A/N: Before I begin, I'd like to address an issue that a few of my charming reviewers have raised upon several occasions: namely, that things seem a bit rushed. It may be helpful to note the dates in itallicised dates at the beginning of each chapter. They are included for a reason. ;) Also, a word of warning: this chapter takes a few more liberties than usual with JKR's excellent books. I simply couldn't resist; hopefully it's not too outrageous. So, without further ado...
Chapter 9
December 1997, Chudley
"Honestly, did you see their beater's face? He nearly fell off his bloody broom..."
The aptly named Toby Mead, chaser for Puddlemere United, chuckled contentedly and took a swig from his bottle of butterbeer. Wood exchanged knowing glances with Ivy Dawson, another of the chasers, and Paul Long, a beater.
"You know it's your turn to take him home tonight, don't you?" he reminded Paul in an undertone.
"Wood, you haven't had nearly enough to drink, mate," Toby announced, slinging an arm around the keeper's neck. "Let me get you another one..."
That afternoon's hammering of the Chudley Cannons had sent Puddlemere into the top half of the league – for a little while, at least – and Toby had made a beeline for the nearest wizarding pub, the Chudley Arms, to celebrate their victory. For the last few hours, they had watched him get steadily drunker, and it was still only just gone eight in the evening. The mood, however, was far from jubilant.
"No thanks," he said firmly, removing the arm of the slurring chaser from his shoulder.
"Well you're a barrel of laughs, aren't you?"
Wood hardly heard, struck into a shocked silence by someone who had just entered the bar. The red-haired, freckled figure was extremely familiar, and gave him an inexplicably icy knot of apprehension in the pit of his stomach.
"I've got to go," he told him teammates.
Toby cried out in protest but was shushed gently by Ivy, who prised his bottle out of his fingers. "What's wrong with you?" he went on, speaking far too loudly. "Scared You Know Who'll get you if you stay out too late?"
"That's enough, Mead," Ivy snapped.
Paul gave Wood a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, we'll make sure he gets home ok. See you, mate."
"Thanks, Paul."
Wood left his friends and turned his eyes back to the lanky red-head, who was smiling now with mingled recognition and relief. Taking hold of his arm, Wood steered him firmly back towards the door.
"I don't know what the hell you think you're playing at, Weasley."
Ron blinked stupidly. "What?"
"Come with me."
They fell silent as a pair of bearded old wizards passed them in the doorway, then stepped out into the snowy, quiet street.
"It's nice to see you too, mate," Ron said, massaging his arm where Wood had been holding it.
"We need to get you out of sight," he said simply. Wood caught hold of Ron's arm again and turned on the spot, taking the bewildered Weasley with him. They came out at the top of a steep flight of steps that led to a red front door.
"Where have you brought me?" Ron asked, uncomfortably aware that he had had little say in the matter.
"My flat," Wood answered curtly and, producing a key from his coat pocket, he let them both in.
Once the door had closed behind him, Ron suddenly felt safer and more secure than he had in months. The tiny flat, with walls painted a welcoming shade of pale blue, was warmed and softened by the flickering glow of the fire. The neatly drawn curtains and homely smell of cooking set him instantly at ease. Wood left him standing by the door and went to talk to a woman who was standing at the stove. She looked vaguely familiar – hadn't she been a Hogwarts prefect at one point? Perhaps in Ravenclaw? The mere thought of Hogwarts made him anxious, though, and he tried to put it out of his mind.
"And you brought him here?" she suddenly hissed sharply, turning round to look at him. Ron pretended not to hear, or to notice how angry she sounded. Why had Wood even brought him here?
"Suze," Wood was saying quietly, one hand resting reassuringly on her waist. He held her gaze for a few moments until she seemed to relent.
"Fine," she said, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "bloody Gryffindors".
"So what were you playing at?" Wood asked, addressing Ron again, though with less anger and anxiety in his voice this time. "You can't just wander happily into a pub..."
