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Chapter Text

“What’s she doing here?” Oliver nodded towards the stands.

Bushy, brown hair bent over parchment. A precariously placed stack of books teetered next to the first year. A yellow, metal-spiral notebook (of muggle origin) and small tube (like a self inking quill, one of the muggle borns in his year explained) fluttered next to the school work. Small head tilted up, the stares and questions magically drawing her attention.

“I said she could come,” Angelina Johnson shrugged, tossing the quaffle between her hands. “The poor thing doesn’t have friends, and she’s being tormented. Noticed her before practice. I saw no harm in it. I just put up a shield charm before we started in case of bludgers.”

Well, shite . Oliver couldn’t well argue against that logic, now could he? Even he noticed how the girl tended to keep to herself. It didn’t help she bossed everyone in sight, but really, being thrown into the deep end of the Magical World? Of course it wasn’t easy. He heaved a gusty sigh, shaking his head at his chaser.

“As long as she donnae make any trouble,” he grumbled with a scowl.

“Thanks Captain, my Captain,” the older girl saluted with a cheeky grin.

A booming shout called the team to attention and practice began in earnest. Wind whipped around him and through his hair, cleansing all the thoughts and troubles that plagued Oliver on land. This was his domain, and he’d be damned if he let Slytherin beat them. Again.

Half way through October, and the bushy little firstie still attended practices, rain or shine. Apparently, the poor girl still didn’t have any friends. If anything, her peers avoided her more assiduously than before. For some reason, it bugged the older boy. It really shouldn’t do, he knew. These things figured themselves out, anyways. Not to mention, the girl absorbed magic and knowledge like a bloody sponge. A clever one, that Hermione Granger. She managed to do her work and write in that odd, muggle notebook of her’s, come rain or shine.

An arithmancy project brought the Keeper to the library one rainy afternoon. Just as he rounded the corner of the current aisle, a small, shy voice by the table he left (Alicia and Angelina decided to be studious for once and joined him), caused him to pause.

“H-Hey Angie,” the younger girl looked up through her lashes. “Thank you for talking to Wood and letting me stay during practices. I-it means a lot to me.”

“Of course, Hermione,” his friend grinned, soft and kind, at the girl. 

“Do you mind if I show you something?” Continued the unexpectedly shy girl. 

Oliver frowned. Even as Angelina accepted, indulgent smile on her bow lips, the Quidditch Captain wondered. Hogwarts did a number on the normally brash, bossy firstie. Cinnamon eyes glanced around, almost afraid of others finding her. A bashful blush covered her little features as she reached for the spiral-bound notebook.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been keeping track best I can during practices,” the yellow notebook exchanged hands. A beat of silence. “It’s how everyone is doing and improving over the last month, you see?” Oliver blinked in surprise and a little bit of awe. “I’ve been keeping track of it and found some basic arithmancy books so I can have these graphs,” the girl pointed elsewhere, “automatically update as I put in more numbers here.” 

“Hermione,” Angelina gasped, eyes darting between the notebook and the fidgeting firstie. “This is amazing! I thought you didn’t like quidditch all that much.”

“Oh no, I think it’s brilliant,” the girl’s features lit up. “Honestly, it’s quite amazing to watch. It’s just,” her expression shut down once more, one foot dragging back and forth along the stone floor. “It’s just that no one would believe me if I said so. I’m just stuck up, bossy, know-it-all Granger who is terrible at flying.” The pain in her voice struck a chord in the older boy, hand gripping the book in his grasp tighter. 

A mirthless laugh left her lips. “I’m not pretty. Or sporty. Or popular. I’m really quite plain and no one likes me. I’m just book smart, really. But I thought if I could do this one thing, and help you, repay you for letting me get away from the others, even for just a little bit then well,” her voice shrank, smaller than Oliver ever heard it before. “Then maybe I’d belong here. Even if it’s just a little bit.” 

His mossy green eyes caught the teary hazel eyes of Alicia Spinnett. Relief and a type of happiness washed through him, glad he let the girl stay all those weeks ago. In a flurry of robes and soft sobs, Angelina clutched the little girl to her, sweet nothings filling the air, promises of being there for her should the first year ever need it. He never knew.

“Angie, do you think Harry and Ron are really my friends?” the girl asked one day.

After her tearful confession and journal sharing, Hermione took to studying with the older lions in the library a couple times a week. Now early November, the firstie no longer stood alone for everything. While still mostly reviled by her peers, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley befriended the brainy girl. It confused him, really, watching the little band of three at meals. Just how they became friends eluded him.

“What do you mean, Sunshine?” Angie hummed, brushing the feather of her quill along her chin.

After their tearful talk, the girls started to call her their Little Sunshine. Oliver decided it fit Hermione, well, when she wasn’t in a mood anyway. The pleased blush answered any question of if the firstie in question liked the name herself. Her yellow notebook laid open in front of Oliver, who studiously ignored the girly conversation. Normally, the twins or Lee or one of his dorm mates attended these little study groups. Today, however, they all bailed. Of course it’s the day the girls decided to be, well, girls. Typical.

“Well, they only became friends with me because I covered for their rash actions,” Hermione frowned at her essay. 

“The whole troll thing, yes?” Alicia added, glancing down the table. “Why were you by yourself, anyways?”

Troll thing? Oliver cast his mind back to Halloween. Hermione never turned up, causing the girls to worry. Just as they were about to accost a guilty looking Harry Potter, Quirrell burst into the hall. The whole thing felt far too dramatic, too theatrical, to be real. Yet, the Great Hall burst into a flurry of action. As a responsible fifth year, Oliver tried to keep the younger years going. Sometimes, it paid to be popular.

“Er, well,” an embarrassed flush covered the girl’s cheeks. “Ronald said something quite rude and hurtful after charms. With the day I had, and, well the last couple of months really, I couldn’t hold it anymore. I found the nearest loo and cried.”

A sympathetic grimace crossed his face. Talking about and sorting through emotions were not his forte, and being in the middle of girl talk about them made it worse. Deciding discretion the better part of valor, he busied himself and pretended to be so absorbed in Snape’s essay no one dared to bother him.

“Well, don’t tell anyone,” Alicia’s eyes dramatically glanced around before leaning down with an exaggerated whisper. “But in first year, I did the same thing.”

“What?!” Gasped the younger Gryffindor, scandalized. “No!”

Wait, green eyes blinked as they flicked up for a moment, intrigued. Spinnett did?

“Mhm,” the older girl continued. “You see, there was this terrible bully, Samantha Conrad from Hufflepuff-”

“A Puff?!” Oliver exclaimed.

Three eyebrows arched in unison. Each girl sported a different expression from amused to knowing to outright exasperated. Pink dusted his cheekbones. He ducked his head to avoid their clear amusement. This , Oliver bemoaned, this is why I avoid girl talk. It sucked you into its vortex of madness, it did. 

“Just so you know, Ollie here actually adores gossip,” Angelina smirked at his pink face (making his impressive scowl rather less so).

“Makes sense,” Granger shrugged, an impish grin on her face. “My Dad and his mates are worse than Mum and her friends when they get together. It’s quite fun to give them all a drink and listen.”

Mental note: never drink around this little bird.

“As I was saying,” Spinnett rolled her eyes. “One day, all Conrad did was talk behind my back. How it wasn’t ladylike or proper to like sports so much.” Granger scrunched her nose. “My thoughts exactly. But still, I was alone and Angie, Katie, and I weren’t close yet. So, I went to the pitch, hid under the stands and had a good, long cry.”

“B-but that’s mad,” the younger Gryffindor stuttered. “Y-you’re popular and athletic a-and-”

“Yes?” The older girl raised a brow. 

“Well, you’re pretty, too,” once more shy, Granger’s hands knotted together. 

“And I imagine that’s why she said all those things,” Alicia sagely nodded.

“You see, Sunny-girl,” Angie chimed in. “The thing about bullies is that they pick on people who threaten them. Me and Ali here? We’re athletic and fit. That’s scary to the proper girls. You, though? You are wicked clever with a quick tongue. That terrifies everyone.” 

They aren’t wrong, the older boy mentally shrugged. 

“But going back to your original question, why would you think the boys aren’t really friends with you?” Angelina prompted. 

“Harry is alright, I guess,” teeth nibbled on her lower lip in troubled thought. “He is just really shy and a bit awkward is all. Ronald, though, pretends I’m not there most of the time. Unless he needs help with his homework, of course. He can be cruel at times.”

“If you’d want my advice,” the older girl began. 

Large, cinnamon eyes gazed up hopefully, watching Angelina gather her thoughts. Maybe we got this wrong, Oliver mused as he leaned back in his chair. She’s more like the team spaniel than the team Sunshine. I’m glad I’m not on that end of her puppy eyes. Flexing his neck back and forth, a series of satisfying pops followed.

“Keep Harry and tolerate Ron,” Angie summed up with a satisfied nod.

“Makes sense,” tisked Alicia. “Harry at least wants to be friends with you and takes your advice into consideration, yeah?” Brown curls bobbed. “He listens and likes your stories, right?” More nodding. “Then he’s interested in you as a person. Boys are weird about their mates-”

“Oi,” his head shot up to see three giggling witches. 

It’s true, he internally cringed. 

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” an eyebrow raised towards Oliver’s pink ears. “Harry sounds like he’s interested in you as a friend, a person. Ronald could like you well enough, but not so much as to want to get to know you. So, you tolerate Ron-”

“But don’t coddle him, either,” Angelina added. 

“That’s right! He can do his own work,” Alicia agreed, grinning at the girl. “It’s okay to be kinda-friends with some people, you know? You can be there if you want to, for when they want to talk, but you don’t need to do everything for them.” 

“So, being different kinds of friends with each of them?” Anxious eyes flitted between the two girls. 

“Exactly!” 

A relieved smile bloomed across her face. Her eyes shone on each one of them for a brief moment. Then, a quiet thank you and back to work. Oliver fondly shook his head. The firstie certainly livened up their study sessions, that’s for sure.

Oliver leaned against the uncomfortable hospital bed. Perhaps paying better attention to his surroundings would help. A pained grimace bloomed across his face. His ribs smarted from a bludger. By now, he really ought to know better than to get distracted. Then again, Potter had a way of bringing chaos to games by the sheer power of his presence. 

Confections and sweets teetered next to him, a precarious and sugary mound of get-well wishes and future indulgence. Luckily, his book rested nearest. Runes were dead useful, and Oliver was nothing if not pragmatic. Halfway through a particularly interesting passage, the pathetic moans of a student suffering some accident grabbed his attention. 

“Now, now, Mr. Longbottom, just this way,” the matron instructed, crisp but kind. “Tell me, what happened.”

“Malfoy and Parkinson thought it’d be a lark to throw around several charms at once,” a prim, matter-of-fact voice answered instead of the weezing boy. 

Soon, a litany of just who casted what spilled from the lass’ lips. Oliver’s intrigue and begrudging admiration rose as the girl recounted with surprising accuracy both the spells and her attempts at countering. Madam Pomfrey apparently agreed, bustling around the firstie and thanking the girl. In her busy, no-nonsense way, the matron shooed the witch away. An amused brow lifted, watching chocolate hair shake back and forth, exasperation rolling off her small frame in palpable waves.

Cinnamon eyes found his own mossy green. A sheepish grin answered her raised brow. Being caught watching never felt great. Yet, the good-natured roll of her eyes assured Oliver that the team’s little Sunshine didn’t mind over much. If anything, the small tilt of her lips found it more amusing than not. Her little legs deftly moved around the beds, her hand digging into the overfull satchel hanging off her shoulder.

“Before I forget,” she murmured, keeping her voice down. “I know you like to look at the journal when I hand it off to Angie and Ali.” A sheaf of parchment slipped free of its cluttered confines. “So, I took the liberty of putting together the game data from yesterday.”

As she prattled on, about how she couldn’t see super well that high. That the chasers seemed to be doing better, but he still didn’t notice things. A prim, swotty brow lift accompanied that observation. Still, the graphs and numbers presented themselves in a neat, orderly fashion -something he appreciated. Eyes darted along the straight lines of neat script, absorbing the facts and figures. 

He quietly conversed with the girl for another quarter hour before she bid him farewell. A new respect dawned upon him. Thoughts whirled to life with the spark of a new idea.

Hey Ollie,

Don’t be mad at my kid brother or his friends when you hear what they’ve done. I promise they did it for the right reasons.

Charlie

Staring at the newly depleted Gryffindor hourglass, he damn well hoped the idiotic firsties did it for an excellent reason. The House avoided them like the plague. Potter and Longbottom fared well enough, it appeared, but Little Sunshine withdrew into her burrow. Unlike the other two, no one truly paid attention or cared on a normal day. Fear and anxiety defined her every action.

At first, their little Sunshine avoided the older Gryffindors. Green eyes rolled at the actions of his younger Housemates. For the first few days, Oliver understood. Gryffindor housed some rather impressive tempers. Yet, the haunted, skittish girl who twitched at every sound several days later melted his cool demeanor. Looking down the table, he noticed his chasers’ expressions.

Therefore, when he strolled through the Runes section, finding the four girls cloistered together didn’t surprise the Scot one bit. Judging by the flighty expression on her face, the third years just swarmed the poor firstie.  

“H-Hi you guys,” her small voice drifted to the older boy. With a sigh, Oliver revealed himself, sitting at the table. “And Oliver.” 

“You know we’re not really mad at you, right?” Angelina fussed, holding herself back from mothering the girl. 

“Y-you aren’t?” She stuttered, cinnamon eyes glancing between them all.

“I mean, we were pretty upset at first,” Katie admitted, a sheepish grin on her face. “But really, you don’t break rules unless there’s reason to.”

“Not to mention,” Angie added, her hand tracing soothing circles on the young witch’s back. “We noticed some things.”

“Oh,” her soft, crestfallen whisper answered. 

Her bushy head bowed in shame, as if sharing her burden signified weakness. Perhaps, in her mind, it showed just how inadequate her abilities were. Which, considering the lass only twelve at best, sounded remarkably silly and perhaps arrogant. Or lonely, a voice in his head murmured. Being self-sufficient so young originated from isolated, difficult times. He should know. 

“So, won’t you tell us what happened,” Alicia cooed, one hand running up and down her arm.

“You promise?” Cinnamon eyes settled on each and every person at the table. 

For a moment, they arrested Oliver, leaving no escape from her penetrating gaze. If she weren’t so young, and so inexperienced in the wizarding world as a whole, he wouldn’t be surprised if she used mind magic. Her intense gaze judged his soul, or so it felt. Satisfied with what she gleaned, Hermione nodded.                     

“Well, a few weeks ago, we went to visit Hagrid,” the girl nibbled her lower lip once more. “You see, apparently he won a dragon’s egg-“ Well, I’ll be damned, he swore “-from a shady pub wager and decided to hatch it in his own hut. Needless to say, it took us weeks to convince him to send it with Charlie Weasley to Romania. 

“On the way back to the common room, we ran into a spot of bad luck,” pink suffused her cheeks. “Well, Neville and Harry and I were caught out by Draco Malfoy. He told Professor McGonagall and she gave all four of us detention. 

“We thought that Hagrid would have us do something safe. Gross, probably, but safe,” small shoulder shrugged, the haunted mask falling upon her features once more. “Except, well Hagrid’s notion of ‘safe’ isn’t exactly normal, is it? So, he took us into the Forbidden Forest to find what’s been hunting the unicorns.”

“During the day?” Angie frowned, her brow furrowed in thought.

“Well, no.” 

“Excuse me, but are ye sayin’ Hagrid dragged four firsties into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night?!” Oliver erupted (as loudly as reasonable in a library), barely noticing the others shrink away from his glower. “He’s not even armed!”

“He had a crossbow,” Hermione muttered, glancing through wary lashes. “And Fang.”

“So, a coward in the form of a large dog and no way to stop anything from taking vulnerable students,” he scoffed. “Brilliant.” 

“It’s okay, Little Sunshine,” Alicia murmured, hugging the obviously terrified girl. “He just explodes when he’s upset.”

“Or excited,” Katie chimed in.

He blushed.

“Or scared,” Angie hummed, mischief in her eyes.

Heat travels towards his ears.

“Or surprised.”

He scowled, something fierce and impressive. He ignored that none of them were particularly affected, most likely due to the bright pink of his cheeks. 

“Or embarrassed,” their Little Sunshine giggled, soft and shy.

“Fine, fine, I see how it is,” he grumbled, putting on a show. “Is this payback for how I’ve led this team?”

“Yes,” his chasers deadpanned together.

Delighted laughter, muffled behind a small hand, shook Hermione’s shoulders. At the very least, they could cheer up their unofficial analyst. Soon enough, the girls all fell back into the narrative. Apparently, Malfoy pranked Longbottom, prompting the large man to switch assignments. Harry and Hermione, the groundskeeper decided, worked well together and so would go with Fang. Needless to say, they found just what supped on the blood of unicorns. 

Later that night, Oliver settled next to the fire in the common room, quill and ink on hand to pen a letter.

Charlie,

You were right…

Steam curled behind the scarlet engine as it chugged back to London. Oliver reflected on his fifth year. True, Hogwarts always felt thrilling and adventurous, but a different tenor hummed beneath the normal bustle of school. While he joked and talked with his mates, a part of his mind wandered to the team’s firsties. 

Harry Potter attracted trouble. Anyone with two eyes and a functioning brain noticed it. Every odd thing revolved around him, in some way, shape, or form. Unsurprisingly, the youngest Weasley brother attached himself to mischief just like the rest of his family. Aside from Perce, he reflected. Despite their difference, the dumb jock and the up-tight prefect, the two boys were surprisingly close. And that’s how Oliver knew Ronald loved trouble making just as much as the twins, Just in a different way.

So, when a head of bushy, chocolate brown curls poked into his cabin, Oliver found himself unsurprised. Most of his mates knew the little witch by now, having spent some amount of time with her in the library over the course of the year. Her cheery chatter and giggles encouraged the more ridiculous antics, their own little ray of sunshine in the compartment. 

Dainty hands waved goodbye, promises of next school year left in her wake. It took Oliver a week to admit he missed the Gryffindor team’s little Sunshine. 

Chapter Text

Over the summer, Oliver started and maintained a steady, if educational, correspondence with Hermione Granger. He offered her a spot as the team analyst -really, just acknowledging the work the little witch readily and willingly provided. A fond smile bowed his lips when he received her enthusiastic acceptance. When his parents questioned his reaction, her letter landing neatly during breakfast, Oliver shrugged and explained the situation. 

Soon enough, they exchanged book recommendations and “assignments.” His owl flew to her Georgian townhouse on Wednesday, and, like clockwork, he’d receive her post by the next day. Even when her family holidayed in France, the soon-to-be second year faithfully maintained their correspondence.

“Hello!” The cheery second year chirped into the unofficial-official Gryffindor Quidditch Compartment.

Squeals and hellos greeted their Sunshine. The Twins appeared less excitable, explained by their recent trip to Diagon. In that time, his chasers corralled the poor thing, pushing her shoulders down so that they could play with her hair as he waxed lyrical about the goals of the team that year. 

Yet, an unsettled feeling clenched his gut when their star seeker failed to appear. By the troubled look on their little Sunshine’s face, she noticed, too. Without prompting, her commanding aura surrounded her slight frame once more. 

“I’ll go look for them,” Hermione declared before turning and doing just that.

“Merlin be with the witch,” Angie muttered once the compartment door closed.

“Godric knows he gets into nothing but trouble,” Katie added with a sigh.

“And I was so looking forward to playing with her hair more,” Alicia pouted, throwing herself dramatically into the bench. 

“If anyone can find Harry-“

“It’s Hermione.”

“Bless his soul when she finds him,” one of the twins shook his head, solemn and mournful.

“She will take his bollocks for worrying her unnecessarily,” the other nodded wisely. 

“Enough of this chit-chat,” Oliver huffed, taking control of the room once more.

While finding out just where his seeker dallied off to no longer weigh upon his shoulders, other things did. Like making sure they started early this year. If they were to win the Quidditch Cup again, this team needed to be whipped into shape. Yesterday.

“So what, exactly, is a Ford Anglia?” Oliver asked a few days later in the library. 

“It’s a muggle automobile,” the swotty second year answered without actual thought. “Ford is the company that designed and manufactured the automobile. Anglia is the name of the model. It is often accompanied by a year, indicating when it was designed, since each year’s design is different.”

That just sounds wicked, the sixth year mused.

“But why did they fly it to school?” 

“Because they’re idiots,” growled the small girl, magic sparking through her near sentient hair. 

Mental Note: Don’t piss off this bird.

Impotent fury raged through his veins. Between forcing himself to wake up early (very few people knew Oliver absolutely despised mornings) and corralling his somnambulant team, realizing that the Slytherin team sabotaged their practice time absolutely irritated the sixth year. Finding out the whole team flew on the newest brooms (Nimbus 2001’s, to be precise) bought by Lord Lucius Malfoy himself (may he rot in hell) aggravated the captain to no end. 

To hear the second year, sniveling blonde ponce call their Little Sunshine such a foul, derogatory, vulgar, crass term incapacitated him. Red clouded his vision, drowning out the voices around him. Sharp eyes focused on the twerp, missing the youngest Weasley boy raising his wand and backfire. Only the man handling of the Twins brought Oliver back to the present, where the smirking snakes sneered their farewell. 

“Come on, Oliver,” whispered one of them.

“It’s not worth it,” the other muttered in turn.

“I don’t think Minnie would be impressed if we did anything stupid,” the first sighed. 

“And someone needs to answer Mione’s questions when she comes back to the castle,” shrugged the second. 

“We figured the girls and you would do a mighty fine job of it,” a twin patted his back. 

“Aye, thanks for volunteering me,” Oliver grumbled, forcing himself to redirect that anger somewhere more productive. 

“She listens to you,” the twin on his left shrugged.

“And respects what you have to say,” the other mirrored. 

“Bring Perce with you.”

“She responds to him, too.”

A few days later, a much subdued Hermione Granger joined in for their quidditch (plus random sixth year) study group. Angelina gently pried the now battered yellow notebook from Sunny’s grasp, flipping through the pages and finding the comparisons between last year and this one. Meanwhile, Alicia and Katie debated the merits of different supplemental transfiguration readings with her. In only a half hour, those cinnamon eyes swept across the table, a contemplative frown beneath. 

“What do they hold against muggleborns?” She asked without preamble. “I mean, some of the more… conservative families.” 

“It’s simple,” Percy answered after a moment. “They feel their traditions and way of life are threatened by the influx of muggleborns into the wizarding population.”

“But, why not teach it? Or indoctrinate us at a younger age?” 

Her question stopped everyone. For a moment, Oliver saw runes flying through his mind in indiscernible patterns. As each combination faded, new ones appeared to take their spots. Why didn’t they teach muggleborns about wizarding traditions? Hogwarts ran a (supposedly defunct) muggle studies class, but what about an introduction to the Wizarding World? 

“If I were to guess, lass,” his voice started before his mind caught up. “I would say it’s because families can be proprietary about their accumulated knowledge.” 

“I suppose that makes sense if we’re talking about spells and artifacts and libraries,” her lips pursed in thought. “But what about everything else?” 

At their blank looks, the girl scoffed, as if their nonplussed expressions answered her question. 

“What else are you talking about, Hermione?” Percy inquired with a curious tilt of his head. 

“Everything,” hands flew up in frustration. “Etiquette. Society. Culture. Those unspoken things that everyone just knows. What are the different magical houses? What are the traditional practices of magic? The holidays? The importance of different animal companions? The difference between a pet and a familiar? I could go on and on, but suffice to say, there is so much that muggleborns are just expected to know the moment they step into the magical world.” 

A heavy boulder dropped into his stomach. When put that way, it did sound unfair towards muggleborns. To think they all judged their classmates, and their little Sunshine, so harshly on things they never knew, and may never know stung. Of course, how could Hermione know their beliefs? Their rites? Why do certain people behave in different ways? 

Contemplative silence consumed the group for a good while, each pursuing their own activities. A soft sniffling tickled his ears. Without having to look up, his mind’s eye saw soft, cinnamon eyes glossy with repressed tears. 

“But why me?” Her equally soft, strained voice cut through the silence. 

“Because they’re terrified of you,” Angie wrapped the girl in her arms. 

“I think we should show Vector,” Oliver murmured to his friend. 

Unbeknownst to most of the Hogwarts population, Oliver actually liked school. He enjoyed learning, and prided himself on being able to both maintain a strict training schedule as well as high marks. He wouldn’t beat Percy, that’s for sure, but his academics were nothing to sneeze at. If people wanted to underestimate his intelligence, Oliver let them. It simply provided a strategic advantage.

So, when Hermione Granger submitted increasingly sophisticated statistics and analysis, the charts self updating and predictive, Oliver went to the only other person he trusted with the information: Percy Weasley. 

“This is incredible,” murmured the red-head, long fingers slowly flipping through the pages in front of him. “And you said she’s been keeping this notebook since last year?”

“Yeah,” his breath gusted out. “At first, it was pretty basic stuff, you know? Something a first year could do with an introductory text.” 

“This is anything but introductory,” snorted his friend as he regarded the match information from over the summer. “It’s rather extraordinary. How did she know how to do all of this?”

“Apparently, maths is a compulsory subject for muggles from the age of five,” Oliver relayed, still shaking his head at the madness. “Education, according to Hermione, is more standardized. Muggles are expected to learn how to read and write, do maths and arithmetic, as well as learn about sciences, in their school systems.”

Percy released a low whistle. “That explains why so many are much better in their written work.” Blue eyes glanced up from the work. “Did you ask her about this?” 

“Kind of?” A calloused hand rubbed the back of his neck.

“That’s encouraging,” blue eyes rolled to the ceiling. “She is strong-willed and independent, Ollie. I’m not sure she’ll appreciate the interference.”

“Maybe not at first,” he conceded. “But if she is giving people fits, I’ll talk to her.” 

Blue eyes, like the rivers by his home, bored into him, judging him and weighing the options. If nothing else, being a captain, the leader of his team, taught Oliver how to talk to others, to bring them around to his point of view if he thought it best. Hermione needed a foil, someone to stand up to her bossy, know-it-tall independence. Luckily, Oliver never backed down. If he needed to reason with their little Sunshine, then that’s just what he’d do. 

“Then, let’s go to Professor Vector,” Percy nodded, a small, mischievous smile on his lips. “After class.”

Feeling distinctly like he just passed some sort of test, and not knowing what it was for or why, Oliver simply nodded. Collecting the valuable information (all is fair in love, war, and quidditch, after all), he resumed working on a charms essay. He put aside the thoughts of brainy second years and confrontations as a ‘later’ problem to solve.

“And you said a second year did all of this?” Their professor inquired, sharp eyes darting between the two sixth year boys.

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused. 

Oliver resisted the urge to fidget under the woman’s gimlet gaze. As his future plans coalesced, the Scot decided he needed to practice more than just quidditch. The less savory part of the job, namely dealing with the media, required some semblance of self control. Which is how he ended up doing his best to return the even gaze of his phlegmatic professor.

“Who?” The singular question cut through the air.

“Hermione Granger, Gryffindor second year,” he answered, stilling his fidgeting fingers.

“Mm, yes, I’ve heard Minerva mention her before,” mused the arithmancy mistress. Oliver imagined the equations quickly flickering before her mind’s eye regarding the newly revealed information. “I will speak with Miss Granger and Minvera quite soon, then. Thank you both, Messers Weasley and Wood.”

Long strides carried him out of the fifth floor classroom and down the corridor. Contemplative silence followed the two Gryffindors to their next class, Transfiguration. He hoped to Merlin, Morgana, and Circe that Sunny forgave him, especially considering how the Twins tutored the girl. 

The Chamber of Secrets...

Halloween dawned, cold and gray. Everything in its place. Excited chatter echoed down stone passages. Anticipation shortened attention spans and increased gossip. Hell, even Potter, the youngest Weasley brother, and Sunshine planned for a somewhat normal holiday Attending a Death Day Party sounded wicked, in Oliver’s opinion. Ghosts always loved to chat about how they died and why. He found it frightfully fascinating. 

...has been opened...

Oliver wished it remained so peaceful, idyllic even. Spirits were high, especially with the match against Slytherin fast approaching. Jack-o-lanterns and candles floated high above their heads, their eerie glow the only illumination in the hall. Bats swooped through the air and owls hooted from the rafters. 

A moment of pity swept through the team, noticing Hermione’s continued absence towards the end. The twins vowed to ply the second year with food in exchange for information, in the hope it would inspire new pranks or ideas. Wickedly brilliant, those two. Even those thoughts passed through his mind in nary a second. The sugar crash slowly consumed students one by one, until a contented hum filled the cavernous hall. 

...Enemies of the Heir…

Therefore, when the sated conversations shifted into shocked silence, a cool trickle of unease trailed down his spine. Shoving his way through the throng of students, Oliver spied a familiar trio in various states of shock and horror. Water glinted in the orange torchlight, reflecting the gruesome image of a hanging cat. Moss eyes tracked from the puddle to an irate Filch. Gestures directed his gaze to the second year lions and up. 

We can’t have a bloody normal year, can we? His mind grouched as a distraction. Sure, hanging Mrs. Norris from a chandelier could be a prank, a one off, but everyone knew better than to mess with a familiar bond. Well, almost everyone, he mentally corrected, his mind casting back to a conversation with their Sunshine. The muted fear, contained only to cinnamon eyes and desperately clenched hands, cut through the crowd. Unwillingly, Oliver followed that gaze to the stone wall.

He wished he didn’t.

...Beware...

“Hello Oliver, Percy,” the prim, second year greeted, a suspicious gleam in her eye. “You wouldn’t have any idea why Professor Vector would call me into her office, would you?”

Silence. Oliver had to hand it to Sunny. Catching the two sixth year Gryffindors unawares and away from their normal study session setting definitely unbalanced both. Percy less so, it appeared -most likely due to having such a large, boisterous family. Her imperious, raised brow and hands firmly planted on her hips indicated Hermione Granger Meant Business. 

“Yes, we do,” Oliver answered, deciding to face this challenge head on.

“Why?” She scowled, irritated and upset clearly written in her expressive eyes. 

“Because you’re talented,” well-muscled shoulders shrugged.

After the conversation with Perce, the captain debated and deliberated on the best strategy to explain the interference. He ruefully acknowledged that he’d be irritated by someone else going behind his back. By the time they told Professor Vector, he settled upon the blunt, unbridled truth. If nothing else, Hermione prized honesty. So, Scottish candor she would get.

“And more than that, you’re dedicated and work hard,” he leveled a no-nonsense gaze at the girl. “You deserve the opportunity offered.”

A nonplussed expression spread across her face. The previous indignation at managing her dissolved into a thoughtful, confused silence. Aside from quidditch and the study sessions, where Hermione interacted more with the girls and twins than with him, Oliver rarely sought her out. Keepers observed, at all times, and that’s what the lass didn’t quite understand. 

“So, you two went to Professor Vector, despite me never meeting her, and showed her my notebook, I presume?” Curiosity lit her eyes as they danced between the two sixth year boys. A contemplative frown tilted her lips. “What is so special about what I did? It was just basic maths, really.” 

“Hermione, what you accomplished is more than most students ever learn, let alone create,” Percy blurted out, clearly showing the Weasley family trait he desperately tried to hide. 

“But it wasn’t hard,” her voice trailed off, much like the perplexed expression on her face.

“And that’s why we went to Professor Vector,” Oliver grumbled, dramatically leaning back in his chair. “Good Godric, lass, you should be bloody apprenticed to her. Not stuck in class next year with people who barely understand that maths exists.” 

“So, this isn’t a way to fob me off? Or mock me?” Her eyes narrowed and arms crossed, natural defenses rising to protect the young witch.

“Fob-“

“Mock?!”

“Why would you even-“

“Merlin and Morgana, no!”

“Who would-“

“What gave you-“

The two boys spluttered over one another. Percy’s voice rose several octaves while Oliver’s brogue deepened. Desperate hand gestures, often towards one another, flailed back and forth. Each clamored to explain and justify their subterfuge. All the while, Hermione’s bemused, exasperated face, hand still on her hips, darted between the boys. At some point, she decided they meant well. All the previous tension melted away. By the end, soft giggles shook her shoulders, halting their protestations.

“That’s just mean,” Oliver remarked, fighting to keep the smile off his face. 

“I apologize for being so uppity,” she smiled after her mirth subsided. “But most people tend to, well, tease me about my academics. I see now you both wanted to help.”

Both winced. More often than not, they were accused and harassed for being so singular. Percy’s empathy matched Sunshine’s situation closer, being a Gryffinclaw himself. The Lion’s Den rarely respected their more studious Housemates. Meanwhile, Oliver’s drive to become a professional quidditch player often intimidated most people, including his own team. His ears functioned perfectly well, despite what people thought, and heard all their less flattering opinions. Quidditch nutjob. Unhealthily obsessed. Whispers and name calling followed in his wake, no matter how athletic and generally popular.

“Of course, Sunny,” he grinned, glad to be past the worst of her temper.

“And really, Hermione, you should accept her offer,” Percy earnestly entreated the second year. “It is a rare opportunity in our world, especially for someone as young as you.”

“I already accepted her offer,” a devious smirk bloomed across her features. Cinnamon eyes sparkled with impish glee and mischief at the dawning awe and shock of her audience. “But thank you, Percy. I truly do respect and appreciate your opinion.” A warm smile tilted her lips up. “Both of you.”

With that, dainty fingers waved goodbye to the two shocked sixth year boys. A few moments of stunned silence ticked by before they looked at one another.

“Did she just take the mickey out of us?” Oliver blinked, unsure how to feel.

“Yes, yes she did,” Percy responded just as dazed.

Another beat of silence.

“She’s going to take over the bloody world, isn’t she?” 

“Most definitely.” 

News buzzed through the castle for the next several weeks. Apprenticeships started much older than thirteen, however the outstanding aptitude Hermione showed for the subject bypassed any common precedent. Showing up one day at the Gryffindor table with drastically different robes (or so the girls said. They still matched the black wool and red trimming of their normal school set) surprised their House. Having Professor Dumbledore announce her formal apprenticeship to Professor Vector blew open the doors of the gossip mill. 

“Does this mean you won’t be in our classes anymore?” Potter inquired during supper that day.

“Some,” Sunny shrugged, an apologetic smile gracing her features. “Mistress Vector and Gringotts performed aptitude tests. In most cases, I’ll either get advanced work during our normal class time or I’ll be working with the fourth years.” A look of consideration crossed her features. “Well, except for potions.”

“What did the Greasy Git do?” Growled the youngest male Weasley -Ronald, Oliver remembered.

“Professor Snape,” Sunny automatically corrected. “He’ll be giving me private tuition at Mistress’ insistence.”

“How did she pull that off?” Blinked Potter, voicing the keeper’s question. “He hates Gryffindors.”

“Mistress is,” the young witch deliberated, a familiar, cunning gleam in her eyes. “Persuasive.”  

“Well, anyone who can manage Snape is good in my book,” Ronald shrugged, a lopsided grin beaming at his friend.

“Professor Snape,” she commented once more before adding. “And Mistress Vector has strict rules on homework help.”

“But then, how are we going to complete our assignments?” The youngest male Weasley bemoaned. 

“Here’s a novel idea, do it yourself,” the little lioness tartly retorted, cinnamon eyes rolling to the enchanted vaults above. The other two laughed at the look of horror spreading on the ginger’s face. “I can proofread for grammar and spelling, but I can’t suggest anything. I promise you are both intelligent enough to finish your own assignments.”

Afterwards, friends diverted Oliver’s attention from the second years. Now, if only the whole Chamber of Secrets nonsense can die down.

The Gryffindor post-match party raged. The Weird Sisters' newest hit blasted through the wireless. Platters of treats and butterbeer littered several of the sturdy study tables. Off to one side, the twins regaled a good portion of the Tower with some story or another. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie perched on a nearby sofa, half listening to their yearmates, half gossiping. 

Ronald regaled a group of first and second years, complete with pandomined gestures and sound effects. In fact, the majority of the House reveled in beating their rivals. All except Sunny. Assured of Potter’s recovery, the team trudged into the common room in an odd mix of ecstatic and irritated. Another year, another game against Slytherin, and another mystery surrounding Potter. A frown momentarily marred Oliver’s face before the enthusiastic celebration carried his attention away.

Later that evening, as the party wound down, mossy eyes surveyed the common room. No one saw hide nor hair of their little analyst since the match. Making excuses, Oliver wound his way down the moving staircases and through mostly silent, stone corridors. White teeth flashed his most dazzling smile, earning him a bemused huff and roll of the eyes. Madam Pomfrey never admitted it, but she played favorites.

“So, it’s like what muggles call numerology?” Harry’s voice drifted down the long aisle. 

“Yes, but really no,” Sunshine chuckled. “It’s more like if numerology went to uni and got a bachelors in maths before a PhD in theoretical mathematics.” 

“Of course that’s the field that you end up excelling in,” Oliver pictured emerald eyes glimmering with mischief.

“I was always good at maths,” delicate shoulders lifted, careless and honest. “I am something of a prodigy.”

“No,” the scandalized voice of the Boy-Who-Lived, louder the closer Oliver walked, gasped. “You were one of those kids?”

“Yes, and even then I was an anomaly,” he pictured the witch’s eye roll. 

“And here my Aunt Petunia said I’d never meet someone from the academies,” chortled her friend. 

Oliver turned the corner to see Hermione working off a make-shift desk next to their star seeker. A stack of papers he recognized as quidditch stats piled on top of the bedside table. Another muggle notebook, Gryffindor red this time, laid open on her lap. Metallic navy glinted in the torchight, the monogrammed fountain pen her parents sent to celebrate her apprenticeship casually swinging in her hand. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he settled against one of the screens.

“We should pull a prank on her this summer holiday,” grinned the girl. “What do you think she’d do if the dentist to the elites spontaneously appeared at her house?”

“Wait, your parents are those Grangers?” The awestruck boy gaped.

“Yes, my parents are those famous dentists,” cinnamon eyes rolled to the sky once more. “Honestly, this is why I don’t tell people about my family here. They get all weird and formal.”

“Doesn’t that mean you went to-” Potter babbled on.

“Yes, Harry, it does,” fingers pinched the bridge of her button nose.

“No wonder Ron’s eating habits disgust you so much,” the second year boy chuckled at the pained expression on her face. “And the purebloods! That must be an absolute nightmare to see those of your station-” his overly posh accent startled a snort from Sunshine “- snub you so.” 

“That is one way to look at it,” a strange look flashed across her face before settling into an indulgent smile.

“Do I see you sharing management secrets with Potter, Sunshine?” Oliver interjected, breaking their rather comfortable conversation. I’ll figure out what they’re talking about later, the captain figured. A smug smirk stretched across his lips as both second years jumped. “You aren’t giving away trade secrets, are ye, lass?”

“Only the ones that are relevant to your injured seeker,” Sunshine beamed, mischief in her eyes.

“Yes,” Potter retorted at the same moment. 

“Making me look bad, are ye?” He dramatically clutched his jumper.

“How did you know,” the little witch deadpanned. 

“Come on, Sunshine, it’s almost curfew,” he held a hand to stop the protest on her lips. “And I know that ye get certain privileges, but I don’t think Madam Pomfrey sees it that way.”

“Fine,” the little lioness huffed. 

A flurry of activity and commands followed Sunny’s eviction notice. To Oliver’s great amusement, hands fluffed pillows and straightened pajamas. Her cinnamon eyes bored into his seeker’s emerald pair, instructing him to mind his manners and behave. Frankly, she couldn’t imitate Ma more if she tried. It both amused and warmed him. Oliver wasn’t blind. Harry’s family life shadowed the boy, and having someone so unaffected by his fame dote on him with no expectations did wonders. 

Time passed quite quickly, at least to Oliver. Their soft chatter bounced off the stone corridors. Sunny regaled him with a story about a potion gone wrong in the Twin’s class, arms waving about,  Soon enough, they stepped through the portrait hole, catching Percy on his way to patrols. With a wave goodnight, the second year bounded up the stairs to the girl’s dormitory. 

Well, there’s no chance of this shite dying down, now is there? Oliver grouched the next morning.

A very pale Sunshine, sandwiched between Ron and one of the twins, nibbled on a piece of toast. Purposefully kept away from the jeers and smug smirks of the Slytherins, those nearest her attempted to gain her attention. Yet, nothing could break her from the near fugue state. 

And really? Oliver couldn’t blame the lass. 

“I can’t believe Creevey, of all people,” a blonde second year girl murmured down the table. 

“Said he was caught with his camera to his face,” the Indian girl responded. “Surprised and horrified is what he looks like apparently.”

“And a muggleborn, too,” the first girl glanced, unkindly, towards Sunshine. 

His frown deepened and brows furrowed. Eyes focused on the plate in front of him. Bangers and mash pushed this way and that by an uninterested fork. A fierce, protective indignation bubbled up his chest. He quickly glanced down the table, noticing the outright hostile glare the twin on her left leveled at the blonde girl. Brow rose towards Perc, amused to note the frosty, disdainful disapproval directed to the second year.

“George, may I have more tea?” Sunshine inquired, subdued and withdrawn. 

“I’m Fred,” the boy arrogantly asserted.

“The tea, George, ”  she sighed.

“No really, I’m Fred!” 

“I just want more tea, for Merlin’s sake.”

“You wound me, thinking I’m the less handsome twin,” the boy grabbed his heart in dramatic fashion.

“ George Fabian Weasley , pass the tea,” the small girl snarled at the lanky beater.

Lee and the chasers across the table burst into laughter. Horror and awe dawned on both the twin’s faces. Furious glances and aborted gestures clued the rest of the table to their silent conversation. A furtive peek at the increasing incensed second year froze the twins mid-pantomime. A careful, freckled hand reached to the pot and efficiently doctored a mug for the girl.

“Just one question,” the twin’s hazel eyes narrowed on her. “How did you know?”

Oliver never realized just how much a single, arched eyebrow communicated. Dry, bemused, and entirely unrepentant, dainty hands stole the cup from the suspicious Weasley. Raising the thick, white ceramic mug to her lips, she drew a long sip. Tension melted off her person, the English repast doing much to calm her frayed nerves.

“Sunny?” The boy blinked. “Sunshine?” Visible panic filtered into his face as the girl calmly sipped her tea. “Mione?” No answer. Practiced motions readied to leave the table. “Hermione?!”

By the time she rose to her feet, patting the distraught twin by her side on the shoulder, the rest of them broke out into uncontrollable laughter. Even Percy chuckled at their antics, the twins rushing to follow the second year girl down the aisle and out the Great Hall. Buoyed by the moment, Oliver assured himself. They’d get through it just fine.

Everything was not, in fact, fine. 

For one blissful month, normalcy returned to the castle. He pushed the team hard as winter settled upon the grounds. Study sessions became quite interesting as Sunshine sped through coursework. One day, he and Perce explained some uses of basic runes on objects. He wondered, not for the first time, just why she wanted the knowledge. Oliver tried not to think about it.

As all good things, the familiar chaos of Hogwarts screeched to a grinding halt. 

“Of all the ruddy luck,” muttered Oliver, escorting the rest of Gryffindor House.

The dueling club was supposed to be fun . A way to let off some steam amid this chamber insanity before the holidays. It all started so bloody well, too. Snape embarrassed that ponce, Lockhart, with a single expelliarmus. Watching the git fly backwards endeared the potions master to him for just a moment. The pairings afterwards, Oliver conceded, could have been better. Putting Sunny and the Bulstrode girl together fostered the opposite of inter-house unity. However, calling the little blonde shite and Potter on the platform at the same time boded ill. 

Snape leaned down, whispering something to the Malfoy heir. The boy’s eyes gleamed with malicious glee. Meanwhile, Lockhart’s white teeth flashed as he chattered Potter’s ear off. Green and Red met in the center of the platform, glaring daggers at the other. Anticipatory silence settled upon the crowd. Everyone knew Malfoy and Potter despised one another with a burning passion of a thousand white hot suns. 

A flash. Falling from the tip of the second year’s wand, a venomous snake slithered forward. He quickly shoved aside the shock and anger at such at the blatant disregard to the exercise (they were only supposed to be using expelliarmus) and the impressive feat of a second year conjuring a fully functioning venomous bleeding snake . Instead, broad shoulders maneuvered through the shocked crowd of students.

Scales shimmered in the torchlight, its lithe body rearing up to strike a terrified Hufflepuff. At the last moment, a strange sort of hissing froze the creature. Horrified eyes followed the movement to the face of one Harry James Potter. Completely unaware, messy, black hair turned and smiled at the boy. At that moment, all hell broke loose.

Harry Potter spoke parseltongue.

Of course he did.

Dear Oliver,

I just wanted to let you know, before you arrived back at school for the term, that I am currently in the hospital wing. You know me, I wanted to try a new potion, taking advantage of an empty castle and all that. Well, I had something of an accident. Now, before you go and worry yourself, it is more humorous than lethal. That being said, Madame Pomfrey insisted I stay at least five to six weeks. Yes, yes I know that means I’ll be missing practices, and I apologize greatly for that. Please know that I am, outside of the rather unfortunate side effects, fine. 

I hope you and your family have a wonderful rest of your holiday.

Sincerely, 

Sunny

“What’s the matter, luv?” His mother inquired. “Surely, nothing too bad happened. It’s only Boxing Day!” 

“A friend seems to have landed themselves in the hospital wing for at least a month,” he frowned. Just what did those trouble makers do this time? “Something about experimenting with a potion.” 

“Ah, the Weasley Twins, I take it,” hazel eyes sparkled. Oliver decided against correcting her. “Well, if Madam Pomfery says it will take some time to undo their mischief, then so it shall. They’ll be right as rain before you know it, Ollie.” 

“You’re right, Ma,” he conceded with a small smile and a shake of his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” 

“It’s a good thing you don’t have a match for some time yet,” his father piped in, a playful smirk on his face. “Wouldn’t want to find new beaters on such a short schedule.”

His parents laughed at his suddenly blanched features. 

“Ah, Mister Wood, Miss Johnson, Miss Bell, Miss Spinnett, I dare say a quidditch accident mere minutes after the Start of Term feast is something of a record,” Madam Pomfrey raised a brow.

“No, it’s not that, Ma’am,” Angie piped up. “It’s just, we heard that Hermione is confined to the Hospital Wing for the moment and wanted to say hello.”

“Ah,” the matron’s features softened. “In that regard, I regret to inform you that she is no longer in residence here.”

“Do you mean she went to Saint Mungos?” Oliver blurted the first thought that flew into his mind. 

“Nothing so extreme, Mister Wood,” the matron chuckled at the collective worry and shock. “No, she is still in the castle. However, her Mistress and I thought it best to remove her from a public space. Miss Granger is currently staying and studying in her apprentice quarters.”

“She has her own private quarters?” Alicia tilted her head to the side. “I thought all students must stay in the dorms.”

“It is something of a tradition,” the matron clarified. “Professor Vector agreed to allow Hermione her place in the dormitory until she completes her NEWTs. At which time, she will transfer fully to her private chambers. That being said, they are still available for her use.” 

The players chorused goodnight, having no more to discuss. En masse, they trooped out of the sturdy double doors. Chatter bounced off the stone corridors as they wound further up. Once in the warm, noisy common room, Oliver pulled their seeker into something of a team meeting. When confronted about Sunshine’s ailment, he vehemently refused to divulge any clues.

“Hermione would bloody kill me,” the boy’s terrified, emerald eyes darted around the room. “Or worse.”

Lacking further information, Oliver buried his curiosity. He’d learn about it, one way or another, even if it took years. Patience he could do. 

“Hermione!” Potter’s jubilant cry woke Oliver. 

Grinning from ear to ear, Sunshine sauntered down the aisle. His seeker jumped to his feat and sprinted down the aisle picking the girl up in a bear hug. Laughter, like chimes in the wind, filled their corner of the Great Hall. All too soon, the Twins swooped in, stealing her from Potter. Just like that, the rest of the team and several of the second years congratulated Sunny on her triumphant return. If Oliver smiled all day, even during practice, no one said a word. 

