Air

AIR

Chapter 7 The Slow Burn

Oliver turned and left his father's office amidst the stares and gasps of his family. By the time he reached the staircase, he could hear only his own breathing, fast and ragged, and he could see only his father's silent stare. Even practically begging his father to come clean had had no effect on the man. That was a damn lie about not caring anymore, because this hurt. It ached in his chest, like something had been ripped out and stomped on. It was hard to breathe. He needed some air.

He reached the landing of the first floor. The music still played on and the conversations buzzed, just as before. Smiles were all around. The party continued on, as if nothing had happened. But something had just happened. He would never forget this night. And that's when he remembered why they had all come here in the first place. Oh no. Uncle Will. What a rotten thing to have thrust on him at his wedding party. And this had all happened because Oliver had been too cowardly to talk to his father beforehand.

His eyes scanned the room. Where was Mary? He couldn't stay in this place, struggling to act as if he were enjoying himself along with everyone else. He needed to leave. Now. He continued on, throwing strained, fake smiles at anyone who greeted him or congratulated him along the way. Come on, Mary. Why the disappearing act now? Finally, he heard her laughter and looked around a corner to see her speaking with a man who appeared about twenty years older than she. The man was clearly handsome, in a rugged, hard living sort of way, with dark, longish hair, and the beginnings of lines on his face. A glass of hard liquor rested in his hand and a cigarette dangled from between the fingers that held the drink. Mary spoke with him, laughing, and the man watched her closely, intently, as if analyzing her every nuance. She touched the man's arm and fingered back her hair, both of which appeared very flirtatious to Oliver. He stopped cold, watching them. The man moved in a step closer to her as they continued the conversation. What the bloody...?

Oliver marched up to Mary and grabbed her arm. "Come on, Mary. Let's go."

The man looked taken aback. "Wait a minute! What are you -"

"This is my girlfriend," Oliver interrupted. "And she is leaving with me, NOW."

Mary pulled her arm out of Oliver's grasp. She looked mortified. She turned to the man and murmured a quick apology, before Oliver maneuvered her out of the room and towards the front door. As soon as they had stepped out onto the porch, Mary jerked herself away from him.

"Oliver! That was entirely rude!"

"What was rude? Flirting with some stranger while you're at a party with me?"

"I was not flirting!"

"Oh come on, Mary! I'm not a stupid little boy! I have eyes!" Oliver was furious...at Mary, at his father, at himself. His eyes stung and his vision blurred for a second. He blinked it away.

Mary stared at him. "Oliver..."

"I have to get out of here. I'm taking you home."

"That man was a novelist. With three published books. He was giving me career advice. That's all..."

He struggled to keep his voice low. "Let's...go...NOW."

She took a step back, her voice soft. "Okay. All right."

They Apparated to the shore in front of Mary's home. Oliver couldn't look at her.

"Oliver, please. Talk to me. What happened? What did your father say?"

"I can't. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just need to go."

She stepped back with a sigh. He could feel her eyes on him as he turned and walked up the beach.

* * * *

Oliver ended up walking faster and faster, finally running most of the way home. When he got too hot, he flung his dress robes onto the shoreline of the lake and continued on in his trousers and shirt, ignoring the ache in his lungs. By the time he reached his flat he was drenched in sweat and felt no better about anything. He opened the door and tried to march straight to his room, hoping he could avoid Dominic. He just wanted to be alone. No such luck. Dom was in the middle of the hallway and Oliver practically ran into him.

"Whoa. What's the hurry, mate?"

Oliver tried to catch his breath. His fists were clenched. He felt the sweat dripping down his temples. "Let me by, Dom."

"What's wrong? What happened to you?"

Oliver couldn't fight the urge for a physical release of his anger and tried to shove his way past his flatmate. "I said, LET ME BY!"

That was a miscalculation. Dominic was inches taller than Oliver, bigger and stronger. He stepped to the side and easily blocked Oliver from passing. "No. Not until you tell me what's wrong."

