Chapter One
A bit of a has-been
Disclaimers: See prologue
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George Weasley did a double-take the day he walked past the Leaky Cauldron and saw Oliver Wood slumped despondently over its battered wooden bar, looking completely miserable and like he didn't have a single friend in the entire world. His robes were dishevelled, creased and hanging limply from his usually burly frame, his dark hair was unkempt and George was sure that even from here, he could see the other mans fingers trembling as they clutched the dirty glass he held before him as he took a long, desperate gulp of the murky liquid within.
A pang of sympathy welled in the Weasley and he nudged his wife discretely as she peered into the window display of Madame Malkins, "it's Wood," he muttered in a low voice, his nose wrinkling in consternation.
Angelina lifted her head and followed his eyeline, her own eyes immediately darkening in dismay at the sorry sight before her. "Oh…" her voice was dismayed as she stood shock-still.
So much for discretion, George thought wryly, ignoring the witches and wizards that tutted and huffed as they scurried around them in busy Diagon Alley.
"Looks in a pretty sorry state, doesn't he?" George's voice contained as much dismay as his wife's did, taking in Wood's haggard form appraisingly. The bloke had lost weight- understandable really, given what George had read about him recently in the 'font of all wizarding knowledge,' The Daily Prophet. He knew the bloke's career was down the toilet now and given that Wood had lived and breathed the game of Quidditch for so long, it was clear from looking at his sorry state now just how hard the unfortunate career-ending injury had hit him.
George was more than familiar with Wood's determination and dedication to Quidditch- he'd played on the Hogwarts team with him back in the day after all. It had been a standing team joke back then, particularly between George and his late twin brother, Fred, just how single-minded the bloke could be about the sport and most certainly his enthusiasm for the game knew no bounds, despite what anyone else thought.
Often, revered lie-ins at weekends for the rest of the team had been sacrificed, just so Wood could get in another gruelling practice, come rain come shine. Arduous evening practices long into dusk had also been common-place with the team circling their brooms until the cover of darkness had prevented further play and even then Oliver had encouraged them to huddle around blackboards, absorbing strategy after strategy until they were too tired to see anymore.
Yes, Oliver Wood had definitely been something of a Quidditch tyrant, much as many in Gryffindor had admired his staunch dedication in winning them the school's Quidditch cup which had been Wood's longest held 'scholarly' ambition.
Saying that though, George grinned in reminiscence: his wife had been the Gryffindor captain the year Wood had left, and she too had been somewhat maniacal about the sport. Perhaps ambition was just a trait of captains.
Good bloke though Wood was, George realised now with a frown rubbing his chin, and despite his immense dedication to the sport, he'd forgotten it all in an instant to head back to the school for the notorious Battle of Hogwarts. He along with many other former students had stood against Voldermort and had helped bury the dead that day, including George's very own twin brother- for above everything else, Wood was loyal, both to his house and his school. Staring at him now, at the sorry figure he'd become slumped in the dingy pub like this, was mind-boggling.
Like she was reading his mind, Angelina spoke softly, tilting her head so that she was speaking into George's intact ear and not his remarkably life-like prosthetic; "he looks so alone. What happened to the Oliver we knew back at school? He looks like he doesn't have a single friend left in the world."
George had to concede that his wife was right- this Oliver looked very different from the one he'd seen beaming out at him from the newspaper photographs over the years, brandishing countless trophies aloft in triumph and surrounded by ardent adoring fans. "Maybe--- well, he's probably seen as a bit of a has-been now, isn't he?" he ventured hesitantly. At his wife's scolding look he spoke hastily; "not by me! I just meant… well since his injury, you know, the papers---" his voice trailed off uncertainly.
"I think I know what you mean," Angelina slipped her hand into his and tugged lightly, no longer cross with him, "come on George, Oliver looks like he could do with a friend right about now. I'm volunteering our services."
Without hesitation, the two of them headed into the darkened pub.
…
At the insistent tugging on his crumpled robes, Oliver didn't look up. "No autographs," he slurred disconsolately into his mead; "don' give no autographssss…" He didn't want anyone bothering him, not today. Now, where was he? Ah yes, reflecting on his nightmare of a life, that was where, aided by his seventh goblet of Merry Widow's mead and copious shots of fire whiskey. The combination didn't taste brilliant admittedly, but it would do the job. Eventually. He might soon actually forget that his life was entirely down the swanny.
