Disclaimer (because I don't think I've added one yet): I am not J. K. Rowling, nor will I ever be.
The Interview:
After trying to avoid both Fred and Lee for days, it almost came as a relief when I set out for Oliver's on Sunday night. Almost. I take my time on the way to his place, trying to calm myself with slow, even steps. Instead of helping me, however, it just gives me extra time to dwell on all of the horrible things that could happen as soon as I arrive.
What if he doesn't want to see me again? What if he thinks that we're much better off not speaking? I'm not sure that I could handle that. I've dreamed of seeing him again for a long time and never in my imagination did our meeting have anything to do with him turning me away, but now that it's a reality I'm not so sure. It's been so long, what if Oliver's changed? What if professional Quidditch has turned him into some sort of egomaniac?
My heart pounding so loud I'm sure the neighbors can hear it, I slowly step up to his front door. I take a deep breath to prepare myself and raise my fist to knock. Before I can, however, a resounding bark comes from the other side of the door, making me jump. Since when does Oliver have a dog?
"Down boy," I hear an all too familiar voice call and I cringe as the butterflies in my stomach transform into thestrals. Oh God, I can't do this…
The door opens just enough for me to catch sight of Oliver holding the collar of a giant dog and my heart stops. His hair has grown a bit longer, draping over his face as he struggles to keep the animal from escaping. It even looks like he's grown a few inches since the last time I saw him and he's definitely tanner. His dark brown eyes meet mine and I'm unable to contain the torrent of feelings that suddenly rush over me. God, he hasn't changed a bit. Older, maybe, but he's as cute as ever.
"Who took my place as Keeper on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team?" he asks and as strange as it may seem, I'm used to being asked random questions to prove my identity.
"Ron Weasley," I answer. "Who was Seeker your fourth year at Hogwarts?"
"Charlie Weasley." We stand there awkwardly for a few seconds, his head still sticking out of the door in order to keep his dog from escaping. "Well, come in," he says, throwing open the door. I quickly step through and pull it shut behind me.
Oliver lets go of his dog, who immediately runs over to me and tries to lick my face as Oliver relocks the door. I try to silently push the dog off of me, but to no avail.
"Bludger, down," Oliver sighs, unable to hide the smile that appears on his lips. He pulls the dog down by his collar. "I'm sorry about him," Oliver says, leading me towards the kitchen and dragging Bludger along behind him. "I can put him up if he's bugging you."
"No, not at all," I say and bend down to pet Bludger just to have something to do. "Such a good doggie," I say and mentally slap myself. Did I just say 'doggie' in front of Oliver Wood?
I slowly stand up to face Oliver who's lounging against his kitchen island barefoot. Unable to keep eye contact for longer than a few seconds, I look around his place. It's a decent size—I guess all of that money from Quidditch does pay off. It had the distinct air of being cleaned in a hurry, but for some reason that just made it seem cozier.
"Uh, nice place," I say in order to break the silence, but Oliver just keeps staring at me. After two seconds, I look away. He never was the kind of guy to dwell on small talk but I thought that maybe this once he might want to help me out just a bit.
"It's been a while," he finally says. "You look good." I can't help the smile that rises to my lips, but then again it's hard not to smile around Oliver. Especially not since I'm getting all of these flashbacks from my fourth year with him.
"It definitely has been a while," I agree.
We relapse once again into silence and I take to staring at Bludger who's currently chewing on a bone in the corner. It's not even like Oliver and I don't have anything to talk about. Leanne and Cullen's wedding for one—we have to plan the rehearsal dinner. Not to mention the fact that a good 'What have you been up to?' always seems to work after three years of not speaking.
"Okay, this is ridiculous," Oliver finally says and heads over to his refrigerator where he pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey and pours two glasses. "Drink," he demands and I don't need telling twice. I drain half of it in one gulp and wince as it burns my throat on the way down.
"This is awkward," I finally admit as if that wasn't already obvious. This shouldn't be this uncomfortable. I mean, Oliver and I didn't really end on a bad note; if we had I wouldn't be here at all. It was just a falling out. It was really just an impossibility for us to stay together.
"We're just two old friends...talking," Oliver says.
"Well, I think old friends would have probably communicated, at least a little bit, in their time apart."
"Now that's not fair," Oliver says with a smirk. "I've been trying to get in touch with you. It's not my fault that you don't write back."
"Ugh," I groan, much louder than intended. "I haven't been getting any bloody letters!"
