Unintended

Oliver's alarm beeped shrilly at eight o'clock the next morning. He clumsily fumbled to turn the alarm off, then cringed when the morning sun seeped under his eyelids.

"Ugh..." he groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. His head was pounding in pain, and his mouth was pasty and foul tasting.

Then he looked down and was startled find another person wrapped up in the bed sheets. A woman, to be more accurate.

"What the...?"

The woman stirred, opening her eyes and looking up at him. She smiled seductively.

"Good morning," she purred.

"Who are you?" said Oliver. And how much did I have to drink last night? A lot, by the looks of it.

She sighed. "I am Layla, as I have been telling you all night."

She propped herself up against the headboard, and the sheets fell down, revealing that she was wearing...well, nothing. Oliver quickly looked away.

"Go put some clothes on," he said gruffly.

"That didn't seem to bother you last night," she said, snuggling up against him. He could feel her breasts pressing up against him, and suddenly he lurched out of bed.

"Get away from me," he said, clutching a sheet to cover up his lower half. "I have no idea how this happened, but it was a complete mistake. You have to go now."

"A mistake?" said the woman, looking insulted. No one had ever called her a "mistake."

"Seriously, I have practice in less than an hour," said Oliver, tripping as he tried to make his way to the bathroom.

"I can't believe this," said the woman, getting out of bed and striding over to him. She poked a manicured finger at his chest. "No one ever calls me a mistake. I don't care if you are some kind of celebrity or whatever, but I find you completely boorish and disrespectful. You can't even remember my name!"

She stood there, her arms crossed, glaring at him.

The door opened behind her--had it really been unlocked all night?--and Jem poked his head in.

"Hey, Oli--oh," he said, his eyes widening and focusing on the strange sight before him: Oliver half wrapped in a sheet and a naked woman. "Oh, sorry. Looks like you're busy. Um, practice is at nine."

He quickly shut the door and left.

"Look," said Oliver, feeling guilty, "I'm sorry. I had a lot to drink last night and I did a lot of things I normally wouldn't do when I'm sober."

"Whatever," said Layla, stomping over to the bed and furiously putting on her clothes. She gave him another dirty look and slammed the door on her way out.

Sighing, Oliver went into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.

"Why am I so stupid?" he said, staring at his reflection in the mirror. "I just betrayed Percy...although I never plan on telling him about this. I bet Jem is downstairs spreading the word right now..."

He meant to rest his head against the mirror, but misjudged the distance and hit his forehead quite hard, adding to the headache he already had. He quickly dressed and ordered breakfast. He sat down and picked at the French toast, feeling sick to his stomach.

He went over to the fully stocked bar and poured himself a drink, feeling the bite of the liquid as it slid down his parched throat. He managed to finish half the toast, then picked up his broomstick and went downstairs where the team was gathered. They all grinned when they saw him coming.

"Hey, Ol--" began one of the guys, but Oliver cut him off.

"Shut it," he said. "I was really drunk, okay?"

"Well, I was sober and I couldn't even get that blonde one to talk to me," pouted Erik.

"Maybe that's your problem," laughed Jem. He turned to Oliver. "She was certainly a bit of alright, wasn't she?"

"Just drop it, Jem," said Oliver through gritted teeth.

"I wish she'd turned around though," Jem was saying to Luke. "I bet she had a nice set of knockers."

"I SAID, SHUT IT!" roared Oliver, startling the team members into silence.

"What's gotten into you?" said Jem, giving him a disapproving look.

"I--sorry," said Oliver, shaking his head. "I had too much to drink last night. I don't think I'll be able to fly at morning practice."

He started walking towards the elevator.

"Oliver! Where are you going?"

He looked over his shoulder at his puzzled team mates. "I'm not feeling well. Tell Coach I'll be there before afternoon practice."

"Oliver!"

The doors slid open and he stepped into the lift, feeling queasy as it zoomed upward. He went back to the room and flopped on the bed, facedown. A few minutes later, he got up and poured himself another drink.

On his way back to the bed, his eyes fell upon his open duffel bag. There was a book sticking out of the pile of clothes. He hadn't remembered bringing that. He stooped to pick it up and saw that it was Alice's Newbury's book, Vanilla Girl. Not having anything better to do, he opened it up and began to read.

Oliver had not read anything for a very long time, so at first the sight of all the words across the page seemed overwhelming. But soon he found that the story was quite interesting, and the reading became easier.

