A/N: Yes, I'm back. It's taken a while, and I have officially decided that God either A: hates me, or B: just thinks that I'm a whole lot tougher than what I really am. I thought after testing was over at our school that things might get a little bit easier, but NO. My teachers are conspiring to make sure I don't know the meaning of free time until sometime in 2006. Add that to the fact that this poor little kid that I faintly knew died in a freak accident on our school's track, and it makes for a depressing weekend. I spent almost ten minutes in my backyard crying and shouting alternately, which has my neighbors firmly convinced that I'm a loony, but it made me feel better. Three cheers to living!
Sorry for everyone who just read that, I was venting some frustration and some grief. Writing and gardening are my zens. They're what keeps me going throughout the day.
And in continuing with my incredibly long author's notes, I have done some research into the sunless day, and it actually would be sunny in northern Russia since it's summer in England, but for purposes of plot and title, there is no sun where Oliver is.
Disclaimer: If I owned it, I would be rich, and I sure ain't.
Percy Ignatius Weasley Apparated in front of his apartment door, and wearily opened it and slid inside. He closed, and locked the door whilst taking off his cap and running his fingers through his hair. His hair had always gone completely mad whenever he wore a cap, or when he first got up. George always used to say—
Percy stopped. Thinking about his family wasn't going to do him any good. It was better not to start. He waved his wand, and several candles flickered on, giving a nice light to the cozy apartment. He jabbed his wand at the fireplace, and a roaring fire was soon there. Even though he could have just kept the humid heat of the summer, having a fire in his fireplace always made him feel good. It made him feel snug, comfortable, and as cliché as it might sound, it gave him a warm fuzzy feeling.
He flopped down in his chair and tried to burrow himself in the chair as far as he could go. Even though it was nearly eighty degrees outside, he felt suddenly very cold. Maybe it was the difference of coming home to an empty flat instead of a house full of family.
Suddenly feeling very sorry for himself, Percy rummaged in a box beside his favorite armchair and pulled out an ancient sweater. He blew off the dust of the sweater and held it up to look at it.
He knew that his mother made Weasley sweaters for friends of the family, and for the family itself. Ron's was always maroon, Ginny's a light pink, the twin's a deep blue, Charlie's forest green, Bill's a deep purple, and Percy's always ended up being a sort of funny orange colour. "It's probably the only way she could tell who the sweaters went to," he muttered to himself. "She had to colour-code us so she knew which son we were." The thought made him smile, and he threw on the sweater, despite the fact that the sweater was at least three sizes too small.
Putting on the woolen sweater instantly gave him a sense of nostalgia, and a desperate homesickness. He put his arms tight around his waist and hugged himself. For the present moment, he didn't even think of how the entire scene looked to an impartial observer. The great, wonderful, intelligent Percy Weasley sitting on his couch and hugging himself like a little kid. He stuck his lip out and rummaged through the box again.
He finally found what he was looking for: an old, ratty, red, leather- bound book. He blew dust off the cover, and opened the cover, listening to the leather creak and grind. The first photo that he saw was the photo of when the entire Weasley family had visited Bill in Egypt. Even Charlie had managed to get some time off to visit his elder brother.
Speaking of Charlie and Bill, there were the second from the left. The Weasley family had lined up in order of age, with his parents at the far left, then Bill, Charlie, himself, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny. Percy noticed with a pang that his photographic self was missing from the picture. Bill and Charlie were not waving happily at him. Instead they were whispering to each other, and Percy noticed that Bill in particular kept on sending dark glances to Percy.
With another guilty pang, Percy looked at his parents. His father wore a carefully neutral expression with his arm around Percy's mother. Mrs. Weasley was looking straight at Percy, her eyes red-rimmed. "Mum," Percy whispered to the picture, and then bit his lip. Even though pictures could look back at the people who were looking at them, they could not talk. Photographs could not give him the comfort that he was so desperately searching for.
