keep seeing bright sides, but I'm not complaining...here's our stop."

Oliver almost bumped into the middle-aged man sitting lopsided in a seat near the front. The thin aisle left little in the way of personal space; the scent of alcohol hung around that seat, and Oliver heard him mutter, "Fuckin' chavs," as they brushed by.

He didn't think Marcus knew what that word meant, and he didn't think they really looked like chavs, either. There had been times over the last ten years of his life where Oliver found himself wondering how things would've turned out if he had never gotten his letter from Hogwarts...he'd be playing Football or Rugby instead of Quidditch, no doubt. He'd have a smaller chance of making a professional team on account of more Muggles around to vie for positions.

He wouldn't have changed anything given the chance, though. Oliver wasn't the type to run away from life over what-ifs. He was, however, one to appreciate the guidance of others when he was absolutely clueless, and as such, he followed Marcus without protest as they walked down the street. "You still haven't told me where we're going."

The rain wasn't much of a downpour, but it was just enough to be annoying, just enough to get someone wet. "It's a surprise."

"No, it's not," Oliver chuckled. "You're not sure whatever you're planning is going to work, and you're not telling me so I won't be let down if it doesn't."

"Damn, Wood," Marcus glanced at him, a sarcastic little smirk on his face. "You'regood. Should've been in Slytherin, with thinking like that."

"Dreadful nightmare that'd be," Oliver said. "Being as uptight as you."

"I am not uptight," Marcus said. "It's right around here." The street was in a wealthy area in a London Borough, though it wasn'tterribly wealthy. The buildings were nice, but none were mansions. After crossing a small bridge, Marcus turned onto a smaller road. "Merlin's pants, that rain is cold."

"You'd think one of us would've thought of an umbrella." Oliver's joke would've been funny if the two of them weren't the punch line. He glanced up and down the road, half-expecting a Dementor or a Death Eater to leap out from one of the houses. Following Marcus up someone's driveway, he seriously hoped that Marcus knew where he was going. The rain was cold, and the night was still young. It reminded him of making his seventh-year team practice in a torrential downpour, if only becausethat rain hadn't been nearly as freezing.

"And, here we go," Marcus said. The house he'd led Oliver to was plain-looking, with off-white aluminum siding and a fancy knocker on the door. It was shaped like a sword underneath the handle; Marcus ignored it in favor of banging on the door with his fist three times.

The amount of time in which nothing happened seemed to stretch on forever. There was no awning over the door, no protection from the rain while they waited. After thirty seconds passed, Marcus banged on the door even harder.

The sounds of someone hurrying down a staircase reached their ears, barely audible through the door. The voice that followed was, though muffled, easy to hear. "Who is it!"

"It's Flint," Marcus raised his voice as appropriate, "Open the goddamn door!"

The latch unlocked, and, finally, the door opened. Oliver hadn't recognized the voice, but he recognized the young man on the other side almost instantly. It was someone he hadn't seen in awhile, and someone he'd never really paid much attention to anyway.

Holding the door halfway open, dressed for bed with a bathrobe over his night clothes, Graham Montague seemed, at first, surprised. "Flint? What in the world are you..."

When his eyes slid off of Marcus and found Oliver, Montague suddenly panicked. 'Panic' was what Oliver thought it was, anyway. It was hard to really tell, given that he slammed the door closed without another word.

It made Oliver feel more than a little jilted. Obviously, Montague had an issue with him. "That went well..."

Not answering him, Marcus pounded on the door yet again, still harder. "Montague! Let us in, you bastard!"

"No way!" Fear in his voice was evident. "Get off my property!"

"Of all the," Marcus did not finish this sentence, in favor of sharing a look with Oliver. He seemed even more burned. Montague had been his teammate for years in school, after all. Again, he raised his voice so he could be heard through the door. "Monty, what the fuck iswrong with you?"

"You're traveling with a fugitive and you're asking what's wrong with me," Montague yelled back.

The words hit hard. Oliver didn't understand how 'fugitive' could possibly describe him, he couldn't believe that he was that far into it just from running away. Still, there wasn't anyone else standing next to Marcus right now.

Marcus was just as surprised, but it didn't deter him. "Open this fucking door or I'll blow it open. You want to chance the Dementors in town hearing it? Because I'll chance it."

For what it was worth, Oliver believed him. Moreover, he was inclined to agree. Fighting off Dementors right now couldn't be as bad as standing out in the freezing rain. Besides, he could do a Patronus charm...what was there to worry about?

Of course, Marcus was so terrible at charms that he couldn't conjure a Patronus to the point of silver mist, let alone a corporeal one. If Montague had a similar affinity for the magical skills that were, perhaps by cliche, more Slytherin-oriented, he probably couldn't do it either.