Oliver was trapped, his fury growing. Just let me to my bloody room! He tried to shove past again and Dominic's hand clamped down on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

Oliver stood there, head down, his chest heaving at first, then settling into a quieter rhythm. There was something about Dom's firm grip and the steadfastness of his friend that calmed him, at least a little.

"What is it?" Dominic asked again.

Oliver remained silent for a moment, and then finally relented. "He hated the idea. My uncle mentioned the first team during his toast, and Dad stalked right out of the room in the middle of it. In front of everyone."

Dom swore under his breath.

Oliver looked up at his friend. "I messed up - messed up Uncle Will's night, messed up the truce my Dad and I were building. Even Mary."

"What about Mary?" Dom's grip had lessened by now, and then he dropped his hand altogether.

"I don't know. I was mad at my dad...and I found her talking to someone...some guy...and I was...I don't know...just furious at her."

Dominic took a second, then spoke. "I'm sure your Uncle Will salvaged the night for Catherine. He's probably worried for you, but he's known about this stuff for a while. I wouldn't worry about Uncle Will."

Oliver sighed. "Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"And Mary," Dominic continued. "Anything an apology won't cure?"

"I guess not."

"Good, then. But your dad, mate..." Dominic sighed. "I don't know what to bloody say about your dad. Did he tell you why?"

"No! He just stands there, not saying anything. Makes me want to shake him!" Oliver hit the wall in the hallway with the side of his fist, and then stood there rubbing it, actually grateful that the blazing pain in his hand hurt more for a second than all of this other stuff.

Dom didn't say anything.

"I don't want it to bug me anymore. I'm done with it, man. DONE!"

Dom shrugged his shoulders. "If you say so. But he's your dad. It's hard not to care what your dad thinks. I know. No matter how hard I try not to care, after everything, I still want mine to be proud of me."

"To hell with mine," Oliver whispered. "I'm going to take a shower."

Dominic nodded. "After that, mate, let's go for a fly.

* * * *

Oliver emerged from his room a short time later, hair still wet, although this time from the shower. He was embarrassed by his earlier display and for a second was tempted to return to his room and shut the door. But then Dominic stepped into the hallway and tossed Oliver his broom. Oliver reached out with one hand and easily caught it.

"The night's perfect for it." There was no sympathetic stare, or questioning if he was feeling better. Just Dom's simple statement.

Oliver nodded, grateful for his friend. "Let's go."

Minutes later, as they skimmed above the shimmering lake water, illuminated only by the large crescent moon, Oliver threw back his head and gave a deep, shuddering sigh. It was nearly impossible for him to stay angry when he was on his broom. It just felt too damn good. Dominic criss-crossed in front of Oliver and whooped, his fair hair lit white by the moonlight.

Dom turned around, facing Oliver. "So, you think you're a decent Quidditch player, huh? Got the moves? Let's see it, then."

Dominic nosed his broom to Oliver's left, then to his right, then tried to shoot past. Oliver blocked him. Dominic took a breath and tried again. Once more, Oliver stalled him up short. Dominic's stare intensified and his mouth set. He rolled to the left and tried to dive under Oliver. Again, Oliver caught him.

Dominic gave an admiring nod. "You're like a wall, mate."

"Ha. Sort of like you in the hallway."

This time Dominic pulled up and rolled to the right. Oliver's broom blocked Dominic's, but Dom pushed ahead and tried to break free to the side. Oliver anticipated his move and stopped Dom cold. They sat there, broom noses crossed, like fencing blades in a changement d'engagement, staring each other down, tensed, awaiting the next sudden move. Dom was smiling. Oliver's smile had left moments before when Dom had made his second breakaway move.

Dom spoke. "You are meant for this. Don't let your dad take that away from you."

Oliver continued to parry Dom's moves until they were both breathing hard from the effort. He spoke again when they were motionless, crossed up against each other once more. "What are you meant for, Dom? You still haven't told me. What could you possibly rather do than this?"

Dom gave him a hard stare, as if assessing Oliver's possible reactions. He pulled back suddenly, hovering silently several feet away. Oliver waited, but his friend said nothing.

