Part VI

...

"Nice of you to finally join us, Harry," Wood had said the moment Harry rushed into the changing rooms, his cheeks growing red at the unwanted looks he was now receiving from his team mates. He wasn't that late. "What kept you?"

Harry laughed gingerly; absently scratching the back of his head as he quickly placed his broom against the wall with the others and sat down in the first empty section of bench he could see, which was next to Katie Bell. He stole a quick glance across at the twins, who looked oddly serious in comparison to how laid back they had been in the Common Room not a few short moments ago. Even the girls, who took every opportunity to playfully banter with the lads over everything and anything, looked subdued. The only flicker of familiarity was the incredulous glare that Angelina was boring into Wood.

"Well?" Wood demanded briskly, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

"Oh," Harry stuttered, surprised. "Something came up." Even to Harry's ears that excuse sounded ridiculous and poorly constructed. He scrunched up his face, eyes half closed as he waited for the inevitable onslaught he was to receive.

Wood opened and closed his mouth, as if to comment, but decided against it and turned around swiftly, tapping the board in front of him with his wand, instantly breathing life into the chalk-like images. "I spent the summer devising a whole new training programme, for obvious reasons-" Why did Harry get the feeling that that comment was directed towards him and that Oliver was still agonising about their devastating loss last year? "–It'll make a huge difference…"

Oliver meticulously explained the concepts he had devised, pausing only to observe his teammates and ensure there were no difficulties in understanding, before moving along to the next board. It took longer than he originally anticipated. He had to repeat and rephrase himself several times because he could tell from the puzzled expressions that stared back at him that there was a severe lack of understanding. Sometimes he wondered whether he was speaking English at times.

"Any questions?" he asked, clapping his hands together as he watched the signs of life appear on the faces of his team.

"I've got a question, Oliver," George groaned, stretching his arms out. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?"

Oliver narrowed his eyes, fists clenching at his sides. "Now, listen here, you lot," he snarled, glowering at them all, "we should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately, owing to circumstances beyond our control…"

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his place, his leg hitting Katie's in the process. Now he knew that comment was directed towards him.

"This year, we train harder than ever before. Let's go!"

Harry thought that the mood would be lifted the moment the arduous meeting ended. The crisp morning air felt wonderful compared to the stuffy atmosphere in the changing rooms and seeing the sun shining on the grass, the thin blanket of dew glistening, cleansed his eyes and made him feel more awake than before. It made him feel refreshed and eager to practice, trying out some of those plays that Oliver was so excited about. He was fairly sure that he fully understood what it was that the Scottish boy was trying to say, however, there were a few occasions where he doubted the words that spewed from his mouth were even English. He never mentioned this to Oliver though. To be honest, no one said anything, which made Harry wonder whether the problem was with him. Maybe being raised by the Durleys and having their prim and proper ways forced down his throat caused him to lack the basic ability to understand any accent that wasn't the distorted Queen's English.

His stomach rumbled when he caught sight of the toast that Ron, who was sitting in the stands with Hermione, was currently devouring. No doubt it was his second or third round. Surely he would not mind sharing? He was about to rush forward when a clicking sound and a bright flash of light caught his attention.

"Not now, Colin," he groaned under his breath. ("Look this way, Harry! This way!") Maybe if he was lucky, no one on the team would notice the overexcited first-year snapping photographs like they were going out of fashion. Hopefully, everyone would be too engrossed with Oliver's new tactics. Maybe-

"Looks like Harry's got himself a fan," Fred laughed.

"Other than our sister, that is," George added.

"Smile for the camera," Fred sniggered as George stood beside him, arms elongated and fingers laced together to form a small rectangular shape. "Snap!"

Colin's camera flashed again and this time it was the girls who burst out into fits of giggles. Katie clenched Alicia's arm, squealing and swooning when Harry looked in their direction.

"He cannae be here with that!" Oliver bellowed suddenly and Harry could have sworn that he saw Colin flinch and lower his camera. "He could be a Slytherin spy for all we know."

"He's in Gryffindor," Harry said quickly.

"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," said George, looking over Oliver's shoulder and seeing a small group of green-clad students walking onto the pitch, broomsticks in their hands.

"Widnae put it past them…"

George whistled, pointing his finger behind Oliver.

