Author's note: Just wanted to thank my two glorious reviewers of the first chapter, SatanSaphire and FallohidePride. Thank you! Reviews make me happy, have I mentioned that? Oh, and also, have I mentioned that this story is complete but I don't really feel like spending my time posting it if no one reviews...?

Chapter 2

A month later, Gryffindor's prospects of winning were looking decidedly dimmer, and Oliver's social skills had dropped to an all-time low. In fact, so had his performance in his classes, his communication with other people, his appetite, and his will to live. Gryffindor had just lost their first match of the season, his Seeker was in the hospital, and the rest of the team didn't know whether to be furious at Oliver for being so upset about the loss of the match and not more upset about Harry plummeting fifty feet to the ground, or to try and be understanding so that he'd snap out of his usual post-loss depression.

Angelina sought him out one day after her classes, finally finding him in the seventh-year boys' room, quietly working on an essay. For a while, he didn't realize she was there, and she stood in the door for a moment before walking in and sitting down next to him. "Hey Oliver," she said, "Got a minute?"

He glanced over at her, surprise hardly showing on his face. "Sure."

For a second, Angelina just stared at him. He was pale, and there were dark purple rings under his eyes. In the second she'd been able to see them, she'd also noticed that his eyes were completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. "You haven't been eating, have you?" she asked him.

"A bit. I'm not hungry."

She nodded. "Oliver, you shouldn't take this so hard. It's only one game. That doesn't mean we can't still win."

"It's going to be a lot harder."

With a shrug, she replied, "So? You said yourself we're amazing."

"We're the best. I don't know about amazing."

"Well, then it's not nearly over." Angelina leaned down so she could see his face better. "Harry feels terrible, too. He's blaming it on himself completely."

"Well, it's not really his fault," Oliver grunted.

"I'm relieved to hear you say that." Angelina patted him on the shoulder. "We miss you down in the Common Room, Wood. A couple of your younger fans, especially."

"Ugh, don't remind me." She smiled at him. "Stop moping. Our next match is only a month away, you know." Tugging gently on the sleeve of his robe, she said, "Come on. You might feel better."

"I doubt it."

"Wood." She gave him a stern look. "McGonagall has threatened to drag you out of here. You've gotten too much of a reputation for sinking into depression every time Gryffindor loses. This isn't healthy, you know."

"Okay, okay!" Oliver got to his feet. "I'm coming. My four thousand word essay for Potions can wait."

Angelina gave him a broad smile. "Good! Oh, and once you've spoken to the rest of your team and friends who are wondering whether or not you're dead, Samantha North was asking about you."

Oliver cocked his head at her, noticing the slight emphasis she put on the name. "What wrong with Sam?"

"Absolutely nothing is wrong with her. I want to know what's going on with you two."

"Nothing's "going on." You've been bugging me about this for three years, and nothing's changed. We're still just friends." He looked at her meaningfully. "I don't see that changing."

Angelina waved her hand. "All right, if you say so. I'll quit bothering you about it."

"No you won't."

"Well, no, I won't. You're right." Tugging his robe again, she said, "Now, let's go. I believe Fred and George were down in the kitchens earlier…"

~

Oliver sat in the library, waiting for Sam to show up. Another Slytherin had promised to pass along the message that he'd be there doing homework. Eventually, she walked through the doors and stood there for a moment, scanning heads for his messy brown hair. When she saw him, she quickly made her way over and tousled his hair, making it even messier. "Hey, how are you?"

"I've been better."

"Quidditch?"

"Yeah."

"I think you guys can win."

"Thanks. But aren't you supporting Slytherin?"

"No."

He was a bit taken aback by the forcefulness of her tone. "Well, I'm glad."

Sam nodded, then her eyes lit up and she said brightly, "Guess what?"

"I don't know."

Excitedly, she began, "I don't really read very much, you know? But a couple days ago I found these really interesting books—I mean, I can't put them down—about the Dark Arts. There's just this really fascinating stuff about You-Know-Who. The man was…well, amazing, he was so powerful, and the things he did…" Sam trailed off as she noticed the rigid look on Oliver's face. "Er…Oliver…? Did I say something…?"