With a small sense of trepidation, Percy looked at the twins. Even though he had loved his brothers dearly, all through school they had made plaguing him their main purpose in life. Percy and the twins were as unalike as it was possible to be. Fred and George enjoyed flaunting authority, especially his. For example, they were amusing themselves by sticking their tongues out at Percy, and making very rude finger signs that Mrs. Weasley would not approve of if she saw them.
Ron was glaring at Percy through his red bangs. Occasionally he would blink, but nothing other than that broke his sullen stare. Ginny was standing right beside him, and Ron put his arm around her. Percy feared that Ginny was taking what could commonly be known as the "Fred and George route" in life, and enjoying spectacular audacity and a disregard for rules. Her lip curled when she looked at him, and she slowly slid her hand out of her pocket. Making sure that Percy could see her every move, Ginny slowly raised her hand and flicked him off.
Now feeling utterly forlorn and forsaken by his family, Percy turned the heavy parchment page. The next page was taken by a picture of his former girlfriend, Penelope Clearwater. "Penelope," he whispered, tracing the empty photograph with his fingers. He angrily closed the book and threw it down on the floor.
Face it mate, you screwed up, a sly voice said. Percy was about to tell his mind to shut up when he realized that this was not his mind talking to him. This voice was more lilting than his own, with a thick Scottish burr to it. It was the same voice that had uttered that same phrase when Penelope and Percy had had a little spat in Percy's sixth year.
"Shut up Oliver!" he said angrily. It was bad enough that his own voice talked to him and told him of all the times he had screwed up, but did Oliver Wood have to burst in and add his two Knuts worth as well? It was annoying, and Percy wasn't going to stand for it anymore. "Get out of my head Wood!"
"First sign of madness dear, talking to old school friends who aren't even there," his mirror wheezed cheerfully at him. "Not to mention telling them to get out of your head."
"It's not like that," Percy said. "If you knew him, he's the most annoying thing in the entire world. I thought that I was going to be rid of him when I left school, and now he's here and he's talking to me in my head!"
"If you say so dear," his mirror told him dreamily. "Now, be a doll, and don't talk for a few more minutes. I have to go get some beauty sleep."
"You're a mirror!" Percy yelled to the mirror over the fireplace. "You don't need sleep! You're a bloody mirror for Merlin's sake!"
His mirror made no response.
Percy sighed, and then jumped as his doorbell rang. He rushed to answer it, only to find that it was the boy who brought him the Evening Prophet. "Here you go Mr. Weasley," the cheerful young man chirped. Percy muttered his thanks, and took his newspaper. The boy waited for a few seconds, and Percy remembered that he was expecting a tip. He gave him several Knuts, and sent him on his way.
Percy closed the door and opened up the paper. He flipped through the usual nonsense of people seeing You-Know-Who on their doorstep, and walking down the street, and claiming that they had fought the Imperius Curse put on by You-Know-Who's Death Eaters. Only the sports section was worth reading, and even that was going downhill. None of England's teams were doing well. The Chudley Cannons were now last in the league. Ron must be devastated.
"Blah, blah, blah, sports, blah, blah, blah, You-Know-Who, blah, blah, blah," Percy muttered. He threw the newspaper onto the chair and poured himself a nice glass of water. You'd think that being the Minister of Magic's Junior Assistant would be less lonely. You'd especially think that it would entitle you to be a bit more popular. Or at least respected. But Fudge and the entire Ministry were coming under fire for ignoring Harry Potter and Dumbledore. It was depressing.
Percy glanced at the paper again. He went to pick it up, but Hermes fluttered through the open window, bringing in a strong breeze. The wind tossed the pages around and scattered them all over the place. Some of the pages landed in the fire, where they soon began to crinkle with the heat. Percy stalked around his apartment, throwing dark glances at Hermes, who was perched gracefully on his perch in the kitchen. "Stupid owl," Percy growled at Hermes, who fluffed his feathers and gave an innocent "Hoot?"
