In A Time Of Uncertainty

Part One, Chapter One

The first summer that Oliver's parents knew, he and his mother went to Chartres in France for July and August. His father, much to Oliver's relief, had a great aversion to travel and decided to stay home.

"But - but what about Quidditch?" had been the first thing out of Michael Wood's mouth after Oliver told him. His mouth stayed open; Oliver wished that he would shut it. It made him feel like something freakish that was to be stared at.

"Oh, honestly, Michael!" snapped Oliver's mother, angrily setting down her glass of pumpkin juice. It was all she was eating for breakfast. Witch Weekly had just published a new diet and she had jumped on it, hoping to lose the twenty pounds she'd gained since having surgery on her foot. It was her sixth diet in as many months, much to her dismay. "He still has arms, doesn't he? He still has legs! It doesn't make one bit of difference. Besides - " she picked up her glass again " - remember Dai Llewellyn and Abelard Block."

"That was a rumor, Anne," said Oliver's father, his mouth shutting at last as he turned to look at his wife.

"It was not. They've just published a book of their letters."

Oliver's father rolled his eyes heavenward. They were blue eyes, solid and never changing. "I just don't want there to be any trouble."

That was enough. "Fine," said Oliver, pushing his chair away from the table and standing up. His parents looked at him in surprise. "Fine. Forget I said anything. We'll never discuss it again. I'll be at school in another couple of months and then I graduate and you can pretend I never said anything." He pushed his chair back in a bit too hard and stormed out of the dining room.

His mother followed him upstairs. She found him lying on his bed, tossing his Quaffle up to the ceiling and catching it as it floated down, a glazed look in his eye.

"He loves you, Oliver," said Anne Wood, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"Of course he does," said Oliver stoically, reaching up to catch the descending red ball. "I'm Gryffindor captain for the third year in a row."

"He would love you even if you were hopeless at Quidditch."

"Sure, Mum. That's why he offered so much support and expressed so much concern for me."

"Oliver, stop tossing that Quaffle. You're going to break the skylight if you aren't careful."

Oliver caught the Quaffle and set it down next to his pillow.

"Oliver, your father's mad about Quidditch, that's a fact. But that isn't why he brought it up. He brought it up because he knows you love it and he wanted to make sure that you wouldn't lose it."

"Well, it should be bloody obvious that I won't lose it," said Oliver, exasperation reaching the boiling point. He was sick of having to explain himself. "I mean, what's going to happen, some official is going to send me a letter saying, 'Dear Mr. Wood, We regret to inform you that we are forced to suspend you from Quidditch for the rest of your life due to the fact that you are a pouf'?"

"Well, of course not, but he didn't want things to be uncomfortable."

"Great. What does he think, I'm going to seduce the male half of my team in the showers after a match?"

"For you, Oliver," sighed his mother. Oliver looked at her at last. Her forehead was wrinkled in frustration and her eyes were at half-mast. "He didn't want things to be uncomfortable for you."

Oliver closed his eyes. "I'll believe that when he tells me it himself." He took a deep breath. "All he ever talks to me about is Quidditch."

"To be honest, Ol, I don't think he knows what else to talk with you about."

"Well, now I know one thing he doesn't know how to talk with me about."

"Give him time, Oliver. Give him time."

"I can't," said Oliver, looking at his mother for the second time. Her thick brown hair, olive skin, and brown eyes were the same as his; the muscular physique and all of the facial features came from his father. "I gave myself time to accept who I am. That was seventeen years. I'm sick of waiting."

"Ol, I think he's just in shock right now. He never expected this from you."

"Oh, maybe I should have bleached my hair and worn frilly pink robes to prepare him."

His mother let out a huff of annoyance and stood up. "Fine. If that's the way you're going to be, fine. We're leaving for Chartres tomorrow, and you haven't packed." She turned around and walked out the door.

After what seemed like long minutes of staring at nothing in particular, Oliver got off the bed and unearthed his trunk from the closet.

He packed his books first, lining them up along the bottom of the trunk. He smiled when he reached his copy of Quidditch Through The Ages; he'd made the mistake of leaving it in the common room once last year, only to find to inside cover drawn upon (thanks to Fred and George Weasley) the next morning. Their drawings depicted the Slytherin team (all with ugly haircuts and crooked teeth) sobbing pitifully while the Gryffindors held up the Quidditch Cup and cheered. The drawing was sprinkled with arrows and notes, saying things such as, "Sorry we made your hair look like a dead puffskein, Ol" and "Couldn't remember whether Bletchley's wart was on the right side of his nose or his left, so we gave him two".

As he placed the book on the top of the pile, Oliver wondered briefly what would happen if he told Fred and George he was gay. No reaction on their part immediately came to mind. He thought of the way the mercilessly teased their brother Percy about his girlfriend, Penelope Clearwater. Would they tease Oliver more or less?

"Oliver!" he heard his mother yell from downstairs. "I'm going out to buy groceries. There's nothing left in this house to eat."

Oliver got up and ran to the top of the stairs. "Get me as much milk as you can," he called down. He drank it in enormous proportions, at least three large glasses per meal.

"All right," said his mother, and Oliver heard the door close.

The next thing he took out of his bookshelf were four of his favorite murder mysteries. He'd discovered the genre in fifth-year Muggle Studies and was instantly hooked. He loved the way they made his mind work, how they made him notice detail and how the strategic attitude involved was not unlike that of Quidditch. The first novel he placed in the trunk was one that had made him particularly frustrated; he'd decided after careful deliberation that the culprit was the Spanish ambassador's wife, only to discover that it was the delivery boy from the bakery. Oliver was determined to go back and pick out all the clues he had missed.

His clothes were next to go into the trunk, his favorite worn pair of Muggle corduroys first. They were black, with fraying edges and at least four patched parts, but Oliver stubbornly refused to throw them out. "Honestly, Ol, you've had them since fifth year," his mother protested, but her words always fell on deaf ears. Oliver had worn the trousers under his robes in some of Gryffindor's best games and considered them lucky.

He hesitated to pack his dress robes, but he figured that his mother was bound to come up with some reason why he had to wear them abroad, some restaurant or the like. Anne Wood was not the type of person who fancied calm, relaxed holidays. Last year's trip to Grand Cayman had frustrated her to no end; after seeing the turtle farms and governor's mansion, you were out of places to go and forced to lie on the beach.

Oliver felt an odd twinge as he put his blue robe on the top of the nearly-full trunk; his father had given them to him as a Christmas present last year. "You had robes this color when you were around eight or so, and I always thought it was a nice color," his father had said at the time. "I think there's a picture of you in them somewhere downstairs..."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Oliver and his mother left for Chartres in the morning on the train.

"So," said Oliver to his father once they were about to board. The two hadn't spoken all morning, not even when Oliver's owl Ares had crashed into the wall and landed in the porridge.

"Have a good time in Chartres," said Oliver's father, his voice heavy.

"I will."

"Bring me back photographs, especially of that cathedral your mother keeps going on about."

"All right."

"Love you, Ol."

Oliver looked up, surprised.

He thought about it for the entire train ride.