Air

AIR

Chapter 5 Surprises

The team room was a sorry sight. Water covered the floor from dripping uniforms. Teeth were chattering. Randall still wouldn't talk to anyone. Coogan, the other Beater, was nursing a sore shoulder with an ice pack, ironic given how damn cold they all were. Brian Dennis had a sorry bruise and cut over one eye that he had received about an hour before the end of play. He had stayed in, using a quick clotting charm to stem the bleeding. He must have a pounding headache, Oliver thought, watching Brian rub his temples. Pete was leaning against his locker, sort of doubled over. He looked sick and everyone else looked miserable. The faces Oliver saw were much what he thought his own must look like - frustrated, dejected, exhausted, and with a wariness about what the next few minutes would bring from Coach. Eyes darted around the room, assessing, but unable to make real contact with the others.

Finally, footsteps echoing up the hallway silenced any remaining murmuring, and the men watched as Coach Winston strode up to the front of the locker area, turned and faced them, arms crossed over his chest.

Coach was silent as his dark eyes slowly scanned the room. He took it all in, staring for an extra second at Pete, and then called Hayden over to take Pete to the team Healer.

Oliver dug his hands into his pockets as his heart began to pound. He knew Coach would single out his poor play which had allowed two goals to be scored in the first hour of the match, and a near score that had been saved only by Dominic's desperate dive which had deflected the Bludger by a few degrees. Just enough. It had glanced off the hoop and back into Puddlemere's possession. Oliver felt responsible for setting the tone of the match so early on. He knew how sometimes the most difficult opponent is your own mindset, and how momentum can carry like an unstoppable tide. The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The silence was getting to all of them.

Finally Coach Winston took a deep breath. "I worked you boys to the limit during these past few weeks. I don't know what you may have been saying about me off the pitch, but here, at practice, I heard no complaints, no grumbling. You did what I asked of you. And today you stayed tough, in the worst weather, and through injuries and illness and other...distractions." He turned to Dominic with a wry smile. "I've really got to speak with your father." His expression turned serious again, and he removed his cap and scratched his head. "But you stuck it out. Ballycastle is stellar this year. You were tied with them until the tenth hour when they caught the Snitch. You've got guts, men. And whether we won or lost here today, I'm proud to be your coach, and you should be proud of this match. That is all."

He started to turn and walk to his office, then stopped and addressed them again. "Oh, and one more thing. Take the next three days off. We'll have practice on Wednesday, ten o'clock."

And Coach Winston walked out of the room.

Oliver was stunned. And judging by the complete and utter silence remaining, everyone else was, too. But then the silence began to give way to smiles and jabs and laughter, and pretty soon the entire room had shed its facade of shame and misery. They had lost, but they weren't losers. Is that possible? Winning wasn't always of supreme importance. Sometimes hanging tough through adversity is just as admirable.

* * * *

Coach's surprise reaction to the team's loss, and their days of rest, did wonders for the spirits and energy of the Puddlemere Reserve Unit players. Oliver hit practices and matches with renewed intensity and grit, and was pleased with his progress in play as Keeper. The weeks went by in a blur of workouts, strategy sessions, scrutiny of play books and of course, matches. Even Dom seemed to settle in a bit, getting up in time to make practice and dreading his father's presence at the matches just a little less. It had helped that Coach Winston did, indeed, have that talk with Mr. Meath, and there was a change, however subtle, in Mr. Meath's behavior. Or at least the horn sounded not quite as ear splitting.

Uncle Will's wedding reception unfortunately had to be put off for another month due to Catherine's father taking ill. Oliver breathed a sigh of relief when he read the letter from his mum informing him of the change in date, as he still had not spoken to his father. It had taken him a little while to get over his anger from the first letter, and then it simply became easier and easier to continue putting it off. The nagging little voice in the back of his head continued to torment him, however.

And then there was that day in February. Oliver had just finished a tough practice and was heading with Dom towards the showers when Coach Winston walked up to the two of them.

Coach jerked his head in the direction of his office and barked, "The two of you - in my office."