Still, the tugging persisted, like an annoying, overly large fly buzzing in his ear. Oliver tutted and swiped at the hand, finally turning his head to face the culprit. "Leave me the fu—"
His eyes widened in shock, for smiling kindly back at him was one George Weasley, and with her hand securely rested in his, Angelina Johnson. "G—george…" he stammered, perplexed, his eyes taking in the familiar freckled face (he'd gotten a prosthetic ear since the war had ended, Wood realised dimly) and lanky frame. Weasley was looking older and perhaps a bit (though only a tiny bit however) wiser, for still those eyes of his shone with barely suppressed mischief.
"Alright Wood," George said simply as he patted him cordially on the shoulder, "it's been a long time."
Six years in fact. Six years since that godawful battle.
Dumbfounded, all Oliver could do was nod mutely, stunned into silence to see two of his former school Quidditch teammates stood right there. The idea that he'd run into anyone he knew being back in Diagon Alley, funnily enough just hadn't occurred to him, though now he felt silly for not considering the possibility sooner.
Oliver flushed in discomfort, realising that he must look an absolute mess- not to mention that the glasses scattered all over the bar in front of him would clearly indicate exactly how much alcohol he'd consumed today. He wasn't so pissed not to care what his two former schoolmates thought of him, he realised dully. Maybe he needed something stronger after all.
"Hi Oliver," Angelina said with that old familiar smile that instantly transported him back to his time at Hogwarts and times he'd spent going over match tactics with the team up in the Gryffindor common room. "How are you?" Her voice was kind and her dark eyes were appraising. If she noticed what a state he was in, and really she couldn't fail not to, then she didn't pass comment.
"I'm… ok," Oliver replied slowly, not meaning a single word of it. He flinched then, clearly noticing the way their eyes meandered over his collection of empty goblets.
"Drinking to drown your sorrows, mate?" George asked, but his voice wasn't mocking, merely concerned. He pointed to the glasses with a small, non-judgmental shake of his head, "nasty habit that, hard to break. I should know."
Of course. Oliver clearly remembered that after the demise of the other Weasley twin in the war, George had spent several months turning to liquor for futile support. It was something he'd heard on the grapevine, being that he was already back playing Quidditch professionally again then, but clearly the love of his family had pulled him from the depths of his sorrow. And Angelina too of course. He couldn't help but notice how her hand had never left his the whole time they were talking.
"Y—you two're still together?" he slurred, though he wasn't exactly surprised. George had fancied the pants off her at Hogwarts after all, even though Fred had been the Weasley twin she'd actually attended the Yule Ball with.
"Married actually," Angelina replied with a beam, flashing a small but beautifully cut diamond ring at him. "We had a wedding at the Burrow last summer."
"And we have a baby on the way," the pride in George's voice was unmistakeable as he patted Angelina's still-flat stomach and she grinned up at him lovingly. "It's a boy we reckon. My mum's so excited, she's been knitting non-stop since the day she found out."
"Congratulations," Oliver said, his voice hollow as he pushed away his now-empty glass. Looking at them, at how happy they obviously were, it was hard to ignore the envy that coiled through him, even in his alcohol soaked state. Then he felt completely disgusted with himself as the fog that seemed to have swamped his mind cleared. George had lost his own twin brother in the war- seen him die right in front of him, he'd been through a really tough time in the years since- he deserved all the happiness he could get. How could Oliver be jealous of him for managing to turn his life around?
Another unbidden emotion was fluttering through him by now too: shame. Hot, bitter shame.
After the war and receiving his bravery award, Oliver had immediately gone back to his own cushy, Quidditch-playing existence basking in the adoration from fans and teammates alike and not once offering support to the remaining Weasley twin after what he'd been through. They'd been teammates once. Friends almost, well as close as anybody could really get to Oliver Wood for he was a rather private person after all. If Oliver could turn his back on something like that, then maybe he deserved to be alone. Now here George was, offering a sympathy to him that he just didn't deserve, that he wasn't sure he even wanted.
He stood up forlornly, his legs wobbly and feeling the world spin. "Gonna go…" he slurred. "Whoa…" instantly, his legs crumpled under him. George caught him under the armpits effortlessly and hauled him back to his somewhat wobbly feet, offering an arm for him to lean on.
