Air

AIR

Chapter 8 Collision

Oliver's eyes shot open with the hoarse cawing of a crow outside his window. Damn birds! Couldn't a bloke get a good rest once in a whi -? He jerked his head towards the window. Oh no! Light streamed in through the crack between the shade and the wall. He bolted up and grabbed his Snitch-shaped clock on the nightstand. He couldn't oversleep today. Phew! Barely dawn. Today was the match against the Kestrals. Today was the day he would fight for his place in the record books. He wanted plenty of time to shower and eat a good, leisurely breakfast. No hurrying. No rushing. Easy and slow. A twinge gripped his stomach and he took a deep breath. Stay calm, man. Relax!

While he showered, he mentally reviewed the Kestrals' offensive plays. As he dried himself and dressed he went over each player's strengths and weaknesses. He knew their team as well as he knew his own, after the last two weeks of intense preparation.

He entered the kitchen for breakfast and was greeted by Dominic, who already stood in front of the stove cooking. "G'morning. Got breakfast going."

"Thanks." Oliver grabbed a couple of mugs and forks and placed them on the table, then sat as Dom shoved a plate of eggs and sausage towards him.

Dom sat with his own plate and they both began digging into their typical hearty breakfast. Breakfast had to be substantial or their tanks would run dry halfway through practice. Today, however, the spicy smell of the sausage assaulted Oliver's nostrils and turned his stomach, and the buttery eggs weren't much better. He reached for the coffee pot. As he lifted it to pour, he saw a slight tremor in his hand. He decided to forgo the coffee - the last thing he needed was caffeine jitters on top of his own.

"Hey." Dominic watched him put the coffee pot down, and glanced over at Oliver's untouched breakfast plate.

Oliver looked up with guilt. "No appetite, Dom."

"You'll be fine today. We're always nervous before the big matches. But once you climb onto your broom and feel the energy of the crowd, the only thing that matters is the game. Remember? The nerves disappear."

"Yeah. You're right." Oliver picked at his eggs.

"The team's behind you, mate. We're going to play our best."

"Thanks, Dom. I know you will."

* * * *

Oliver's stomach continued to churn as he suited up in the locker room. His teammates jabbed him and ribbed him and wished him luck. At one point after a particularly hard clap on the shoulder, he thought he would lose what little breakfast he had eaten. It was all fun and exciting to them. They didn't know what was at stake. They didn't know what he had to prove.

Focusing on the ritual of suiting up helped, because if he kept his mind on the details, he didn't think about his nerves.

And then it was time. He took a deep breath and marched onto the pitch with his team.

The roar of the crowd swelled, filling his ears and his chest. His heart pounded, pushing blood through him, and energizing him with each turbulent pulse. He swallowed, mouth dry, and mounted his broom, reveling in the vibration and the power he held beneath him. Gripping the handle, he held his broom still for a few last seconds as cords of muscle bulged and danced on his forearm from the effort. His eyes rested on his arm for a moment. He had been training harder than ever and was in the best shape of his life.

His eyes swept over his opponents, sizing them up, anticipating their first moves. Gradually, his stomach calmed.

He grinned. He was ready.

Uncle Will and Catherine were in their usual spot. They waved and Oliver nodded. He didn't see his parents, though. Wait...there was his father, heading up the steps towards Uncle Will, alone. Where was his mother? Oliver saw his father and Uncle Will greet each other, and then his father turned to the field and ran his hand through his hair. He looked grim...like it pained him to be there, watching his son. Oliver shook his head. Shouldn't his father be celebrating? Wasn't this the time to be proud and cheer along with the rest of the crowd? Why did he come, then?

Oliver glanced around the pitch and saw other players were flying around in their free-form warm ups, as was usual this early before the match. A bit later they would start their organized drills. Oliver could take a minute to fly up to his family and wouldn't be missed. Then he could find out why his father came. Not to cheer, obviously. Oliver darted over to them.

"Nephew! Today's a good day for Quidditch!" His uncle's grin was broad and excitement shone on his face.

"I think so, too, Uncle Will"

"Good luck, Oliver!" Catherine called and waved to him.

"Thanks!"

Oliver's father stood silent. Even as he fought it, Oliver found himself turning to him. His father wore a frown, the lines creased deeply between his brows. He gripped the rail in front of him, his knuckles white. Oliver moved closer. Silence. Oliver tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. Come on, man. Say bloody something! The silence continued and damnit, Oliver was not going to be the one to break it. I can play this game, too, Dad.

