A/N: All righty, here we go. Again. O.o Not much of an author's note this time, 'cept I must say the few reviews this received are worth the hundred-plus reviews the old version had; call me picky, but I like readers that actually care about what they're reading. Heh. Picky, picky Seroci, eh? ^.~

~~~


Oliver backed away from Angelina slowly, resisting the urge to clench his fists. He had no problem with Leroy – except the kid never knew when to ask for help – or Leroy's support. What irked him was he'd known Angelina longer, he'd helped her through problems before, and he was tossed aside like….he didn't want to admit it, but he felt like yesterday's garbage. Leroy was a good guy, really, and Oliver would even call himself friends with him. And maybe Leroy was the best person for Angelina, considering where Levi stood in the situation, but Angelina had no right….

It took a few minutes to realize he'd started walking and was already a good many yards from Angelina and Leroy, and all the others that felt their support would matter. Their support mattered, but for whatever reason…whatever bloody reason…yesterday's bloody garbage. Levi was going to hear it from him as soon as he was found. If he was found. Oliver stopped walking, pausing right in front of his cabin. If. Somehow, that seemed a very inviting if.

If Levi's attendance didn't matter so much at the game today. Too many bloody 'if's and not in all the right places. Safely out of sight of Angelina's support group, Oliver balled his hands into fists. He inhaled and exhaled slowly; the last thing he needed was to injure himself and be disqualified from the game that way. The door looked like it needed a good hard punch, though, but a good hard punch would have to wait until Levi returned. Angelina's boyfriend or not, he was going to bleed before Oliver was through with him.

Oliver opened the cabin door slowly. As he and Levi were teammates, they shared a cabin, and the last thing Oliver wanted was to run into an angry, ready-to-fight Levi. Angelina didn't see it, no, because she was so bloody wrapped up in Levi's grey eyes, but there was something to Levi that frightened Oliver. He wasn't only older, he was larger to go with it, and he didn't like taking orders, even if they were orders he himself would have given. Oliver had to admit that Levi was indeed a great Quidditch player, but he wasn't of the "captain breed." There were…stresses that came with being captain – stresses that Glen Davis thought could be released through a bloody knock-up who didn't know a broom from a ball – that Levi would not be able to handle, and having to handle Levi on top of that made it all the worse. Levi didn't understand, and it made him dangerous. Greed made him dangerous.

To both Oliver's relief and dismay, the one-room cabin was empty. He slammed the door behind him harder than he intended, and the noise planted the seed of a headache firmly in the back of his head. His bed was unmade, but when was it ever made, and, as usual, Levi had neatly folded his quilt and laid it next to his pillow. All nice and sweet and cozy, something Angelina would like. Oliver stared at his own bedspread, then grabbed his quilt in a tight grip that paled his knuckles and ripped it off the bed. He didn't have the patience to fold it, so he kicked it as far as he could across the room; it barely went two feet.

He lowered himself on his bed, head in his hands. His fingers worked through his short brown hair as if searching for the best way to pry it loose. He didn't need this much pressure. Nothing that Nicole had done last night helped allay his tensions; it only gave him an hour or so to stop thinking about the world, about the mess his team was in, and he'd faked pretty much everything. Or, he told himself he faked it all. In the back of his mind, right next to his growing headache, he knew that part of him enjoyed Nicole. Merlin knew she wasn't hard on the eyes. Her looks made up for however annoying her voice was, or however bad a Quidditch player she was. And then, another thought that throbbed from beneath the shit he'd buried it with told him in an angry voice that he'd cheated. He'd disobeyed everything he was about. A Quidditch captain was cool, collected, on top of things. He wasn't rendezvousing in the middle of the night was a pair of pretty eyes and pretty boobs, and he wasn't about to tear his hair out because his long-time friend and crush had pushed him away. He had better things to think about, more important things.

And that was how to kill Levi. Oliver glanced quickly at the old clock hanging on the wall of the cabin. There was barely two hours before his first game of the day started, and if he was missing a player by game-time, his team forfeit. Forfeit. Wanting to shriek out loud but only allowing a grunt, he stood and kicked his quilt again. All the quilt did was flop, which, for whatever reason, made his blood boil. A shiver ran down his spine, then back up again, and while clenching and unclenching his fists, he tried to tell himself that Levi, wherever the fuck he was, would show up before noon. He had to. Merlin, a bloody forfeit! Oliver Wood didn't forfeit.

He didn't cry, either. He needed someone to tell him he was stronger than that.


~~~


 "No game, Wood," Jon Bartholomew, the head of AQR, grunted in a voice meant only for Oliver's ears. Bartholomew was a large man, but all that large was muscle; he'd been a Beater in his younger years, and Oliver had seen briefly what the man could do. Bloody good Beater.