Percy glanced down at the paper that he was holding. Something about Puddlemere United. He put it on the counter, and then stopped. Puddlemere United? Wasn't that the team that Oliver Wood played for? Not that he cared or anything, but it would be nice for old time's sake to see what was happening with him. Percy picked up the paper, and read the entire article.
Puddlemere United Begins Search for Keeper
In a news brief today, Puddlemere United announced that they were finally beginning the search for their immensely popular Keeper, Oliver Wood. Last seen in a game with Bulgaria, Wood has not answered any owls, and Locators have been unable to find him. Rumors that he was kidnapped by You-Know-Who, and his followers, also known as Death Eaters, have so far been unfounded,
but not squashed.
"Really, there's no reason that Lord...well you know what I'm talking
about, would want him," a spokesman for Puddlemere said. "We are merely concerned about his safety and well-being, and wish for his safe and speedy
return." Despite these statements, Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt has been put in charge
of Oliver Wood's search.
"Oh Merlin," Percy gasped, falling back on his chair. "Oh God. Oliver."
He hadn't even really liked Oliver that much when they were going through school. Why was he so worried about him now? All Oliver liked was Quidditch, Gryffindor's Quidditch team, and Quidditch. He never dated, never really had any close friends, and absolutely never said anything about his family. So why was Percy so distraught over his disappearance?
Because when Ginny had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets, it was Oliver who put away Quidditch through the Ages and sat with him in the dormitory. Because when he and Penelope had fought it had always been Oliver who gave him advice and listened to him rant. Because when a young, crass, Malfoy had called Hermione Granger a Mudblood, it had been Oliver Wood who had confronted him, and wound up in the hospital wing for three days with a broken nose, mild concussion, and broken wrist, courtesy of Derrick and Bole, Slytherin Chasers.
He was just an all-around decent guy, and the kind of guy who did not deserve to be kidnapped by You-Know-Who. As always, Percy's first response was still the same: run to the highest authority figure. That would be Mr. Cornelius Fudge. But the Ministry were already doing everything they could to find him. The next response: run to his family. Yeah. That would work. They hated him, and wouldn't even talk to him.
His family wouldn't talk to him...but maybe someone else would. Frantically scrabbling around for a piece of parchment, Percy sat down at his kitchen table and wrote furiously. She would probably be the only one who wouldn't tear the letter up the second she got it. Percy was convinced that the twins had used his daily letters for target practice with their wands. He had sent a daily owl to them the first two weeks after the Ministry was convinced that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned. None of his letters of apology were answered.
He called Hermes over to him. "You know where to take this," he whispered as he tied the letter onto the screech owl's leg. "Just make sure that no one else but her gets it all right? Bite them if you have to, I don't care. She's the only one who can see this." Hermes looked at him with his golden eyes, nipped his finger affectionately, and sailed off into the dusk.
"Thank you," Angelina muttered. She entered the house and looked around. It was obviously a wizarding home. Here were things that she had grown up with, familiar things that every wizard household had. It was comfortable, and a little bit of her security crept back in. she took a deep breath, and then jumped when someone called her name.
"Oh Angelina! Katie! Alicia! How lovely to see you all dears," Mrs. Weasley said as she bustled down the stairs. "We were going to invite you to stay a little bit each summer, but we never got around to it, I'm sorry. Come in; don't stand out in the cold!" Angelina sat down, feeling more comfortable. Fred and George always promised the three Chasers that they were going to spend a few weeks out of the summer at their house, but somehow they never got around to it. She had known Mrs. Weasley for years, ever since she had helped Angelina and her mother with the tickets at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Occasionally the Weasley parents would come to Hogwarts for the holidays, and other such things.
"Hello Mrs. Weasley," Katie said politely. Mrs. Weasley bustled around the kitchen and threw down several plates of food in front of the three girls. Angelina felt that someone had answered her deepest wishes.
