Sincere apologies for the delay in updating this. You have aebbe to thank for one at all!
"Today's announcement consists of a reminder about your Fourth Year end of year exams," Professor McGonagall says, her voice loud enough to jolt Oliver from his frequent heat-induced slide into disinterest.
A hand is raised – Fiona Jones, a fellow Gryffindor fourth year. "Professor, are the exams moving?" She asks, her tone confused. "I just ask because, well, we're in March."
McGonagall's look of disdain is comical enough to leave Oliver biting down a howl of laughter. It's an expression that he's seen directed towards him more times than he cares to remember.
"Miss Jones, would you prefer to be reminded the day before your exams?" McGonagall is acerbic, each word enunciated in clipped tones. "Perhaps you could take a leaf out of Mr Wood's strategy of revising for exams – primarily that he does not."
Oliver shifts sheepishly in his chair, wondering whether to push his luck and come up with a retort about his fantastic performance in last year's Transfiguration end of year exam. After a few As on recent projects, he decides it isn't worth it.
It's clear, however, that Professor McGonagall expected a response; the resulting silence as she looks between him and Fiona, combined with the newly neutral expression on her face, evidences that.
"Your exams are in ten weeks," she continues, addressing the class as a whole. "May I recommend that you at least start a form of revision? Remember your O. are—"
"—only a year away, so bear that in mind when it comes to complacency," Oliver continues for her. He thinks he's muttering under his breath.
He's wrong.
A wry expression crosses McGonagall's face. "Well, I'm pleased to see that even Wood has taken the time to remember my suggestions," is her response, accompanied by a series of titters from around the room. "Perhaps if I repeat them enough the entire class will follow them."
Oliver fidgets in his chair, unable to make eye contact with his professor; as the bell rings, he packs his equipment away rapidly, wondering whether he'll be able to escape the room without being kept back.
Before he's even left his seat, McGonagall's called his name and asked him to stay behind. As expected, really.
"I'm sorry, Professor," he begins, before even the other students have left the classroom. He's learnt that it's best to begin almost any conversation with his Head of House by apologising: there's usually at least three things that he ought to beg forgiveness for.
Her amusement is clear through the brief peal of laughter she lets out. "I have to say, Wood, I'm impressed that I've achieved an apology when I wasn't aware that you had done anything wrong…" She studies him intently, "unless there is something you need to apologise for?"
"No, no, definitely not," he hastily replies, attempting to school his features into an expression which will back up his words. He never has been good at hiding his true feelings – something Mum says is a good thing. "I just thought I'd be in trouble for saying your, erm, well what you keep saying to us."
"Oliver, for once that doesn't concern me – though I'd recommend you lower your voice in future if there's something you'd like to attempt to say without my knowledge." It's her casual shift to using his first name that makes Oliver sweat under the arm. "We have had many conversations over the years you've been with us about your…singlemindedness."
Oliver opens his mouth to speak – to protest, to argue – but McGonagall holds a hand up to silence him.
"I'm not saying it is necessarily a bad thing to be dedicated to something you enjoy," she continues, pre-empting his retort. "But it is a concern if you abandon everything else to focus solely on it. Quidditch is a significant part of your life. That means there is a part of your life that isn't the sport – which is passing your O. . You are perfectly capable of Exceeds Expectations across all of your subjects – but that won't happen without you putting in at least a modicum of effort. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He does. Of course he does – it's what his parents have told him at least once every holiday. Quidditch is an exceptionally difficult arena to break into – he might not be successful. He needs a back-up plan. He needs to do well in school as well as on the Quidditch field. But that's easier said than done.
"I understand what you're saying, Professor," he replies dutifully, wondering whether the words sound as forced out loud as they seem to in his head. "I'll definitely bear that in mind."
McGonagall looks as convinced as he feels. "I sincerely hope so, Oliver," she sighs, "enjoy your break."
