Unintended

It was about ten o' clock in the evening, and Oliver had just finished getting ready for bed. He changed into his pyjamas and pulled the luxurious blankets up to his chin, shutting his eyes. Not five minutes later, he was jolted upright by a loud banging noise.

"Oliver!" Someone was at the door. "Open up right now!"

Wearily, he climbed out of bed and opened the door. His coach stood in the doorway, waving a piece of paper and looking slightly insane.

"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, shoving the piece of paper in Oliver's face. It was the note he had written just hours ago.

"Coach, you'd better come in," said Oliver calmly. "You're going to wake everyone up."

"I don't care if I wake up the whole damn country," replied Coach, even though he stepped inside. Oliver closed the door. "Tell me what the hell you mean by this."

He threw the note at Oliver, and both of them watched as it fluttered to the carpet.

"I'd offer you a drink, sir, but they've cleared out my mini-fridge," said Oliver, sitting down on a plush armchair.

"Do you think this is funny, Oliver?" shouted the coach, staring at him disbelievingly as Oliver crossed his ankles and leaned back in the chair. "Where the hell am I going to find another Keeper? Do you have any idea how close we are to winning the championship? Do you?"

"I'm still playing tomorrow's match. I'm sure you'll be able to find someone to play on Saturday."

"You're sure," said the coach, his jaw dropping. "You're sure. You're completely mad, Oliver."

"No, I think this is the sanest I've ever been," he said, conjuring a glass of cranberry juice with a flick of his wrist.

"What is the matter with you, boy?" bellowed Coach, as he strode up to Oliver and shook him by the shoulders, causing the cranberry juice to spill. Oliver calmly siphoned the spill away with his wand.

"There is nothing the matter with me--"

"YOU CAN'T QUIT!" roared the coach, fuming. Oliver half expected him to have flames coming out of his nostrils.

"I already did," said Oliver, staring curiously as his coach began to turn a very odd shade of reddish-purple.

"You are playing tomorrow, and you are playing for the rest of the season," snapped the coach. "Then we'll see about quitting."

"I will play tomorrow," said Oliver firmly, "but I will not play for the rest of the season. Tomorrow is it."

"You will play the rest of the bloody season," spat the coach, pointing a shaking finger in Oliver's direction. "You will do what I say."

"Technically, once a player has announced his resignation to the team and has put it down in writing, then he is no longer on the team. I am no longer on the team. You can't tell me what to do."

"You're being an idiot, Oliver. Listen to me, boy. If you do this, you're messing up our chances to win. You're messing up your own life. Now let's just talk it over calmly and rationally. We can reason it out. Just tell me what's bothering you and that'll be the end of it."

"This is my life, and I'll do what I want with it," said Oliver, gritting his teeth. "And I don't think that telling you my problems will resolve them. You wouldn't understand anyway."

"Fine. If that's the way you want it, then you can have it." The coach crossed his arms. "If you're no longer on the team, then you're no longer in my budget. After you play tomorrow's match, I don't want you setting foot in this hotel. You can pay your own plane fare and find a way back to London."

He walked to the door and wrenched it open.

"Goodnight, Oliver," he said coldly before shutting the door.

"Goodbye, Coach," said Oliver, his jaws clenched.

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

Less than twenty-four hours later, Oliver was on a plane heading back to London.

"Would you like some coffee, miss?"

"Yes, please," said Oliver, smiling at the airline attendant, who glared suspiciously at his dark sunglasses.

He was outfitted in a wig, sunglasses, a loose-fitting jacket, jeans, and sneakers. The woman in the department store had given him a strange look, but he had purchased lipstick and made sure that his face was clean shaven. He knew that once the news of his resignation got out, there would be no peace. The reporters would probably be waiting for him as soon as set foot off the plane. They would never recognise him like this.

There was almost no point in ordering a coffee, as the second he raised it to his lips, the plane took off. He felt the familiar sensation of Apparition in his stomach, and he gripped his cup tightly. A minute later, the plane stopped, and people were already rising from their seats. He grabbed his duffel bag and followed the crowd into the airport.

As he had guessed, a horde of reporters was being restrained by airport security.

"Was Oliver Wood on this flight?" said one reporter, shoving her way past security to interrogate a frightened passenger.

"I don't know," replied the woman, quickly fleeing into the restroom.