“Wood, get your players down here,” shouted McGonagall.

He wanted to argue, to demand answers. The start of the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match ticked closer by the second. His team needed to warm up before their pre-match pep talk. Glasses propped askew on her nose, and wisps of hair escaping her normally severe bun. Oliver never, in his whole life, recalled Minerva McGonagall appearing so haggard. Her advanced age showed with every wrinkle and her tired, dull hazel eyes. Immediately, the wizard jumped to action.

“I regret to inform you all that the match today has been canceled,” the witch sighed, looking every bit the elderly professor. “As for the reason why, I think it best if you all follow me. Potter, fetch Ronald Weasley, if you will.”

A cold knot tightened in his stomach. Despite the “slow” start, attacks continued throughout the term. Lately, the quidditch team and a few others followed Sunny from class to class to library to meal. It obviously irritated the small second year, but they could think of no better way to ensure her health. Each step twisted the anxiety sitting cold and heavy in his gut. 

Through the heavy, oak doors and past the normal beds they marched. His boots felt heavier the further he walked. Sterilization potions and starch wafted through the hall. Past the blue curtains, the petrified students greeted his gaze. A mane of frizzy curls haloed the head of one occupant towards the back. Gasps and cries rippled through the gathered Gryffindors. Oliver stood, rooted to the ground, dread and terror fighting for dominance.

“I’m afraid Miss Granger and Miss Clearwater were found just before the match,” Professor McGonagall’s heavy brogue murmured. Her words and tone conveyed her unspoken thoughts. “In light of this news, the Headmaster has discontinued the Quidditch Cup for the foreseeable future.”

“Is there nothing we can do for her, Ma’am?” Potter asked, the pain evident in his voice. 

“I am afraid, Mister Potter, the only course of action is to wait until the mandrakes are ready to be harvested,” their Head sighed. 

“Can we not just ask Mungos for a few doses?” Angie frowned, eyes darting between their classmates. 

“Unfortunately, the Board of Governors decided against taking such action,” she growled. Irritation rolled off their Head of House. “They said it would draw too much unwanted attention to the school.”

“Then, why not order a few mandrakes?” The chaser pushed, furrowing her brow. 

“That, too, would raise unwanted questions,” scowled Professor McGonagall. “Mandrakes are remarkably finicky plants and can only grow in magically imbued areas. As it is, Hogwarts is one of few consistent environments to cultivate them. The Headmaster could never ask us to pocket the cost, what with the expense, and the Board must approve such expenditures. In short, the Board of Governors do not find the matter important enough to pursue further action.” 

Oliver glanced around, wondering if anyone else understood just what Professor McGonagall relayed. Out of everyone, only Percy, who sat silently by Penelope’s bedside, comprehended the subtext sent by the Board. Muggleborns weren’t worth the trouble. He wanted to run, never to look back at the ugly realization. The desire to be an oblivious, protected child for just a moment gripped him. Then, Potter’s heart wrenching wails next to Sunny’s bed shattered those thoughts. Who was protecting them?

“I’ll leave you for now,” their Head of House murmured. “However, I want you all back in the Common Room before supper.” 

Numb nods answered the imposing witch. She murmured something to the chasers before walking towards him. 

“Mister Wood,” her Gaelic caught him off guard. Hazel eyes softened. “Ollie.”

“Yes, Aunt Min?” He murmured, looking at her through his lashes. 

Oliver couldn’t recall the last time the prim-and-proper best friend of his grandmother addressed him so informally in the castle. That, alone, captured his undivided attention. The reassuring warmth swimming in her hazel eyes choked him up, forcing unshed tears back. Merlin, he didn’t even understand what caused all of this sentiment and emotion in the first place!

“She’ll be fine,” she gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t you worry about that, lad.” 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

A sharp nod and she left. He waded through the rest of his team, and clapped Percy on the shoulder. Everyone knew the pair of prefects adored one another. Except for his brothers, though Oliver didn’t begrudge his friend. The Weasley clan hazed and harassed with a unique enthusiasm. He struck up a quiet conversation with his fellow sixth year, allowing the rest of his team time to crowd Sunshine’s bed. One by one, they filed out until only Potter remained.

“Ah, good, you are both still here,” the matron remarked upon entering the quarantined area. “Apparently, there was a potions accident in the dungeon that needed my immediate attention. I understand that you all worry for these young ladies, and will be spending time here in the coming weeks.” They nodded. “Very good, I expect you lot to be respectful of the other patients and follow the rules.”

“If I may?” Potter spoke up mid-tirade. 

“Yes, Mister Potter?” Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. 

“What does it mean, to be petrified?” The boy shuffled under her steely gaze. “I-I mean, I know she can’t move and she’s rather c-cold to the touch, but is that all?”

“Good question,” her expression softened. “They are still conscious, for better or for worse, and can hear and see us.” At the various horrified expressions, Madam Pomfrey sighed. “It is rather unpleasant, but it makes mental stimulation more important.”

The matron turned to address his friend. Oliver said his goodbyes before heading to Sunny’s bedside. Laying on her back, chocolate curls framed her terrified face. One hand extended forward, as if holding a small item in the dainty palm of her hand. The other clenched in a fist right over her heart. 

“Sunny, lass,” he whispered, sure he could hear her. “What have ye gotten yerself into this time?”

Term couldn’t end fast enough, as far as Oliver was concerned. He dreamed of the horseless carriages, of flying over his family’s expansive land, and of the upcoming professional quidditch season. True, matches continued, rain or shine, no matter the season, but the later summer stretch of the season often boasted the best matches being the league finals. If all of these inane thoughts and plans redirected his thoughts from a still-missing second year and the odd exchange with Professor McGonagall, all the better.

A rota emerged hours after their initial visit. The details horrified the rest of the team, and they schemed. Angie, Alicia, and Katie visited the most often, armed with magazines, gossip, and news from the castle. Sitting between Hermione and Penelope, they twittered about goings-on with both petrified girls. The twins often visited in the evenings, regaling her with stories of their own. Other subjects, of course, crossed their lips. Potions and charms mishaps, ideas of how to transfigure someone temporarily. 

As for himself… He gathered the much vaunted Gryffindor courage and asked Potter what she liked to read. 

“I dunno much about her leisure reading,” the bespectacled boy mused. “However, I know she was working through some muggle romance novels. You can always try reading something like Pride and Prejudice or Wuthering Heights. I’m sure she’ll like one of those.”

Taking the Boy Wonder up on his suggestion, Oliver borrowed a copy from the library. He visited only when Percy attended Penelope. It felt substantially less awkward to be visiting a thirteen year old witch when accompanied. Much like the chasers, Oliver situated himself between the witches, greeting both, and read. To Percy’s great amusement, as his Scottish brogue filled the air, his own reactions bled through. 

By mid-May, Professor Sprout harvested the mandrakes. The potion, Madame Pomfrey regretfully informed them, required ample time to maturate. Instead of the day wait they envisioned, it brewed for weeks. The rest of the castle reveled in the relatively free end-of-term. With no exams to cram for and the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets solved, most of the students meandered the verdant greens. A sort of heaviness resided in his chest, seeing the second year still confined to the hospital wing instead of outside or in the library.

Ridiculous, really. 

When he heard Potter’s jubilant cry right after the Headmaster’s speech, mossy green eyes snapped to the open oak doors. Sure enough, Hermione Granger grinned and strolled towards them. The sudden clatter as Percy shoved himself from the table barely registered, his own gaze focused on the diminutive witch laughing as her friend twirled around. Even what turned into a spectacular public snog by his rather demure friend and Penelope Clearwater couldn’t hold his attention for long. Down the table, hugs and hellos for everyone who visited and wrote the little lioness. 

“Thank you for reading to me,” her soft voice whispered as she hugged him. “And if you still want my opinion of Miss Bennett and Mr. Darcy, I’ll be more than happy to discuss. Though, I must say, your impassioned defense of Mr. Darcy’s absolutely horrid behavior could almost be seen as commendable.”

“Oi!” He yelped, indignant and surprised. 

Tawny, glimmering eyes filled with mirth as she danced away. Profound relief released the previous knots, teasing them apart one by one. Sparklers shot into the air above the tables. A celebratory “Welcome Back” message glittered in the torchlight as both twins lifted the slim second year on their shoulders. Similar reunions occurred throughout the Great Hall. Warmth and contentment once more filled the cavernous hall, students excited chatting about their summer plans. 

As it should be.

Chapter Text

The start of summer meant the start of intense quidditch practice and study. His parents greeted him as they always did, boisterous hugs and almost embarrassing kisses. Deep down, though, Oliver relished in the attention. He knew not everyone was as lucky. Sometimes, Charlie remarked how his parents no longer had time for him and Bill. It hurt his heart, but then again, what could he do but write and be a good mate?

Like clockwork, Wednesday morning, a beautiful barn owl descended upon the small family during breakfast. Sunny’s neat script adorned the front of the cream envelope. Ignoring his parents’ telling glances, Oliver gave the bird a piece of sausage before cracking her new seal. Tilting his head to the side, he considered the words before him with great concentration. 

Dear Oliver,

I hope you had a safe trip back home. It seems like yesterday we left for school and yet here we are, on summer holiday once more. My parents and I stayed in London proper for a couple of days before going home to Hamstead. It was quite lovely.

How are you doing? How is your family faring? And what of the crups? Last you told me, your bitch was close to whelping. Are the puppies as adorable as muggle puppies? 

Mistress Vector assigned some fascinating work for me over the summer. As you well know, quidditch is the arithmancer’s playground, so Mistress says. This holiday, she wants me to contact a professional team’s arithmancer. Talk to them. Go to their matches and the like. Now, I do have a rather odd and specific question for you. 

This may sound silly, but I don’t know which ones to approach. I may know the sport of quidditch well enough. Between yourself and the rest of the team, I certainly know the basics at the very least. However, I am ignorant of the professional scene, if that makes sense. Which league should I inquire into? Should I talk to a local team or the national team? Which games are in season? Who do I send such an inquiry to? How do I even get to games as a muggle-born witch? Can my parents attend? I do think my father would quite enjoy the sport. Though, he enjoys sports as a whole, so that may not mean as much. 

I apologize for going so long. If you are able, please advise me, and if not, please don’t be upset. I’ll figure it all out, as I tend to do. Thank you so much in advance, for reading my ramblings. I hope you have a good summer.

Your’s truly,

Hermione Granger

Apprentice of Arithmancy

P.S: Do not fear, I will not let Ronald influence me into following the Chudley Cannons around. Not only is that shade of orange absolutely putrid, I want to study with a team that has a winning record. It means that, amongst everything else, their arithmancer is doing something right.

“How is your arithmancer friend?” His mother inquired, missing the sparkle in her eyes.

“Sunny’s fine,” he answered. “Much better now that she’s not petrified.” 

“Poor dear,” she cooed. “Must’ve been terrible, stuck like that for months.”

“It’s a good thing she’s apprenticed,” his father, Ian, rumbled. “At least the lass is properly protected.” 

“Very true,” his mother nodded along. “And what has you so serious, Ollie?”

“Her Mistress assigned her hands-on holiday work,” the young wizard answered without thought. “It seems that she’s to shadow a team for the rest of the season. Go to games and talk to their team arithmancer, and the like. Sunny is asking for advice on which teams to contact.” 

“Do you mind if I see the letter, dear?” A small hand extended towards him.

“Not at all,” he acquiesced, placing the slim envelope on her fingers.

“Well mannered, neat handwriting,” Sophie Wood murmured.

“Mum,” blushed the teenager, pink tipping his ears.

“What?” One brown brow rose in challenge. “I’m your mum. I’m allowed to embarrass you, Ollie. She clearly asked for help, and I’m sure you’ll be able to provide the information.” 

“And thank Merlin she is already against the Cannons,” his father chortled. 

“It shows good taste,” Mum pointed out, the letter in question pointing to his father. 

“Very much so,” his father slyly smirked. 

Shaking his head, exasperation and affection warring on his face, Oliver excused himself from the table. Taking a fly around the property cleared his mind as he thought, quite seriously, about which teams to recommend to Sunny. The quiet afternoon found Oliver, quill in hand, penning a response to the little witch. 

“Thank you for meeting us,” Sunny grinned up at him before moving aside. “This is my father, Doctor Daniel Granger.”

Oliver stuck his hand out. The tall, broad man sized him up with chocolate eyes and a polite, judgemental smile. His large hand firmly shook Oliver’s, gazing at the young wizard in question. Whips of silver lined his temples, blending handsomely into his dark, walnut hair. Never mind the lack of magic, Daniel Granger possessed a presence all of his own.

“Nice to meet ye, sir. Of course, Sunny,” Oliver withheld a wince. “This is me Da, Ian Wood.” 

“Wonderful to meet you both, Doctor Granger, Miss Granger,” his father returned the greeting. “How do you do?”

Their fathers carried a rather easy dialogue. Sunny, it appeared, explained the sport in some detail to the elder Granger. Together, they situated themselves in one of the corner booths of the Leaky. After responding to her letter, owls fluttered between their homes with alarming frequency. His parents insisted they guide the Granger family through at least one match, to familiarize the muggle family. 

It’s how they found themselves at noon, debating the statistics (something Mr. Granger knew quite a bit about) before the match. Today, they would be watching two of the three teams Oliver recommended to the little witch. Unusually quiet, Sunny tilted her head and listened to the talk going back and forth. At some point, the waitress commiserated with the singular witch. Too soon, the clock struck two and they shuffled towards the floo. 

“Now, normally,” his Da muttered for their ears only. “Adults would apparate to the stadium. However, since we’ve had a few drinks,” he winked at the other man, “it could be dangerous. Instead, we’ll floo to the entrance, like the responsible fathers we are.” 

“Right, of course,” Mr. Granger grinned, impish like his daughter. “Can’t be risking Hermione’s health and wellbeing. Don’t want her to lose a limb now, do we?”

“I would appreciate surviving with all my fingers and toes, thank you,” the girl in question snarked. 

“Don’t forget your eyebrows,” Oliver smirked at her. 

“At least those are easier to grow back,” cinnamon eyes rolled. 

“Are ye saying ye have experience?” 

“No, Oliver, I’m still not telling you,” Sunny pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I’ll find out eventually,” he grinned, following their fathers to the floo. 

“It’s very likely you will,” the young witch conceded, shrugging a white cardigan over her blouse. “But I intend to keep quiet for as long as possible.” 

“Now, why d’ye want to do that?” 

“Because you’re a nuisance, Oliver Wood.” 

He laughed, bright and boisterous. Her self-assured steps led into the fireplace, calling out their destination without another word. Stifling his mirth, Oliver promptly followed, finding himself abuzz with energy. The match started in an hour and a half, and they were to meet with the team arithmancer before then. The atmosphere vibrated with excitement and anticipation of the upcoming match. Tangible tingles ran down his arms. An unmatched grin spread across his face, eye alight, as they walked towards the customer service booth. 

“Hello, and welcome to Puddlemere United Stadium,” the witch greeted with a slight bow. “My name is Peggy. How can I help you?”

“Hello ma’am,” Daniel grinned, boyish and excited. “My name is Daniel, and my daughter, Apprentice Hermione Granger, has an appointment with Arithmancer Jonathan Stevenson. As this is my first visit here, I am accompanied by Lord Wood and his son, Oliver. Arrangements have been made for all of us.”

“Oh yes,” the woman beamed at Sunny after flipping through some parchments. “An apprentice, and so young! Follow me, if you please.” 

Following the excited fathers, Oliver watched Sunshine absorb the atmosphere, curious and excited. Meticulously manicured grass gently swayed in the breeze. Stretching below, white stands encircled the pitch, several areas sporting the navy blue logo of the home team. Puddlemere blue tiles ran through the hallway, the taping of their shoes echoing around the currently quiet stadium. 

A sharp left and several corridors later, their group greeted a rather lanky, jovial gentleman with dark, brown eyes. Midnight blue robes draped from his shoulders, large buttons clasping them in the front. Yellow thread created the team’s symbol over his left pectoral, his role neatly embroidered beneath. The same color stitched his name onto his back. Dirty blonde hair swept to one side, careless and easy. Overall, Oliver liked what he saw of the man.

The man swept his arm aside, revealing a sizable office. The window behind him offered an excellent view of the wooded land surrounding the stadium. White walls and blue floors, like the rest of the complex, sported several book shelves with innumerable books. Yellow stripes wrapped around the room, disappearing behind the bookshelves, just to peek out on the other side. In front of a handsome, carved desk, comfortable chairs sat across his own elaborate, lacquered piece.

“Ah, Apprentice Granger,” the man beamed at the only witch. He motioned for her to sit. “I am Master Jonathan Stevenson. Septima waxed lyrical about your apparent potential and current skill at our last quarterly meeting. Unfortunate bit of luck with the petrification, of course, but I look forward to seeing you at our next get together.”

“Thank you, Master Stevenson,” Sunny demurred, with a polite smile and manners on show. “May I introduce you to my father, Daniel Granger, a healer specializing in teeth and gums.”

“How do you do,” the genial man shook Daniel’s hand. 

“Quite well, thank you,” her father replied in kind.

“And behind me are Lord Ian Wood and his son Oliver,” Sunshine motioned towards them. “They have been guiding us through this experience.”

“Ah yes, a fellow muggle-born, I take it,” Master Stevenson grinned. A surprised smile bloomed across Sunny’s expressive face. “You’ll find that the very best of us all come from a muggle background. It’s almost as if teaching mathematics and arithmetic from a young age helps with a field dedicated to those very things.” A laugh fell from Mr. Granger’s lips, though his own father arched a brow. “Ah, and let me guess, it is Doctor Granger, the dentist, no?”

“How remarkably accurate,” the man in question grinned. “Did your numbers tell you that or was it the aura of dental fear all patients seem to sense?”

“Healer of teeth and gums isn’t exactly unspecific,” laughed the other man. “Now then, onto business! Miss Granger, I hear you started your auspicious career with Quidditch stats for your House team. What drove you to do so?”

“Well, you see,” the teen fought down a blush. “I am not particularly popular in school, and went to the pitch to get away from the bullies. The chasers and Oliver, who’s our House’s keeper and captain, put up shields to keep me safe from bludgers during practices. I remember Dad loves his football stats, so I thought I’d keep track in a similar fashion. When I showed them my work after a few weeks, they were surprised and supportive. Over time, I just explored the subject.”

“Remarkable,” Master Stevenson mused, watching Sunny with intelligent, chocolate eyes. “I do believe I did something quite similar. My father, too, enjoys his footie and creates his own charts for following Man U. My best friend made seeker our fifth year, and I put my arithmancy and statistics knowledge to good use.”

Like a snitch released for a match, they were off. Oliver leaned back, content to listen to the numbers and specifics of quidditch statistics. How they were similar and yet differed from the muggle football they all referenced. For once, he felt a bit left out, being a pureblood. It seldom happened, but when his muggle-born and half-blood friends all remarked about certain cultural things (light sabers, Premier League, and films, for example) he felt left out. At some point, they started talking about visual modeling, catching Oliver’s attention once more.   

“I believe the most basic is the linear maths and basic graphs you’ve shown me,” Master Stevenson mused, looking at a well battered notebook. “They are quite remarkable. When does your Mistress intend to revoke the trace? You will need to use your wand to create the matrices.”

“What’s a matrices?” Oliver inquired, glancing between Sunny and the man behind the desk.

“A matrix is a more complex form of arthimantic analysis,” her tawny eyes held his questioning gaze. “Instead of the basic line saying basic variables, like, on this day of the week with this weather, what will happen, you input all of those things as independents.”

“So, in yer example, the day of the week and weather are constants,” Oliver pieced together. “But in a matrix, they’d be changeable?”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “In a matrix, you are able to input every part of the equation as a variable. Then, when you use the Hutchinson Method to visualize the data you get-” 

Lights glowed above the desk. Red and blues tangled with greens and yellows. All the colors shifted around each other in a beautiful, technicolor tangled web. Oliver gazed, wonder and curiosity washing his mind of all thought. Fingertips itched to touch the colors before him, hoping to unravel the secrets held within. He barely registered the gasps of surprise and awe from the fathers in the room. Mossy eyes glanced to the side, momentarily arrested by the soft smile tugged at the tips of Sunny’s lips. 

“This is how I prefer to play with the matrices,” Master Stevenson hummed, a similar smile gracing his features. “Much more hands on, you see? This is as standard statistical deviation using Puddlemere’s last game data. You can see here-,” he pointed towards a blue point towards one end, “-that this is the end result. If we follow it, there are multiple strings of light. Each represents a different variable. The players. The fans. The weather. The lighting. The behavior of the snitch and bludgers that day. They all are part of the equation. 

“If we change just one thing,” that same, singular finger flicked a green string of light, “the whole equation changes.” 

Indeed, instead of all of the lines converging on the blue point, they broke and diverted before his very eyes. Colors realigned themselves, streaking down new paths towards a red point previously elsewhere. Understanding dawned upon Oliver at that moment. Arithmancy lived. It breathed . It changed. Just like them, because it was based off of the world and all those who inhabited it. Glancing towards the little witch to his side, Oliver wondered how he never realized it before.

Puddlemere defeated the Tutshill Tornados. Soundly, in fact. Watching the game with Master Stevenson and Sunny cast his favorite sport into a whole new light. They talked of nuances and numbers, conditions and variables, breaking the game into its purest components -much like deconstructing a potion, if Oliver were honest with himself. After the match, they met with Arithmancer Waters, another muggle-born (though, not a Master of Arithmancy. Oliver learned the distinction between the two quite quickly).

By the next week, after attending the Falmouth Falcons game, where they trounced the Cannons, Sunny considered her options. Deciding upon Puddlemere, exciting the life long fan in Oliver, she settled into a routine. Several times throughout the summer, the Woods and the Grangers, mothers now included, joined one another for pre-game meals. Afterwards, the ladies parted ways as the rest trooped to the stadium. 

Oliver experienced his first muggle football game. No wonder his classmates praised the sport. Enthralled, the keeper demanded the younger witch teach him the game. Surprisingly enough, Sunshine excelled at the game herself, able to juggle the ball almost effortlessly, and go around in circles. By the end of that experiment, Oliver conceded defeat, unable to keep up. Daniel Granger promised to introduce them to more muggle sports throughout the holidays, and that alone boggled his mind.

Half way through the summer holiday, his mother convinced the Grangers to buy several sets of robes for themselves and Sunshine. The instantaneous halting of wary and aloof behavior shocked the muggle family. Between that, and joint excursions to the safer parts of Knockturn Alley (the bookstores that supplied more than the basics), relief flooded Oliver in the knowledge that Sunny finally appeared to be adapting to wizarding life.  

Oliver decided to ignore the why for now.

“What do ye mean he blew up his aunt?” Oliver whisper-screamed at the little apprentice.

“Just that, Ol, really,” cinnamon eyes rolled at his dramatics. “His relations are unbelievably cruel as is, and having another continuously talking down about his breeding as if he were a pedigree pug -”

“I thought ye said she bred bulldogs,” an amused quirk of his lips as he corrected her.

“Both are brachycephalic, inbred, unhealthy, respiratorily challenged beasts,” sniffed the soon-to-be third year, pert nose turned away in disgust. “That’s beside the point, Oliver Wood, and you know it.”

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes, the smirk on his lips softening the action. “Potter accidentally blew his aunt up and is now staying at the Leaky by himself with the Minister’s blessing. Merlin and Morgana, why are ye meeting him only today?”

“Because I didn’t know until Hedwig flew in on Sunday, by which time it was too late to change plans,” whined the over protective, maternal girl. 

“And where is he now?” 

Once more, her eyes rolled to the sky as her chocolate curls bobbed several stores down. A large crowd of eager students and passersby alike gawked at the newest broom on the market -the Firebolt. Oliver admitted to himself he found it handsome and marvelous. Ultimately, a broom built for speed and little else did nothing for a keeper, dampening his own excitement at the shiny, new release. 

“Can ye blame the lad?” Oliver raised an eyebrow as they sat before Glad Rags, their mothers supposedly picking up ‘just a few things’. 

“No, not really,” a gusty sigh admitted. “That doesn’t mean I want to be jostled about the crowd with them.” 

“Oi, Ollie!” A twin shouted from across the street.

“And Hermione, our favorite analyst,” the other beamed.

“Fred, George,” she nodded at each twin respectively.

“How do you do that?” The one on the left narrowed his hazel eyes. 

“Magic,” she deadpanned.

He snorted, shoulders shaking with the rest of his laughter. Both the boys started to harass the little witch until their mothers exited the store, much to Oliver’s relief. The twins suddenly stopped, stunned by the muggle standing next to his Mum, her eyebrow arched and a small smile playing on her face. Doctor Jean Granger beamed at her harassed daughter, before turning that charm on the twins. They gulped. 

“Ah, if it isn’t Frederick and George,” his mum greeted. “How are you boys doing?”

“Well, ma’am,” they both chorused, sending wary glances to the woman whom Sunny resembled.

“Jean, these are Molly’s twins,” his mother waved toward the twins, who dramatically bowed in tandem. “Boys, this is Doctor Granger, Hermione’s mother.”

“Wonderful to meet you, Madam Granger,” the first twin smiled.

“We can see where Hermione gets her beauty from,” the other complimented, sending wink towards the girl.

“Bloody irritating nitwits,” Sunshine muttered under her breath. 

Oliver stifled his laughter once more.

“Charmed, boys,” Mrs. Granger answered in kind, casting a bemused glance at her daughter. “However, we must part for the time being.” Turning fully towards Sunny, a small card exchanged hands. “Your extracurricular reading arrived earlier than expected. Your father and I will be collecting the books as well as a couple other items. As a birthday present, why don’t you go and pick out a familiar, hm?”

“Really?!” Wide, excited eyes regarded the woman. She nodded and Hermione jumped up, hugging her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Remember, Hermione, you promised us,” a stern gaze locked onto her daughter once more. 

“I will not fall behind, I promise,” swore the little witch.

“Very good,” Mrs. Granger smiled. “We’ll meet you at the Leaky at half past five. Do not be late.” 

“Yes Mum!” Sunny chirped.

She practically skipped down the alley towards the Emporium. A single brow rose at her, behavior before shrugging it off. As their mothers departed, Oliver turned to find two faces of unholy, frightening glee. The Weasley Twins were observant on a bad day, able to take in a room and evaluate the crowd in a moment. Wary and defensive, Oliver stared down the two boys.

“Is there something ye want te say?” Oliver challenged, letting a bit of the steel he used during practices slip into his voice.

“Oh, no, nothing,” the first innocently protested.

“Nothing at all, el capiton,” the second followed.

“Except for one thing.”

“You seem very close to Sunny.”

“Now, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not a thing at all.”

“What exactly are ye suggesting?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, praying to Merlin and Morgana the two would just talk normally for once.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Not us!”

“The long and short of it is this,” Oliver preempted, hoping to curtail his developing headache. “Her Mistress assigned her fieldwork for the summer, and she asked for me help with professional teams. Her parents being muggles, my parents wanted to make sure they were taken care of, so we ended up going to some matches together. Not as many as Sunny attended, of course.” 

“That’s decidedly boring,” the first pouted.

“Except for the whole going to several quidditch matches bit this summer,” the other mused.

“True, that does sound quite fun.”

“If that is all, I believe it is time we caused some chaos.”

"Ronnikens?” The first smirked.

“Ronnikens,” the other grinned, finding the mischief mirrored.

“Merlin help the bloke,” Oliver muttered under his breath. As the two hurried away, he raised his voice, “Oi, make sure you’re there for the train meeting!”

“Right boss!” They chorused. 

“Miss Granger, it’s going to be just fine,” the soft brogue of his aunt soothed the small girl. 

“I-I just didn’t e-expect it to h-hit so h-hard,” stuttered the young witch. “I-I thought I-I was going to d-die again.”

“Shhh, lass, it’s alright, it’s going to be just fine,” soothed the elder lioness. Crinkling rang throughout the quiet office before chocolate appeared. “Have a piece of this, that’s a good lass, and take this calming draught before bed.”

Oliver silently escorted the little witch back to the tower and wondered how no one noticed. A dementor. A full, fledged torturer of souls approached Potter and Sunny, causing both to collapse. Yet, only Potter received attention. No doubt, the little lioness redirected any undue concern to her suffering friend, and no one thought to look further. Really, he stopped himself from rolling his eyes, the self-sacrificing of this house is sometimes too much.  

He studiously ignored those exact qualities in himself.

“Thank you, Oliver,” Sunny whispered at the portrait hole, a bit shy and perhaps guilty. 

“Of course, someone has to look out for you with your track record,” Oliver smirked at her blooming scowl. Dainty stomps entered the portrait hole, grumbling all the while. “Night, Sunshine!”

“You’re a menace, Wood!”

The first few months of school passed by in a blissful blur of normalcy. Sunny studied with the quidditch team as always, chatting with both he and Percy about runes, potions, and arithmancy. The girls included her in their gossip, as always, and she even found a cause in trying to help Hagrid keep his hippogriff. All in all, everything ran surprisingly smoothly. 

Hence why Oliver felt comfortable including her directly into a quidditch strategizing meeting in early October. Sitting back in the locker room, chalkboard in front of him, he waited for the rest of the team to arrive. First the twins and Harry strolled in, gabbing about something Ronald did earlier that day. Then, the girls started showing up, Angie’s arm looped through Sunny’s, as they quietly discussed something. Mossy green eyes narrowed, wondering just what the little witch got into this time. 

“Reporting for strategy meeting, Captain,” the first twin saluted. 

“Present and accounted for, Captain,” the other followed suit. 

“Yes, yes,” Oliver rolled his eyes at their theatrics. “Now then, I have spent the summer and beginnings of this year developing several strategies I think will help us succeed.” Turning towards the small witch, “Sunny!”

“So dramatic, Oliver,” the girl rolled her eyes, but began to activate the necessary equations to show the wibbly-wobbly ball of possibilities. 

“Hermione, what are you doing here?” Potter balked, only noticing his friend now. 

“Potter, you have the observation skills of a blind troll,” Angie huffed, crossing her arms. “Sunny’s been here the entire time.”

“She doesn’t even like quidditch,” the Boy-Who-Lived squeaked, blind to the unamused stares of his teammates. 

“She’s an arithmancy apprentice,” Katie muttered, as if it explained everything.

“Hermione likes maths, a little more than what’s healthy in my opinion,” he tried to joke, now noticing Sunny’s unamused brow. “What does that have to do with quidditch?”

“Harry, ol’ boy, ol’ pal,” one of the twins slung an arm over his small shoulder.

“If I were you, I’d stop digging,” the other advised, mimicking his other half.

“W-what do you-” Wide, emerald eyes swung between the pair.

“Hush now,” one put a finger to his lips.

“No need to cry,” the other reassured.

“If you are all done?” Oliver growled, irked at the behavior of his seeker. Seeing the twins snap to attention, saluting once more, he motioned towards the third year girl. “If you could please, Sunny?”

With a flick of her fingers, two things happened. One, the now familiar ball of colored strings hovered at waist height, something they rehearsed. Oliver found it easiest to manipulate the variables in the equation, which would change and output in realtime inside of Hermione’s journal, at that height. The second, several runes glowed, projecting an image of the pitch, complete with rings and players for both teams, at chest level. 

“Wicked!” The twins chorused. 

“You’ve been holding out on us, Girlie,” Katie smirked, eyeing the projection.

Just like that, the meeting came to life. As Oliver discussed plays and training objectives, the chalkboard filled with notes and the pitch responded to the different circumstances. In the back of his mind, the keeper noted to ask Sunshine about their odds if they included normal physical training into their routine. 

“Why does nothing good happen on Halloween?” Sunny huffed, flopping on her sleeping bag. 

“I blame you and Potter,” Oliver snarked, several spots down.

“Oi!” His seeker protested. “It’s not my fault there’s a homicidal maniac after me!” He paused for a moment. “ Another homicidal maniac.”

“Halloweens used to be perfectly fine and event-free before you arrived, Potter,” the Captain shot back. “Come to think of it, Hogwarts used to be rather relaxing before you lot. No huge life or death scenarios…”

“It’s not my fault,” the younger boy grumbled and faced the wall.

“You’re a trouble magnet is what you are,” Sunny sighed as she attempted to tame her hair into a tie. “I cannot imagine what constitutes as normal anymore.”

“Well, not having the Fat Lady slashed is a pretty good start,” Oliver interjected. 

“Thank you for your wonderful input,” Angie sniffed, snuggling closer to their analyst. “For now, you’ll just need to suffer a slumber party.”

“What an excellent idea!” Alicia grinned as she sandwiched the bemused third year.

“Are we going to gossip about cute boys?” Katie’s eyes lit up, glancing about. 

“Or, we could see who’s sleeping where and draw wild conclusions from that,” Angie chimed in.

“We can start placing bets on unlikely couples,” Sunshine hummed. “I’ll keep the books, since I can’t actually participate.” 

“What do you mean you can’t?” Katie inquired, brow raised.

“Arithmancer,” slim shoulders shrugged.

The other three girls hummed, agreeing with her assessment. Soon, their whispers and giggles faded from Oliver’s hearing, turning instead to some of his other year mates. Some things he did not want to learn about. Ever. Judging by the studied avoidance, Potter thought much the same. 

“GET YOUR SORRY ARSE OUT OF THE SHOWER OLIVER CALLEN WOOD, RIGHT NOW!” A familiar, authoritative voice bellowed through the locker room.

A pained wince twisted his features. Oliver hated losing. Despised. Detested. Abhorred. The sting of loss tasted bitter upon his tongue and his psyche. As a perfectionist, he always wondered: was there more he could have done? Prepared his team better? Strategize for more contingencies. Losing highlighted his brooding, moody side, and he wished to save his team from that facet of his personality. 

“IT’S BEEN TWO HOURS, OLIVER CALLEN, AND YOU HAVE YET TO TALK TO YOUR INJURED SEEKER OR DISHEARTENED, GUILTY TEAM WHO HAVE PLAYED THEIR BLOODY, MAD HEARTS OUT FOR YOU!” 

Two hours, really? Morose inner dialogue mocked his efforts. What did it matter? They lost to Hufflepuff, who probably would go on to win the Quidditch Cup. What’s the point? His thoughts swerved towards Potter and the thrashing from the Whomping Willow. The game started off well enough, he supposed. Sunny spelled their goggles to repel water, and he wanted to hug the clever witch. Then somehow, it turned so horribly wrong.

Emerging from the shower, and toweling off inside, Oliver donned his undergarments and trousers before walking out to face the consequences. 

Sunny, she was not. 

Chocolate curls puffed and frizzed, moving in a magical current fueled by rage. Her normally warm, tawny eyes narrowed into amber slits. Fists rested on her hips, legs shoulder width apart. Hermione Granger’s infamous temper focused on Oliver for once. Oh, he’s seen this version of her often directed towards the Twins, Ronald Weasley, or Potter, but never him. Anger dominated her features, but he noticed an undercurrent of fear and concern flowing beneath. 

“Finally!” She threw her hands up. “I gave you plenty of time to sulk, now it’s time to go and be the bloody leader your team needs.” 

“Excuse me?” He arched an unamused brow.

“Really, Oliver,” the small girl huffed, crossing her arms across a red jumper. “You are one of the most competitive people I know. Of course, you hate losing. For Merlin’s sake, you threw a fit every hand you lost when we taught you gin rummy.” He frowned, not quite liking her highlighting his abominable inability to win the bloody game. “It’s no secret, Ol. Hell, the Twins even said you were drowning your sorrows.” 

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” he grumbled, scowling at the floor. 

“Oliver, you’ve literally been in the shower for the past two hours ,” she leveled a knowing, exasperated gaze his way. “And I get it, really I do.” Surprised, his green eyes locked onto her tawny pair. “You don’t think I push myself to be at the top of my year for fun, do you?” An owlish blink answered. “Really? I have to work harder to beat people who are good at their subjects. I do it because I have the drive to be the best.

“And for some gods forsaken reason, those bloody idiots we call friends will follow you to hell and back to try and win you the stupid game,” Sunny groused, running a hand through her hair. “No matter the consequences. Hell, Harry took your win-or-die-trying so literally, he could have had his bloody soul sucked out before or after the Whomping Willow took its pound in flesh.” 

Air rushed from his lungs, vision narrowing onto the familiar cinnamon. Intellectually, he understood the circumstances, saw them himself. Hearing it, blunt and flat, hurt like a bludger to his ribs. Perspective, that’s what she delivered. He worked so incredibly hard to prepare, but what would a win mean if one of them died? A lump clogged his throat, forcing a dry swallow. 

“Look, Ol,” Sunny sighed, slumping for the first time since she stormed into the locker room. “Just, leaders aren’t there only for the good times, you know?”

Silence wrapped around the pair, Oliver pulling himself together. Dots connected once more, understanding just why it affected the normally energetic little witch. Sighing, a large hand dragged through dark, brown hair. 

“If ye’ll go back out, I’ll meet ye in a few minutes,” the captain capitulated. 

“Thank you,” Sunny murmured as she walked out. Her normal gait paused, turning on her heel to say, “and I’m sorry you lost the game today. I thought you had a brilliant plan.”

“Thanks, Sunshine,” a rueful, small smile tilted the corners of his lips. 

Within five minutes, Oliver met the third-year outside the Gryffindor locker room. Torrential rain flung sideways against the structure, an accurate depiction of his mental state. They trudged through the cold sheets of water without a word. As the punishing precipitation pelted against their bespelled cloaks, Oliver’s mind whirled. He wanted a professional career, one that included more than just following orders and doing drills or simply executing strategy. Oliver needed to be in the thick of it. He mentally demanded the captaincy. Which meant more than just barking out orders and hyping himself and his team. 

It meant pulling his head out of his arse long enough to do what the team needed. Finally entering the blessedly dry entrance hall, wands flicked back and forth, cleaning mud and drying outer robes. In that moment in time, Oliver reflected with a tergeo at his boots, his team needed comfort and reassurance. Even if losing ate away his mind, they deserved more than just brooding in the shower for hours.

“Merlin, I’m a right numptie, aren’t I,” Oliver’s quiet mutter echoed above their footsteps.

“Yes, yes you are,” Sunny smirked. 

“Ye really know how to sweet talk a bloke, Sunshine,” his eyes rolled, though he fought down an answering grin.

Stepping into the now quiet, cavernous hall of healing, Sunny tilted her head down the aisle. A dark brow crooked, watching the third year swan into the matron’s office. Soft, purposeful dialogue drifted and disappeared into the large room. Lips tugged into a small, soft smile, shaking his head before following the younger Gryffindor’s unspoken directive. 

“Hey,” Oliver greeted the pale boy on the cot.

“Oliver,” emerald eyes lit up at the sight of his captain, though guilt and shyness shadowed his face soon after. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t hold on and I almost had the snitch, but the dementors-”

“It’s not yer fault,” sighed the older teen. The soft scrape of wood on stone accompanied the uncomfortable visiter’s chair. “Dementors are nothing to be trifled with, ye know.”

“Yeah, I-I do,” Potter paled further if possible.  “Can you tell me more about them?”

“Dementors?” Eyebrows rose, surprised and confused.

“Please?” 

And so he did. He discussed their history, where they came from, and how they ended up in the employ of the ministry. Far more observant and inquisitive than Oliver initially thought, Potter’s constant stream of questions distracted both Gryffindors. Almost half an hour passed before the third year yawned, jaw cracking and abrupt. 

“I’ll let ye rest now, Potter,” he mussed the boy’s black locks. 

“Mkay,” Potter snuggled further into the starched sheets. 

Standing up to leave, a small hand grasped his wrist. Oliver peered back into the worried green eyes of one Harry Potter. The boy chewed his lip, as if debating what exactly to say. In a moment, determination filled those apprehensive orbs. No doubt, he reached a decision.

“Hey, Oliver?” His seeker asked, soft and intense.

“What lad?” The seventh year turned back to the hospital bed.

“Will you look out for Hermione, please?”

“Sunny?” A gobsmacked Oliver blinked. 

“Yeah,” Potter nodded, his glasses sliding down his nose a bit. “I know she tries to hide it, but dementors scare her, too.” A pensive frown tugged at his little lips. “I think something happened before coming to Hogwarts, why she’s so scared of falling, and she sees that when they’re close. Not that being friends with me has helped in that department.” Then, as an aside, “I’m surprised Ron isn’t more affected, really.” 

“Potter- Harry,” he gently corrected himself, tabling the initial question for something niggling in the back of his mind. “Do ye want to talk about what you see or hear?” Potter shrugged, half hearted and head down. “If ye want to, I’ll not judge ye.” 

“It’s just,” Potter’s nervous fingers fidgeted with the sheets. “M-my parents.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Oliver murmured, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“Y-yeah,” he sighed. “I hate it.”

“I can’t imagine why,” the older Gryffindor snorted.

“Right,” Potter’s lips twitched up just a bit. “Thanks, Oliver.”

“Ye’re welcome,” he moved to leave. Just before looking back at the drowsy third year. “And I will. Don’t ye worry about it.” 

A sleepy nod acknowledged his words. Shaking his head, Oliver walked back up the aisle, finding Sunny in the office with a cuppa, book open on the table. Madam Pomfrey quirked a bemused brow. Gentle murmurs broke the girl’s concentration, resulting in a quick thanks and a smile. Book in hand, Sunny and Oliver quietly strolled back to the common room. Once more, the seventh year reflected as he listened to his team and reassured their doubts. 

Chapter Text

January crawled past, day by day. He watched Sunshine work herself to skin and bones. How her best mates abandoned her did little to endear either boy to the keeper. Dark bags draped below her dull, downcast eyes, and, despite Oliver’s best efforts, Sunny evaded them all. The girls worried during their joint study sessions.

“Her stuff is in her dorm,” Angie murmured one day. “But she’s never there.”

“It’s warded,” Alicia sighed. “I think the other girls are bullying her. You know, taking her things and ruining them.”

“I’ve heard two of them planning to sabotage her shower products,” Katie added, with a frown. “It’s not right.”

“She’s probably using her private quarters,” Alicia concluded, twirling her quill around her fingers.

“You can tell Potter is just clinging to Weasley,” uncharacteristic venom dripped from Angie’s voice. “And the twins are ignoring her, which is probably worse.” 

“Bloody idiots, the lot of them,” huffed Katie. “It’s like they don’t know the first thing about brooms and safety.”

And just like that, Oliver had an idea.

“You want us to fly in that?!” Potter motioned towards the firmly shut locker room door. 

If we were professionals, then yes, Oliver mentally snarked. He knew games carried on despite almost any weather condition. The only exception happened to be lightning and hail. No one wanted to get struck midair. However, he didn’t voice those thoughts. They weren’t professionals, and they didn’t know the first thing about being safe in a blizzard like this.

“Not today, Potter,” the captain answered, shoving down the irritation he often felt around the boy of late. Cool and professional. He’d have to work with people he didn’t like, afterall. “Today, we’re going to do something a bit more basic. It has come to my attention that we are lacking some fundamental knowledge.” 

“Yes, we know. Seeker gets snitch, beaters hit bludger, and everyone else jockeys for a red ball,” one of the twins rolled their eyes.

“It’s rather simple, really,” the other chimed in.

“No, not about the game itself,” Oliver resisted the urge to snap at the pranksters. “I meant about basic equipment care and helpful charms. Things that we can use to better ourselves and our odds. With Hufflepuff being trounced by Ravenclaw, we’re still in this. So, since the weather is-” howling wind picked up outside, illustrating his point, “-less than favorable, let’s go over something useful.”

The first portion covered their protective gear. He bid everyone to get their own and began walking them through certain charms and other care techniques. He covered how to restitch and spell them to stay, and what to do to minimize wear and tear. Moving onto their stirrups, he demonstrated similar techniques. As a seriously aspiring professional, Oliver researched far more than his team realized. After all, there was more to the sport than just flying.

“Finally, brooms,” he announced after his team satisfied his requirements. 

“We all know broom care, Ollie,” one twin huffed.

“It’s not exactly a secret, is it?” The other puffed.

“Really then,” mischief sparkled in his green eyes. Leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, he tilted his head to the side. “Tell me, which normal charms strip yer broom’s enchantments?” Twin, blue eyes owlishly blinked at the seventh year. “No? What brooms take best to which cushioning charms?” Baffled expressions crossed the boys’ faces. “How can you tell if your broom is cursed? Which polishes help retain which enchantments the best?” Nothing. “Do ye lot even know how brooms are made?”

Not a single word. Oliver resisted the urge to smirk at his team. Everyone knew how to polish a broom, but that didn’t mean you were caring for it. He cornered every single one of his players, and they damn well knew it. Remaining calm and professional, the seventh year drew himself up once more.

“Like I said, we’re going to talk about brooms,” Oliver asserted, this time to a quiet and attentive team. 

“Do you know what he did, Percy?” A familiar, soft voice questioned his friend.

“What do you mean, Hermione?” The older Weasley hummed.

Oliver found the pair in the library a week or so after his rather successful lesson. A thoroughly chastised team filed out of the locker room that afternoon, chewing upon the new knowledge. Even if sightings of Sunny were few and far between, mostly darting around the halls or distanced during meals, a warm sense of accomplishment settled in his chest. 

“Oliver,” the little witch in question sighed. “Last week, something happened with the team. They had a practice, or were supposed to. The twins finally stopped terrorizing me, and Harry tried to catch my eyes a few times.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Percy quirked a brow. 

“It is if they are going to apologize and mean it,” Sunny scuffed a shoe over the smooth, stone floors. “But I don’t know if I can trust it, you know? Temporary goodwill, and all of that.” 

“It wasn’t exactly kind of them to turn on you,” his friend sighed. “I can understand why you’re wary, but it’s okay to forgive them in time.” 

“I know,” her small voice conceded. 

A beat of silence, then two. Oliver considered showing himself, talking to the suddenly shy Gryffindor. Merlin, she hasn’t been this tentative around the team -and him- since her first months in the castle. The fierce independence hurt a bit, more than he’d like to admit. Then, he watched as the Tower and their friends froze her out, and he understood. Oliver disagreed with her course of action, but his popularity ensured almost no time to talk to her away from any potential abuse. At least she still sent letters. 

“Are you going to return to the tower?” Percy inquired, confirming a pet theory amongst the team.

“Not yet,” Sunny responded, casting her gaze to the worn table. “Lavender and Pavarti are still trying to break into my bed every night, and there are still hexed items showing up in my wardrobe and desk.” His chest clenched, finally realizing the extent of the potential harm. “They’ll get bored, eventually, and then I’ll come back. Promise.”

“I am the Head Boy, you know,” the ginger shook his head at her brittle smile. “I can just alert Professor McGonagall and let her handle it. Anonymously, of course.” 

“That’d just make it worse,” she winced, and Oliver silently agreed. “And really, Oliver, you’re not half as sneaky as you think you are.” 

Stunned silence. He froze for a second before collecting himself. Walking around the corner of the bookshelf where he decidedly did not eavesdrop, books and his school bag clunked upon the sturdy, wooden table. A bemused Percy watched the byplay of a sheepish Oliver and exasperated Sunshine. Up close, the exhaustion and isolation clung to her very being. Despite studying together for the first time in weeks, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of missing an important detail.

Things started to settle back down. Potter groveled for Sunny’s forgiveness, which she eventually bestowed, and she talked of moving back to the tower. Weasley, however, iced out the apprentice. Even with one conflict resolved, Potter receiving his Firebolt back at last, another inevitably arose. This time, very few sympathized with the red head brat. There were multiple ginger cats in the tower. Yelling at Sunny endeared him to no one.

“And did you see Malfoy?” Angie sniggered after the match. 

A smile tugged at his mouth. On top of beating Ravenclaw and regaining their standing in the Quidditch Cup, Potter exposing the ridiculous Slytherins definitely boosted team morale. That and Sunny joining the team for their library study sessions. Soon enough, they jostled amongst the crowd of Gryffindors, jubilant and excited. 