Oliver swallowed. His broom lay across his knees, and it took everything in him not to take it and twist it in his hands. He didn't have enough energy to keep his legs from bouncing. "Can't we find…a replacement? Someone to act reserve?"

Bartholomew shook his head and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his desk. "As captain, you are responsible for your players' conditions and whereabouts. You should know this by now."

Oliver nodded slowly, if reluctantly. He'd been captain of every AQR team he played on for the past four years, and he'd spent almost five years as his Hogwarts' team captain; he knew a captain's duties. And he wasn't allowed any mistakes. He swallowed again, licked his lips, and tried to look anywhere but at Bartholomew. His throat was tight, but he forced himself to speak. "What about a search? I'll forfeit this game, but we've gotta find him-"

 "The Ministry has been alerted, and they'll be here within seventy-two hours. Until then, Reyers is your responsibility."

Oliver didn't think Bartholomew ever blinked. Ever. He shuddered without knowing why, and scratched the back of his neck to hide it. There had to be some way to find Levi before the first game. Oliver had rarely forfeited before, and he wasn't keen on making it a habit now because Levi was a bloody fool. He hoped beyond all hope Levi wouldn't be on the Gryffindor team back at Hogwarts.

Bartholomew sat back in his chair and waved to excuse the Quidditch captain. Oliver nodded to him, a sort of bow of gratitude; at this point, he wasn't sure he could speak clearly. He almost had both feet out the door when he heard Bartholomew say, "I'm sorry, but you know rules are rules." Oliver nodded again, a barely visible nod. He knew the rules, and a captain obeyed the rules. Bloody rules. The only silver lining he found to being captain, besides all the attention he received from professional teams looking for reserve players, was that Levi's punishment was well within his abilities, and Levi was definitely going to be punished. Angelina had no say in that.

He stepped out of the office building, which was no larger than the cabins. All thoughts of slamming the door behind him were driven out of his head when his eyes met the big brown eyes of Nicole Folz. He grunted and rolled his eyes as he started for the Quidditch pitch at a brisk walk. The last thing he needed was Nicole.

 "Oliver." Her high-pitched squeak was soft, surprisingly, and timid. He didn't turn around until she'd repeated his name at least five times. His turn-around was a whirl, and he was forced to take a few steps back because her face was barely an inch from his.

 "Nicole, I've got a game-"

She moved closer to him, sauntering, brushed herself along his shoulder. "I didn't see you at breakfast."

He knew she'd seen him; he just didn't sit with her. Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly. When everything last night was done and over, he'd apologized to her. It was a subtle hint, one that she, apparently, didn't take, which confused him, because girls were the masters of hints, subtle or no. He didn't like to think of it as a one-night-stand, but she was so clueless that he might have to resort to that blunt explanation. Clueless, or a little too hopeful.

Blinking, he realized he hadn't pushed her away. He cleared his throat, loudly, and backed away two steps. "I didn't eat, today," he lied. "I slept in."

Nicole's eyebrows rose. She cocked her head in her annoying fashion – he usually found it cute when girls cocked their heads, but she was horrible at it – and opened her mouth to say something, but he interrupted, repeating that he had a game to go to. He prayed she didn't know he was about a hair away from forfeit. He'd never live down a forfeit. Levi was going to suffer.

He didn't know which was worse; Nicole trying to seduce him again, or seeing Angelina upon turning around. He froze and watched her, with Jory and Rane huddled about her, Leroy tailing them. Why didn't his support matter? How was he able to think of something like that, given the current situation? Biting his tongue and starting towards Angelina's team, he decided that girls were not worth this kind of trouble.

His instincts guided him towards Angelina, but his eyes searched for Avery, the team captain. It was always a little weird talking to Avery – the guy was gay, and crushed a wee bit on Oliver – but he knew Quidditch, and he was most likely to understand Oliver's problem. He couldn't solve it, but he could console. Avery was nowhere in sight, though, and instead Oliver found himself face to face with Leroy.

 "Wood." Leroy nodded his head formally in recognition and stopped walking. The girls hardly noticed. Oliver was little bit relieved he wasn't the only one easily ignored. "What can I do you for?"

Oliver inhaled sharply, then asked, "Any Reyers?"

Leroy shook his head in a manner Oliver thought to be sympathetic. "Merimonti went to talk to Bartholomew a few minutes ago. Asking for a reserve Beater for you." He laughed suddenly, but quietly. "It's funny how he looks after you, Wood."

Oliver disregarded that last comment. "I already asked Bartholomew for a reserve. He wouldn't let me have one. We're looking at forfeit." The last word came out strangled.