Oliver and Dom turned to each other, eyes wide. What had they done? They followed him and sat in two chairs directly in front of Coach Winston's desk. Coach settled into his large chair and folded his beefy hands on the desktop in front of him. Oliver cleared his throat. Dom stole a quick, nervous glance at Oliver, then shaded his eyes under his mop top.

"Well.." Coach Winston said, as he stared intently at the two of them. "Tell me about your performance here on my reserve unit."

For the second time in five minutes, Oliver and Dom turned to each other, speechless.

After a minute of silence, Coach Winston turned to Oliver. "Let's start with my Keeper."

Oliver straightened up in his chair. "Well, Coach...I'm working hard, and trying my best. I know the play book backwards and forward. My play at the goals has become progressively stronger." He decided to go for it and locked eyes with Coach. "I believe I'm playing the best Quidditch of my life, sir."

Coach Winston raised an eyebrow, gave a curt nod and turned to Dominic. "And you?"

Dom shifted in his seat. "Erm...my bat work has been on target. And I've got my Keeper's back."

Coach Winston nodded again. "That you do, Meath."

He then took a deep breath and unfolded his hands. "I'm going to miss you two."

Oliver's mouth went dry. "Excuse me?"

Coach pursed his lips and drummed on them with his finger, arms crossed. "You've both been a pleasure to coach. But this moment had to come sooner or later."

Oliver tried to squelch a rising tide of nause with a deep breath. God. Was he being let go?

"We're moving you both up to the first team."

Dom grinned and gave a short laugh. The words hadn't sunk into Oliver yet. He sat there silent, expression blank. First team?

Coach Winston laughed and held out his hand. "I believe congratulations are in order."

And so, four weeks after the miserable match against Ballycastle and two weeks before their next match, which was to be against the Montrose Magpies, Mary's prediction came true. Oliver received the news he had been waiting for and working towards each minute of his life for the last several years. He and Dominic were each offered spots on the first team. Coach Winston explained that Jagger Carlson, who had been a malcontent for months, finally insisted that he be sold to a team closer to his family, which included a wife and a young son. Helping matters along was the fact that Carlson and Lyle Hagenstrom, the head coach, had butted heads since Carlson had first begun to play for Puddlemere. Oliver and Dom sat and listened to Coach Winston tell them about the process, the new contracts that would have to be ironed out, and the time frame for all of this to occur. And he handed them a preliminary contract to review. But all of those words were a faint buzzing in Oliver's head, barely louder than the beating of his heart. After all of those years of looking to the future, of working for it and fighting for it and sometimes hanging desperately from it with a slipping grasp, he was finally holding it squarely in his fist.

* * * *

A little over a week later Oliver found himself in an upscale restaurant, with Dominic, Uncle Will and Catherine, celebrating the news and finishing the details of the story while his uncle listened with rapt attention.

"And the best thing, Uncle Will, is that Carlson had a special relationship with one of his Beaters..."

Dominic interjected, "Yeah - they'd played together for seven years."

"...and so part of the deal was that they leave together." Oliver finished the sentence for him.

Uncle Will grinned. "Do you know what it means, boys, to be pulled up to the first team, instead of trading Carlson for another seasoned veteran? It means they have faith in you, and that they recognize talent. As green as you both are, they believe you can play with the big boys."

"Well, it can also mean that Puddlemere is a bit broke from the huge contracts they signed last year." Dom laughed.

Uncle Will whistled and then said, "I remember reading about those in the papers. Unprecedented. And a big risk."

It seemed Catherine had been quite content to sit back smiling and watch the rest of them trip over themselves with the excitement of it all. But now she interjected for the first time that evening. "Well, I don't think you should reduce such a wonderful accomplishment down to a desperate financial ploy. You boys earned it, the team thinks you are ready, and you should be proud."

Uncle Will reached for her hand. "Agreed. This is an intelligent woman here, men. Don't think for a minute I've only married the lass for her extraordinary beauty. I think you should take what she's just said to heart. You've both had strong seasons. You've worked hard. You had better believe you deserve it."

"I'll accept that." Oliver smiled as he answered, and then turned to his roommate. "How about you, Dom?"

"Sure. Why not?" Dominic said, grinning as well.