Until they reached the portrait hole, where fear and shouting carried into the corridor. In the center of the tower, Sunny clutched her large, ginger cat, Crookshanks, close to her chest. Ronald Weasley, frothing at the mouth, accused the disinterested creature of killing his rat, tearing up his bed, and anything else he could. Instead of shrinking down, her eyes narrowed into slits and defended herself before walking out. Potter, once more disappointing Oliver, followed the git.

“Bloody hell,” Angie groaned. “And things were going back to normal .” 

“Divination is a bloody waste of time anyways,” muttered the brunette one day in the library. “You’re either a Seer or you’re not.”

Oliver blinked, nonplussed and amused, at the apparent non sequitur. Percy distractedly agreed, pointing out the ways in which arithmancy was more reliable. Naturally, the pair further deliberated the ways in which one can use arithmancy and the purposes. All the while, Oliver shook his head and went back to his beloved runes. 

“Hermione, what’s wrong with your hand?” Percy inquired, looking at the hidden appendage. 

“Oh, well, uh,” a scarlet blush tipped her ears and cheeks. Oh, this is going to be good. Oliver crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, an impish smirk upon his lips. “You see, I may have, errm, maybe, just a bit, punched Draco Malfoy in the nose.”

“I beg your pardon,” the Head Boy blinked in surprise.

“How do ye ‘just a bit’ punch someone?” Oliver inquired at the same time, enjoying her squirming embarrassment. 

“Uh, well, you see,” cinnamon eyes darted to look at anything but the two boys in front of her. “Buckbeak the hippogriff is being sentenced to execution after barely scratching Malfoy earlier this year. The git deliberately went against instructions and tried to get close without gaining his trust.” 

“Typical,” Percy muttered. 

“So, I went to go talk to Hagrid, you know, cheer him up a bit,” she shrugged. Unsaid went the I went alone, and they aren’t talking to me still , along with I physically and emotionally exhausted myself trying to help. “Well, I found him talking to some of his Slytherin cronies about how brutal the execution would be, and how Hagrid should be sacked. I saw red and kinda, sorta lost it.”

“That probably wasn’t the smartest decision, Sunshine,” Oliver chortled, imagining the little, blonde ponce clutching a broken nose.

“Oliver, this isn’t funny,” hissed the third year.

“Ye’re right,” he conceded, beaming at her. Even Percy hid his shaking shoulders. “It’s hilarious.”   

“Boys,” the witch groaned.

“Are you all telling me you knew ? This entire time ?” Oliver nearly shouted at his best friend and arithmancer. 

“Wait,” Sunshine slowly lifted her eyes from the page before her. “Are you saying you didn’t figure it out?” 

“I thought you noticed in November ,” Percy added, gaping at the disgruntled keeper. 

“It wasn’t exactly subtle,” Sunny shrugged her delicate shoulders. “He went missing for exactly one day a month on the day after the full moon.” A frown bowed her lips. “Now that I think about it, how didn’t more people know?”

“I’m sure there were plenty of Ravenclaws that figured it out,” the redhead graduate hummed. “Penelope did, bless her.”

“If so many people knew, then why didn’t anyone tell the administration? Or the ministry?” Oliver groused, plopping down next to Percy. 

“Have you met any of our former DADA professors?” Said friend delicately sniffed. 

He has a point, Oliver conceded with a tilt of his head. Soon, the conversation flowed by about the summers to come. Percy explained his timeline, enthusiastic and exuberant. Despite his siblings’ lukewarm reactions to his predictable path, Sunny listened with rapt attention, peppering the older boy with questions. Oliver felt these quiet moments, bittersweet and pristine, important and clung to their easy comradery for what little time remained.

“What are you doing this summer?” Percy inquired of the apprentice.

“With the World Cup coming to England in August, Mistress has arranged for me to shadow a national team’s Arithmancer for the summer,” she cheerfully chirped. “I’ll continue working with Master Stevenson, of course.”

“Not England, then?” Oliver rose a brow, regarding her for a moment.

“No,” chocolate curls bounced back and forth. “Mistress’ own Master is the head Arithmancer for Bulgaria. I’ll go once a week to the stadium and work with him in his office for a couple of hours.”

“One may think you enjoy meeting and being surrounded by quidditch players,” he quipped. “How many friends do you have who don’t play?”

“Oh hush, you,” scowled the girl, before turning to the other boy. “Percy, we’re surrounded.”

“I daresay between my siblings, the girls, and Oliver, we are the only bastion of reason,” his friend chortled. “It’s okay, Hermione, we’ll just sit back and let them injure themselves as we talk about rational things.” 

“Like a book club?” Sunny perked up.

Yes, Oliver decided. I’ll miss this the most, I think.

Chapter Text

Oliver trained harder than he ever thought possible. He tried out for an exclusive intensive summer camp for up and coming quidditch professionals. Different junior staff members of different clubs and teams from across Europe attended. Scouts from all over flocked to watch, and Oliver did his damndest to be the very best. 

Even if it meant only sending owls to his parents once a week from the training grounds dormitories. Or that his own studies of wards and runes were relegated to a couple of hours in the evenings before he passed out. Of all the other people there, Flint surprised him the most. He knew the burly Slytherin chaser dreamed of the same as him, to be a professional. Yet, he didn’t realize the wizard tested well enough to make it. 

Wednesday morning, like clock-work, Einstein found him in the mess hall. Much like Hogwarts, owls delivered in the mornings, a flurry of feathers and parchment. Yet, the more subdued, intense atmosphere dulled the thrill of post. Except on Wednesdays, when Sunny wrote. He happily munched on some toast as he offered a piece of bacon to the bird. With an affectionate nip, the owl took off once more, perhaps to rest before journeying home. 

Dear Oliver,

I hope that training is going well. I know it’s grueling, but you’ll get through it and be stronger. I know you will. You’re as stubborn as a hippogriff and as contrary as a kneazle when the mood strikes you. If nothing else, you’ll excel to prove everyone wrong. Just be sure to drink plenty of fluids and get some rest when you’re not training! It’s a lot of stress you’re putting your body under, you know.  

Thank you for inquiring about my summer! It appears our mums have been having weekly tea during the school year. They alternate between the muggle and wizarding worlds, to better acclimate to both is what they say. I think they do it to give our fathers a bit of a heart attack, really. 

I went to one of these outings recently, and the amount of gossip they know about both worlds is truly impressive. At one point, they were debating if Lord Malfoy’s hair was real or if he needed potions to grow it that long (In my opinion, it must be real. The Malfoys have such frustratingly classical genes that having long, beautiful, straight, platinum hair would be natural). Apparently, Mum passes for decent society now, and he approached them one day during their tea.

As for my assignments, Mistress keeps me on my toes, as always. This summer, Master Stevenson requested me. Needless to say, I am extremely excited to spend part of my summer working with him! As for Bulgaria, it is quite beautiful. I do not go to the stadium when I visit Master Petrov, so I haven’t met the whole team. We are covering conditional variables, and how they work within the structure of arithmancy. It’s really quite fascinating, how making minute changes that depend on certain conditions can change the entire outcome.

How are you doing? How goes training? I’m quite curious, do they incorporate muggle-style physical training? I’ve always thought that quidditch could benefit from more basic conditioning exercises. Which teams are scouting? Have any approached you? And how goes your research? Any new breakthroughs on the warding scheme?

Sincerely,

Sunny

“Are you sure you don’t have a girlfriend, Wood?” Vladimir, a seeker from Durmstrang, grinned from across the table. 

“I would think I’d know if I were dating anyone,” he snorted, tucking the letter in with his playbook. He’d review the second page later, when they were studying plays. He arranged for stats to be sent to her, which she diligently analyzed for him. “It’s a friend from school. They’re an arithmancy apprentice.”

“Oh ho! So you have an analyst already?” A German chaser asked, eyes glimmering with something Oliver didn’t quite like.

“Aye,” he slowly answered. “And they are busy this summer. Working with both a professional, regional team and a national team in addition to their apprenticeship.” 

“They must be damn good, then,” Vlad remarked, sensing the tension between the two. 

“Let’s say they taught themselves quite a bit before being picked up,” Oliver nodded, thanking the Russian. Looking at a large, white clock above the door of the mess hall, he swore. “Time to get going, lads.” 

Oliver frowned at the calendar before him. He already tried out for several teams, both domestic and foreign. Several appeared quite interested, which still shocked him on some level. Yes, he knew he worked hard and did his best, but was he really that much better than others? Shaking off those thoughts, he scowled at the paper in his hand. 

July 28th, 9am, Puddlemere United Open Try-Outs. 

Just as he debated, once more, if he should go or not the floo chimed. Out of the fireplace, Mrs. Granger, his mother, and Sunny stepped through. Before he could so much as move, the little witch grinned and walked right over to him with a determined gleam in her eyes.

“I’ll be here tomorrow at eight to pick you up before going to the stadium,” she grinned at him.

“I beg yer pardon?” Oliver blinked.

“Tomorrow, eight?” She raised a brow at him. 

“But, why?” He asked, confused. 

He didn’t even know if he could try out. If he deserved to try out! How could this girl waltz right into his own home and tell him? Part of Oliver wanted to yell about the presumption, but the other part, the larger bit, stayed silent. Sunny didn’t build up dreams to watch them fall. 

“Because try-outs start at nine, and you need time to get used to the broom and warm up,” Sunny stated, as if it were obvious. Taking in his expression, a little, confused frown tugged at the corners of her bow lips. “Are you alright, Ol?”

“I’m,” his large hand rubbed his face and hair, “I’m not sure.” 

Unmentioned, though not unobserved, Ma and Mrs. Granger turned towards one of the parlors in whispered confidence. Large, cinnamon eyes focused on him, thoughtful and expressive. Despite what most people thought, Hermione understood when to talk and when to be silent. At the very least, she knew those things in regards to him . 

“You told me that you have other offers, yeah?” She softly inquired. He nodded, watching as she approached. “Then, what’s the harm in going? Other teams think you’re worth it. You got into the ‘Rook Camp from Hell,’ according to Jonathan.” A soft huff of laughter left him. That’s one way of putting it. “You deserve the chance to try. Not to mention, you know you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“Sunny,” mossy green eyes narrowed. “Do ye know something? Have ye been running numbers?”

“What?!” A dark flush coated her cheeks. “I-I wouldn’t- Oliver, I-I,” her eyes darted around the room, nerves and something else he couldn’t identify. “I-I can’t run your numbers. Personally, that is.” 

“Meaning?” His lean form leaned against the wall, cataloging everything.

Ever since her apprenticeship started, very few things truly ruffled the young witch. She confided in him quite early that the occlumency training did wonders for her nerves, and helped her compartmentalize during high-stress situations. It had been ages since she appeared so unsure and fidgety. Sometimes, she exaggerated for those around them, emoted more than normal. Bright pink cheeks and darting eyes fascinated the keeper. Something unsettled and embarrassed her, unnerved her. But what?

“Oliver, I choose not to run your personal numbers,” she stated, gathering herself, and her shields most likely. “Jonathan has said a few things that make me think they are interested in you, though. So, I won’t let your brooding throw away a perfectly good opportunity.” 

“Fine,” he pouted, filing away the information for later.

“Wonderful!” She clapped, turning on her heel to follow their mothers. “Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to give Mum more time to scheme. Last I heard, she was trying to set me up at some sort of teen-only party of sorts her friends are throwing. Madness, I say!”

“Poor thing, we can’t let that happen,” Oliver snarked and set to follow her, amused at her exasperation.

“Don’t be so quick, Ol,” chocolate curls whipped around as she turned to look at him, an impish sparkle in her eyes. “You’re technically considered a teen in the muggle world, and your mum appeared quite interested in the details.” Picking up his pace, Oliver swore under his breath. “That’s what I thought.”

“But I have so much to do,” he lamented, turning a corner.

“You’re telling me,” Sunny snorted, easily keeping pace.

“And we’re here because?” Oliver groused. 

Here, being a country estate somewhere in the rolling hills of Wiltshire. Neither he nor Hermione wanted to attend. In his defense, Oliver wanted to spend as much time preparing as possible. Having finished try-outs the week before, waiting for answers grated his nerves. Mrs. Granger convinced his parents to attend this function for some charity or the other, and they happily accepted. Of course, the adults gathered in one grand hall, while their children occupied another. These sorts of events weren’t new, by any stretch of imagination. As an influential pureblood family, Oliver attended more of these types of gatherings than most assumed. He just hated them. 

“Because you thought it’d be funny to tempt fate?” Sunny deadpanned. 

“Oh Granger, how wonderful to see you here,” a tall, lanky aristocrat beamed at his friend. Oliver reigned in instinctive hackles, raising at the boy’s saccharine tone. “You are an absolute vision in plum, as always. Gem tones just make you glow, and I do believe you are quite divine tonight.”

Oliver conceded that point. Sunny cleaned up quite well, her curls tumbling down her back, with a few pieces pinned out of her face. The dress, perfectly modest and adequate, flattered her body, and a few pieces of jewelry added a bit of sparkle. While not as ostentatious as other ensembles he spied around the large room, it became the young Gryffindor witch.

“Humphries-” She restrained from rolling her eyes.

“It is such a shame they keep you locked up in that drafty old castle all year,” lamented the boy further. “It deprives us of your radiant presence and resplendent person.”

“What do you need?” Sunny sighed, finally breaking through his ramblings. “Is it Marie?”

“ Yes, ” the annoyance whined. “She won’t talk to me. Or look at me. Or acknowledge my existence. I know you don’t see each other as often, but could you, maybe, put in a good word for me?”

“You’re an absolute idiot, you know that?” Cinnamon eyes rolled at the dramatic display. 

“But you know how I feel about her,” Humphries practically wailed. 

“I’m pretty sure the whole assembly has known that for years,” she snarked. “You did recite your own poem about her when we were eight-”

“In my defense, I thought it was a beautiful piece,” the boy asserted.

“It was a limerick,” a brown brow raised in apparent amusement.

“A masterpiece-”

“About how puppies were nice but she was nicer.” 

Oliver held back a snort.

“Pumpkin just had a litter,” Humphries defended himself. “It was all I could think of at the time.”

“Then, there was the time, when we were ten, and you decided to serenade her,” Sunny continued as if uninterrupted.

“I have a lovely voice, thank you,” he retorted.

“By singing ‘All I Want For Christmas is You,’ at the top of your lungs,” several other people around them started to giggle. “Whilst pulling her into the middle of the dance floor.”

“It was romantic,” Humphries huffed.

“It was traumatic.” 

By the end of this exchange, Oliver did his best to not collapse into the little witch in front of him. Shoulders shook with repressed mirth. He underestimated the similarities between pureblood gatherings and this very one. They all had stories, and various levels of dirt, on one another. The sight of Sunny easily handling the gathering, and the people, put him at ease. She never flourished in Hogwarts social setting, but seeing her here, amongst people she knew from nappies, reassured him. 

“Hey, Hermione, where are you going,” the boy asked. Turning back, Oliver noted Sunny walking towards a small group of girls about her age. “Are you going to tell her?”

“I’m going to warn her,” snarked the brunette.

“You cruel woman,” the boy gasped as Sunny raised a hand in farewell. “Is she like this at your boarding school?”

“Not quite,” Oliver blinked, not expecting to be addressed. “She is a bit… intense about her studies.”

“Sounds like her,” the boy grinned, extending a hand. “Julian, Julian Humphries, at your service.”

“Oliver Wood,” he returned, not quite sure what to make of the boy.

“My parents are the dermatologist for the Family,” he continued, as if aware of his confusion. “I’ve known her since we were babies. As the children of the physicians, we have always been in an awkward spot. Too useful to be part of the bourgeoisie, but not quite royal either.”

“What was she like growing up?” Oliver inquired, noting to ask Sunny what exactly all that meant.

“Clever,” both boys smirked at one another. “Stubborn. Always ready to muck up a dress or tear a stocking if it meant doing the right thing or helping someone else. She used to get into a lot of trouble for it.”

“I can see that,” murmured the wizard. 

“I take it much hasn’t changed?” Humphries chuckled. 

“I can’t say much has, no,” Oliver honestly answered.

“At least she has a few people who care for her up there,” the boy’s response, wistful and relieved, surprised Oliver.

“What do you mean?” 

“Now, now, don’t tell me Hermione’s suddenly a social butterfly?” A black brow raised in amusement. At Oliver’s grimace, he laughed. “She never really fit in. Too smart, too odd. Here, at least, she has Marie and me, but we all went to different schools. Hermione had it the hardest of us. There was an incident during year four. Took her right out of school, and gave her tutors instead. Some thought it was a prank gone wrong. My parents thought it was an attempt on her life, and they refused to let me go to classes for weeks afterwards.” 

“Well, the professors at our school are rather intolerant of attempts on a life,” Oliver drily remarked, tracking Sunny with his eyes instead. 

“That’s a wonderful bottom-line standard,” Humphries chuckled. 

“Apparently, it’s more than others,” the quidditch player pointed out.

“Touche,” the other boy acquiesced. With a playful bow, the boy left. 

“Oliver, it’s time to go!” His father’s voice rung through the halls.

“I’m coming,” he shouted back.

“Do you lads have everything?” Ma fussed.

“Yes, Ma,” Oliver fondly rolled his eyes. 

“If ye need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know,” her stern face leveled both Wood men. 

“Of course, darling,” his Da smiled.

“Good, I’ll be getting Jean and Daniel in a bit,” his mother recited the plan. Again. “Then, I’ll meet you two at the campsite. Remember, Hermione is going to be attending with Molly, Arthur, and their brood. After the match, I’ll pop back with Jean and Daniel for the night.” 

“We know, Ma,” Oliver groaned. “We’ve only been over this a hundred times.”

“Maybe a hundred and one,” Da chimed in. 

“Oh, shoo, you trouble makers,” his mother smacked his father, scowling at both.

With a rush of green, they were off to the Quidditch World Cup! Dutifully, Oliver helped set up his family’s campsite towards the central part of the campgrounds. Already, a sea of similar structures surrounded him. The excitement and energy of the match filled the air, people talking in all languages. A dopey grin never left his face. This is what he lived for. 

Sometime in the morning, the Grangers and his mother arrived. He greeted both, mirroring the giddy enthusiasm of both fathers, and left to go to his other tent. Strolling down the main pathway, a familiar voice carried over the crowd.

“Oliver!” 

“Hey Sunshine, how are you?” Oliver grinned at the little witch.

Their paths crossed a few more times over the summer, despite the steady correspondence they upkept. The further Bulgaria advanced in the tournament, the busier the little witch got. Between her normal work with Master Stevenson and the other holiday work, she barely spent time with her family, let alone his. 

“Good,” she enthused. “Is it a bit selfish of me to be glad it’s almost over?”

“I suppose not,” he laughed. “It’s been a mite busy for ye, after all.” 

“Wood!” Another voice called, spotting the two of them.

“Potter, Weasley,” he greeted her normal guards. 

“It’s good to see you,” Potter smiled. “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know, working hard,” he shrugged, speaking the truth at any rate. “I just got selected as the reserve keeper for Puddlemere United -oof!”

Sunny launched herself at him, squeezing his middle. Oliver relented and returned the embrace. After all, the little witch forced his hand and made him try-out for the team of his dreams despite his reservations. Warmth and calm washed through his being, content in this one moment.

“I knew you could do it!” 

“The man needs to breathe, ‘Mione,” Potter fondly remarked. 

“But really, I told you so,” she released her tight hold on his middle.

“Ye did,” he capitulated, rolling his eyes. 

“You know Wood?” Weasley’s voice cut through the otherwise happy reunion.

“Well spotted, Ronald,” the witch deadpanned. 

“From school, right?” The youngest brother’s face flushed.

“It is where I’ve met the majority of the witches and wizards of my acquaintance, yes,” she replied, cool and civil.

“That’s not what I meant,” growled the boy.

“Then ask what you mean,” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“I mean outside of school,” he ground out.

“Well, obviously, I write Oliver, and have since my first year, during the summer holidays. Last year, I needed help with some hol work for arithmancy and asked,” the girl stood before him, as if defending his honor. Oliver simply shook his head, exasperated and amused. “Afterwards, our parents became friends and we’ve since kept in touch.” 

“Why aren’t our parents friends, then?” The redhead pouted.

“Probably because your mother, for all her wonderful qualities, upkeeps correspondence about as well as you do,” snarked Sunshine. “Mum has tried, many times, to strike up a conversation with your mother, but rarely gets any sort of answer.” 

“Well, I think it’s wonderful that your parents have found support in the magical world,” Potter interjected, attempting to keep the peace.

“Thank you, Harry,” she turned a brilliant smile to her friend. “Where are you headed, Ol?”

“To the team tent,” he grinned, giddy and excited to be considered a member. “Mum and Da are with yer parents at our’s.” 

“Could you tell me-“ She started.

“ Muggles aren’t allowed to attend,” a haughty huff left Weasley.

“Ron!” Potter hissed.

“It’s alright, Harry,” Sunny placed a hand on his arm. “My parents have been attending quidditch matches for the past year, Ronald. In fact, they were personally invited here by Master Stevenson, Puddlemere’s head analyst and master arithmancer. They are absolutely allowed to attend.” 

“Well, that’s lovely,” Potter once more tried to stop any fighting, his voice false and bright.

“Indeed,” Sunny raised a brow, knowing the boy’s game. Turning slightly to better address Oliver, she added, “Please tell Jonathan I’ll be there in a tick? We’re just coming back with water for the Weasley camp and then I’ll be over.”

“Shouldn’t you be preparing with your team?” Oliver teased.

“Well, that’s going to be after I say hello and go find my parents,” she replied in kind. “Maybe I’ll actually meet the whole team at once!”

“I can’t believe ye still haven’t,” snorted the keeper. 

“I haven’t been working at the stadium,” cinnamon eyes rolled. An impatient Weasley cleared his throat meaningfully. “And that is my cue to leave. I’ll see you in a bit, Oliver!”

Shaking his head, he bid farewell to Sunny and her friends before turning once more towards the Puddlemere tent. Pulling back the flap, the cheerful sounds of his new team greeted Oliver. Dutifully, Oliver passed the message to Master Stevenson before joining the rest of the team. Some time later, a round of greetings flew throughout the tent. Looking towards the entrance, Sunny grinned at those near her.

“Granger, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Pallie called from next to him. “With Bulgaria going so far into the tournament, I thought we wouldn’t see you until the season started!”

“Must you ruin my good news,” Sunny sighed, smiling all the while. “How do you even know?”

“Who do you think Jonanthan used to gather feedback?” The tall chaser next to him grinned.

“Did someone say surprise?” Thompson shouted as a greeting. “Granger, fancy meeting you here.” 

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” pouted the witch.

“Well, I don’t know what it is, so you can still surprise me,” the lean man grinned down at Sunny.

“Hello, Hermione,” Master Stevenson greeted the young witch.

“Hullo Jonathan,” she sighed. “Apparently, Jack has been ruining my secret.”

“Why are there secrets being kept?” Malloy interrupted, nudging himself into the circle of people.

“Well, since most of you are here,” the head arithmancer grinned. “It is my pleasure to announce that Hermione will be officially joining us as my junior arithmancer.”

A cheer erupted around the group. Several of the players hugged the little witch, while others simply smiled. Apparently, her time with Master Stevenson endeared the witch with the rest of the team. Within minutes, staff and players alike rotated to congratulate Sunny. 

“But aren’t you still a student?” Malloy, another one of their chasers, inquired. 

“Yes, but as an apprentice, my schedule is flexible,” Sunny grinned. 

“Not to mention, as an arithmancy apprentice, she needs independent study hours,” Master Stevenson added. “Since she showed an aptitude for quidditch, Septima and I figured this arrangement would be highly beneficial to both of us.”

“Congratulations, Sunny,” Oliver grinned down at the little witch.

“Thanks, Ol,” she beamed back.

“Bloody hell, can you imagine what he’ll fly like with a year or five under his belt?” Pallie remarked for the tenth time.

“He’s going to be a pain in the arse to play against for years,” muttered Thompson, a huge grin spread across his face. “Isn’t that awesome?!”

Oliver huffed a laugh. This, more so than any other reason, convinced him to sign with Puddlemere. Most of the other teams ran from hard players and difficult situations. This team, though, reveled in the challenge and the opportunity to play against the best, be the best. To say Krum impressed the team would be woefully insufficient. He inspired them.

“Do you hear that?” Pallie frowned next to Oliver.

“Is there some after event we weren’t told about?” the scotsman frowned, hearing faint shouts from his place deep in the tent.

“We’re under attack, get out, get safe!” Coach Burton shouted.

A moment of silence and then panic. People were yelling, patroni flew out the canvas walls, and everyone rushed towards the singular exit. From the back, eyes wide as saucers, fear gripped his throat. Oliver saw his parents off, with the Grangers, after the match ended, but Hermione. Last he heard, she wandered towards the Weasley tent.

“Oi, Wood, where are you going?” Malloy shouted, forcing his way towards the exit.

“Sunny’s out there!”

“Shite,” the man breathed, eyes wide. With a quick turn, he shouted, “JONATHAN, WE’RE LOOKING FOR HERMIONE!”

“Let’s go,” Oliver shoved his way through the entrance. 

Chaos. Pure, unadulterated, chaos. Shouts and screams echoed through the air. Throngs of people pushed and shoved every which way. Children’s cries pierced through the noise. Above it all, muggles floated in the distance. The glow of fire and spells lit the eerie scene, a tableau of terror. Oliver glanced the way he thought Sunny left.

“What campsite?” Master Stevenson huffed next to him.

“They were towards the south,” his automatic answer.

Without a word, the three men stuck close to the forest. Cries and screams echoed from the tents to their side. They swam against the tide, people rushing towards the exit by the team tent. Stevenson motioned to the right at one point before delving in. Malloy, further down, nodded towards a cluster of tents. Oliver ventured south, where more of the spellfire flashed. Something told him to keep going, to keep safe.

“ Stupify !” A familiar voice shouted.

Several beams of light followed the initial red. Legs carried him to the site, a clearing just beyond the line of trees in front. Opposite him, Sunny stood, tall and defensive, wand brandished against three cloaked figures. One, hobbled, apparently hit by whatever volley she sent forth. The other two jeered, edging closer step by step. 

Red clouded his vision. For a split moment, Oliver knew nothing more than the bastards threatening one of his people. Then, cinnamon met green, and he noticed her fear, anxiety, and hope. Forcing his anger back, Oliver focused. Right now wasn’t the time to let his temper loose. Merlin and Morgana witnessed the havoc he would wreck, but wanton destruction wouldn’t help. Instead, he’d settle for targeted mayhem. 

Sunny tilted her head towards the Death Eater, for what else could they be, to his left and he nodded. Raising her wand, she moved the tip ever so slowly, as if conducting an orchestra. On the fourth movement, Oliver struck. A silent stunner knocked the man forward into a tree. At the same time, another bright beam of light launched the center man to Oliver. A satisfying crunch of breaking bone greeted his elbow as he smashed it into the man’s face, breaking the silver mask. 

One last stupify, and the robed men lay forgotten on the ground. Oliver rushed as fast as he could to Sunny, visually inspecting her for injuries. As he approached, ropes emerged from the tip of her wand, tying the bastards for the ministry to catch later.

“We need to get out of here,” he hissed, noticing Potter behind her for the first time.

“Just a tick,” she batted his hands away from her face. “ Accio Harry Potter’s wand!”

“Really?!” The keeper growled at the young wizard.

“It was nicked off him, probably during the game,” Sunshine automatically remarked, a slim piece of wood zooming into her hand. “Ready.”

Without another word, Oliver grabbed both teens and concentrated. He pictured his family’s library, where they spent many hours of comfortable companionship. He knew that’s where his parents would be entertaining the Grangers with a nightcap as they spoke, unaware of the dangers their children experienced. They disappeared from the grounds with a pop.

“Good heavens, what happened?!” Mrs. Granger cried. 

“Merlin and Morgana!” His Mum exclaimed at the same moment.

“Hermione? Oliver?” Da frowned, getting up. 

“Give me a moment,” Oliver panted, not used to apparating, let alone with several other people.

“Tufty,” Ma called out. 

“Yes, Mistress,” a well-kept house elf in a white toga appeared. 

“Bring me my healing kit as well as some refreshments, please,” she commanded, worrying eyes flitting between the three bedraggled teens. 

“Rights away, Mistress,” and the elf popped from their sight. 

Oliver rolled over, laying on his back. An arm slung over his eyes, blocking the light. A headache throbbed behind his eyes, most likely from tension or the battering of the crowd. Their parents puttered around for a moment, unknowing of the next step, before Potter and Sunshine relayed their story. 

“Well, I first visited the Bulgarian tent after the game,” the young witch explained. “They are quite lovely people, really, almost like siblings. They took me under their wing almost immediately, despite rarely interacting with them during the summer. After a couple of hours, though, I knew I needed to meet with the Weasley’s, so I said my goodbyes and pulled myself away from them.”

“They quite liked Hermione’s company,” Potter added, attempting to liven the mood. “She mentioned that she made all of them laugh a few times. Apparently, Krum is difficult to amuse.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” a soft hand on his arm stifled any irrational irritation. “More so that he’s a reserved introvert who somehow became a star.”

“You say somehow as if you didn’t watch the game,” snarked the other boy.

“He is a brilliant flyer,” she shrugged. “That doesn’t negate the fact that he’s an introvert who is constantly hounded by the media. I’d be remarkably grumpy, too, if people had nothing better to do than to photograph me and wonder what new book I bought or speculate what I talked about over tea.”

By the time Sunny wrapped up her explanation, firelight greeted his eyes once more, warm and soft. His mother fussed over Potter, gaunt and worse for wear, while Da and Mr. Granger listened to their story. Across the room, Mrs. Granger prepared drinks for the party, worried glances darting around the group. Eyes traced a slender arm up to the other witch in attendance. Chocolate ringlets hung just past her shoulders, twigs and leaves sticking out of them. The sudden desire to pluck debris from the shining curls gripped Oliver for a moment, before letting it pass.

“Anyways, Hermione found us at the Weasley’s tent and we got to talking for a bit,” Potter continued. “Ron was a little heated once he learned Hermione worked with the Bulgarian national team-”

“Haven’t you been writing that boy all summer?” Mrs. Granger inquired, disapproval shining in her eyes. 

“He apparently didn’t read his letters nor listen to me when I updated him before the Cup,” cinnamon eyes rolled. 

Leave it to Weasley to ignore correspondence from a friend and then blame said friend for their ignorance. Potter glanced to the side, guilt evident in his posture. An annoyed scowl crossed his face, ignoring the pain in his side. He noted several cuts and bruises, and his elbow absolutely smarted, but no lasting damage. Potter, however, grimaced on the sofa next to his Ma, a large, ugly gash on his thigh knitting together.

“Anyhow, Bill took him to cool off,” Sunny forged forward. “We were talking about our summers for a tick, and then I heard the screaming.  Next thing we knew, Mr. Weasley told us to run for cover. The Twins took Ginny. We got separated in the crowd, and had to sneak around to not draw attention. Finally, we got to a point where it was a sure disaster or probable disaster.” 

“Catch-22, I take it?” Her father huffed.

“Something like that, Mr. Granger,” Potter agreed, glancing at his friend. “It was either dart around the middle of a huge aisle between tents, or run across a large clear area into the forest.” 

“I take it you took the forest,” the man’s wry observation frustrated the little witch.

“What else was I to do, Dad?” She huffed. “At least the forest held the hope of anonymity and finding others.”

“Technically, we did find others,” Potter inserted. “They followed us. One of them got my leg,” the boy pointed towards the faint, pink line on his skin. “We ended up cornered in a clearing. Someone stole my wand earlier, so I couldn’t even help. Hermione, though, was amazing!”

“Mistress taught me some self defense,” a bit of color rose to her cheeks. “After the past couple of years, she thought it prudent.” 

A silent understanding passed through the muggle family. Hermione hated lying, and Oliver began to identify her tells over time. She spoke the truth, but not fully. Perhaps to protect something, as that seemed to drive her to extremes. She distanced herself the previous year to save his rather shallow friendships. Merlin, she flung herself bodily infront of Potter numerous times. Whatever she strove to guard, Oliver realized now was not the time to pry.

“At some point, Oliver showed up and helped us stun and tie them up,” Potter shrugged. “Hermione summoned my wand, and then we popped here.”

“Hermione, come here, dear,” Ma called out to the quiet witch at his side. 

“Yes, ma’am,” standing up, Sunny brushed her pants off, a habit he supposed, and made her way over. 

“How many times must I tell you to call me Sophie in private, darling,” his mother gently admonished. 

“At least once more,” the witch grinned, cheeky and unrepentant. 

“Jumper off, you were hit with a slicing hex,” his mum instructed, her smile fond.

Blinking, Oliver noticed part of her jumper darker than the rest. Concern and horror gripped the young quidditch professional, watching the hooded garment slip off her arms. Sunny winced and turned her right arm towards his mother. Tutting, the elder witch attended to the injury. How hadn’t he noticed? An emotion akin to failure and helplessness threatened to overrun him. 

“A busted lip, too,” she hummed, unaware of Oliver’s sudden attack of nerves. “I’ll take care of that next.” 

“Shouldn’t someone tell the Weasley’s we’re safe?” Potter piped up, nervously glancing between the adults. “We did attend with them, after all.”

“Technically, I attended with the Bulgarian National Team,” Sunny snarked. Potter stuck his tongue out, shocking a laugh from the witch. “Real mature, Harry.”

“I’ll do so,” Da stood. “And you will all be staying the night.” 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Ian,” Mr. Granger graciously accepted. “Perhaps we should get some treats into the children before sending them off to bed.”

“You are just saying that because you adore Mufty’s Victoria sponge,” Mrs. Granger playfully accused her husband.

Da walked to the fireplace, throwing in some powder and calling an address. A scant moment later, Mrs. Weasley’s panicked facade of flame answered.

“Oh, Ian, what is the matter? Is anything wrong? Do you need help?” The woman shot one question after another. 

“We are fine, Molly,” his father assured the fidgeting woman. “I just wanted to let you know that Miss Granger and Mister Potter are both safe and sound. We’ll be keeping them over the night to rest, mind.” 

“Oh, Arthur will be relieved,” she visibly relaxed. “And you’re quite certain you don’t want to send Harry dear over? It wouldn’t be a bother, you know. I don’t want to inconvenience you and Sophie.”

“It’s no bother, Molly,” his father sighed. 

“Are you really quite sure? I wouldn’t mind in the least,” she insisted. 

Why the bloody hell do the Weasley’s want Potter so much for? Oliver frowned at the matron. Glancing between the soon-to-be-fourth years, he noticed a mix of exasperation and annoyance from Sunny, with fondness mixed in on Potter’s face. It appeared the woman pushed herself upon them quite forcefully.

“The children are quite safe here, and are tired,” his Da stated, brooking no argument. “We will call you in the morning, Molly, until then let them rest.”

“But, Ian, I really must insist-” Mrs. Weasley simpered.

“That’s enough,” the large man asserted. “The children will be staying the night with me, end of discussion. Good night , Molly.”

The floo connection went dead. Thoughtful silence blanketed the group for a moment, each drinking their beverage of choice. Hot cocoa, warm and sweet and velvety, coated his tongue as thoughts swirled in his mind. Not once did Mrs. Weasley ask after Sunny, so focused on Potter and his well being. Instead of following that path of thought, Oliver focused on the scene in front of him. 

During his woolgathering, the young witch in question curled up in a chair next to the sofa her parents perched. Potter leaned against it, listening with rapt attention to Mr. Granger’s energetic impressions on the match. Shaking his brown hair, Oliver scarcely believed the game ended less than six hours ago. Time truly mystified the young man. Picking himself off the ground, he wandered towards his parents and joined in.

“I hate windows right now,” Sunny grumbled, burying her messy locks under a pillow. 

“But how are you going to read with no light?” Mrs. Granger greeted the trio of somnambulant teens, bright, vivacious, and loud.

“Mrs. Granger,” groaned Potter somewhere further in the library. “G’morning.” 

“Oliver, your mum mentioned something about a morning run?” The smiling woman greeted.

Swearing, the keeper threw himself to his feet, rushing through the Manor. With the professional season over until training officially started, Puddlemere put Oliver (and the rest of the team) on a strict diet and exercise regime. Much to Sunny’s amusement, they did, in fact, incorporate ‘normal’ physical conditioning. As such a young player, the coaches laid out their plan for him. In addition to adjusting to the speed of the professional game, they needed him to gain muscle and stamina. 

By the time he returned from the morning exercise and took a shower, everyone gathered around the table for food. Ma and Mrs. Granger gossipped together, Sunny surreptitiously refilling their breakfast cocktails and plates. Potter and Mr. Granger seemed to pick up their conversation from the night before. At the head of the table, the Daily Prophet softly crinkled in his father’s hands. 

“Good morning,” Sunny greeted him as he sat down. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” he groaned, pouring coffee into a mug. 

“I’m sure Coach Burton will be happy to hear,” she chuckled, sipping her tea.

An amused snort answered her proclamation. Before he could spoon a single thing onto his plate, food appeared. Grumbling under his breath, Oliver munched away on his portioned serving. Soon enough, the families parted ways. Potter flooed to The Burrow, while Hermione and her family left to their own Georgian townhouse. Quiet calm descended upon the Wood Estate once more.

Dear Oliver,

I hope that your apartment at the Puddlemere training grounds is comfortable. From what I am told, the big bosses like to go a little all out in accommodations. Something about keeping the players and staff happy during the long season, or so Jonathan remarked on Wednesday. In fact, he mentioned that I have my own set of rooms, which is fascinating. 

As you have doubtless heard by now, the House Cup isn’t taking place this year. Instead, we have two schools that will be visiting for the Triwizard Tournament, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Looking back, some of Viktor’s more cryptic comments during the summer make sense. Of course, the boys are simultaneously affronted at the lack of sport and excited to see the different schools. I just want a quiet year.

Our DADA professor, the ex-auror Alastor Moody, appears to be competent at the very least. Considering some of our previous instructors, it should be a blessing, but I’m quite worried, Oliver. The first day of class, he decided to demonstrate the Unforgivables. Harry, bless his stubborn heart, could throw the imperius off, but the rest… Oliver, he enjoyed torturing the spider. Did it with glee in front of Neville . Gods, I cannot imagine. There is something not right about him, beyond the eccentricities. 

My benchmark assessments returned. I’ve officially got an ‘O’ in my arithmancy NEWT and potions OWL. Mistress says that I should be sitting the majority of my OWLs by the Yule holiday, and my potions NEWT no later than the end of the term. I’m scheduled to graduate by the end of fifth year, though I will stay in the castle until I complete my full apprenticeship (so, still seven total years here).

How is training camp going? What have you been up to? How is the research into the protective wards? I would love to hear everything! Even if I meet a few times a week with Jonathan, I don’t see anyone. Yet. He assures me I’ll be part of team briefings and strategy meetings, but really, I’m only there as window dressing. Stay safe and remember to hydrate and rest!

Your friend,

Sunshine

Like clock-work, her letter arrived the first Wednesday of term.

Grabbing a sausage from his plate, Einstein affectionately nipped his fingers before heading off. A small frown tugged at his lips. DADA professors never failed to be interesting since her start at Hogwarts. The thought of watching someone enjoy casting the unforgivable chilled the young man. 

“Hermione?” Pallie sleepily inquired next to him. 

A noncommittal hum answered. The team, much to his amusement, took quite the shine to the apprentice arithmancer. They treated her like a little sister or cousin, and often remarked on her skill. Being a close friend, the other members quickly accepted him into the fold. Sunny reassured him they respected his hard work. Oliver refrained from remarking either way.

“No quidditch this year,” the chaser mumbled, looking at the Prophet. “Bloody shame. It’ll put our homegrown talent back a year, which is bloody unfortunate.”

“I wonder if there’s any way to convince Hogwarts to run an unofficial rec league,” Peter Denton, the starting keeper mused across from him. 

“You don’t think that-” The other man frowned.

“She does know Krum,” Oliver muttered, brows furrowed in thought.

If he sounded a touch bitter and irritated, no one commented. Just like he ignored any glances, amused, knowing, or otherwise, that passed between his teammates. Instead, he pondered the issue. The English and Irish leagues were amongst the strongest in Europe, due to the rather quidditch mad populace. However, Germany and Spain nipped at their heels. A bad year of youth talent development boded ill. 

“She did mention she worked with Bulgaria over the summer,” Denton mused. “Well, I’m sure between Krum, Hogwarts’ general madness, and Potter, she’ll figure something out.” 

“I gotta say, that girl is efficient,” Denton commented one morning, a letter in his hands. “She asked for a few weeks to authorize and organize everything, and is going to do a full draft once their guests arrive.”

“How do ye know?” Oliver asked.

“My cousin, Adrian, wrote me,” the older man replied.

He frowned, not used to people having information about Sunny and her activities before him. Shoving aside whatever bubbled in his gut, Oliver considered the logistics of such an endeavor. Between gathering interested parties, organizing age groups (a topic they discussed at length in their latest correspondence), and convincing the professors, work and logistics piled one atop the other. 

“Too bad it’s only for one year,” Denton sighed. “Having something so detailed and organized would be a tremendous help in the long run. As much as we all enjoyed the House Cup, games were sparse and spots were few.” 

As much as it pained Oliver, he agreed.

The weeks flew past, faster than any race broom Oliver witnessed. With the amount of upheaval in the roster, specifically the reserves, Puddlemere’s normal off-season training camp morphed into a brutal exercise in survival of the fittest for the newest acquisitions. Oliver aimed to thrive. Whether he met that goal or not, he rather not speculate. Instead, he kept his mind busy. New plays. New strategies. New drills. New techniques. 

“Aha!” Jack Pallie, another reserve player, grinned on Wednesday. “I see the honorable Miss Granger keeps a steady, regular correspondence.”

Oliver grunted, used to the ribbing by this point. Without fail, one page detailed the goings-on in the castle. As October dawned on the residents, excitement thrummed through the student body. The professors approved of the rec league Sunny organized, reasoning that such an undertaking would stay cabin fever later in the year. Biting back a sigh, calloused fingers broke the customary seal and revealed the contents.

Dear Oliver

They arrived this evening. We milled about the green, outside the Entrance Hall, for a time. From the skies, Beauxbatons descended in a manor-sized carriage pulled by abraxans. Their Headmistress, Madame Maxime, shocked the rest of the school with her ‘big bones.’ Then, from the depths of the lake, a giant galleon (the ship, not the coin) breached the Black Lake. Before we could see any students, however, the professors herded us back into the Great Hall. 

The magic they performed during their entrances was exquisite! 

Beauxbatons set forth a flurry of beautiful, charmed butterflies, glowing as they fluttered through the hall. Such complex magic, Oliver! Not only were they near sentient, but absolutely beautiful to behold. The control, alone, to produce a few, let alone dozens, and then control them stole my breath away. Of course, most of the students, mainly the boys, drooled over our visitors. Their uniform is blue silk. While beautiful and flattering, it is highly impractical here. I do believe there is a rumor one of their front-runners for champion is part veela, which, undoubtedly, increased the ogling.

In stunning juxtaposition, Durmstrang banged through the doors. Where the French were soft and whimsical and blue, they were fierce and hard and red. Staves pounded the ground, erupting in enchanted fire. Several were able to breathe life into different forms, and the capstone of their performance included a full bodied, larger than life, phoenix! As someone partial to fire, I found the performance absolutely enthralling. But then, I’ve found the student body at Hogwarts quite lacking when it comes to noticing the subtlety it takes to control and manipulate flame, to make it truly alive. Instead, they all stared at Viktor walking next to his headmaster, Igor Karkaroff. 

Madness, I say! I needed to tell Ronald, repeatedly, that despite his fame, Viktor is a normal, seventeen-year-old boy. I do not understand the sickening amount of obsession people display for the rich and famous, Oliver. Truly, I don’t. So what if he is a professional? All that means is that he took the natural athleticism gifted to him by his parents and worked hard. 

There are many boys that are athletic. Harry, for instance, is quite gifted on a broom. Ronald, too, can be categorized as generally athletically inclined. However, they don’t have the work ethic nor the dedication that Viktor (but really, I mean this for you ) display, day in, day out. What separates a professional from a gifted amateaur or fan is the need to be the best, and the commitment to do so.

I have rambled long enough. Tomorrow is the first day of classes, and we shall see how it goes. I am slated to participate in several with our exchange students, and am quite interested to see how lessons will change. Hopefully for the better. Granted, I take mostly fifth year classes, anyways, which has been an interesting experience thus far. Between the girls and the twins, lessons are never boring. I pity our professors.

As for your last letter, thank you so much for your advice. It truly made a difference, especially when I needed to get the rest of our stubborn House on board. I will be speaking with both of the visiting Heads tomorrow and, if all goes to plan, advertising the rec league to their students. I think a friendlier type of competition will do much to help foster the ‘international cooperation’ Professor Dumbledore insists this tournament is about.

How has the conditioning camp been going? I know that formal training camp starts in a few weeks. Gods willing, we’ll actually see each other again. Isn’t that a novel thought, both of us working on the same team and yet never so much as glimpsing one another. What are your thoughts on your teammates, now that you’ve had time to meet them all? 

I think I’ve rambled enough in this letter, as is. Enclosed are your latest stats, as well as some runic ideas. 

Your friend,

Sunshine

P.S: If Ben is reading this over your shoulder, as I know he must, please let him know that I am more than happy to exchange letters should he be so kind as to send one. I know he is quite keen on sports management.  

“They arrived last night,” Oliver muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“So early?” Denton blinked, bleary and half asleep. “I thought they’d come closer to the actual start.”

“Apparently, they wanted to acclimate to the new environment before the tournament,” he remarked, casting his mind to an earlier letter. “Ye know Sunny, though. Unimpressed with anything but the magic performed.”

“A good head on that lass,” Fergason, an older reserve beater, remarked into his coffee mug.

“Seeing as she works with a professional quidditch team and is best friends with the Harry Potter, is it really a wonder?” Ben Malloy snorted next to the young keeper. “Not to mention her time with Bulgaria this past summer.” 

Oliver wished, fervent and aggravated, people stopped mentioning it. Every time a person, friend or not, mentioned her summer residency with the Bulgarian team, a bubble of emotion threatened to boil over. Each time, he tamped down on the irritating, ugly feeling. Rarely did Oliver stop to examine the what, how, or why. The constant mentioning frustrated him, and he grasped that knowledge with both hands.

No one spoke.

The Daily Prophet, despite the constant stream of drivel it published, glared at the whole table. The headline teased the team, wild and bold speculation running rampant. All the while, dread gripped his being. How could this have happened? A single, small slip of parchment dropped from Einstein’s sharp talons. 

I just wanted a quiet year.

No address. No signature. None of the constant stream of ‘take care of yourself,’ or ‘drink some water.’ Sure, they spotted each other every now and again, however training camp provided little by way of actual interaction. Eyeing the bold, salacious headline once more, Oliver sighed. 

Harry Potter: Fourth Champion!

He wanted one year without having to worry . 

Guess it won’t be this year, he scowled at the newsprint. 

“Sunny’s freaking out,” Oliver sighed into his pint of butterbeer. “Apparently, Potter isn’t taking the task seriously enough, and yer youngest brother is a monumental git.” 

“How is Harry not taking this seriously ?!” Percy squawked. “This tournament has a death toll. It was discontinued because too many students were dying. How the hell is he not taking it seriously? And what did Ron do this time?”

“And this just reminds me of why ye and Sunshine are such great friends,” the quidditch player remarked, dry and amused. He smiled at his friend’s indignant huff. “As for yer moron of a brother, he cut out Potter for being chosen. Apparently, he’s also leading a smear campaign within the tower. Ye must be so proud.” 