Oliver walked calmly past them, and no one looked his way. He stepped into the cool London air and pulled off the wig, stuffing it in the duffel bag. He was free.

He Apparated onto Percy's doorstep and peered at his watch: it was half past seven. Surely he would be back from the office by now. Chewing his lip nervously, he gave the door a soft knock. He heard footsteps and then the sound of a lock being pulled back. The door opened a crack, and he saw Percy cautiously stick his head out.

"Uh, may I help you?" said Percy, staring at the stranger standing in front of him.

"Percy, it's me," said Oliver, taking off his sunglasses. The familiar sight of Percy's red hair and freckles was particularly comforting.

"Oliver?" said Percy, still gazing at him, openmouthed. He blinked and quickly ushered Oliver inside the apartment.

"It feels good to be home," said Oliver, throwing his bag in the corner and stretching.

"Home?" said Percy, raising an eyebrow and boiling water for tea.

"Back in London," replied Oliver, sinking wearily onto the sofa.

Percy came by with a cup of tea, which Oliver sipped gratefully as Percy sat on the arm of the couch, his gaze locked on Oliver's face.

"What?" said Oliver, looking up.

"Why are you wearing...lipstick?" said Percy in a strangled voice.

"Oh, that," said Oliver, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and frowning at the bright pink streak. "It's a long story."

"I'm not going anywhere tonight," said Percy, looking at the clock. "I'd love to hear an explanation."

Oliver was taken aback by the frostiness in Percy's voice. "Percy, you're not mad at me, are you?"

"I don't see how I couldn't be," he replied. Oliver opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out. "I really don't know why you're surprised, Oliver. In the locker room that day, you pretty much told me that you don't need me."

"I--what?"

"Stop acting, Oliver. I know you remember."

Oliver racked his brains, and the conversation in the locker room floated back to him in pieces.

"Oh, hi, Perce," said Oliver, spotting Percy when he turned around again. "Did you enjoy the match?"

"You were brilliant," said Percy sincerely. "But there's something I need to talk to you about."

The worried look on Percy's face...

"...your drinking..."

"Oh, did Luke tell you that?"

Anger coursing through his veins...his temple pulsing...

"...you're going to end up hurting yourself, and other people too."

"You saw me out there today, I was great."

"Oliver, I'm telling you this because I care about you."

The touch of hands on his shoulders...his father looming over him, his voice choked with emotion. He turned his face away because he didn't want his father to see him cry.

"You don't need to worry about me. But it's nice that you care."

The sound of his own footsteps echoed on the pavement as he boarded the Hogwarts Express again. He watched his father through the window, getting smaller and smaller until he was nothing but a speck in a distance. Then he was gone.

He had turned fourteen that year, and that was the last time he had seen his father.

When he looked up at Percy, he found that his cheeks were wet.

"Oliver," said Percy, alarmed. "Oliver, are you hurt? Where does it hurt?"

"Here," said Oliver, tapping his chest. "It hurts right here."

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

They talked for hours. Oliver told Percy everything that had happened since the match in Cairo.

"I just can't believe you resigned," said Percy, shaking his head. "You love Quidditch. You live for it."

"You don't truly love something until you learn to let it go," said Oliver.

"Well, what are you going to do now?" asked Percy.

"I don't know," said Oliver, sighing. "I guess I didn't really think about that. I just knew I had to stop what I was doing because there's something else I should be doing. I just don't know what that could be."

"Right now I should be sleeping," said Percy, yawning. "I have work tomorrow."

"Could I come with you?"

"To work?" He frowned. "I don't know, Oliver..."

"I'll be quiet, I promise. I won't make a sound and I'll file papers or whatever. I'll bring you coffee."

"It's not very exciting, so I hope you don't expect anything," sighed Percy, giving in.

The next morning, Oliver dressed in a button down shirt and a pair of grey slacks and went to work with Percy. It was a good thing they arrived early, or else he would have attracted quite a lot of attention.

"Is this your office?" asked Oliver, as they walked into a cavernous room with large bookshelves and a nice view out the window.

"This is the Minister's office," said Percy, laying the day's agenda on the desk, just the way the Minister liked it. "My office is this way."

The adjoining room was quite a bit smaller, and there were two desks. Percy pointed to the desk on the left side of the window.