This time, Leroy really looked sympathetic. He laid a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "I'm real sorry. I don't wanna forfeit either, but rules…"

Oliver nodded. He was sick of rules. Hesitating, he asked, "How's Angelina?" This was dangerous ground, but anything to stop thinking of forfeit. One game forfeited put a team too far back in the line to redeem itself. One forfeit was all Oliver was willing to lose, if he could call himself willing. Angelina's team would lose nothing; they had all their players present. As far as AQR was concerned, they'd win the match as soon as Oliver admitted to forfeit. It would be a hollow victory, and that was almost as hard a blow as forfeiting, but they'd still be in the full game. Levi would have his grave dug by morning.

Leroy let out a long breath before answering. "She's shaken up, no lie," he muttered softly, as if afraid he'd be overheard. "Although she has begun to move from his location to his reason." He lowered his voice even more. "Honestly, I think she thinks it's because of her."

Oliver didn't believe it. Angelina had done nothing wrong, unless talking to him and trying to force-feed him was wrong. Then again, who knew? With Levi, everything about Oliver was as good as Hell's offspring. But, again, Levi was part of Quidditch. He knew the penalties of forfeit. And he would have the same shame on him as Oliver, and Phil, and the rest of their team. Shame was shame, no matter who admitted themselves to it. It wasn't because of Angelina, and it wasn't because of Oliver.