“Yes, I suppose Ronald would do that,” the redhead muttered, a mite darker than Oliver ever heard. “Not that I don’t understand, as one of many brothers, but that’s no excuse. Harry hates the spotlight and wants to live a normal life.” 

“Worst part is he’s trying to use Sunny as an owl between the two,” Oliver huffed. “It sounds like the stress from last year, to be perfectly honest.”

“I can’t imagine how frustrating and scary it must be to have someone trying to kill your best friend every year,” Percy sighed, swirling the drink around. 

Well, that’s a bludger to the ribs, the other young man reflected. From a logical point of view, the mysterious pieces placed themselves together. He witnessed her strong need to protect Potter during the World Cup. Yet, the thought of why never crossed his mind. Until now. Really, who thought a fourth year who, despite having innate talent and ability, never particularly applied themselves would survive a competition with a death count.  

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, leaning back in the booth.

“Wood, if you could stay for a moment,” Master Stevenson -Jonathan, as the man corrected him earlier- requested.

“Yes, sir,” Oliver frowned, confused.

Their first exhibition game loomed on the horizon, nerves and excitement cycling through his veins. Sunny, for all of her ‘window dressing’ duties, admirably dealt with the tempers and wit of the team during camp. Her duties, he learned, were two fold. First, she helped Healer Erikson, restock potions and salves. The woman heard from Madam Pomfrey of her proficiency in brewing and her interest in healing. Once the numbers of the day were gathered, Sunny transitioned to helping Jonathan. 

“I know you write to Hermione regularly, despite working in the same facility,” the man led, ignoring the light flush on Oliver’s face. “Training camp and the exhibition games are really a busy time for everyone. Doubly so for rookies and new acquisitions. Once we settle into the season, a sort of rhythm will emerge. I hold an open-team stat-strat meeting everyday, so don’t worry about it too much.”

“Okay,” the young player trailed off, noting a sort of relief. He missed looking at the numbers with Sunny, and the second page in her letters never quite felt the same. “But-”

“Now, the reason why I excused Hermione from this meeting,” the arithmancer continued, looking ahead as they walked through the facility. “Will be quite clear when you walk in. Just, please, see if you can talk her down a bit, yeah?” 

Opening the door to the expanded office, Sunny’s frazzled form caught his attention. Bags under her eyes, fingers relentlessly flipping through pages, as if hoping for answers. Her right hand twitched, pen dangling in her fingers, eager to write something down. Attention focused on the words in front of her, cinnamon eyes dashed across the text. This mess harkened back to her furious attempt to catch up before exams his sixth year. In short, not good.

“Sunshine?” Oliver called, soft and worried. 

“Ol?” Confused, dull eyes blinked up at him. Her glance drifted between Jonathan and him, attempting to catch her brain up to the present. “Is something wrong?”

Taking a deep, cleansing breath (and willing his irritation at a certain boy-savior to not show), he replied. “Why don’t ye tell me?”

Distantly, he noticed the click of the door closing. Of Jonathan giving them space and privacy. Yet, the fretful, worried witch held his attention for the moment. Sunny, for all her mother hen tendencies, often kept an even keel during most normal situations. This proved to be far from normal. 

“Dragons,” she breathed. 

“I beg yer pardon,” he politely replied, afraid his ears stopped working.

“ Dragons, Oliver,” Sunny groaned. “ Charlie is right now taking supper with his siblings at the Gryffindor table.”

A string of curses left his person. Mossy eyes finally registered the numerous titles on the smaller of the desks. Someone really wanted to kill Harry, with Sunny being the last line of defense. Again. Instead of letting her fall back into her previous state of academic panic, Oliver thought about how best to approach the situation. 

“How’s Potter holding up?” He inquired, looking around for Jonathan’s kitchen slip. 

Each office and suite in the stadium possessed a parchment connected to the house elves and chefs. Knowing her schedule, Sunshine probably ate a light, worried lunch, and would go back to the castle to work with Potter through the night. If he did nothing else, Oliver promised to look after her the best he could at this moment. Which meant food and tea. Lots and lots of tea.

“Well, he’s finally taking the task seriously,” arms crossed in front of her chest. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t that soon?!” Oliver yelped, and noticed her glare. “Right, explains all of this. Great. I am getting us some supper. I dinnae about ye, but I’m starving and need something before we start figuring this mess out.” 

“We?” She blinked, confused for a moment.

“Ye didn’t think I’d leave ye like this?” He arched a brow, noticing her embarrassed flush.

Damn. He forgot most of her friends left her to plan, research, and know what needed to be done. Bloody hell, and the team probably split between supporting the poor sod and cursing his name. Oliver refrained from massaging his temples. Sunny needed reliable friends, but that was beside the point. He found the parchment in question, took her order, and settled on the comfortable sofa to the side of her desk.

“So, while we’re waiting on food, let’s go over what ye know,” he made himself comfortable.

“Okay,” the young witch murmured, rising from her desk. Wordlessly and wandlessly, she summoned what appeared to be a wooden pen, but thicker. Extending from the tip, white chalk caught his eye. Her hand swiped at a board situated upon an easel. “So, we know that the task is bloody dragons. Probably something along the lines of getting past or retrieving. I hardly believe Charlie or the reserve would allow their charges to go to slaughter for a stupid school event.

“And on that topic, they designed this event to be completed by underaged witches and wizards,” small hands listed in a column. “Talented and driven, sure, but still students.”

“So, it’d be hard, but not impossible,” Oliver mused aloud, caught up in her scheming. “The idea is to get past and not maim the dragon, and come out alive.”

“Yes, well, that last bit is the tricky part, isn’t it?” A moue of distaste puckered her lips. White chalk created two more columns under the heading of ‘Harry Potter’. “Strengths?”

“Good at flying,” Oliver listed, picking up the tray from the kitchens. Green eyes traced the lines on the chalkboard, sure hands setting plates on Sunny’s desk. “Quick thinking.”

“Small and agile, resourceful,” Sunny scribed, considering her options. Under the ‘weakness’ her chalk paused. “Impulsive. Unprepared. Less knowledge. Slow to learn ‘boring’ spells.”

“So, what you want to do is somehow get his strengths to work with getting past a dragon,” he frowned. “And when is the task?”

“Tomorrow,” an irritated growl emerged from the little witch. “Bloody idiot was so caught up in the Poor-Potter-Why-Me pity party that he hasn’t really tried to learn anything.” 

His jaw fell open, eyes bulging. All thoughts ground to a halt, attempting to comprehend. How the bloody hell did this kid not attempt to do anything before now? Suddenly, Sunshine’s current mood seemed reasonable. A suspicious thought wriggled into his mind, eyes narrowing on the pensive fourth year girl. 

“How hard are you occluding?” He frowned, noticing the dulled emotions and overly logical actions.

“You don’t want to see me as I’d normally be right now,” Sunny  snorted, writing out a list of spells Potter performed best. “I’d be a wreck. Probably just flipping through books while trying not to vomit. There are multiple reasons arithmancers are taught how to occlude, one of which is to be able to compartmentalize no matter what the numbers say.”

“Well then,” he munched on his dinner. “Why haven’t ye just run the numbers for him?”

“Because I’m not allowed to,” her small form folded into her desk chair. Without real thought, she picked at the dinner roll. “Mistress and I signed contracts for this event, specifically. There’s a sort of signature that tells people who crafted the equations. Even if someone else rewrote and activated them, the traces used on this sort of thing will know who created it.” 

“They just couldn’t make it easy,” he huffed. Interested in the idea of a patronus, Oliver’s face scrunched in concentration. Sure, he couldn’t do as much, but there should be enough to survive. Then, an idea struck. “Sunny, what if…”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” an excitable witch sobbed into his torso. 

Everyone knew the first task transpired earlier that day. The whole team also knew Sunny tore herself down attempting to keep Potter alive.  So, when a bundle of petite lioness streaked through the corridors of the facility, they assumed one of two things. Either Potter died, and she raced through the halls to get out of a grieving tower, or he survived.

Which resulted in Oliver holding an armful of warm, overwhelmed, relieved witch. The strength of the impact nearly bowled him over. Muscle memory and reflexes alone kept the pair upright. Returning the hug, a soft, amused chuckle rumbled through his body. Several of the members around ruffled her hair, well aware of the circumstances. 

“I take it Potter survived?” He quirked an eyebrow as she disentangled from him.

“More than,” she sniffled, a bright smile lighting up her face. 

“Won’t you regale us over dinner?” Jack called from behind. 

Enthusiastic and excited, Sunny agreed. They meandered to the dinning hall, where the rest of the team and their respective partners or families greeted their junior arithmancer. With great energy, she explained the task, what they were to do, and who did what. Of course, Potter slotted last, and right after Viktor Krum. 

“He chose the Norwegian Ridgeback,” the young witch sighed. “Of all the rotten luck. As a fourth year, he couldn’t really draw from the same pool of spells, but we focused on a couple of things that he could do. First, Harry summoned his broom. Since he couldn’t bring anything with him, we figured if we put the broom by Hagrid’s hut, it would zoom right to him and quickly. While he waited, he summoned his patronus to distract and direct the dragon.”

“Potter can cast a full, corporeal patronus?” Several of the players asked.

“Well, he didn’t much like passing out every time a dementor looked at him funny last term,” her face scrunched in distaste. Much like you, Oliver chewed on the thought. “After an incident that saw his Nimbus 2000 meet the Whomping Willow,” here, a slew of sympathetic grimaces and hisses answered, “Harry thought it time to learn how to cast a patronus.” 

“I forgot they had dementors stationed at the school last year,” Thompson muttered. 

“I can assure you, it was not pleasant,” her flat reply confused those listening to her story. “They entered school property more than once. My tolerance never improved.” 

“Bloody lot of good that did,” Ben Malloy muttered. “But go on, patronus- what is it, by the way?”

“A stag,” Sunny grinned. “Big enough to distract a mother dragon from her brood. The broom zoomed into the stadium, and Harry mounted it and tried to fly past. Instead of going past the dragon, the chain snapped and it started to follow Harry. Luckily, he is a good enough flier, he dove, got the ‘object’ from the nest, and was able to evade it until the keepers could get her under control.”

“It broke free? ” 

“How’d he fly?”

“What do you mean, evaded?”

“Snapped?!”

“Who wants him dead?”

Various questions flew across the table. Some of them, Sunshine answered with great enthusiasm. Others, with equal irritation. At the very least, she no longer shielded her mind so intensely. Her true emotions shone through once more, illuminating and animating her face and actions. He allowed a small, satisfied smile to bloom upon his features. Bless her persistence. If Potter makes it through the year, it would be due to Hermione Granger and her loyalty and hard work. Helping her stay sane and work through the problems was the least he could do.

“Are you quite up for the pomp and circumstance of a wizarding ball?” Jonathan teased his assistant. 

“Please, you’ve met my parents,” the young Gryffindor remarked. “I’ve been taking ballroom dance since I could walk.” 

Oliver walked into the conversation seconds before. Apparently, tradition dictated a formal function to be held during the tournament. Hogwarts saw fit to throw a ball for the Yuletide season. Even though the normal equations glowed in the air, and Sunny projected the pitch and plays from their last preseason game, the two arithmancers gabbed about a ball. It reminded him of girl talk with the Chasers and Sunshine.

“And you say you have a date?” The Master prodded the Apprentice.

“A friend asked to escort me to the event,” Sunshine hummed. “I said yes.”

What?! He blinked once. Then twice. Refusing to look at either party in the room, he focused his gaze on a single green line. A heady cocktail of rage, irritation, intrigue, and the need to smash something swirled around his head. Instead of storming out, and giving away the extreme reaction, Oliver attempted to logically process what particularly knocked him to his knees (figuratively speaking, since he currently sat on a comfortable chair in the ‘classroom’).

The easiest emotion first, he reasoned. Intrigue. Who asked Sunny to the dance? How? Why? Not that there was anything wrong with the witch. Merlin and Morgana knew his fondness for her. Yet, most boys her age either didn’t care for her baggy clothes, hadn’t noticed the fact that Hermione Granger was, in fact, a female, or were too intimidated. Which entirely eliminated most of the fourth years and some of the fifth years. Older boys favored her, and she appreciated the maturity.

Irritation also fell into place upon introspection. Boys, especially his fellow teenagers, tended to be cruel to girls they saw as lesser. Not as pretty. Not as polite. Hell, the youngest Weasley brother constantly treated her like his personal encyclopedia and homework help. Boys like the Malfoy heir or that MacMillian bloke from Hufflepuff, or, Merlin forbid, Cormac McLaggen existed. All observations pointed towards the youngest Weasley fancying her, which meant he could be cruelest of all. 

A sheepish thought fluttered into his mind. Whenever particularly upset or angry, he found physical exertion his preferred outlet.  Which only left rage. Anger simmered beneath his psyche at the thought of someone else with her. Attempting to sort out the reason pulled other strings, much like the ones he toyed with as he thought. In the end, the lack of protection upset the young keeper. No one looked out for her, and in such an environment, her first wizarding formal function. Oliver always pictured himself there, to better look out for the little trouble magnet he called a friend.

He ignored the why.

“After all of that, it’s no wonder you aren’t more worried about the ball,” Jonathan laughed, having heard Sunny’s exploits. “If you would allow a man to be nosy for a moment, just who asked you?”

What a wonderful question.

“For now, they shall remain unnamed,” the witch in question smirked. “You will all know soon enough. Suffice to say, it shall be quite interesting.”

“It’s not Harry or Ronald,” the other man tutted. 

“Thank Circe, no,” she laughed. “Ronald finally noticed that I am, in fact, a girl earlier today, and asked me.”

“You must be joking,” light filled Jonathan’s eyes.

“No, it was horrid,” she leaned in, mirth dancing in her eyes. “In fact, he opened by saying, and I kid you not , ‘Hey, Hermione, you’re a girl.’”

Oliver gaped. The boy, surely, wasn’t that dense or artless… Was he? 

“What a brilliant start,” Jonathan snarked. “I can see why he’s still single.” 

“Yes, well, I told him well spotted, because what else am I to do?” she shrugged. “Then, he asserted that I should go with one of them. When I told him no, he assumed I’d just stay in the castle, forgo my own holiday plans to sit around the library during a formal function, and not go, or something to that effect. Then, he told me it’d just be sad if a lady attended without an escort or date, and how it was different for men.”

“Oh no,” Oliver groaned into his hands. What an oaf! That’s not how you speak to women!  

“Oh yes,” Sunny gleefully grinned. “Of course, he called me a liar any time I insisted I do, in fact, have an escort for the evening. I thought about telling them, you know, if he wasn’t such a git. Yet, I find myself completely content with leaving them clueless. Between Ron being an absolute menace and Harry ignoring me since his best mate forgave him, I see no inducement to inform the pair.”

An irritated snort responded to the information. Of course Potter ran back to Weasley the first moment possible, leaving Sunny alone. He assumed the Boy Wonder ignored his responsibility. Even his best friend accepted his reassurances with a large grain of salt. If possible, his opinion of the Boy-Who-Lived fell further.

“How deplorable,” Jonathan laughed, thoroughly enjoying the drama. “But what of us? Will you not tell?”

“I think I’d rather leave it a surprise,” she smiled, coy and full of secrets.

Oliver frowned at that, too.

“You lucky girl,” Jack grinned on Boxing day (incidentally, the day of their first match). “How did you manage to get Krum?”

“He asked to escort me,” cinnamon eyes rolled. “I said yes, which quite beat any other offer I received.” A thoughtful frown crinkled her face for a moment. “Except for Neville. I think we could have had a smashing time.”.

“But how was the Ball?” Ben, the consummate gossip, prodded.

“It went quite well for most of the night,” Sunny smiled, soft and sweet. An odd sort of emotion twisted Oliver’s gut, torn between the need to listen and run away. “Viktor is a perfect gentleman, and we ended up talking about advanced potions and how runes may help empower different stages, and how so.” That wasn’t particularly romantic, he blinked in surprise. “Then I danced once with Harry and Neville, the twins took their turn, separately, thankfully, and a few Durmstrang students after them.”

“The Belle of the Ball, or so the Prophet says,” Jonathan grinned, setting the prophet down on the table. 

Oliver avoided the paper most mornings, unable to comprehend more than a few sentences while waking up. He usually caught up on the news around the lunch hour, unless something pressing occurred. In this case, his copy of the paper remained unopened on his kitchen counter. Therefore, he didn’t expect the punch of emotions to the gut when he spied the large photo front and center of the paper. 

Sunny spun around the frame, a radiant smile lighting up her face. Several curls framed her face, the rest sparkled with the pins that held them up. Simple jewelry he recognized (her Grandma Granger’s locket and Grandma Puckle’s diamond earrings, along with the charm bracelet from her mother) adorned her. Of course, the dress robes in her favorite purple accented her form without being gaudy. All in all, she looked… beautiful.  

What struck Oliver as odd, seeing as he’d seen her dressed formally (and sometimes even nicer) on several occasions, was his own reaction. He’d seen her dressed to the nines before, and never did he feel such a mixture of pride, pleased, irrational, frustrated, and extremely protective. 

Once more, thoughts rushed to rationalize and reason before emotion swallowed him whole. Pride and pleasure, seeing other people finally recognize what an amazing witch, the petite lioness studied in their midst. Irrational and frustrated, because now shallow, smarmy gits realized what a physically attractive witch walked the halls. Naturally, he wanted to protect her from those with less savory intentions. 

Looking at the witch now, so removed from a ball, a fond smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Half asleep, she nursed her second cup of coffee, previously tamed curls bursting from a messy knot on her head. Her official robes hung off her shoulders, the navy blue material matching the rest of the gathered men and women. Neat, stitched letters over her heart spelled out her roles with the team. At some point, Healer Erikson heard of Sunny’s proficiency in potions and nabbed the girl, adding Assistant Healer to her titles.

“Yes, well, I cannot say I much liked the ending of the night,” said Gryffindor scowled into her porridge. “Ronald decided to be a cruel, thoughtless golem with more testosterone than sense and the emotional range of a teaspoon.”

“That bad?” Jonathan raised a brow. 

“Yes,” she hissed. “He told me that Viktor is just using me to win, and that I’m fraternizing with the enemy. He then hinted, once more, that the only reason anyone like Viktor would even look twice at me is due to the fact I’m female. Though, this time, it was rather more graphic and crude.” 

“And he’s still alive?” Romanov, the other reserve beater, inquired. “I remember Krum from our school days, even if he was a small, weedy thing when I graduated. He protected his own without question.” 

“Yes, well, Viktor had gone to get punch at that point,” an annoyed huff answered. “And when he found me afterwards, Ronald had already left for the dorms.” The Russian hummed, a sound of understanding and acquiesce. “He did promise some sort of retribution.”

“Did he not say?” His heavy, dark brow arched.

“I simply requested Viktor not get caught and that Ronald lives,” the girl shrugged, laughter bursting from the rest of the table. “He really isn’t worth ruining one’s reputation over, and I do think Percy would be upset if one of his brothers died.”

“So many options,” Romanov chortled. 

“Many less so,” Sunny dramatically sighed. “This is the British Isles. We do tend to be a bit more strict on what one may or may not do.”

“How unfortunate.” 

“Hey, Oliver,” the team’s Master Arithmancer called after breakfast. 

“Yes, sir?” The young keeper followed.

“You can stop with the sir,” he retorted, smiling all the while. “I have a bit of a favor to ask you.” Oliver nodded, listening to the offer before he decided. “I’m supposed to meet Hermione at Hogsmeade at ten thirty. We were going to walk around, go to the bookstore, get lunch, and discuss what her work-study-life balance would look like from this end. 

“The problem is my daughter needs to go to the healer. We think she may have a cold or the flu,” a large hand ruffled sandy-blonde hair. “Tessa needs to stay home, she has a huge order to fill and is on a tight deadline. Would you be able to meet Hermione for me? It’s too late to send an owl.”

“Fine,” he sighed, put upon and reluctant. 

“Thank god, you’re an absolute life saver,” the older man squeezed his shoulder before rushing to the staff floo. 

Oliver watched the man disappear into a flash of green flames, casting a wandless tempus. With just enough time to go to his rooms and gather his things, long legs ate the space while his mind whirled. Since the Yule Ball, Oliver refrained from participating in discussions that involved Sunshine and one Viktor Krum. To her credit, the little witch rarely brought up the Bulgarian seeker, much to his secret relief. However, his teammates enjoyed riling her up, and they possessed no such qualms. 

With ease born of practice, thoughts on why and what it could mean settled into a neat, little box in the back of his mind. Blowing up at Sunny solved nothing. Instead, he worked on the exercises Jonathan gave him before their first game. According to the big bosses, they expected a baseline of mental control. Oliver never realized thinking too loud existed, and the mortification alone drove him to improve.

“The Three Broomsticks,” he called out before the flames engulfed him.

“Hello, Mr. Wood,” the buxom proprietress greeted him from behind the bar.

“Good morning, Madame Rosmerta,” he waved.

“Heading into town? Don’t you have a game later?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Oliver smiled at the woman. “I’m meeting Hermione before going back, though.”

“Ah yes, I heard Septima mention that Miss Granger now works for Puddlemere,” the blonde nodded to herself. “Well then, lad, I won’t keep you. She hasn’t been in, yet, but the day is young.”

“Thank you, Madame Rosmerta,” he bid farewell, readying himself for a Scottish winter day.

Nostalgia, warm and sweet, settled upon the village, like the everlasting snow. Small children rushed through the cobbled streets, rushing towards Honeydukes or Zonkos. A few older students weaved through the chaos, excited and amused. Familiar calls of wares being sold and friends chasing each other warmed his heart. An inextricable cord of fondness and loss coiled in his heart. The inherent magic of getting out of a boarding school for a day no longer dazzled him, being an adult. It amazed him how time truly changed perspective. 

“Oh captain, my captain!” A familiar voice cut through the din. 

“Weasley twin,” he grinned, not even trying to guess which. 

“Glad to see you, mate,” the other beamed. 

“What brings an upstanding citizen, such as yourself, to the spectacle known as a Hogsmeade Weekend?” The first inquired.

“Ah, the team arithmancer is supposed to meet Sunny, but a family emergency stopped him,” a large hand ruffled his dark hair. “Knowing we’re friends, he asked me to find her. What brings ye lot here this early?”

“The early prankster gets the product, Ollie boy,” the second grinned.

“But isn’t your game at six this evening?” One cocked an eyebrow. 

“They were supposed to talk about her work-life balance,” he remarked, wry and full of humor.

“I can see why they’d need to have that conversation,” chuckled the second. 

“Been running herself ragged this term, poor bird,” the first shook his head. 

“Isn’t that the story of her bloody life,” Oliver rolled his eyes. The other two hummed in agreement. “Have ye two seen her?”

“Now that you mention it,” the second twin began.

“I think she went towards the shack with a bunch of the Durmstrang students,” the first nodded to himself. “They were very excited, if that’s anything to go by.” 

“Thanks, lads,” Oliver nodded at the pair. 

Walking through the snow, he left the main thoroughfare of the village behind. The quiet streets greeted his frayed nerves. Irritation bled into worry and mild fear at the thought of Sunny alone with so many strange people. His pace picked up, responding to the concerned thoughts racing through his mind. Laughter and shouting drifted on the cold, winter wind. Mossy eyes widened at the sight as he crested the hill.

Snowy fortifications littered the space in front of the old, haunted house. Volleys of white balls pelted back and forth, as students ducked, dodged, dipped, and dove through the middle. Yells of triumphs, overly dramatic wails of loss, and mirth filled the air. And right in the middle of the mess, giggling behind a wall of snow, Sunny peeked in hopes of spying her next target.

He leaned against a tree, watching the scene unfold. A huge, carefree smile resided on her face, her delicate, up-turned nose pink from the cold. Oliver struggled to remember the last time she dropped her guard so completely. Over the summer, perhaps? Before the tournament was announced, most likely. The sight of her joy and laughter warmed his heart, the hint of a smile, fond and sweet, upon his lips. Making a decision, he snuck down the slope. He ducked behind trees and dodged incoming snowballs. Still unseen, he slipped from the tree line into her line of sight.

“Oliver!” Sunshine exclaimed. Her smile split her face, warm and bright, as she hugged him tightly for a split moment. “I didn’t expect you to be here! How are you?”

“I’m doing well, thanks,” he grinned at her surprise. “Jonathan sent me-”

“Oh, he had to take Addie in, didn’t he?” The compassionate girl frowned. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “So, instead of going to the bookshop and talking about yer work-school-life balance,” he laughed at her grimace, “ye’re stuck with me.”

“Poor you, having to come to a village full of school children,” an impish smile grew on her face. “Whatever will you-” 

Smack! 

Shoulders tensed as a spot of cold landed between them. Dainty hands covered Sunshine’s nose and mouth, the beginning of laughter shaking her shoulders. Slow and purposeful, Oliver turned to find a group of Durmstrang students repressing their mirth. Towards the right, the large form of Viktor Krum attempted to appear innocent, and wasn’t that a sight to be seen. The international, broody quidditch star suppressed a pleased smirk with large puppy eyes and a ‘not me, never,’ expression on his face.

A giggle, soft at first, reaching his ears. By the time he looked at the Gyrffindor witch, snorting and guffawing, an amused smile fought his features. The normally contained witch clutched her sides, leaning against the very tree he snuck from just minutes earlier. 

“It’s not that funny,” he rolled his eyes, though smiling.

“Yes, yes it is,” she insisted between gasps for air. 

Just as he went to respond, something white caught his eye. Ducking, the snowball hit Sunny square in the chest, sending her flying backwards. 

“Not fair, golyam brat! ” The witch jumped up, wand in hand.

“Did she just call him a brat?” Oliver blinked, not sure whether to be amused or horrified. 

“ Da ,” a beautiful, blonde girl smirked. “Means ‘big brother’ in Bulgarian.” 

Oh, his mind halted all thought. Quite blankly, it added, well, that makes a lot more sense.

“Run, run!” One of the other Durmstrang boys encouraged their fearless leader. 

Who, quite wisely, took off around the building, waving a wall of snow behind him. Just like that, the fight began once more in earnest, Oliver joining in. An exciting, amusing hour of winter fun passed before Sunny’s wand buzzed for the time. Apologizing to the contingent of visiting students, they assured her of no harm done and together wandered back to the village proper. Bustling with old and young students alike, they branched off. Krum hugged Sunny before heading into Scriveners with several students. 

“That was not what I expected,” Oliver remarked once the pair found themselves reasonably alone.

“They are pretty fun to be around,” she smiled at the ground. “It’s nice, you know, to be around people who don’t make fun of me for studying.” 

“I can well imagine,” he hummed, sitting on a bench outside of the Three Broomsticks. The team planned a lunch at one, leaving them free for a time yet. “I have to ask though, why did ye go to the ball with him?”

“Viktor?” Sunny flashed him a lopsided smile. “Well, it did two things really.” Her fingers flicked back and forth, placing wards around them. Air sucked into his lungs, surprised by the tingling warmth of her magic. “It goes back to this summer. He’d join us in Master Petrov’s cottage almost every day, and we easily ‘clicked.’ Not romantically, of course, but as friends. As Mistress and Master Petrov argued over some archaic semantics or prepared us food, we’d talk about our lives. School. People. 

“He wouldn’t stop talking about this one friend of his, Natalia,” a fond expression warmed her face. “How clever she is, or how this one time she got them out of trouble. Every other story involved her somehow, and one day, he brought her. Nata is amazing. Strong. Intelligent. Clever. Compassionate. Beautiful, though not in the same way one may think of a model.” 

“He has a girlfriend ?!” Oliver gasped, surprised. “No one sees him with girls ever , before you !” 

“I know,” Sunny laughed. “But there’s a reason for it. He asked her, right after the Cup, if she’d accept his suit to court. Which she did. Of course, the dork timed it as poorly as possible. She’s a year younger, you see, and couldn’t come to Hogwarts this year. So, he finds me in the library on his first full day in Scotland.” 

“Your home away from home,” he shook his head, imagining the meeting now. 

“It takes a bibliophile to know one,” she retorted. A rueful chuckle answered. “It’s not like Viktor is a slouch by any means. He’s been top of his class in Durmstrang since his first year.”

“And the school?”

“Naturally,” her back straightened, as if affronted, though the sparkle in her eye told another story. “There’s a reason why Viktor’s adopted me as his little sister, you know. And it’s not just because I’m cute,” she winked. 

Oliver shook his head, amused at her show of self-confidence. Maybe all that time with Ben really is paying off, he mused. Between the flirty chaser and the girls (who, now that Oliver thought about it, were also flirty chasers), he hoped Sunny’s self-esteem finally rose. Years of bullying did quite a number on it. Even he noticed, though Oliver doubted others did. 

“So, yes, there stomps Viktor, in high dudgeon, because he’s been separated from Nata so soon after they started courting,” eyes sparkled and hands moved as she fell into the story. “And what do you think I did?”

“Knocked some sense into him?” Oliver arched a brow, playful and amused.

“Well, yes,” she admitted with a slight flush. “But only with my notebook! And his head is so hard, it barely registered, I’m sure.”

“Uh-huh,” he smirked, leaning back.

“No, really! I swear, the lot of you only sound pained to humor me,” Sunny smacked his arm with a pout.

“Oi,” he rubbed the spot. “I have a game today, witch. No need to rough me up beforehand.” 

“See! This is what I meant,” she flopped back into the bench in a dramatic huff. “It’s a conspiracy, I swear.”

“I apologize for hurting your feminine pride,” he chuckled at her indignation. “But ye were telling me how ye ended up with Krum as your Yule date.”

“Fine,” the witch huffed and sat up once more. “And he escorted me.”

“There’s a difference?” Mossy green eyed the girl. 

“A large one,” chocolate curls nodded. “If we went as a date , it implies romance. Since Viktor is courting another witch and I see him as a brother-”

“That’d be weird,” he concluded for her.

“Massively,” her emphatic response. “But I’m getting ahead of the story. You see, Viktor doesn’t trust the privacy of the British postal service, which, considering what I’ve seen, is fair.” Oliver conceded the point to the Bulgarian seeker. The amount of wards needed for postal security at the stadium boggled his mind when he first learned it. “Not wanting negative attention to be directed towards Nata, he worked on a way to correspond with her regularly. Of course, I suggested he send letters through me. I didn’t correspond with her at the time, not personally, but with an introduction from Katya, the blonde you met earlier, it could be done.”

“You’ve been sending love letters between Krum and his girlfriend this entire year, haven’t you?” Oliver pieced together, a new type of awe setting in.

“Yeah, it’s been sweet,” her smile, wistful and bittersweet, surprised him. “You know, sometimes I wonder if real love and sentiment are dead. It’s hard to escape in a school as crazy as ours, you know. Girls gossipping about it all the time. Being best friends with boys who fumble about and talk about their crushes with the sort of finesse one uses a rock to bludgeon. Then, in comes Vitya and Nata, and it gives me hope.”

Eyes cataloged the far away, dreamy gaze of his long-time friend. Their cinnamon depths watch couples pass before them in sightless reverie. Loneliness and a forlorn certainty created a melancholic cast upon her form. Oliver asserted emotions to be his weakest point, and yet, watching her, he wanted to chase away the bittersweet clouds.

“For what?” He murmured, afraid to break the mood.

“That kind of devotion. The hope that, one day, maybe someone will like me half as much. Not the arithmancy prodigy or the homework help or Harry Potter’s swotty best friend, but just me . And they’ll understand I live a bit of a crazy life, and, yes, I am surrounded by fairly famous people, but that doesn’t change who I am. I think I’d quite like that,” her hazy, far-away gaze peered past the snow-blanketed street. “It’s all the small things, you know, that make a relationship. The big moments highlight it, of course, but they don’t feed or nourish the connection between two people.

“It must be silly to hear, the highly logical, bookish apprentice waxing poetic about something as banal and frivolous as romance, of all things,” chocolate curls curtained her face, a suspicious sniff lingering in the air. “I’m really quite sorry, Ol, I didn’t meant to just-”

“No, no, ye’re fine,” Oliver rushed to reassure. “Just because ye’re clever and logical doesn’t mean ye don’t have feelings, too.”

A niggling feeling in the back of his thoughts poked at his mind. Finding the root of the problem often helped the most. He suspected it would take some time here, though. People often forgot Sunshine existed on an emotional level, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the youngest Weasley brother contributed. Not knowing what more to say, a large hand rubbed her back, hoping to alleviate some of the negative emotions. 

“Thank you,” a soft murmur broke the silence some time later. Taking that as his cue, Oliver withdrew his hand, surprisingly reluctant. “It’s just, well, it is endearing to see, you know. He just lights up when a letter from Nata arrives. Of course, when they announced the Ball, he intended to ask a girl from Durmstrang, who knew of his courtship. We, Nata and I, that is, spent a week convincing him to escort me. There’s no one I’ve romantic interest in, and his beloved is thousands of kilometers away. It makes perfect sense.”

“Are ye finally going to make the distinction now?” He snarked, pleased by her giggle.

“Really, Ol, I’m surprised you don’t know,” Sunny tutted, a full smile on her face once more. “A date is romantic, an escort is not. Simple as that. Viktor rationalized it as a way to protect me from the unscrupulous attentions of boys our age. It was, after all, my wizarding society debut.” 

Once more, the logic and pragmatism surprised him. Oliver’s estimation of Viktor Krum grew by the story. Finally, someone else noticed Sunshine needed protection of her own. Knowing better than to voice that aloud, he considered asking for a letter of introduction or to write a thank you note. 

“And you are both continuing to be seen together socially to protect both of you?” The keeper asked instead.

“Yep,” cinnamon eyes glanced at her wrist. “Cheese and crackers, we’re going to be late!”

“Wha-?!”

“It’s fifteen ‘til one,” a dainty hand grasped his wrist while the other waved away the wards around the bench. Rushing away, she muttered, “Merlin, Morgana, and Circe, Coach will be so mad!”

“Ah, Oliver, Hermione,” the blonde barwoman greeted the pair as they rushed into her establishment. “Have a good game, dears!”

Quickly responding to the pleasantries, as manners dictated, the pair flooed to the stadium. Sunny finally released his wrist right as they walked through the doors to the dining hall, the team just assembling. Just like that, they snapped back to work. He had a game to strategize and support. 

Chapter Text

A visibly brassed off Professor Vector stormed through the blue and white halls of Puddlemere stadium late February. Huddled at her side, a shivering, bundled Sunshine focused on the ground, the occasional sneeze wracking her frame. Shepherding her charge onto the comfortable sofa next to him, the woman turned on Jonathan with more rage than the young keeper knew she possessed. 

“Did you know?” Her soft hiss frightened him. 

“Why you have escorted Hermione here?” The man across from him answered with far more calm than Oliver could ever imagine. “No. Nor do I know why she missed her shift yesterday.” 

“No one’s spoken to the big bosses yet?” The nasally voice of Hermione Granger snapped everyone’s focus to her. 

“No, Hermione, no one’s contacted us,” Peter frowned, his brown eyes darting between the Arithmancers in the room. 

“But he said-” a series of coughs broke her speech.

Alarmed, Oliver leaned forward and soothed her back. He registered the venomous looks of the various occupants of the room. Professor Vector looked ready to kill, with Jonathan’s placid gaze freezing to a similar point. Peter muttered something to Coach Burton and ran out of the room. The older man crossed his meaty arms and furrowed his deep brow.  He saved his own bubbling anger for later. Right now, Sunny required his attention.  

“Let this be a lesson, my apprentice,” the professor’s sharp voice called him to attention. “Ludo Bagman’s word is as valuable as the dirt on my shoe. He is known for talking big but failing to deliver. In multiple ways.”

“Mistress-!”

“Septima, I didn’t need that image-”

“Professor!”

“What have I missed?” Peter chirped, a couple of vials in his hand. 

“Nothing,” Coach phlegmatically responded. “Now, care to tell us why you’ve barged in here, Septima?”

“Yes, of course,” the mistress settled into Sunny’s desk chair. “But I must ask, how are everyone's shields? I’m afraid I will be unpolitic, and do not wish to place anyone at risk.”

“My team does not go around spilling their secrets just by thinking , Septima,” tutted their arithmancer. “And it’s not like what I suspect you will be spouting will be any different than what they’ve heard elsewhere, I’m sure.”

“So I see,” she hummed, taking turns looking at each member. “You always were a quick study, Mr. Wood.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he blinked, confused and suspicious.

“As I was saying,” Professor Vector gathered her thoughts. “Today was the second task of the tournament. The champions were given an hour to find their lost treasure and bring it back. Instead of taking an object, Albus bloody Dumbldore-” Oliver noted the vehemence, and leaned towards his friend. Definitely not to hide from her terrifying mistress. Not at all. Sunny still felt cool and clammy, so he rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Thought best to take actual people. Not golems, some other place holder, or legal adults , but bloody children. And do you think he asked them? NO!” 

Understanding dawned, crystalline clear. Albus Dumbledore allowed students, underaged witches and wizards, to be knocked out and held hostage. Against their will. If Professor Vector’s rage meant anything else, he concluded that no adults were alerted. At least for Sunshine . The muggleborn apprentice. Why tell her parents? They couldn’t do anything anyways. Those thoughts, the reasoning alone, sickened Oliver. Glancing down, her teeth stopped clattering from the cold, though her form still shuddered.

“Hermione,” he murmured, soft and gentle, to the sniffling lioness. “Are you okay?” Damp curls shook back and forth. “Are ye feeling better?” A nod this time. “Could ye tell us what happened?”

“I-I was walking from the k-kitchens to the l-l-library,” she stuttered, soft and lifeless, bothering Oliver. “We’ve, Neville, Ronald, Harry, and I, have been researching non-stop for some way t-to get him through the task. Harry didn’t figure out a clue until a month ago, despite telling me he knew.” 

“Bloody, foolish Gryffindor,” her mistress muttered. 

“And, well, I heard someone coming around the corner behind me,” Sunny curled into herself. “But I was by the kitchens, which is near Hufflepuff’s common room, so I didn’t think much of it. Next thing I knew, I was underw-water.” Arms instinctively clutched the petite witch closer, her fear triggering emotions he’d untangle later. “Th-they must’ve miscalculated the dose. The potion they used is a psychological draught, and must take age, cognitive ability, and mental fortitude into account.”

“They didn’t take into account your occlumency training,” a growing sense of horror dawned on the stern woman’s face.

“I-I couldn’t m-m-move,” fear gripped her voice. “I-I couldn’t b-breathe. M-merpeople surrounded m-m-me with their spears and tridents. Th-they thought the Ministry s-sent me as a plant an-and were about to kill m-me.” A string of profanity and some alcohol made an appearance. Sunny continued, “but the Chief of the Love understood and apologized. S-she talked to me, you know, for a while. Shared their stories. It made me forget for a while.”

“Of course you made friends with the folk about to kill you,” a fond, exasperated smile broke across his face. He decided to focus on the good of the event, instead of horrific parts. “Did Krum find you awake?” 

Curls flew back and forth once more. “The Chief, Gwendlyn, sang me to sleep before the task started. Doing so any earlier would have resulted in hypothermia.”

“The potion kept you warm enough to not freeze,” Jonathan breathed before gulping down some firewhiskey. “And it broke once you breached the surface, I assume?”

“Yes,” her soft voice confirmed. 

“God, no wonder you rushed in here like a bat out of hell, Septima,” the man sighed, leaning back in his chair. 

“Let me go and get a hold of the big bosses,” Coach Burton rose to his feet and walked over to the apprentice. 

He squeezed her shoulder before leaving the room. Peter handed Septima the potions acquired from Healer Erickson. The team captain played with the equation floating in the air. Pouring another round for himself and Professor Vector, Jonathan muttered under his breath. 

“I brought her over as soon as Poppy allowed me,” his old professor continued. “She wasn’t warming as quickly as the others, and it worried Mr. Krum quite a bit. Something about the depravity of the British ministry to use little sisters against their elder siblings. Quite a good vocabulary on that one.”

“I offered to help him with English if he taught me a bit of Bulgarian,” Sunny shrugged from his side, no longer shivering. 

“Profitable exchange, that sounds like,” the mistress deadpanned to the apprentice.

“I dunno,” she yawned, unconsciously leaning into him. “It seemed rather equitable at the beginning of the summer when I started working with the Bulgarian team.”

“None of that,” the older witch fussed. “Jonathan, if you could order some warm soup and tea, that would be lovely. I’m afraid Hermione missed quite a few meals at this point.” Saluting, the man did just that. “Now then, Hermione, if you could explain to me what we are looking at here…”

Just like that, the little witch in his arms talked. Some of it slurred, other parts more coherent. By the time her supper arrived, she related the pertinent points. All the while, Jonathan and Professor Vector sniped at one another, making the little witch smile. Half way through her meal, the conversation now devolved to a verbal match between the master arithmancers, Coach entered the room once more.

“I’ve got good news and what may be taken as bad news,” he began without preamble. “The Bosses are appalled by the actions taken by the Headmaster in regards to Miss Granger’s safety, and demand she stay here until they are convinced that no such incident will happen again.” A general chorus of goods met that news. “Mistress Vector, they recognize that, as her master, you are entitled to stay with her. You can either share her suite or stay in a guest suite.”

“Whichever is most convenient,” elegant shoulders shrugged. “I presume I shall have floo access and the ability to commute during all of this. Outside of those needs, I am flexible.” 

“Very well, in that case, we’ll move Miss Granger to a larger suite, to make space for you should you ever need to stay here,” the imposing man nodded. “Which brings me to the second point. With your extra time here, you will be dedicating more time to helping Jonathan. Namely, in game prep. Right now, you mostly work with our players and their numbers. They want you to branch out and prepare for our opponents as well.”

“That’s fair,” Sunny nodded along. 

“That also means you will be working with Healer Erikson more, as well,” Coach leveled an uncompromising look at the young witch. “They’ll be keeping you busy during the normal work day.”

“It sounds quite lovely, really,” she admitted. 

“They are aware of your overachieving ways, and want to put it to the best use possible,” a smirk twitched at the normally taciturn man’s mouth.

“Oh? Are congratulations in order?” Peter grinned at Sunny.

“She hasn’t said yet?” Mirth shone in the elder’s eyes. “Miss Granger here has passed both her arithmancy and potions NEWTs with Os, and officially sat and passed all her OWLs as of Yule holidays this year. Also, with straight Os.”

All of this Oliver already knew, of course. Being able to talk more definitely helped, though her letters kept him most up-to-date. However, Jonathan heartily congratulated the girl, badgering her with questions about the exams. A satisfied, proud gleam lit up Coach’s face, fond of the little witch who glued his team together.

“Well, we knew she was clever,” the starting keeper ruffled her hair. 

“Apparently, the Invigilator recommended Miss Granger pursue a mastery in potions or to become a full-time healer,” a Cheshire grin crossed his face. 

“Ah, that’s right,” Jonathan mused. “To obtain a potions mastery, one must be a certified healer. Interesting little requirement, that.” 

He blinked, not realizing that detail. If he guessed right, and Oliver felt rather sure of his conclusions, Coach Burton convinced the bosses to let her begin training for either position now. Bleary eyes followed the conversation, Sunshine fighting off sleep to no avail. Her now warm body used his as support. Warmth and contentment curled around his heart and unfurled throughout his being. Sunny trusted the people in this room to keep her safe, and Oliver vowed to be worthy of it.

Just two weeks later, an extremely angry Viktor Krum stormed into the coaches box, a visibly pained Sunshine at his side. Forcing himself to focus on the pitch, Oliver forced his curiosity and frustration to the side. His resolve proved to be for naught, as the rest of the team stared at the raging international superstar with intrigue. Several others noticed the little lioness hunched over, a crouching Jonathan at her side. 

“I wonder what happened,” Jack frowned.

“It’s not fair that he’s only, what, seventeen? Eighteen? And he’s that intimidating,” Ben pouted from above. 

“Probably some jealous bitches that read the Prophet or Witch Weekly,” Peter sneered. “Jess used to get the nastiest owls.”

“No one’s taught her how to screen her mail yet, have they,” Patson, one of the reserve chasers, observed. “A bit surprising considering she’s dating Krum.” 

“I don’t know if they’re dating,” Jack tilted his head to the side in thought.

“He’s certainly pissed off,” Furgeson remarked. 

“But who’s comforting her?” The chaser pointed out.

Sure enough, Krum discussed something with Coach Burton. Jonathan or Sunny spoke up every now and again, but the older wizard crouched next to the hurting witch. Healer Erikson entered the fray, kneeling next to Sunny and asking questions. 

“Fair,” the beater conceded. “If that was my witch, I wouldn’t leave her side.” 

“True enough,” Ben nodded, a sly grin on his face. “So, Wood, how are you just floating here and not speeding to the lass’ side?” 

“Aside from the fact that we’re just friends-” He rolled his eyes, frustrated with the new subject his team used to tease him. 

“That’s what they always say-” the chaser remarked.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Thompson smirked.

“For now,” Jack muttered.

“It’s how it starts,” Peter shrugged. 

“We’re. Just. Friends,” Oliver enunciated through clenched teeth. “I know she’d be right mad if I let something less than life-or-death or an injury stop our training.” 

“She is a right scary witch when in a snit,” Ben nodded, philosophical and knowing. 

“And that’s our sign,” Peter clapped, calling the team to attention. He boomed, “BACK TO TRAINING, LADS!”

And so, for the next quarter hour, they trained as normal. Working against the first string chasers often stretched Oliver’s concentration. When the coaches first assigned him the task of ‘getting up to speed,’ he never thought it so literally meant. What felt so natural and easy required more work now, but thrilling and exciting at the same time. He tracked Jack (who recently moved to a starting role) and Pierce weaving around Larkin when the roar of Coach Burton broke his concentration.

“WOOD! GET DOWN HERE! NOW!”

Blinking back from his place of focus, Oliver wheeled towards the coaches box. His eyes cataloged the changes in such a short time. Coach glowered at the pitch while Krum negotiated with Sunny. The witch in question looked highly unamused, and Jonathan stood between them all. When he landed, the familiar, scowling visage of Krum turned to him.

“Vou vill talk some sense into her, da ?” He growled.

“Why, thank you for listening to what I said, Viktor,” Sunny scoffed.

“I listen, I do not agree,” he shot back. 

“It’s a perfectly sound plan,” she crossed her heavily bandaged arms. “You teach me the requisite charms, I stay here the day, return for supper, and then go to classes tomorrow.” 

“This is vhy I do not trust British post,” the seeker huffed. “Not even school protect against malicious mail.” 

He really does have a good vocabulary, an off-handed thought breezed through his mind. Piecing together the gist of what happened, Oliver turned towards his friend.

“Would ye mind filling me in?” He arched a brow, amused at her sudden cringe.

“Well, this morning, I received a lot of hate mail, like I’ve been getting all week,” she began, cautious. “And you know how I am in the morning.”

“Dead to the world?” He retorted.

“I was going to say drowsy,” Sunny primly corrected. “Well, I didn’t check the letter, and it ended up being a touch worse than the others.” The other brow matched the first, pointedly looking between her mummified arms and cinnamon eyes. “Okay, fine, it had bubotuber pus-”

“It what?!” He roared, mirroring the seeker.

“Oh, really, the two of you,” she huffed. “I got to Madame Pomfrey as quickly as possible, and it’ll be fine in a few days. Mistress demanded I come here, but due to her first class, couldn’t bring me. She asked Viktor to accompany me, instead.”

“I fail to see the problem here,” Oliver growled, hand on his hips.

“Viktor insists I stay here for some time instead of attending classes normally,” an adorable pout pursed her lips. “But I am fine, really!”

“Sunny, ye can’t even grip a quill,” he remarked, wry and exasperated. 

“This is vhy I ask vou talk some sense into her,” Krum scowled at the witch.

“Mate, she’s a Gryffindor,” Oliver sighed. “Telling her she can’t do something is a surefire way to make her do it to spite you.” A slew of Bulgarian followed that pronouncement, though, judging by Sunny’s amused expression, nothing too bad. “What did Professor Vector say?”