The book was about a young girl named Amber, who had fallen in love with a boy she met while riding on the train to London. However, she never learned his name, and after he had gotten off at a different station, she thought that she would never see him again. But years later, as a young woman working as a journalist, she sees him again and she knows that she has been lucky enough to have this second chance, so it would be a waste to do nothing.

The story often delved into Amber's memories, and Oliver found himself riveted by one particular passage:

Today was her birthday. She was perhaps six years old, dressed in white lace, her hair curled for the occasion. She had just eaten lunch at a restaurant with her family, and she was standing on the sidewalk, delicately licking the vanilla ice cream.

Then all of a sudden she could feel that she was being looked at. She turned and she met this gaze of a boy, but he wasn't staring at her. His eyes lingered hungrily on her ice cream cone. She didn't know what made her do it, but she stepped forward and held it out to him.

"Here, have a bite," she said.

And Amber knew that she must not hold back any longer. She had been given this second chance, and it would not do to squander it. Tomorrow, she would talk to him. Tomorrow. She would step up to him boldly, and like she had offered the ice cream cone to the unknown boy, ask his name.

It stirred something in his mind--a dream? Or had it been real? He remembered the grey eyes so clearly...the smooth taste of vanilla on his tongue. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence.

But that didn't seem possible. How could someone so accurately portray a memory like that unless they had actually been there?

Alice...he knew there had something familiar about her that night. Could it really be that she was the girl in the story? He could not, would not, ask. He didn't want her to remember him as that little boy. He had always tried to keep that part of himself hidden away, the part of him that was afraid, and he did not want it to be exposed.

But try as he might, the memories were flooding back now, and he felt himself going back to the mindset of himself as a small boy. He shut the book and quickly drained his drink, pouring himself another. He waited for the numbness to wash over him, and eventually it did.

----------------------

"I think someone should go look in on him," Jem said as the team was walking off the pitch after practice.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Travis. "He's not usually like this."

"I'll go up and check on him," volunteered Luke.

The team dispersed once they got back to the hotel. Some went to eat lunch; others went back to their rooms. Luke walked down to the end of the hall where Oliver's room was and knocked on the door. No one answered. He tried yelling Oliver's name, but there was still no response.

He finally decided to call the concierge and get him to open the door. The concierge opened door with a spare key, and they saw Oliver, sprawled across his bed. There was a book tucked halfway underneath him, and his hand was still clutching an empty glass. An empty bottle that had formerly held whisky lay on the floor next to the bed.

"Help me turn him over," said Luke, and together he and the concierge managed to flip Oliver over onto his back. Luke pressed his ear to Oliver's chest.

"Do I need to call a doctor?" said the concierge, looking worried.

"He's still breathing," said Luke, relieved. "I think he'll be okay."

The concierge left, and Jem came into the room, Travis and Erik trailing behind him.

"What happened?" asked Travis.

"This," said Luke, holding up the empty whisky bottle.

"He drank all of that?" said Erik incredulously.

"No, I think we drank some of it last night," said Luke, shaking his head. "But he drank whatever was left, which seems to have been a lot. I think he just needs to sleep it off."

"What if he has alcohol poisoning? He could die."

"Don't be so dramatic," said Luke. "I'm going to stay here with him though, just to make sure nothing happens."

"I'll stay too," said Jem. Travis shrugged and said that he would go down and have lunch with the other guys. Erik went with him.

Jem and Luke sat on either side of Oliver.

"Wonder what he was reading," said Jem, extracting the book from beneath him. "Oliver never reads anything unless it's a scoreboard."

"Is that one of those romance novels?" said Luke, peering at the cover. "Was he really reading that?"

"I guess so," said Jem, tossing it aside and lying down next to Oliver's motionless form. After a minute or two of silence, he spoke again: "Do you ever think that Oliver drinks because he's depressed?"

"Depressed?" said Luke. "I don't know. Oliver always seems so...carefree. He doesn't seem like the type to be depressed."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," agreed Jem, "but still. There's got to be a reason behind all this drinking. I mean, I'm pretty sure he doesn't do it for fun." He jerked his head in Oliver's direction. "This certainly doesn't look very fun."

"Maybe it's just the pressure. The championships are in a few weeks, so we're all under a lot of pressure."