"He's not getting anymore!" Hannah Abbot, the barmaid called primly, tossing her brown hair, "not in that sorry state! He's been in here hours already… drinking the bar dry, he is! Third day in a row that is now."
Angelina nodded curtly at her then exchanged dubious glances with her husband that clearly said; 'what do we do with him now?'
"Wood, whereabouts is your flat?" George asked him, his voice sounding unnaturally loud through the buzzing in his head.
"Outskirt's of Pu—puddlemere," Oliver responded haughtily, "of course. I was a Quidditch star, I was. Not anymore though. Now I'm just a washed-up nobody and nobody cares either, c'ept the newspapers. Hahaha…"
Angelina felt her stomach pang with sympathy as she pondered what had become of her former captain. He was a mess and they had to help him.
"Right," George said without humour, struggling to steady him and having to be helped by his wife, "well, we can't have you apparating or flooing there in this state, god knows where you'll end up or even if you'll be in one piece when you come out the other side. Come on, up you get, mate. You're coming home with us."
"I am?" even in his stupor, Wood was surprised, and touched. Rather alarmingly, he felt his hazel eyes pricking with tears, "really? Does that mean we're friends? Real friends, you aren't just a groupie?"
"I'm definitely not a groupie," this time George did grin and Angelina hid a snicker, "and yes Wood, we're friends. We were at school before you buggered off and tried to achieve world domination with your mastery of catching the quaffle and all… I have to say that even though it probably isn't the best time to say it or even that it's appropriate at all-- and I'm going to get you sobered up pronto- I like you a lot better with a drunken look in your eye rather than the maniacal grin you used to wear on the Quidditch pitch. Put the fear of you-know-who in us that did."
Oliver snorted with laughter and allowed the Weasley's to lead him gently from the pub, thankfully far too drunk to notice their looks of dismay when they spotted his obviously painful limp and tightly hunched shoulders.
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"Oh Merlin…." Oliver gasped in agony as he opened his eyes several hours later and clutched his pounding forehead from where he'd been lying horizontal on a squashy red settee, "oh. Merlin."
"Drink this," a glass vial was passed towards him as he looked up blurrily into the blue eyes and freckled face of George Weasley. "Pepper up potion. It'll help with the hangover."
Oliver took a swig of the thick potion, grimacing as it burned a fiery pathway down his gullet, but sure enough the waves of nausea dissipated and he felt the ache in his skull begin to recede as he sat up uncertainly, blinking as he eyed his unfamiliar surroundings. This place was much tidier than his and didn't smell like owl poo either.
"How are you feeling?" next a mug of hot coffee was passed to him by Angelina, who sat down in the armchair opposite him, her expression somewhat sombre as she sipped from a foul smelling mug of putrid looking herbal tea.
"Like an idiot," Oliver admitted ruefully as he finally recalled where he was- in George and Angelina's flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, judging by the cardboard boxes with the prominent logos he could see neatly stacked in the hallway, "completely embarrassed for being such a prat. I'm really sorry I---"
"Shut up, Wood," George ordered but not unkindly as he cut into his self-loathing diatribe, "don't worry about it, alright? We all do and say stupid things when we're pissed. Some of us more than others," he concluded at his wife's knowing expression.
Oliver nodded, gratitude welling up in him, glad neither would say no more about what a mess he clearly was or how he'd acted back in the pub. It didn't lessen the strong feelings of mortification though. He sensed that it was time for him to get his life back in order to some degree. George was right: he couldn't go on being a shambolic drunk. He'd lost his career, sure- and he might not have a bloody clue what to do next, but there were worst things that happened in the world. Fred Weasley's untimely demise was proof of that. He couldn't go around drowning in self-pity over the end of his Quidditch career any longer.
"What happened?" Angelina prodded gently, "we know about the injury… it's been in the papers."
Oliver sighed, "I don't have anything else but Quidditch, that's what happened. The realisation hit me and I've been drinking to try and forget about it ever since. It's all been taken from me and I don't know what else I can do with my life. It's all I know. It's all I HAVE known since I was a kid."