“And I quote, ‘get her out of here before I storm the castle and take it for myself,’” an amused chuckle followed. 

“Well, how about this, stay until yer hands are better, you learn the charms, and then once Healer Erikson clears ye, ye go back,” he suggested, crossing his arms.

“I guess,” resignation radiated from her figure. “It’s just, last time I stayed, I could contribute. I don’t want to take advantage of the team’s generosity when I cannot help.”

Oh . Suddenly, her reluctance made sense. She treated being on staff as a privilege, one she worked to earn. Instead of seeing her residence as a resource, something to be used at will, she regarded it as payment for services rendered. Which, at the heart of the matter, that’s what the contract said. 

“Hermione, is this about not being able to work?” Jonathan inquired for the first time.

“Yes,” a toe scraped the tile flooring. “I don’t like receiving without reciprocating.” 

Merlin, Morgana, and Circe, the way that could be taken out of context. Judging by the mixture of absolute distress and bemusement on Krum’s face, he heard it. And that probably applies there, too, a small part of his mind piped up. Shocked,  surprised, and mildly horrified ( This is his friend. One of his best friends who is currently injured ), Oliver swallowed that thought and focused on the conversation. If he never encountered, let alone discerned, those feelings again, it’d be too soon. 

“Then don’t worry a bit, little dove,” Jonathan ruffled her hair. “Penelope and I will find plenty of work for you to do, don’t you fret.”

“Too right, Jonny,” the elderly witch agreed, casting diagnostics over her. “And we’ll start with a verbal recitation of bubotuber pus and its application in medicinal potions. Are you in any pain?”

“Not since the potion kicked in,” she cheekily grinned.

“You’ll be fine,” the healer deadpanned.

“That’s what I’ve been saying the whole time,” Sunny exclaimed.

“What I don’t get,” Jonathan mused aloud, “is why you never called your elf.” 

“You have an elf?!” Both quidditch players shouted.

“Good gods, do you two need to yell? My hands are hurt, not my eardrums,” grumbled the little witch. “And that’s because I never knew, Jonathan. Elf lore and the rules regarding personal elves at Hogwarts is rare reading.” 

“Could you call her? She’s supposed to help protect you,” he gently explained. 

“Fine,” Sunny capitulated. “Winky?”

“Yes, Mistress,” a small elf in a pink pillowcase appeared. “Whats can I be doings for yous?” 

“Winky, if I may request it on your Mistress’ behalf, could you please start going through her post when it comes?” Jonathan inquired. “Several mean witches and wizards have been sending her rather nasty surprises in her letters.” 

“Oh no! Mistress, Winky has been such a bad elf, letting mean letters and owls through to her Mistress, she has,” bemoaned the creature, pulling at her ears and wailing.

“No, no, no, none of that now,” Sunny kneeled next to her loyal elf. “You have been  wonderful and your lessons on elf lore have been most illuminating. If anything, I have failed as your Mistress for not telling you of my need earlier.”

“Merlin above, there’s two of them,” Oliver muttered. Cinnamon eyes narrowed at him. With the barest flick of her bandaged hand, a sting of pain, much like someone flicked their fingers between his eyes, bloomed on his forehead. “Ow!”

Next to him, Krum’s shoulders shook with quiet chuckles. Mirth danced in his dark eyes, never dulling even when Oliver scowled. Obviously, Sunny created some sort of spell to reign in her friends. With a shake of her head, Healer Erikson beckoned Sunshine to the medical bay. Jonathan chuckled and turned to Coach Burton, discussing some salient point or another they attempted to cover before Sunny’s  arrival. 

“Thank you for bringing her,” Oliver nodded. 

“Thank vou for getting her to see reason,” the Bulgarian teen countered, a small, fond smile on his lips. “She is not easy to care for, but vorth even more, da ?” 

“She most certainly is not,” a small grin broke out on his face. “But she is loyal and damn persistent.”

“The best are,” Krum huffed, still grinning. “Please, call me Viktor.” 

“Oliver,” he shook the seeker’s hand. 

“Good luck vith this one,” a sly smirk bloomed on Viktor’s face.  “She’s spirit and fire.” 

“Why does everyone keep saying that,” Oliver grumbled, good-natured for the most part. “We’re just friends.”

“Vou keep telling vourself those vords,” the Bulgarian nodded, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Vell then, I must return to class. It vas nice meeting one Her-my-oh-knee calls close friend.

“It was good to meet you, too,” Oliver returned before taking to the sky.

“Have ye ever realized that those things ye took for granted as a wee bairn may very well be wrong?” Oliver remarked over a pint of butterbeer to Percy one spring day.

“What do you mean?” The redhead cocked his head to the side.

“Well,” a large finger traced a pattern on the table. “I cannae say I’ve enjoyed watching the happenings of Hogwarts from the outside this year.” 

“Hermione and Krum, is it?” A knowing smirk crossed his best friend’s face.

“No,” he scowled as Percy laughed. “As it turns out, they’re more like brother and sister.”

“Isn’t that convenient,” a sly grin hid behind a glass. 

“What I meant,” Oliver rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to explain, again, that they were just friends. “Are the things that keep happening. Did Sunny ever tell ye how they got her to participate in the second task?”

“No more than it was particularly odious and she woke up long before she ought,” he frowned at the thought. “Ron’s single line remarked how ‘bloody amazing’ it was to be there."

“I question yer brother’s sanity,” a finger pointed at the man. “They kidnapped her. Stunned her from behind, without a word or anything, and tied her to the bottom of the lake.” 

“That’s not legal, is it?” Percy blinked, trying to rationalize the actions. 

“I would hope not,” the Scotsman growled. “And not two weeks later, Viktor bloody Krum walks into practice with Sunny in tow. Some rabid fangirl sent her a letter with bubotuber pus , and the school wards let it pass. How, in the name of Merlin and Morgana, are such things able to get into Hogwarts?”

“I can see why you are quite alarmed,” his friend diplomatically stated. “I cannot imagine it’s been easy.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Oliver huffed. “Luckily, she’s staff, and has her own quarters. Not to mention, she bonded to an elf.” 

“ Really ?!” Percy gasped. “But what about her Society for the Preservation of Elvish Welfare?”

“She is styling it into the proper and humane treatment of elves,” the keeper remarked, dry and amused.

“Now, that’s not as terribly outlandish,” the ginger mused. “Though why she thought they all needed wages and to be free is beyond  me.”

“She’s muggle-born,” a sigh gusted from him. “We always forget, she’s so clever, but the little things no one thinks to explain. They just say she’s barmy and that’s that. To her it looked like forceful subjugation of another sentient race to the benefit of wizards and detriment to the elves.”

“That is certainly one way to look at the relationship,” Percy tilted his head to the side. “Can’t say that’s what I thought of first, but then again, magic, you know.” A thoughtful silence descended upon the pair as they sipped on their beverages of choice. “All jokes aside, Hermione’s very lucky to have a friend like you in her corner.” 

“She needs someone to look out for her,” he shrugged, a slight blush tinting his cheeks.

For several months, Oliver absorbed the life and times of a professional quidditch player. Being a reserve offered some level of anonymity, which he found he enjoyed. Quidditch never drew him because of the fame or the groupies, but the challenge and the exertion. Therefore, working hard and learning felt like a job, but one he enjoyed . 

Thankfully, things calmed down at Hogwarts. Sunny maintained a blissfully normal schedule, no more surprise stays or mysterious injuries. Warning bells rang when she told them Potter started to practice and prepared on his own. Even more sounded at the mention of the task itself: a labyrinth of Greek myth, filled with Hagrid’s favorites as well as some exotic imports.

That’s why, when the floo sounded late on the day of the third task, Oliver just knew something bad happened. He didn’t expect a tear stained Sunshine nor a pale and blank Professor Vector rushing through the hall, swift and true. One look, and he moved aside, the light in Jonathan’s office spilling into the otherwise dark corridor. 

“Wards up, Jon,” the professor situated her charge on the sofa. “And, I daresay Mr. Wood, should you stay, you will keep what you hear to yourself.” He nodded, shocked into silence, making his way towards a subdued Sunshine. “Call Richard. He should know the truth of it.”

A playful raven emerged from the tip of Jonathan’s wand, requesting the head coach’s presence. In short order, the Master arithmancer wrote for tea, hot chocolate, and some treats from the kitchens. Then, nothing. Sunny kicked off her shoes and curled into a ball, arms wrapped around her knees, gaze fixed on the desk. 

“Bloody fucking hell,” he normally unflappable coach muttered upon opening the door. He proceeded to plop into his wingback. “Out with it. Concise, mind you.”  

“He’s back,” Sunny murmured from her wet lashes. 

“Alright, how about a few more words than that, lass,” Coach Burton chuckled, rueful and bitter. 

“The third task was a trap,” the young witch recited, almost to herself. “Found out Crouch Jr. never passed in Azkaban. Swapped places with his mother who passed. Crouch senior placed him under the imperius to keep him under control.” 

“Fucking hell,” Oliver breathed, leaning into Sunshine for warmth. 

“He broke it at the Cup this summer, stole Harry’s wand, and was going to use it. I summoned it before he could do anything,” a hollow smile quirked upon her lips. “Ended up assaulting Alastor Moody before the term started-”

“So that assault was real,” Coach murmured to himself. “Alastor was never one to make up trouble, cantankerous sod.” 

“Yes, well, everyone thought him mad,” delicate shoulder shrugged. Professor Vector passed her a ceramic mug of steaming cocoa, which Sunshine gripped, her lifeline in her turbulent memories. “We’ve had a stark, raving mad, bigoted lunatic as our Defense professor all year, and no one bloody noticed. And he was a damn good teacher. ” 

“You did,” Professor Vector murmured. “We should have listened.” A single, despondent nod acquiesced. “Go on, Hermione. You’re the one with all the puzzle pieces, as it were.”

“W-well, Crouch Jr. i-i-imperiused V-V-Viktor,” her stuttering broke his heart. To watch her older brother, someone who, from the letters and the few times he met the man, adored her be forced from his mind sickened Oliver. Without thought, long arms reached over and pulled Sunshine into a hug. “H-h-he m-made V-Viktor s-stun Fleur-” another unlikely friendship struck up during the Yule Ball, “-a-and had h-him c-c-c-crucio Cedric.”

“Oh fucking hell,” Coach swore, motioning for alcohol. Jonathan splashed a healthy amount into his tea. “He’ll be alright, lass. The aurors can’t hold him on anything, you’ll see. He’s every bit the victim as Diggory.” 

“W-well, he m-must’ve fought it,” cinnamon eyes shot a grateful look at the older man. “Because C-Cedric got back up and s-stunned him.” 

“There you have it, lass,” the burly man leaned over and patted her knee. “No lasting harm done.”

“E-except that there was lasting harm,” her shield completely failed, her pained cry piercing the armor. “Crouch Jr. engineered it so Harry would win and charmed the trophy into a portkey. But Harry is too bloody noble and wanted it to be a win for Hogwarts , and so he and Cedric lifted it together-” 

Oh no, oh gods no, his mind chanted, a mantra against the worries and concerns of adulthood. Nothing good came of Potter’s end-of-term adventures, and the fact that Sunny spoke of Diggory in the past tense only cemented what she implied. I just played against him last term, his thoughts desperately flew. He’s a damn good seeker, probably could go pro if he wanted. Damn clever, too . 

“The first thing th-th-that thing said was ‘kill the spare,’” her arms banded around Oliver in a tight embrace, tears staining his shirt. 

“Come on, Hermione, that’s not all, please finish it all at once,” Professor Vector kneeled in front of the fourth year. Sunshine drew a deep breath and held it. Upon her exhale, a semblance of control and occlumency. “That’s it, dearie.”

“R-right, well, as horrible as Cedric’s passing,” she marshaled her mental strength and pushed forward. “It gets, well, worse.” Several different strings of profanity greeted those words. “ He used a dark ritual to create some sort of bipedal monstrosity. He doesn’t have a nose ! How the bloody hell does a mad genius not resurrect with a fully functioning body that includes a nose? ”

“Focus, Hermione,” her mildly amused mistress directed.

“Right, well,” Sunny’s shield firmly in place. “To cut to the quick, Harry was tortured, mocked, and then forced to duel His Gitiness and-”

“ Hermione, ” Professor Vector chastised. 

“What? Right now, you’ll either get sobbing or snark, and I’ve already done plenty of the former,” dainty fingers wiped away the evidence on her face. Professor Vector leveled a pointed look at the younger Gryffindor. “Fine. Harry’s wand connected with His, some sort of wandlore reaction between twin cores. With the ghosts of the dead helping him, Harry ran away, grabbed C-Cedric, and returned to the entrance of the maze.”

“Where all hell proceeded to break loose,” Professor Vector sighed. “Hermione talked to Mr. Potter. She caught the full force of the memories, relived them like her own, and has since been a wreck.”

“Ah, he’s that bad, is he,” Jonathan winced in sympathy. 

“Like a bloody sieve,” the usually calm woman sneered. “It’s a wonder Severus keeps his temper during classes, though I will say he did start it.”

“Do you know what happened once Potter returned?” Oliver questioned, low and gentle, as the others bickered. 

“N-not too much,” soft curls brushed his neck and chin. “Harry went with the imposter, not knowing at first, and ran out in time. The real Alastor Moody was kept in the bottom compartment of a magical trunk. Harry’s nosiness is a blessing and a curse, really. I found him on his way to the Hospital Wing, where he mentally dumped the entire experience on me. Mistress found me a shivering mess in my quarters and brought me here.”

“And here you shall stay,” the woman commanded. “Jonathan, how are everyone’s shields?” 

“Barth’s is a bloody steel trap. Couldn’t get a thing out of him if they died trying,” the arithmancer snorted, the amber firewhiskey swirled in his crystal tumbler. 

“Septima, lass, you know Ava,” the man nodded, grave and serious.

“Excellent woman and a wonderful witch,” the mistress demurred, tension unraveling her muscles.

“As for Oilver,” the man weighed his soul, judging the depths of it with his penetrating, chocolate eyes.

More accurately, Oliver concluded, his mental shields. A prickle of awareness teased his senses, automatically crowding the outer layer of his mind with mundane, day-to-day thoughts. With a quirk of his lips, the sensation grew stronger, pushing past the purposeful clutter. Changing tact, Oliver pushed back, trying to get the force out of his mind. All at once, it lifted, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. A pensive Sunshine regarded the scene, eyes questioning her mentor.

“He has potential,” Jonathan cocked this head to the side, no worse for wear. “With his future career path, it would behoove him to further study, but for now it is serviceable. Plausible deniability is your friend here, Septima.” 

“Very well,” espresso eyes glanced at him before focusing on the witch still in his arms. “Hermione, we are to remain here until your Master contacts us and explicitly tells us it is safe to return. Now-” she held up a manicured hand, halting the protest upon Sunshine’s lips. “We shall return first thing in the morning. I know you are concerned for both Mister Krum and Mister Potter. You shall see them, and I shall gather the requisite materials. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Sunny sighed, leaning back for a moment. 

“Good, then let us be off,” the elder witch rose to her full height, helping the younger. “The day has been long, and I suspect you wish to see the gentlemen bright and early.”

“That would be ideal,” the young lioness agreed. Gathering herself, pulling the English stoicism and polite manners to the fore, she curtsied to the room. “I apologize for making such a fuss at such a late hour. Especially when there is training in a few hours.” 

“Think nothing of it, lass,” Coach Burton patted her shoulder. “We’re family here, and that means we take care of our own. You work hard. Get some rest.”

Jonathan stood from his desk, and wrapped the witch in his arms, whispering encouragement all the while. Sniffles answered, Professor Vector quietly speaking to Coach Burton behind. Raising to his feet, Oliver clutched the little witch close. Her arms wrapped around his waist, allowing for a moment of quiet. While the others in the room carried on a conversation, he basked in the knowledge that Sunny, for the moment, was safe. 

Perhaps for the first time, a startling, life-altering fact dawned on Oliver. Very few people knew or saw the unvarnished, full version of the petite witch in his arms. Those in this room and her other, unnamed Master perceived the full depths of Hermione Jean Granger. Warmth, awe, and something else, more possessive and primal, stirred in his heart.

“We’ll make it through, ye’ll see,” he whispered, meaning every word.

“Perce, tell me, how bad was it really?” Oliver asked, wards in place at their usual half-way pub.

“Horrible,” he sighed, ragged and rough. “I don’t doubt Harry experienced something nasty, and that someone killed Diggorey in cold blood. But Dumbledore lost the plot completely. He threatened Fudge.”

“Ach,” the keeper tisked. “Everyone knows the Prophet is in the pocket of his backers.” 

“Yes, and we all know that Fudge is twitchy about his bloody post,” groaned the idealistic ginger. “I thought I could do more, you know, working at the Ministry. Fighting the good fight. Making everyday life better for the average witch or wizard. This is bloody demoralizing.”

“I can’t imagine,” he commiserated. 

“And how’s Hermione? I received her last letter before the task,” Percy inquired, sipping his ale. “Ginny hadn’t seen hide nor hair since the morning after, and only in the Hospital Wing talking to Krum and Harry.”

“Professor Vector swept her to the facility the very night,” he sighed, casting back to the turbulent night. “Coach, Jonathan, Professor, Sunny, and I ended up talking into the wee hours.”

“How did you swing that?” His friend canted his head to the side.

“Sheer luck,” well-muscled shoulders shrugged. “Fate, if ye believe in that sort of thing.” And boy did his family fervently believe. “I donnae. Just felt like I needed to stay up and be there. Jonathan and I stopped talking about formations and stats long before Professor and Sunny showed up.” 

“How bad-” 

“An absolute mess,” his rogue brogue rumbled, rubbing a hand along his face. “She didn’t stop crying for a solid half hour, her walls collapsed at one point, and the news…”

“So, you think it’s true?” A thoughtful frown tugged at Percy’s 

Mossy eyes stared back in the glass of the window. Thinking back to just Thursday night, cold tendrils of terror and dread wrapped around his mind. If Potter’s mind really spilled thoughts as easily as a child spills milk, then it’s no wonder Hermione intuited his memories. Usually, such things require direction, even to the most open of minds. However, if they shared some sort of nascent familial bond (though perhaps more developed than he initially assumed), memories and emotions transferred much easier. It explained quite a bit, to be honest.

“I believe that Sunny saw exactly what happened to Potter,” he slowly pieced together. “And I think that she is worried about the future. She is not rash enough to directly push against the government, but she’ll be ready for a collapse.” 

“Pragmatic little thing,” Percy remarked, fond and tired. “Wish Dumbledore would act with some of that tact. Things are getting rough at work. I want to do good , but I can’t just give up my job.”

“Ye know she’d support you, no matter where you publically stand,” the keeper sipped his drink.

“I know,” he sighed, long and deep. “And it looks like I’ll have to go against my family to keep my job.”

“But do ye believe her?” Oliver echoed his friend’s earlier question.

“I’ll be damned, but I do,” Percy muttered, staring out the window. 

Chapter Text

“The gall of that man,” growled an incensed Sunny. 

“What did we miss?” Peter Denton inquired, watching the apprentice pace back and forth. 

“Oh, you know, nothing,” the witch’s voice raised a few octaves. “Just the everyday occurrence of your bloody headmaster meddling in the personal affairs of his students during a holiday.” 

“I don’t remember Dumbledore being this interfering,” the captain chuckled. 

“You weren’t one of his favorites,” cinnamon eyes rolled. 

“What did he do this time?” 

“He forbade myself and Ron from sending letters to Harry,” her thunderous expression returned. 

“He can do that?” Oliver blinked, confused and angry on her behalf.

“Apparently,” she pulled out a letter. 

Oliver’s mossy eyes scanned the envelope. Her neat script, properly addressed and stamped by the muggle post, adorned the outside. Flipping it over, he found it open and removed the heavy piece of muggle paper. 

Dear Harry,

I am checking in to see how you are doing. The summer holidays are a rather trying time for you, I know. If you need anything, to talk or to eat, please tell me. I cannot imagine how stressful the situation must be. That house holds so little comfort for you, and I know now is a time you need it most.

Things continue as normal here. Studies never stop for an apprentice, and so Mistress keeps me busy with maths. She’s added healing to my list of lessons. Working with a professional quidditch team provides ample opportunity to learn and practice. Though, to be fair, I already did a bit of that, along with a good portion of the brewing. 

If you are available, I can get you into a few games this summer! Being a full member of staff definitely has its perks. One of them being three free tickets in the family VIP box. Sometimes we juggle around tickets and seating. Not everyone gets along, you see, so it’s best to use a bit of strategy. Just let me know, and I’ll save the seats for you.

How is your summer going? Have you heard from Ron yet? What are your plans? I know that being cooped up with your family isn’t great, but is there anything you can do? You know I love hearing from you, no matter how short a note. 

Your friend,

Hermione

A normal letter from the witch, Oliver mused. Friendly, but not romantic in any sense. The idea of inviting the young Gryffindor to a game never crossed his mind before. Even the hints at a less than ideal home life, soft as they were, raised no alarm bells. Nothing in this missive indicated anything other than a friend starting summer correspondence. Yet, neat, looped letters in a flamboyant shade of pink earned a scowl.

Miss Granger, I am sorry to inform you that all forms of post are considered off limits. Do not let me catch you again.

“What can he do?” Oliver frowned at the threat.

“Expel me,” the little witch frowned. “Though, I am an apprentice, so he cannot get my wand snapped nor impede my education in any meaningful manner. Mistress would need private tutors instead of using the professors, but other than that, nothing major changes.” 

“Albus always fancied himself mighty clever,” Coach Burton muttered, settling into the classroom used for open strategizing. 

“So, what are you going to do now?” Peter asked, watching as the model of the Montross Magpies blinked into existence. 

“Winky!” She called.

“Yes, Mistress?” The little elf bowed.

“I know that Headmaster Dumbledore forbade post via owls and the muggle service, but are you still able to deliver Harry mail?” Sunshine knelt down to talk to her elf.

“Yes, Mistress,” she enthusiastically informed the witch. “Elf magics be ables to get around all sorts of wizards silly spells and reasons.” 

“Very good,” a dazzling smile appeared on her face. “Could you please take this to Harry Potter at the address on the envelope, and tell him to call for Dobby when he wishes to respond?” 

“Of course, Mistress!” The elf nabbed the letter from Sunny’s fingertips. 

A familiar, wicked gleam shone in her eyes. Her small form folded into a nearby chair, neat and proper. Lips pulled into a satisfied, shark-like smile. A shiver of fear rippled through his spine, glad to never cross the witch when possible. Jonathan’s amused glance and Coach’s good-natured grumpiness shook off her behavior. 

“Hermione, do I want to know why you look like you’re plotting the downfall of the patriarchy?” Peter shifted, her terrifying smile fixed upon him. 

“Why Captain Denton, don’t you know? I’m not allowed to write to my best friend this summer for his own safety. Supposedly,” a soft, demure voice informed him.

“You were missorted,” the man snorted, focusing on the task at hand.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sunny hummed. “They call me the Gryffindor Princess for a reason.” 

“Right,” his captain chortled. “And I’m the bloody Queen.” 

“Well, Your Majesty, I must say you are in excellent shape for your age,” the witch grinned, humor dancing in her eyes. “What is your secret?” 

Laughter bounced off the walls, drawing in a couple of the other players from the corridor. Soon enough, the meeting began in earnest, as they debated the best way to attack their opponents.

“Ah, young Master Oliver, if you will come this way, sir,” Madeline, the squib housekeeper the Grangers hired some years back, beckoned. “I’m afraid Miss Hermione is playing hostess to a couple of odious young ladies. I’m told they were quite cruel to the young miss during her primary years.”

Oliver stepped away from the elegant mantle, waving the soot and ashes off. He appraised his outfit, making sure it fit muggle standards. By the approving look in Miss Madeline’s blue eyes, he passed muster. She hurried him from the wizarding reception room to the muggle one, handing him to Bryce, another squib staff member.

“Just one moment, sir,” the sharp man instructed with a shallow bow. Oliver followed him to a summer salon on the first floor, past the grand staircase. Bryce walked into the room. “A Mister Oliver Wood to see you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Bryce,” the polite, posh voice of one Hermione Granger answered. “If you could send him in, please.” 

“Miss Granger is ready for you, sir,” the butler bowed. 

Thanking the man, he walked into the well appointed room. Beautiful furniture in blues and creams adorned the space. In the back, a grand piano next to a large window. Two girls, about Sunshine’s age, simpered in their expensive muggle clothes. Potter, the nicest he could remember, stood awkwardly next to Sunny. Who, for a witch entertaining guests, radiated relief and exasperation. 

“Oliver, it’s so good to see you,” her smile shone upon him. “May I introduce you to Miss Louisa Prescott and Miss Amelia Ragsworth, old classmates of mine from primary school. Louisa, Amelia, this is Mister Oliver Wood. We attended the same exclusive secondary school, and recently he graduated second in his class.” 

Emerald eyes bored into him, as if for the first time. Annoyed that his own teammate underestimated his intelligence, Oliver reminded himself that the boy never attended a single study session. Turning his attention back to the ladies in the room, he plastered a pureblood-polite smile on his face. 

“How do ye do,” he rumbled in his brogue with a shallow bow. 

Despite his general attitude, Oliver knew witches found him attractive. He chose when to be charming, and right now, he wanted to be as favorable towards Sunny as possible. If making these two simpering idiots jealous or frustrated so much as amused the little witch, the keeper happily played the part of the charming heir. Potter, new to the ways of the nosy, jealous uppercrust, watched with apparent, morbid fascination. 

“Please have a seat, Oliver,” Sunny motioned, and he readily followed. Perching on the single chair closest to the witch in question, he displayed nothing but the best manners. “We were just discussing future ventures.” 

“How fitting,” he chimed in. 

“Yes, you must tell us of your future plans, Mr. Wood,” the insipid blonde batted her eyelashes. “Being a recent graduate, it must play on your mind.” 

“It is something of a talking point at home,” the keeper flashed a boyish grin. “However, I find my immediate future decided. I have joined a professional rugby team, and will settle there before I begin university courses.” The set-on muggle backstory for Oliver involved a random sports team, attending muggle university on the side, before eventually inheriting the estate and seat on the ‘other’ court. Close enough to the truth to be easy to remember, and believable enough to satisfy the majority. “Of course, once my career is done, I’ll be working on the family investments and slowly taking over the estate from my father. Upon his retirement, I’ll take over his seat. Naturally.” 

Stars sparkled in the two girls’ eyes, as if they found a rare treasure. Mossy green orbs turned towards Sunny. He enjoyed talking around idiots, especially when they weren’t aware. A contented countenance greeted his gaze, amused and pleased. A playful brow arched on her face, and the first, real grin of the short meeting answered.

“Oh, yes,” the other girl responded, breathy and oblivious. “Dearest Hermie, here, told us her school exclusively educated the other court. Is it true it is so isolated? We couldn’t believe it when she and Mr. Potter related the grisly details.” 

“It encourages and focuses on one’s studies,” Oliver replied, diplomatic and polite. “There are distractions, enough, for those lax in control and discipline. We wanted for nothing.” 

“As expected of the other court,” the blonde nodded along. “I often wish our own schools would restrict and pare down the modern things.”

“You do?” The brunette gasped, surprised and outraged. Remembering herself, the girl nodded along. “Of course, we are of the same mind! I long for the simpler days, like primary school.”

“It is the people who make the experience, I believe,” Sunny mused, though she employed her shields to remain pleasant and polite. “One can be surrounded by the heights of wealth, fashion, and status and gain naught. It is the connections made and nurtured that truly define any time or place.”

“Quite right, Herms,” the brunette simpered. “I find that those bonds and connections made early in life are some of the most true.” 

Eyes narrowed at the girl. From Sunny’s behavior and Jonathan’s remarks, these girls bullied the little witch. Emotions hid behind a curtain of control, a sure sign of occlumency walls active and in use. A split second and a plan formed in his mind, aligning with the now familiar tug of his magic. 

“I cannae speak towards bonds at such a young age,” Oliver hummed, pretending to think hard. “It is tradition amongst the other court to homeschool their children. It prevents the likelihood of harm-” keen eyes noticed the sudden, blank cinnamon eyes, keeping that for later. “One can never be too careful.”

“Oh, never,” the blonde girl murmured, eyes shifting between the other two girls.

I’ll get this secret out of you, too, Sunshine, Oliver promised himself. 

“Therefore, I dinnae make as many friends before I started school,” he continued in the same light, genial tone. “Once there, I count myself amongst the lucky few,” Oliver turned toward Sunny, watching her thickly veiled curiosity break through the occlumency walls. Holding her eyes, hoping the sincerity reached her, “To count Hermione as a close, personal friend. I’ve met no one who understands my passion for sport or is as supportive.”

His mind tracked her reactions, noticing the way she focused on the use of her name. Thinking about it, Oliver struggled to remember the last time he referred to her as anything other than Sunny or Sunshine. Even in his mind, those names identified only one person. Interesting, he mentally noted.

“Oliver, you flatter me,” the little witch bestowed a small, genuine smile, finally breaking through the worst of her occlumency. “Really, I must thank you for your extraordinary patience and care. If not for your, admittedly well meant, interference, I would never be in the position I find myself in now.” 

“And I can say much the same,” his lips quirked at the memory of last summer. “If you didn’t encourage me to follow my dreams, I wouldn’t find myself where I am.” 

“How lovely to hear,” the blonde chimed in, all insincerity and fake smiles. “Herms must be in such high demand.”

“She really is,” Potter piped up, glancing between them. “Last term, our school hosted two international institutions, and Hermione became friends with everyone. Not to mention, for our winter ball, she attended with an international sports star. Ever since, people have tried to get close to her.” The boy shrugged. “She’s just… well guarded.”

“I am sure that others were just as sought after,” Sunshine demurred, ignoring Potter’s snort.

“What wonderful news,” the brunette nodded along. 

“I must apologize, ladies, but it is getting quite late, and we are expected for supper elsewhere,” the witch stood, prompting everyone else to follow. “I am flattered you both thought to visit me so early in the holiday,” she continued, spouting niceties. “I am sure we shall see each other quite soon.” 

The girls all walked out of the room, and Oliver sighed. As much fun as talking around those types tended to be, the act exhausted the keeper. Next to him, Potter gaped, wide-eyed and confused. Poor lad never encountered that portion of society, though he needed to learn at some point. 

“What bloody parallel dimension bullshite did I just walk into,” he muttered, eyeing Oliver with worry and trepidation. 

“It’s called high society, Harry, and you’ll need to learn it,” Sunny retorted, walking into the room once more. “I could not stand another minute of that. I swear, Dante needs to add that as a circle in Hell.” 

“But why?” Boy Wonder whined.

“Harry, you’re the Scion of House Potter, an Ancient and Noble House that has a seat on the Wizengamot,” cinnamon eyes bored into the boy. “At some point, you’ll be expected to take up the responsibilities of your House. Manners will at least allow you to make some headway with the more difficult types.” 

Emerald eyes implored his assistance. 

“I cannae help ye here, Potter,” he shrugged. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’ll take over for me Da when he retires his responsibilities as Head of House.” 

“To the library?” Sunshine inquired, relaxed once more.

“Lead the way.” 

“Were you serious?” She directed the question to her friend.

“No, I’m Harry,” the boy automatically responded only to get a punch to the arm. “Ouch! I’m a delicate flower, I am! Stop abusing me!”

“Oh hush it,” an adorable giggle followed. “I meant about people trying to get close? I know McLaggen has been a right pain in the arse, but other than that, no one new has approached me.”

“Did you not hear the part about you being well guarded?” Potter sassed. “Between the twins, your Durmstrang brothers, Viktor bloody Krum, Neville, the girls, and myself, you are rarely unattended.”

“And yet, of those of you staying this year, none of you really spend time with me in the library,” mused the bookworm. 

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but those books guard your chastity more effectively than I ever could,” Potter lightly remarked. 

Bloody hell, Potter’s naive. Oliver shared a look with Sunshine. A sparkle of mischief and amusement danced in her eyes. His brain stopped functioning for a moment as they stepped into a now familiar room. Eyes narrowed on the little witch, putting together clues.

“Who?” He finally asked, a sort of morbid curiosity gripping him.

“Most recently? Dimitri Asenov from Durmstrang. They were leaving the next day, and he wanted a kiss to remember me by,” dainty shoulders lifted with careless grace. “I’ll probably never see him again. Good snog, though.”

For some reason, Oliver didn’t feel jealous or put out. That’d be throwing stones at glass houses, he philosophized. Instead, an odd phrase his father used floated through his mind. It didn’t matter who’s first, but who is last, and Oliver finally understood the meaning. For the most part, he just wanted to know, though why still remained untouched

“Hermione!” Potter gasped, scandalized.

“You?” She challenged. 

“Amanda MacMillen,” he carelessly admitted, cataloging everything.

“She’s the pretty blonde with hazel eyes, right?” Sunny hummed, eyeing him with amusement and something else. 

“That’s the one,” he confirmed. “It was nice, I suppose, but nothing to write home about.”

“Oliver!” Boy Wonder gaped. 

“You said the latest one, that means there’s more,” Oliver intuited, watching the witch settle in her chair with a book. “Who else?”

“Adrian Pucey,” a wicked grin crossed her face.

“Still in the library?” A brown brow curved.

“Behind the Muggle Studies section,” she confirmed, ignoring Potter’s whimpers. “I wanted to see what a pretty boy Slytherin could do, and I’d just punched Malfoy a few weeks prior. That didn’t seem likely.” A considering mue pursed her lips. “Pretty good, all things considered.”

“I can say I donnae understand, but I did snog Persimmon Parkinson in the Divination section my fifth year,” he mused. “She just kind of grabbed me, and being fifteen, I went with it.”

“No!” Sunny laughed. “Oh, but that’s at least less awkward than the time Terry Boot walked up to my table, explained to me how wizarding truth or dare works, and then explained that his dare was to snog me in the library for fifteen minutes. With tongue.” 

“Oh, no!” He laughed, imagining the situation. “How old were ye?”

“Thirteen. God, that was the end of second year, right before I was petrified,” she reminisced. “The first time was terrible. Terry’s a consummate Ravenclaw, though, so we met up several more times to practice and see what worked and what didn’t.” 

Dumbfounded, Potter stared between the two. His jaw worked up and down, though nothing more than the occasional whimper managed to escape. Oliver understood the appeal of being friends with him, if his reactions were this amusing.

“Oh, Ron is going to be so bloody mad,” he muttered at last, collapsing into a chair. 

“Why should Weasley care?” Snorted the Scotsman.

“If he finds out,” Sunny hummed, opening the tome in her hands. “Because I have no intentions of telling him.”

“If,” Potter muttered to himself. “If is good.”

“Is that Harry bleeding Potter in the box with Hermione?” Jack gaped.

Oliver blinked, wondering why the tone of surprise and wonder. Then, he remembered that not everyone attended school with Potter, and even fewer witnessed the friendship between Sunny and the seeker. He often forgot the skinny teenager saved the wizarding world at age one, by some miracle. When other players stopped to stare, green eyes rolled. Really, lads?

“He’s friends with Sunny,” he took pity on the men surrounding him. “Like her annoying little brother.”

“Annoying now?” Ben smirked.

“I taught him everything he knows about quidditch,” Oliver ignored the chaser. “Youngest seeker in a century, and a damn good flier, but still a kid.” 

“She did say he outflew a dragon last year,” Thompson mused. “Doesn’t explain what he’s doing here.”

“She got Coach’s permission to use him to gather stats,” Peter flew over, growling at the distracted team. “Which he can’t do if we don’t GET BACK TO DRILLS!”

“Yes Captain!” Several players chorused and saluted. 

Rolling his eyes, Oliver wheeled off to his end of the pitch, happy to get back to work. Their first play-off game loomed just days away. The team needed to focus on the game, not Boy Wonder. He, for one, wanted to forget the gangly Gryffindor. 

“Miss Granger, there’s a Professor Minerva McGonagall and an Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt wishing to speak to you,” Bryce announced the following Sunday. 

Oliver frowned, the newest visualization fading from sight. Potter, he noticed, glanced around the room in a panic. Sunshine, though, sighed. She expected this sort of visit sooner or later. They’d question her direct disobedience, though Dumbledore’s influence greatly fell the past few weeks. Straightening into a more proper sit than the lazy sprawl, Oliver readied himself. 

“Thank you, Bryce,” the young lady smiled and stood. “Please, send them in.” His aunt, in her favorite emerald day robes, strode into the room followed by a tall, muscular, African man. “Professor McGonagall, Auror Shacklebolt, welcome to my home,” Sunny greeted. “Please have a seat. Winky!” 

The now familiar elf popped into the room. “Yes, Mistress?” The much recovered creature inquired.

“Could you prepare a tea service and some snacks for us? I’m afraid Mr. Grantly,” the Granger’s squib personal chef, “and Madeline are busy preparing for supper tonight.” 

“Of course, Mistress,” popped away Winky. 

“Please, have a seat,” Sunny invited the pair.

“Your parents keep a lovely home,” his aunt mused, looking around the airy library. “It is quite a gem in this part of town.”

“Yes, my Mum’s predecessor at the practice wanted to move to a small cottage in Cornwall and gifted it as a wedding present,” the young witch smiled. The aforementioned refreshments appeared, and soon everyone sipped their own steaming cups of tea. “As wonderful as it is to see you, Professor, I take this is not a social visit.”

“Not strictly speaking, no,” Aunt Min lowered her cup. “We are here to speak about Mr. Potter and the protections you are subverting. I believe Albus told both yourself and Ronald not to write.”

“As you can see, Professor, I am not breaking the rather authoritarian, misguided sanction,” Sunny remarked, the chink of delicate china meeting tinkling. “I am not in the practice of letting my friends flounder when I have the means to help. Besides, my home is far safer, magically speaking, than his Aunt’s residence. If it is any consolation, Harry technically resides with them, despite spending much time here.”

“Have you ever considered that there are people watching out for him?” Auror Shacklebolt remarked, his soft tone belied by his sharp eyes.

“Then, I am remarkably disappointed in the adult involvement in his life,” Sunshine returned, equally polite. “There are far better ways to protect Harry, while still caring for his mental and physical health.” 

“ Albus ,” his aunt spat venom and fire in her strong brogue. “I told him, all those years ago!” 

“Minerva?” The auror raised a brow at his infuriated aunt.

“Please, Kingsley, I know you felt the wards the moment we stepped on the property,” she changed tact on a dime, sipping her tea once more. “Mr. Potter has spent enough time with his relations.”

“But what of the Order?” He frowned. 

“What’s the Order?” Potter glanced between the two visitors. 

“An organization dedicated to defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” the African man turned towards the boy they discussed for the first time. “The Headmaster created it during the last War and reassembled it upon his resurrection.”  

“I’m sure that they are expecting you at some point, Harry,” the little witch remarked. 

“Can’t I stay here until that point? Especially if it’s safer?” Emerald eyes swept the room. “Wouldn’t it make sense? I mean, wouldn’t people expect me to be with the Weasley’s?” 

“Misdirection,” Sunny shrugged. “It could work.”

“You can use the guard rotation on the Dursley’s as a form of training,” his aunt mused. 

“Albus is not going to like this,” the man rumbled. 

“Well, it’s either that or lose all his credibility and probably be sacked for attempting to separate a Master and Apprentice,” the elder witch stated. Potter’s confused expression caught her eye. “The bond between a master of their craft and the apprentice is one of the most enduring and revered in the magical world, Mr. Potter. Only traditional marriage vows are held in higher esteem. Any attempt to tamper with it is frowned upon by all sides, and doing so will ruin any witch or wizard.”

“In short, I have leeway and leniency that other students do not,” Sunny chimed in. “I pay for it in my workload, responsibilities, and studies, naturally.” 

“And it’s not like Albus will have much say in your affairs shortly, anyways,” the cat animagus hummed, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You will be taking your Transfiguration NEWT with your first block of exams, yes?”

“Along with Defense, Charms, Runes, and Herbology,” the brunette witch nodded. At Potter’s confused face, “Mistress thought it best to take certain exams early, leaving time for other study.”

“You needn’t take any more after that if you wish, dear,” his aunt smiled, fond and soft, at Sunshine. “It would be quite the impressive resume in conjunction with your O’s in arithmancy and potions.”

“I like to finish what I start, Professor,” the little witch dimpled. 

“Well, when you get your results back, do talk to me. I suspect there are a few things this old cat can teach you, yet,” a hazel eye winked. 

As discussion centered around logistics and particulars, Oliver reflected. His aunt rarely chose blatant favorites. As family, they both worked hard to minimize any undue bias. Watching her with Sunny warmed his heart. Seeing those important to him interact and get along eased the lingering anxiety from the past year. Even the Auror thawed after a time, having forgiven the petite witch her sharp words. 

“Aunt Minnie!” His father boomed, bringing him back to the present.

“Ach, Ian, lad! And Sophie, how are you both?” 

The elder Grangers walked in shortly after, and introductions went around once more. Mrs. Granger, the consummate hostess, invited both to stay for supper. All the while, Sunshine rolled her eyes and returned to the book in her hand. Potter ambled up to Mr. Granger and started a conversation, soon drawing his own father and Auror Shacklebolt. 

“Excuse me, Madame Granger,” Madeline entered the room with a curtsey. “Supper is ready for nine in the informal dining room.” 

“Thank you, Madeline,” the mother beamed. “Come, let us not waste their hard work!” 

Muscles stretched, sore from the work of the week. Mossy eyes tracked the rest of the party trooping out the library. Gaze swinging from an enthusiastic Potter across the room, a small frown tilted the lips of one Sunshine. Careful, practiced motions replaced the book, her mind far from the room. 

“Worried?” He queried as they followed, pace sedate. 

“Yes,” her simple response. 

Not that Oliver faulted her. The Prophet dragged the Headmaster, who constantly cited Potter in his claims. Fudge tightened his hold over the school, announcing oversight to be considered. She, quite frankly, stood in the middle of the storm. Walking closer, a shoulder nudged her.

“It’ll be fine, ye’ll see,” he murmured, guiding her into the lively dining room.

“You keep saying that,” her arch retort

Oliver flashed her a winsome smile, “Because it’s true.” 

“She’s still locked up?” Jonathan inquired the Monday before the League finals.

“Yes,” Oliver grunted, growing less and less fond of the Weasley matriarch as the days passed. 

A dementor attacked Potter’s cousin, an obvious attempt at Boy Wonder’s life and evidence that the misdirection worked. Instead of being satisfied with a job well done, the Order doubled down, retrieved Potter from Sunny’s house and dragged with her kicking and screaming. According to the letters Winky delivered, because they barred her from sending muggle or wizarding post ( again ), the matriarch decided a full time job warranted no mind and held her hostage. At first, Sunny flowed with the spellfire, but not being able to attend to her duties when they needed her chafed. 

“Mister Oliver, Mister Oliver,” a panicked Winky blinked into the classroom. “You needs to do something! The horrible and rude Missus Weasley is tryings to takes Mistress’ wand, she is!”

“What the bloody hell?” Jonathan exclaimed. 

“Can you bring your Mistress here, Winky?” He asked, forcing down the panic and sheer rage boiling in his veins. 

“Not in front of others, Mister Oliver,” the elf drooped, fidgeting with her fingers. “Mistress says the Weasley’s cannot knows. Says theys be demandings and it being bests to not let thems know.”

Thoughts flashed through his mind. If Dumbledore, whom he assumed Mrs. Weasley followed, found out Sunshine bonded with an elf, things would be quite rough. He decided the move was a sound tactic, even if it left Sunny exposed at times like these. Thinking and discarding several ideas, a thought popped up.

“Is your Mistress’ other Master allowed there?” He inquired, knowing the location secret-kept (and Professor Vector probably out of the know).

“Yes, Mister Oliver,” Winky lit up, the idea relieving the distraught creature. “I’ll go gets him now!”

With a pop, the elf disappeared. Well damn, he blinked. Considering the various context clues, the keeper never expected to be right . Still, the dots connected and created a cohesive picture. Suddenly, the need for secrecy and plausible deniability held great merit. 

“I didn’t think it literal, ” the team arithmancer grumbled, leaning back against his desk. “Though,” a malicious grin broke over his face. “I would love to be a fly on the wall of that conversation.”

A collective sigh of relief echoed through the Puddlemere facility the next day when Sunshine emerged from the floo. Neither he nor Jonathan commented on her sudden appearance, nor her focus. They had a championship to win, after all. 

“So, what’s Umbridge actually like,” Oliver inquired early in September. 

While he still attended the half day trainings, the keeper found this autumn far more manageable than the last. He enjoyed the slow afternoons in the Scottish highlands, eating supper with his parents, and generally doing what he felt. Which also left the man a lot of time to worry about a certain witch. 

“Gods, if we’re being brutally honest?” Percy groaned in front of him and gulped. “An absolute, power-mad cow.” 

“That’s what I didn’t want to hear,” he groaned in the pub booth. “She fashioned herself into some sort of ministry watchdog. Makes me glad Sunny’s going to be taking her Defense NEWT soon.” 

“Doesn’t she already have her apparation license?” The ginger inquired. 

“That’s what Jonathan said,” calloused fingers toyed with a coaster. “There’s something we’re missing, there.”

“Her other Master?” Blue eyes bored into him. 

“No, I figured that one out this summer,” he scowled at the memory. “Mate, yer mother’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, eyes downcast.

“I mean a literal menace to society,” Oliver growled, his frustration showing. “Not only did she stop Sunny from attending to her duties as an apprentice , she tried to take her wand .” 

“Yeah, Bill wrote about that,” his friend sighed, rubbing his face. “Mum, bless her, thinks we are all five years old and cannot so much as wash ourselves unattended. Then, she meets Hermione, who is polite and well mannered, and is trying to strong-arm her into a mold of herself. It’s…. Let’s say, there’s a reason we all got out as soon as possible.” 

The Scotsman winced in sympathy. He thanked the gods that his parents loved and respected him. Even if they enjoyed teasing him. Thanking the stars, dim light reflected the mood of the table.

“Ever feel like we’re missing some massively important details?” Oliver thought aloud, gazing at the cracked ceiling.

“All the bloody time,” the ginger sighed. “Every time I ask, Hermione just says to practice my occlumency.”

“This is just the beginning, isn’t it?” He murmured.

“Yes,”  Percy agreed.

“Still think Sunny can save this bloody world?” A sparkle of amusement shone in Oliver’s eyes.

“If anyone can drag Harry, kicking and screaming, through this mess, it’ll be her,” his friend replied in kind.

“The High Inquisitor?” Oliver, nonplussed, questioned. 

“No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Sunny nodded, knowing and grave.

Jonathan and their newest chaser, Thomas Matthews, broke out in raucous laughter. A smirk, pleased and amused, pulled at her lips as she worked on the newest projections. Mossy eyes watched, mystified, as the two other men started to quote the most ridiculous things to one another. All the while, the little witch hummed to herself. 

“This is a muggle thing, isn’t it?” His deep brogue questioned. 

“Ollie, mate, what has our lovely Miss Granger been doing with you in the muggle world?” Thomas threw an arm over her shoulder. 

“He mostly attends football and rugby matches,” she retorted, and added after a moment’s consideration. “And eats.”

“The food is good,” Oliver shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face. 

“Damn straight, it is!” The chaser announced. “You’ve introduced him to Thai?”

“Yes.”

“Chinese?”

“Of course!”

“Indian?”

“What kind of Londoner would I be if I didn’t have a favorite Indian take-away?”

“Children, if we could focus?” A highly amused Jonathan called them to attention. “And not on our stomachs.”

“What do you mean you can’t fly?” Thomas gasped one day in mid October. “You work for a bloody professional quidditch team! Your famous ex is the best bloody seeker in forever! Your best friend is one hell of a keeper!”  