"Dom?"

Finally, his friend spoke. "My father's best friend during his days at Puddlemere was an Italian. Giancarlo Nizzi. They were inseparable. Dad's got some stories..." Dom's voice trailed off and he sighed.

"Yeah? So?"

"So Giancarlo's dad is a master craftsman. Furniture."

"Right. And..."

"I remember the first time we visited Mr. Nizzi's childhood home. His father had a workshop. From the moment I set foot in that shop, I didn't want to leave. It's when I first realized..." Dom stopped again.

"That you wanted to make furniture? Like, a hobby?"

"No! Not like a hobby! That I wanted to be an artist...a master...just like Mr. Nizzi."

"But Dom, that's..." Oliver wasn't sure how to say it.

"What?" Dom's tone was defensive, and he frowned.

"I don't know...I mean it sounds like fun, but-"

"Fun? It's not a game, Oliver! It's serious work!"

"I know...but...it's something you can do later...after Quidditch. I mean, Mr. Nizzi, he was old, right?"

Dom backed off with his broom, and raised a hand in surrender. His voice was flat. "Yeah. You're right. I can do it when I'm old."

"Right! But now you've got the strength and the speed for the sport! We won't have that forever. " Oliver reared up his broom and hovered in front of Dom, tensed and ready. "And right now I dare you to try to get past me again."

* * * *

Over the next weeks Oliver channeled his anger into hard work with the team. It paid off. He slipped into the roster without any fanfare and played the best Quidditch he'd played in his life. He pushed himself hard, but he loved it. He loved the exhausted sleep into which he would fall the moment his head hit the pillow after practice. He loved the soreness in his muscles when he climbed out of bed the next day, soreness that would ease with a few stretches and walking around his flat. It reminded him of his own body and what he could do with it when he played. He loved the callouses on his palms, roughened from the grain of the wood of his broom. He loved the parched feeling in his throat as he pushed himself to his limit in the drills, soothed immediately by a gulp of icy, sweet water. That part was all glorious.

But he hated when he gave a desperate effort and blocked an opponent's shot by a hair. Or when he dived down and deflected a Bludger inches from Dominic's head. Or when he made it to a streak of three matches without an opponent scoring. He hated all of those things because the first thing he thought of when he did any of them was his dad. Dominic was right.

He put up a pretty good show, though. To his Uncle Will, to his mother, and to Mary. He acted like he didn't care a lick what his father thought. He concentrated on his play and he worked hard. And one day it began to happen. They were playing the Wimbourne Wasps. It was a good match, on a crisp, windy day, with both teams fighting hard and of similar depth. Neither team had scored and it was nearing the third hour of play. Oliver had already blocked six shots, keeping his streak going in this fourth game.

After his last blocked shot, he had again searched the stands for Uncle Will, as he had done after each one of his good plays before that, but he still couldn't find him. That was a surprise, since his uncle had been at every match since Oliver had been moved up. And his uncle had assured him yesterday that he would be at this one, too. What had happened? By instinct, he looked around to Mary's usual spot, and didn't see her either. But he knew that Mary was at a writer's workshop all day. Oliver scanned the crowd. He had always played better if his family or someone close to him watched. He needed someone in his corner of the pitch. It calmed his nerves, gave him energy, helped him concentrate. Then he heard Mr. Meath's horn. The man hadn't missed a second of any Dom's play for the first team. Oliver felt the usual pang of envy at that. And he was still incredulous that it bugged Dom so.

A few moments later the Wasps' Chaser zeroed in on Oliver's goal and raised his arm. Oliver tensed and awaited the throw. But the throw was a fake out, and the Chaser passed the Quaffle to his teammate just beyond Oliver. Oliver zoomed round to face the other man just in time to see the Quaffle veering off in a radical curve towards the far goal. It was nearly impossible to reach the goal first, but Oliver rolled his broom to the left and plunged towards it. The gusty wind slowed down the course of the ball. It was incredibly close, and for a second he thought he was too late. Reach! Oliver stretched his arms and chest beyond the front of his broom, hanging on by the precarious grip of his feet, and deflected the Quaffle with his fingertips, veering it off course by a hair. It bounced against the edge of the goal and banked away. Another shot saved.

