Oliver Wood and the Muggleborn's Wand
Chapter 8
Alhazred - ssjDOTalhazredATgmailDOTcom - alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom
Not For Profit work. Harry Potter and related materials © J.K. Rowling.
Big thanks to Zach who continually helps with British and Scottish regionalism details, especially in this chapter, despite being neither himself.

With the season fast approaching, Oliver had noticed the intensity of practice going steadily up. Coach Murphy was really running them ragged. Puddlemere United's first game of the season was going to be against the Tutshill Tornados. They had rebuilt their team enough to compete after all, but Oliver was confidant. How well could they possibly do with what must have been the biggest case of a patchwork group ever, against a team that had only needed one replacement?

And I'm not a terrible replacement, if I do say so myself.

Regardless of his excitement, Oliver was exhausted. He'd taken more glancing blows from the bludgers than he'd have liked, and he had the bruises to show for it. One had very nearly knocked him off his broom, and he was still surprised he didn't have broken ribs from it.

As sore as he was, Oliver didn't hit the showers with most of the team; he opted instead to apparate home instead of taking his usual flight. He just wanted to get out of the Quidditch gear and sleep for an hour before doing anything else.

Appearing perfectly inside his living room, Oliver took a deep breath and let himself un-tense. He was still a little wound-up. The adrenaline high was gone but his body hadn't gotten used to the fact that it wasn't playing the game anymore. His hand was holding his broom to the point where the knuckles were white.

As such, he was a little surprised when a knock came at his door. It was pretty bizarre timing, after all. Without thinking, Oliver reached for the doorknob, only to find that the door wouldn't open when he pulled. "Son of a...I really should break this habit." Frustrated but still not thinking, he pulled his wand from inside his robes. "Alohamora!"

Tucking it away, he tried again, and the door opened easily, revealing Jessica on the other side. "Oliver," she squeaked, as if something had caught her tongue halfway through.

"Huh?" He wondered why she was looking at oddly, until he looked down at himself and remembered he hadn't changed. The broom in his hand probably didn't help. "Oh," he looked back up at her, as if everything was fine. "I just got in from practice."

It certainly worked better than he thought it would, if her response was any indication. "Oh! I guess Curling's a little more...trendy than I thought," she eyed his robes up and down. "Um, anyway. I was wondering if you'd like to go out for a pint. Conner had to ditch me, got called into work."

Taking a good, long moment to wrap his brain around the fact that he was standing in front of his Muggle friend in his Quidditch robes, and that his little white lie was still working, Oliver made a note to read up on Curling. It had to be good, if it was a Muggle sport that made a Quidditch uniform seem normal. "Called...into work?"

"Yeah," she nodded.

Chuckling, Oliver shook his head slightly. "Sorry...It's not...it's just, I can't see that really being a place where the workers need to be on call."

It was obvious that she'd also seen the humor in this, apparently before he'd said anything. If anything, she was thrilled that Oliver shared the sentiment. "I know! You'd think he was just making an excuse to run off, but that's the owner, a little off his rocker."

"Right," he said, still grinning. "Um. Just let me change, I'll be right back..."

Oliver didn't just change into his Muggle clothes, he threw a quick charm over himself to clean up a little. It did nothing for the bruises still forming across his chest and face, but it got rid of a lot of sweat, so he wasn't smelling halfway between a sock and the River Piddle, where Puddlemere's pitch sat.

Tossing his arm guards to the floor on top of his robes, Oliver fished out a clean shirt from his bedroom closet. His head popping through the top, he caught site of the single Muggle picture in the room, sitting on his bureau. Staring back at him without motion, Katie had her ever-present smile.

It was the first time Katie's picture had Oliver feeling self-conscious. This was, he figured, halfway to a date. Jessica reminded him of Katie; they weren't very alike, but she had the exact same hair. It was such a small detail, it should've been insignificant, and Oliver always, always felt foolish every time he thought of it.

It didn't stop him from spending time with Jessica whenever she knocked on the door, though. Wondering, honestly, if this counted as a crush or if he was just being creepy, Oliver said to Katie's picture, "You...you wouldn't mind, right?"

Not that he expected an answer. Tearing himself away, sparing himself one last glance at Katie, Oliver met Jessica in the hall.

He was more than a little self-conscious that he couldn't put the locking charm on his door, what with her standing right there, but he managed. It hurt to walk, mostly because he'd been sitting down on an airborne broom for most of practice and his legs were stiff as opposed to bruised.

Because of this, what she said next was music to Oliver's ears. "You wouldn't mind a drive, would you? My car?"

"Absolutely not," he almost laughed. "I'd rather stay off my feet for the rest of the day." He'd never seen her car; driving around was simply not an issue that had come up, considering anything of interest that friends would usually go out to was within walking distance of where they lived. He knew she and Conner went to Muggle nightclubs every now and again, but that wasn't really to Oliver's taste. "I don't own a car, actually...would you believe I don't have a liscence?"

"Really?" She actually stopped walking and turned to look at him, further bemused by the sheepish look on his face. His own embarrassment abolished the possibility that he just meant he didn't have a license because it needed to be renewed. "How do you get around?"

"Eh," he shrugged, "I live close to where practice is." Technically, he didn't feel like it was a lie. The River Piddle was reachable by broomstick, and he often flew down instead of apparating. "Truth be told I've wanted to learn, just haven't had a good reason."

"Hey, Conner and I can teach you," she answered, her eyes practically lighting up. There was an evil little twinkle in the look she gave him, as if the subject matter wasn't nearly as enticing as the idea of teaching something, especially something that most people their age already knew. "We'll have a blast."

