Reaching up to his face, Oliver wiped away the water droplets, staring up at the clear blue sky with a look of bewilderment. With a puzzled shrug, he flew towards the knot of his teammates to pass around hugs and compliments. Just some odd freak of nature, he thought to himself, glancing down at his damp fingertips.
Flying down and alighting on the ground, he trudged towards the team quarters to change out of his Quidditch robes and hunt down something cold to drink.
Passing by a small alcove, he overheard a female voice declaring crossly, "Really, Sean, it was only a joke. Don't get such a stick up your arse over it."
"It was bloody embarrassing, is what it was," a man's voice cut in fiercely, "And I don't appreciate it, Miranda. I surely don't."
Oliver stepped towards the couple. "Now, you two, what's all this? Fraternizing with the enemy?" It was a very common joke- the couple staring angrily back at him were Miranda Masckins, the English Chaser who had grabbed the Quaffle right out from under an Irish player's outstretched hand, and the man, Sean Finnigan, was that selfsame Irishman. They were an odd couple, quite happy constantly bickering. One can never tell about people, Oliver thought to himself, amused. "Miri, aren't you supposed to be getting changed? We all have to Apparate into town for the St. Mungo's charity ball."
"Not enough that they had a Quidditch game fundraiser that we played in, oh noooo," Miri grumbled. "We have to attend the BALL as well." She stalked off towards the tentlike building bearing the English flag, muttering and swearing under her breath.
Oliver turned back towards Sean "I swear, Finnigan, I don't know how you put up with Miri's temper- Hell, I'VE been friends with her forever, and I don't know how I put up with it."
"Sometimes I wonder about that meself," mumbled the Irishman. "She's not the best thing for my sanity, but……" He gave a little sigh. "You Brits played well today."
"Thank you."
Sean nodded and turned around, heading for his own team's quarters. "See you at the ball, Finnigan!" Oliver yelled. Sean flapped a hand at him without turning around. Oliver shook his head. I'll expect an invitation to their wedding one of these days, if those two don't kill each other first. Still shaking his head, he strode off. Three more water droplets settled unnoticed into his thick hair.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Walking into the cozy little hotel room she currently called home, Rachel plopped down into a peach-colored armchair. Sinking back into the seat, she stared at the ceiling. Her eyes drifted closed in a pleasant combination of exhaustion and happiness. The game had been great fun to watch- she'd been thrilled by the pace and the skill of the players. And she'd gotten to meet Minister Snape, whom she had long admired and looked up to. There weren't many witches who could do what Hermione Snape had- her leadership and logical thinking had brought the wizarding world through the aftermath of Voldemort's final bid for power, and the partial destruction of its finest magic school.
But good day or no, she wasn't any closer to finding Jack. Not one step, not one tiny little bit of insignificant information closer. All the gods damn it. She glowered at the painting of a mermaid that graced the wall opposite her. The mermaid winked and smiled at her. She looked just like Jack's young wife. Her expression turned darker. A huge wave swelled up out of the sea surrounding the mermaid's rock. She vanished into the swirling water with a high squeak of dismay.
Rachel sighed and looked away. Might as well try to look on the bright side, she thought to herself ruefully. At least the weather's been beautiful. Last time I was here, I was slogging through knee-deep mud.
Sitting up in a sudden burst of energy, she crossed the hardwood floor to the closet. Good thing I travel prepared, she thought with a little laugh. Who'd have thought I'd be attending a BALL? She stilled as she thought of St. Mungo's, the magical hospital that both today's Quidditch match and the evening's ball were raising funds for. Only appropriate that I attend, she thought. I do, after all, have three relatives in permanent residence in the dratted place.
Opening the closet doors, she rummaged around until she located the simple satin dress she had packed. Upon finding it, she unhooked it from the hanger and pulled it out. With a graceful flick of the wrist, a small, moist breeze swept lightly down the dress, leaving it completely free of wrinkles. She glanced over it with satisfaction. Can't imagine having to constantly swish a wand about and remember a bunch of Latin, she thought. I'd hate to have to do all that in order to use my magic.