Oliver expected some sort of rebuke, a reminder of Potter. Instead, the little lioness scowled at the lean chaser. Fists rested on her hips. All the while, a pleasant, soft sensation hummed through him. He fought the grin, sure to be too wide and goofy, from his face. With practiced ease, the keeper shoved away just why the moniker pleased him.

“Because I don’t like it,” Sunny crossed her arms with a huff. “I can appreciate and understand the mechanics of the game without flying, or playing myself.” 

“But aren’t you Gryffindor? Isn’t your lot supposed to be all daring and brave and what not?” The Hufflepuff alumnus poked.

“Courage and bravery doesn’t equate to being an adrenaline junkie in need of a flying fix,” cinnamon eyes rolled.

“Don’t listen to her,” Oliver smirked. “She adores roller coasters.” 

“You like to be strapped to cars that roll around on death rails and yet you hate flying ?!” The other muggleborn exclaimed.

“Roller coasters are highly engineered marvels of physics,” her glare settled on Oliver’s grinning face. “And are built with a plethora of fail-safes.”

“People still die on them,” Peter remarked, walking into the room and subsequent conversation.

“Far less per annum than those who die due to flying accidents,” Sunny grouched, chalk pen gliding along the black board. 

“Is it a control thing?” Their captain inquired. “That just requires a bit of practice, you know. And a better broom than Hogwarts offers their first years. Those things should be condemned.” 

“The falling’s not even that bad, once you get used to it,” Thomas hummed, thoughtful and distracted. “It’s weird at first, because the idea of plummeting to your death from several stories is something of a given in the muggle world. Hell, that’s how people commit suicide every day. The idea that magic can solve a lot of those problems and heal those injuries takes a bit to set in.” 

“Is that so?” Her bland response alerted the keeper. 

Tension pulled her shoulders taunt. Instead of a lively debate of strategy and planning, the norm for these meetings, a cold logic inserted itself upon prompting. Falling triggered the lioness, her occlumency pulled frighteningly high and tight. Forcing himself to focus, the rest of the formal meeting passed by in a blur. Coach and Cap departed first. Thomas and Jonathan remained in an animated discussion. Shooting out of his seat at the elder arithmancer’s nod, Oliver followed the witch on his mind. 

Leaning against the doorframe, green eyes noted the stiff movement and lack of reaction. A studied, blank expression robbed her eyes of their usual light and fire. Frowning, a couple of long strides brought him to the sofa. A flick or two later, and the door closed with basic proximity wards. Walking closer, his large hands engulfed her small ones, stopping the fussy, needless movement. Concern and worry struggled with protective, indignant anger. 

“Sunny,” he entreated, soft and gentle. “Hermione,” a flicker of emotion crossed her dull, brown eyes. “Ye don’t need to tell me what happened, but ye need to come back.” 

A stiff nod answered, her eyes closing for a moment. Patience, Oliver reminded himself. Whatever incident resulted in such extreme, defensive action boded ill. Slowly, the swirling cinnamon Oliver memorized reemerged. A bittersweet sense of triumph swept through him, the fear and anxiety in those depths dulling the emotion. 

“It was horrible, ” gut-wrenching sobs tore through her throat. 

“Shh,” his baritone, deep and soothing, cooed. “Ye’re alright, now.”

I bet it was , he soberly thought. Holding the petite witch, the keeper maneuvered them to sit on the sofa. Praying for patience, and the fortitude to not strangle the two twits he met over the summer, Oliver rocked her back and forth. Pieces fell to place, like runes in a rather finicky array. After a time, her sobs slowed to a sniffle, her blushing face pulling away.

“I-I am so sorry,” Sunny babbled, flicking her wand to clean his practice kit. “I did not mean to blubber all over you.” 

“You’re fine, Sunshine,” mossy greens rolled, the corners of his lips tilting up. Relieved to finally get through to her, he conjured a handkerchief and offered it. “Do ye want to talk about it?”

“No, but I probably should,” she sniffled, dabbing her eyes and face. “So, what have you figured out?”

“The basics,” Oliver shrugged, truthful and flattered she thought so highly of his intellect. “Humphries mentioned a bullying incident some thought was more.”

“He groans about it now, but he visited me in hospital afterwards and thanked me. Profusely,” snorted the witch, nasally and amused. “Bloody idiot was so excited to not have to attend school for a few weeks.

“Let me see if I can explain everything,” slim fingers massaged her temples. “You know that muggle aristocracy is exclusive and jealous, like the conservative pure bloods. It shouldn’t surprise you that they tend to be vindictive and manipulative. Especially when people are considered for knighthood or some sort of title. Her Majesty quite adores my parents, or so they say. At this point, it’s moot. My parents aren’t about to resign, and I’m of courting age. Much better to align with us than make us martyrs and all that.”

Some of the summer’s events cleared. Oliver attended one or two gatherings at his parent’s behest, and noticed an uptick in interest. Aside from his own emotions, which Oliver studiously shoved to the side as often as humanly possible, he spared few thoughts to the reason. Sunny complained quite often to Jonathan throughout the holiday, but the witch despised most formal functions. Understanding dawned upon his dense mind, exposing more to the light than Oliver felt comfortable.

“However, as a young child, that didn’t matter, did it?” A bitter huff blew frizz and fringe from her face. “Instead, they wanted to drive us away. What better way than to terrorize the Doctors Granger’s only child? Needless to say, I didn’t have friends growing up.” Slim shoulders lifted, her face closing for a moment. “When vicious children hear how no one would care if the little waste-of-space interloper disappeared… well.”

Leaning against the arm of the blue sofa, legs curled to her chest. Arms hugged her knees, the knit of her Gryffindor jumper bright against her normal denims.

“Let’s say, nine-year-old me trusted the two mean girls when they said they wanted to apologize,” haunted, cinnamon orbs gazed past the now-dark grounds. “So, I followed them to the roof, where the garden and greenhouse were located. It was a pretty popular place, and it thrilled me to be invited. I thought they were serious and genuine.”

A bitter, scathing scoff echoed in the otherwise quiet room. “Idiot child. They talked to me, opened up one of the windows as we looked below. Then, as I turned, one of them said ‘say hi to God,’ before shoving me over.” A mirthless laugh chilled  his spine, never hearing the little lioness so hopeless. 

“Memory is a weird thing, Ol,” piercing, bronze eyes pinned him in place. “I may not be able to tell you what I had for dinner last week, but those few moments I fell are some of the clearest. The rare, sunny autumn day in London. Blue skies, wispy, perfect clouds, the air rushing through my hair and whipping past my ears.” 

His throat constricted. In any other context, Sunshine described the perfect day, flying through the clouds. Oliver’s favored way of clearing his mind and just enjoying the present. Fear and resignation colored her tone, not wonder and peace. The surety of Death claiming her so young reflected in her tear-glossed eyes. 

“There is a muggle scientist, Einstein,” a wet snort answered, finally placing a reference to the Granger family owl. “He has a theory of relativity, which boils down to say, amongst other things, that time is relative. It passes at different rates depending on multiple factors. Months and years could pass in a snap, but seconds can stretch forever.

“I spent an eternity wondering about life,” Sunshine faced the window. “Was this all it was? A series of loosely connected events that ends in nothing? Alone? Then, I started to wonder what Death would be like. An afterlife, if I was good and lucky. Would anything actually change from my death? Would my parents miss me? Jules? Marie? The world?”

Sobs choked Oliver’s throat, imagining a small, hopeful Sunny, just wanting to fit in. An eerie sense of deja vu enveloped and overwhelmed the keeper. His mind harkened back to the first time he met a tiny, bushy-haired Hermione Granger, sitting in the stands alone. Her stuttering courage to approach the older, more popular athletes despite everything life taught her before. Apprehension shining in her eyes, asking if she could trust the fragile friendship from two yearmates -one a bully, the other apathetic. The awkward, stilted peer-to-peer social skills.

Jolting forward, strong arms wrapped around the petite witch. Burying his nose in the crook of her shoulder, thoughts raced, reassuring himself. Sunny felt warm and solid in his arms. Safe, a portion of his mind asserted. Alive. Whole. The cries he denied himself earlier shook his shoulders, silent and cathartic, unable to imagine a world without one Hermione Granger. Outrage and resignation boiled beneath, knowing the perpetrators still lived without facing any real consequences.

Time passed, in the relative manner Sunny explained earlier, but the tears stopped on both sides. Quaking bodies stilled, and breathing evened out. In the end, Oliver leaned back against the plush cushions, Sunny’s legs across his lap. Chocolate curls cushioned her head upon his shoulder, the soft puffs of air rhythmic and soothing. Oliver’s mind raced, unable to settle into the emotionally exhausted slumber of the witch. A light chime sounded in his ears, the wards alerting him of someone coming. Most likely Jonathan, Oliver reasoned, glancing at the clock.

“How is she?” The older man whispered, noting the pair’s exhausted faces.

“She’ll be better,” the younger man murmured, not wanting to wake the sleeping witch. A calloused hand rubbed his tired face. “Merlin knows she needed to tell someone about it. I don’t think she’s really ever voiced it herself, or processed it for that matter.”

“It was terrible,” sighed the muggle-born. “The video footage was too grainy to tell, and the little girls played up the accidental trip for the cameras. For weeks, the public gawked as the updates of the little aristo girl rolled through. Then, you had the Royal Family panicking, since Prince William is only three years younger.”

Oliver wanted to be outraged, incensed that people would look upon such a horrible and tragic event for entertainment. Then the articles of the Prophet flashed through his mind. Morbid curiosity of the rich and famous bridged the gap between magical and non-magical, it appeared. A groan rumbled in his chest, the arm wrapped around Sunny’s waist tightening. 

“As a wizard, I could tell that she used magic,” Jonathan further mused. “Of course, they never released the name of the victim, nor her photograph to the public. For want of privacy, they always said. I believe that people in the government and higher ranks demanded some level of discretion, which is quite admirable in such a situation. Still-” he sighed, “If one knows what to look for, her magic cocooned her, softening the blow to simply brutal and difficult as opposed to fatal.”

“She said she spent weeks in hospital,” Oliver contributed. “It’d take days, perhaps a singular week, at most, to heal those types of injuries.”

“With magic and potions sure,” the other man agreed. “But muggles rely solely on the body’s ability to regenerate and heal. They can augment that process only so much, but they cannot speed it up.” A moment or two of silence passed between the men. Jonathan fussed at his desk, organizing and stacking parchments before his shrewd eyes examined the young keeper. “And how are you doing, Oliver? This has to be a nasty shock, hearing how your best friend almost passed.”

Mossy green eyes blinked up at the man, owlish and momentarily confused. How did he feel? Angry at the thought of Sunny dying before they ever had the chance to meet. Hurt for her that she experienced such pain at a young age. Proud that the young witch in his arms overcame her fears and stepped into a brave, new world. An overwhelming need to wrap her up in blankets and simply stash her in the stadium also crossed his mind.

“A lot,” he settled on. “I think I am mostly relieved. She’s here and alive, and that’s all we can ask for at the end of the day, isn’t it?”

“That it is,” Jonathan strode forward with a small smile. “Just remember that in the future. I have a feeling this one hasn’t seen the end of her trouble-making days, yet.” 

“I donnae think she knows how to not make trouble,” Oliver rolled his eyes, a fond smile tipping the corners of his lips.

“Probably not,” the other man smirked.

“Wait, the Ministry can ban people from quidditch now?” A fearful Peter Denton softly inquired after Monday’s strategy meeting.

“At least at Hogwarts,” frowned the little witch, away from the rest of the players. “The High Inquisitor has taken over all disciplinary actions as of now.”

“Has she?” Frowned the older man. “Ade also mentioned she disbanded all the clubs before forcing them to reform?” 

“Yes,” Sunny frowned, though the beginnings of a light blush dusted her cheekbones. “Though, I do suppose that has something to do with me.” An inky brow rose in question. “Look, it’s not my fault she’s a teacher who’s doing nothing but spouting pacifistic, authoritarian state bullshite in her class instead of actually teaching.” 

“Adrian did say it was pretty bad,” the Captain hummed, leaning against ‘his’ desk. “Though he mentioned that there have been tutoring and practical sessions since the start of term for his House.”

“I’ve always given semi-private tutoring on a bi-weekly basis,” dainty shoulder shrugged. “It’s part of the agreement between Mistress and Professor Snape. I’ve been holding Slytherin-only tutorial sessions since second year.” 

“And they’re only being told now?” Peter chuckled. 

“No. They are only taking advantage of it now.”

“How short-sighted of my old House,” the tall man sighed. “How is it you’re a Gryffindor, again?”

“Muggle-born,” Sunny smirked, cinnamon eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Touche.”

“Who got banned?” Oliver inquired, commenting for the first time.

“The Twins and Harry,” scowled the brunette, fierce and angry. “Apparently, ‘fighting words’ were had after the match on Saturday, and the boys couldn’t resist a fist fight. Instead of punishing everyone, High Inquisitor Umbridge turned a blind eye to how Crabbe and Selwyn insulted Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Potter before taking a swing. Now, their brooms are chained up in the dungeons for the foreseeable future.” 

Oliver blinked, not quite sure how to react. Sure, the injustice rankled, but keeping a cool and collected head mattered . You couldn’t very well react to every foul and every provocation, or else it all fell apart. If nothing else, Bulgaria’s loss to Ireland taught him that just last summer. Then again, if someone truly got in his face about his mother, or, Merlin forbid, Sunshine, it may’ve been different. Especially at sixteen, a part of his mused.

“They have detention for a month,” Sunny concluded. “I’m worried, though. Her punishments are not legal, and there’s no one who will truly take him seriously. It doesn’t help that she justifies everything by saying that it is the will of the Ministry. How are students, unconnected, impulsive, idiotic students, supposed to do anything?”

“I bet you’re glad you’re taking your defense NEWT early,” Oliver remarked, a teasing lilt in his voice 

“Yes, well, someone needs to know something so that lot will learn,” she rolled her eyes.

The rest of November and the majority of December passed in a blur of normality. His second year on the team saw quite a few changes to his preseason schedule. No longer did the coaches and staff quiz him everyday, nor were the trainers quite as brutal, Oliver felt real improvement. Jonathan often ran the numbers and showed the charts for him, something the keeper appreciated. 

Sunny, too, appeared quite a bit more settled. Since their talk in October, a lightness, as if the weight of the past lifted from her shoulders, followed her. Granted, with the end of the term arrived her NEWTs. Many a meeting he attended found the little witch bent over some text or another, revising and reviewing for the up-coming exams. For a week, she spun in from the ministry, bags under her eyes. 

Which is why, the week of their last preseason game, Professor Vector’s appearance surprised no one. Oliver guessed the woman wanted to inform the team of Sunny’s absence until the game on Saturday, after the last of her exams. Instead, she rushed towards Jonathan’s office, the arithmancer in tow. Shaking off the feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, Oliver focused on the drills.

“Hey, Minnie,” Jack called out (finally deciding on a nickname two years later). “How did Herbology go?”

“Dirty,” her delicate nose wrinkled. “And cold.”

“Sounds like being outside in December,” the chaser snorted. 

“You are not wrong,” her light-hearted retort lacked her usual spark. “Does anyone know if my Mistress has visited?”

“Aye, I saw her earlier this morning talking to Jonathan,” Oliver frowned, watching her blank expression. “Should we be worried?” 

“I honestly don’t know,” a frown marred her heart-shaped face. “I’ll go and see if they’re still holed up or not. Tell Healer Erikson I’ll be down in just a tick, will you, Ol?”

“Sure thing, Sunny,” the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“Thank you,” the witch walked backwards with a smile. 

“I wonder what happened this time,” Peter murmured from behind the Scotsman. 

“Who the bloody hell knows,” Oliver grumbled, making his way towards the medical bay.

Hours later, after supper, Oliver meandered towards the arithmancy office. During his past year with the team, he bonded with Jonathan. Where Peter and the keeper position coach mentored him in the sport and responsibilities, Jonathan taught Oliver about life, perspective, and seeing things in new and different ways. Just being around the man calmed the young player. 

Strolling into the comfortable library masquerading as an office for two bibliophiles, he stopped. Black boards floated along every available vertical space. The three mathematicians muttered amongst themselves, debating values and variables and formulae Oliver never heard about before. Professor Vector and Jonathan stood, each at a board, quickly writing and debating. In the chair at her desk, chocolate curls tumbled to the side of the witch in question. 

“Are you sure that is what’s to come?” Her soft, unsure voice  cut through the bickering. 

“What are your calculations saying?” Espresso eyes focused on her apprentice. “You are the one with the most pertinent, detailed, and reliable information.” 

“So, no pressure,” snorted the petite witch.

“Well, no,” Jonathan mused. “Just, you know, keeping your annoying, little brother alive while figuring out this bloody mess and not dying.”

“Sounds like a typical year at school,” bronze eyes rolled. 

“Let’s table the discussion about the creation of child soldiers for another day, hm?” Professor Vector sassed. “And Mr. Wood, do you intend to stand at the door like some sort of specter, or are you going to enter the office?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he trailed off, watching the three in the room.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, just sit down and close the door,” the woman muttered. Oliver quickly complied, wide eyed and confused. “And before you ask, this is what high end arithmancy looks like.”

“A bunch of half-crazed geniuses muttering back and forth about the correct formula and why, while scratching out random numbers,” Sunny snarked. “Don’t we just create the tableau of eccentric academics at work?” 

“Well, when ye put it that way,” his Scottish brogue thickened with confusion.

“Cut the poor lad some slack,” Jonathan piped up. “He’s not used to this kind of craziness. Probably has no clue what any of this means nor the catalyst.” Turning towards the keeper, he inquired, “Would you like to know what the madness is about or would you rather study your playbook and watch it unfold?”

“Cannae do both?” He arched an eyebrow.

“You’re not going to want to do the latter once you’re told,” Sunny snorted, lazily flicking her wand at the board in front of her. 

“Am I going to hear about it anyways from someone else?” He pinched his nose.

“Most likely,” the brunette witch sighed. 

“Then just go ahead and tell me,” Oliver decided. 

“Forewarned is forearmed, I see,” hummed the Professor in approval. 

Sunshine rose from the chair and picked her way towards the sofa he perched upon. Settling close, her body tilted towards him. None of this boded well. A soft, concerned expression unsettled him further. Nothing about this screamed okay or safe or even Puddlemere United related.

“The long and short of it is that Mr. Weasley received a remarkably venomous bite last night and is in hospital,” Sunshine murmured, soft and gentle. His mind raced. While Oliver thought little of the youngest brother, his mind raced to Percy. Panicked, green eyes swung towards the little witch. “I’ve already talked to Percy this morning, after Professor McGonagall informed me. The family left last night, and I only found out before I went to the Ministry for my exam.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he breathed, unable to really think past that sentiment. “And how is Mr. Weasley?”

“Holding on for the moment,” Sunny sighed. “Not as good as he could be, but Master is brewing the antivenom as we speak. Mungos is keeping him stable and improving what they can from his injuries.”

“What snake is so dangerous they can’t heal it and need yer other Master?” He warily inquired, knowing he’d not like the answer to this and subsequent questions. 

“Nagini,” she stated with gravity and solemnity. 

“Sunshine, ye’ll have to explain that one to me a bit further,” he dryly retorted, shaking his head. 

“Right, right,” her soft mezzo muttered. “Well, then, this will be quite a doozy. How is your occlumency?”

“Gods, Sunshine, are you trying to make me into a master of the art or something,” he groaned, half joking. 

“Much improved,” Jonathan chimed from a step-stool. “He probably will never reach your level of overachievement,” cinnamon eyes rolled at this good-natured jab, “but I do say he’ll be quite accomplished once we’re done with him.” 

“You do realize I’ve been highly trained and tested since I was thirteen, yes?” 

“And her Master enjoys poking and prodding at the most inopportune and random of times,” Professor remarked, thoughtless and nonchalant. “She’s been tested in the middle of social functions, fights, exams…” 

“Point is,” Jonathan interrupted, “Hermione has reached a level of skill known to an exceptional few. You, however, are quite on your way to being reasonably advanced in time.”

“That is the most ridiculous description I’ve heard in my life,” snorted the adult witch, her alto rich and amused. 

“Meaning, at our rate of practice,” the wizard’s voice rose, “You shouldn’t have anything to fear, Hermione.”

“And you want to know? All of it?” Sunshine turned her large, doe eyes upon him once more. 

Mental calculations spun in her mind, tabulating the pros and cons of sharing the information. Oliver, to his credit, wanted to know, wanted to help. All the strategy in the world meant nothing without information.

“Yes,” he firmly nodded.

“Well then,” her small wrist flicked towards the door. A wave of magic prickled his skin, warm and familiar. Only then did Oliver understand just what happened. “The whole thing centers on Harry and his ambiguous connection with one Tom Riddle. No, I will not call him by some false moniker or his self-made, terrible, French pun of a title-”

“Tom Riddle?” Oliver repeated, brow furrowed in thought. “Didn’t that bloke get an award for services to the school?”

“I see Filch had you scrubbing the Trophy Room by hand, too,” Sunny giggled.

“Apparently, I tracked mud into the castle one too many times,” he scowled, playful and a touch offended. “ Too , ye bloody menaces. Now stop distracting me. What does some bloke from the forties have to do with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named?”

“God, that is such a horrible moniker,” Professor Vector snorted, soft and amused, from further in the room. “Can you imagine trying to say that in any situation that required actual urgency?” 

“Yes, well, Tom Riddle has some issues, as it appears, that center around being a halfblood who’s father didn’t want him,” Sunny ignored her Mistress and continued. “He latched onto his mother’s lineage, the Gaunts, who are the last direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin. Being so, Tom, like his predecessor, talks to snakes-”

“Like Potter,” he muttered, eyes focused on the witch in front of him. 

“Like Harry,” a soft, melancholic sigh left her. “We all know Harry bears a curse mark from the first downfall, which still contains magic of a sort. Whenever he’s around Tom, his scar hurts. Before the World Cup, Harry started having dreams about Tom and his doings. When he woke up-"

“His scar would hurt,” Oliver finished the sentence. 

“Yes,” her shoulders slumped, relief pouring off her in waves. 

“And who or what is Nagini?” His mind rushed to connect the dots, missing key information.

“Tom’s familiar,” Sunny leaned back into the sofa, her thumbs pushing against her sinus. “A giant snake who has no specific breed characteristics. From what I’ve gathered, she looks like a full grown boa constrictor, but has a cocktail of different venoms and magic in her bite.”

“And, let me guess,” groused the keeper, understanding the frantic calculations to some degree. “Potter dreamt of the snake attacking Mr. Weasley, woke up most likely with a headache, and alerted someone.” 

“You really are quite clever,” Professor Vector mused, watching him with calculating, espresso eyes. 

“I feel like I should be insulted,” he drily remarked, opening his eyes once more.

“As I said,” small fingers played with the chalk-pen in her hands. “The Weasley’s at school and Harry all flooed to see their father, and no one thought to wake me.” Sunny’s brows pulled together. “Which, over all, is quite nice. As much as I enjoy them, Mrs. Weasley is an absolute bear, and with the season starting, I don’t think I could handle her attempts of managing me.”

“Which is all well and good,” Jonathan interjected. “If we can now focus on the matter at hand-”

“Which is?” Oliver cued, still confused as to what the three arithmancers before him worked so hard on.

“Contingency plans, of course,”  Sunny chirped. “Right now, we’re working on how best to use this time. Mistress believes that immediate concerns are less pressing, and we should be casting a further-future net before strategizing. Jonathan thinks that planning for the next six to nine months now should take priority over attempting to over-manage the future.”

“And you are doing this without food?” He inquired, incredulous and amused.

“Bloody hell, I forget what bottomless pits you quidditch players are,” Professor Vector snarked, an amused grin on her face.  “Didn’t you just eat?”

“Coach and Capt keep us busy,” Oliver defended himself. “And Healer Erikson says I’m still growing and need to eat when I’m hungry.” 

“Boys!” Sunshine exclaimed, throwing up her arms.

Laughter broke the previous tension.  Orders placed, the group began to strategize (by which, Oliver noticed the two masters argued while Sunny and he occasionally chimed in) for what promised to be a rocky future.

Chapter Text

"Hey Ol, do you want to see Jules make a fool of himself?" Sunshine inquired after the first post-game review (a smashing victory against the Chudley Cannons).

“What is he planning this time?” Mossy green eyes narrowed.

“Since the ball is at Dearborn’s estate, and Jules is friends with their son, he’s roped in the servants to create some sort of poinsettia monstrosity in the middle of the night. He wants to lure Marie into the middle before singing some random holiday song I don’t remember,” a mischievous, gleeful grin spread across her face.

“He’s going to have a bloody spotlight on the both of them, isn’t he?” An answering smirk bloomed across his face. 

“Of course, the flowers are going to be in the middle of the dance floor,” her eyes sparkled. “He’d almost get away with it if it weren’t in the middle of the celebration -literally and figuratively.”

“Why not find some mistletoe and be done with it?” Thomas inquired, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Because Jules doesn’t do small,” Sunshine grinned. “He is more the large, public, and obnoxious type. His self-inflicted humiliation is something of a legend at this point.”

“Is this just a rich kid thing?” The chaser inquired, brow arched. 

“No, this is just a Jules-is-an-idiot thing,” the little witch smirked. 

“One of those grand gesture types,” he nodded. “Well, I demand a pensive memory of this spectacular moment, if possible.” 

“I could just get you a tape,” cinnamon eyes rolled.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Both pairs of eyes turned towards Oliver, inquiring and amused. As always, he felt rather intrigued. The young muggle never failed to amuse at these events, a Merlin-be-damned miracle if nothing else. Not to mention, his parents probably planned on attending as well. With a put upon sigh, the keeper agreed.

“Are the spotlights shaped like snowflakes?” Oliver murmured, watching Sunny’s oldest friend serenade her other friend.  

“It makes it more holiday appropriate, don’t you think?” The witch snapped another photo with her muggle camera.

“What are you going to do with those?” He motioned towards the device in her hand. 

“I’m going to make a scrapbook for their wedding present,” a wicked grin spread across her face.  

“Another of the ‘Jules and Marie forever’ club?” A somewhat familiar voice greeted from behind. 

“Maddie!” Sunny threw herself at the other girl, dressed from head to toe in emerald green.  

Where the icy blues and silver tones complimented Sunshine’s natural olive tones, green wrapped around the new arrival. Hazel eyes glimmered in the lowered light, ignoring the well sung if not well thought out piece Humphries decided to perform. The girls embraced, obviously well acquainted, though he knew not how. Stepping closer to the little lioness, Oliver observed. 

“I didn’t think you’d make it, what with your schedule this time of year,” the other girl beamed.  

“It’s a close thing,” the witch on his arm replied in kind. “I managed to drag Ol out after practice today, not that we intend to stay long. They have a half day of practice tomorrow, since the holiday, but then Saturday-” 

“Montrose, right?” Hazel eyes darted between them. 

Alarm shot through his body. Muscles stiffened and eyes narrowed. The hand that rested on Sunny’s back curled around her waist, ready to pull her behind him. All the while, the witch in question conversed, lively and spirited. Moving closer to the petite lioness, eyes watched and surveyed the other girl.  

“Sunshine, could ye tell me why, exactly, does this person know about Saturday,” he whispered in the shell of her ear.  

“Oh, Oliver, I am so sorry,” her warm, cinnamon eyes turned to meet him. “This is Madison Birch, a seventh year Hufflepuff.” 

All of the wariness from moments before wooshed out of the man. Amusement glittered in the girl’s eyes, shrewd and assessing. Flexing his right hand still on Sunny’s waist, Oliver straightened and relaxed once more. Suddenly, the green and silver amused him far more. 

“Ye can warn a man, Sunny,” his teasing brogue murmured as the lights turned back up.

“I really do apologize for worrying you,” her doe eyes turned to him. Scowling away a flush, he huffed. “But last summer, during one of the horrible things Mum made me attend, Maddie recognized me from school and saved me from one of the boys.”

“He was trying to separate her from the herd,” the Hufflepuff smirked at the girl. “Again.”

“Who was this?” A brow arched at the petite witch.

“Roger Hall,” chimed the other witch. “Tall, lean, blonde hair, blue eyes, been glaring at you all night.” 

“Maddie!” Sunny hissed.

“What, it’s true!” The blonde girl grinned. “He’s been paying you particular attention since that one luncheon in July.”

“Because Her Majesty said hello to my parents,” arms crossed and huffed. “Apparently, Prince William adores my mother.”

“She’s a lovely woman,” Oliver hummed, eyes surveying the rest of the crowd now that Humphries chased an incensed Marie out of the hall. 

Just as Birch indicated, a taller, more saturated, version of Malfoy glared daggers at him. Resisting the urge to pull Sunny closer to his body (though he dearly wanted to, and just to make a point to the prat, no other reason), a smug smirk grew on his face. I am here with her, and not you, it said in no uncertain terms. Looking down at both witches, he forced an embarrassed flush from his cheeks, having been caught.

“How do you find yourself surrounded by overprotective quidditch players, Hermione?” Birch chuckled, facing the other bemused witch. “And where do I find one?” 

“They find me, I swear,” Sunny teased right back, nudging his shoulder.

“Not that working with a team of them has anything to do with it?” He scowled, hoping the heat would die down from his ears. 

“Nor having a couple of best friends absolutely mad about it,” the blonde Hufflepuff poked. “Or an extremely talented ex?”

“Ah, Granger,” the boy from earlier bowed in front of them. “So good to see you here this evening.”

“Hall,” her polite indifference barely registered with the boy. “Please meet my friend, Miss Madeline Birch, and a dear friend of mine, Mr. Oliver Wood.” 

Pleasantries went around, the boy scowling quite heatedly at the keeper. Doing nothing to hide his own distaste, Oliver merely kept quiet. Sunny could fight her own battles, be they verbal or physical. He witnessed this daily, as his teammates enjoyed poking and prodding the witch. It rarely ended well for them.

“How is Ragsworth? Last I heard, you were courting her,” the lioness tilted her head to the side, feigning interest. 

“Amelia is quite well, thank you for asking,” Hall smiled, panic coloring his blue eyes. “Though, there must be some misunderstanding. While we are close, I am not interested in her affections.”

“Really? That’s quite the opposite of what she has been saying,” she sipped a bubbling flute of amber liquid. “She mentioned how she is expecting you to make things more official any day, and that your parents are in negotiations. A bit young for us, I would think, but not uncommon or unheard of in the other court.” 

“I am quite sure I do not know what you are speaking of,” the boy’s fake grin spread further. “I only have interest in one woman here.”

“How fortunate Ragsworth is, then, to have your undivided affections,” Sunny’s smile drove the dagger in further.

“Oh Roggie,” the high pitch squeal of said girl cut through the din of the room. “Roggie, let’s go and dance!”

“I wouldn’t wish to keep you,” unholy glee sparkled in her eyes, “Roggie.”

Just like that, the boy bowed, said his goodbyes, and disappeared. Within moments, an overly done Ragsworth fluttered through the crowd. An ugly frown shot towards their group. Sunshine beamed at the girl, pointing towards the escape route of her quarry. With a nod of thanks, the insufferable girl hurried off, hunting once more.

“Are ye sure I can’t break her legs,” Oliver muttered, hand clenching on her waist. “Just a bit.”

“How do you ‘just a bit’ break someone’s legs, Ol?” An amused Sunny giggled.

“I donnae, ye tell me. Ye’re the one who ‘kinda sorta’ punched Malfoy a couple years back,” He retorted, a small grin on his face as he watched the terrified boy dragged onto the dance floor. “Do ye want me to give it in bludger terms or how much healing would need to be done?” 

“You punched Malfoy,” Birch laughed.

“He was being a prat,” cinnamon eyes rolled.

“That’s not new.”

“She isn’t wrong,” Oliver concurred. “But Sunny did ‘kinda sorta’ break his nose.”

“I went to self defense classes!” Slender arms flew up, exasperated.

Oliver shoved down the anxiety and anger of just why Sunny needed self defense classes. Instead, he basked in the knowledge that it didn’t stop her from living the life she wanted. Nor did she allow those fears to stop her from going out into the world and exploring. She exemplified the nuanced courage and bravery most people dismissed within their house. And Oliver respected and admired her all the more for it. 

“Ooh, can I ask for a contusion to the leg that will take a bit of skelegrow without the pain potion and several days?” The little witch brightened at the thought.

“That is oddly specific,” the other witch giggled.

“I am an assistant healer for a quidditch team,” her bronze eyes sparkled. “I have a whole pain scale of bludger-related injuries.”

“That makes a whole lot more sense,” the other girl hummed. 

“Now that I think about it, most of the players are absolute children about pain,” Sunny smirked, casting an amused side-glance at him. “They say they are all big, tough men. Then, they cry like little boys when you fix a broken bone.”

“And what does that make you, Wood?” Birch sassed.

“The very worst of the lot,” Sunny answered for him. “He’ll get hit by a bludger, say it’s nothing, refuse pain potions, because, and I quote, ‘they’ll take the competitive edge off,’ and run out before receiving more than a binding charm. Then, after practice, Captain will drag him back into medbay, say he’s nearly fallen off his broom and to bloody well stick him to the chair to treat him.

“Then, when you do get around to actually looking at the injury for the first time,” an arched brow, full of wry exasperation, pinned him to his spot. “You find out that he has a bruised kidney, nearly punctured his lung before the binding spell and couldn’t breathe properly with it.”

“That is remarkably specific,” the Hufflepuff laughed. 

“That was today,” Sunshine deadpanned. More mirth flowed off the blonde. “Literally two hours before we got here.” 

“So, you’re saying Wood’s here with a bruised kidney and broken ribs?” Birch’s blue eyes sparkled.

“It’s not that ba-” A singular, small, index finger prodded his side. Oliver bit back a yowl of pain, jumping away from the small, unamused witch at his side. A brown eyebrow curved, exasperated and wry, while her lips pursed in anticipation of his denial. “Okay, fine, yes, it is that bad.”

“And it would have been better if you just let us heal it from the first,” scolded the petite spitfire for the nth time.

Swallowing back an instinctive yes, darling, reminiscent of the times his father irritated his mother, Oliver stared down at the witch. A blinding smile rewarded his silent capitulation, clearing away any irritation or frustration. The rest of the evening followed smoothing from there, the light binding spell Healer Erikson placed allowing enough mobility to dance with his mother, Mrs. Granger, Birch, and even Sunny. All in all, he counted the night as a win.

Oliver stumbled into the dining room of the stadium. Plopping into his seat, half asleep and unwilling to so much as speak, he barely noticed the coffee in front of him. Still, Jack shook him violently, earning a glare. Yet, the words somehow strung together in some sort of hodgepodge of ideas. Death Eaters and escaping Azkaban. What utter rubbish! Until, of course, the Daily Prophet sneered at his face. 

Sure enough, in black and white, the news of some of the worst of the Death Eaters mocked his earlier thoughts. Bellatrix, Rabastan, and Rodolphus Lestrange as well as Antonin Dolohov struck fear in his heart. Looking at their captain, Peter Denton’s ashen complexion worried the keeper.

“Hey, are you alright?” Murmured Thompson, the starting keeper. 

Shoving his chair back, their captain nearly sprinted back towards their quarters. Around the room, the various muggle-borns’ pallid faces and grave expressions further concerned the wizard. Worry woke Oliver, the adrenaline pumping through his body. Coach Burton told them to start their drills before running himself. Silence. No one moved for a moment. With their leaders gone, Oliver sighed and stood. 

 “Coach said to run drills, yeah?” He grunted, hoping to work off some of the fear and anger in his system. “Then, let’s get to it. Nothing we can do right now, and you know he’s off to talk to the bosses.” 

Turning on his heel, the Scotsman exited the large room, his appetite gone. As the reserve keeper, he really had little influence over the team as a whole. The starting line-up always looked to Peter or Coach. Maybe, if luck favored him for once, a few of the reserves would follow and they could do something productive. Jack trotted up to his left, humming under his breath, Ben close behind. Thomas jostled his right, frowning as they strode towards the locker room.

Still without caffeine, Oliver took the skies as quickly as possible. Going through warm-ups, the cold air finished wiping the last vestiges of drowsiness. Unnoticed by the young player, the team filled the sky within minutes. After his rather abrupt departure, they finished their meals and followed. Unseen by Oliver, the starting line-up whispered amongst each other, watching their reserve keeper fly out into the frosty air. By the time cooperative drills began, Oliver floated towards his normal goal-post (the ‘away’ side of the stadium). 

“Oi, Wood, you’re on the wrong side,” one of the starting chasers, Ethan Summers, shouted.

“Er, I am?” He questioned, looking at the now familiar goal posts, the position coaches to his left. 

“Well, we can’t be throwing into empty hoops, now can we,” the dark man grinned, flying closer. “And seein’ as Peter’s not here to defend ‘em-”

“Might as well try to get past the young blood,” a starting beater, Anthony Jefferies, grinned. “Besides, Pete knows our tricks. I’d love to try and strike you down.”

“We didn’t follow you out here for nothing,” Jack grinned, arms crossed across his broad chest.

Surprise and confusion colored his green eyes for a moment. The whole team, minus Peter, floated around, finishing their individual drills and warm ups. In his brooding and morning fog, Oliver never noticed the rest file in or fly out. He figured his friends would come out, knowing he worked his stress and frustration out physically. To see the whole team follow humbled the twenty-year-old.

“Are ye lot sure?” He asked, still wary of the proposition, and not wanting to upset the status quo.

“It’d do Petey boy some good to see the away hoops from time to time,” smirked Ethan, juggling the quaffle.  

Several of the starters charged towards him, an odd happenstance since they normally played ‘against’ their Captain. Flying as fast as he could towards the hoop they maneuvered towards, he intercepted and caught the quaffle, guarding to the best of his ability. From time to time, a player would shout advice or encouragement, not unlike the reserves. All in all, the morning felt surreal, but ended much better than he anticipated. 

Lunch proved to be a far more somber affair. Having deposited their brooms and gear in the locker room, Oliver chatted all the way towards the dining hall, surrounded by different members of his team. Furgeson and the starting beater Van, bestowed advice on both bludger paths and how to avoid getting hit. Scowling, though with no real heat, Oliver listened to the men. 

The dining hall filled with the families of the team and coaches, his own parents seated with the Grangers and Sunny at one table. Frowning at the large gathering, Oliver waved off his team. Long strides ate the distance, greeting his mother with a kiss. Jack, Ben, and Thomas, along with several others, ruffled Sunny’s hair as they walked past, avoiding her predictable swats. Watching the witch, weariness and stress sloped her shoulders and darkened bags under her eyes. The climate of Hogwarts fared no better than the team he deduced. 

“Please, everyone, eat,” a tall, reedy man entreated. “My name is Edward Steward and I am the general manager for Puddlemere United. I handle and oversee all talent acquisition and development. After a long meeting today with our board of directors and our majority owners, we have come to the conclusion that extra safety measures are necessary for all of those who both call this team family and this stadium home.

“As you have all doubtlessly heard, there has been a mass break-out at the prison of Azkaban in the North Sea. Amongst their number are several highly dangerous, extremely deranged individuals who pose a threat to our players and fans. In light of this situation, we are making changes to the security of the stadium,” he man sipped the glass of water, gathering himself and looking at the parchment in front of him. 

“Number one, we will no longer allow direct apparation into or out of our stadium for non-staff. This means spouses and registered partners in addition to fans, press, and opposing teams. Number two, the private floos in apartments and the staff entrance will only allow staff and registered family and partners through.”

Whispers spread through the tinder. Traveling, it appeared, would be far, far more difficult. Before, anyone could floo into a private residence, as long as they arrived with a registered staff or family member. Even now, several of the single players frowned. During working days and times, they were expected to live on grounds, and while that suited them just fine, the ban of extra company stung.

“Meanwhile, we will increase the family wards,” their GM continued. “No unregistered individual is allowed through the checkpoints from stadium proper, be it through staff entrances or the VIP and stadium entrances. The only exceptions are those put on a temporary visitor’s list. To register guests on those lists, they must arrive at minimum two hours prior to game start, be escorted by the staff member in question to security, and scanned. Their magical signature will be logged, and they will receive a temporary permit to pass through the wards. 

“Now then, for home games, nothing changes,” he grinned at the relief of the players. “For away games, after we have been updated on other teams’ safety measures, I will be providing more information. The most probable solution, and the one we are pursuing, is to send out a specialized portkey that will bring the team directly into our opposing locker rooms through our wards. Once more, only authorized staff will be cleared to enter. I’ll open the floor for questions.”

Oliver leaned back in his chair, frowning at the group around him. No one mentioned the words, nor did they say anything outright. Not a single mention of ‘You-Know-Who’ or ‘Death Eaters’ crossed the lips of a single person. Even if pureblood traditionalists dotted the families and the tables, everyone concerned themselves about how these new limitations affected their lives. Not anyone else’s. 

“They should add a ward for unregistered animagi,” Sunny murmured under her breath, watching as Jessie, Peter’s wife, sat back down.

“Do ye have a specific reason for that?” Oliver raised an eyebrow, intrigued at what felt like a non sequitur.

“Well, aside from  the fact that it provides an excellent defense,” a bemused glance met his gaze. “The Blacks are known for their strong powers and abilities in transfiguration. Unless I am much mistaken, the most mad of the lot recently became free.”

“That is a good point,” Oliver blinked, not even considering what unique talents the convicted possessed. 

“Add to that, Dolohov was a famed curse breaker, and some other defenses might protect us better,” she mused in the same low tone. “If psychic barriers weren’t so magically consuming, using one here would be quite advantageous.” 

A small frown marred his face, wondering just what the little witch truly thought. At the very least, his family’s estate boasted exceptionally strong and ancient wards, dating back to the time of the vikings. Her family, while politically protected (not even purebloods turned a nose to those in contact with QEII), he doubted such things crossed the minds of those who were freed. Instead, a quiet conversation passed between her Mistress and parents, the worried eyes of his Ma bouncing from one to the next.

“At the very least, ye’ll be safe here,” the keeper remarked, watching her expression.

“True, that’s one place,” her mouth pulled into a thoughtful pout.

“Are there any other considerations?” Edward called above the din of the crowd. Sunny’s hand lifted. “Ah, Apprentice Granger, please do stand.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jefferies,” she curtsied, polite and shallow.

“For those of you who don’t know,” the man smiled, indulgent and proud, at the young witch. “Miss Hermione Granger is an arithmancy apprentice under Mistress Septima Vector of Hogwarts,” the witch in question waved her hand for a moment, “and serves as a junior to our own Master Jonathan Stevenson. She also acquired an O in her potions NEWT and has been assisting Healer Erikson in both brewing and healing. She is a prodigious talent, and we are honored to have and develop excellence in all areas of the sport.” 

A small smattering of applause greeted the little speech. Smirking at her embarrassed flush, never one to take praise well, Oliver noted that several of the confused or frosty expressions shift. Curiosity and calculation spread across many of the conservative crowd, probably hearing of her from their younger relations. Still, the proud grins and beams from his teammates soothed the wary protectiveness.

“Please, go ahead Apprentice Granger,” Edward urged the lioness.

“What do you think of adding wards to restrict animagi?” She inquired, her open, earnest expression stopping most for a moment. Taking that as a turn towards the negative, Sunshine rushed. “It’s just that there are families known for their transfiguration talents, and, even if none of the convicts in question are so skilled, doesn’t mean that others cannot abuse such things. Animagi are rarely registered, but that doesn’t mean they are as uncommon as we first think.”

“That is an interesting suggestion,” their GM answered, his mind buzzing behind blue eyes and black brows. “I will bring it up to the bosses. I am assuming you have a set suggested, or that you can work on which ones will be best for our needs?”

“Is that not why I’m employed?” A cheeky grin answered, lightening the atmosphere. 

“Excellent, I will run it by them and let you know, Apprentice Granger,” the reedy man bowed his head. 

“Thank you, sir,” another curtsey answered.

“That’s not what ye do and ye know it,” Oliver chuckled as she settled back down.

“They don’t have to know that,” she grinned right back.

Another day, and the sight of Sunny gripping her hair in frustration greeted him. The animagi wards, much to his amusement, worked out to be quite easy. Between the two of them, they augmented a general estate ward, allowing only for registered staff members to transform. They patented the ward, a small royalty going to Puddlemere for funding and testing their project. All in all, not a terrible arrangement. 

The team, meanwhile, grew to further respect him. At least, that’s what Ben, Jack and Thomas told him. Oliver, for his part, never noticed. He practiced and studied as hard as ever, working to improve where the keeper coach indicated. Nothing functioned differently, though, he supposed, the other players interacted with him more. 

Which meant, they noticed Sunny, too. Of course, the more academically minded and strategic of the team knew her. Now, the other starters and reserves who rather play than theorycraft talked to the petite witch who helped Jonathan during their team meetings. The injury prone talked more than a word or two when in Medbay, too. Which led to more players at the later meetings.

Therefore, her rants about Potter and his lack of dedication and his inability to just shut his mind became commonplace as January blustered into February. So much so, several of the players began to take bets on just what the boy menace did this time. 

“Are you going to get Hermione?” Thomas grinned on Valentine’s day.

“Do ye want to come?” Oliver quirked a brow, stemming what teasing he could.

“And ruin a lovely date with your lady love?” The bill chaser smirked, leaning against his locker. “Never!”

“What’s this about lady love?” Ethan shouted as he walked in from their morning workout. 

“Ollie boy, here, is about to go escort the fetching young Miss Granger to the stadium,” his friend’s eyes sparkled with impish delight. 

“Finally making a move?” The tall, dark, and handsome man laughed. 

“He insists he’s just getting her for the game,” Thomas’s grin widened further at Oliver’s glare.

“You know, one day, he may be able to kill with that scowl,” Furgeson chuckled, walking past them. 

“I’m just going to get Sunny, not take her-” his calloused hands flailed in front of him.

“It’s called a ‘date’, Ollie,” Ben smirked from his locker. “A romantic outing with that certain someone to spend quality time with them.”

“Doesn’t she just floo in from the school?” Peter chimed in, his locker across the way. “Why not do that?”

“It’s a Hogsmeade day,” Oliver tried to explain, though his flushed ears and growl didn’t help his case. “It’s to give her the most time in the village before going back to the Castle after the game.”

“Well, that’s decidedly less fun,” pouted his friend.

“We’re not-” The reserve keeper tried once more.

“Dating, yes, we know,” Jack rolled his eyes. “Though, if I were you, I’d start adding a yet to that statement. Don’t want some random bloke to get the wrong impression.” A cheshire smirk broke across his features, eyes also alight with mirth and mischief. “Maybe you’re just not Miss Hermione’s type.” 

Oliver willed his body to move at its normal speed. To give zero indication of those words meaning anything to him. He removed his shirt and slacks from the locker, leaving them easily accessible for after his shower. From the shite-eating grin on Jack Pallie’s face, his friend guessed. 

“You aren’t wrong, what if she likes that large and rugged type,” Thomas added, expression matching the other chaser.

“She did date Krum,” Ethan observed. 

“Tall, dark, handsome,” Ben ticked off his fingers. “One can even say exotic.” 

The fact that Sunny viewed the imposing Bulgarian as a brother flashed through his mind, as did the many letters they’ve sent monthly since meeting. Shortly followed by the fact that she snogged another Durmstrang boy the last day of their stay as a way to ‘be remembered.’ A fierce scowl broke across his face, slamming the locker closed with more force than strictly necessary. Judging by the laughter that followed him, it failed. Miserably. Still, he ignored them to the best of his abilities.

“True, and while Ollie here may be a handsome bloke,” grinned the dark chaser. “One cannot mistake him for rugged.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he muttered to himself, washing faster than he thought possible. 

“Still, that doesn’t explain the core question,” Jack mused, loud enough to be heard over the pounding of the water. “Why are you going to get Miss Minnie, and not, say, Jonathan or Erikson?” 

