"Nubisae Oliver!"
The familiar voice echoed in the stairwell. Eyes still closed, he heard the unmistakable 'thud' of a fist hitting the wall behind him and then Flint's howling screech. Slowly, he opened his eyes to find Marcus falling backwards, holding his bloodied fist.
"My hand! It's broken!"
"Better your fist than his nose, I'd imagine."
The voice came from Bill Weasley, standing at the bottom of the stairwell with a self-satisfying smirk on his face. His brother, Charlie, walked to Oliver, wand at the ready. His expression was categorically different from his brother's, angry and surly.
He whispered "Finite Incantatem," and Oliver felt the clothes against his skin, once again.
Charlie placed a hand on Oliver's shoulder. Oliver was trembling, eyes wide in fear. He could not tear his gaze from Marcus, who continued to squirm on the floor in pain.
Charlie leaned closer and pulled Oliver's hair back, away from his forehead. Satisfied that there were no marks on the young lad, Charlie slid his hand gently down Oliver's face until he cupped Oliver's cheek in his hand with a thumb massaging just under the lad's eye. Oliver flinched.
"Hey, hey... it's okay," Charlie said in a comforting whisper.
Marcus jumped to his feet and brandished his wand. Charlie swung around when he noticed Oliver's eyes widen.
"Expelliarmus!"
A flash of energy filled the corridor. Marcus' wand flew into Bill's hand.
"Threatening my little brother, are we?" he said, his once-jubilant smile twisted menacingly. "Go on, then," he warned. "Try me."
Marcus continued to glower at Oliver, casting mental threats that showed on his dour expression. Still holding up his broken hand, buckled into the likeness of a claw, Marcus walked past Charlie and up the steps. Oliver clutched at the back of Charlie's shirt, still frightened. Bill blocked the doorway, forcing Marcus to slide sideways past him, struggling to squeeze through without touching the sturdy redhead.
"Are you alright?" Charlie asked.
Oliver was visibly shaken. His eyes darted around the corridor, as if he still needed to find an escape. Charlie ruffled Oliver's hair and let out a small laugh.
"Oh, you'll be alright."
"Th-thanks," Oliver finally managed to mutter.
"No fear," Charlie replied. "Come on, then. I'll walk you to your next class, just-in-case."
Oliver nodded and walked up the stairs, Charlie hot on his heels.
Bill stopped his brother, grabbing his arm. "You'll be okay, then?"
"Me?" Charlie laughed. "I hardly need to worry about that runt. We'll be fine. But meet me in the library later, I still need help with Potions."
Bill continued to walk down the stairs to the dungeons. "Very well, then. See ya, Oliver!"
"Bye!" Oliver called out, peering around Charlie's sturdy frame.
"Where to?" Charlie asked. His voice was bright and jubilant, as if he had not just rescued Oliver from certain doom.
"Uhm... what?"
"Your class? Where to?"
"Oh, I'm done for the day," Oliver said, rather sheepishly. He feared that Charlie would turn back and leave him to walk to the common room by himself.
"To the common room, then?" Charlie asked, turning his head to watch the young lad scuttering alongside him.
Charlie was sturdy, solidly built and rugged with a friendly face. He walked in long strides, not like he owned the place, but certainly, as though nothing could hurt him. In fact, Oliver virtually had to gallop to keep up with him. He was hardly like Percy, who seemed too prim for his age. Instead, Charlie gave the impression of strength and Oliver admired it of him, especially after his display of courage just moments earlier.
"Tell me something," Charlie said, after a long moment of silence. "Do you like to fly?"
"I... I dunno," Oliver answered honestly. "I've never flown before."
Charlie looked slightly affronted by the admission. He scowled, though it was hardly the angry sort of scowl that Professor Snape would brandish; it was playful and sent Oliver into fits of giggles.
"Never flown before?" he repeated and followed by a tut. "Are you at least looking forward to your first flying lesson?"
"Oh, yes!" Oliver exclaimed, almost stumbling over his feet in his excitement.
Oliver followed Charlie up the stairs to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who gave the two an appraising look. Charlie reached back, draping his arm around Oliver's shoulder; the weight of it felt more like a security duvet than an arm.
"Password?" the Fat Lady asked, in her usual haughty, singsong voice.
"Concordiae benivoli," Charlie replied.
The Fat Lady nodded her approval and made a graceful sweeping motion with her arm. The bustle of the common room could be heard as the door swung open. Oliver saw Percy's head peering from around one of the large chairs in front of the fireplace, followed shortly by Cory and Ethan, their expressions that of relief. The three friends hopped out of their chairs and hurried over to Oliver.