…
As has become tradition, neither Oliver nor his close friends go home for the first week of the Easter holidays. Well, that is, except for Percy – he left without even a goodbye for Oliver, though Patrick and the others at least got that. In fairness, Oliver was up and out before Percy was even awake this morning, making the most of the marginally earlier sunrise to get some solo flying time in. Realistically, he should be quids in to be the next Gryffindor Quidditch Captain – if McGonagall approves it, of course – as he heard a rumour that the already under-dedicated sixth year Chaser, Robert Shortman, plans to quit the team at the end of the year. But he needs to make sure that he keeps up his knowledge of the most up-to-date strategies, of course.
Although it's a little too dark to be able to fly at dawn, the vestiges of darkness making the Quaffle blur into the background, it's light enough to be able to write to his little sister. Freya's a Year 7 at the local Muggle school – though local is a bit of a misnomer when you live north of Edinburgh – and she wrote last week to tell him that she's been made a Form Representative.
Every time he sits down to think about it, he's awed by Freya Wood, a girl born into the magical world just to be told that she doesn't have magic. Where he knows he would be bitter, Freya is nothing but positive, taking everything in her stride, revelling in the discovery of her own kind of magic in a world considered by so many in their world to be 'normal' at best. And she's going to create even more of a storm than she already is. He just hopes that he can do her proud. At least, despite everything, he's kept his promise of writing to her at least once a week whilst he's away at Hogwarts – even if some of the letters are so woefully boring they can barely be considered worthy of the parchment they're written on.
So today we're starting the fourth round of the Wooden Cup! Remember I showed you my drawings at Easter for it? Well, I managed to get someone in Hogsmeade to make it – it cost me a ridiculous amount of money, but at least we've got a proper cup to have at the end of it … I'll bring it home to show you when I get back!
I've gotta work really hard for the next few weeks – probably should start by writing words properly, even in letters to you! I want to do well at school as well as at Quidditch, it's just hard to make myself not do something that I love, you know? Well, you know more about that than me… anyway, I'll send you the results of the cup as soon as it's finished!
When you write back to me, I want to know everything about this piece of artwork that Mum and Dad told me about – and don't try and keep quiet about the award you got. And about this Caleb kid – I need the info to be able to go embarrassing big brother on you!
Love, Oliver x
Smiling, Oliver folds the piece of paper and vows to send it before breakfast – if he's lucky, it might even make it home by lunchtime. There has to be at least the occasional perk of living in the north of Scotland…
As Oliver starts enchanting the quaffles, he's unaware of eyes on him, all the way in Dumbledore's office.
"A dedicated boy," Albus murmurs towards Minerva, who nods.
"Yes," she agrees, "and I think he has the potential to achieve in the classroom, too. Now, can we get back to this policy suggestion, Albus? If I wanted to observe Wood's semi-nocturnal independent practices, I could look any other day of the week."
…
There's a surprising heatwave in the first two weeks of the summer term – and who wants to be inside during beautiful weather? Certainly not Oliver Wood, nor his closest friends. Who cares about the apparent revision they should be doing for their end of year exams?
Patrick's suggestion of revising for an hour then going outside seems sensible, and Oliver agrees to it. But after a sweltering two hours in the dungeon with Snape and the omnipresent scent of rotten eggs, he's forgotten that promise. Stopping by the Great Hall only to grab a bottle of ice cold water from the temporary set up in the corner, he heads straight out to the broom shed next to the section of the Quidditch field which is almost always empty. It's in full sunlight, as usual, and Oliver casts the sun protection charm he thinks he's mastered; whilst his skin is gradually turning darker, he hasn't noticed any redness. Yet, anyway. And he got this spell from a N.E.W.T level textbook. Look at that, McGonagall.
It's only when his friends arrive that he realises that his focus on Quidditch and flying meant that he forgot the revision session.
"Wood," Patrick shouts, alerting Oliver to the presence of three of his friends. "Come on down."
As he flies to the ground, he realises that none of them have their brooms. Strange.
"Where are your brooms?" he asks, deciding to try and bury his revision mistake.