He struggled to regain his balance, then a sudden rush of wind hit him in the chest. He felt himself falling and twisted his body back for a desperate grab at his broom. He missed. All he could do was close his eyes and await the impact of the fall. But the fall never came. A firm arm clamped around his chest, and yanked him, with a deep grunt, back onto his broom.

Oliver looked up to see Dominic hovering next to him, breathing hard. "That was a close one, mate."

"The shot or the fall?"

Dom rolled his eyes and smiled. "Just stay on your broom, okay? I think the crowd would be a little upset if you went and got yourself killed."

The crowd? And that's when Oliver first heard the the crowd shouting "Wood! Wood! Wood!" The sound of it rose in his ears until he actually felt the vibration of it. The fans at Hogwarts had yelled his name before, but never this many, and never so loudly. His eyes widened and Dominic laughed. Oliver scanned the crowd again and caught Uncle Will. Uncle Will was here! He'd made it! His Uncle was gesturing to Oliver, and then to the crowd, and waving. Uncle Will wants me to wave at the crowd? He hesitated for a moment, then grabbed Dominic's hand and threw both of their arms up in a victorious wave. The cheers swelled even louder. He felt the tingle of goosebumps on his arms and turned to Dominic, who tossed back his head and gave a loud whoop.

Oliver's smile soon morphed into a look of determination and he said to his friend, "Let's go finish this off!"

Twenty minutes later, Puddlemere caught the Snitch, and Oliver's streak had risen to four straight shutouts. It was a rarity for a rookie, and so, after years of dreaming, countless hours of excruciating practice and training, and several months of reserve unit play, Oliver Wood had become an overnight professional Quidditch sensation. He had to fight through several sports reporters bellowing questions at him as he worked his way through the crowd and to the locker room.

"How does it feel to have shut out your opponent for four straight games?"

"What did you say to Meath after he saved your fall?"

"Do you think you can set a new rookie record -- five straight?"

He answered as best he could, amidst the flashing of photographer's bulbs, and finally escaped to the interior of the showers.

* * * *

Some time later, Oliver emerged from the locker room, looking warily around him. Good. The reporters had left. Now where was Uncle Will? Mary's workshop was scheduled into the evening, and Catherine was on call at St. Mungo's, so he and Uncle Will had decided to take the opportunity to do a little shopping. Well, Uncle Will had done the deciding. Oliver dreaded shopping for girls. But Mary's birthday was coming up, and so was Catherine's. Uncle Will had thought it was the perfect opportunity to get something to eat, and get this shopping out of the way in the least painful way possible. Mary had such particular tastes. Perhaps he'd get some ideas watching his uncle decide. Oliver scanned the courtyard and found Uncle Will leaning against the brick wall of the building.

Oliver walked over to greet him. "You okay, Uncle Will?"

Uncle Will grinned, uncrossed his arms and turned towards him. "Yeah. Just waiting."

Oliver glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry I took a while. I just wanted to be sure those reporters had gone."

His uncle's expression brightened. "That was another great match! You've done your uncle proud, Oliver. And with that kind of play, you'll have to get used to reporters."

Oliver laughed. "There's always a downside to everything. But thanks."

"Sorry I was late. Emergency at the hospital came in right as I was readying to leave. But I broke away as soon as things were stabilized, and I got here in time to see your stellar play at the hoop."

"I'm glad you were able to make it. Uncle Will...I'm grateful you've come to all of my matches. It...means a lot to me."

Will placed a hand briefly on Oliver's shoulder. "The pleasure's mine, nephew. Though I can't say I enjoyed seeing you almost fall."

"That was a close one. But Dominic has my back. I'm lucky he moved up with me."

"You're right about that. You two have something on the field...a chemistry. It's a rare but beautiful thing. And I can see you're taking to the first team as well as I expected." Uncle Will's eyes scanned the Quidditch field for a moment, and he was silent. Was he thinking about his own past in Quidditch?