The silence was, hopefully, an indication that Montague was at least thinking it over. Finally, the lock clicked and the door swung open. Looking very unhappy, Montague nevertheless gestured for them to come inside. "Hurry up, then!"

Shoving his way right by him, Marcus wasted no time in attempting to make himself more comfortable. Throwing his backpack against the wall, he scrubbed his hands through his hair to get the loose water out and tried to shake it dry, to some effect. He ended up splashing Montague with a few drops, just enough to annoy him. Heaving his wet jacket off, he simply let it drop to the ground.

It didn't go over well with their impromptu host. "Flint, for Merlin's sake, stop making a mess."

"It's cold," Marcus shot back, not even looking at him as he leaned against the wall so he could get one leg up at a time and pull off his trainers. "You're lucky I'm not stripping down."

"Not like I didn't see that for years in the locker room," Montague rolled his eyes. He glanced at Oliver. "You strip and you go back outside!" Stomping past Marcus, he started to take stock of his situation, and neither Marcus nor Oliver thought he actually intended to speak low enough for them not to hear. "Jesus christ, Oliver Wood in my house five years ago wouldn't be this ridiculous..."

For his part, Oliver was much more tactful about his attempt to be less wet than Marcus was. He stood his rucksack up in the corner, hung his coat on the actual coat rack, and kicked his trainers off before taking a step further into the house.

Marcus had yanked his shirt off and rung it out over the exact place on the floor he happened to be standing. It was high-quality wood, like the walls seemed to be. Glancing about, Oliver couldn't fathom the idea that Montague didn't live with his parents. The house just seemed so much like something from the last generation: soft lighting, fine wood, antique-looking furniture, a fireplace with a small, cozy flame burning...the mantle had family photographs, all of them magical. Montague looked too young to be wearing such an expensive-looking bathrobe.

Tossing his sopping-wet T-shirt onto the back of the biggest chair in the living room before sitting in it, Marcus took a deep breath. He felt relieved, being able to sit down for more than five minutes. "You mind if we crash here for awhile?"

"Of course that's why you're here." Letting out a sigh, Montague rubbed at his eyes. He picked up a mug from its coaster on the coffee table, next to a copy of the Daily Prophet, and took a long drink from it. "Why else? Christ, Flint. I guess you haven't seen this?"

Without further words, he slid the paper across the table so Marcus could grab it. Turning it over to the front page, he only needed to read the headline before he handed it over to Oliver, still standing and right next to him. "Oh, hell."

The paper was enough to get Oliver off of his feet. Nearly falling over himself as he made his way around the table and to the couch, he tried very hard to will away the front-page story. Even if he could, he didn't think there was a Protean charm on the paper anyway. The large picture in the center was his own, taken as he'd scrambled for their tickets to the tube. Marcus wasn't in the shot, but it didn't matter. Sliding his eyes away from his terrified face on the paper, he read the headline:Pro-Quidditch Player a Mudblood, Investigations of the League Underway.

Parts of the article he couldn't help but read out loud. Not hearing it would stop him from acknowledging it as reality. His voice wavered, skipping sentences as he read them and coming back for others.

Puddlemere United's Oliver Wood was outed as a Mudblood this week. By refusing to submit himself to the Ministry for registration, Wood has all but admitted guilt for the theft of a true wizard's wand and magic. Ministry officials have, in response to this, revealed their intentions to ensure that the nation's pastime of Quidditch will not be a safe haven for those without true wizarding blood...

Feeling like he was going to be sick, Oliver bunched the paper up in his hands and tossed it to the floor. He couldn't believe it; less than a month and he was already a wanted fugitive. He supposed he was lucky that he wasn't the team's star Chaser. Even Quidditch couldn't be left alone. "Well...great."

Resigned to letting his 'guests' wreck his spotless home for the time being, Montague sat back in his chair and made a face. He was visibly showing restraint. "Sucks to be you...I swear to god, Flint...you are not staying here more than a few days. I'm not going to be hauled off as a blood-traitor for you."

"Gee, Monty," Marcus deadpanned, "Thanks for caring."

"I'm not having this argument," Montague dismissed him. "You can leave right now, if you want."

There was no arguing with that. What Oliver said to Montague surprised him a little, and it surprised Marcus, as well. "Thank you."

A few days were better than nothing, after all.

After draining his mug, Montague gave him a very, very slight nod. Heaving himself out of his chair with great effort, Marcus' former teammate pulled his bathrobe tight and plodded off towards the stairs. "Guestroom upstairs is small; I'll let you two decide who gets the couch. We'll talk more in the morning," this last part seemed to be directed at Marcus. "I'm going to bed."