His brows furrow in confusion. "But that's impossible. Why would anyone take your mail?"
"I don't know!" I cry. "That's what's scaring me. I don't see how my mail could be watched. I mean, I got that letter to you, no problem."
"Well, maybe…" It 's obvious that he is just as clueless as I am, so I decide to change the subject and try to figure out about my missing mail on my own.
"Listen, I don't want to talk about my post right now. But I am sorry if you thought I was ignoring you. I'd never do that."
"You know, I think I knew that all along. So, what about this interview?" He moves us into the living room where he takes a seat on the couch and I sit a safe distance away on the neighboring chair.
"Okay," I start. "Well—"
"Hold on," Oliver says, holding up a hand to stop me. "There's going to be a few rules to this. You know that I don't do interviews very often." I nod. It's common knowledge, which was why I was confused as to why he agreed to do this one. "I don't like them, they make me uncomfortable and the only reason I agreed to do this was because I knew you were working for The Prophet."
Okay, well I wasn't expecting that.
"What?" I ask. "There are over twenty on-staff reporters. The chances of you getting me—"
"—were greatly increased by the fact that you're a girl. It's a well known fact that The Prophet only sends out female reporters to interview male Quidditch players."
"Are you serious?" I ask and he laughs at my naïveté.
"Yeah," he answers, "but that's not even the point. After you got yourself stuck in St. Mungo's for months, I just really wanted to see you again."
"I've been out of St. Mungo's for almost six months," I can't help but add.
"Well, better late than never," he finally replies and I just nod. "And this is how this interview's going to work. For every question you ask me, I get to ask you one in return. Deal?"
I stare at him for a few seconds and it's so easy to imagine the same Oliver that I went out with sitting there. He really hasn't changed and I find myself eternally grateful for that fact. I feel a smile begin to rise to my lips.
"Deal," I agree and begin unpacking from my bag a piece of parchment and a quill. "It writes down exactly what you say and nothing else," I promise. He doesn't seem too concerned and just leans back on the couch. "Boring questions first: What made you want to play Quidditch professionally?"
"I don't know really. I just feel in love with it, I guess. My uncle bought me a toy broom against my parent's wishes when I was like three. My parent's hid it, but I always managed to find it and sneak out into our backyard to fly around. I played at Hogwarts; yeah, you know that don't you. Just became an addiction." I smirk, unable to believe that Oliver actually admitted that he has an addiction.
"That's a lot of determination for a three year old," I comment.
"It was a bloody brilliant broom." I can't help but laugh.
"It's your turn," I remind him.
"Oh right. Why the hell are you working for The Daily Prophet?" I knew that question would come up eventually.
"It pays the bills," I answer simply. "I mean, there's no way that I was going to work for the Ministry—and yes I know that The Prophet is just as bad, but I'm only a sport's reporter. I'd never write anything bad about Dumbledore or Harry. I just—I don't have the patience to train to be an Auror or a Healer, I don't have the talent to play Quidditch, I don't have the business skills to be an entrepreneur, and as unlikely as it may seem, I really like my job. I get to go to all of the games for free and am paid to write about them. It's the perfect profession for me."
"You're wrong," he says after a while.
"Excuse me?"
"About not having the talent to play Quidditch. You're really good."
"It's just not what I want to do with my life," I admit. And the person sitting in front of me is half the reason why. I could never deal with all of the stress that he used to go through.
"But you're happy?" he asks seriously.
"Yeah, I am," I answer truthfully. "So you tried out for the house team in second year, right?"
"Yeah. Charlie Weasley was captain and I seriously thought that he was trying to kill us. He was a great player."
"I think I know another Gryffindor captain that was trying to murder their team," I say with a smirk.
"I wasn't that bad!"
"Oh come on, Oliver. Your seventh year you tried to drown yourself in a shower after we lost a game!"
"I bet Angelina was worse than me."
"Maybe towards the beginning, but she gave up after Harry and the twins got kicked off of the team. She still won the Cup though."
"Well, what about Harry?"
"He was like a million times better than you. The Anti-Oliver, if you will."
"You know what? I think it's my turn to ask a question," he says with a laugh.
"No it's not," I argue.
"Yes it is. Why didn't you ever write me or anything?" The question's serious but I can hear the laugh behind his words.
"I could ask you the same thing," I note.
"And I could give you an answer. You were holed up at Hogwarts with Umbridge."