Oliver spoke. "While you were playing, did you ever think you should be doing something else? I never have. It feels right, Uncle Will. I know I'm supposed to be here."

Will was still staring out at the pitch. "I know it too, nephew. You were meant for this. I always felt I was, too."

They Apparated to an exclusive district of designer boutiques near London. Oliver had read of it before, in the Daily Prophet, and in Mary's celebrity magazines he was forced to flip through while waiting for her to get ready. He'd never been there himself, though, and once he was there, he knew why. The shoppers were dressed up, as if going out to a fancy dinner rather than simply shopping. They were exceedingly well groomed, not a hair out of place. Many of them wore sunglasses, and an attitude to match. The stores were like museums, and the shopkeepers sickeningly solicitous to all.

Funny thing, though; Oliver noticed people glancing at him while walking past, or staring at him from behind clothing racks. He heard the occasional whisper. What was going on? He looked down at his casual outfit, and ran his fingers through his hair that he'd hardly bothered to comb after his shower. Was it his appearance? Was it that obvious that he wasn't one of them? He rolled his eyes and glanced over at his uncle who, in his own laid back way, seemed to fit in entirely, for some strange reason. Uncle Will's clothes were understated, but well-tailored, something his athletic frame required. He hadn't seemed to notice any of the whispers or glances. Perhaps because he was too intent on, and a little nervous about, finding the perfect gift for his wife.

A little boy, tagging along behind a tall, willowy brunette with incredibly full lips, was pointing to him and staring outright. Oliver had finally had enough. He looked over to Uncle Will, who was examining a pair of pearl earrings and didn't even notice. Oliver sighed and turned back to the boy.

"Is something wrong, little guy? Did I do something?"

The boy gasped and dropped his hand to his side. He couldn't contain his smile, however, and finally told Oliver, "It's you! The Puddlemere Keeper with the four game no scoring streak! You're Oliver Wood!"

Oliver took a step back. "Y...Yeah."

"Can I have your autograph? Please?" The boy was practically bouncing up and down.

"You want my autograph?"

"Yeah! Please, sir!"

Sir? No one had ever called him that before.

The boy's mother tut-tutted with her tongue, admonishing her son. "Come now, Tommy, we can't have you bothering this nice man while he's trying to shop."

Oliver saw the boy's crushed expression and cleared his throat. "No...no. It's quite all right. I'd love to sign for you. I just...don't have a quill or parch..."

Uncle Will had walked over now and whispered something to Oliver, then pointed to a child's story book that the boy was carrying.

The boy's mother eyed Will with obvious appreciation, but he took no notice, already turning back to the display case.

Oliver took out his wand, and muttered the word Will had told him, "Inscripte". Then with his wand, he wrote a few words followed by his name, into the inside cover of the boy's book. He handed the book back to Tommy with a smile.

"Thank you!" Tommy's grin could have cheered a Dementor. He danced away with his mother while Oliver watched.

Uncle Will elbowed Oliver with a smile. "What'd you write?"

"Uh...I just wrote 'Never give up.' and then my name."

His uncle nodded as if he approved. "Your first autograph. Today's a big day for you. And a big day for that little boy, there."

Oliver's grin grew as he continued to watch the boy. "Wow."

"Take it all in, nephew." Uncle Will smiled.

"That's a neat trick with the wand, Uncle."

"Comes in handy. And it can write on anything. Even skin."

"Skin??"

Uncle Will winked. "The lasses, boy. I've been asked to sign on it when they've no paper. And probably sometimes when they do. A favorite spot is here." His uncle pointed to the upper arm. "And here." His hand moved to his abdomen, just above the hip.

Oliver shook his head. "Okay. Glad you warned me."

Uncle Will laughed. "It's probably best if you don't mention that to Catherine. Now I need your help. What do you think about these over here?"