"Well why not? I have to stay somewhere." There was a brief, uncomfortable pause, and he tried to explain. "I've been constantly on the move for a while. I had to apparate quickly to get away from some snatchers and... and that was the first place I could think of. My dad used to take me to the matches there."
"Don't you realise the danger you're in? Everyone thinks you're with Potter."
Ron looked suddenly sullen, as only a teenage boy can. "I was," he said in a low voice.
Wood and Susie exchanged cautious glances, both understanding that there was more to this situation than they would be able to find out at once.
Wood let out a weary sigh and ran a hand through his short hair. "You'll have to stay here for tonight at least. You can sleep on the sofa."
"Thanks," Ron said simply, his relief at the prospect of shelter overriding his awkwardly growing consciousness that his presence here was putting this couple at risk.
"This is Susie, by the way," Wood added, and she flashed Ron a small smile that did not rise to her eyes. He remembered her more clearly now, in particular an episode that had taken place not far from the Shrieking Shack, when he and Hermione – Hermione. His heart sank: everything seemed to remind him of her.
"Nice to meet you," he said politely, vainly attempting to put abandoned friends out of his mind. "Thanks for having me."
"Are you hungry?" she asked. His spirits instantly rose a little. "There's a sort of chicken casserole, a few potatoes and beans... It should be enough to feed three of us."
"Thank you, that sounds great." He paused. "I can hardly remember the last time I had a decent home-cooked meal. The camp food that Hermione makes –" There she was again; he broke off abruptly.
Once again, his hosts exchanged significant glances.
"Where have you been all this time?" Wood asked. "Did you even go back to Hogwarts at all this year?"
Ron shook his head. "I can't really say."
"But you were with Harry and Hermione?"
A slow, hesitant nod. He looked awkwardly at his feet.
Susie spoke next. "Is it worth asking why you're no longer with them?" Her voice was mildly unsettling: it seemed to hint at a sharp, glittering intelligence that was very different from Wood's burly honesty. She reminded him a little of McGonagall, and he didn't know how to answer. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous seemed the argument with Harry that had preceded his sudden departure. For a moment, he lingered over his memories of the tent that had become their home, and pictured the painfully familiar figure of Hermione as she leaned over a book in her lap.
Susie watched him expectantly for a few seconds before turning back to the stove with a knowing nod. "Just leave your rucksack by the door for now," she instructed, returning to a less difficult topic. "This is ready to be served."
Ron did as he was told, before slipping into a chair opposite Wood at the dining table. The meal that Susie placed before him looked and smelt delicious, with the same hearty, warming quality as Hogwarts food, but he felt distinctly awkward as they began to eat in silence. He couldn't escape the feeling that he shouldn't be here, that it was unbelievably selfish to be taking advantage of his hosts' domestic comfort and security.
"How are things?" he asked hesitantly, desperate to break the silence.
"Difficult," Wood said frankly. "But we're better off than most."
Ron said nothing, sensing that Wood would explain, but it was Susie who spoke next.
"It's becoming increasingly difficult to carry on as we always have done. There's not much security to be had."
Ron swallowed uncomfortably: this was a familiar story. She continued.
"More and more ordinary witches and wizards are being requested to submit to questioning about their blood status. It's only the muggle-borns at the moment, but we've got no idea how far this is going to go." She hesitated; Wood carried on.
"Susie's father is a muggle, and her mother lives as one. Her blood status is far from safe, and if she's summoned for questioning there's every chance of her wand being confiscated."
"But there are a great many people in the same situation – and worse," Susie said quickly. "I'm relatively lucky. At the moment, my editor is prepared to vouch for me, but the Prophet is gradually being put under more and more pressure to follow the Ministry line. No one knows how long we'll be able to go on as we are."
Her tone was low and ominous. Those angry days in the tent seemed increasingly secure and luxurious. Ron glanced at Wood. "At least we've still got quidditch to keep us sane," he said lightly, but he knew as soon as the words left his mouth that it had been a mistake. Wood's face darkened.