"How about accepting another glass of champagne?" Uncle Will motioned for the waiter, then turned to Oliver. "Speaking of needing a drink, how'd my big brother take the news?"

Oliver reddened. "Well...I haven't told him yet."

Uncle Will raised his eyebrows. "You've known about this for what, a week and a half now? What are you waiting for, nephew?"

Oliver was silent. He still hadn't told Uncle Will about his last fight with his father. He was ashamed of that argument, and of the fact that he had not yet apologized. What could he say?

And then Dominic came to his rescue. His roommate had an uncanny sense about that. "I haven't told my dad, either."

Uncle Will plunked down his empty glass. "What? What is with you boys? That's not the kind of news to be keepin' locked up!"

"Healer Wood, if you knew my father, you'd understand." Dominic shot Oliver a glance that begged for support.

"Yeah," Oliver said with a laugh. "Dom just wanted a little peace and quiet while the good news sunk in. He thinks he can wait a while for the parades and such."

Uncle Will and Catherine looked puzzled and both spoke together. "Parades?"

Oliver made sure Dom was taking the teasing well before he continued. "Or full page congratulatory ads in the Daily Prophet. Or fireworks displays."

Dominic finally spoke. "Let's just say the old guy has been hoping for this news for some time, now. And he's a very...demonstrative father. I'm just...not like that."

Uncle Will sat back and assessed them both, his expression more serious, and his tone more earnest. "Well, if you boys can face the big leagues, you can face breaking the news to your fathers. My advice is to get it over with so you can concentrate on the game."

"I'm going home for a visit this week, Uncle Will," Oliver said, taking another swallow of his champagne. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

Uncle Will reached across the table and put his hand on Oliver's arm. "This is not something to be ashamed of, Oliver. This is one of the biggest accomplishments of your life. Don't let him take that away from you. Do you hear me?"

Oliver nodded, wishing he didn't even have to bother. It would be much easier to simply let his dad find out through the sports pages of the Daily Prophet.

* * * *

It had been put off for far too long already. It had to be done. It was Saturday, so Oliver's father should be at home rather than at work. And it was one week before Uncle Will's party, so that would give his father enough time to accept his apology and allow the news about Quidditch to sink in, before they were all thrust together to celebrate.

Oliver stood in the foyerof his parents' house and listened.

"Mum? Dad?"

Silence. He wandered around the main floor and found no one. Perhaps he should look in his father's office. His father spent much of his time there, when not at work. Oliver ascended the stairs, highly conscious of what had transpired here the last time they had spoken to each other. The door to Jonathan's office was open just a few inches. Oliver stopped and listened. All was quiet. He knocked. Still no answer. He slowly pushed the door open.

The masculine scents from within, leather and wood, brought him back to a strong memory of when he was a young child. This office had been a wonderful mysterious place to him then. His father had allowed him to play quietly on the floor while Jonathan worked at his desk. Oliver remembered how the wool rug had felt rough on his bare legs, and he could almost hear the scratching sound of his father's quill and the occasional rustling of parchment. Could it have been so many years ago?

He wandered to the massive bookshelf behind the desk. The shelves reached almost up to the ceiling. His father did love books. The corner of Oliver's mouth turned up slightly at the thought. Oliver wouldn't exactly call himself an intellectual. In school he'd read only what was required of him. This was another example of how he and his father were vastly different. Still, something about his father's books had fascinated him as a child - the worn leather bindings, the fancy lettering of the titles, even if he had not been able to read them. And so he reached up and ran his fingers along the books, just like he used to, but now reading various titles as he did so. "How to Invest Wisely for your Golden Years", "Small Business Tax Exemptions", "Getting Top Returns for your Gold", "Medicinal Potions and the Market for Preserving Youth".

He smirked. These were just like his father - dry, and all about business. And then his finger stopped on a particularly worn brown binding. The letters in the title were raised and gave off a soft green glow. He smiled with immediate recognition. "Tales of Dragons and Daring". It had been his favorite book of bedtime stories, before he'd left for school at Hogwarts. He and his father would sit together, propped up against Oliver's headboard, and Jonathan would read. As he tired, Oliver would lean his head against his father's arm, and soon thereafter Jonathan would gently lay him down to sleep. And more often than not, Oliver would dream about himself in some dangerously exotic land, the green of it charred and slashed from the dangerous beast. Oliver would bravely ignore the pain of a thousand cuts and burns until his prey was safely bound and captive, its snarling and roaring and bellows of smoke from its flaring nostrils finally quieting in helpless fury.