Leroy squeezed Oliver's shoulder, and Oliver jerked, suddenly realizing his hand was there. His opponent's eyes softened, in more pity that Oliver didn't want, but he didn't say anything more. For that part, Oliver was glad. He didn't want anyone to say anything to him unless they knew where Levi Reyers was and, now, why. He couldn't wait until Levi showed up again. Punishment was all his.

~~~


The headache throbbed, no longer lurking in the back of Oliver's head. It was a full-fledged headache. And it wasn't his fault, completely. As a captain, he was to blame. Levi….Levi was the source of every problem he'd ever faced. Every bloody problem, and this bloody headache.

He stood on the side of the field, in full green and black uniform and his broom held tightly in his beginning-to-shake-hands. Bartholomew had allowed an extra half hour to wait for Levi's arrival. Oliver was grateful, he couldn't deny that, but it hurt that Bartholomew's generosity was out of sympathy. A captain didn't accept sympathy. Sympathy wasn't Quidditch. Bartholomew should have been able to understand that.

Across the field stood Angelina's team, in their black and red and yellow robes. Oliver's eyes unconsciously tried to meet Angelina's, but she barely looked up from her feet. Jory, with her hair pulled back in pigtails, had her arm around the Chaser. Rane stood not far off. Avery and Leroy stood with Patrick Contreras and Elaine Rowes. Pat Oliver knew from Hogwarts; Elaine was completely new to him, though he caught himself watching her intently. He half wished she was on his team.

Roy Armstrong, one of Oliver's Chasers, laid a hand on his captain's shoulder. The two were good enough friends, but this wasn't a time for friendship. Oliver didn't need support; Roy's hand was only an annoyance. He let it rest, though. No need to make Roy feel like he didn't matter, make him feel like yesterday's garbage.

Bartholomew reeled in from circling the pitch on his broom, his eyes locked on Oliver. Disappointment was written all over his face. Levi hadn't shown, and only three minutes remained in the countdown. Oliver swallowed. He wasn't prepared to wait those agonizingly long three minutes, but he wasn't prepared to admit to forfeit.

 "Jon!" Avery raised his hand, broom with it. Bartholomew's mouth tightened at being called by his first name, but he landed and turned his back to Oliver. "Jon, we call the forfeit."

Oliver's grip on his broom tightened, and Roy let his shoulder go. Avery was a bloody fucking idiot if he thought he could take the forfeit from him. Bloody fucking idiot. Oliver opened his mouth to protest, starting towards Bartholomew, but Bartholomew had his hand raised to stop any talk.

 "Noble, Merimonti," Bartholomew answered, emphasizing his use of Avery's last name. "Noble and admirable, but Wood and I have had a talk. I've already been too lenient with the time extension, and I cannot allow further leniency."

By the time Bartholomew finished, Oliver was almost at his side. He stopped a few paces away, rested his broom on the ground. "I, Oliver Wood, admit to forfeit-"

Bartholomew cut him off by whirling around. Broom pointed at Oliver, he said, "Formalities will not be required, Wood. The game goes to Merimonti, and your colors are stripped to grey." He stopped just short of an apology, then lowered his broom. Oliver nodded, the closest he'd get to a bow. Turning around to speak to Avery, Bartholomew continued. "Merimonti has won the match through Wood's forfeit. His colors ascend to orange." Avery nodded in the same fashion Oliver had, biting his lip. Oliver was ready to punch him. Oliver was ready to punch anything.

 "You are excused." Bartholomew mounted his broom and raised his hand. "Next up, Christell versus Sorenson!"

Oliver stalked off the field, not bothering to wave for his team to follow. His eyes locked on Avery, the bloody idiot, to keep from looking at the full stands. Christell and Sorenson were leading their teams onto the field, solemn faces and pity-filled eyes. They were captains; they understood. Oliver paid them little mind. He barely noticed when Christell snorted at him down her long nose. He should have been grateful for her condolences, he knew, and he also knew she took everything personally. Still, he only hunched his shoulders, then stood up straight when he realized that, as captain, he couldn't be seen as weak. Bloody weak captain.

He marched into the locker room, where Avery was seating his team. Angelina, Jory, Rane, and Elaine were sitting side by side on the bench in front of Avery. Leroy sat on the floor next to them, arms around his knees, and Pat was by his locker, undressing, and shooting Rane glances. When his eyes met Oliver's, however, he slipped into a T-shirt and lounged with his back against the lockers, arms crossed.

Roy was leading Oliver's team into the locker room when Oliver planted himself next to Avery, folding his arms to keep his fists from clenching. Avery stopped talking – what he'd been talking about, Oliver had only the slightest idea – and turned to look at his fellow captain.

 "What in the bloody hell was that?" Oliver demanded as soon as he had Avery's eyes. "What do you think you were doing?"

 "You didn't want to-"

 "I know bloody well what I didn't want to do, and it's no bloody business of yours!" Oliver's hands gripped his arms painfully. Oh, Merlin, how he wanted to hit Avery Merimonti. "You had no right, no fucking right, to do that!"

Avery assumed a defensive stance, hands on his hips and head cocked. "Jon thought it admirable-"

 "To hell with Bartholomew!" Oliver whirled in a tight circle. "I thought that, as a captain, you'd get it. I thought you'd bloody get it!"

Avery only stared at him with his silent brown eyes. Oliver wanted to kill those eyes.

 "You humiliated me in front of Merlin knows how many people, and all you can say is it was admirable?" Oliver stuck his finger in Avery's face. "I am not grateful for your bloody stupid offer, Merimonti. I am not some bloody little boy who needs to be watched out for, all right? I'm not a bloody child! I can accept my own defeat!"

 "I was only trying to-"

Oliver grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, almost all hope of restraint gone. "Are you even listening to me? I. Don't. Need. Your. Bloody. Help. I don't need you talking to Bartholomew behind my back about my team, I don't need you trying to take my forfeit from me, I don't need you looking out for me! I don't need you!"

"Oliver." Leroy was on his feet. "That's enough."

Oliver dug his fingernails into Avery's arms and pushed the dark-haired captain up against the lockers. Avery didn't flinch. "If you ever do anything like that again, Merimonti-" he hissed through clenched teeth. He swallowed, tried to finish the sentence, then left it as an open-ended threat and muttered, "I can take care of my own team."

 "Oliver." Leroy's voice was firm, and it reminded Oliver too much of a redhead prefect who paid the rules too much mind.

 "Shut the fuck up, Winters," Oliver growled beneath his breath. He let go of Avery and turned to glare each and every member of the opposing team. His eyes paused a moment on Angelina, who actually had her head up, who actually met his stare with one of her own. Her mouth tightened and he swallowed. Hesitantly, he walked towards her, and crouched so he was eye-to-eye with her. He had to stop himself from reaching to take her hand. "Do you have any idea, any at all, where he might have gone?"

She frowned at him, eyes full of unshed tears, her mouth a tight but unsteady line. "You only care about your damn game," she hissed through clenched teeth. Her voice was lowered for his eyes alone.

 "I want to find him as much as you do-"

 "So you can bloody win!" She was visibly shaking. "I swear to Merlin, if you even think of touching him when he comes back, I'll strangle you in your sleep. Your team could bloody win, then."

His throat tightened, and without a word, he whirled towards the door. As soon as he set foot outside, he mounted his broom and pushed towards the sky. It wasn't flying he was interested in, but he tried to take a moment of sitting a good fifty feet above the ground, inhaling deeply. It was impossible for him to cry when he was on his broom, and he wasn't about to start crying. Captains didn't cry over a missing player, or a lost game, or even over a girl's rejection. All he'd wanted to do was help her…

He didn't know how long he stayed up on his broom. Avery tried talking to him once, but Oliver only flew higher to drown out his voice. He was in the sky when Devin sent the owls away with outgoing letters, and when the bells sounded for dinner. When Bartholomew made his "lights out" rounds and kids started sneaking out of their cabins, Oliver had himself perched on the roof of the mess hall, staring intently at his cabin door. The headache hadn't gone away.

~~~

A/N: This is actually a wee bit shorter than I wanted, but it'll do. *sighs* I'm not sure exactly what was up with this chapter, but hopefully it'll make more sense to me tomorrow. Much luv!