He blinked rapidly and said somewhat harshly, "Did I ever tell you that he killed my sister?"

Sam gave him a horrified look. "Oh, god, no, I didn't…" She stopped, then simply said, "I'm sorry."

Shaking his head, though still avoiding her gaze, Oliver said, "You didn't kill her."

"But I shouldn't have said that."

"You didn't know."

"I'm sorry anyway."

Oliver sat there staring at the table for a long moment, and finally, he asked quietly, "I've never told you about Gwen?" Sam shook her head, and Oliver sighed. "She was great. Really great. A lot older than me. She was nineteen…I only knew her for five years of my life. Five years… She was my best friend, though. Always looked out for me. Played with me when my parents were busy." He paused, then added, "They were a lot. They worked in the Ministry—well, they still do. There weren't a lot of Ministry people up where we lived. Weren't many people at all. So Gwen took care of me all the time."

When Oliver didn't say anything else, Sam reached over and hesitantly put her hand on his. "It was a long time ago."

"It'll never be long enough ago. She wasn't involved. She wasn't an Auror. She was playing Quidditch by herself out on the moor." He paused again, then lowered his voice even further. "My brother saw the Dark Mark. He was sixteen. In his last year here. I remember I was confused why he was so frantic, and why he kept saying Gwen's name. But then I saw it, and I knew. I'd never seen it before, never heard of it, but I knew something was horribly, horribly wrong." Staring blankly at the table, Oliver continued, "She was getting ready to try out for Puddlemere United." With a smile that looked more like rigor mortis, he said, "So, you see, it runs in the family."

Sam's brow was furrowed. "That's terrible."

"My mother was suddenly very grateful for her accident when she was practically forty. Not that my parents didn't love me. They did. Just even more after Gwen died."

There was a long moment of silence between the two of them, until eventually, with a strange look on her face, Sam said, "It's so odd." Without waiting for Oliver to respond, she went on, "Knowing somebody who was affected, I mean. Otherwise it's just so…I don't know. Like it didn't happen. Even though you know it did."

Oliver gave her the smallest of nods. "It happened."

At that moment, Sam realized her hand was still on top of Oliver's, and she withdrew it quickly. The action went completely unnoticed by him—he hadn't noticed that it was there in the first place. They sat there for a while, feeling awkward. Oliver knew he'd come down here to feel better, and now he'd dredged up memories that he was tired of reliving. And he could tell that Sam was embarrassed she'd brought it up. "Um, Sam?" His chair scraped as he stood up. "I should go."

She jumped up as well. "Okay. Do you want to…eat breakfast tomorrow?"

"Sure. Find me."

"I will."

He walked away, but she didn't follow him, and Oliver was somewhat grateful. The gleam in her eyes when she'd been talking about You-Know-Who wasn't something he'd needed to see. Something was happening to his friend, and he couldn't figure out what it was, no matter how long he watched her. Sam was normally such a peaceful person, and lately she'd been talking more and more about death. Draco Malfoy had something to do with it, that much he knew. She despised him. Not that Oliver was all that fond of the brat himself—Malfoy was a little twit who didn't know when to keep his poisonous little mouth shut. Oliver's blood still boiled when he remembered the day he'd called Hermione Granger "Mudblood." It didn't help that he was Slytherin's Seeker, either. He had a maddening tendency to whiz by Oliver as close and as fast as he could during Quidditch matches. Oliver had been highly tempted to lob the Quaffle at him once or twice.

But Sam's vehemence went far beyond Oliver's. Oliver knew he acted crazy and strange and frighteningly obsessive, but this was something different that even the Weasley twins couldn't laugh at.

He would have to talk to her about it. Problem was, he didn't know what to say. "Excuse me, Sam, but you seem to be showing some of the traits of a violent sociopath. Is something wrong?" Ha. Right. He knew there was something going wrong in her relationship with Flint. The way it sounded, it was namely that Flint was cheating on her. Perhaps that was something he could bring up with her. On the other hand, if she didn't want to talk about it, then he didn't want to embarrass her by bringing it up. This was a dilemma, and no mistake.