Finally, his father spoke. "Your mother wanted to be here, Oliver, but she...wasn't feeling well. Nothing serious, but she's resting. She wanted me to wish you luck. And to tell you that she loves you."

Why did his dad grimace with those words? He already knew his mother loved him. But what did his dad want to say? Oliver heard the sharp blow of a whistle signaling the beginning of the team's drills. He nodded, jaw clenched, and started to head back to his position.

"Oliver...wait!"

Oliver stopped and hovered for a second, facing away from his father. He took a deep breath and turned back.

His dad looked like he wanted to say something. He opened his mouth and raised his hand from the rail. But then he sighed and shut his mouth again. He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Dad - I have to go." He started to turn away again.

"Wait!" There was something in his dad's voice - an urgency.

What the hell kind of game is this...? Oliver expelled an exasperated breath.

"Son...be careful."

That's it? Oliver gave his dad a quick, angry nod, then flew back to his team.

The Puddlemere defense played strong. Oliver was grateful for his teammates, who were obviously giving their best. Half an hour into the match, Oliver hadn't even had to make a save. Dom was tough as nails. But Puddlemere's offense lacked as well, and Oliver's team couldn't score. Defense was the game today. And with little to watch in terms of goal keeping, the crowd's attention wandered to the Seekers, who continued their agonizing hunt for the Snitch. Clouds moved in, forming a perfect hiding place for the winged ball. The Snitch teased the Seekers mercilessly, popping out here and there, enticing them to lunge desperately at every glimpse of sparkling gold. They became quite incensed after a while. Oliver saw at least two flagrant fouls, one from each Seeker, missed by the referee due to the cover of the clouds. It was getting personal.

Finally, two Chasers began maneuvering their way to Oliver's goal. He tensed as his gut told him that this time a shot would come his way. Time to make his first save of the match.

Dom yelled, "Get ready!"

He threw a signal to Oliver telling him which part of the goal he would defend, then Dom headed out to throw them off course. The Kestral Chaser's shot was a bit off, slower than Oliver expected, and Oliver blocked it easily. The crowd's noise level surged and again he heard the chant "Wood! Wood! Wood!" People began stomping on the wooden bleachers, adding a deafening rhythm to the cheering. Oliver looked over at his father. Uncle Will clapped his dad hard on the back, but his father still looked grim, certainly not as though he was celebrating. What was going on? Couldn't the man show a little joy? And then it hit Oliver like a Bludger to the gut. His father wanted to see him fail! That was why he came - to see his point proven in person. Oliver gripped his broom until his fingers hurt, continuing to stare at his dad.

Dom's voice jerked him back to the game. "Oliver! Match is on, mate!"

He headed back into position, ready to defend his goal with his life. Nothing was getting by him today. He would throw the record in his father's face when this was all over. And then he'd be done with him.

An hour later the game was still scoreless. The clouds were burning off, though, and the Snitch came out to play. It darted in front of Oliver and straight up. Both Seekers immediately gave chase. They swooped upward, past Oliver, so close their wind ruffled his hair. Then a Kestral with a Quaffle caught Oliver's eye. Dom was busy defending an attack by a Bludger; Oliver had this one alone. His eyes never left the Quaffle as the Kestral passed it back and forth in a zig zag with his teammate, heading towards Oliver's left hoop. Oliver's heart raced. His breathing sounded like sandpaper scraping wood. Finally, the Kestral nearest him launched his arm up and hurled the Quaffle at the middle hoop. Oliver decided at the last second to go after it, instead of waiting for it to come to him. He did that rarely, but there was something about the Quaffle's speed, the wind, and the angle of the throw that prompted him to roll after it, yelling at Dom to stay back and cover.

His eyes remained glued on the one thing ready to steal away his record. Come on! He bent forward. Almost there... A shimmer of gold passed in front of him and he barely noticed it. He reached out just as the Quaffle tried to pass him. As it hit his hand he felt a vague sense of something dark approaching from above. A terrible jolt racked him, and a flash of burning, blinding pain ripped its way from his head through his entire body, then tore through his left leg. He heard someone scream his name. It echoed in his head and grew fainter and fainter.

Then blackness.

Then nothing.

* * * *

Oliver squirmed on the bed and tried to open his eyes. He did it slowly, finding out quickly that the tiniest movements were excruciating. An unfamiliar ceiling loomed above. A small lamp on a bedside table softly lit blank walls to his right. Where was he? Everything was dark to his left and he couldn't get his bearings. He reached up with a groan and found his left eye. Bandages. That was why he couldn't see out of it. There were bandages, but they were over his head, not his eye. Then why the bloody hell couldn't he see? He felt gingerly around his face. The area around his left eye felt swollen. He couldn't open the lid. A large cut lay open on his cheekbone, just under his eye, with swelling all around. There was another cut at his left brow. He took a shallow breath. Breathing hurt, too. It all hurt. What the hell had happened? He drifted back into the night...

