Opov
I walked between the shelves, towards the sports section of the library, scanning for the title I'd been searching for all week, feeling a jolt of anticipation go through me when I spotted what I was looking for, gold letters printed on a purple spine. I reached up, pulling it from the row of books, grinning when I saw a folded bit of parchment under the cover, a little surprised at the hand writing when I unfolded the it.
It was nothing like the wild scribbles attached to the diagrams I'd found trapped between the pages, hastily sketched with several notes, but it was familiar, and I grinned, realizing where I'd seen it before, almost certain my suspicion was correct.
Whoever had made these diagrams, was the same person that had written over my tactics in the team room down by the quidditch pitch.
It was an analysis of the Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin game last week, picking up on strengths and weaknesses on both teams I'd over looked. It was also clear however, that there had been more to the breakdown than what had been left in the book, and that at some point they'd realized they'd left part of it behind, only to go back to the book and find my message hidden in the pages where their notes should have been.
However, when I read the response, it only confused me.
In what was now becoming familiar, pretty hand writing, and what I suspected was a distinct tone of amusement, the words read.
'Children hide from them. The truth, often eludes them. And attention, for them, is never enough. But what do they search for?'
"What?" I asked completely confused, replacing the book on the shelf and frowning at the note, trying to decipher it's meaning.
I mulled it over as I sat at one of the tables, trying to figure out what the hell the riddle was talking about.
"Children hide from them?" I muttered as I continued to squint at the pages at a complete loss, having no idea what it was supposed to mean.
Was it some sort of scary creature? Like a dragon? Though, I wasn't sure a dragon cared much about the truth, except for the truth that it could probably eat anyone attempting to give it a riddle.
I amused myself for a moment, picturing my mysterious tactician friend, trying to quiz a Shortsnout about chaser formations, before being flambéed out of pure scaly irritation. Not that that really helped with the smug little set of words sitting on the table in front of me, that I was currently wracking my brains to try and solve.
I must have sat there for an hour analyzing the lines, even testing the parchment for hidden messages either magical or encoded. Eventually, however, resigned to the fact I was getting no where, I made my way back to Gryffindor tower, determined to enlist help from others if I had to.
But it wasn't until I'd run into Angelina in the common room and was talking to her about our next practice, that I spotted our teammate Harry sitting by the fire, and it clicked.
"Seekers." I said in realization, interrupting my own explanation of the drills I planned to run, and she blinked, clearly puzzled.
"Sorry?"
"Seekers." I said excitedly. "That's the answer. It- right, sorry," I shook my head trying to bring myself back to the present, realizing that at this point, the library was going to close soon. "You've no idea what I'm talking about."
"I really don't." she agreed, but I hardly heard her response.
"I've got to go." I said as Angelina continued to look at me, utterly confused. "Look, I'll explain it all next time we see each other."
"But-" she started, I'd already turned however, and began jogging back to the library.
Rushing between the rows at this point, hoping I hadn't come all this way for nothing, I turned back into the sports section and searched until I found what I was looking for. A large book, with a single word printed on the spine.
The thing that seekers spent their entire time on the pitch searching for.
"SNITCH."
Curious, I pulled down the volume and opened it, only to feel a shock go through me as the pages began to turn on their own, the covers shifting until what I was holding was not a book, but a folder. A folder full of parchment covered in wiggling arrows and color coded notes, dots representing players darting over a mini quidditch pitch along with explanations in the margins.
Smiling, I shut the folder and made my way out of the aisle.
I was about to walk towards the exit when I felt the weight of someone's gaze.
I looked to my left to see though most of the tables had emptied for the evening, one was occupied. Sitting in one of the chairs was a pretty girl, a Ravenclaw by the look of it, with dark eyes that were on me.
This happened from time to time. Being the captain of a house team sometimes got you attention. Like most girls, she looked away quickly, eyes darting back to the massive book in front of her, but unlike in previous situations like this, I found myself hesitating, momentarily unwilling to tear my gaze from her..
There had been something significant about the way she'd looked at me. Not alarming, but something tangible nonetheless, a physical force. One that felt almost... familiar.
I ignored it at first, and was about to make my way back to my dormitory and start looking at the contents of the folder when I remembered something.