"What does that matter?" I answer with a laugh.
"I don't know, but it sounded smart."
"Fine. If that's how it's going to be, I didn't write to you because you must have been busy practicing with Puddlemere all the time. Why should I bother you with letters?" I say sarcastically.
"You know what I think?" he says. "I think you just didn't want to talk to me."
"Yeah, I think that you might be right," I joke although be both know that it's the truth. "I wasn't mad at you if that's what you're asking," I answer truthfully.
"No?"
"No. I was never mad at you."
After that the questions just started flowing and as opposed to feeling like an interview, it felt more like two friends catching up after a long time apart which, in some ways I guess it was. I continually asked him questions about Quidditch and his life as a famous player and got a bunch of stuff that I'll somehow have to make sound interesting in return. Of course, fans will probably find it all fascinating but I already knew most of it from dating him anyway.
In return, he delved into the inter workings of the people around me day-to-day. He asked about my dad (currently living in the United States for his own safety), Angelina, Fred, and pretty much any other thing that randomly popped into his head. He never asked me about Lee, which was a major tip off that somehow he already knew we were dating and we both avoided such serious topics as the war.
A few hours later, the interview was totally forgotten and we sat side by side on his couch, leaning over an enormous seating chart for the rehearsal dinner. And let me just say that Leanne is totally out of her mind. She provided us with the guest list, which is actually quite long—I didn't know that that many people were supposed to attend the rehearsal dinner—but spread open in between Oliver and me was a list of people who could and couldn't sit next to each other. There were so many rules that the task of assigning everyone somewhere to sit was much more than a chore—it was a puzzle.
"That's not going to work," Oliver cries with a laugh for about the fifth time.
"Why the hell not!" I exclaim.
"Look," he says pointing to the rules and I read aloud where he's pointing.
"'Don't sit Ethan and Cheryl by each other. They don't get along.' Well, I don't get along with half of Leanne's friends, but you don't see any rule against that! Who are Ethan and Cheryl anyway? I have never heard of them in my life."
"I don't think they're any of Cullen's friends. I've never heard him mention them," Oliver says and scans through the bridal party once more. "Oh. Um, Katie…"
I look over to where he's pointing once again. "'Ethan: ring bearer; Cheryl: flower girl' Okay, we officially suck at this. And I thought that the Best Man had the ring."
"He does," Oliver says. "The ring bearer's just symbolic."
"Of what?"
"I don't know. I'm not the one getting married." He scans the guest list once more. "So you're not bringing a date?" he asks.
"Oh, um—no," I stutter.
"That's fine. I just thought that you were dating—"
"I am," I interrupt. "He has to work." At least I think that he has to work. The honest truth is that I didn't think that the rehearsal dinner was that big of a deal. I didn't think that I would need a date. I look over the guest list once again and am pleased to find that Oliver doesn't have a date either. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't have a girlfriend…
"I've caught his show a few times," Oliver says and it takes me a second to realize what he's talking about. Oh right, Lee. "He's good."
"He's going to get killed if he continues the way he is," I mutter.
We both drift back into silence and I look down at my watch in order to give me something to do. I do a double take and jump off of the couch so fast that I spill the bowl of popcorn that we had sitting between us. Bludger immediately gets up to clean the mess.
"Oh God, I'm sorry," I groan.
"Not a problem," he laughs. "What's wrong?" I put my watch under his nose as I slip my shoes back on. "Bloody hell. It can't be midnight!"
"I have to get back. Alicia freaks when I'm late. Hopefully she's out with George tonight."
"You can floo out," he says.
"Thank you," I say as we head over to his fireplace. I take a handful of floo powder and am about to throw it into the grate when Oliver stops me.
"Listen, I'm not trying to worry you or anything, but will you please ask your roommates if they've been stopping your mail? It's probably just a misunderstanding, but I want to make sure that you're safe."
"Yeah, I will," I assure him.
"And we still haven't finished that chart," he reminds me.
"Give me a time and a place and we will," I say with a smile.
"I'll owl you."
"Just in case you haven't noticed, that particular branch of communication hasn't seemed to be working for us too well."
"I'll make sure it does. Bye, Katie."
"Bye," I say and throw the floo powder into the flames that transport me back to my thankfully deserted flat.
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A/N: I think that this chapter deserves a review…
Next time on Love and War:
"Oliver, I forgot to ask you something for my article. Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Um, yeah."
Review!