Oliver examined the pearl earrings. "Nice. I bet Mary would like something like this. She always wears jewelry." Most days she wore a necklace and rings, with earrings to match. Maybe he'd get Mary a bracelet. And then his mind returned to that little boy with the wonder in his eyes. Uncle Will soon put the earrings back with a sigh. He looked entirely undecided.

Oliver picked up a simple silver charm bracelet, and chose a quill charm and a book charm for it. Mary would love this. He added a Quidditch broom charm so she'd think of him. Perfect. Finally Oliver told his uncle, "Uncle Will you shouldn't worry so much about this. I'm sure she'll love whatever you choose for her."

Uncle Will gave him a hard stare. "I want to do this right, Oliver. She deserves that. I'm just not sure what the right thing is."

"Well - maybe we should take a break, then. I'm hungry. We can make a game plan over supper."

As they crossed the cobblestone street, looking for a restaurant, Uncle Will murmured, "You're right, Oliver."

Oliver looked over at his uncle. "What?"

"Catherine. She doesn't ever wear jewelry. I mean, she wears small silver earrings, and her wedding ring...but nothing else. Jewelry is not the right thing." Will was staring at a storefront with a real estate sign. Oliver saw his eyebrows rise.

"What is it, Uncle? You look like a Seeker who's just spotted the Snitch."

"I have an idea. Do you mind if we stop in here before we eat?"

They entered the store and the woman behind the desk did a double take at Uncle Will. She was about Will's age, with blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders in soft waves. She was quite pretty.

The woman stood up and tucked some hair behind her ear. "Good afternoon. May I help you?"

"Hello, yes. I'm interested in buying a small cottage for weekend getaways. In Scotland. I don't need it large. It has to be on the coast, though, right on the water. With enough land for a good sized garden." Uncle Will seemed pretty decisive, finally.

The woman smiled and Oliver saw her eyes dart briefly to Uncle Will's left hand. She purred, "I can hear a bit of a Scotsman in your voice. Are you looking for any particular town?"

Uncle Will examined pictures of properties on a bulletin board. "No, as long as it's rural. And it doesn't have to be fancy, or new. Older and a bit spare is actually more to my liking. But the setting has to be quite beautiful and serene, and the cottage must have views of the ocean."

"How lovely. A romantic hideaway?" She batted her eyes.

Will smiled. "Yes. A gift for my bride."

Oliver, by now enjoying the woman's flirtatious behavior and his uncle's obliviousness to it, watched her face closely. It fell with that information, though only for a second, and she continued on, "I hope your bride realizes how fortunate she is." She dragged a well-manicured nail down the tan skin of her chest and stopped at the first button of her low cut blouse.

Will looked directly at her for the first time and said firmly, "I'm the fortunate one."

She cleared her throat. "I'm sure. Come then, I will show you what we have available to visit immediately."

She reached behind her to a large, leather binder and placed it on the counter. In it were pictures of many houses and cottages, each with a differently shaped silver or gold key tucked into a pocket next to it. The woman brought them closer and pointed out a few possibilities. One of them was a small, stone cottage, settled on the green edge of an embankment, overlooking the ocean. White water splashed gently onto the shore directly below. There was a short, winding dirt path down to the beach. A curly swirl of smoke floated up from the chimney, and wildflowers all around the house swayed softly in the breeze.

Uncle Will pointed to that page. "I like this one."

"Ah. A particularly beautiful choice. Seems to fill all of your requirements. Would you like to see it? These keys are actually portkeys to each property. It will take only a moment to travel there."

Will turned to Oliver with a questioning look.

Oliver nodded. "Let's go see it, Uncle. It seems nice from here."

And it was - just like in the picture. Although quite old, with moss growing on the stones, it seemed in good repair. The smell of salt was heavy in the air and the crashing of the waves was a constant, lulling presence in the background. Oliver wondered for a moment how different this setting would feel in the midst of a violent storm. Dangerous, but also spectacularly beautiful.

Uncle Will whispered, "This is it." Then he turned to Oliver and repeated, with a smile on his face, "This is it."

An hour later Uncle Will was signing the documents for the cottage, the excitement clear in his smile as he signed the last parchment with a flourish. The real estate agent handed him a pair of silver keys, larger but identical in style to the one they had used for a Portkey.