Angelina couldn't argue with him- she knew from experience how Quidditch-focused Oliver had been at school, often forgoing study in favour of the sport, much to McGonagall's chagrin. Then again, when she'd taken over captaincy she'd been much the same way, though she knew with unfailing certainty she'd never sacrificed her friends and schoolwork along the way. Alicia and Katie wouldn't have let her. "There's nothing else?" she prompted surprised, "what about referring or commentating? I bet you'd be really good at—" she stopped, for Oliver was already shaking his head.
"I couldn't stand it. I've had offers sure, but to not play myself but to see others do it would be awful. Is it so awful that I don't think I can stand to watch other people play when I can't?" Oliver asked her his eyes miserable. "Selfish I mean? It sounds a bit pathetic I know."
"It's understandable," Angelina conceded, sharing a glance with George who was looking sympathetic, "you've had your dream taken away from you, its right to be envious of those that haven't."
He gazed down into the depths of his coffee and decided to change the subject away from his career, or lack of; "it was weird, you know. Being famous. I—sometimes I liked it and sometimes I just hated it. I didn't really understand it I suppose."
"Why?" George asked, surprised as he sat down on Angelina's chair arm, "I mean, all the galleons and the glory…" Not to mention all the birds hanging off his arm, though he didn't think his wife would appreciate THAT remark so kept sensibly schtum, making up his mind to ask Oliver about it later.
"People were false," Oliver replied without even needing to think about it, "they idolise you but they aren't your real friends and then when something like this happens," he gestured to his ankle and shoulder with a bitter smile, "you become yesterday's news. Suddenly nobody cares about you anymore. Not even one of my old teammates has bothered to try and see how I am. The only people I've had owls from are prying journalists, oh, and my parents of course. No doubt my dad's furious that I'm off the team. He only ever seemed to respect me when I played Quidditch, you see. The Prophet wants some kind of exclusive interview with me, but nobody cares about me. The real me I mean."
Angelina tried hard not to feel sorry for him, because she knew it was the very last thing he probably wanted, "we care," she told him simply. Beside her, George nodded in agreement.
"Even though I pissed off back to Quidditch land to try and 'achieve world domination by catching the quaffle?'" Oliver smiled ruefully now as he repeated George's words from the pub, impressed by how good his drunken memory was.
"Even though you did all that stuff," George confirmed with a smirk. "We're Gryffindors mate- it's in our genetic makeup to care- no matter how much of a tosser you are."
Oliver's smile was more genuine now and he even laughed a little, though it lacked his usual cheerful lustre. "Thanks. For bringing me here and trying to bring me to my senses."
"It isn't much fun mate," George said simply, "the drinking and stuff. It brings you down. I know better than anyone. You should stop, really."
His usually merry blue eyes turned serious as Angelina gently squeezed his hand.
Oliver swallowed, "I'm sorry. About Fred I mean. I don't know if I said it to you at the time. He—he was a good bloke." Brilliant beater too, though he didn't say it. Somehow he didn't think George would appreciate him raising the subject of Quidditch again tonight. Angelina probably wouldn't be too pleased either.
George's smile was bittersweet; "yeah, he was. He was the best. Thanks mate."
'Mate.' Oliver smiled again wryly as he took another sip of his coffee. What a difference having friends made. For the first time since this whole mess with his ankle had started, he didn't feel completely alone anymore and he realised he was glad. He'd rather be here with the Weasley's than getting pissed in a pub or surrounded by die-hard Puddlemere United fans any day of the week.
Oliver fortunately sobered up enough to apparate to his flat an hour later, and as he surveyed the crumpled mass of parchments he'd chucked to one side, the stinking owl droppings and empty bottles that littered his floor, he winced in mortification- feeling glad George and Angelina hadn't seen this sorry state. He might not know what he wanted to do with his life anymore but that was absolutely no reason to live like a complete and utter pig, was it? With flourish he waved his wand, instantly vanishing the mess and dropped onto his settee, falling peacefully into a sound, welcome sleep for the first time in more than a week.
…
Angelina was having a bit more trouble sleeping and she knew that beside her, George was restless too. The two of them were clearly reflecting on Oliver's problems and what they'd heard that day. This was confirmed when her husband rolled over and sighed into the half-darkness. "I feel bad for him, love."
"Me too," Angelina mumbled, stroking his red hair. "It must be awful to feel that he doesn't have anything else going for him."