"You didn't turn up to our revision session," Tom retorts, his tone potentially the harshest Oliver has ever heard it. In almost four years, Oliver doesn't think he's ever heard Tom raise his voice. "We waited half an hour for you."
Sheepish, Oliver dismounts from his broom. "I know, I know. I'm really sorry – Potions was just boiling and I saw the sun and…yeah. I know, it was wrong."
Nobody says anything.
"So, er, are you going to get your brooms?" he continues, when the silence becomes more than just awkward.
"No," Patrick says, folding his arms. "We'll play Quidditch with you again when you start revising."
"But I'm going to! I just forgot!"
"Well, I guess it depends how much you want to play Quidditch," is all Tom says. "See you at dinner."
His friends turn and walk away, Paul not having even said a single word, leaving Oliver alone in one of his favourite places in the world. Formerly, anyway.
It takes him five minutes to decide what to do. First, he locks away his broom in the cupboard, stashing it behind Charlie Weasley's Cleansweep 200. Second, he downs the bottle of water he grabbed from the Great Hall, regretting leaving it for so long – next, he just needs to remember the spell to make drinks colder again.
The heatwave means most staff have left their office and classroom doors open – though the sight of Professor McGonagall's door wide is something Oliver's never seen before. It's so startling, he doesn't think about announcing his presence before walking directly in.
She looks up at the sound of his footsteps, wrinkling her nose slightly.
"Customarily, visitors knock, Mr Wood," she says curtly, "they also tend to shower when leaving the Quidditch pitch, particularly in the height of summer."
"Oh, er, sorry," he says, going to take a seat. Just before his bum hits the cushion does he realise that that probably wouldn't be the best idea, given how sweat seems to cover his enter body, causing him to jump up.
"What has gotten you so eager to speak to me then, Wood?" she asks, setting her quill down. "Particularly when one considers the speed with which you departed my classroom this morning."
"Iwantyoutoputmeindetentionfortherestoftheyear." Oliver speaks so quickly that he can't identify the different words himself.
"Would you repeat that? Potentially at a more understandable pace?"
"I want you to put me in detention," Oliver repeats, "until the end of year exams."
"Oliver Wood, you never cease to amaze me." McGonagall sighs, her expression incredulous. "I thought James Potter and his friends were sent to test me – clearly, they were just a pre-cursor to you."
He shifts uncomfortably, unsure what to do.
"Take a seat, Wood," McGonagall continues, "and grab a biscuit."
As he gingerly takes a seat, uber-conscious of his leaking bodily fluids, Oliver's transported back to a similar situation from last year. He's fairly confident they were talking about something pretty similar then, too.y
"Thanks, Professor," he says, grabbing two jammy dodgers.
"Usually, students sit in that chair trying to persuade me to take them out of detention." McGonagall's eyes narrow. "Or is there something you've done and you're trying to get ahead of the punishment?"
"Actually, Professor, there isn't," Oliver replies, his mouth full of jammy dodger. He takes the time to swallow before he finishes speaking. "I've realised that I'm a bit obsessed with Quidditch. Not that that's a bad thing, but I need to actually revise for my exams. And the only way I can make sure I do revision every day is to be in detention, I think."
McGonagall stares at him for a full minute before she replies. "I think that's the most mature idea that you've had – even if it is both unconventional and rather extreme." She sits upright again, picking up her quill. "I'll make sure your teachers are aware – though do not doubt that misbehaviour in class will result in a double detention, Mr Wood. Now, unless there is anything else, I will see you tomorrow evening in here."
"Thanks Professor," Oliver replies, standing up. "Er, can I take another biscuit?"
"This once, yes."
"Cheers."
.
Three days later, Oliver isn't exactly living his best life, but he's vaguely happy with the compromise. He still gets to fly – and Patrick has even agreed to fly with him again – but he's also making sure that he's doing revision. Surprisingly, he's actually enjoying practicing some of the spells he'd forgotten about. Surely not?
"Percy," Oliver calls out, noticing his former best friend enter the dorm.
"Wood," Percy replies, his tone neutral.