Oliver remembered asking his father one time in the middle of a description of a particularly bloody battle, "Have you ever slayed any dragons, Dad?"

His father had laughed at first, but then turned to him with a fiercely protective stare, silent for a moment. His answer had puzzled Oliver.

"I suppose you could say that I have. Only...a different kind of dragon. No scales, and it didn't breathe fire."

"Why? What do you mean? What kind of a dragon is that?"

And then his father had simply replied, "Just remember, Oliver, it's a man's job to protect his family."

Oliver hadn't thought about that conversation in years. What had his father meant by that "dragon"? He set the book down on his father's desk and looked around a bit more. Where were more of his childhood books? There, on the lowest shelf, off in a dark corner, were oversized photo albums. Oliver pulled one off the shelf to investigate. He opened it up. His father? It had to be. There was a baby picture next to a birth announcement for Jonathan Charles Wood. Oliver had never seen a picture of his father as a baby. He had to admit the little guy was cute, with barely any peach fuzz for hair, and wearing a long white gown.

He turned the page. Next, there was a family portrait with Oliver's grandparents sitting on plush high backed chairs, and Oliver's father, who looked to be in his early teenage years, standing between them. Oliver's grandmother was holding a dark haired, laughing toddler who was reaching for the camera - Uncle Will. Oliver had never met his grandfather. Lawrence Wood, appearing somber and stern in the picture, with the same light coloring and piercing eyes as his father, had died years before Oliver was born.

Oliver kept turning the pages. Wait! He almost dropped the album in surprise. What? No. It couldn't be! But there was no mistaking the eyes, the fair skin. There was Jonathan Wood flying a broom in a Gryffindor House Quidditch uniform! His father had played Quidditch at Hogwarts? Impossible! But there it was, staring him in the face, page after page; two season's worth of Jonathan's Quidditch pictures, along with articles cut from the Hogwarts student newspaper. Apparently his father, a Seeker, had been quite an asset to the team. And then suddenly there were no more. The album simply ended half way through. Where were the rest of the pictures? Oliver reached down to the same bookshelf and picked out the next album. It was his own. He put it back and looked for more of his father. That's when Jonathan's baritone voice surprised him from behind.

"You won't find any more. That's all there is."

Oliver jumped up and saw his father standing in front of his desk, his mouth set into a grim line. He looked different - strangely casual. He wore no robes. His grey pants were, as usual, without a wrinkle, but his white collared shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, the top button open. His face and arms held a bit of ruddy color, as if he'd recently been out in the sun. It had been a long time since Oliver had seen his father wearing anything other than work or dress robes.

"Dad! I didn't hear you come in."

"You were obviously too engrossed, or in complete shock at what you were seeing." There was no smile accompanying the sarcasm.

"You played Quidditch!"

Jonathan ran his hand through his hair. It looked like it pained him to admit it. "Yes."

"You never told me. Uncle Will never said anything about it-"

Jonathan interrupted, "Will was too young to remember."

"But what happened? Why did the pictures suddenly stop?"

"I didn't return to Hogwarts."

"You didn't return...?" And then Oliver realized what had happened. Lawrence Wood had died when Jonathan was a teenager. "Oh...Grandfather..."

His dad raised his chin, defensive. "It's not something I like to tell people...that I never finished school. I've been a success without my N.E.W.T.s. But I had to leave to take care of your grandmother and Will. I had to work, Oliver. To support them." His father suddenly crossed his arms over his chest and asked, "What are you doing here, in my office?"

"I was waiting...for you. I came to talk to you. To apologize for what I said to you last time."

His father's eyes scanned the room as if looking for anything else out of place. They rested on the dragon book still lying on the desk, and jerked back to Oliver.

"Mum said you weren't working today, and since you weren't here, I thought I'd wait for a bit. I started looking at your books."

Jonathan's eyes returned again to the dragon book.