"You're friends with Alicia, right?" I asked turning back to the girl and she looked up, her eyes going slightly wider as I approached her table. Sort of ruining the steely effect of her stare.
She looked as if she didn't know what to say. Eventually, however, she nodded.
"Do you have class with her tomorrow?"
Another nod.
"Brilliant." I said in relief. "Do you mind telling her that our practice is postponed? Our beaters got detention and I couldn't find her after dinner."
She looked a little surprised by the request, but just as she was about to respond, a sharp voice said.
"The library is closing in five minutes. If you have anything to return, you must bring it to the front desk."
I turned to see Madam Pince, the librarian glowering at the girl and I, and I shook my head, not having any books to check out.
"Thanks." I said glancing back at the girl before making my way towards the exit, looking through the plays and various explanations, wondering who it was that had written them.
…
"You're jealous, aren't you?" Tara asked modeling the ridiculous head piece that swirled tiny clouds and debris in a vortex over her head.
We'd left the venue and walked into a garden behind the building just to get away from everyone, at least in my case. And while it was nearly summer, the evening was a little cold. Especially in formal ware. I wasn't surprised no one else had decided to come out here which suited me just fine. If I was honest though, I wasn't entirely sure why Tara had.
"No." I said with a laugh, sitting on a bench, entertained as she continued.
"Clearly, I got the item of the night."
"That thing is hideous."
"You're not convinced?" she asked raising an eyebrow. "Well what if I did this?"
She tapped the head piece with her wand and her hair leapt from her shoulders, spiraling into mini cyclones of their own, sprouting from either side of her head.
"And yet, still no." I said with another laugh.
"You haven't seen the full effect." She insisted straightening her posture and spinning as if to model an antique piece, only to stumble no doubt from the several drinks she'd had since the start of the evening.
She let out a startled noise and immediately I stood, catching her elbow before she could fall, and while I expected her to snap or look embarrassed, she started laughing.
"Blimey Critical," I said setting Tara back on her feet, avoiding her hair that was by now whipping out of control. "how much did you drink tonight?"
"Enough to think this was a good purchase."
"So too much." I said grinning and she shrugged, clearly unconcerned.
"Your hair is a wreck after that." I said tapping the device and reaching up to untangle a piece that had gotten caught in the central spiral.
"At least the Tornados will know I support them."
"Do you?" I asked curiously. "Are they your favorite team?"
"No." she said with a laugh.
"Who do you support then?" I asked distracted, trying not to pull the strand that was swirling about.
She hesitated for a moment and I was surprised to see her cheeks had gone a bit flushed, weather it was from the alcohol or the question I wasn't sure.
"Puddlemere." She said turning her head clearly wanting to avoid my gaze.
Her hair slipped over her shoulder and for a moment, I thought I saw a design partially hidden by the collar of her robes. A pattern that looked strangely familiar but, now untangled, she smoothed down the rogue section, and when I blinked, it was gone.
"I guess we have that in common then." I said to cover my confusion as I sat back on the bench. "Puddlemere I mean. They're my favorite too."
At this she scoffed and shot me a meaningful look.
"Yeah, because they pay you."
I shrugged and she rolled her eyes,
"Way to jump on the bandwagon, Oliver."
"Bandwagon?" I asked with an incredulous laugh. "I'm on the team. I'm the wagon people would be jumping on to."
"Now there's a headline." She said and I knew she must really be drunk because instead of the sarcasm I would have expected to accompany the joke, she grinned. And it seemed genuine. "Oliver 'Bandwagon' Wood, ready to be jumped on. The teams security detail would be overrun with scores of eligible bachelorettes just waiting for their chance."
"That is extremely inappropriate." I pointed out feeling my eyebrows jump and she shrugged. "Aren't you Miss terminally professional? Since when do you have a sense of humor?"
"Yooouuu were the one who invited me to this stupid party." She said dragging out the word in accusation and pointing at me in a way that could only be described as determination. Maybe slightly inebriated determination, but determination all the same.
I couldn't help it, I laughed.
"Stop it." she complained and it sounded almost like a whine. At least it would have, if I hadn't found it somewhat adorable. "Stop laughing at me."
"I'm sorry." I said unable to suppress another chuckle.
Merlin, she really was cute when she was angry.
"No you're not." She said shaking her head.