He spent the ride intricately watching the driver's side, wondering how on Earth she kept track of everything. Muggle technology was so weird sometimes, all that trouble for simple transportation. Then again, it couldn't be any worse than the multitasking for Quidditch.

It was a short ride. Jessica's pub of choice was the King's Head. It would've been a fifteen minute walk, at most, but it was only a three-minute drive. Oliver had been out for a drink with Jessica, Conner or both of them before, but they usually frequented a smaller, more stereotypically pub-like establishment on Station Road. The King's Head was larger, a restaurant with a bar instead of a bar crammed into a tiny space.

They sat at the bar, and Oliver followed Jessica's lead. He still preferred butterbear over the Muggle equivalent - not being a heavy drinker, he didn't know the difference between Jack Daniels and Firewhiskey - but he nevertheless said "I'll have the same" when she asked the bartender for Spitfire.

"I don't really like the taste," said Jessica. She seemed a little sheepish about it. "To be honest, I just like their ads. 'Downed all over Kent just like the Luftwaffe' and all that. Yeah, I'll buy into anything if it's clever, you know?"

Nodding, Oliver threw her a smile, not wanting her to realize that he didn't understand the joke. He decided honesty was a good way to go. "Me neither, actually...so we're sitting here drinking something we don't like just for an excuse t'jaw through the afternoon. What's that say about us?"

"That we're idiots like the rest of the country," she said. Mug in hand the second the bartender returned, she added, "Cheers, eh?"

Mugs clacking, they drank. Oliver had scarcely come up for air when their conversation was rudely intruded upon from behind, a voice that was very full of itself saying, "Well well, small world, isn't it, Jess?"

Whereas Oliver turned to look, Jessica spun on her stool fairly quickly, the look on her face turning sour. Oliver knew something was wrong, especially when she said, "Oh, you," in a tone that was not at all thrilled. The man who'd spoken was a waiter; his nametag read 'David.'

David was tall and handsome, but the look in his eyes was one Oliver had seen many times before in the eyes of Marcus Flint. It didn't bode well for his personality, and what he said next drove the point home. "Christ, girl, you say that like you don't even remember me!"

"Yeah," she turned back around, intending to give him a cold shoulder. "Wish I didn't."

He didn't like that at all, but she seemed surprised that he would go to the length of grabbing her by the arm to force her into facing him again, yelling "Hey!" as he did it.

Whether or not David was concerned with starting a scene at his own workplace, Oliver didn't care. He slid off the stool and got into his face, no small feat considering his lack of height. "Let go, Lad."

Not taking Oliver very seriously, David didn't grow intimidated, and practically ignored him in favor of hurling more words at Jessica. "What's he, your pimp?"

She slapped him with her free hand, making enough noise to draw the attention of anyone who hadn't looked over when he'd shouted. Shocked, he let go, and she took the chance to slide off the stool and head for the door.

Oliver followed, backpedeling until he was well out of arm's reach. The glare he sent didn't stop David from yelling, "I'll see you again!" His voice sounded poisonous, and a little crazy.

Taking the time to turn around and clearly flip him off, Jessica kept going. She made it into her car before Oliver did, and once he'd sat down and closed the door, she spared a glance at the door they'd just walked out of.

Once it became apparent that David wasn't following them out, she let out a breath and almost dropped her head onto the steering wheel. As it was, she wasalready hanging onto it for dear life with both hands. "I am so...so sorry about that."

"Friend of yours?" Oliver blinked. He felt like an idiot as soon as he heard the words, wishing he'd come up with something that wasn't completely tactless.

"My ex," Jessica managed to roll her eyes. "Used to be a nice guy. Really. He was a totally different person when I met him. Now," she glanced at the King's Head door again, "I really don't know what happened to him...now he just can't stand that the world doesn't resolve around him."

Putting two and two together, Oliver said, "So...you left him, then?" At her nod, he went on. "And he..."

"Didn't take it well," she finished. She looked like she would've cried if she'd been alone. "I'm really sorry."

"S'okay," Oliver waved a hand. "Believe me, I know how you feel. Go ahead and drive, get away from the idiot."

It was a silent drive again, Oliver using the few minutes to contemplate if he really did know how she felt.

He actually hadn't noticed they were back until she stopped. Jessica was obviously feeling awkward, and Oliver wasn't really sure how to make her feel better. He waited for her to do anything, and when she talked again instead of getting out of the car, he let her say what she wanted to. "So you've got a psycho-ex somewhere too?"

"Huh?" He hadn't quite expected that.

"Sorry," she said again, letting her seatbelt loose. "That was a little blunt..."

"It's okay," he said. His eyes wandered away from her, to the trees lining the building's lawn. "No, I don't, actually...I was engaged, love of my life, but...she died..."

Looking more than a little surprised, Jessica made a point of getting out. "Oh, shit. Hell, and I'm sitting here being depressed over my bad relationships."

"No," Oliver followed her. He leaned over the roof of the car, arms crossed on top. He had to stand on his toes. "No, I didn't mean it like that, just...pain's universal sometimes, I think."

"Heh." Amused in a twisted kind of way, she added, "You know, first time the three of us went out for drinks, Conner got all dramatic later and told me how you have the same look in your eyes all the war vets who go to that store have."

"I," he began. How was he supposed to say he was a war vet, technically speaking, without saying too much. "I'd rather not go there just yet. It hasn't been long enough."

With a nod, she finally locked her door and closed it, heading for her flat after sparing Oliver one last glance. "Well, thank you for the thoughts. I appreciate it."

Feeling like saying 'anytime' would be somehow tacky, Oliver waved at her one more time and went inside. Putting his usual locking charm on the door into his flat, he made for the shower, and took a moment to stare at himself in the bathroom mirror.

He couldn't help but wonder if red eyes in dreams were symbolic for anything.