A/N: After a long absence, I have finally come back!! And even better now, I have a LAPTOP! Well, actually, it's the one that the school let me have back, but I don't care. It's my own child, and I have it back. And while we were in line, this one PUNK tried to get in front of me to get his laptop first. Let's just say that the people with me in the line saw a mother lift a fifty ton tank off of her child today, if you get my meaning. ;)
Anyway. Onto the neglected story!!!!!!!
Disclaimer: I don't even own the laptop that this is typed on. Do you think that I could actually make such a ridiculous claim as to OWN Harry Potter???? Garr.
Percy eagerly tore open the letter from Hedwig. He was not surprised to see Hermione's neat cursive addressing the envelope. He tore open said envelope, and several sheets of parchment fell out. He picked them up. In a fit of courtesy, Hermione had even labeled the sheets in an effort to make his reading easier. Percy perused through the first one, his eyes skimming for any mention of Oliver.
What he saw was not encouraging. She had written down almost the entire meeting, and left very little to his imagination. Percy was left with a sense of defeatism when he read what she had to say. Oliver was with the Death Eaters, no one knew where, and it was very unlikely that they could manage to get him even if they did know where he was. Percy threw the letters onto the table and rubbed his temples.
Hermes flew into the window and hooted loudly, waking Hedwig. Hedwig looked angrily at the screech owl before fluffing her feathers and slipping into sleep again. Hermes hooted again, this time with a sense of urgency. Percy looked out the window, and then at his watch which he had left on the table. The watch and his own sense of time told him that he was a deadly fifteen minutes late for work with his job as Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic. He was late for the Minister of Magic.
Percy threw on a set of robes. It might have been the robes that he had worn yesterday; they might not have been. It didn't really matter. He shoved some spare Knuts into his pockets and ran out of the flat. He muttered the incantation to lock his door, and then walked down the stairs. While he was halfway down the stairs he Disapparated, leaving no trace that a red-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses had ever even entered the apartment building.
Angelina and Katie took out their brooms and half-heartedly mounted them. They were in no mood for flying, but with Harry, Fred, George, Ron, and Bill they had enough to make a Quidditch team. Charlie's arm was still too badly burned for his mother to allow him to play Quidditch. He was referring.
Angelina took careful aim and lobbed the Quaffle down the field to Katie. Katie spun around the goals several times before aiming carefully for the right hand goal. Ron flew over to block it. Katie released the Quaffle. Ron shot forward to grab the Quaffle. But Katie had put a spin on her throw, and at the last second the Quaffle spun to the left, shooting into the middle goal for the mandatory 10 points. Katie punched the air in delight and soared down the field.
"It was a very near miss," Hermione said comfortingly to Ron as they all walked in the Burrow for brunch. Mrs. Weasley loaded plates in front of them, the eggs and scones practically falling off of the table. Harry ate his food without really tasting it. He was thinking of the dream he had experienced the night before.
It was the dream that he kept on having. This was probably the sixth time that he could remember. It had started just after Sirius...it had started just after it happened. Unlike most of Harry's dreams, it was not terrifying, or violent. Instead, it was just him and Sirius, sitting and talking together. Sometimes they were on the lake at Hogwarts, sometimes they were on the Quidditch pitch, and sometimes they were just in a room together. But wherever he was, Harry always had the same feeling: he felt loved and he felt protected. It was the next best thing to having his parents back. But he always woke up from the dream. Always.
Harry turned the dream over in his mind, the wonderful feeling of having a parent close by...He wondered if Ron ever got used to the feeling of knowing that there would always be someone close by who would wipe your nose when you had dirt on it, and check to make sure that you had clean underwear. All the thinking of dreams made him turn to the dream that he had where he had seen Oliver and Voldemort together. The details were harder to grasp now, but they were still there...they were so close...Harry just wished that he could reach out and snatch the little buggers. Voldemort had been threatening the Order...he had already killed someone...who had he killed? Harry thought for a few more seconds, and then he remembered.
Ron was a little startled when Harry banged his fist so hard on the table that his glass of milk fell over. Hermione and Ginny jumped at least three feet in their seats. Harry had a crazed, urgent look in his eyes. "Where's Dumbledore?" he asked breathlessly, standing up and leaning over the table towards Mrs. Weasley. She staggered back a few steps in fright at the wild-eyed teenager. Harry looked almost like Sirius had when he had just escaped from Azkaban.
"I don't know," she stammered, setting the extra bacon down on the table. "Harry dear, what's wrong?"