Oliver picked it up, showing it to his father. "Remember this one?"

Jonathan nodded.

Oliver continued, "It was my favorite book as a kid. I actually used to look forward to bedtime, just because you'd be reading this to me."

Jonathan appeared lost in thought.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I jumped to a conclusion last time and I was wrong. You did send that letter. It came after we spoke. I should have come to tell you this sooner. I'm sorry."

Jonathan continued to stare at the book. Finally he spoke. "I remember these stories. And I remember your eyes, staring wide as you looked at the pictures. I remember your gasps at the battle scenes, how you gripped my leg as I read." Jonathan's voice softened. "And I remember thinking that perhaps I should stop reading it to you...that if we kept this up, maybe you would get it into your head to make slaying dragons your life's work."

"You were afraid? That I would go out and slay dragons?"

This time Jonathan's eyes left the book and settled on Oliver. "No father wants his son to be hurt."

"Dad, I'm sorry."

Jonathan sighed. "Lately, Oliver, you seem bent on making me the enemy. I'm not the enemy." His arms dropped to his sides.

Oliver's voice didn't rise. It remained quite calm. He was puzzled, though. He wanted to continue the conversation. He wanted to get to the bottom of this and leave it behind them. And so he pushed forward.

"But you seem to have made Quidditch the enemy. And I don't understand why. You played Quidditch for Gryffindor! And you never even told me? Or Uncle Will?"

"Oliver, this really isn't the time to talk about..."

"I'm sorry you had to leave school and go to work. That was...tragic. But you must have liked the sport. What happened?"

Oliver could see his father stiffen at that question. Jonathan bent to his desk drawer and opened it. He grabbed a velvet bag and took out a few coins, then threw the bag back into the drawer with a clunk and shoved it closed.

His dad turned to leave, telling him, "The gardener is downstairs waiting for his pay."

"But Dad..."

This time Jonathan's voice was resigned. "Oliver, can we not talk about Quidditch today? It seems all we do is fight about Quidditch! I'd like to have my son back, if only for a brief visit, without that damned sport getting in the way."

Oliver struggled to keep his lips shut, sighing but arguing no longer. He nodded.

His father gestured to the window overlooking the garden. "I could use a pair of strong hands outside. Then we could have lunch. Your mother will be thrilled to see you."

"All right."

It was a rare sunny day outside for this time of year. The garden was perfectly manicured, as always. Oliver wondered what work there was to do here. His father usually hired help to take care of house maintenance, as he was usually too busy with the business. They walked to the far end of the garden, where a short wall built of large stones was crumbling at one end. Jonathan pointed it out to Oliver.

"I want to repair this today, so it's ready for the party next week."

He and his father began rebuilding the wall, lifting the stones together, and fitting them into place with a few well placed synchronized shoves and nudges. The work was hard, the stones heavy, and Oliver was surprised at his father's strength in lifting them. Oliver watched his dad work. He didn't appear thin and bookish, as Oliver's mind's eye had pictured him for some time now. Rather, Oliver noted the strong jawline, the shoulders that had been hidden as of late under more formal attire, and the sinew in his arms as he grasped the rocks. A few minutes later they were both breathing hard and grunting with the heave of a particularly large stone.

His father smiled at him over the rock as it settled into place. "Feels good, doesn't it? I built a wall like this with your grandfather when I was a boy. It took us weeks. You can't quite get the same tight fit if you use a levitating spell to place the stones. Something about using your own hands..."

That sounded like Uncle Will refinishing his floors. Magic couldn't fix everything. Oliver raised his eyebrows. His father's face changed so much when he smiled. He looked years younger. And more like his brother Will, despite his light coloring. Oliver had never seen a resemblance there before. And it did feel good to work hard, here, outside, with him. But still...Quidditch was Oliver's life's blood, and Quidditch was a mysterious cause of resentment to his father. Until that was rectified, Quidditch would remain the dragon in the room, or this garden, standing resolutely between them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note: Thanks to Eudora Hawkins (Dom's number one fan) for initial beta reading. She's got my back, just like Dom has Oliver's. I'm so grateful. And thanks to aggiebell, my PS beta, for her wonderful help - her enthusiasm is so energizing.