Oliver Wood could hardly think straight. He knew he had been riding high on his broom. He also knew that said broom had started veering out-of-control. Unable to hold on any longer, he simply let go and found himself falling towards terra firma like a sack of galleons. Eleven years old, apparently, is not too young to die. For the second time in one week, Oliver closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable to come.
"Gotcha Ollie!"
The young lad hit something that much he could feel. However, it was not the hard ground that he expected to hit. Instead, he found himself cradled under one of Charlie Weasley's arms. Oliver opened his eyes to find Charlie smiling down at him. They were flying together on Charlie's broom.
"You... I... you..."
The words were little more than a whisper. Once they touched down on solid ground, Oliver straightened up, dusted off his robes (while managing to look shockingly dignified), looked around, then burst into tears, throwing himself on Charlie and burying his face in the older Gryffindor's robes.
Charlie laughed, not unkindly. "There, there, Ollie," he said. "You'll be alright."
Even as he spoke the words, Oliver could hear the cheering of his classmates as they ran towards them. Soon, he was surrounded by Percy, Cory, Ethan and the rest of his Gryffindor class, all grabbing at his shoulders or slapping his back. Some of the girls even hugged him with tears in their eyes. As the exchange occurred, Charlie's hand never left the lad's shoulder and Oliver was thankful for his security duvet.
Madame Hooch broke through the crowd, a mixture of relief and anger etched on her face.
"Mr. Wood," she called out. "You scared the living banshee out of me, young man." She knelt in front of him, pulled back his hair and inspected his face. "No cuts. No bruises. Still," she stood and looked at Charlie, breathing a sigh of relief, "best to have Madame Pomfrey have a look at him, then. Charlie, will you escort Mr. Wood to the infirmary?"
"I'd be glad to, ma'am," Charlie replied, squeezing Oliver's shoulder. Oliver leaned in closer.
"Want me to come with you, Oliver?" Percy asked.
Oliver started to nod, but Madame Hooch began shooing them away.
"No, no. None of that," she admonished, though her tone was light. "Class is far from over. Back to your brooms, you lot."
The crowd gave a disapproving moan. Nevertheless, they turned to walk back to the courtyard where their brooms waited for them.
"We'll save you a seat at supper, Oliver!" Percy called as he walked away.
"Yeah! See ya, Oliver!" Ethan followed.
Oliver merely nodded, still shaking even as Charlie walked alongside him with his hand on Oliver's shoulder. They were quiet as they made their way up the steps to the main entrance. Charlie opened the door and held it for Oliver, gently guiding him along with his hand still on the young Gryffindor's shoulder. It could stay there forever for all Oliver cared. Once the entrance closed behind them, Oliver swung around and hugged Charlie.
"Whoa, there!" Charlie laughed. "You're quite welcome." He ruffled Oliver's hair. "I'm getting quite used to rescuing you, though. I may have to start charging, yeah?"
Quite honestly, Oliver did not want to let go. Bad things happened when he let go and Charlie always made things better. However, even as Charlie began to pull away, Oliver felt infinitely better.
"Thank you, Mr. Weasley."
Charlie scoffed, "Mr. Weasley! Man, how old d'you think I am?"
They continued to walk down the corridor, Oliver looking the redhead up and down.
"Dunno," he answered. "Thirty?"
"Thirty!" Charlie looked at him with mock-hurt in his eyes. "By golly, by gum! M'dad's thirty! I think. No wait." He stared at the ceiling, moving his fingers as if counting on them. "Carry the one..." He shook his head in defeat. "Well, no matter. Close enough. Merlin, Ollie … I'm only fourteen. I'm fourth-year, after all. Just call me Charlie."
"Okay, Charlie," Oliver said with a giggle as they turned a corner. "How old's Mr. Wea...er Bill?"
"Well, he's sixth-year. So that makes him sixteen, don' it? It'll be a sad day when Bill leaves. But," he continued after a deep breath, "at least we'll have the twins to entertain us."
"I'm nearly twelve," Oliver said, then instantly blushed, slightly embarrassed. There was a small lull in the conversation as their steps echoed down the hall. Finally, Oliver broke the silence.
"Percy says he feels sorry for Hogwarts professors the day the twins show their faces."
"Oh, he would say that," Charlie said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Percival's of the bookly sort." He held up a finger to his pursed lips, as if he were telling Oliver some dastardly secret.
"Don't I know it!" Oliver barked, laughing.
"You'll get on with the twins. Just... don't accept anything they give you at face value. At least, not food. Here we are Oliver."