* * * *

Words floated to him...a girl's voice, gentle and soft. Mary?

"Just let me raise your arm a bit here. That's it. I'll go slowly. Tell me if anything hurts and I'll stop."

Everything hurts.

Then a cool, wetness glided over his face, arms and chest. It was soothing...and slow, just like she'd said. For a brief moment the coolness of the washcloth erased the throbbing pain in his head, and he sighed.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Her voice caressed him along with the washcloth. "Why don't you open your eyes, Oliver? Wake up now. A lot of people are worried for you."

"Worried?" It was a half whisper and half groan.

She heard it. "What? Did you say something?"

Oliver struggled to open his eyes. Everything was blurry. And the light hurt at first. Slowly, she came into focus. It wasn't Mary. She was young. She looked like a little girl. She wore some type of uniform.

The girl gasped. "You're awake! I've got to tell your Healer!"

Oliver reached out with a groan and clamped his hand onto her forearm. His arm, criss-crossed with purple bruises and cuts, lay over her perfectly smooth and fair skin. His breaths came hard from that simple effort and for a moment he just stared at his injuries. He croaked out, "Wait. Don't...go. Where am I? What...happened?"

The girl seemed frightened. She looked over his shoulder at something to the left of him, eyes pleading. "I...I'd better get your Healer. Please..."

He still held her, and asked her more loudly, taking all of his effort. "Where...am... I?"

"St. Mungo's. You've been injured. Please...let me go."

Oliver released her hand and dropped his head back onto the pillow with another groan. Why couldn't he remember what happened?

She ran out of the room.

The sound of running footsteps startled Oliver awake again. A young man wearing the green robes of St. Mungo's Healers appeared at Oliver's bedside.

His voice was urgent. "Mr. Wood? Oliver? Can you hear me?"

Oliver gave a slight nod.

"I'm Healer Roberts. Are you in pain?"

What a ridiculous question. Oliver started to laugh. And then winced. "Everything...hurts. And I'm thirsty." His voice was still a raspy whisper.

The Healer gave Oliver a few sips of water, which he swallowed gratefully, and then administered some pain relieving potion.

The pain immediately decreased, and though it wasn't eliminated, at least now he could take deeper breaths.

"All right. Now that you're feeling a little better, I'd like to examine you more thoroughly."

Oliver stiffened. Who was this guy? He looked barely older than Oliver. What could he know about healing? "Wait. Where's Uncle Will?"

"Who?"

"Uncle...um...Healer Wood. I need to see him." Uncle Will would know what to do. Uncle Will would tell him what was going on, and that everything would be all right. Uncle Will would get him out of here.

"He's off his shift. Worked all night. Checked in on you before you woke up. But I imagine he's home now."

"Please, I need to talk to him. Can you call him here?"

The Healer pulled himself up to his full height and frowned. "Mr. Wood, I am in charge of your medical care right now. And I feel the most important thing at present is to give you a thorough examination. You've been out cold for five days."

"What? Five days? I need to talk to my uncle!" Oliver's breathing quickened and his voice had risen a notch. What could have happened to lay him low for five days?

"Mr. Wood, please...calm down. We can try to reach your uncle." He turned to the girl who had been washing Oliver. "Go contact Healer Wood through the Floo and ask him to come in to see his nephew." He turned back to Oliver. "In the meantime perhaps your father can - "

"My father?" Oliver coughed. "What about him?"

"He can talk to you...calm you."

"I DON'T NEED CALMING!" A searing pain hit his left temple as he shouted, and he clutched his head for a moment, swearing. When he spoke again his voice was softer - almost a whisper. "And my dad doesn't give a skrewt's behind about me."

The Healer looked aghast. "I think you're mistaken. Just give him a -"

"Where is he, then? Where is this...concerned father?" Oliver struggled to sit up, but jolts of pain in his side kept him down, and his left arm felt like it couldn't support him. He was nearing a panic by now, and his voice again rose to a shout. "Blast it!" His entire body hurt, his head throbbed madly, he had absolutely no idea what had happened to him, and these idiots here were making absolutely no sense.

Oliver felt pressure on his left arm. "Oliver. Calm down. I'm right here."