"That's my desk. The other desk is Wyatt's. He's the Minister's Junior Assistant."

"Where do I sit?" asked Oliver.

"You can pull up a chair to my desk. I have to go get the Minister's coffee now. Stay here and don't touch anything."

Percy left the room, and Oliver dragged over one of the heavy armchairs and turned it to face the window. He sat down and took out a book he had borrowed from Percy. A couple minutes later, he heard voices in the other room.

"Good morning, Percival."

"Good morning, Minister. I've brought your coffee."

"Thank you, dear boy. What have we got on today's agenda?"

"A press conference at nine, sir. And Darby Emerson invited you to lunch, but he owled and said he had to cancel. Personal emergency. You're also meeting with the head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad in the afternoon."

"Again? Why, I just met him them last week."

"Yes, sir. But there have been new developments he wanted to discuss."

The Minister sighed. "All they ever do is discuss things. Tell me, Percival, what is the use of discussing things if you're never going to do them?"

"I don't quite know, sir," said Percy, but the Minster had opened his desk drawer and was busy scrawling a letter.

"Send this to Darby Emerson," said the Minister, putting the letter in an envelope and giving it to Percy. "I do hope he's alright. He's one of my oldest friends."

"Yes, sir," said Percy.

Just then, a purple memo fluttered into the room and landed on the Minister's desk.

"Read it to me, dear boy," said the Minister. "What does it say?"

Percy opened the memo and read it to himself silently, his face turning white.

"Well?" said the Minister impatiently.

"I'm...I'm being summoned," said Percy. "They want me at a press conference. They think I know where Oliver Wood is."

"Oliver Wood?" said the Minister. "Isn't he a Quidditch player?"

"One of the best, sir."

"What has this got to do with anything?"

"I'm not sure, I--"

"Sorry--I'm late--" panted Wyatt, barging into the office. He placed a newspaper on the Minister's desk. "I brought your paper."

Percy snatched it up quickly. "Legendary Quidditch player, Oliver Wood, missing," he read. "Twenty-five year old Quidditch player Oliver Wood was discovered to be missing last night. Rumours of his resignation from the team have been circulating, but there has been no comment from his coach or his team mates. Mr. Wood appears to have fled the city, as his hotel suite was found to be vacant. However, there are no records of him leaving the country, so it is assumed that he is in hiding."

"Oliver Wood?" said Wyatt, looking confused. "But...I saw him on television yesterday..."

"Percival, when is this press conference of yours?" asked the Minister, sipping his coffee.

"Tomorrow," said Percy. "Ten in the morning."

"Very well then," said the Minister. "I'll arrange for a meeting room."

"But, sir, this is ridiculous," protested Percy. "I have nothing to do with this. I wasn't even there when it happened."

"The press is often ridiculous, my dear boy, and sometimes you've got to play along. I think it would be best to go. There isn't any harm in it."

Sighing in defeat, Percy went back into his office.

"What's going on?" said Oliver. "I heard my name."

"Look at this," said Percy, tossing the newspaper at him. Oliver caught it and scanned the front page.

"Well," he said, inhaling sharply. "I can't say I didn't expect this."

Percy sat down at his desk. "The press wants to talk to me. They think I know where you are."

"Well, you do," said Oliver.

"I know," said Percy. "But that's not the point. The point is that you went through all that trouble to get out of there, and you gave up what you love to do...well, I don't know...but I'm not letting them get to you."

"That's very nice of you, Perce, but there's only one problem," said Oliver. "I'm kind of obvious. And I'm, you know, here. In the Ministry. There's no way I could get out without anyone noticing."

"We'll have to leave after everyone else does. We'll go back to my apartment and I'll call my mum and ask if I can stay with her a few days."

"That's not going to work. They'd definitely look for you there."

"You're right," said Percy, frowning. He looked at Oliver. "What will they do if they find you?"

"Well, my coach would probably try and get me back on the team. He's already called twenty-six times, but I flushed my mobile down the toilet in the airport, so that's taken care of. My fans would mob me. The press would mob me."

"But you're definitely sure that you don't want to go back?"

"A hundred percent sure."

"Percival, I've been calling you--oh," said the Minister, stopping in the doorway, his eyes wide. "That's--that's--"

"Oliver Wood," said Oliver, standing and holding out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Minister."