"I need to speak to Dumbledore," Harry insisted, gripping the table tightly. Hermione looked down and saw that the veins on Harry's hands were showing and his knuckles were white. "I need to speak to Dumbledore," Harry said again, putting special emphasis on the word need.
"What's wrong Harry?" Hermione asked. Fred, George, Angelina, Alicia and Katie all stared down at their plates. Katie was so tired of feeling out of place in these situations. She should ask for a disclaimer first: if anyone was going to have any outbursts, or bring up any family situations, there should be a small sticker that the person would have to wear. Then Katie would just know to stay out of his or her way.
"It's Oliver," Harry gasped. Every head in the table snapped up at the mention of Oliver. Harry felt somewhat uncomfortable at having all eyes on him, but he continued on regardless. "It's not Oliver exactly, but it has to do with him. It's his parents. I think they're dead."
Oliver lay flat on his back in the small room. His eyes were accustomed to the dark now. He felt that if he had to go outside, then he would go blind from all the light. He had to breathe slowly, from deep in his belly. It was the only way he could breathe without screaming in agony. He knew that one of his ribs was broken, if not two. He did not possess the skill to fix ribs. He doubted whether or not he had set his fingers the right way. His hand looked oddly claw-like and shriveled.
His nose itched. He could not summon the strength or the will to bring his uninjured hand up to scratch it. He let out a soft moan as he shifted his weight to lie more comfortably on the hard stone floor. Oliver was so deep in his misery that he did not hear the small click of the lock that meant that someone was now in the room with him. "Sod off," Oliver rasped. If it was Malfoy, or Flint, or even Voldemort himself...they couldn't hurt him anymore than he already was, though perhaps that wasn't true. He had thought that before Malfoy had decided to dribble him like one of those basketballs that Harry had mentioned.
"Stupid boy," the familiar voice growled. Oliver could tell that it was a man's voice, very deep, and also very familiar. It irked him, knowing that he knew the person who was speaking; he just didn't know their name. "What have I told you every single time I have seen you? I told you not to annoy the Dark Lord. If you had just stayed calm, and limp, then things might have been different. As it is..." his voice trailed off as he picked up Oliver's hurt hand.
Oliver whimpered as he felt his fingers being prodded and moved around. He bit his lower lip tightly to avoid screaming as the bones scraped against one another with a sound like someone grinding their teeth together. The man took in a deep breath and then let it out. "If nothing else, you have an inordinate amount of courage boy," he complimented, though Oliver felt slighted. "Not everyone could attempt to mend their own broken fingers. All that you needed was knowledge of what you were doing."
Oliver grunted. He had passed his first aid course in Basic Training at Puddlemere United, and he wasn't half bad at it either. He was a lot better than some of the idiots Puddlemere had attracted. He knew how to mend broken bones. Well, perhaps he didn't, but he could fake it extremely well.
The man said nothing as he worked in silence. Oliver was reduced to short pants as the pain in his hand became overwhelming. His eyes were tightly closed and he was biting his lip so hard that he expected blood to start pouring out. The man set his hand back down onto his stomach. Oliver released his lip and quietly sobbed in agony. When he was done with his tears, he took several shaky deep breaths to compose himself.
"Drink this," the man said, uncorking a small vial and holding it to Oliver's lips. Oliver wanted to resist the potion, but he couldn't move his head away. The scent of the potion came to him as he breathed in. It smelled like a clear summer's morning with the scent of the dew still on the grass. Oliver decided that anything that smelled that good couldn't be all bad for you, and opened his mouth obediently. The man's arms supported Oliver as he drank the potion.
As Oliver drank, he could feel his insides knit back together. The pain did not vanish, but it did fade to a point where it was no longer overwhelming. Oliver took in a deep breath, and smiled at the absence of pain. "Now I shall tell you this once more boy," the man said harshly. "Stay with us. Annoying the Dark Lord will only bring about your death faster. He will soon find that you are not necessary to him, and the Dark Lord is not known for keeping useless things around him." Oliver felt fingers running over his forehead and through his matter hair, oddly gentle consider how roughly they had pulled his fingers.
The man slowly rose. Oliver wanted to see him. Oliver had to see him, to know the face, the name of his nameless rescuer. He tried to focus in the dark room that was devoid of any light, but he could not pinpoint an identity. Oliver wanted to beg the man to stay with him. The presence of a comforting spirit was a glorious luxury. He opened his mouth, but he only managed a weak moan. "Who..?" he managed to rasp out before his head lolled on his shoulder and he was sucked into the blissful oblivion of natural sleep.