"Or feel that he doesn't have any friends," George added, clearly having trouble imagining that as he'd been around people- friends and family all his life, "I mean, he's a good bloke, isn't he? He might have been a bit obsessive as a captain but he was always really decent- especially to Harry when he first joined the team, remember? He got him a broom and stuff through McGonagall and he helped him learn the sport and he was always around if someone had a problem they wanted to chat about. Fair enough, it was usually a sports problem but---"
"George, you're a bloody genius!" Angelina kissed him soundly, "that's exactly it! I know JUST what Oliver can do. You've given me a brilliant idea."
George looked a bit puzzled. "You do? I have?"
"I do," Angelina smiled with satisfaction, "and you have. I'm going to go and see him first thing tomorrow morning and talk about it, though I reckon I need to pick up some information to bombard him with first."
"Care to enlighten your ever-loving husband to Wood's new career path?" George prodded, intrigued.
"Not just yet," Angelina snuggled closer and closed her eyes, feeling better already; "patience is a virtue. All in good time. Besides, I don't even know if he'll agree to it or not yet."
With a wry smile, George closed his eyes too. He was sure that whatever plan his wife had cooked up would undoubtedly be brilliant. If not, Angelina could certainly channel some of her old team captain spirit and 'persuade' Wood to go along with her idea. He snickered his way into sleep, feeling sorry for the bloke already.
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The thick stack of colourful parchment looked slightly disconcerting and was made even more so by the moving picture of the sobbing witch at the top of the pile, being comforted by the kindly looking wizard- patting her shoulder and handing her a tissue with a sympathetic expression on his wrinkled face. Under the photograph the parchment was emblazoned with the scrolled words; "Discuss your problems with our trained Ministry professionals- we can help you!"
"Wizard counselling?" Oliver's eyes were impossibly uncertain as he regarded Angelina over his cup of tea and thickly buttered crumpets in the Diagon Alley café the next morning, looking from her to the parchments and back again, scepticism written all over his rugged face. "You really think I could help other people? I don't know Angelina; sometimes I can barely help myself. Especially not lately…"
"That was just a blip," she said dismissively, realising the Oliver Wood she had once known would have never doubted himself- this injury had clearly done a number on him and his self-esteem.
"George reminded me last night that you were always very good at explaining things to other people," she sipped her dandelion tea and helped herself to a crumpet, "you helped Harry out tremendously when he first joined the Quidditch team and you were always there to listen and support people when they had problems too."
Oliver still looked confused at her insight, "but—"
"Not to mention the fact that as Gryffindors, we have a tenacity to be kind hearted and loyal," Angelina sounded completely satisfied by her conclusion, "I think you'd make a brilliant wizard counsellor, Oliver. Helping other people could be just what you need to realise that just because you can't play Quidditch, doesn't mean that your life will be unfulfilling. It'll give you some focus, some sense of direction," she cast him a reproachful look, "not to mention help you stay away from the mead and fire whiskey."
He looked interested now despite himself as he glanced back at the stack of parchments again and she was pleased he seemed to be catching on to her way of thinking, "but it must take years to train, surely?" he wondered outloud.
"You can have full Ministry accreditation in a year and a half," Angelina explained and it was clear to Oliver that she'd done her research. "You got fairly decent NEWTS after all- despite the fact that all you did that year was play Quidditch- and at the moment there's a comprehensive training programme going on throughout the Ministry. You're paired with a more experienced counsellor and they mentor you and then you can choose which department you want to move into on a longer-term basis." For a second, Angelina looked hesitant; "maybe… well, you could train up in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes? I thought that you'd be able to identify well with wizards who perhaps have undergone some kind of trauma or have been injured in some way…"
Oliver bit his lip waveringly, considering her words. A couple of days ago, that kind of astute remark would have made him want to burst into tears or throw things- quite possibly both. Now however, he could see the logic behind Angelina's reasoning. He had never thought of training as a counsellor, let alone helping other people in any capacity other than in sport- and even then that also partly helped himself- but he could see that she was right: he certainly knew how it felt to lose something, to be injured and to have your future taken away from you. If he could help even one other person come to terms with similar things happening in their own lives, then quite possibly he wasn't destined to be such a failure after all.
He took a deep breath and then raised his head expectantly, meeting Angelina's hopeful dark eyes; "so where do I sign up?"
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A/N: Reviews are always appreciated. I hope to have chapter two posted early next week, when Oliver and Lavender will actually meet and the nitty-gritty of the story really begins. :)