"Yeah, but you don't see us drinking until we pass out," said Jem pointedly. "And I really don't think it's been this bad before. Sure, we've all seen him drink enough to go up and do karaoke, but this? Something tells me that Oliver is keeping secrets from all of us."

"It must be something really bad if he won't even tell us," mused Luke. "We're his best friends. We tell each other everything."

Luke stretched and stood up, announcing that he was going to go to his room and change out of his practice clothes. He also said that he would get lunch. Jem nodded and said the he would stay here with Oliver.

Luke left, and now he was alone with Oliver Wood, one of Britain's top Quidditch players. Jem didn't know why this made him slightly intimidated, but it did. He turned so that he was on his side, his eyes sweeping over Oliver's face.

There was a little bit of stubble on Oliver's chin--he had not bothered to shave that morning--and Jem shakily brushed it with his thumb. The stubble prickled his skin, and he quickly jerked his hand away. He felt so wrong doing this. But here he was, alone with Oliver (though, admittedly, Oliver had always been awake in his fantasies).

He had thought Oliver was a nice guy when he had joined the team. Jem was the youngest member, and Oliver had always been there to look out for him. At first, he had, like everyone else, watched Oliver play with admiration. Then it became something more: each time he saw Oliver, his heart would jump. Seeing him bare-chested in the locker room made him warm with embarrassment, but he could not help looking.

He looked down and realised Oliver wasn't covered and thought he might be cold. He dragged over the sheet that was in the middle of the floor and gently covered him, pulling the sheet up to his chin so his shoulders wouldn't feel chilly.

He looked so peaceful sleeping like this, his mouth slightly parted. Jem hated to think that something had upset Oliver so badly that the only way he could resolve it was to drink until he blacked out. He knew that pain and sadness didn't belong in anyone's life, but especially not Oliver's. His teammate had never done anything to deserve this.

He found himself leaning over Oliver, lowering his face so that he could feel Oliver's breath on his cheeks. He let his lips rest on Oliver's for a fraction of a second, then pulled away.

What am I doing? Have I gone mad? thought Jem in horror. He scrambled away from Oliver just as Luke came back with a tray of food.

"I...thought he might be cold," said Jem nervously, when Luke looked over.

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," he said, setting down the tray. "They were serving kabobs as a lunch special, so I thought I'd bring some up."

They ate the lamb kabobs along with grilled eggplant and almond rice, which turned out to be a very satisfying meal. Then Luke stood up and walked over to the bar and began taking all the bottles out.

"What are you doing?" asked Jem, bewildered.

"I'm not letting him have any more to drink," said Luke. "I can't stand seeing him like this."

Together, the two of them sought out every single bottle in the suite. They even found one hidden in the bathroom, which was further proof that Oliver's drinking problem had been more serious than they had previously thought. They put all the bottles in a pile and made them disappear with a Vanishing Spell.

"He could just conjure some more, couldn't he?" asked Jem.

"He could," said Luke, frowning. "But he's not going to be able to drink it. Starting from tonight, we're all going to take turns spending the night in Oliver's room. I'm hoping that this will stop him from drinking."

"Who's spending the night with him today?" asked Jem anxiously.

"I will," said Luke. "And I'll go talk to the rest of the team."

"I'll stay with him tomorrow," said Jem.

There was a noise from behind them, and they looked to see Oliver moving in his sleep.

"Oliver!" cried Jem, immediately rushing over to the bed, all cautiousness forgotten. "Oliver, can you hear me?"

"Are you awake?" asked Luke, who had also come to his bedside. Oliver mumbled something unintelligible.

"Please wake up," said Jem, putting a hand on Oliver's shoulder.

"He looks kind of flushed, doesn't he?" said Luke, putting a hand against Oliver's forehead. "My God, he's burning!"

Jem put his hand on Oliver's forehead too: indeed, he did have a fever. He and Luke immediately set off in motion. He peeled Oliver's shoes off his feet and helped Luke move him under the bed covers. They layered on as many blankets as they could find, but still, Oliver shivered.

"I'm going to go get medicine," said Luke. "Stay with him. Make sure he keeps breathing. You might want to get a damp towel and put it on his forehead."

Following Luke's instructions, Jem went to the sink and moistened one of the small face towels with cold water. He sat down next to Oliver and gently dabbed at his face.

"You'll be alright, Oliver," he whispered. "You'll be alright."