"What the bloody...?" That sounded like his father. But Oliver couldn't see him. He glanced to the left. His father's hand gripped his arm. Oliver recognized the fair skin and the wristwatch, but everything else was in shadow. Oliver had to turn his head fully to the left before he saw him. His dad's appearance shocked him. Oliver had never seen him like that before, hair mussed, unshaven, his clothes wrinkled as if he'd slept in them. And with deep, dark circles under his eyes.

Oliver blurted out, "Dad? Why are you here?"

His father let go of Oliver's arm. He cleared his throat. "I was waiting for you to wake up."

"You look terrible."

His father nodded. "I suppose I do."

"How long have you been waiting?"

"How long? Why, since you were brought here!"

His father had been waiting at his bedside this whole time? For five days? Everything was so confusing. Oliver was still in a state bordering on panic. The only thing that kept him from running out of there was the fact that he physically could not.

"No one will tell me what happened." He waited, chest pounding, frightened of the answer.

His father spoke softly. "You had an accident. At the match with the Kestrals."

Ah, God...the big match. Things were starting to come back to him now. He turned away from his dad and stared down at the bedsheet covering him. He remembered reaching for the Quaffle, and feeling a sudden sense of doom when a shadow loomed overhead. He remembered a crack of pain and a crunching sound. And the last thing he remembered was a deep, anguished male voice crying out "Oliver!" But that was all. He cringed with the memory. And with the shame of failing in front of his father.

"Oliver..."

Oliver couldn't look at his dad. "I want to talk to Uncle Will."

"Oliver...look at me." His dad's voice was urgent.

Oliver wouldn't turn his head.

His father swore.

Good. I'm making him angry. He wanted his father to hurt right now.

His father sighed. Something in that sigh gripped Oliver's gut and twisted it into a knot. What the hell did that mean? How bad was this? He decided to deal with that question the best way he could at the moment. He'd avoid it.

He continued to stare straight ahead. "Leave me alone. Please. I want to wait for Uncle Will."

"I don't see why you need Uncle Will when I'm right here..."

Oliver finally turned to his dad. He exhaled and pushed himself up to sitting, stifling a gasp with the pain of that movement. He said as loudly as his sore ribs and pounding head would allow, "I...don't... want you here!"

His father flinched. He slowly stood up and stared at Oliver for a moment, jaw clenched. Then he dropped his head and walked out of the room.

Oliver wanted to shout, "And I don't care if you never come back!" But he didn't. There was something in the slump of his father's shoulders that stopped him. He simply tried to calm his breathing and get the throbbing pain in his head to ease.

The next minutes waiting for Uncle Will seemed like an eternity. All Oliver could do was lie there staring at the ceiling. Finally, he heard footsteps. Mary's tentative smile surprised him at the doorway. He reached out with his hand and waved her in. At least that hurt a little less than before. She entered slowly, as if frightened, and took his hand.

"You're awake. I was so worried." Her voice shook.

"It's all right," Oliver reassured her. "You don't have to worry now." Her hand felt wonderful - warm and soft. It calmed him. "Sit with me?"

"You look...it must hurt."

"Nah. Not that bad. But does it look pretty awful?"

Mary nodded. Then she fished in her purse and held up a small mirror. Oliver gasped when he saw his reflection. His left eye was shut due to the swelling, with closed gashes above and below it. He had deep purple bruises over his left cheek, jaw, and forehead, and a large cut on his lip.

Just then Oliver heard voices outside his room. Men. Uncle Will...and his father. He could catch parts of the conversation.

"...have to tell him."

"Do you know what this...do to him? He hates me already."

"But you're his father. ...needs you right now."

"I've been here! And I will be here! You're the Healer. You've done...before."

"He's not just a patient - he's my nephew!"

"AND HE'S MY SON!"

Mary and Oliver looked at each other as the words floated into the room. Mary's eyes were wide.

Oliver gripped her hand tightly. "What are they talking about?"

Mary looked stricken. "God, Oliver - I don't know." She squeezed his hand back.

The two men walked in. Uncle Will entered first, his mouth set grimly, his eyes avoiding Oliver at first. Will's movements were tentative, so unlike the sure and confident Uncle Will he was used to. Oliver's mouth went dry. His father followed close behind, his face an expressionless mask. Lastly, his mother entered, red eyed. She ran to him with a sob and hugged him.

"It's okay, Mum."

His mother stepped back and gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. Her lower lip trembled. Oliver's heart pounded harder. Uncle Will shot a look at Mary, who immediately stood up and excused herself. She bent down to give Oliver a kiss on the cheek before she left the room.

Uncle Will sat in Mary's chair. He took a deep breath, exhaled, then began to speak. "How are you feeling, lad?"