"Really, I am Critical." I insisted, trying to fix my face to hide what I was sure was a massive grin.
"I hate it when you laugh at me." She said frowning and this time, when my smile faded, it did it on it's own. "It makes me feel so… small."
"You are small." I pointed out holding my hand out for comparison, and I was surprised, but not unwelcome to the fact she held up her own, and rested it against mine. It dwarfed hers in comparison. While she wasn't that short, I was tall. Built to take hits from bludgers and other players. In comparison, Tara looked like the sort of person who might forget to eat if distracted long enough. I was sure she was far too organized to let it happen though.
You couldn't take down the powerful, rich, and famous on an empty stomach after all.
"You've got confidence the size of a mountain troll however." I pointed out and she tilted her head, as if considering the statement. "And a spine that could probably shatter dragon scales."
"Is that a compliment?" she asked hesitantly.
"It's a fact."
She narrowed her eyes a little, but whether it was to better focus on me, or figure out how she should respond, I wasn't sure.
They darted towards our hands, studying them with the sort of concentration on something inconsequential only the intoxicated could manage, before she looked away, dropping her hand from mine.
"For the record, I've always had a sense of humor." She said eventually. "I also have a filter." She added. "And unlike most people. I know how to use it."
"Yeah, I'm guessing that has been all but obliterated at this point." I said and she seemed to consider the statement.
"True."
"I'm tempted to ask what you really think of me."
"I'm not that drunk Oliver." She said rolling her eyes and while I probably should have been insulted, I found myself grinning a little as I said.
"I probably don't even really want to know."
"I think you're the most frustrating person I've ever met." She said unexpectedly.
'Alright then.' I thought a little amused. 'Maybe she was that drunk.'
"I'm serious. Some of the things you say, the decisions you make, it makes me want to strangle you. But my hands are too small." She said holding them up almost as if she expected me to inspect them for the task.
"I'm sorry?" I asked uncertainly.
"I don't forgive you." she said shaking her head.
"For not being easy to strangle?"
"For not being easy about anything!" she said in exasperation. "And if you bring this back to the bandwagon joke I'm gonna kill you." She said when she saw my smirk. "You don't listen to the advice in my articles, you're a nightmare to interview, you seem to want to curse yourself in every direction in your career, and then you go out on the pitch." She shrugged. "And remind us why we all put up with it. That no other keeper out there can do quite what you can."
"Am I supposed to apologize for being good at my job?"
"I like to know things Oliver." She said in frustration. "I like to know what's happening, who people are, how they will act. What's happening in the future and how I'm going to deal with it." She shook her head, reaching up and pulling off the ridiculous head piece and catching me off guard when she dropped into the seat next to me on the bench.
"Sometimes it feels like I know a lot about you. Who you are, how you'll act." she said quietly. "And then...Then, you go and do something… well, sometimes it's stupid." She frowned clearly trying to concentrate despite the alcohol. "Othertimes, it's kind of nice, and suddenly I feel like I don't know anything about you at all."
A part of me thought this was a strange thing to say, seeing as really, Tara and I hadn't known each other for all that long. Not well anyways. Even if we were both friends with Alicia, we'd never been friendly, let alone on speaking terms. Not until now at least. And while I wanted to point that out to her, I didn't.
I actually sort of understood it.
Despite spending so much time recently wondering who Tara really was, and why she did the things she did, there were just as many times I noticed something about her, a small detail or quirk that I just thought, 'yeah, that makes sense'. Things about her that just seemed to fit who she was, and the spectrum of what I was realizing was kind of a strange life for someone so relatively young. But how could that be, when I didn't understand her at all? When I was still trying to figure out who she was as a person, and how I felt about that person.
I'd thought I didn't like her. But now. Now having so much resentment towards Tara felt a bit like work. Like the person I didn't get along with, who I'd thought hated me, might not be who she really was. And that person, I was starting to find, I might actually somewhat get along with.
I rarely got along with anyone these days, or genuinely got along with I guess. There were very few people these day who I'd rather spend time with than myself.
"Can I ask you something?"
Her hair still somewhat of a wreck which I had to admit I found a little endearing. Usually she was so put together.
Her expression was calm however, when she looked at me, clearly surprised by the question.
"What do you want to ask?"