Slipping her dress on over her head, she went into the bathroom, fastening the tiny pearl buttons up the front as she walked. Flicking on the over head light, she touched up her lipstick, powdered her nose, and stared at herself in the mirror. She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Opened them again.
The tears in them were now gone. Turning away swiftly, she strode quickly down the stairs, climbed into her rental car, and zipped off down the lane. Heavy dew fell on the grass and a small patch of wilting buttercups as she passed, where it shone under the light of the just-rising moon.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Harry turned away from the window. "Glad to be home again, sweetheart?" he inquired of his wife, who was seated in a beautiful old walnut rocking chair, Lilia cradled in her arms.
"You have no idea." She smiled, in the smug way that only new mothers can get away with. "It's wonderful to out of that dull hospital room and back in familiar surroundings." She glanced down at her tiny daughter, who was drinking from her mother's breast as though she the world were about to end. Small bright eyes stared seriously back up into Katia's.
"Lili seems to have no objection to her home." Harry walked over to perch on the arm of the rocker beside his wife. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" he asked.
"No, you should go. You'll be expected to put in an appearance- and you did promise you would go."
"I promised I would go with you," Harry protested. "I'd rather stay home." Katia fixed him with a stern look. "Harry. James. Potter. YOU are going to be late. You promised you would go be the official Potter family representative. All those people are going to want to hear about Lili, so go, talk, enjoy yourself, brag- and come home as soon as you can." She reached up with her free hand and brought his face down to hers. Kissing him lightly, she murmured, "And the sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back." Harry laughed, and went to hunt down his dress robes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione climbed into the Alfa Romeo, where Snape was waiting for her in the driver's seat. He turned and looked at her. "You look beautiful, Hermione." he stated quietly. She blushed slightly. They had been married for nearly seven years, together for two years before that, but she still wasn't used to his compliments. She smiled, and leaned back in her seat. "Thank you," she murmured, reaching over to clasp his hand as they pulled out into the quiet street.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Oliver made his way into the crowded ballroom, pulling slightly at his collar. He hated dress robes. Loathed them. No, too weak a word. He DESPISED them. Despised them with the passion of a thousand burning suns. Grinning at his own melodrama, he scanned the room, until he spotted Harry. He waved and started towards him. Dodging waitpeople, house elves, flower urns, a half-naked statue that winked and grinned suggestively, and what seemed like thousands of smiling witches, Oliver finally reached his friend.
"Well, if it isn't the new father!" he exclaimed, slapping Harry on the back. "How's Katia and the little one?"
"They're both just fine. Katia got to come home this afternoon. The doctors said everything seems fine."
"Happy?"
Harry's face simply lit up with the smile of a man who has everything.
Oliver nodded in complete understanding. "It's the most amazing and terrifying feeling in the world, isn't it?" he said quietly.
"Yes."
"That's how I remember it."
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Attracting a few eyes with her fashionably late entrance, Rachel strolled into the gigantic ballroom, her dress swirling around her like a glass of cool burgundy wine. Her car had gotten a flat tire on the way to the party, and she'd had to stop and change it. Taking a quick glance down at her spotless dress, Rachel smiled. There were definite advantages to being a Deiad.
Eyes roving, absorbing the sights and sounds, she wove her way in and out of the crowd towards the groaning buffet table (always, in her opinion, the first stop at any party).
Paying attention to everything but where her feet were taking her, she never saw the tall, bulky man in her path until she collided solidly with his back, knocking him forward.. She reached out a hand, intending to help steady him, only to have it slapped away. The man, his face a mask of utter fury, glared down at her. "You spilled my drink," he muttered softly. "You spilled it on my jacket."
He wavered slightly back in forth, as though vibrating with anger. Upon study of his red face, Rachel quickly realized that his swaying had nothing so much to do with anger and everything to do with the fact that he was piss-faced drunk.
"I'm so sorry, sir. I wasn't paying any attention at all- it was completely my fault. Can I get you a tissue, some water, help you clean up?"