"Any chance I could borrow your copy of Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration?" Oliver asks. "Madam Pince said you'd taken it out. I just want to check something really quickly."
Percy's expression betrays his shock, and he stutters, "my…my library book? You want … you want to borrow it?"
"Yes please," Oliver replies patiently. He's aware that it's a bit of a culture shock, him asking to read a library book that isn't Quidditch through the Ages, but he's been working hard for three days! He's even choosing to read books outside of his detention revision session…
"Just for ten minutes then," Percy says, gathering himself together. "Madam Pince told me that there's a charm on it that hits you over the head if you try and doodle, just so you know. I remember my notes last time I loaned them to you!" He laughs a little, and Oliver joins in.
"Cheers, Percy." Oliver takes the book and leafs through to the page that he's looking for.
"No problem. Can you stick it on my bed when you're finished, please?"
"Course I will."
Percy's halfway back out of the dormitory when he turns around tentatively.
"Wo…Oliver. Is the team getting anything for Charlie's last game as Captain?"
"Er…yeah, I think Elspeth's taken charge of it," Oliver replies. Although practically half of the team are leaving this year – or, like Shortman, deciding to step down from Quidditch to 'focus on N.E. ' – it's still fallen to the seventh years to organise the keepsake.
Percy strides back into the room, reaches into the back of his chest of drawers, before proffering two galleons.
"Put that to it, will you? But don't tell him it's from me."
"Percy, you don't have to…"
"I want to," Percy snaps. "Anyway, remember, library book back on my bed."
As the red-haired fourth year leaves the dormitory, Oliver takes a moment to remember when Percy wouldn't have just loaned him the library book, he'd have taken the time to explain the theory. But that was the old Percy and the old Oliver.
…
Fourth Year exams come and go and, to Oliver's great relief, his request to be put in detention pays off. He secures straight As, with Es in Defence against the Dark Arts – and to everyone's shock, but particularly his own, Transfiguration. He sends a copy of his results to his parents (along with a note requesting that his parents use the money they're going to give him for his results to buy him the best seat they can get for the Puddlemere vs Harpies game), along with the shortest letter he's ever sent to Freya.
Fourth Year also brings Charlie Weasley's legendary Gryffindor team the cup; four consecutive victories is the greatest triumph since James Potter's time as Captain in the 70s. McGonagall even 'forgets' to give homework for the full week following the triumph. Not that it really matters – Snape manages to overcompensate by setting the Gryffindor Fourth Years three projects with a two day deadline.
Unfortunately, the first of his days without (self-imposed) detention brings nothing but trouble. A situation which is triggered partially by Oliver's nosiness and partially by the bad eggs in the Slytherin Fourth Years, notably Marcus Flint, Adrian Pucey and Miles Bletchley, one breaktime. Tucked away around the corner from the Potions classroom finalising the last few lines of his homework, Oliver's attention is grasped when he hears the Weasley name coming out of a Slytherin's mouth.
"Got Weasley's homework." Flint scoffs, handing Pucey what looks like a sheaf of parchment to Oliver's eyes. "Flitwick's gonna love what he's written."
"What do you want me to do, boss?" Bletchley asks.
"If you had a brain, Bletchley, you'd actually be dangerous," Pucey retorts, rolling his eyes. "Do you need us to spell it out for you?"
Flint suddenly seems to realise that there might be people in the vicinity who aren't part of his motley crew of terror; Oliver manages to fling himself backwards quickly before Flint realises he's there.
"Bletchley, you're going to cast that spell you learnt that lets you mimic Weasley's handwriting," Flint says, as if he's talking to a very young child. "Then you're going to write out lots of his work, but every few lines you're going to write something very rude. Probably about Quidditch or Slytherin. And then he's going to get into big trouble. Do you need me to wipe your bum as well, or does that make enough sense for you?"
"No, I've got it now, Flint," Bletchley replies.
"Good." Pucey's voice is as nasally as ever. "It's time that those Gryffindors get what's coming to them. Especially that family – blood traitors thinking they can win the Cup and prance around school."