"How come you never played?" I asked elaborating when I saw confusion enter her expression. "Quiddich I mean. You didn't play on your house team, did you?"
I knew she hadn't. I wouldn't have forgotten if a girl like her had been on the otherside of the pitch, especially one that knew so much about quidditch.
"No." she sighed and shook her head before casting her gaze out over the garden. "I didn't."
"Why not?" I asked curiously, remembering the mountain of statistics she kept on players in the league, wondering why someone who was as obsessed with the sport as I was never actually mad it on to the pitch. "What, are you afraid of heights or something? Bad hand eye coordination?"
Her answer however, caught me off guard.
"I can't fly."
"What?" I asked confused and she nodded, looking at the ground, almost as if she would find an answer more pleasant on it than the one she'd given.
"I can't fly." She repeated and while her tone was conversational, I could see by the way she was controlling her expression that thinking about it made her upset. "I have a condition." She continued distractedly rubbing her temple with the base of her palm in an automatic motion, almost as if unaware she was doing it. Only then did I noticed the edge of a scar that disappeared into her hair line. "It caused me to have a pretty bad accident as a kid. Fell off a broomstick and nearly died. After that, they realized that it was probably never going to go away and… well, it's not really safe for me to be in the air."
"Oh." I said feeling awful for asking. "I'm sorry."
There was a moment where neither of us spoke, and I couldn't help myself.
"Look, you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but what…" I started, but when she looked at me, something seemed to click into place and I realized I knew exactly what she was talking about. And why it would be a real problem if she was up in the air.
I'd seen it before.
"You freeze." I said softly, finally understanding what had happened the time I'd run into her during the interview at 'The Prophet' and when she'd seemed to blank at the office for 'The Quill'.
She nodded and let out a heavy breath.
"I do." She agreed. "And since there's a record of it causing a serious accident. Well, it's not actually legal for me to fly."
"Are you serious?" I asked horrified and she let out a humorless laugh.
"Yeah. Had to be excused from flying lessons in school and everything."
"Blimey that's rough." I said not knowing what else to say.
What was there to say? That was awful.
"Do they know what causes it?" I asked and she nodded, but didn't elaborate. "And there's nothing that can be done?"
"No." she said shaking her head.
"Merlin, I'm sorry Tara." I said quietly.
I didn't know what I would do if I was told I wasn't allowed to fly anymore. Not even not allowed, but knowing it could cause my death. Taking it easy in practice was bad enough.
"You don't have to feel bad for me, Oliver."
"I do feel bad for you."
"I'm a spoiled rich kid, remember?"
"I'd torch all the gold in my Gringotts vault right the second rather than be told I'd never fly again."
While they were true, it took less than a second to regret the words after they came out. It felt even worse when I caught her expression.
"Sorry." I said again scratching my head awkwardly. "That probably didn't help."
Another silence fell between us and before I could stop myself, I said.
"You know what. I think that's the most depressing thing someone has ever said to me."
I didn't know what I expected her to say to this, but I was relieved when she laughed.
"Good to know."
"Is it?" I asked uncertainly and she shook her head, but seemed amused all the same.
"No."
"Well, thanks again. You know, for being here." I said quietly. "It was nice of you to help me out. I think tonight would have been pretty miserable on my own."
"You'd have had Michael." She pointed out and I rolled my eyes.
"Oh yes because that's such a relief."
"I'm glad you think so." Said a voice and we turned to see Michael himself walking up the path to the garden.
"What are you doing out here?" Tara asked squinting at him suspiciously, but it was at odds with her grin that told me, quite plainly, no matter how coherent she'd been during our conversation, Tara was still a little tipsy.
"Making sure you aren't about to go floating off over the bushes."
"Oh sod off," she said with an irritated gesture. "There wasn't any pixie dust in those drinks, and that only happened once."
"It happened more than once T," he said and while his tone held something of a reproach, his expression didn't. It was amused, indulgent even. "And you know it."
And I realized what had amused me the other day, picturing a younger Tara being wrangled home after a night out with her friends, might have just meant that Michael, in fact, was one of the people doing the wrangling.
It was clear to me now more than ever, why he was here. Not just at the party tonight, but in London, and it wasn't because Tara had asked for his help. It was that she'd asked for him at all. Waiting for even the slightest sign of interest, ready to sweep in and bring her back across the pond.