"Fred and George on out, but they should be home soon dears, don't worry," Mrs. Weasley said absently, heaping a pile of food on her plate at least two feet high. Angelina looked at the food, looked at Mrs. Weasley, and then back at the food.
"Well dig in dear, don't let it go to waste," Mrs. Weasley said, coming down from her contemplation. Angelina obliged, and ate the food gratefully.
"Where are Fred and George?" Katie asked. Mrs. Weasley looked at her curiously. Since Katie had had her mouth full at the moment, the sentence sounded much more like "Ere's Red and 'Orge?" Katie swallowed her food and asked the question again.
"Oh that!' Mrs. Weasley said, laughing. "They've just gone to get Harry. He should be here soon. As a matter of fact, he should be here in a few hours. All right!"
"Harry Potter's coming here?" Katie asked curiously. "How many people do you have at the house?"
"Not more than we can handle of course, but now that you mention it, we do seem to be rather full. Let's see, Fred and George are at their old room, Harry can sleep in Ron's, Hermione and Ginny can share the same room...of course Bill and Charlie are using Percy's old room..." Mrs. Weasley sniffed. Angelina curled her lip. She had never been very fond of Percy when he was at school, and when Fred told her about what he had done...well, it was lucky that he wasn't around her at the time. It looked like he might still expect to have children.
"Where are we sleeping?" Alicia suddenly asked. "I'm dead tired." She yawned to prove her point. Mrs. Weasley looked out at the dark night.
"Of course dear! Let me see here..." she looked around the crowded house. "I suppose that we could fit another cot in Ginny's room...Katie, you can sleep there, and then...oh dear, I have no idea where Alicia and Angelina are going to sleep."
'It's all right Mrs. Weasley," Alicia reassured her. "I can sleep out here on the sofa. And Angelina can sleep on the chair." Alicia glared at Angelina as if to challenge her to argue with this decree. Being wiser than that, Angelina nodded her head and smiled.
"Are you sure?" Mrs. Weasley asked. She looked hesitant for a moment, and then smiled. "It would be such a help if you did that. We're so pressed for space, and anything to save space would be very much appreciated."
Alicia rose and hugged Mrs. Weasley. "Consider it done," she laughed. "All we need is a few blankets, and then we'll be ready for the night."
Mrs. Weasley rushed off to get them what they needed while the three Chasers stood in the kitchen.Harry Potter crept into the kitchen of the Burrow. It was very late, and the twins were not in a good mood. No trip on the Knight Bus had ever taken as long as that one. Harry thought it would be a very good idea if he never saw that accursed vehicle again. Right now all he wanted was to sit down and rest. And eat. To eat would be good.
"Here," George said, putting down Harry's trunk. "We'll just leave this right here. It's not as if anyone's going to bother it, what with all the other luggage we have hanging around here." He looked around the kitchen and living room, and gave a start at seeing two lumps on the sofa and easy chair.
"It's all right," Fred said, creeping over closer and peering down at the sleepers. "They're asleep, and bloody hell! It's Angelina and Alicia! How'd they get here?"
"That would be my doing Mr. Weasley," a soft voice came from the shadows. Fred started and then put down his wand as Professor Dumbledore stood up from the chair he was sitting down on. "I thought it for the best if Mrs. Spinnet, Johnson and Bell were here for the meeting."
"Katie's here too?" George asked in disbelief. The twins were flabbergasted, and Tonks took this moment to break into the conversation.
"Fascinating though I'm sure this is, I'm going to call it a night," she said, yawning broadly for effect. "Dumbledore, Fred, George, Harry," she said, attempting a dramatic exit, but ruining the effect by tripping over the doormat. They heard a muffled curse, and then a crack like a whip as she disappeared.
"Yeah, you'd better get to bed too Harry," George said, still staring over at the two sleeping girls. "Mum'll want to know that you made it though. I wouldn't wake her up. Best to tell her in the morning, when she's awake and coherent."