"Have we?" There were a few seconds of unbearable silence. "Many of the league teams are being decimated by the new blood laws. One of our chasers, Toby Mead, is muggle born, and he knows that his days of quidditch are numbered. He's started drinking. But there's more than that. Some of the teams – thankfully not yet Puddlemere – have been bought out by powerful and influential death eaters, and for the first time in generations there's a growing problem with match fixing. You notice it every so often: a keeper letting in a goal that he could have saved; a seeker who's been instructed deliberately not to catch the snitch..."
Ron felt that his heart couldn't sink any lower. "That's horrible," he murmured, his voice hollow. He'd always thought of quidditch as one of life's most beautiful constants.
"And what about you, Ron?" Susie asked. "How are things with you?" She continued before he could even phrase an answer. "Because whatever Wood might have told you, he's put us all in danger by bringing you here, displaying the sort of misguided valour for which you Gryffindors are so often praised. You're welcome to stay for as long as you need to, but I'd at least like to know why we're endangering ourselves for your sake."
Her words were painfully true, and Ron attempted to string together a clumsily worded explanation. "To be honest," he told them, "I'm only here at all because I've made a bloody stupid mistake. Me and Hermione went with Harry because he had something to do – something for Dumbledore. He didn't ask us to go with him: we just did. It wasn't going as well as I'd thought it would and – and me and Harry had this big argument and then I left."
Susie's expression was guarded, but Wood looked unimpressed. "You left because you had an argument?"
"I know it's stupid. I regretted it straight away, but by the time I'd gone back they'd already left. That was about a week ago, and I've been wandering hopelessly ever since, trying to get back to them."
"You bloody idiot, Weasley."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you at risk, I really didn't. I just don't know what to do."
They sat eating in silence, although no one was particularly hungry any longer. Oliver and Susie shared a growing sense of unease, a sense that something important was unravelling before their very eyes. At length, Susie spoke.
"Ron, what is it that Harry has to do?"
"Before Dumbledore died, he sort of left Harry a task to do: he had to find... to find something. Only Dumbledore didn't say what it was or where it might be. We thought we were getting somewhere, but then we hit a brick wall. We were left with a few ridiculous hints and clues that just didn't make any sense..." Frowning, he pushed the remainder of his meal irritably round the plate.
Wood looked troubled. "But if Harry doesn't know what he's doing, and everyone's relying on Harry..."
"That's what I said."
Later that evening, after a few hours of trying to distract themselves by talking about quidditch, they prepared to settle down for the night. There was a feeling of battening down the hatches, Ron thought: while Wood searched for spare pillows and blankets, he noticed Susie locking and bolting the door firmly, and performing the same protective charms that Hermione had placed around their campsite.
"There you go," Wood announced, dropping a heap of blankets on the sofa. "That'll be enough for you, won't it?"
Ron didn't answer. He had fallen silent, and was standing strangely still in front of the fire, fixated by a picture on the mantelpiece. It was a photograph of the famous cup-winning Gryffindor side of Wood's seventh year and Ron's third, posing triumphantly on the Hogwarts quidditch pitch. Wood was kneeling at the front, clutching the trophy and grinning from ear to ear, with Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell on either side of him. Behind them stood Fred and George Weasley, flanking Harry Potter. The thirteen-year-old seeker, gleaming Firebolt in hand, was laughing. Ron had turned very pale.
"It was a gift from McGonagall when I left Hogwarts," Wood explained. "Madame Hooch took it just after we'd beaten Slytherin. That was the best team I've ever played with."
Ron nodded wordlessly. Bidding him goodnight, they withdrew to their room, but Susie paused in the doorway and looked back, her eyes softening with pity for the first time that evening. Ron had collapsed onto the sofa now, with his head in one hand and the Gryffindor team photograph in the other. The last thing she saw was his hunched, motionless shoulders, while his brothers, his friends and Harry went on waving up at him.
A/N: As ever, my thanks go out to all of you who are sticking with this. I really appreciate your support, and would love to hear what you made of this chapter.