And suddenly… None of this seemed all that funny anymore. Teenage Tara alone, probably drinking too much in an unfamiliar city, relying on dodgy friends to get her home. All the confusion around her time spent in America, and what had caused her to leave in the first place
I wasn't sure what I was feeling about it, but I didn't like it. And I liked it even less when she smiled at Michael. I had a feeling she was also thinking about that time in her life, though, she didn't look all that upset about it. In fact, it was almost the opposite. Almost as if should he ask her, she might go.
"I'll bet we could find some pixies out here." She said slyly, gesturing over the garden, clearly testing how much she thought she could get away with and he shook his head.
"Definitely time to get you home." He said rolling his eyes, still with that same fond expression and when she smiled, I felt something unpleasant twist inside me.
"C'mon biscuit." He said lifting an arm and gesturing for her to follow him back to the party and she groaned.
"Stooooop." She complained but walked towards him anyways, allowing him to settle his arm around her shoulders, leaning her head on his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "You'd better not say that around Faye." She continued as they began to walk. "She'll be in sufferable."
"Is she still at your apartment?" He laughed.
"Yes!"
Tara threw up her hands in an exasperated, and, in my opinion, uncharacteristic gesture.
"She's so pretty Michael," she said sounding somewhat despaired about the information, her voice fading the further they walked. "And she knows it. We've created a monster."
"I'm pretty proud of her."
"You are such a bad influence."
I couldn't hear what Michael said in response, but it caused Tara to push him only for her to almost topple over in the process and he laughed.
I watched them walk away feeling oddly… hollow, and I wasn't sure why.
I looked away from the pair only to notice Tara had left her ridiculous head piece on the bench next to me, but when I stood and was about to attempt to return it, they rounded a corner and disappeared.
And again, that strange swell of disappointment rose inside of me as I glanced down at the stupid head piece. I felt about as ridiculous standing out here alone, holding this thing as Tara had looked wearing it.
I sat back on the bench realizing suddenly how cold it had gotten, now that the evening had transitioned solidly into night. I shuddered, crossing my arms over my chest and looking around the dark gardens, debating going back inside but knowing I probably wouldn't.
I hadn't realized just how much I was relying on Tara being at the party for me to get through it, and while I knew I should probably make a final appearance, find Kitty or at least someone to show my face to and say a proper good bye I just… couldn't.
Any and all energy to stick the landing on this rare public appearance of mine had evaporated along with my mood. Wondering if really, it was a coincidence that Tara's irritating psychic friend had felt the need to drag her off the second it seemed like for once we were actually getting along.
I felt a surge of something, almost like hostility shoot through me tinged with something that felt strongly like bitterness. Though, strangely, I wasn't sure what there was to be bitter about.
I frowned, suddenly aware of a fluttering sensation near my chest, reaching into my robes only to see the enchanted parchment wriggling in protest to being squashed by my folded arms.
I examined it for a moment, realizing not for the first time, how extraordinary the spell work on it really was. It looked as good as it had almost ten years ago when I'd received it, right before we won the House Cup.
I expected to smile at the memory, to feel that same rush of excitement I always had when I saw there was a new letter. A chance to speak to, confined in, the only person who I thought really ever understood me. And while I did smile eventually, letting the broom stick hover in front of me and watching it zip around the gardens, it felt a little sad. Realizing that seventeen year old Oliver, who was on his way to getting everything he'd ever wanted, would not be the same person on the other side of it.
Money, fame, the war.
'So much was about to happen to that kid.'
I thought reaching out a hand as the broom whipped around a rose bush and settled in my palm.
'And yet.' A voice said quietly in the back of my mind. 'Somethings still never change.'
I glanced at the space where Tara and her friend had vanished, my gaze lingering a second longer than it probably should have, before I looked back at the parchment, fingers curling gently around it's comforting presence.
"But maybe they should." I muttered tucking the trinket back into my robes and getting to my feet.
'Really.' I thought, feeling that same bitterness rear its head in a surprising rush of resentment. 'What was the point of this?'
If becoming a quidditch player, one that was internationally famous wasn't going to conclude this ridiculous fantasy, this half remembered, childish hope that some perfect woman was going to materialize out of my letters and into the world in front of me. One that had already, disappeared on me before.