They stood at the entrance to the infirmary. Oliver looked more than a little sad that their journey had come to an end. "Go on, then. I'll see you at supper, yeah? Don't worry. Madame Pomfrey is as nice as they come."
Oliver stood still for a moment, biting his bottom lip. His eyes seemed bigger -- and sadder -- than should be allowed for the occasion. Finally, he shot his arms out and gave Charlie another hug.
"Thank you for saving me, Charlie," he muttered.
"Anytime, little bugger." The tall lad ruffled Oliver's hair (a habit Oliver was beginning to get quite used to, actually) as he said, "If you want, I can help you with your flying some more."
"Oh, boy would I! Bye, Charlie!"
Oliver seemed to bounce into the infirmary and Charlie waited until he saw Madame Pomfrey fussing over the boy before he turned away and headed, with a smile, back outside to the courtyard. As he turned a corner, he ran into Troy Davis, a second-year Hufflepuff. Troy pulled away, sucking air through his teeth. He was holding his stomach and, if Charlie didn't know better, had been limping.
"Oh, sorry, mate."
"No... no problem, yeah?" Troy replied, refusing to make eye contact.
"You alright then?"
"Y-yeah. Of course," Troy answered, trying to walk around Charlie.
Charlie could see that the younger lad was far from 'alright'. Indeed, there were bruises about his face and neck, particularly around his eye. Charlie placed a hand on the Troy's shoulder and quickly pulled back when the boy winced. "You're far from alright. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"No... I just... fell."
"You fell?"
"Yeah, turned a corner too quick and fell down some stairs on my way to Potions."
Charlie knew this to be a lie. Professor Snape maintained office hours at this time. He looked further down the hall and saw Flint walking out of the stairway leading down to the Dungeons -- down to the Potions rooms. Flint's right hand was still bandaged heavily. The Gryffindor's anger swelled when they made eye contact, Flint smirking victoriously before turning and walking towards the Great Hall.
"Flint's left hook just as bad as his right?" Charlie asked, still staring at the Slytherin's back.
"Wh-what? No, I ... I said I fell, I did!"
With that, Troy limped towards the Infirmary, leaving Charlie to his thoughts -- thoughts of payback.
Oliver could scarcely understand. He was not sick and certainly did not remember complaining about having Wizards Flu, but here he sat on a bed in the Infirmary with the curtain drawn and a thermometer in his mouth. His feet did not touch the ground so, in their boredom, they began to swing. Madame Pomfrey stared patiently at her time-ticker, hand on her hip.
"Very well, then," she said, closing the time-ticker. "Let's see what we have here."
She pulled the thermometer out of Oliver's mouth, brought it close to her eyes and peered at it.
"Yes, very good," she muttered, placing the thin, plastic piece on a metal tray by the stand next to the bed. She took his arm in her hands and felt for the pulse along the inside of his forearm. Her thumb pressed down firmly yet gently on an artery and gazed fixedly at the ceiling, humming an indecipherable tune. She radiated kindness, even the semi-sterile environment of her sanatorium and Oliver found that he enjoyed her company almost as much as Charlie's, though in quite a different way. She was, after all, a grown-up and Charlie, while strong and brave and caring, was a lad – a glorious, wonderful, handsome lad, but a lad nonetheless.
Wait? Are blokes supposed to think of other blokes as 'handsome'?
"Your heart rate is still a little too quick for my liking," she said, patting his arm before releasing it. "If you want a small vial of a Calming Drought, I can prepare it for you."
"No, no thank you, Madame Pomfrey," Oliver said. "I'm fine. Really, I am."
"Well, next time you go falling four stories make sure you at least have a cushion tied to your rump."
Oliver giggled as he hopped off the bed and pulled back the curtains. Both he and Madame Pomfrey gasped when they saw Troy Davis limping towards them, face bloodied and beaten.
"I... I fell--"
"My goodness! What is it with you youngsters falling today?" Madame Pomfrey admonished, though without anger. She bustled over to Troy, gently draping one arm around his shoulders and guiding him to a bed. As they passed, Troy made eye contact with Oliver before darting away. Oliver knew that look. He wore it often, shame. He had made flimsy excuses himself many times when relatives came to visit. 'Oh, I feel down the stairs' or 'I hurt myself wrestling with some mates'.
Watching Troy wince and flinch every time Madame Pomfrey salved ointment on his eye, Oliver felt a tinge of sympathy and not a little pity. He knew who had done this to Troy and that knowledge sent shivers of fear and dread down his spine.