Charlie ruffled Oliver's hair once more. "Well," he said, "I hope to see you in your flying lesson."
"Are you the flying coach, then?" he asked, obviously confused.
"Oh, no." Charlie laughed, "Madam Hooch is your instructor. And a fine one at that! No, I'm merely her assistant. You can learn a lot from her, though. Brilliant flyer. Hullo, Perc."
"Don't call me that." Percy scowled as he approached them.
"Fine, then," Charlie said. "Percival!"
Ethan and Cory's eyebrows shot up at the sound of Percy's full name.
"Percival!" Ethan exclaimed, bursting with laughter.
Percy tried to remain dignified, turning his head with a pout and folding his arms in front of his chest. It did not work.
Charlie gave Oliver another ruffle of the hair and a wink. "Tomorrow then?" he asked.
Oliver smiled. "Tomorrow."
Charlie turned and began to walk away, but not before saying goodbye to 'Percival', this time in a much louder, singsong voice. Oliver was happy, again, watching his new friend saunter down the corridor. For a moment, he even forgot having been accosted by Marcus Flint. Even as Charlie disappeared from sight, Oliver continued to stare down the hall.
"Come on, then," Percy called on, exasperatingly. He grabbed Oliver's arm and pulled him into the common room.
§
In the Transfiguration classroom, Professor McGonagall surveyed the work handed in by her students. She always gave first-years a small exam on the first day, a test to determine how much they knew coming into Hogwarts. People who scored well would be expected to advance farther and quicker than those with lower marks. Like Cory Manthis whose grandmother was an exceptionally gifted witch, especially in Transfiguration. With his scores as high as they were, Professor McGonagall expected nothing short of greatness from the lad. Oliver Wood, however, was a different story altogether. He tested quite poorly, indeed, but it was expected. She knew what kind of family he came from, what kind of a waste his father was. Professor McGonagall knew that Oliver would need special attention and hoped that he could find positive role models here at Hogwarts.
A gentle rapping at the door brought her out of her reverie. Professor Dumbledore strode in the room, a gleam in his eye.
"You wanted to see me, Minerva?"
"Oh, yes, Albus. Thank you for coming."
Professor McGonagall set aside the parchment in her hand, stood, and walked to stand in front of Professor Dumbledore.
"It's about Wood," she said, matter-of-factly.
"Ah yes, Odhran's son. What about him exactly?" he asked peering through his half-moon spectacles.
"Well..." Professor McGonagall seemed at a loss for what to say, exactly. "There's... there's been talk."
"Talk, Minerva?"
She could scantly tell if this was another instance of the Headmaster being purposefully vague, or if he honestly had not known.
"There's always 'talk', m'dear," he continued.
"Yes, yes, of course. But..." she agreed. "This is different."
"Do you believe the talk, then?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
Professor McGonagall steeled herself, gathering strength from the very air around her. Holding her chin high, she answered with a nod.
Professor Dumbledore seemed to deflate at this. He had always relied on her judgement. She was his eyes and ears when other more pressing matters diverted his attention. If she felt something were truly amiss in the Wood residence, then it must be.
He sighed exorbitantly. "What do you propose we do, then?"
Professor McGonagall seemed shocked at the question, as if the answer were obvious. "Well... we tell the Ministry! Prevent Oliver from returning home."
"You know as well as I how long that could take, Minerva. Formal charges would have to be filed..."
Professor McGonagall became agitated, looking around as if an answer lay somewhere in the room. "Well... then..." she flustered, "we must keep him here… over holidays and summer."
He reached out, placing his comforting hands on her shoulder. Her voice hitched as her gaze locked with Dumbledore's.
"Minerva," he said, calmly. "We will do our best. Fortunately, he seems to have made friends with Cory and Percy, both of which come from wonderful families. And, as you know, Molly seems to be a bottomless pit of maternal love."
His eyes twinkled infectiously as the words left his mouth and Professor McGonagall could barely resist smiling.
"Yes, yes. Of course, you're right, Albus," she resigned, pulling away from Dumbledore's hold. She walked back to her desk and began stacking the parchments neatly atop one another.
Professor Dumbledore turned and walked to the door, giving the room one final appraising glance before turning his gaze on McGonagall, who still had her back to him.
"Oliver Wood will be okay, Minerva."
She stood transfixed at these words, wondering if they could possibly be true or if they were making a mistake. She feared that what Dumbledore was asking her to do was tantamount to negligence, ignoring the problem in the hopes that it goes away or that someone else picks up the slack. She did not hear Dumbledore's 'goodnight' or the closing of the door behind him. All she could hear was the potential of her failure.
§