Part IX

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"…Regardless, that sort of behaviour is not tolerated here in Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said in her usual stern tone, voice laced with a fine accent that, when combined with a thin scowl and a fixed expression, gave off the impression of a woman who commanded respect and authority at all costs. "Do I make myself clear, Mr Wood?"

"Aye, Professor," Oliver replied.

"And as such, you shall be punished," she said, crossing her arms and regarding Oliver with a pointed look from over her glasses. "Ten points will be removed from Gryffindor and you shall serve a week's detention with me after classes, starting from Monday."

Oliver nodded his head, saying nothing in response.

"Now, I suggest you return to your dormitory and change into something that does not cause you to intimidate the first years," the professor said, the light mirth in her voice causing Oliver to look up in mild shock. "Also, you'd best start practicing if you want to earn those points back on the Quidditch field."

"Easier said than done, Professor," Oliver grumbled, his fists automatically clenching at the notion of Slytherin having the whole pitch the entire weekend. It seemed hardly fair that one team has preferable treatment, regardless of whether they are training new members. It further infuriated Oliver when he remembered that only last year he put in extra hours to help train Harry up, regardless of whether the pitch was pre-booked, without running to McGonagall for special treatment. "Slytherin have the pitch to themselves tomorrow."

"Then," Professor McGonagall began, her accent becoming slightly prominent as she drew out the word, "I believe you shall be needing this."

Oliver watched as the woman removed a small roll of parchment from her emerald robes, her eyes gleaming as mischievously as they would physically allow which, to most students and faculty alike, was not a lot. Oliver took the parchment and could not detain the delight from his voice as he read the words aloud. "I, Professor M McGonagall, give the Gryffindor team permission to practice today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to actually practice, having given up the pitch to the Slytherin team yesterday,"

Oliver could not contain himself any longer. This was by far the best piece of news he had heard all day. It gave him something to cling to, something to distract himself with. He would be able to lose himself in the game, leaving all his troubles on the ground while he flew freely in the air. Yes, he would have to shoulder his troubles once again as soon as his feet touched the ground; however, he would be able to approach them with a clear head.

"Now, I have pressing matters I must attend to," she said, her tone and mannerism instantly reverted to how they would normally be accustomed to. "Good day, Mr Wood."

With an elegant swish of her robes, McGonagall turned and walked hurriedly down the corridor, the faint sound of heels connecting with stone ground leaving with her.

Oliver deposited the roll of parchment inside a secured department in his robes, gently patting the area around to ensure the note was safe and sound. It would do no good to wake in the morning, only to discover his golden opportunity was likely lying cold and alone somewhere, crushed into the ground by a herd of stampeding students and swept away by an irate Filch, who would no doubt be grumbling to Mrs Norris.

It would do no good at all, especially as he already had the morning mapped out inside his head. Hermes, because the changes of Hermione Granger being awake at that time again was as likely as him quitting his Quidditch dreams and becoming a professor at Hogwarts, will meticulously fulfil his role of waking the girls, hopefully using a little more tact than merely squawking in that irritating manner of his. He will speak words of wisdom and his team will listen intently, before making their way to the pitch, throwing the parchment at Flint whilst telling him to "shove off", and taking to the air in what will be remembered as the greatest practice in history.

Well, one can dream, can't they?

Oliver made his way to Gryffindor Tower, pausing to mutter the password, only to be shocked beyond belief when the Fat Lady denied him access, requesting the password once again.

"Erm, wattlebird?" he repeated, annunciating each syllable slowly. He was not aware of a password change.

"Correct," the Fat Lady said with a smile. It was not unusual for students to forget the password from time to time. That Longbottom child would forget quite frequently to the point where the Fat Lady would cough the password herself and open the entrance, ignoring the confused mumblings, as he walked through.

"I said that the first time," Oliver stated.

The Fat Lady shook her head, brown curls tumbling over her shoulder. "No, you did not."

"I didnea."

"I know what you said, dear," she replied, walking the length of the portrait, paying no attention to the small cherry-coloured blooms she crushed. "You said Wrybill. It's a different bird altogether."

Oliver stared in shock, mouth slightly agape and eyes widen with surprise. "Wh'? I didnea … wry…? Wattlebird."

"See, you said it again!" she exclaimed, pointing a finger and stepping forward, nearly edging out of the frame.

"Wrybill sounds nothing like Wattlebird!"

"Exactly!"

Oliver scrunched his brow, eyes searching to understand the woman before him. "That made no sense!" he proclaimed, hands outstretched, flailing left and right, fingers twirling and pointing at random. "Did'ye break your ears singing?"

The Fat Lady directed a glare in Oliver's direction before crossing her arms tightly and turning on the spot, back arched straight. "I'm not opening this door until you apologise – insulting my glorious singing voice like that!"

"Gonnae open it then?" he asked, leaning against the wall.

"Nope," she squeaked in response.

Oliver turned, sliding down the wall with a sluggish groan as his backside made contact with the cold surface, pompously crossing his legs. "Fine then."

The Fat Lady pouted loudly, making it obvious to anyone within hearing distance that she was clearly offended.

The silence lingered for a number of minutes before the Fat Lady conceded, opening the entrance with an exaggerated sigh. Oliver pushed himself up, unceremoniously stepping on the bottom of his robes and having to reach for the wall of stop himself from colliding with the ground. He ignored with snigger from the portrait as he mockingly bowed, expressing his gratitude as he stepped through the entrance, which slammed close the moment he entered.

Oliver felt the heat from the roaring fire hit him as he stepped into the heart of the room, hushed voices coming from all directions but more so from his right. He turned his attention in that direction, regretting it almost instantly as he witnessed one of the twins kneeling in front of a stricken Ginny Weasley, who was biting her quivering lower lip before being pulled into a warm embrace, arms protectively wrapped around her in the only way an older brother knows.

Loud noise and laughter shattered the atmosphere as Harry, Ron and Hermione bombarded into the Common Room.

"Has someone died, or something?" Ron laughed, scratching the back of his head as he took in the sight of everyone standing rigidly, the silence almost suffocating. He watched, confusion written across his face, as Ginny pulled herself from Fred's arms and ran to the girl's dormitory, disappearing from sight. "What's going on?"

"There's been an accident, Ron," George said, causing Ron to turn in the direction of the voice. "Percy's in the hospital wing."

Ron stared at George. "Oh," he said. He could see Hermione looking shocked and Harry fidgeting uncomfortably on the spot, not really knowing where to look. "Is … is he okay?"

George shook his head. "He's in a bad shape."

Ron nodded, pulling on the sleeve of his fraying jumper. "Oh, okay then."

"Are you okay, Ron?" Hermione asked, rushing to his side with sympathy glazing her eyes.

Ron nodded again. "Yeah. I best get ready for detention for Filch."

He thrust his hands in his pockets and made his way to the dormitory, his stomach curling, as he feared another bout of slugs soon expelling from his mouth.

Harry looked to Hermione as Ron walked away from them only to feel her pushing him forward.

"Well, go see how he is," she all but ordered him.

"Right," he replied, walking to follow Ron, only to be stopped before reaching the door.

"Oh, Potter," Oliver said, gripping Harry's arm lightly. "You might want to tell your pal, Malfoy, that we donnea rag on each other during Quidditch practice. Unspoken rule."

"He's not my friend," Harry called out.

"Donnea care," Oliver replied curtly.

Harry nodded and disappeared into boy's dormitories, leaving everyone in the Common Room behind. "Right. Okay."

To be continued...

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