'Well.' I thought stubbornly.
Maybe it was time to put that particular, hidden hope to bed. Deal with reality.
No one knew about it. It wasn't as if there was anyone to say 'I told you so'. The situation was private. Mine to deal with alone.
But was it really so unrealistic?
A decade ago, people would have thought it was just as likely for me to end up at the world cup. Maybe even less so.
"And look who's laughing now." I muttered tersely.
It wasn't as if 'unlikely' hadn't happened for me before.
Who's to say it wouldn't happen again…
Without thinking too much about my motivations, I stood, determined to end the evenings without any goodbyes, not caring if my team was annoyed about it. As far as they could tell I'd been mingling with guests all night. No one was going to come after me for leaving a bit early.
I grabbed Tara's stupid tornadoes memorabilia, annoyed with myself, and not even really sure as to why.
I chucked it on the counter the moment I got home, feeling stupid and more irritated with each step I took, wishing I'd taken the consquences and skipped the party, all of that changed however, when I saw a tiny owl flutter to my window almost an hour later, a letter with my name on it, clasped in her beak.
And this time, when I saw the hand writing, the excitement was there, and the flutter that accompanied it was definitely not from the parchment she'd enchanted.
I crossed the room and opened the window, giving the owl a hasty scratch before tearing open the letter, heart racing. Smiling as I settled on to my couch and started to read.
Oliver,
I know writing this right now is probably a mistake, but it feels like everything in my life lately has been totally upended and I'm just trying to keep as still as possible until I see where it all lands. Why I think complaining about it to a well fit quidditch player England is determined to make their next obsession is going to help, I'm not sure. But lately it feels like I'm the only sane person living in a madhouse, and I can't help it. I need to talk to someone normal. I swear, it feels like every day my friends and family have joined forces to come up with new and unexpected ways to drive me mental.
I couldn't help but laugh at this, wondering what must be going on in her life that had her considering talking to a reluctantly famous recluse like me was normal, and I continued laughing with what she said next.
Honestly, I'm sort of annoyed with you too at the moment. Based on what's coming out in articles, you have no life. Honestly Oliver, what is the point of rich and attractive if you don't let some lucky girl show it off every once in a while! And stop letting Andrews hog all the media attention. I'm so tired of seeing his terrible penalty record pretty boy face being plastered all over the papers at the moment. I don't care what 'Witch Weekly' says, you are soooooo much better looking than him. They'd see it too if you bothered to smile at the camera every once an a while for Merlin's sake. Why are you denying the ladies in the quidditch community this visual opportunity? I'm sure some sort of business or other would be glad to plaster your face over broomstick polish or something… (Yes I'm seeing the joke, no it was not on purpose, yes I'm ignoring it, thank you for your cooperation).
I was laughing again, wondering what on earth was wrong with her. Having hardly ever seen such a rambling, unfiltered series of thoughts on parchment, let alone from her.
Seriously though, it works for everyone! You make money, they make money, people have something nice too look at in their boring miserable lives. I'm starting to suspect my roommate has snuck something into my tea… Oh I'm going to regret writing this letter tomorrow aren't I? Screw it, I've always wanted to know. Does quidditch actually give you abs? Or is that all advertising and marketing? Or is it illusion magic? I feel like it has to be, playing sports all day must make you hungry? How are you not just eating constantly? Merlin, now I want food. Feel free to send me some, chocolate anything if you're feeling generous. I might actually be willing to curse someone for a peanut butter cup right now. Maybe even worse…
"A what?" I asked totally confused by this, but continued reading regardless.
But I should probably go. My brain is starting to feel like it's vibrating and honestly, I'm a little afraid to wake up tomorrow. You are not allowed to make fun of me for anything I've written here by the way. In fact, you're not even allowed to mention it. This letter didn't even happen ok? If you ask me I'll deny it.
Wishing you well, and a stable, non-shaken brain,
Yours truly,
Poor choices, aka Dreading tomorrow.
I remain, ever always, your friend.
P.S. I was serious about the abs question
P.P.S. I'll never admit to it though.
P.P. P.S. Please burn this letter. I'm hoping not to remember any of this tomorrow.