The man turned an even deeper shade of red, capillaries popping out on his puffy face. Pointing a wavering finger at her, he bellowed, "You better learn not to go bumping into people, you clumsy bitch." Moving forward remarkably quickly for such a fat man, he gave Rachel a hard shove, sending her stumbling a full five steps backward before she caught herself.
A vaguely familiar man with brown hair suddenly stepped in front of her.
"Now, Bernswelly," he admonished in a musical Scots burr, "You really ought to show the lady a bit more respect. 'Twas a perfectly innocent accident."
Gritting her teeth, Rachel stepped in front of her would-be white knight . "Thanks, but I can handle this." Looking the drunkard dead in the bloodshot eye, she declared, "Sir, I am more than happy to assist you in cleaning up. However. If you insist on being a rude pig, then you may take your smelly head and soak it in whatever crap you've been drinking."
She calmly moved around the now tomato-hued man, and continued on her way towards the high-heaped table of food as if nothing had happened. The drunk gave an inarticulate yell of rage, and started towards her- only to slip on an unnoticed puddle of water. He toppled onto his back with a loud thud, and lay there waving his arms and legs about feebly like a very large, very tipsy overgrown beetle. Still heading foodward, Rachel indulged in a small, secretive smile.
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"Now there's a woman who can handle herself," Oliver declared admiringly, watching the tall brunette saunter away. "Think I should apologize for misplaced chivalry?"
"Go ahead," Harry said with a grin. "I'm going to go harass Snape a bit- he and 'Mione just walked in." He tilted his head in the direction of the main doors.
Oliver nodded and began maneuvering his way into and around the wad of humanity currently separating him from the self-possessed woman who had put that idiot Bernswelly so firmly in his place.
Upon reaching her, he tapped her on the shoulder, executing a rather exaggerated bow when she turned around. "Just wanted to apologize for interrupting back there. Didn't realize I wasn't needed."
Rachel studied him, her eyes making a frank sweep from the top of his head to the toes of his boots. Oliver waited patiently for her gaze to meander back up to his face.
"You're Oliver Wood, aren't you?"
Oliver smiled. "Yes. Have we met?"
"No, but I was at the match at Maffley this afternoon. You played excellently."
"Thank you. Might I ask what your name is?"
"Rachel. Rachel Winde."
"And are you here on vacation, Mrs. Winde?"
"Miss. And no, I'm here…..tying up some family business."
"And what brought you out to Maffley?"
"Oh, I come from a family of rabid Quidditch fans. Going to the match today was a bit of an edict from my father- 'Rachel, my dear girl, if ever you are in England and don't get yourself a professional Quidditch game, I shall disown you immediately.' So here I am. It was a fantastic game."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. Personally, I had a bit of an edict to play Quidditch. My father was a Beater for the Chudley Cannons, back in the old days when they still won. Well now, this seems to tie up the introductions satisfactorily. Would you like to dance?"
With a laugh, Rachel accepted his outstretched hand. Oliver grinned down at her as he whirled her out onto the dance floor.
Some things are simply meant to happen.
********************************************************************
"Oliver seems to have found himself a new companion," Harry remarked with a grin, raising an eyebrow in the direction of Oliver and the young woman he was dancing with. The two appeared to be completely wrapped up in their conversation, oblivious to the rest of the room.
"It's never been much of a hardship for him," Hermione commented dryly.
"Yes, but-"
Harry's reply was cut off as a loud roar filled the ballroom. Everyone stopped dancing as an enormous gust of wind howled and ripped its way through from the north terrace doors, forcing people to their knees, tearing the velvet hangings from the walls, and knocking over the large, heavy flower urns. Hats ended up stuck in chandeliers, and drinks sloshed onto the floor.
The noise and violence seemed to go on forever.
In the ensuing deathly quiet, only Rachel was left standing. She stood still and straight near the center of the wreckage, gazing out towards the north sky, her gown soaking wet and dripping onto the floor. A look of total shock crept over her white face. The room remained in its frozen tableau, until Rachel suddenly and abruptly crumpled to the floor.