"Good night Harry," Dumbledore said, shaking Harry's hand. Harry felt infinitely better that Dumbledore was talking to him again, and looking him in the eye instead of distance that he had kept between them last year. Harry nodded, and watched as Dumbledore also disappeared.
"Night Harry," Fred said drowsily as he and George closed the door to their room. Harry climbed the steps to Ron's room, taking care to be quiet so as not to awaken him. Ron muttered in his sleep, but then rolled over and began a light snore.
Harry shook his head, and closed his eyes. Almost immediately he was asleep.
He was in a cold room. The pure iciness of it made him shiver and clutch his shoulders, chafing them in a desperate attempt to bring warmth into them. However, the coldness of the room was nothing compared with the chilling voice that spoke from the middle of the room.
"Well Wood, have you had time to consider where your loyalties lie?" Voldemort asked, advancing on a hapless figure. Harry wanted to scream out a warning, to scream in terror, but he was frozen to the spot. At least this wasn't as bad as his dreams last year where he was actually in Voldemort's body. Here he was just an impartial bystander, forced to watch events from the sidelines.
"Don't need to consider," he heard a Scottish voice rasp out. "Never would join you bastards for all the gold in Gringotts." Harry felt like crying at this answer. Wood had upset the Dark Lord...and the Dark Lord did not like being upset...
"Again, you flout my expectations," Voldemort said sadly. "When will you learn that it is futile? Give in! No one cares about you! No one is coming for you! Do you think that the Ministry and that fool Dumbledore would risk their necks for you? Stupid boy! You make me sick with your naivety!"
Don't believe it Wood! Harry thought desperately, trying to give the older man a message. We're coming for you, we're trying to find you, don't believe him! But from the obvious slump of Wood's shoulder it was obvious that the Scottish Keeper did believe what Voldemort was saying.
"That's right," Voldemort said, in a false soothing voice. "Give in. just cry. It's over for you now. So why don't you tell me what you know? By telling me what you know, you might even save the life of your dear mum."
Oliver's shoulders suddenly stiffened. "What about my mum?" he asked, his voice suddenly going dangerously low. "Don't you dare touch her!"
"My dear boy, if you had told us everything to begin with, then we wouldn't even be having this conversation," Voldemort said in a silky voice. "But you were stubborn, I had to resort to violent measures. Now tell me what you know. Or else your dear friends from Quidditch will be getting an unexpected visit."
"You leave them alone," Oliver said, his voice shaking with rage. "Don't you dare come near my family." Voldemort laughed a mirthless laugh.
"Oh, I hope that I can leave them alone. Because frankly sending over several Death Eaters to your parent's house was a waste of my time and effort, and I couldn't use them for several hours. They didn't even get in any good practice. From what they said, the old woman would have just dropped dead of a heart attack when she saw them at the front door-"
Voldemort's mocking had stopped suddenly. It took a few seconds before Harry realized that Oliver Wood had risen and had proceeded to tackle the Dark Lord. Oliver was fighting back. He was screaming many things, some of them names, some of them just random words unconnected to anything else in his brain.
Voldemort had been taken by surprise by Oliver's sudden and vicious attack. But he soon regained the advantage. Oliver's torture weakened muscles were no match for Lord Voldemort's. He seized the Keeper's wrist in his unnaturally long fingers and held it with a tight grip. Oliver screamed as he felt the circulation cut off from his hand, and his already sprained wrist inflame with new pain.
With a brutal kick, Voldemort had Oliver back down on the floor, though Wood's wrist was still in his hand. He kicked the younger man a few more times for emphasis before turning to the hand that was within his reach. He was panting, but laughing with a malicious humor.
