It had been after the Gryffindor/Hufflepuff quidditch game of their seventh year. The rest of the team had rushed to the infirmary to see if Harry was alive, but Oliver couldn’t face it. He loved quidditch with a passion, but a member of his team, his little brood, had almost died while under his care. Unable to face his team just then, especially Harry, he had bolted for the showers. His robes were already soaked to the skin, so he hadn’t bothered to take them off before turning on the cold water as hard as it could go, letting the artificial rain try to wash away all sense of guilt, hoping to turn his mind numb by freezing his body. After an unknowable length of time, barely audible above the water rushing in his ears, he heard a voice.
“Wood? All right in there?” Percy had walked into the shower room, probably sent back to check on him by Fred and George. And why not? He was a prefect; his job was to take care of the people in his house. Of course, Oliver was the last person who would appear to need someone taking care of him. Still, peering at Percy through water dripping past his brow, first he nodded slowly, then stopped, and shook his head once.
Oliver tried to grasp the shower knob to turn off the water, but his hands had gone numb. He fiddled with it, tried to pinch it between his wrists to turn it, but his efforts were completely ineffective. It was then that a hand reached around his side, wrapped around the lever, and shut off the water. Oliver turned around in surprise to see Percy standing next to him in the stall, now also dripping wet.
“Weasley, you’re soaked!” he exclaimed through chattering teeth.
Percy shrugged. “I can dry off. Right now, you need a towel more than I do. Your lips are positively blue. What were you doing in here?”
“I... I... quidditch game,” he finally mumbled, dropping his face towards the floor.
“The loss?”
Oliver’s head shot back up. “No! Well, yes and no. It’s Harry. The little bloke works his tail off, aiming to please, and he nearly died today, Percy. He nearly died, and it would have been my fault!” His hands began shaking, and it wasn’t from the mild hypothermia. He tried to clench them into fists, but his fingers were too numb, an all he managed to do was shape them into weak curves.
“Oliver, Harry’s alright. He’ll be fine. It was those bloody Dementors. You had nothing to do with it.”
“But god, Percy, I should have been able to do something. I’m the great Oliver Wood,” he mocked himself. “Tough, capable, and ready to handle anything. Not only did we lose, I couldn’t even protect my teammate. I can’t face them. I don’t know how to face any of them.”
“What do you mean?” Percy’s usual stoic expression had softened into a genuine concern. He wasn’t used to seeing Oliver like this. In fact, nobody was.
“Sometimes, I don’t think I’m the person everybody thinks I am.” He paused. “That probably doesn’t make much sense, does it? I’m probably just numb to the brain.”
Percy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No, it makes perfect sense.” When his eyes opened again, they were gazing directly into Oliver’s, and an unspoken flash of understanding passed between them. “Come on. Let’s get you out of those robes before you end up in the infirmary with Harry.”
Oliver hesitated.
“Come on, Oliver. We’ll talk. Somehow, I think we both need to.”
The discussion that began while Oliver removed his frigid, wet robes, with Percy’s help, became one of many talks between the boys. It was their own small world, removed from the public eye. It couldn’t last, and they knew it. Both of them had lives to lead, futures to consider, and reputations to uphold. However, when Percy’s quill came to a rest for the evening, and Oliver’s quidditch gear had been set aside, they had their time together. There, they could say whatever needed to be said, or simply remain silent and enjoy each other’s unquestioning acceptance, in a place where thoughts flowed between them freely, and expectations didn’t exist.
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2009-07-25 06:04 am (UTC)“Wood? All right in there?” Percy had walked into the shower room, probably sent back to check on him by Fred and George. And why not? He was a prefect; his job was to take care of the people in his house. Of course, Oliver was the last person who would appear to need someone taking care of him. Still, peering at Percy through water dripping past his brow, first he nodded slowly, then stopped, and shook his head once.
Oliver tried to grasp the shower knob to turn off the water, but his hands had gone numb. He fiddled with it, tried to pinch it between his wrists to turn it, but his efforts were completely ineffective. It was then that a hand reached around his side, wrapped around the lever, and shut off the water. Oliver turned around in surprise to see Percy standing next to him in the stall, now also dripping wet.
“Weasley, you’re soaked!” he exclaimed through chattering teeth.
Percy shrugged. “I can dry off. Right now, you need a towel more than I do. Your lips are positively blue. What were you doing in here?”
“I... I... quidditch game,” he finally mumbled, dropping his face towards the floor.
“The loss?”
Oliver’s head shot back up. “No! Well, yes and no. It’s Harry. The little bloke works his tail off, aiming to please, and he nearly died today, Percy. He nearly died, and it would have been my fault!” His hands began shaking, and it wasn’t from the mild hypothermia. He tried to clench them into fists, but his fingers were too numb, an all he managed to do was shape them into weak curves.
“Oliver, Harry’s alright. He’ll be fine. It was those bloody Dementors. You had nothing to do with it.”
“But god, Percy, I should have been able to do something. I’m the great Oliver Wood,” he mocked himself. “Tough, capable, and ready to handle anything. Not only did we lose, I couldn’t even protect my teammate. I can’t face them. I don’t know how to face any of them.”
“What do you mean?” Percy’s usual stoic expression had softened into a genuine concern. He wasn’t used to seeing Oliver like this. In fact, nobody was.
“Sometimes, I don’t think I’m the person everybody thinks I am.” He paused. “That probably doesn’t make much sense, does it? I’m probably just numb to the brain.”
Percy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No, it makes perfect sense.” When his eyes opened again, they were gazing directly into Oliver’s, and an unspoken flash of understanding passed between them. “Come on. Let’s get you out of those robes before you end up in the infirmary with Harry.”
Oliver hesitated.
“Come on, Oliver. We’ll talk. Somehow, I think we both need to.”
The discussion that began while Oliver removed his frigid, wet robes, with Percy’s help, became one of many talks between the boys. It was their own small world, removed from the public eye. It couldn’t last, and they knew it. Both of them had lives to lead, futures to consider, and reputations to uphold. However, when Percy’s quill came to a rest for the evening, and Oliver’s quidditch gear had been set aside, they had their time together. There, they could say whatever needed to be said, or simply remain silent and enjoy each other’s unquestioning acceptance, in a place where thoughts flowed between them freely, and expectations didn’t exist.