I frowned at the end of the chaotic, but somewhat charming letter wondering what on earth was going on, on her end of the correspondence, picturing, strangely, not the nameless, faceless figure I'd created in my mind reading our letters over the years, but another quidditch fan. One with dark hair and critical gray eyes and an outlook on life that was so… cynical. The same outlook, it felt, that she had of me.
But it hadn't seemed that way tonight. Tonight, and I could hardly believe I was saying this, felt almost… fun. And it was a night we'd expected to be miserable for the both of us.
How had that happened?
I put the letter on the coffee table in front of me and ran my hand through my hair, not quite sure how I felt about that realization, or what I wanted to do with it.
I didn't have long to think about it however, as a familiar sound of metallic clicks and whirs had me reaching into my robes, and opening the pocket watch that was vibrating impatiently, as if irritated I hadn't responded in the half a second the communication spell had activated.
"Yes?" I asked irritated, unsurprised to see Mallory's face scowling at me from the face of the watch.
"You left." She accused, clearly annoyed but I didn't have it in me to feel all that guilty about it.
"I left." I confirmed, and by the way her expression tightened, I knew to expect a tirade.
"Oliver-"
"What do you want from me Mal?" I asked cutting her off testily. "You asked me to go, I went. You told me to stay out of trouble, I did. I took pictures, I talked to donors."
"Hardly, I don't know if clinging to the Selwyn girl all evening counts."
"I was working."
"Yeah, drinking champagne and bidding on ridiculous quidditch memorabilia was super helpful for your articles I'm sure."
"I hardly drank anything." I pointed out.
"Yeah well that's not true in her case is it?" she responded sourly. "What questions exactly were you trying to answer Oliver? How much alcohol will it take to make this reporter like me? I seriously doubt she was writing anything down tonight."
"Look. You told me to go and the coach saw me mingling. What does it matter who it was? The box is checked."
"Well I guess you have a point there." She said her brow furrowing before continuing, clearly not wanting to admit what she said next. "I guess you didn't look nearly as miserable as you usually do at these sorts of things."
"So why are you complaining?"
"Because you left without telling anybody!" she snapped her tone exasperated. "I spent all night mingling with potential new sponsors, and I finally found one that actually seemed pretty enthusiastic to work with you, and you just vanished!"
"Can't they send me an owl?" I asked testily.
"You have a reputation Oliver." She said stubbornly. "It doesn't look great for reliability with sponsors, if your agent can't even find you at an event you were supposed to attend!"
"Well I'm sure if they really want to work with me, they'll be happy to send an owl."
"You are on much shakier ground than you think you are Wood." She said scowling. "You're still recovering from a career disturbing injury, yes you've regained some social capital through the articles with 'The Quill' but you're not in any place to be refusing sponsors where you can get them. Not if you ever want to retire."
"Fine." I sighed in exasperation, rolling my eyes, but knowing she had a point. "Fine. I'll send them an owl and apologize for missing them. What's the company anyways?"
"Coco Cauldron." She said shifting, no doubt reaching into a pocket, and pulling up a card. "They're a luxury chocolate brand from the states looking to get a foothold in the market in Europe. Look, I know you're not much of a sweets fan, but I tried some at the party and they're actually pretty-"
"I'll do it." I said and she blinked, seeming surprised.
"Really?"
"Does it come with samples as perks, that sort of thing?"
"I assume so." she said uncertainly, her expression thoughtful as she considered the question. "I haven't seen a contract yet, but I'm sure we could work something out." Her brow furrowed again as she asked. "Why? I thought you weren't much of a chocolate person, I never see you eat sweets."
"No." I agreed. "But I'm not above bribery."
"What?" she asked her eyes going wide, and her voice was panicked. "Oliver… please tell me that Selwyn girl didn't rope you into something illegal. I'd heard some rumors about her father, but honestly, I didn't think there was anything actually going on except for her uncle…"
"Relax, Mal." I said rolling my eyes again. "I'll send them an owl. You said they were based in the states, right?" I asked, remembering what Tara had said about flowers and thinking how, despite how murky her time in America had been, she'd seemed to enjoy it.
"Yeah," she confirmed with a nod and I hesitated before thinking.
'Dash it all, two dragons, one spell.'
"Have you ever heard of something called a peanut butter cup?"