"Mr. Wood," he said, running his white fingers over Oliver's tan index fingers, "I think that we need to have another lesson. Since my curses do not seem to have any effect on your spirit, perhaps this will." He snickered as he tightened his grip on Oliver's wrist and Oliver's finger. Harry held his breath for a moment, and almost screamed when he heard a loud snap. Oliver did scream. His scream was hoarse, and raw, and so absolute it sounded like it was ripped from the depths of his soul.
"Never," snap, "raise," snap, "your hand," snap, "against me." A final snap, and all five fingers of Oliver Wood's hands were broken. They had been cruelly snapped back to where the back of the finger could touch the back of his hand. Just looking at the limp, useless fingers made Harry want to heave. "Have you learned a lesson from this Wood?"
Oliver cradled his hurt arm towards himself. For a few minutes, all that was heard was his ragged sobbing as he rose to where he was kneeling. He finally caught control of his breath and raised his head. In his normally deep, gentle brown eyes there was a hatred so pure and absolute it made Harry step back a pace.
He had never known Oliver Wood's eyes could hold that much emotion. He had seen them happy, laughing, gleaming with a maniacal passion that bordered on obsession, widen in surprise when Malfoy called Hermione a Mudblood, and narrow in dislike whenever Marcus Flint chanced to strut down the hallway. But he had never sent them so completely devoid of all normal human emotions and fill up on such hatred.
"Be ready," Oliver said in a low, deadly voice. "Just be ready. Because I swear that one day, I will kill you." In that second, he looked exactly like Voldemort when he was in one of his more deadly rages. Voldemort stepped back slightly, and a feral smile took over Oliver Wood's face. The smile was capped off by a curl of the lip, and of course his wide eyes that were meeting Lord Voldemort's with absolute abhorrence.
"Evidently not," Voldemort said, though Harry imagined that his voice was shaking. He took out his wand and pointed it at Wood. "This time we'll try to make the lesson STICK, won't we?" he asked, smiling a smile that was just as dangerous as Oliver's. He pointed the wand at Oliver's hurt hand. "CRUICIO!"
Oliver and Harry screamed at exactly the same time. Harry fell backwards clutching his scar in agony. He felt a jarring pain in his back, and opened his eyes. Ron, Hermione, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were all crowded into the bedroom looking at him.
"Harry?" Ron asked him uncertainly. "Are you all right?" Harry rose to his feet, took a few tottering steps forward, and promptly vomited all over the floor. Hermione and Bill stepped back as they were closest to the remains of Harry's supper.
"Come here dear," Mrs. Weasley said, putting her arm around Harry and helping him walk out of the room. "Was it a nightmare?" she asked him kindly, sitting him down on a toilet. She sponged his forehead off, and brushed his hair with her fingers.
"Mum, is everything all right?" George asked, sticking his tousled head into the bathroom. "We heard screams..." his voice trailed off as he looked at Harry.
"Yes George dear, everything's fine," Mrs. Weasley said, taking Harry's wrist in her hand and feeling his pulse. "You back to bed, and tell the others the same thing." Harry looked at her gratefully. He was in a cold sweat, and his mouth was feeling unpleasant. As a matter of fact, he thought he was going to...
Mrs. Weasley swiftly stuck a bucket underneath him as he vomited again. He put his head between his knees and stayed there for a few minutes, looking at the white tile in an attempt to clear the pain in his head. He felt Mrs. Weasley's hands rubbing his back soothingly.
"Are you all right Harry dear?" she asked, putting cold cloths on the back of his neck. "You do feel a little feverish, and all this vomiting..." she tsked and moved around the bathroom, getting all sorts of medicines. She performed a Vanishing Charm on the contents of the buckets. Harry faintly heard whispers, and the sounds of doors being shut.
He closed his eyes, answering in a dull voice to Mrs. Weasley's questions and concerns. However bad he was feeling, it was a safe guarantee to say that Oliver Wood was feeling at least ten times worse.
Awww! Poor Oliver! Review! Chapters are now being held for ransom! No new chapter until I see at least five new reviews!