Her hand lingered on Will's as she told him, "May you enjoy every moment of your beautiful property."

Will pulled his hand away with a distracted frown, and placed the keys in his pocket. "I'm sure we will. Thank you. It really is exactly what I had pictured in my mind. Catherine will love it." He then turned to Oliver, the relief obvious in his happy sigh. "Come on, nephew. I'm starving, I know you must be, and we've got some celebrating to do! We've both accomplished a lot today."

As they ate and laughed and recounted the day, detail by detail, Oliver felt supremely content. He was with his uncle, who by now felt more like a father to him than his own dad, he was looking to be quite successful in his debut on the first team, he was feeling strong and capable, and those closest to him were happy in their lot in life, looking excitedly forward to the wonderful things which would be happening soon. He sat back with a smile. Life was good.

* * * *

The week leading up to Puddlemere United's next match slowly wrecked Oliver. Although he tried to ignore it, wherever he went, the only thing people could talk about was whether or not he was going to break the record. Four straight games without allowing the opponent to score had only been accomplished by three other rookies in the hundreds of years of Quidditch history, most recently fourteen years previously. Oliver was looking to his fifth this upcoming Saturday. His name had been plastered over the Daily Prophet sports section all week, along with his picture, and by now he was getting comments and looks and cheers whenever he went out in public. And Dominic was becoming a celebrity along with Oliver, since they worked so closely on the pitch. Oliver couldn't say he didn't enjoy the attention. He did. It felt as good as he had imagined it would. It energized him. But he also knew he had to keep his head if he was going to continue playing well. He wanted this record. He needed it. He wanted to prove something to his father, and to himself. And so he worked as hard on the field as ever, but tried to stay home and away from the furor after practice was finished.

He was doing just that, staying home, struggling to concentrate on a book two evenings before his match, when Uncle Will contacted him by the Floo.

"Strangest thing, Oliver. I think your dad is coming around."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Well, according to your mother, they're both planning on attending your match."

Oliver stepped back in surprise. "What did you say?"

"Your dad wants to watch you play this Saturday."

Oliver could hear Dominic's "Bloody hell." in the background.

He sputtered to his uncle, "But...why? I don't get it. What happened?"

"You, nephew. Your play. Your record. He must want to be there on your big day. But tickets are scarce, since everyone wants to see you break the record. Even my contacts on the circuit came up empty. Can you get them tickets?"

"Uh...sure. Yeah. I can do that. I'll do it tomorrow. I'll leave them at the booth at the front gate." Oliver thought of how often his player's ticket allotment had lain unused over the past months.

"Good show. And Oliver?"

"Yes?"

"Don't let this throw you. I know it's a shock, but...cold steel, remember? I tried to tell him it was selfish of him to do this to you so suddenly, right before your biggest match, but he wouldn't listen. Said he had to be there."

"No...no. It's...it's all right. I'm just...surprised, that's all. It'll be fine."

"I know you've wanted him there these past months. Good luck, then. Play your heart out, boy."

"I will. Thanks, Uncle."

Oliver watched the green in the fireplace fade away, and then turned to Dominic. "The bastard. He fights me every step of the way during the difficult stuff, when I was starting out and worried, not sure if I'd make it. During all of that, I got nothing but grief from him. And now that things are going well, he wants in on the action."

"But it is what you've wanted, isn't it? You've wanted your father to be in the stands, watching. And now he will be...for your biggest match."

Oliver threw his hands in the air and looked up to the ceiling. "What is he thinking?"

Dominic shook his head. "I don't know...that he was wrong, maybe? That he wants to make it up to you? You shouldn't let this make you angry. The main thing is your game, mate. Forget about the rest. Just play."

Author's Note:

Special thanks to Gabriella Du Sult for wonderful help in early drafts of this chapter. Thanks as always, to Eudora Hawkins, for her editing and for her friendship, and to Aggiebell, my Phoenix Song beta, for her sharp eye and great sense of humor.