"I don't believe it!" Oliver hissed, turning on his heel and striding towards the Slytherins, hand clenched tightly around his broom. "This is our practice time. Sod off!"

Flint smirked as he reached into his robes and removed a rolled up sheet of parchment. "I've got a specially sighed note here from Professor Snape." He pressed the note towards Oliver, gripping it tighter as the other went to retrieve it. "And while we are on the subject of notes. I did have another that I wanted to share with you, but some prefect confiscated it. Don't worry though; I'll make sure he gets what's coming to him for that," he said in a low voice, smiling his contempt as he removed his grip from the parchment.

Oliver never removed his eyes from Flint as he forcefully opened the note, paying no heed as he tore through the parchment. "I, Professor S Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to train their new Seeker," he read, closing the parchment immediately after. "You've got a new Seeker?" he asked, thrusting the note in Flint's chest with a satisfied thump. "Where?"

Harry was taken back when he saw a blond haired boy emerging from behind the group larger figures, a grin plastered on his face. "Malfoy?"

"Hello, Potter," he sneered.

"Lucious Malfoy's son?" Fred asked, looking at the boy with dislike in his eyes.

"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint, as the whole Slytherin team smiled broadly. "Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team…"

"What's happening?" Ron shouted from across the pitch, running over the grass with Hermione close at his heels. "Why aren't you – what's he doing here?" he shouted, furiously pointing a finger at Draco and becoming wide-eyed when he saw the robes he wore.

"I'm the new Seeker, Weasley," he replied in a smug voice, eyes crinkled in amusement. "We were just in the process of showing everyone our new brooms – courtesy of my father."

"N-Nimbus Two Thousand and One?" he gaped, mouth opening and closing, his eyes travelling across the immaculately polished broom.

"Good, aren't they? Perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get some new brooms too? You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives, I expect a museum would bid for them," he said smoothly, looking back at the rest of his team, who howled with laughter.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," Hermione said sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

"Wanna bet?" Flint sneered with a curl of his lip.

Before anyone could comment, Oliver threw down his broom and lunged forward, grabbing Flint's robes in a firm grasp, fury racing through him.

"I widnae say that in front of me, Flint! That's bullshit!" he growled.

"Is it?" Flint retorted, a crooked half smile distorting his face.

Oliver tightened his grip, fingers pinching the skin beneath the robes. He was oblivious to the world around him, not hearing the shocked gasps and nervous words of his team mates as they tried to defuse the situation. It was no use though. Anger coursed through his veins like venom as his heart hammered frantically within his chest, his pulse pounding in his head, beating like a never-ending drum.

"Don't think you can bully me, Flint, because I will make sure you regret it," he snarled vehemently.

Flint leaned in closer, voice lowering to an abrasive whisper as he continued to antagonise the irate boy. "You're beginning to sound like that little lap dog of yours. You ought to be proud - he showed his teeth last time I saw him."

Flint gasped as a forceful, yet unexpected, blow knocked him down to the floor and onto his back, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"For once, I'm glad Percy isnae here because he would have stopped that," Oliver said, staring at Flint with a look of disgust on his face. He retrieved his broom and turned away, loudly shouting "Practice cancelled!" before leaving the pitch.

The Gryffindor team, bar Harry who had been dragged into an argument between Ron and Malfoy, watched Oliver leave, concern written across their faces.

"I've never seen Oliver act that way before," Angelina said solemnly, turning her attention to the rest of her team. "Sure, Flint and he have had this rivalry since the first year, and he has quite the temper, but never this bad…"

Katie nodded in agreement. "Something must have happened, but what?"

"Well, asking him is out of the question – less we end up like that," Angelina replied, nodding towards Flint, who was still wiping blood off the corner of his mouth.

"Oliver would never do that to one of us!" Alicia snapped. "Regardless of his mood…"

"So … what do we do?" Angelina asked, hoping for an easy solution.

"Leave it to us," Fred said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We'll find out."

George remained quiet throughout, recalling what Percy had said earlier. Whatever was going on with Oliver involved Marcus Flint, which was never a good thing. Flint was vicious, both on and off the pitch. Whatever it was couldn't be good…

….