"Like I've been stomped on by a thestral."

Silence. His uncle's eyes were dark behind his glasses - unreadable.

Oliver was finally the first one to speak. "Uncle Will...what happened?"

Will removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then put them back on and turned to Oliver. "Do you remember the match with the Kestrals?"

"Yeah. And I remember going out to intercept the Quaffle."

"Well...the Seekers were above you and the Snitch was giving them hell, and it finally came out from behind the clouds and then dived. Right when you went for the Quaffle. You flew into their line of descent. It happened so fast..."

"The Seekers hit me?"

Uncle Will nodded. "Both of them. It was a bad collision."

When Oliver finally responded, his voice was incredulous. "Just like your accident, Uncle."

Uncle Will grimaced. "The Daily Prophet sports writer is having a field day with it. Especially because my former team was playing yours."

Oliver swallowed hard. "So, what's the damage?"

Uncle Will turned to Oliver's dad, then back to Oliver. "Your left leg is broken in several places. The Skelemend has started the healing process, but you will need time, and that brace for a while, in order to fully heal. Multiple ribs were fractured as well. You sustained a fair amount of facial trauma. There were internal injuries, but those have been taken care of. And - "

"So when can I get back to the pitch?"

Oliver heard his father sigh and looked up to see him turn his head away for a second. You never give up, do you? Bastard. You think a little collision is going to keep me away from my game?

"What? Uncle Will..." Oliver tried to sit up straighter, but it hurt.

"Oliver, your injuries are serious. You sustained head trauma."

"What...am I out for the season?"

His uncle hesitated.

"Uncle Will! When can I get back to my game?"

Will sat there, silent. His gaze was steady. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then stopped. He sighed again. Finally, he spoke. "I suppose it depends on how your recovery goes."

Oliver's dad's voice cut through the air with a sharp "Will!"

Uncle WIll jerked around to Oliver's father and said, "The main thing right now is that Oliver concentrates on healing." Will turned back to Oliver. "It's not a passive process, boy. It's going to take work and determination. And it's not going to be easy."

"I'm ready for it, uncle."

Will nodded, his face grim. "I know you are, lad."

"I've got to get back to play." Oliver turned to his father. "No matter what you say!"

His father just shook his head, his mouth set, which infuriated Oliver.

Uncle Will raised his hand as if to calm him. "Oliver - I'm going to call Healer Roberts in to examine you now. Please cooperate with him. He looks young, but he's perfectly knowledgeable and a good Healer."

Oliver snapped, tight lipped, "All right."

Will reached out to Oliver's shoulder. "I'm sorry this happened, nephew."

"I'm going to get better, Uncle. And I'm going to be up on my broom soon. You'll see."

Uncle Will shook his head, his brow furrowed. "We'd better let you rest, now."

Oliver's mother gave him another kiss and hug before she walked out with his dad, who said nothing. His uncle was the last to leave.

As he walked out of the room, Oliver called to him, "Uncle Will?"

Will stopped and turned around. "Yes?"

"What about the two Seekers?"

"They left the hospital already. Your Seeker's injuries - Smith is her name, right? - were mild. She left the next day. The Kestral's Seeker went home yesterday, but still has some recuperating ahead of him."

Oliver sighed with relief. Then he looked up at his uncle for one last question, the one he had been waiting to ask, the one that he was afraid to ask. "Did the Kestrals score?"

His uncle smiled and shook his head. "No. You got the record, nephew. No one understands how Smith came up with the Snitch after that collision, but she did. Apparently you all fell on the Snitch, and she came out with it in her hand. You're in the books now, Oliver. You should be very proud."

"Ha. Proud." Oliver's words dripped with sarcasm. "I did exactly what you told me not to, Uncle. I got in the way of two Seekers diving for the Snitch."

Uncle Will took a step towards him, his deep voice suddenly urgent. "Listen, boy - listen to me hard. You can't blame yourself! Don't do it, nephew. Don't do what I did for years. It's not anyone's fault!" He walked up to Oliver and grabbed him by the shoulders, making Oliver wince with the strength of his grip. "Listen to me! From this moment on you must move forward! You must!"

Oliver stared at his uncle, surprised at the desperate intensity of the man's voice and the pain in his eyes. "All right. I'll try."

"There's no choice in the matter, lad."

Uncle Will turned and left the room.

Author's Note: Once again, thanks to Eudora Hawkins for her detailed and wise critiques and her enthusiasm. It has been so fun working with you! And thanks to my wonderful Phoenix Song beta, aggiebell - whose comments always improve my story, and who makes me laugh.