Oliver froze for a moment, never really considering the question before. After that first time, he went without needing to be told. The keeper found he enjoyed the company of the Durmstrang students as much as the apprentice, and looked forward to the time spent. Not to mention, the Twins always entertained. This year, the instinct to protect overrode any other real reason. Having heard a term’s worth of the deteriorating conditions inside the castle, Oliver swept Sunny away whenever possible.

“Honestly, things aren’t great this year,” he huffed, deciding the protective slant most favorable.  “Between what Peter’s cousin writes and what the papers are running, her stories are… concerning. Inside the castle, her Mistress overrides the Headmaster and Umbridge, but outside of it…” A shrug punctuated the trailing words. 

“Bloody hell, take the fun out of it, why don’t you,” grumped Thomas.

“Yeah, Lee says it’s pretty bad,” Ethan remarked. 

“Ye know Lee?” Oliver blinked, surprised and excited all at once. 

“Rambunctious, hangs out with the Weasley twins, handsome little devil with dreads?” The man waggled his eyebrows. “Yeah, he’s my cousin.”

“Merlin, is wizarding Britain small,” Alexei muttered, shaking his head back and forth. 

“Do ye want me to get him anything or any messages to relay?” Oliver ignored the reserve beater. “He’ll be with the Twins, and Sunny’d know where they all are.” 

“How?” Dark brow arched.

“She’s a niffler for trouble,” mossy green eyes rolled, a large hand rubbing his forehead at the absolute truth of the statement. “Either it finds her or she finds it. And we know the Twins are nothing but trouble.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” smirked the older man.  “But right now, just let Lee know I said hello and to bloody well write once in a while.”

“Will do,” a mock salute answered. “With that, I’m off to see what awkwardness has descended upon the good people of Hogsmeade.”

“Only the best kind,” Jack called out behind him. 

Strolling from the locker room, the sounds of shouts and laughter shut behind the door. He strode through the stadium, taking in the pre-game preparations. Game day staffers and ushers walked the seats, placing cards and basic information pamphlets at each designation in certain sections. Brushing past some of the PR department with a nod, he flooed directly to the Three Broomsticks, bundled for the Scottish winter he missed.

“Ah, Oliver, how are you, dear?” Madame Rosmerta greeted upon his entrance into the pub. 

“I’m doing well, thanks,” he nodded towards the buxom woman. “How about ye?”

“Oh, can’t complain, can’t complain. I do love seeing the students on Valentine’s though,” her baby blues sparkled with delight. “Always a fun show, either good or bad. Makes the day more interesting.”

“I bet,” the keeper smiled, moving through the quiet establishment. 

“I haven’t seen her, yet,” the proprietress informed without further prompting. Her bell-like laughter filled the room, spying the annoyed scowl. “Really, Oliver, you don’t need to explain to me. Merlin knows I’ve seen people with far worse intentions towards her inquire.”

“I beg yer pardon?” A surprised, unamused brow lifted. 

“Come now, just because she’s an academic sort doesn’t mean lads don’t notice a pretty girl,” her head bobbed, “eventually. Now, I’ve held you long enough, dear. Might as well go see if the lass is fighting off suitors yourself.”  

“Have a good day,” Oliver answered, keeping the scowl from his face.  Mostly. 

Braving the cold, winter day, the young professional ventured out into the blustering, winter winds. Powdery snow coated the world around him, sparkling in the morning light. Children scattered about the streets, rushing from one place to the next. Some appeared nervous, glancing about, while others beamed from ear to hear. The familiar warmth of nostalgia hummed beneath his skin. Turning towards Zonkos, one of the most populous shops at this time, Oliver set himself to find a trio of pranksters. 

A blast of warmth greeted him. Laughter and shouts filled the air, heedless of the world outside of this little bubble. Whimsical and amused, Oliver wandered through the store, noting the different products from his last visit years prior. Toward the back, he found his query, talking to the proprietor about products. Twin flames of hair flanked their third, all talking shop more so than the keeper initially thought.

“And you think that if we were able to use some of the draught here,” one of the twins (damn Oliver if he ever figured out which was which) frowned, serious for once in his life. “It would stabilize the charms work?”

“That ought to,” the elderly man nodded, a twinkle in his eye. 

“Thank you, Mr. Zachries,” the other chimed, noting the approaching wizard. “But we have a wizard to talk about some sport with!”

“You boys stay safe, you hear,” the owner chuckled, head shaking back and forth. “And none of that funny business with Umbridge, you hear? She’s not one to be trifled with.”

“Trifled with?” The first twin gasped, aghast.

“Us? You think so little of our integrity?” The other clutched his heart.

“You know that if we start pranking her, it’s carefully planned and with malicious intent,” the first grinned, ear to ear. “Making her life miserable like she’s made the rest of our’s.” 

“And we will stick around only long enough to make her life a living hell and help distract her from the other students,” the other finished, serious and stern. 

“Not like we have much to do anyways,” the first one shrugged. 

“She did lock up our brooms,” the second finished. 

“And Hermione’d have our heads if we practiced on ickle firsties in general, and the signed consent of everyone else,” one twin dramatically sighed. 

“That witch was right to get you two to make those,” the old shopkeeper waggled his finger at the boys. “You two could’ve gotten into some serious trouble, especially as legal adults. Pranks are fun and fantastic, but you don’t want to end up really hurting someone.” 

“I guess,” the other twin capitulated, just as theatrical as the first. 

“Not to mention that’s a nifty bit of magic she wove into those contracts,” the man hummed. “Have you two talked her into patenting it?”

“Yes, but she needs a solicitor she can trust first,” one of the boys frowned. 

“It’s important, especially for a future mistress. She’s likely to be patenting quite a bit of work, and some contracts can be remarkably confining,” the man nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. “For that matter, you two better look into it yourselves.”

“Yes sir!” They chimed. 

“Have a good day, Mr. Zachries,” Lee grinned, dragging the troublesome twins away.

“We’ll write to you next week!” The twins chorused. 

Stifling a chuckle, Oliver walked up to the trio. Shaking his head, greetings went around. They weaved around babbling kids and frustrated prefects. Poor things, attempted to control the rather wild behavior. Then again, with the oppression in the castle, they blew off steam where they could. Meanwhile, the trio of seventh years all chatted to him about their pranks, and what they got over the toad this time.

“She’s getting so bad that your Aunt has been ignoring us,” the one twin gushed.

“I never thought we’d see the day when McGonagall encourages us to prank someone,” the other sighed, dreamy and content. “It’s more than my poor heart can handle.”

“But what are you doing here, Wood?” Lee inquired, glancing at the quidditch player. 

“I’ve come to get Sunny for the game tonight,” Oliver answered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “She tends to get supplies and then we head over to the Three Broomsticks and head into the stadium. I’ve been so focused on practice, I dinnae even realize it was Valentine’s until the team started to take the mickey out of me.” Pausing for a moment, he turned towards the Gryffindor commentator. “By the way, Ethan says hi and to write to him more often.”

“Oh, finally realized you lot are on the same team, did you?” Laughed the young wizard. “I’ll write, I promise.” 

“Donnae promise me,” mossy eyes rolled. 

“And are you sure that’s the only reason the lads decided to tease you, Ollie, ol’ boy, ol’ pal,” the twin nearest him slung an arm over his shoulder.

“I’m sure I donnae what yer talking about,” he scowled, thinking back to earlier.

“In that case, you wouldn’t mind if, say, Cormac McLaggen suddenly decided to proposition her in the middle of the street?” The other remarked, hazel eyes sparkling. 

Sure as the snow falling around them, Sunshine stood across the way. Impatience and irritation radiated off her petite, coiled figure. Cinnamon eyes darted towards the shop sign, longing and desperate. The boy, a tall, lean blonde, never noticed her cold stare nor seemed affected by her polite, disinterested frown. Instead, he blabbered on about nothing in particular.

“Who’s the bloke she wants to murder right now?” Oliver arched a brow, more amused than anything.

“McLaggen,” Lee chuckled, watching the witch turn on the boy without another word. 

“Now I remember,” he murmured, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. Sunny turned on her heel without so much as a by-your-leave and entered Slug and Jiggers. Probably to restock on supplies for her Master and Healer Erikson, he mused. “Mentioned he became rather annoying after the ball last year.” 

“Sounds about right,” one of the twins chuckled. “Hasn’t stopped McLaggen from trying, though. Ponce has an ego the size of Gringotts.”

“I’d be more worried for her if she weren’t so terrifying,” Lee remarked, eyes wide. “Lemme tell you, mate, her dueling is second to none.” 

I just bet it is, he hummed in agreement. Her Master required perfection, a standard Sunny held herself to as well. Moments later, the petite witch bustled from the shop, pulling her coat closer. Adjusting her hat and brushing stray curls that blew in the wind, she took off to her next target: Scrivener’s. Standing down the street, he watched as the youngest Weasley brother strode down, several Gryffindors flanking him. From what he saw, the boy gazed into the shop, a mixture of desire and disgust coloring his features.

“Then we have poor Ronnikins who can’t understand or concede that he even likes the bird,” one of the twins chuckled.

“Poor lad, lost all ability to hold a decent conversation,” the second one tutted.

“You assume he possessed that ability in the first place,” Lee chimed in. 

Still, when Sunny emerged from the quill shop moments later, the boy’s blue eyes lit up. Oliver quelled the feeling of frustration bubbling in his chest, heartened by the witch’s unamused raised brow and her efficient strides coming straight for them. Instead of grinning like an absolute madman, the keeper settled on a smirk and shake of his head. Trailing behind, the youngest Weasley brother attempted to catch her attention with conversation. 

“No, Ronald, I do not know when Harry plans on arriving with Cho,” her voice carried on the wind.

“And he’s annoyed her already,” Lee whistled. “That’s some sort of talent right there. She normally has the patience of a muggle saint.” 

“She does?” The three other wizards chimed together.

“Well, Granger is the one who helps every first year that crosses her path, tutors pretty much anyone who comes to her during her times, and generally educates muggleborn students about the magical world where she can,” the commentator rolled his eyes. “Yes, you lot of numpties, she does!”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re Hermione Granger, you know everything,” sneered the redhead, obviously trying to rile her up. 

“If it hasn’t escaped your notice for the past year and a half, I work on Saturdays,” her cinnamon eyes begged someone to step in. Smiling, disarming and innocent, Oliver enjoyed the narrowing of her gaze. “In fact,” Sunny’s smile turned shark-like, “Ol, here, has come to help finish with my errands before we go to work.” 

“Did he, now,” growled the Gryffindor, his blue eyes boring into Oliver. “And aren’t you just so happy and excited about that.”

“Well, I do enjoy my job,” the witch turned on her heel, winking at the Scotsman's disgruntled face. “Being around fit men never hurt anyone.” 

“Oh, is that all you want?” Sneered the student, showing just how much of a boy he still was. “If I knew it were that easy-”

“She’s just bloody joking, you idiot,” one of the twins surged forward, arms crossed.

“Despite outward appearances, and her desperate attempts to stifle our mischief,” the second mirrored his twin.

“Hermione does actually possess a sense of humor,” the first finished. 

“It’s just dry and a bit difficult for the intellectually challenged to pick up or appreciate,” the second nodded. 

“Not like anyone would bloody well care what a bookish swot like her would have, anyways,” the boy mumbled, walking away with his friends. 

“I swear, your brother gets more and more charming every time I see him,” Oliver remarked, finding himself next to the scowling witch. “Well, come on, I know you haven’t gotten to Tomes and Scrolls, yet.” 

“Been watching me, Wood?” Sunny smirked.

Warmth flooded his cheeks and ears, chalking it up to the sudden blast of cold air rushing through the streets. He hated being caught observing, but then again, what else could explain it?

“We’ve been ‘Mione watching,” the first twin saved his dignity. 

“It’s been quite fun to watch the different blokes walk up to you and try to ask you out on Valentine’s day,” the second chuckled, leading the group to the bookstore. 

“Asking me out? You two must be nutters,” Sunshine scoffed. 

“What about that third year from Hufflepuff?” The first shot.

“He thanked me for helping him pass transfiguration,” cinnamon eyes rolled to the overcast sky. “He also had candies for Professor Sprout and Madame Pomfrey, so unless you are saying the poor boy has a taste in much older women…”

“And what excellent taste it is,” the second gested. “Like a fine wine, only time can truly bring out all the flavors, complexity, and nuances.” 

“And then we happened upon you with a certain Gryffindor,” Lee added, glee in his voice. “Cornered you as you were about to do some important errands, it appears.”

“He doesn’t know how to take a bloody hint,” muttered the witch, pushing the door of the shop open. A silver bell tinkled above, heralding their entrance.

“Not to mention the tender attentions of our lovely brother,” one of the twins smirked.

“I don’t know how to be less interested if I try,” she scowled ahead of them. “Hello James,” Sunny called past the counter.

“Ah, Hermione my dear, how good to see you,” the proprietor, an older gentleman, appeared from a bookshelf. “Please, I have a new shipment in the antique room and some new titles from abroad since last you visited this old man.”

“You are too kind,” dimpled the lioness. “Any of particular interest?” 

“Oh, a few here, a few there,” he grinned, the answer entirely unhelpful. “Go and see for yourself, I’ll let you know when it’s a quarter ‘til.”

“You’re a gem, James, thank you so much,” Sunshine gushed, giving the man a hug before wandering off. 

“I cannot believe we all got shown up by the owner of the book store,” Lee whispered in awe, watching him wink away.

“Everyone loves Hermione,” one of the twins nodded as if in fact.

They wandered the book shop, seeing what wares it housed. At some point, Oliver stood in an aisle, a tome on different runic alphabets and their relative strengths and weaknesses flipped open. He wandered, nose stuck in it, towards a small sitting area in front of a picture window. Pages turned under his calloused fingers, revealing new and interesting information. For a time, the warm silence washed away the world. Until the distinct scrape of a shoe across the floor grabbed his ear.

“Oh, hey Neville,” a familiar mezzo greeted, happy and warm. “How are you doing?”

“Hi Hermione, hey,” a brunette boy at the corner of his eye fidgeted. Baby fat melted to reveal a rather dashing young wizard, if still painfully shy and unsure. “I was wondering how your day is going?”

“Oh, you know, same old, same old,” Sunny brushed aside with ease. “I did some errands, ran into a prat or two, and am browsing before the game.” 

“That’s right, Puddlemere has a game today, yeah?” Longbottom gulped, his soft, brown eyes darting between the witch and the bookshelf.

“Every Saturday,” the witch chuckled, fingers running along the spines of the books. “Our first bye week isn’t for a bit yet. Oliver is here. He normally meets me after their morning workout. I think he likes seeing the twins and the girls, catching up with old friends, you know.” 

“Right,” a surprisingly dry, disbelieving Longbottom scoffed. “Visiting old friends. Like you?”

What was with everyone today? Oliver groused, shoving away the desire to bang his head against a table. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m an old friend,” Sunny hummed, still distracted. “We do see each other almost everyday. An old friend implies a certain lack of contact over time.” Turning to face the tall, shy boy, the petite witch smiled and asked, “And what about you? Any special plans?”

“I was going to see if I could ask a witch to have lunch with me,” Longbottom muttered, his face red and bright. Once more, his gaze settled everywhere but the brunette in front of him. “And see if she’d, you know, like to talk. And stuff.” 

Thrown for a loop, Oliver fought to remain in his chair, book in hand. He watched as another wizard propositioned Sunshine. If anxiety and a type of possessive rage didn’t battle for dominance, he’d scoff at her clueless handling. The third year, the keeper conceded. He probably had something of a school boy crush on the older student who spent time and treated him kindly. McLaggen and Weasley, Oliver, too, excused to some extent. Sunny clearly despised both to varying degrees. Yet Longbottom, a wizard the petite witch called her first friend in their world, asking her for a date (no matter how round about and awkward) summoned more emotions than Oliver wanted to admit. 

“Oh, that sounds quite lovely,” Sunshine beamed, quite ignorant that the witch in question happened to be her. “You should get away from Madam Puddifoots. It’s absolutely dreadful. Now, there’s a little known bakery just up the road, The Bubbling Cauldron. Lovely establishment, excellent tea, wonderful finger foods. They may not have openings until after lunch, of course, since many of the non-Hogwarts couples tend to go there, but it is worth the wait.” 

Oliver pitied the boy, watching the guileless, helpful witch slowly kill all hope. It shone in his eyes for just a moment. Each word dimmed that light until it faded into the dull, dark place of simply-friends. His sympathies, however, found the boy only after soothing the aggravation in his person. Watching such a total and complete rejection by a truly well-meaning, caring person always killed a part of him. 

“O-oh,” Longbottom stuttered. “R-right.” 

“It’s alright, Neville, you got it,” cheered Sunny, oblivious to the boy’s pain. “I bet she’ll say yes. You are quite a wonderful-” the hope shone, bright and pure, “-friend-” and there, it died again. “She’ll be quite mad to say no.”

Seeing the soulless smile on the Gryffindor’s face, Oliver took pity and stood. Making his way behind the nearest bookshelf, it took all his willpower to not laugh. There stood Sunshine, eyes beaming with happiness at the prospect of her friend asking out a girl. Meanwhile, Longbottom’s vacant eyes and dumbfounded smile illustrated the whole story.

“Sunny, it’s getting close to noon. We promised the girls to meet ‘em,” Oliver walked behind the other Gryffindor (who’s height surprised the keeper). 

“Oh!” Glancing at her wrist, the witch rushed past them. “Thank you so much for reminding me, I would have forgotten! Then, Angie would never let me live it down.” 

“Especially since you now share a dorm with them,” Longbottom snarked, some of the color returning at the Typically-Sunny behavior.

“And thank Morgana for that,” she exclaimed. “It is really quite nice to actually like and trust your dormmates for once. Quite the lovely change.” A pout pursed her lips. “Well, mostly. They do like to tease me a bit more.” 

“What about?” Oliver smirked.

“Nothing important,” blushed the apprentice, rushing past the two young men. “I cannot believe it is already that late.” 

She disappeared through the store, towards the vague direction of the till. Following at a more sedate pace, Oliver chuckled to himself. In many ways, Sunny personified discretion. Her pretty brain safeguarded many of the team’s secrets, and his own. Her manners and ability to misdirect in a ‘proper’ and ‘formal’ situation honestly astounded him. 

“She’s not particularly subtle,” Longbottom snickered.

“Not with her friends, no,” the keeper shook, brunette flopping fringe back and forth, a fond smile upon his lips. 

Glancing between the front of the store and himself, Longbottom’s chocolate eyes considered the possibilities. Oliver followed the sound of Sunny’s voice. Twining around the occasional shopper, he plucked a couple of interesting titles passing by. He understood how the apprentice worked, and wanted to be prepared. The other Gryffindor scowled in disbelief. 

“Oh, of bloody course,” the teen muttered to himself.

Deliberately misunderstanding, because Oliver didn’t think he could survive another implication, he paid and waited for Sunny. Light poked through the thinning clouds as the midday crowd swelled. Sweethearts romanced in the streets, sweet and adorable. Down the thoroughfare, a rather spectacular row garnered an audience. Sneaking past, they slipped into the Three Broomsticks.   

Finding their friends, Oliver’s lithe, lean body weaved through the now busy and packed pub. As they neared their table, a tall teen called out to Sunny. Beaming, the petite witch begged off their friends and went to talk with the stranger. His dark, expressive eyes sparkled at the lioness. Brunette waves fell across his face, dark stubble across his square jaw. Sitting with more force than he anticipated, Oliver scowled. 

“You don’t have to be so happy to see us,” Katie Bell sassed, noting his inhospitable expression. “It’s quite lovely to see you, too. Heard practices are going well, and everything is flowing smoothly with the new security measures.” 

“Right, sorry about that,” he flushed, embarrassed by his behavior. “It’s just been a long day already.”

“I can bet,” Angie smirked, leaning back in her stool. “We aren’t interrupting any plans, are we? No sordid affairs you’re carrying out in secret?”

“Merlin, save me from witches,” his mossy green eyes rolled, though his lips twitched.

“Is that a yes?” Allie grinned, mirroring her friends.

“Unless you call going home and relaxing before the match tonight ‘sordid’,” Oliver snarked back. “Then, no.” 

“Not like he’d let anyone else find Sunny-girl,” Angie chuckled, leaning back.

“Did someone mention Hermione?” Lee beamed at the assembled group, sliding in between Katie and Alicia. “And how are you lovely ladies on this cool Valentine’s day?”

“Just fine, Lee,” Katie responded, dry and amused. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Though, I must say the day surprisingly got better just now.”

“I wonder whatever changed,” he smirked. 

“We did,” the twins chorused from behind Oliver.

“Obviously,” the other two chasers echoed.

A fond, nostalgic smile creased his lips. Something about this core of players warmed his heart. All so different, and yet able to come together so beautifully, it astounded the keeper. Whether it were Charlie or Potter, this group stuck with his crazy mood swings, insatiable need to improve, and his ridiculous ideas. Even with the higher level of competition driving him, Oliver missed this camaraderie. 

“Where’s Hermione?” One of the twins inquired. 

“She’s with Webb,” Angie’s smirk returned in full force, shining upon him.

Looking towards the witch in question, Oliver noticed just how well they knew one another. Her hands moved, demonstrating some idea or theory. Webb’s expression warmed under her attention, softer than any platonic relationship Oliver knew. A rush of possessiveness flooded his senses, cursing the rugged good looks of the student.

“Who is he?” Scottish brogue grunted. 

“Christopher Webb, seventh year Ravenclaw,” Katie grinned, knowing and amused. “Something of a charms wiz, as Hermione says.” 

Oh great. Ruggedly handsome and bloody smart, Oliver frowned.

“I think he wants to go into quidditch after this year,” Allie nodded along. “He’s their star chaser this year.” 

Resisting the urge to throw up his arms and march over there, Oliver growled instead. Glaring at the apparently perfect Ravenclaw, he noted the forward lean and delighted expression. Sunny, it appeared, amused the wizard a great deal. Her arms crossed under her chest, a scowl (with little heat) aimed towards the wizard. 

“I think he likes to get Sunny to repeat things he already knows just to watch her,” Angie mused, eyes gleaming in delight. “She tends to be rather heated when caught.” 

“You remember the first time they were assigned a project?” Allie conversationally remarked. 

“That time she nearly strangled him for being so presumptuous as to assume she couldn’t contribute due to the fact that she’s a female, and a younger one?” snickered the other girl. “That was great. The ponce needs to be taken down a peg or two.” 

“Ah, looks like Hermione figured it out,” a twin muttered, watching the little witch flick her wrist. 

Laughing, Webb deflected the mild stinging hex onto one of his friends. The desire to join in the jinxing stirred his blood. Surely, just one little spell couldn’t hurt? And yet, those very thoughts drew the arched, bemused brow of one Sunshine. Crossing his (muscular) arms on his (broad) chest, he scowled, unrepentant and grumpy. A small shake of chocolate curls and a bemused smile answered. Saying her goodbyes, Sunshine turned towards them. 

“You know, Madame Rosmerta may think you’re trying to scare her patrons away with that scowl,” her soft mezzo murmured for his ears alone, trailing her fingers along his shoulders as she walked past. “Now, where am I sitting?”

Just like that, the possessive anger and frustration reverted into a general huff. Oliver wondered just what triggered that response. He reasoned the intense desire to protect her as an important person, like all his friends and family. Webb presented a mystery, someone he didn’t know or trust. In the growing dusk of Wizarding Britain, the keeper trusted less and less. Satisfied with that rationale, a tiny, amused smile tipped the corners of his lips as Sunny settled on top of Angie’s lap. Their animated discussion soothed the rest of his temper.

“AND THE FALCONS ARE EARNING THEIR REPUTATION TODAY, WITCHES AND WIZARDS!” The announcer boomed throughout the home team stadium. 

Oliver winced in sympathy for Jack. Hurtling at full speed, the bludger slammed into his friend’s torso. Thankfully, they padded the sides and reinforced them before the game, knowing the Falcon’s favorite strategies. Still, he worried about his team. 

Something felt off. 

Ever since the announcement in the prophet more than a month ago, Peter played well enough, but not up to his usual standards. Add this to the jeers and boos from the crowd, and their Captain lacked his usual edge and focus. This placed undue strain on the chasers to keep the ball in their possession more than they’d like. Voices of thousands, in full force despite the terrible weather, rose above the pelting rain. 

Smelling blood in the water, their opponents lunged for the jugular, aiming towards their distracted captain more often than not. Bats swung, sometimes hitting the iron balls, other times acting as a distraction. The last time one of the Falcon beaters connected with a bludger, Jack performed a standard defensive maneuver and paid the price.

Yet, as the sleet of late winter poured down, they played on. 

“AND THERE GOES PALLIE, JUGGLING THE QUAFFLE AND PASSING IT OFF TO SUMMERS!” Echoed through the stadium.

Just as they went to score, a bludger whirled past Ethan, making him lose balance for a split second. Flint, having made the starting line-up of the Falcons, tackled and wrenched the ball free. Scowling, the streaks of blue and white sped towards the opposite side. Passing between the chasers, Peter hovered towards the left, their strong side. 

An audible crunch echoed, magically amplified, echoed through the stadium. Left arm extended, quaffle in hand, the Falmouth beaters timed their attack to perfection. One bludger slammed into the front of his right shoulder at the exact moment the second crashed into the back of his left shoulder. His spine twisted in a painful, sickening crack. 

“Bloody hell,” Oliver muttered, standing up. 

Everyone held their breath, time standing still. Then, horror.  Falling to the ground, Peter’s body tumbled from his broom, lifeless. Limbs flailed in the wind above his plummeting torso, growing closer and closer to the pitch. Terror gripped the team, watching their captain’s motionless body tumble back to earth. 

Hands pushed his back, ushering the young player forward. Nerves for his mentor and friend attacked for a split second. He watched Healer Erikson and Sunshine float the injured player to the ground and into the visiting Medbay, saving Peter from a fatal impact. 

“AND WHAT A HIT,” the home announcer bellowed. “THE BACK BREAKER, EXECUTED BY YOUR HOMETOWN, FALMOUTH FALCONS, TAKES OUT THE CAPTAIN OF PUDDLEMERE UNITED!” 

The roar of the crowd deafened his ears, stopping Oliver’s heart in his chest. Coach Burton and his position coach, Andrews, started instructing him. Yes, he knew the game plan inside and out (studying with Sunny helped tremendously). To the side, the equipment manager padded and enchanted his gear, holding it to him piece by augmented piece. Placing his helmet and goggles on, he turned towards the opening in the coach’s box.

“AND IT LOOKS LIKE CAPTAIN DENTON IS OUT FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE MATCH. REPLACING HIM WILL BE THE SECOND YEAR ROOKIE, OLIVER WOOD, IN HIS FIRST EVER APPEARANCE!” 

Freezing once more, mossy eyes glanced towards the retreating figures. Through the precipitation and haze of nerves, Oliver noticed a small speck in blue stop, giving what could’ve been a double thumbs-up encouraging him. Letting that confidence and faith in his abilities bolster his courage, the keeper mounted his broom and sped to the middle of his team. 

“We don’t give a damn for any of your lads!” The crowd sung in disjointed harmony, greeting the young keeper. “We’ll kick ‘em in the NADS!” Jeering swelled. “You’re all a bunch of CADS!”

Jack slapped his back while Ethan filled him in on the strategy. Breaking quickly, he guarded the rings. They were down thirty points, but could still win. The crowd faded to the background. Focus and concentration tracking the game just like any other day. Between the bludgers and the chasers, his mind ignored the rest of the stimuli. 

Flint wove through his teammates and, just like in school, twitched his shoulders just a bit. His mind cataloged the tell, leaning ever so slightly towards the right goal, catching the ball as it arched through the rain. Just as he secured the ball, the buzzing of a gnat growing closer alerted him to a bludger. He dove, abrupt and instinctive, letting the twin cannon balls fly past. 

“What the bloody hell are ye lot doing?” He shouted to his beaters, almost caught in the same way as Peter. 

“They are feinting towards Eth,” Van shouted, scowling at himself.

“Oh, for Godric’s sake,” muttered the keeper. “Why don’t ye do the Mansion play, keep ‘em off kilter for a minute and stall until Thompson finds the bloody snitch?”

A hard nod, and his teammate flew into the inhospitable sky, signaling to his partner. Unable to do more than scowl and watch, Oliver paced before the hoops. He understood the difficulty in spotting a small, golden ball under these conditions. Still, within the next hour and a half, the Falcons pushed and fouled, challenging their goal more times than he could count. Only two of them went through, easily answered by Puddlemere’s chasers. It took Jack and Ethan flying towards him, grins stretched across their faces in the waning light, to finally snap Oliver from his place of focus.

And what a sight greeted his wandering gaze. 

Thousands of fans cheered from all around (well, a good number booed. They were, in fact, the visiting team). The rest of the team huddled around the hoops, slapping his back and urging him back to the ground. Shouting from the announcer echoed above the noise, adding to the excitement all around. 

Nerves and adrenaline mixed with the triumph of a hard-earned win, heady and dizzying. His feet firmly planted on the soaked and muddy pitch, flashes of light blinding him. Only the PR training he underwent and occlumency allowed Oliver to appear somewhat coherent instead of the blinking, mildly confused mess he felt. Reporters asked questions, their quills at the ready, and eyes eager for the newest piece of meat. Which, considering some of the thoughts and schemes their minds shouted, put him on edge. 

“Mr. Wood, what was it like playing for the first time?”

“Mr. Thompson, take us through your incredible game-winning dive!”

“Mr. Wood, tell us what you felt the moment you saw Denton fall?”

“Mr. Pallie! What of your fantastic maneuvers to score the last five goals?” 

“Mr. Wood?! Mr. Wood?!”

On and on and on they shouted. Answering a few questions, the PR team soon descended upon the players. Ushered into the opposing coaches box, the excitement of the pitch died down. Good jobs and congratulations from the rest of the reserves greeted Oliver, though their smiles never reached their eyes. Even Coach grunted a well done, high praise from the phlegmatic man.

“Any news?” Oliver asked, the first words not spoken to a reporter since the game ended. 

The collection of downcast faces answered for him. Fear gripped his chest. In time, maybe, he’d unpack the tangled mess of emotions. Of the euphoria of victory and the intense trance state focusing on the game brought upon. For now, he needed to see Peter. At the very least, see if Sunny required any help. Godric knew the witch worked far too hard.

“Where are you going, Wood?” The beater he talked to earlier called out.

“To see Sunny and get some news on Peter,” he called out, hair damp and fingers finishing the last few buttons of his shirt. Coach insisted they dress for away games, stating appearance mattered in such affairs. He grabbed his navy blue blazer, shrugging it on as he neared the door. “They’ve been at it for a couple of hours already. Hopefully, I can get something” 

“Oh good, I’m coming with,” Ethan called out, finishing up. “The little spitfire has healed enough of my idiocy. Might as well see if I can pay her back a bit, yeah?” 

“Which one?” Jack snarked, pulling a comb through his hair.

“Both,” he smirked. 

Rolling his eyes, Oliver pushed through the locker room door into the opposing coach’s box. Fans and media crowded him, popping cameras and natering people congratulating. Pasting a polite smile on his face, he accepted the thanks and praise. Gently and as quickly as possible, Oliver pried hands off his person, walking and nodding out of shoulder holds. As he neared Coach Burton, one of the members of their PR department steered him away.

“You’re going to the post-game presser today, Wood,” the effeminate man explained, flashing smiles at those they passed. “Now, I know this is your first time, just answer the questions directed at you. Remember, we’ve trained you for this. At worst, pull those shields up like Jonathan taught you.”

“Right,” Oliver blinked, attempting to keep his owlish gaze down.

“And at least pretend to relax,” the man’s brown eyes twinkled. “I know you’re worried about Pete, hell, we all are. He’s a good man, but right now, the fans need to be reassured and our opponents need to know we are no weaker.” 

“Right, I can do that,” the Scot muttered to himself, a question in his eyes.

“Luther,” the other man answered.

“Yes, right, I can do that, Luther,” Oliver attempted to reassure both men.

“Well, you better be or that sea of sharks is going to eat you alive,” mischief danced in his brown eyes.

“Great,” muttered the keeper. “Just ruddy great.” 

Peeking in through a side door, a sea of reporters filled the classroom-sized area. Rows of seats, all filled, lined the majority of the room with a large aisle down the middle and smaller ones around the rows. Cameras and their photographers positioned themselves in the back and around, ready to capture the moments. In front of him, a long table with several chairs and cups of water stood on a dais, looking down upon the sea of reporters. 

A man stood from the front row, his robes pressed and fresh. The buzzing in the room decreased, eyes watching with hungry anticipation. Walking in front of what appeared to be an old-fashioned muggle microphone, he casted a spell, activating the device.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?” The room fell silent, all eyes forward. “We will first be hearing from the visiting team, Puddlemere United. On the podium for questions today will be Chaser Jack Pallie, Keeper Oliver Wood, Seeker Christian Thompson, and Head Coach, Bartholomew Burton.”

An excited murmur broke out amongst the crowd. As rehearsed, they entered in the order announced. Following his friend, Oliver watched the couple of steps onto the podium and took his seat. Snaps and pops whirled, catching the players and coach settling in front of the assembled journalists. 

“Now then, we’ll start with a statement from Coach Burton before opening the floor to questions,” the man instructed.

“Today, our team fought through adversity to get a good, tough win against the Falcons,” Coach Burton remarked. “Despite the lack of visibility, I would say our chasers did a fair job, and, of course, Thompson catching the snitch never hurts.” A good natured chuckle circled the room. “I think I speak for all of us that our hearts stopped seeing Peter go down like that.” The players nodded, their captain’s status still unknown. “But we rallied. Wood was able to hold the line and let our team do what it needed to win.  

“As for Peter, we have not heard anything since the healers started their work,” the man glared at the gathered witches and wizards. “Therefore, we have no update. However, I have the highest confidence in our medical staff and their ability to treat him.”

Nodding along, the official transcript dict-a-quill danced along the scroll in the middle of the table. A tidbit of information floated through Oliver’s mind. The microphones adopted from Muggle technology recorded their words, keeping a universal, accurate account of the interview. It helped keep the sports section as truthful and unbiased as possible. 

“Now then, you lot know the drill, one by one when called,” the man managing the floor instructed. “Wilma, you first.” 

“Thank you, Niel,” an older, blonde woman nodded. “Wilma Finke, Quidditch Daily, this is for the whole team. How did you all feel seeing your Captain, Peter Denton, get hit and fall?” 

“Well,” Oliver began, noticing the unsure glances of his teammates. On the sidelines, the young player at least had the opportunity to process some of his emotions. Giving the others a chance to think, he answered. “Shock and disbelief at first. Ye never expect to see your Captain take that sort of hit. Then, determination to make it mean something, ye know? We’ve been practicing hard, and the reserves work with the starters, so we are one team. Once the whistle blew, we just played.”

Occlumency saved the day. Instead of babbling or hyperventilating, it helped sort through the thoughts and emotions reemerging from the fog of adrenaline. He evenly met the witch’s eyes, answering to the best of his ability much like he did his Professor years ago. Nodding along, his relieved team picked up his train of thought, echoing much of what he stated.

“Aye, Oliver’s got the right of it,” Jack chimed in, his natural charisma shining through. “He’s been working hard since joining the team, and we knew he could handle the moment when it came. We are just sorry it arrived in such a horrible fashion.” 

And so the rest answered. The witch at the mic asked several follow-up questions. What crossed your minds? What do you think is going to happen moving forward? How do you think the young blood played? Things that kept his other teammates busy for the moment.

“Thank you, Wilma,” nodded the man, waving in the next reporter. “Tony, you next.” 

“Anthony Constantine, The Morning Gazette,” a tall, salt-and-pepper wizard strode forward. “Mr. Wood, this is for you,” Oliver focused his gaze on the man. “How do you think you played in your debut? What are your plans moving forward?”

“Overall, I am happy we won the game, and I contributed to it the best I knew how,” he parsed together, hoping to at least be coherent. “But really, the chasers and Peter laid the groundwork long before I flew out. There are mistakes I made, and the coaches and I will talk about it more during practice. Those are my plans for the moment.”

They all wanted to trip him up, Oliver concluded as reporter after reporter tried to bait the Scotsman. Really, he only played for an hour and a half. He started in the third hour of play, sleet and rain extending the game beyond what both hoped. Still, if it weren’t for the coaches and Peter, his team, then his own play meant nothing. By the fifth time the question crossed the lips of a reporter (this time, Timothy Jonson of the Daily Prophet), Oliver scowled. 

“As I’ve answered four times already,” he restrained himself from growling at the tittering man. “I dinnae do anything special or unique, simply played the way we practiced. Together, as a team.” 

Jack’s shoulders quaked, suppressing the most audible of his laughter. Thompson didn’t even try to hide his snort. Coach Burton’s near smirk threw the young keeper the most, though. No wonder the coach grouched at the mention of these things. They were bloody tedious.

“Ah, very good, very good, Mr. Wood,” Mr. Jonson stuttered. “That will be all from me for now.”

“Finally, Velma, your turn,” the MC of this purgatory announced. 

“Thank you, Niel,” a curvaceous redhead sauntered to the stand. Her hazel eyes sparkled, full lips pulled into what Oliver assumed to be a seductive smile. “Velma Chambers, Witch Weekly.”

Far enough from the mic to not be picked up, Jack smirked and side-glanced at Oliver. “Oh, this is going to be good.” 

“Mr. Wood, this one is just for you,” the witch grinned, her saccharine-sweet voice filling him with dread. “What every witch is going to want to know is this: were you thinking of anyone special when you took the pitch this afternoon? Is there a certain someone out there ready to break the hearts of our readers?”

What in Morgana’s name did this have to do with quidditch? Oliver nearly gaped at the woman. Did she seriously think he’d divulge something so private?

“I thought of me Ma,” he answered, trying to keep a civil tongue in his head. “She has been nothing but my biggest supporter and fan since I told her I wanted to play professionally.” 

“Oh, how lovely,” her voice caressed the words. “And just how long did you want to be a professional player?”

“Since I was a wee bairn,” he shrugged, hoping to satisfy her curiosity. 

“And does that mean that there’s no special witch out there, waiting for your triumphant return?” Her eyes lit, hoping to catch him out. “No one whose support means something different? Perhaps more in some ways?”

He slammed his shield down tight. Because he did see someone when she asked her questions. In fact, they summoned a very familiar pair of warm, cinnamon eyes, mischievous smile, and chocolate curls. The fact that those inquiries hit so close to home, to someone he strove to protect shocked a knee-jerk reaction from him. Twinkling eyes and bright, white smile triggered the defensiveness instinct, unfurling with each sugar sweet word.

“Is there a quidditch question there?” His cool, polite tone cut through the confusion of his mind. “Because we are here to talk about how the fifth ranked Puddlemere U defeated the second ranked Falcons.” Holding her assured gaze, for a moment, he waited for an answer. Her silence spoke volumes. “In that case, I am more than happy to answer questions regarding the game, but nothing else.”

The witch pursed her lips, an assessing once over tracing over his features. Then, as if nothing happened, she turned towards Jack with her too-bright, too-nosy smile and asked him some questions. The press conference drew to an end after a total of half an hour, the MC thanking them for their time. Long strides led him from the stuffy room into the much cooler corridor. Luther greeted the team, walking alongside them towards their box.

“Good job in there, Wood,” the man beamed. “Not too shabby for a first presser. It’s good to set your boundaries on questions early. By the way, Velma is a niffler for scandals, and will do her best to dig at you.” 

“I couldn’t tell,” Oliver retorted, wry and irritated. 

“But you made up for that bit of surliness with the more quidditch related questions,” Luther chuckled. “Good and engaging. We’ll work on it a bit.” 

“What do ye mean?” Confused eyes glanced to the side. 

“I know you’re not slow, Wood,” the man snorted, brushing aside his blonde hair. “We haven’t word yet from Medbay, which is never a good sign. Peter is out for the count.” Turning to face him, noise and excitement from the VIP meet and greet drifted into the quiet corridor. Cheers for the returning players echoed towards them. 

“Wood, you’re it.”

Chapter Text

On a mental and academic level, he understood the injury Peter sustained carried long recovery times. It often led to retirement, even for much younger players. Hell, not hearing or seeing Sunny after the game unsettled the man. Long legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankle. His robes, transfigured into something warmer, wrapped around his muscular frame. 

Leaning his head against the wall behind him, Oliver reflected on the past twelve hours. It started normally, all things considered. A work out followed by breakfast with his parents. The game started at three-thirty, meaning he arrived back at the facility around ten-thirty. Pre-game, they went over strategy in their classroom before gathering around the regulation portkeys. The players used a small disc while the staff touched a card. Tags on the equipment ported them over, taking each group to the locations they needed to start. 

Changing into his uniform, their logo, a shield with two cat-tails crossed in the middle, sat above his heart in yellow. A diagonal stripe of navy crossed from his left shoulder to right hip, flanked by a strip of yellow. Navy block letters spelled out PUDDLEMERE UNITED on the front in a block of white, cutting across the stripe. On the back, the same text spelt WOOD with the number 08 on the bottom. The traditional numbering system starts with the first string keeper as 01, the chasers following, then beaters, and finally the seeker at 07. Reserve numbers picked up from there.

Sleet and freezing rain pelted from the skies long before they took to their brooms. The equipment manager enchanted their goggles and reminded them to move their hands. Keeping it all in mind, they flew out for the early part of their warm-ups. Fans filtered into the stadium, watching the teams on either side of the pitch. Before long, they returned to the locker room, privacy wards and charms in place, as the team reviewed the plan one last time.

Then, the game, the hit, and going in. Everything blurred together, only shards of adrenaline shone through, crystalline and distinct. Jack’s grin at the hoops. Saving the quaffle from Flint. Landing in the cold, wet mud. Luther’s words. They bounced around his head, a cacophony of brilliant, shining moments he processed in the quiet of the corridor. 

“Still can’t get in?” Jonathan observed, settling across from him. 

“No,” he sighed, closing his eyes as exhaustion settled. “No word. They have it shut tight.”

“Surgery wards are a bugger to make and place. Even worse to attempt to break through,” the master mused aloud.

“I guess it never occurred to me,” Oliver trailed off, brow scrunching in thought.

“It doesn’t for most people,” the other man sighed. “We are a bit spoiled at Puddlemere, you know. Penelope is the leading healer in Europe when it comes to orthopedic surgery and recovery. Could head the Mungo’s department if she wanted, but is happy as a clam to do her research here and go perform selective procedures at the hospital.

“And she’s been training Hermione one-on-one for a year and a half at this point,” Jonathan continued, leaning back against the wall. “Between this and her work with Poppy over at Hogwarts, Hermione could pass her Healer Certification within the next year if she wanted. Peter is literally in the best hands in Europe with her own, hand-picked assistant. They’ll fix ‘em up.”

But at what cost? Dark clouds shadowed his thoughts. Magic of that level required immense stores and a steady level of control. Dueling and transfiguration use small bursts of high-magical output to achieve the desired results. Meanwhile, healing and herbology use just as much magical energy over time. Glancing at the golden pocket watch, a beautiful antique handed down the Wood family, he noted the time. Half past eleven at night.

“They’ve been at this since, what, six-thirty? Seven?” Oliver remarked, fingers relieving the pressure of his sinuses. 

“Seven-seventeen, actually,” a gruff voice rumbled.

Standing above him, looking at the placard, Marcus Flint’s large, burly frame blocked the light. He appeared well. Taller, broader like himself, keener eyes, which Oliver supposed a side effect of all the training. A cocky smirk greeted his unamused brow lift, as if reading his mind. 

“Flint,” the Scotsman nodded, unwilling to say anything else.

“Wood,” he returned with straight teeth. Oliver noted the sparkle of amusement at his visible, narrowed eyes. “Like what you’re seeing?”

“What are ye doing here,” he questioned instead, rolling his eyes. 

Mossy green eyes glanced to the locked ward behind the chaser.  While the witches within were safe as long as they stayed in, Oliver’s need to protect unfurled once more. His captain, injured and incapacitated, laid in there with two of the most compassionate witches he knew. While Flint never acted anything other than respectful to opposing staff for the past season and a half, the lingering school yard rivalry rankled. 

“Calm down, Wood, bloody hell,” the large man snorted. “I’m not here to hurt you lot. Just wanted to see how Denton’s doing. He’s like Ade’s big brother, you know?”

“Nothing new,” the curt response, though his muscles relaxed a fraction. 

“No shit,” Flint shook his head back and forth. “They’ve been locked tight since seven. Back breakers aren’t that bad, usually.”

“They aren’t as well timed, is what you mean,” Jonathan piped up from opposite the keeper. “When executed correctly and on time, the results speak for themselves. It’s not called the back breaker to be cute.”  Both players looked at him. “What? It’s not some esoteric theory. It’s rather simple, all in all.”

“Not to mention, we all know Granger’s in there killing herself,” a smirk broke out upon his face.

“Ye know Sunny?” Oliver examined the expression of his schoolhood rival. It bore all the characteristics of his more malicious, cruel expressions. A detail changed it all, one on the tip of the keeper’s tongue. “What do ye care?”

“Bloody hell, Wood, everyone knows Granger’s a neurotic perfectionist,” Flint cocked his head to the side, his irritating, obnoxious smirk across his face. “As for knowing Granger, have you ever asked her about those extra-sessions she served with Snape?”

Oliver blinked. In all his years of knowing her, the little witch barely spoke a word about them. She divulged certain bits, of course. Preparing ingredients and brewing hospital wing potions often described her time. Then, the little bit of knowledge that she tutored students here and there.  

“No?” The large man’s expression grew even more smug. “Maybe you should ask.” 

Watching the large man walk away, mossy eyes narrowed on his broad back and the knowing stare. They fell silent once more, several  other players filtering into the corridor and taking spots along it. Pondering the interaction, his mind latched onto something different to analyze. Marcus Flint. Pureblood. Heir to House Flint. Yet, he never truly paid attention to any of the blood purity nonsense. The sessions with Snape, the ones Sunny related with enough detail to satisfy, but vague enough to never give the full scope. 

Thinking back, his eyes belied every aggressive stance and expression. Flint postured for the eyes that hide behind every wall and canvas, of that Oliver felt sure. Yet, the soft, fond exasperation truly stood out. Knowing. As if this weren’t a new thing, but the habit of a friend. Annoying. Worrisome, but all together part of the reason they won a piece of their trust and heart. 

Have you ever asked about those extra sessions with Snape? Well, no. Not after the end of last year, wanting to keep them safe. Maybe, though, if he practiced more often with Jonathan, Oliver would follow that advice.

“I see we are all camped out here,” Jack huffed, collapsing along the wall next to him.

“Well, I am. The rest of ye can do whatever ye all want,” Oliver smirked, noting the groan of pain.

“I miss Erikson,” pouted the chaser. “The Falcon healers are fine and all, but they lack the soft touch and bruising talk down to my ego.”

“Ah, is that why your head fits through doors?” Thomas snarked, nudging him to the left. “And here I thought it’s because Hermione knows how to keep you on your toes.” 

“She knows how to keep us all on our toes,” snorted the starter. “That witch is going to give her husband a run for his galleons.” 

“What do ye mean?” Oliver asked in spite of his common sense.

“She’s clever, connected, and will be bloody rich in her own right,” Thomas smirked, eyes closed. “Will be a sight when dressed up, for right bloody sure.”

“Ah, the yule ball pictures from last year were quite beautiful,” Jack hummed, side glancing at the keeper in their midst. “Not to mention bloody powerful and vindictive all wrapped up into a fun-sized petite witch.” 

“What is fun-sized?” Oliver inquired, ignoring the rest for his sanity.

“Ah, it’s a muggle term, American, I believe,” Thomas informed him. “It denotes the small, bite-sized candies they make for their Halloween celebrations.” 

“She is a petite witch,” Jack concurred. “A lot of fire and spirit, itty, bitty, tiny little vessel.”