Oliver stormed through the castle, bumping into various people who scowled when he made no apology. It wouldn't be wise for him to do so either because the anger and frustration inside him was too pent up, bubbling onto the surface. If he stopped, he would regret it. Usually if he was wound too tight, he would take to the pitch and just fly, closing his eyes and letting the wind blow away all his thoughts and emotions. Upon descending, he would always find Percy sitting in the stands, usually with a book in his hands, as if knowing where Oliver was and the reasons for his being there.

"Calmed down, have we?" he would say in a light voice, not looking up from the book he was reading.

And Oliver would laugh. Really laugh. Percy would close his book and smile warmly, before adding soft laughter himself.

It would be over – just like that.

Oliver couldn't do that this time though. He knew if he took to the air, Percy wouldn't be in the stands waiting for him. Not this time.

"Oi, Wood!" shouted a voice behind him.

Oliver stopped but did not turn. "What?" he snapped.

"What's going on?"

"That's none of your concern," Oliver said testily, looking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the redhead, who stood rigid behind him.

"It is when it concerns our brother," said another voice from his left, catching Oliver off guard and causing him to turn on the spot to face the newest voice.

George was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in front of his chest; face emotionless and drawn. Fred walked closer, his steps echoing loudly off the old concrete walls.

Oliver absently tightened the grip on his broom, running his thumb along the handle, the polished surface smooth under his fingers. "This doesnae-"

"Oh, come off it, Oliver," Fred said, stopping directly behind Oliver. "We know what an insult directed towards Percy sounds like."

"Especially ones as low as Flint's," George added.

"You Weasleys are all the same – you don't know when not to stick your nose into other people's business," Oliver grumbled and continued walking ahead, hearing two sets of footsteps shadowing his own.

"Stubbornness runs in our family."

"Aye, I see that. Are you gonnea quit following me?" he sighed.

"No," they coursed together.

The Scottish boy gritted his teeth tightly as he muttered the password to the Fat Lady's portrait, quickly slipping inside, noting that the Common Room was empty. Maybe everyone was still at breakfast?

"You'll be following me for a long time then," he told them, descending the stone staircase that leads to his dormitory.

"We know."

He briefly considered using a locking charm but decided against that. It would do little to keep the twins away. They always surprised him by knowing every nook and cranny of the castle. No corridor was secret from the twins.

Upon entering his dormitory, he carefully placed his broom on the latches that hung near to his bed before taking a look around. Nothing had changed since he left this morning, which meant that Percy had yet to return. He was probably around the castle with Penelope.

"Make yourselves at home, why don't yer," he muttered under his breath, watching Fred throwing himself onto Percy's bed, propping the pillow and leaning against the headboard.

"Already am," Fred grinned. "Might grab a catnap while I'm here – catch up on lost sleep."

George sniggered. Even with his back towards Oliver and his twin, he could clearly picture the exchange inside his head. He gently ran his fingers across the edges of the desk. It was exactly the same as the desk at the Burrow, even down to the chipped markings on the wood due to a rather explosive accident. Percy was always attached to the strangest of things. He picked up a battered copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration as he saw a sliver of parchment poking out of the pages. He opened the book to investigate the curious piece of parchment but only managed to read half of the message before something caught the corner of his eye. With trembling hands, he placed the book back on the desk, knocking over an empty glass and causing it to fall to the floor with a shattering sound, shards of gleaming glass scattering along the wooden floor.

"W-why is there blood on the door?" he stammered, pointing his finger towards the bathroom door, the golden handle stained with a crimson smear.

To be continued...

This was longer than I expected. I did originally have this split into two chapters but I didn't it would work out as well so I merged them into one longer chapter, which is always a good thing. Also, just in case any of you are wondering: I am basing Oliver's accent on a friend of mine, rather than the lovely accent that Sean Biggerstaff had in the film. Sean's accent is lovely and subtle but I just cannot picture the Oliver in my head with it - I picture him with a thick Glaswegian accent. Ironically enough, re-reading the book I realised that Oliver does have a few stereotypical Glaswegian characteristics too, which made me laugh.

So, moving along...

Sara: I love your headcanon! It's actually quite similar to my own, in fact. I also agree that he is seriously unappreciated by everyone - the fandom included! I'm also blown away by your kind words :) Thanks!

tamara72: They'll see soon enough. Mark my words :D