Flint says something that Oliver has never actually heard before, but is well aware of the meaning.
Oliver sees red.
On reflection at a later date, Oliver will realise that he made the wrong choice: that he should have done something else, gone to see a teacher, thought about his actions.
But that wouldn't be the right thing to do.
Grabbing his wand, abandoning his Potions homework, Oliver sprints around the corner and unleashes hell in the form of the Bat Bogey Hex. He also manages to turn Flint's arm into a broomstick whilst the three Slytherins agitatedly scratch at their faces.
He's about to cast another spell – what, he doesn't know – before he finds his wand flying backwards.
Turning around, Oliver's surprised to see Professor Snape, along with half of the class behind him, a look of intense disdain on his face. Maybe it's loathing, which wouldn't be a surprise.
Calmly, Snape casts the counter-curse, causing the Slytherins' rapid motions to cease.
"Mr Flint, would you care to explain what went on?"
"Wood just cast a curse for no reason."
"Bull!" Oliver can't stop himself. "They stole Percy Weasley's homework and were going to change it before giving it to Flitwick. I heard them." He decides to keep the unsavoury words used by Flint, the catalyst for his actions, to himself.
"If I'd wished for your input, Wood, I would have asked for it." Snape's tone is icy cold. "Detention for a fortnight."
"But—"
"Would you like until the end of term?"
.
At the end of the lesson, Snape walks Oliver and Percy to Professor McGonagall's office, giving Flint's version of events. Thankfully, McGonagall asks Oliver for the true version, and he's careful not to overly embellish what happened – though he continues to keep schtum on Flint's final words.
"Wood, Professor Snape's punishment stands," McGonagall says sternly, holding her hand up pre-emptively to Wood's counter-argument. "If you had concerns over Mr Weasley's homework, you should have spoken to myself or Professor Flitwick. If you would like to argue with me, detention goes into next year.
"Mr Weasley, I am disappointed that you stood by and let Mr Wood carry out such an act—"
Percy interrupts McGonagall, possibly for the first time ever. "Professor, I was behind Professor Snape. I had no involvement in this whatsoever!"
McGonagall levels him with an intense expression, though Percy doesn't waiver.
"That may be the case, Mr Weasley, but I am disappointed at your involvement. That's all – you may go. Both of you."
As they turn to leave, Percy directs the most furious expression possible in Oliver's direction.
"And Wood? If I see you in this office again before the end of the year, you can say goodbye to Quidditch."
As soon as McGonagall's office door is closed, Percy erupts.
"What in Merlin's name did you do?"
"Er, cast a hex because the Slytherins wanted to destroy your reputation?" Oliver retorts wearily.
Percy opens the door to the Transfiguration classroom and holds it open until Oliver has entered before slamming it behind him.
"Why did I need you to get involved? Did I ask you to?" Percy's shouting now, his hands balled into fists.
"I'm sorry that I wanted to protect your reputation!"
"But you didn't, did you, Wood?" His tone full of disgust, Percy leans against the classroom door. "If anything, you've made it worse." He snorts. "I didn't ask you to do anything, and you've still managed to ruin my life!"
Oliver laughs a little. "Perce, I think you're exaggerating a bit. You're not in trouble."
"The word disappointed came out of McGonagall's mouth," Percy retorts, "now, I know you don't care about your reputation anywhere than on the Quidditch field, but some of us want to be Head Boy. Do you really think that's going to happen now?"
"Perce, it was one thing!"
There's an expression on Percy's face that Oliver's never seen before. One that's almost dangerous.
"I don't need your help." Percy's voice is icy cold now. Another first. "I don't want your help. From this point on, Wood, we share a room. We have some lessons together. I might see you at meals. Otherwise, don't speak to me. You are as far from a friend as you could possibly be."
"Perce—" Oliver tries to interrupt, but before he can get more than his former friend's name out of his mouth, Percy's already left the room.
Well, this certainly wasn't how Oliver was planning on ending his Fourth Year of Hogwarts…