“You know if she hears you, she’ll have your gut for garters?” Jonathan chuckled across the corridor. “You may want to try the word petite around her. It’s generally more acceptable to women.”

“And ye know she’d argue that she’s an average size for a woman,” Oliver snorted, having the argument more than once. “And insist that we are the abnormally tall ones.”

“A lot of fire and spirit,” the chaser asserted, grinning at their arithmancer. “Small package.” 

Just like that, Oliver let his friends talk around him. At first, everyone chatted, stemming the rather frayed nerves of the team. Closing his eyes, the keeper let time pass around him.  At one in the morning, Coach Burton arrived.

“What are you idiots doing on the ground?” Huffed the older man.

“Waiting,” Oliver chimed with the team.

“Have you never heard of transfiguration?” Scowled their leader. 

They glanced around at one another. The thought never truly occurred to Oliver. Despite his own proficiency at the subject, he just wanted to know when everything would be done. Merlin, he assumed the surgery to be almost over when he arrived almost two hours ago. Yet, no indication of such an event appeared before the team. Over time, people followed his example and sat. Something he never realized they would do.

“I think the general consensus was that the procedure would be done within a time frame making conjuring chairs redundant,” Jonathan answered for the assembled squad. “However, they have at least another two hours to go at this rate, which is a good thing, Coach, and we should probably rectify that mistake.”

Grumbling, the men rose and created various chairs and long sofas. Oliver, in his normal hospital wing chair, with cushions this time, returned to his earlier musings. The game. The people. The press conference. Resting his head against the wall behind him, the world passed around him. Exhaustion swept away the worst of his worries, letting time flow. 

“Wood,” Jack nudged him from the right. “Wake up.” 

Shooting straight in his seat, wild, mossy eyes flung around him. Ethan leaned on Van, both drooling somewhere down the corridor. Across from him, Jonathan and Coach Burton stood by the door, anticipating some change. Thomas, on his other side, snored while Alexei muttered joke jinxes under his breath. Brows furrowed not quite understanding.

“The surgery light is off,” the man indicated the little rune that glowed red earlier. “Looks like they’re getting ready to open up.” 

Not letting his friend finish the sentence, Oliver scrambled to his feet. Quiet and unobtrusive, he walked behind the two men who spoke with the GM and Luther. Hushed voices discussed morning strategy and plans on the social and back-end of the team. Without further information from Healer Erikson, only so many options presented themselves to the small knot of men. 

“Ah, good, Wood,” Luther nodded, bags under his eyes. “Might as well get in on this now. Could you get Summers or Furgeson, as well? We’ll need a full team meeting at some point. And a press conference.” Oliver scowled at the thought. “I can see you’ll be a fun one to manage.” 

Fetching the men in question, they quickly tip-toed around their sleeping team. Once back, the rune changed one more, from blank to blue. Opening the door,  Coach Burton stepped through, quiet and unobtrusive as possible. A make-shift visitor’s area greeted them, several chairs along the wall with a small table in front. A blue curtain, much like the one at Hogwarts’ hospital wing, divided the space. Sanitation potions, tangy and sharp, greeted his nostrils. 

“You lot sit down, and can one of you send for Eugene? We’ll need his clearance to get Peter back home,” a visibly drained, disheveled and tired Healer Erikson emerged from behind the barrier. 

“I’ll get them for you, Penny,” the GM strode from the room.

“Very good,” graying strawberry blonde hair nodded. “Hermione’s working on the last of his bandages now. This is only the first step in his treatment, but Peter will walk again, mark my words.” Stress and worry melted off the remaining men. Thank Merlin, Morgana, and any of the gods listening right now, Oliver sighed. “But, it will be a long, arduous recovery. He may never play again. Gods, he may never want to fly again.” 

Sympathy and understanding lit in Oliver’s eyes. If anyone understood the irrational, visceral fear of falling , Sunny would. Peter laid, injured and ignorant, with one of the few in the magical world who empathized. Painfully so. 

“I’ll wait for him to get back before we start talking about the nitty gritty details of the procedure,” Healer Erikson continued, unaware of the thoughts racing through the keeper’s mind. “Needless to say, that apprentice of your’s did a damn fine job. I’d make her a fully qualified healer after that performance, if I could. For better or for worse, those things have a rightful course.”

“Well, there’s not much Hermione can’t do if she sets her mind to it,” Jonathan smiled, tired and proud. “Bloody witch will run herself to death just to prove a point, but she’ll do it.” 

“I can hear you,” the exhausted voice of one Hermione Granger, called from behind the curtain. “And I can assure you I will be perfectly fine after some rest.”

An amused, fond smile stretched across Oliver’s face at the sound of her voice. Merlin, did it feel good to hear her after the long, stressful wait. Of course, Jonathan scoffed, while Coach and Healer Erikson shook their heads. Sitting down in a chair, content to wait her out, the Scotsman considered the situation. As Luther so succinctly pointed out earlier, for the time being, he now started for Puddlemere United. The thought tumbled around his head, foreign, shiny, and new. He ignored just why he allowed himself to relax so much, to let such frivolous thoughts cloud his mind.

“Hermione, dear, is everything set for transport?” Healer Erikson called, glancing behind the curtain.

“Yes. Splints and supports are in place. The gurney is ready to go, our potions and kits, well, what’s left of them anyways, are packed and secured,” the girl ticked off, her voice floating towards them. “Peter is dressed and ready for his wife when we return.” 

“Excellent, and you sent her-” 

“The advanced notice as soon as we started post-op, yes,” the petite witch finished. “All we’re waiting for is Healer Swanson’s approval and then we’re good to go.” 

“Wonderful, Barth, could you be a dear and fetch the rest of the lads?” Healer Erikson requested. 

“Of course, Pen,” the gruff man stood and walked back out the hall. 

To the side, Luther, Ethan, and Furgeson looked up from the conversation that consumed the trio. A few crashes and some excited murmurs drifted into the room, alerting Medbay to the rest of the team waking up. Within moments, men shoved themselves through the door, excitement and worry lacing their expressions. 

“Very good. I’m only going to say this once, and allow this once, do you understand?” The gimlet gaze of the elder healer froze the excitable men. “Good. Peter is unconscious. We have placed him in a medically induced coma until we have finished the bulk of his healing to reduce the amount of pain.” They nodded their understanding. “I will allow you all to go in, see him, say what you must, and come to me for your post-game check-outs. Hermione will be watching.” A sprinkle of fear went through several members, well aware of her temper. “Do not misbehave, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the team acquiesced. 

“The long and short of it is this,” she continued once satisfied by their promise of good behavior. “The Falcons executed one of the best back-breakers I’ve bloody well seen in my career. The good news is that the extra padding and augments to your protective kits did their job -stabilize the back enough to keep you adrenaline-chasing prats alive.” A chorus of rueful chuckles answered, because they all knew Healer Erikson’s opinion of the sport (low). 

“I am happy to report your Captain will walk and will make a full recovery-” Laughs, cheers, and general manic stress-relieving reactions filled the room. Tears fell from several players, though Oliver thought no less. Peter started for Puddlemere for over seven years now, and many of the older players grew up with him as teammates. “But we have a long road ahead of us. Now then, behave.”

“I’m giving Miss Granger full permission to exact whatever revenge she sees fit for disturbing her patient,” Coach Burton added, tamping down the loud reaction.

“And I won’t hold back!” Her voice chimed in. 

Ethan, Van, and one of the other chasers walked into the curtained area, beginning the procession of players. Some stayed longer than others, their murmurs indistinct from the front of the room. They trooped over to their own healer, who quickly cleared them. Sending them on along their way, the next would stand in front of her and start the process anew. At some point, their GM returned with whom Oliver assumed to be the Falcon’s corresponding professional. 

“You’re going to want to go last, Wood,” Furgeson murmured after his clean bill of health. 

“Why’s that?” He frowned, the day catching up at last.

“You’ll see,” he smirked, raising an amused brow at the younger man. 

“That’s not helpful,” muttered the Scotsman. 

“Let’s just put it this way, Rook,” the veteran chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong with her, and remember, rest will solve all her problems.”

Mossy eyes narrowed at the chuckling man who walked away. The team’s home portkey was set to activate whenever the passcode was said by one of the players. Usually, Peter initiated the travel, but it appeared their veteran, reserve beater garnered the honors. Shaking his head, Oliver watched the last of his team make their way behind the medical curtain. Coach Burton, Luther, and their GM discussed how to handle the next day or so with more complete information. 

“Wood, come here, lad,” the matronly healer called. 

Obliging, a handful of paces brought him before Healer Erikson. She fussed about, checking his bruises, and making sure the opposing team treated them properly. With little flourish, she produced their bruise paste and mild numbing creams, her normal instructions in the air. As he slipped his clothes back on, Oliver watched as her normally clear, blue eyes clouded in thought. 

“Am I correct in the knowledge that you are close to Hermione, Mr. Wood?” The Healer questioned, her brow furrowed. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, already guessing what she wanted to ask.

“Very good,” a decisive nod later and she assessed him. Oliver withheld the desire to fidget, his fingers in his pockets already. “The level of magic we performed today was… extraordinary. Usually, it’d take a couple of mediwitches to properly hold and maintain the charm work to support and immobilize the body. It’s a rather nuanced piece of magic, one Hermione executed with her usual exacting precision.”

“She drained herself near dry, didn’t she,” Oliver muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“I see Jonathan did not exaggerate,” the healer chuckled, a wry smile pulling at her lips. The man scowled, knowing just what the arithmancer could relate. “Oh, dear, nothing so salacious, I promise. Just that you were close and trusted each other more or less implicitly.”

“We are,” he struggled for a moment, trying to find the right words. “Good friends,” Oliver conceded, trying to hide the bitter taste those words left in his mouth. “She’s the one who dragged me to try out for Puddlemere, after all.”

“Did she now?” The woman perked. “Good taste, Hermione has. And don’t you worry, lad, the boys are just living vicariously through you, dear. It’s their way of caring.” 

“Thank ye, ma’am,” a small, rueful smile answered.

“Now then, onto Hermione,” the woman deftly twined an arm through his. Years of etiquette lessons resulted in his natural and automatic escorting of the healer towards the back of the room. “She will kick up a fuss, of course, too driven for her own good at times. However, she is not to use magic for the next two to four days. Which means, she cannot be going to classes until Tuesday at the earliest.”  Oliver groaned. Keeping that witch in one spot would be the death of him. “Good luck, dear.” 

Pulling the blue cloth to the side revealed the make-shift surgical suite. In the center, Peter laid upon the gurney-turned-hospital bed. Pale and lifeless, only the slight rise and fall beneath the white, starched sheets indicated otherwise. To his side, Sunshine perched upon a hard, wooden stool. One hand rested on her knee, the other supporting her head. Dull curls fell limp around her shoulders, mirroring her dim, tired air. Pale and shivering, her large doe eyes turned towards him. 

In a sentence, Sunshine looked exhausted.

A faint sparkle of recognition and some other warm emotion brightened her gaze a touch. Her bow lips twitched at the corners in greeting before her pensive expression settled upon Peter once more. Oliver struggled between going to his captain and rushing up to the little witch. Healer Erikson entered with Coach Burton, walking to Peter’s side. With no guilt in his mind, the Scotsman strode towards the drawn, quiet witch.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. 

“Hi,” she breathed. “Congratulations, by the way. The others were excited that they won. By all accounts, you played well.” 

“Me?” Oliver snorted, conjuring the chair from earlier. “I’ll tell ye what I told the reporters, I dinnae do anything special. I just played the game.” Looking at the bemused expression on her face, an answering look crossed his own. “Now, ye just successfully assisted in a major spinal surgery, and not only saved our Captain’s life, but ensured he’d walk again.” Pale pink dusted the tops of her cheekbones, chocolate eyes gazing at the gurney once more. “Now, that’s what I call an accomplishment.” 

“I didn’t do much, really,” her modest mutter fluttered into the air. “I just held him still and let Healer Erikson do the heavy lifting.” 

“Ye held an extensive and specialized charm for over eight hours, Sunshine,” he pointed out, gentle and amused. “That’s a hell of a lot more than ‘nothing.’ And I have it on good authority that ye did much more than that.” He bumped her shoulder, nudging away the awkwardness that consumed the lioness when praised. “Just try telling Becca ye dinnae do much.” 

“Oh, Merlin, please no!” Wide, panicked eyes swung to meet his impish pair. “Oliver, you won’t tell her, will you?” His smirk widened at her growing dismay. “No, please, you don’t understand! She’ll take me shopping as a thank you! ” The keeper stifled the chuckles in his chest. “And it won’t be something pleasant like books or stationary , no, it’ll be clothes or, Merlin forbid, shoes. ” 

Breaking out into laughter, the Scotsman’s shoulders trembled at the effort to keep it quiet. A small fist punched his right bicep, ineffectual as always. He glanced at the flushed, irritated witch, much more lively than moments before and allowed the mirth to flow. Just like Furgeson remarked, Sunshine needed rest more so than anything. The problem tended to be that she could never rest, Oliver observed, wry and exasperated. 

“Oliver,” scolded the petite lioness. “For God’s sake, can’t you stop teasing me?”

“But the idea of seeing ye and Becca shopping is hilarious,” the man chortled, leaning back into the chair.

“I’ll tell her to take you to get a few muggle suits then,” threatened Sunshine. 

“Woah now, no need to go that far,” his own eyes bulged at the thought.

“If you two are done now?” Healer Erikson chided. Rolling her cinnamon eyes, Sunny faced the other woman. “Good. Hermione, I need you to secure everything to the gurney before we go. Wood, say what you need to and then go to the team. They’re waiting on you and Barth before porting back to the stadium.”

Stepping forward, Oliver smiled, sheepish and apologetic, to the team’s physician. Looking upon his fallen teammate, the light-heartedness of moments earlier evaporated into thin air. Fingers hovered just centimeters above the man’s arm, laid atop the white, starched covers. His chest rose and fell in a steady, deep rhythm, belying the sickly pallor.

Just hours ago, this man laughed and joked with them. Vivacious and alive. Hell, the team tried to goad him about having kids. Now, Peter Denton’s shut eyes and pale skin reminded him too much of death. Of his grandmother. Sucking in a lungful of air, Oliver reigned in his emotions. Healer Erikson and Sunshine patched him up. He’ll walk again. He’d laugh with the team again. They’ll tease him about starting a family again.

“Hey Cap, we’ll hold the line for ye until ye wake up,” he murmured to the silent man. “Just ye wait and see.” 

Sunday passed, slow and lazy. More members milled about the facility than normal for an off morning. After the tearful reunion between an unconscious Peter and his wife, Jonathan accompanied Sunshine to her apartment, promptly falling asleep. At some point in the early afternoon, a sleepy, disheveled lioness stumbled into the late brunch the team ran on Sundays for families. Saying hello to the children who ran up to her, the brunette settled at a table for a while. 

Being a bye week, they only worked out half a day on Monday before starting full time again on Tuesday. After the lazy meal, Sunshine ambled to her rooms once more. The veneer of peace lasted all of the day into Monday morning. Expecting her to be asleep, Oliver sleep-walked through the work out and basic drills, fully waking up while in the air. Finishing a bit later than the rest of the team, since his position coach wanted to cover certain aspects of his game, Oliver walked into the dining hall expecting to see a curly head of hair.

“Everything going well?” Jack inquired, munching on his lunch. 

“Yeah, Coach Andrews just kept me back,” he replied, eyes scanning the large room. “Have ye seen Sunny?”

“No,” the chaster frowned at him. “Was I supposed to?”

“Well, no,” Oliver conceded, “but she’s supposed to be resting until Healer Erikson clears her.” 

“Well, I haven’t seen her, mate,” the chaser shrugged. “Have you checked Medbay? Maybe she’s reading to Peter.”

Nodding to himself, Oliver waved on his way out of lunch. Along the route, different teammates milled about. Taking the opportunity to ask the people who passed, no one knew where Sunny went. Scowling something fierce, the keeper entered the medical hall. To the left, light fell upon the floor from the crack in the door. Peter’s bed laid behind a set of curtains. Quiet as a mouse, his long legs carried him to the partition. 

“Knock, knock,” he quietly announced himself. “How is he doing today?”

“No worse than yesterday,” the wan, tired smile of Rebecca Denton greeted him. “Penelope says that he’ll be ready for the second portion of his healing by Wednesday. The potions are doing their work, and Peter’s body needs to recover from the trauma of yesterday before they can do more.”

“I’m glad to hear,” Oliver smiled, genuine and relieved. 

“It’s such a relief, really,” sighed the woman, draggin and hand through her messy hair. “But that’s not why you’re really here.”

“Can’t a bloke check on his Captain?” He affected an innocent, sweet look. 

“I’ve been with Peter since Hogwarts, and this raggedy crew for the past ten years,” snorted the woman, eyes sparkling with humor. “I can see a man on a mission from a while away. What do you need?”

“Ye caught me,” he sheepishly grinned, one hand brushing the back of his neck. “I was wondering if ye’d seen Sunny today? She’s supposed to be resting and I thought to bring her ‘round for lunch. I dinnae see her in the hall, and thought maybe she’d be here.”

“No, Ollie, I haven’t seen her yet today,” Becca frowned, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t know if she’s been in the bay. Why don’t you go check her rooms?” Oliver flushed, partially embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it prior, but mostly due to how private and intimate that felt. Despite living and working in the same facility for the past year and a half plus, they never went near each other’s private spaces. “Merlin, men! I swear! It’s not inappropriate or anything, Ollie. You’re looking after her health, and everyone knows it.” 

“Right, well, tell that to me Ma if she finds out,” he grouched.

“You’re a good man, Ollie Wood,” his friend’s wife laughed as he exited.

“At me funeral, mind!” He retorted before closing the door.

Stalking the corridors once more, the Scotsman checked on the arithmancy office. Not even Jonathan lurked within the space, leaving him no choice. The player and staff apartments overlooked the forests and pitch, sitting atop the VIP and coaches boxes above the normal stands. Where the players veered left, the staff turned right. 

Taking a deep breath, he walked towards the right. First were the singles apartments. Usually reserved for the younger players and staff who didn’t have partners. The further in, the larger the suites for couples and families. Since most quidditch players held off on having a family until after their careers, these tended to be two to three bedroom affairs instead of a home or cottage. 

Several doors down, he found a piece of parchment spellotaped to the white door belonging to the witch in question. Opening the folded flap, mindful of others’ need to find her, tidy script spelled out a couple of lines. Gone to Hogwarts. Will be back. Don’t worry. -H  

Don’t worry? He fumed, nearly running through the corridors back to the dining hall. Once there, he noticed Healer Erikson and Jonathan at a table with Coach Burton. Taking that as the best group to talk to, the keeper strode through the room. 

“Excuse me,” he started, knowing several witches who’d take him to task for being unnecessarily rude. “But have any of ye seen Sunny today?”

“She ran into the office right before lunch, why?” Jonathan furrowed his brow. 

“The bloody witch ran off to Hogwarts without letting anyone know,” he burst, scowling at the man. “Spellotaped a note to her door saying not to bloody worry!”

“Well, that does sound like an issue,” Healer Erikson twinkled up at him. “Are you not related to Minerva?”

“She’s me aunt,” Oliver nodded, eyes narrowing. 

“Well, I happen to have on good authority that she has a class at three this afternoon and not a minute sooner,” the healer hummed. “Perhaps the old cat would appreciate a visit from her lovely nephew.” 

“But wouldn’t Jonathan or yerself be better?” Frowned the young man. “I mean, ye are her direct supervisors and mentors. I’m just-” 

“The person that her superiors requested to bring her back,” the older witch sipped her tea, calm and serene. “Oh, and be a dear and tell your Aunt I’ll see her on Thursday.”

“Yes, ma’am,” a nonplussed Oliver blinked, owlish and unnerved. 

Turning back from whence he came, the keeper spun on his heel and sped through the facility. Once at his own, private rooms, a pinch of green powder flew into the grate. Calling out the floo address, he waited. For a moment, he wondered just what he’d have to do if this didn’t work. Sunshine, for all her sense and logic, tended to ignore her own health and wellbeing. Compounded by often being the maternal figure in her friendships, no one really thought of her. 

“Ach, Oliver, how good to hear from ye lad,” his aunt answered, face of fire glowing in the grate.’

“Hi Aunt Min,” the young man signed, relieved and anxious. “Did ye know where Sunny could be? She’s supposed to be resting here with us after Saturday.”

“The lass used a mite too much magic,” the stern woman frowned, shaking her head. “I could see it when she walked by earlier.”

“When?” He vibrated with anticipation. 

“Not a half hour past, I dinnae think,” she frowned. “Do ye want me to send someone to get her?”

“No,” Oliver leaned back and thought. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to advertise her current… state.” 

“That bad?” Aunt Min’s lips pursed. 

“Yes,” he scowled. 

“Well, nothing for it then,” the woman chuckled. “Come on through, lad, and we’ll see if we can’t find her.” 

“Thank you, Aunt Min,” Oliver heaved a sigh of relief. 

Her face disappeared from the flames, letting the keeper step through after fetching a winter cloak. Despite it only being a couple years, he still remembered the chill of the Scottish highlands. Stepping through, the red and gold cozy rugs and sofas decorated the space just as he remembered. Wand siphoned ash off his cloak and practice kit. His aunt’s amused brow raised at his appearance.

“In a bit of a rush, Ollie?” She observed, wry and pointed. 

“Er, yes, Aunt Min,” he blushed, noting Minerva McGonagall’s ability to dress him down undiminished. “I thought Sunny stayed put, like Healer Erikson instructed. Instead, I found a taped note saying she came to the castle and not to worry.” 

“Well, that does sound like Miss Granger,” his aunt snorted, striding towards the exit. “I expect you will not make a fuss?”

“I will act as befits a wizard me age,” huffed the keeper, the well-worn response. 

“Good,” Aunt Min nodded. “This is not the time to lose your cool, Oliver, and I mean it.” He scowled in response, having heard quite enough. “Especially for Miss Granger. That woman has been looking for any reason to punish her. Luckily for us, she won’t get my cub that easily. Flawlessly polite and doesn’t take a single class with her. Still, better to avoid any unnecessary friction.”

“Not like Sunny’d let me break her legs anyways,” muttered the man under his breath.

“She did say you’d befriended a beater from Durmstrang,” amusement sparkled in his aunt’s eyes. “Best keep that to yourself, lad. Don’t want any trouble. Besides, you’d have to wait in line for that honor.” 

“Aunt Min!” A bark of shocked laughter answered.

“What?” She raised a brow. “I’m fairly certain Filius called for the honors of her tibia and Pomona has mentioned something about fingers. Merlin knows what Severus is thinking up, no doubt with Septima’s help. Maybe the toes or, if you’re really lucky, the femur.” She patted his shoulder and walked through her formal office. “Let’s go to the common room. Fifth years have this period off. Maybe Potter will have some idea where she wandered.” 

Making their way through the castle, nostalgia assaulted him. So much changed from the last time he stepped foot in these corridors. Yet, it felt much the same in some regards. Students without afternoon classes walked through the halls, tittering about the latest piece of news. Portraits gossipped from frame to frame, finding something to occupy their endless time. All the while, he caught up on the news and life of his aunt. 

“Ah, Hildagard, is Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley within the common room?” His aunt inquired of the Fat Lady.

“Why yes, they both are. I’ll be just a moment to call them,” she beamed. “And very good to see you again, Mr. Wood. You appear to be doing well.” 

“Ah, yes I am, thank ye,” he answered just before the portrait swung open.

“Professor, Oliver?” Potter inquired, brow scrunched in confusion. 

“It has come to my attention that Miss Granger is needed back at the facility,” his Aunt covered. “However, she needs to finish several errands here first.” Her efficient strides brought them a ways from the nearest portraits. “As you are well aware, Miss Granger takes her commitments seriously, and often becomes sidetracked.”

“What is he doing here?” Sneered Weasley, an ugly, jealous look on his face.

Gods, do I not miss puberty , Oliver thought, keeping his face neutral. Thanks to Sunshine’s rants, he knew of her struggles of dealing with the two at once. Seeing a piece of the temper the boy exercised on his ‘friend,’ he wondered, not for the first time, why Sunshine associated with the redhead. 

“Mr. Wood is here to help her finish her tasks without getting terribly distracted,” his aunt peered over her spectacles, unimpressed with the boy. “And you will do well to show him some respect. Mr. Wood is a guest of this institution, and will be treated as such.” The boy scowled, facing away from the stern transfiguration mistress. “As I was saying, Mr. Wood needs to find Miss Granger. Would either of you have any ideas?”

“Hermione mentioned going to the Great Hall to find someone,” Potter frowned, gazing down the corridor. “She said she needed to make a visit of some sort, pick up work, and correct her tutoring schedule for the week.” 

Well, I’ll be damned, Oliver stifled a sigh. Her to-do list actually sounded manageable. Then the fact that a fascist ministry worker ran the school crashed back into his mind. Reasonable under normal circumstances didn’t negate the fact that she should have at least told someone of her plans.

“Great, do ye know where she’s gone to first?” Oliver inquired, already moving down the familiar corridors.

“Well, she did mention not eating anything and wanting to fix that,” Potter remarked, keeping stride. 

The group walked through the halls, whispers following them. He supposed watching the Head of Gryffindor walk past with Potter and a Puddlemere player created an odd group of bedfellows. He pushed those distractions to the side. Not even the younger years whispering about his game on Saturday distracted the Scotsman. He focused on the sight and sound of one witch. 

“B-but Miss Granger, what if it doesn’t work?” A reedy little voice from a hidden corridor stuttered. 

“Well, you just need to figure out why,” her sweet, patient voice greeted his ears. Following the sound amongst the ruckus of first, second, and third years students exiting lunch. “Have you tried practicing with Hannah Abbott or Susan Bones?”

“N-no,” shuffling shoes on flagstone greeted his ears. “They are very popular.”

Pushing aside a tapestry of two dancing dryads, Oliver found the witch that absorbed his most recent thoughts. Crouching down in front of a hidden stairwell, Sunshine talked to a much smaller Hufflepuff boy. By the looks of his trainers, the muggle-born boy found the Gryffindor’s advice and presence calming. In a moment, fearful, brown eyes took in his less than amused person and shrunk.

“Henry, what’s the-” Sunshine began to ask, standing up in a defensive stance.

“And what exactly do ye think ye’re doing?” Oliver exclaimed, throwing a hasty silencing spell around them. “First of all, ye’re not supposed to be out of the facility without warning anyone! Second, Healer Erikson specifically instructed you to not go to Hogwarts this week. And thirdly, this is bloody important, ye cannot be using yer magic right now! Ye can end up in a coma! OR WORSE!”

Scowling down at the petite lioness, he noticed the third year hiding behind her. Which, considering her current position, quite an intelligent move. Fists rested on her hips, feet shoulder width apart. Her magic crackled through wild, curly hair, though much less than normal. An impressive match to his own expression twisted her lips and her eyes narrowed into amber slits.

“Don’t worry Henry,” her hard, unamused statement further annoyed the keeper. “Oliver just explodes when he’s upset or excited,” a glimmer of impish delight gleamed in her eyes, “or surprised," the tips of his ears turned red at the flush he covered with a glower. "Or embarrassed." 

"Is now the time?" He muttered. 

"Well, why not? You did decide to follow me here when I explicitly said not to worry, I'll be back," cinnamon eyes rolled.

"And ye didn't think there'd be a problem with that?" Oliver tried to glower, but the amusement in her eyes softened the knot in his chest. "That yer note, quite literally said, 'Gone to Hogwarts. Will be back. Don't worry'?"

"That's all it said," her nonplussed expression wrenched a sigh from him.

"Yes, Sunny, that's all it said," a rough hand ran over his face. "Merlin, and no one saw ye except for Jonathan. I asked literally everyone I ran into. Becca didn't know, Healer Erikson suggested coming here," pink crept up her neck into her cheeks, an interesting phenomenon with the usually well-put together witch. "I checked yer office, and talked to Luther since he mentioned some article or another."

"Oh, cheese and crackers," the witch muttered, covering her face.

"Now ye're starting to see just why I'm worried," Oliver cocked his head to the side, the beginnings of a triumphant smirk tipping his lips. 

"Wait," the boy, who emerged from behind his lioness guardian, frowned. "You said Hermione could get hurt if she did magic. Why?"

"Ye see," Oliver resumed Sunny's earlier position, enjoying the flushed scowl on her face. Oh, how the tables turn. "On Saturday, Hermione," a huff from above threatened to break open his own face. "Did a bunch of very draining charms work to help heal me Captain." 

"You're on Puddlemere?" The boy narrowed his eyes.

"What gave you the clue," the keeper deadpanned. 

"It's Hermione's team," he shrugged. "Well, that and your jersey is a dead give away." 

"I see ye are as smart as a tack," Oliver muttered.

"That's what my Mum says!" The Hufflepuff beamed.

Glancing up, Sunny's shoulders quaked. Dainty hand covered her face, hiding just how amused the situation made her. Reaching over and pushing her leg, Oliver rolled his mossy eyes. Of course she found this funny. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to care. Or be upset. Instead, the warmth of her eyes and suppressed giggles washed away his previous worries. It appears he owes Furgeson his thanks after all. 

"As I was saying," Oliver turned his attention back to the boy in front of him. "Hermione," he scowled up at the unrepentant witch, "Helped the head healer-"

"Ohhh, she said she's an assistant healer now!" He bounced on his feet, brown eyes alight with curiosity. "It's why I see her with Madame Pomfrey when the Slytherins try to hex me on my way back to the common room!" 

"Henry, let Oliver finish his story," a dainty hand ruffled the excitable child. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," the suddenly contrite Hufflepuff deflated. 

"That's alright, lad," a fond shake of his brunette hair and amused chuckle followed. "Anyways, Hermione here," he let his admiration and frustration in equal parts shine through his brogue. "Helped our main team healer perform a very long surgery on me Captain, who I am happy to say is going to make a full recovery due to their efforts. But it left her very magically weak," he finished.

"But how?" The boy pouted, still not quite understanding. 

"You see, Henry," Sunshine's soft voice carried on. "The magic we use comes from inside of us. Yes, there are times when that is not the rule but the exception, however for almost every form of magic we use in our day to day life, it uses our own supply. We're a cup. As we get older and train harder, our cup grows bigger, however, we can still only hold that much magic at once. Normally, eating and sleeping will restore it good as new, but the more you use, the less you have in your cup. Normally, we want to have more than a third at all times, because the rest of our magic goes towards little things we don't notice."

"Kinda like how we only use at most eleven percent of our brain while the rest is used to keep us alive?" Keen eyes glanced between the two Gryffindors. 

"Exactly!" Beamed the witch, making the boy blush. "You see, our magic helps with our healing and health, it's why witches and wizards don't get ill as often as their muggle friends and family. Our body naturally fights off the different germs that we encounter in the muggle world. Well, magic helps us keep healthy by doing all of that for us, boosting our immune system and helping us heal from cuts and bruises faster.

"In the case of using too much magic, it can no longer flow through our body, like blood," she continued, pointing to the boy's blue vein on his wrist. "Do you know what happens when you have to give blood for the doctor?"

"You get light headed," he frowned. "And if you lose too much you can pass out or die."

"Magic is much the same, it runs through our veins and our bodies," she ruffled his hair. "But just like losing blood, rest and good meals will fill up your cup of magic right to the top! So, I'm going to be gone for the rest of this week. And, if you could keep this between the three of us, I would truly appreciate it"

"Of course!" he puffed his chest out. "And I can see why," the boy huffed. "The Toad has it out for you something nasty."

"You say that like it's something new," she chuckled, Oliver glancing at her in worry and curiosity. "But we both know that between my Mistress and the Headmaster, she has no real authority over me." 

"It's a good thing you aren't in her classes," he nodded along. "They're quite, well..."

"I know, I've heard," Sunny commiserated and leaned down. In a whisper, she added, "and I've read them, too."

"How are we supposed to learn anything?" He wailed. 

"By taking previous books out from the library, practicing, and learning by yourself. There is nothing against the rule about learning how to do things on your own in your common room," a sparkle of mischief colored her tawny eyes. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, the warning bell for your next class should be ringing in just a tick. You wouldn't want to be late, now would you?"

"God, no! Professor Babbling would kill me," panicked the boy. 

With a quick hug and goodbye, he hurried from the corridor at breakneck speed. Shaking his head, Oliver watched as Sunshine straightened. Her sheepish expression and silent apology soothed the remaining ire. Reaching out and pulling her into a quick, shoulder hug, he pulled back the tapestry and canceled the silencing spell. 

"Thank you for putting it up," she murmured. "And for coming to check on me. I'm sorry, I thought I wrote more, but I didn't even have a cuppa before coming over. I just wanted to get these things done and relax once I got back."

"I know," mossy eyes rolled with no heat. "And I can see ye had no intention of staying any amount of time. But ye do get carried away and ye are a niffler for trouble."

"It's not my fault it finds me," grumbled the curly-haired witch.

"Oi, there you are, 'Mione," Weasley called out, drawing more attention from the straggling younger-years. "We've been lookin' all over for you!"

"Well, apparently you haven't been looking smart enough," a chocolate brow lifted in answer. 

"Yes, well, Professor McGonagall pulled us from the Common Room before lunch," Potter joined, walking in from another hidden passage. 

"Well, that explains quite a bit then," the witch sighed, shaking her head. "Come on you lot, I need to commandeer Luna and grab something from the table to munch on before going to the dungeons." 

"And I'll wait for ye out here," Oliver remarked, his right hand guiding her through the last minute rush of younger students without conscious thought. "And I'll be waiting for ye outside the doors." 

"You know you can disillusion yourself, right?" The witch at his side snarked. 

"I could, but enough students have seen me around that I donnae think it'll do much good," Oliver sighed. 

"In that case, you might as well come into the hall," Sunny suggested. "I'm sure the girls and twins will be happy to see you if you just show up. You are a guest of the school, so technically you're allowed-"

"At the head table with me aunt," finished the keeper. "Yes, yes I know, but I also know that it means not the Gryffindor table where ye'll likely to grab a snack and be summarily accosted."

"You're not wrong about that," muttered the curly haired witch. "And I just want to be able to get a roll or a small sandwich. I really can't stomach much right now."

"What's wrong with you, 'Mione," the ginger behind inquired, loud and clear for the older students heading into the hall to hear. 

"Nothing is wrong with her," Oliver corrected, feeling Sunshine stiffen for a moment beneath his hand. "She's just needed at the facility for work this week. With Captain injured, Sunny's got a lot on her plate to do." 

"Then why are you here, Wood," the boy groused, glaring daggers at the professional keeper. 

"Hem hem hem," an obnoxious clearing of the throat froze the three students. 

An immediate rush of cold and magic greeted his fingertips. A litany of internal swearing followed. Occlumency, unlike other forms of magic, drew upon the natural pool. Once a witch or wizard masters a basic level of control, it becomes like breathing. Automatic and unconscious. Pulling up full shields with time and meditation required little active magic, since it builds upon the basics. Throwing them up all at once, however, used an excessive amount, the price of keeping one’s mind safe at a moment’s notice. Pallid but polite, Sunshine turned to face who could only be Madame Umbridge, Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, and the current defense against the dark arts professor. 

To say Hermione's descriptions prepared him to meet the witch would be a lie. The amount of condescending artifice offended his sensibilities. If he didn't worry about the amount of magic the lioness at his side just used, despite being warned against it, Oliver doubted he'd keep his temper. Her malicious glee at catching a group of people before lunch paralleled none he knew. Even without such plain and visible rot, the baby-girl-pink attire caused offense. 

"And what do we have here?" Her saccharine voice curled around the words. "Students in groups of three or more? And this one, not in his uniform on a school day during classes? I expected so much better than that of you, Apprentice Granger."

"Madame Undersecretary," the posh, polite mask fell into place, despite the slight tremble in her body. "I see you have caught us on the way to the noon meal. As you can well see, I am accompanied by Mister Oliver Wood. He is Professor McGonagall's nephew, and has taken this time to visit." 

"Is that so," her beady little eyes searched up and down his figure in a disgusting, assessing sort of way. "Well, that still does not excuse you from the rules, Apprentice. " Never in his life did Oliver ever hear the rank spoken in such a sweet, false, disdainful manner. "You are still a student of this institution and are, therefore, expected to uphold the rules and regulations of this school." 

"Apologies, Madame," a shallow, formal curtsey followed, robotic and worrying. 

At least the other two know when to shut the fuck up, the keeper frowned. Drawing himself to his full height, now at six foot two inches he wore his disapproval of the pink toad (and how fitting the comparison, some part of his mind mused). Keeping the cool, reserved air he saved for the particularly annoying people he met, mossy eyes trained on her small, rotund frame. Still, the longer this witch drew out the interaction, the more energy and magic Sunshine drained from her severely depleted core.

"However, under the school charter, students with gainful employment from outside of the institution are given the leniency and ability to set their own hours within reason," she quoted, nothing but sincere and polite, her social veneer. "You must understand, as an upstanding member of the Ministry, that the Quidditch League waits for no witch or wizard. As a full member of staff on a team, I have obligations and duties that must be seen to, such as assisting the Head Healer and Master Arithmancer however they see fit."

His warm palm pressed firmly into her lower back, hoping to stabilize at least some of the shivers he felt growing second by second. Frowning ostensibly at the absolute sycophant of a witch, but in actuality in thought, Oliver considered his options. He could, conceivably, sweep Sunshine away from this entire encounter, demand her return to the stadium, and rest. A most attractive idea for the protective Scotsman, and yet also the most offensive and potentially dangerous. He could also deflect the blame onto Potter or Weasley, getting them in trouble and at least allowing her to rest for a moment before sweeping Sunny to her Mistress' quarters. More acceptable. 

Green slits narrowed onto the simpering toad before him. Whatever power struggle they participated in, Sunny needed to look strong. To look in control. Which meant that neither option truly helped in the long run. His Aunt's earlier words circled his mind. Suddenly, he remembered something he read some time ago in his family library. Runes hold and transfer magic. So, what if... A calloused hand lifted just millimeters from her jumper. 

Breathing in and holding, Oliver concentrated on his magic in his core. He reached out to the warm, balmy breeze of his power, much like the occlumency meditations Jonathan taught him. Instead of using the summer's breeze to protect and shield his mind, manipulating it from within, the Scotsman coaxed the power to flow from his center.

Gusting through his shoulder and down his bicep, the tingle of magic prickled his skin. Controlling the amount that flowed down from a tense forearm to his hand required more focus than he anticipated. Slowing the gale to a soft, caressing breeze nearly broke a sweat. His fingers traced first laguz, for connection and to help the flow of magic, followed by berkana to heal. Sensing more so than seeing the magic, and praying to whatever gods watched his foolhardy attempt, Oliver imbued the runes with a gentle touch of magic. Enough to get her through this encounter, but not too much to set back her own healing. 

The Scotsman felt her perk up beneath his warm palm, still slightly tingling with residual magic. At first, nothing happened. Umbridge never stopped her diatribe about the importance of rules and structure, and how the EQL threw much of that into the face of the ministry. Halfway through her latest run-on sentence, a set of tawny eyes glanced, wide and sparkling with a myriad of emotion. Surprise, for one, a bit of awe and curiosity all wrapped in a sort of 'you have no fucking clue what you just bloody well did, do you?' moue of frustration. Which, considering it a half-baked idea for her benefit plucked from some dusty crevice in his brain, proving her correct led to one result. A brow rose in challenge and bemusement, and the barest beginnings of a self-confident smirk curved his lips. 

"I truly appreciate the pains you go through to ensure everyone is treated with the utmost respect befitting one of their stations, Madame Undersecretary," Sunshine interjected, more herself in that moment than before. "However, we must be going. As you are well aware, being such a stalwart steward of the rules yourself, Harry and Ron only have another half hour to eat and be in your class. Not to mention, I have business I must conduct with both Professors Snape and Vector before I return to the facility. I think it is best if we break for the noon meal, do you not?"

"Ah," the woman blinked, glancing at a small, silver wristwatch. "Punctual as always, Apprentice Granger. You do have some sense, I see. A good day to you all." 

And with that, the woman toddled up the corridor and away from them. The warm weight of Sunny fully leaned into his chest, a sigh of relief bursting from her lungs. Noticing the other two silent sentinels, Oliver observed nothing new. Potter regarded the pair with unveiled interest, most likely realizing something out of the ordinary happened. Weasley, however, muttered something about not missing lunch for the bloody world and shoving past the witch. Unfortunately for the ginger, it pushed her more firmly into Oliver. 

"Well, I've never seen ye act or look more like ye Da," Aunt Min greeted, having hidden behind a nearby suit of armor. “In fact, if one simply squinted, they’d see Ian towering over yer Ma’s shoulder at some ministry event or another, scowling at some official.”

“Ye’re funny, Aunt Min,” Oliver rolled his eyes, though his chest puffed out in pride. 

“Now, run along you lot,” the elder cat strode through the Great Hall. 

Potter chuckled and started towards the large, oak doors. More amused than he wished to admit, Oliver watched as the two current students walked ahead of him. Sunny beckoned from the table, sitting next to Angie and one of the Twins. At the Ravenclaw table, a waifish, willowy girl nodded along to her words. Taking the small piece of parchment from Sunny fingers, the blonde sauntered to deliver the message. 

“Psst, Wood!” A loud and obvious whisper dragged his attention from the mysterious meeting to Gryffindor table itself. Katie waved her hands in the air, motioning for him to come closer. “You’re not exactly covert.”

“OI CAPTAIN,” one of the twins shouted instead, drawing every head towards him. Flushing an angry, embarrassed scarlet, Oliver scowled. “Just like old times, ain’t it Fred?”

“Right you are, Georgie boy,” the twin by Sunshine remarked. “Especially if he decides to storm right up to us-”

Which he proceeded to do, the choice to remain semi-hidden and inconspicuous as possible yanked from beneath Oliver.

“Just like that!” The first exclaimed. 

“I was trying to be discreet,” the keeper groused, nudging Fred aside. 

“In your Puddlemere training kit?” George snorted. 

“Right by the entrance to the Great Hall,” Fred remarked. 

“Ladies and gents, Mister Oliver Wood, Master of Disguise,” the first twin announced, sweeping his hands above the table to a chorus of laughs and chuckles.

“Watch as he blends right into his environment,” the one next to him exclaimed. “The added height and muscle!” The twin gawked at his bicep.

“The very obvious uniform that does not belong to this school!”

“The scowl that can kill a grown man with just one look!”

Next to him, Sunny and Angie giggled into one another, trying not to draw his ire. Perhaps hiding had, indeed, been a bit of a foolish idea considering the altercation to be well watched. Between that and the whole of the student body spying him at some point in the past half hour, he conceded defeat. Instead, a wry smile tipped his lips, choosing to be amused. 

“Aye, we get it,” he groaned, more good-natured than not.

“So, what did Hermione do to bring you to Hogwarts this time?”

“HEY!” The witch in question jolted across his person, slapping the boy’s arm. “First of all, I did nothing. Secondly, what do you mean this time?! He’s never come to the castle after me!”

“Well, what other reason would he be here,” George, the twin across from him, snarked.

“Maybe I want to visit me aunt?” He challenged, smirking at the frustrated blush on the lioness next to him. 

“In your practice kit?” The one next to him retorted. 

“I was excited,” Oliver took a bite of a sandwich he claimed, starved after the morning workout and panic. 

“I’m sure you were,” the same one muttered under his breath. Oliver’s elbow promptly met said Weasley’s stomach. “Oof.” 

“And that’s enough out of ye,” the keeper stated, turning back to his meal. 

“What about you, Hermione,” Angie inquired, eyes alight with something close to calculating, impish glee. “You didn’t show yesterday or this morning. We started to worry.” 

“Oh, you know, with the craziness on Saturday, I ended up staying the night,” Sunshine hummed, not noticing their friend’s scheming.

“It must’ve been draining ,” the infernal female grinned. 

“Sure, but healing tends to be,” the witch next to him shrugged. “A bit of sleep did me a world of good. However, with the major change ups, not to mention our potions stores being depleted, Coach requested I stay the week.” 

“And what are your plans for the rest of the day?” Angie further poked, noticing Oliver’s growing scowl and guessing the cause.

“Well, today is pretty easy for the most part. I have a few meetings I need to attend here, just normal ‘I’m going to be gone, what do I need,’ things, really,” Sunshine listed, sipping her first cuppa. “Then, when I get back, I’ll be helping with the potions restock. Afterwards, Jonathan and I are going to have to go through and recalculate all of our analysis for the team thus far, and then we have to do projections for the rest of the season.” 

“Dinnae you say today was easy?” Oliver inquired, his voice flat. 

“Well, yeah,” Sunny turned towards him, her cinnamon eyes wide and guileless. “It’s mostly a bunch of sitting around, really.” 

“Brewing while tired can be rather dangerous,” his successor nodded, her concern real, though her smirk spoke to a working hidden agenda. 

“It’s nothing I can’t brew in my sleep,” waved off the apprentice. 

“ Sunny,” Oliver growled low in his throat. 

“Oh, don’t you start with me,” her delicate features scowled right back, every bit as fierce. “I’m not making extra work for myself, and I will not be adding NEWT studies to the list for the day. Nor am I going to partake in my other lessons while I’m at the facility.”

“It sounds like a busy day to me,” Angie chimed in, her expression innocent. 

“It’s rather average overall,” shrugged the apprentice, glaring daggers at the man next to her. 

“It just sounds like a lot, is all,” he remarked, switching tact. “And I know ye have several meetings here ye want to accomplish before tea with Aunt Min.”

“Fine,” huffed the witch, nose in the air. “In that case, you are allowed to follow me to the dungeon, where I’ll be holding my first two meetings.” 

Flouncing from the seat, a shocked Oliver blinked before following. 

“The dungeons?!” His baritone brogue hissed in her ear. “Are ye bleeding crazy? Have ye lost yer mind?!”

“Not at all,” the witch in front of him remarked, her efficient strides leading her from the Great Hall and to the right. 

“Where ya going?” Potter ambled up beside them, keeping pace.

“The blooming dungeon, ” Oliver scowled. 

“Hermione, really?” Her friend gasped. “But what if something happens?” 

“God give me strength, there’s two of you,” muttered the beleaguered Sunshine. “For the record, who in the castle is most likely to respect the sacred bonds of master and apprentice?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” grouched the keeper, finishing the ham sandwich. 

“Really, Ol, you ought to know better,” the gentle chastisement stopped him for a moment.

What the blood hell did she mean? Mossy eyes darted from the stairs to Sunny. In his protective panic earlier, Oliver never considered just who she came to meet. Or why. Feeling far denser than usual, he just shut his mouth. Potter, however, never knew when.

“But you need to be careful , Hermione,” emerald eyes beseeched. 

“Is that not what you two are for?” Her pert response did nothing to calm either Gryffindor. 

“That is not funny,” frowned the teen.

“Nor is questioning my judgment, accusing me of incompetence, assuming my inability to accomplish basic tasks, nor deciding to not trust me or my word,” her sharp riposte stung. “And yet, here we are.

“You best listen to me right now, Harry Potter. You are to remain outside the office door. You are to be as respectful as possible to anyone passing by. If that means absolute silence and a nod for courtesy, then so be it,” her snappy instructions demanded attention, respect, and obedience. 

“If you are asked as to what you are doing, you may respond, with a civil tongue in your head, that the next of kin is meeting with their family’s healer.” Potter gaped at the fiery lioness. “Now, repeat.”

“I’m to be polite, and tell anyone curious that a family healer is meeting with the next of kin,” the dumbstruck teen recited. He sucked in a breath as if to continue.

“And before you so much as mention Ol, understand several things,” her lethal hiss lowered in volume. “Number one, the next of kin will decide whether Oliver is standing there beside you or in the office with me. Number two, as a healer on an official visit, any action against me by the party in the office is seen as an offense punishable by years in Azkaban. Literal. Years. Number three, Ol here is probably going to get all the gory details by tonight, anyways.

“And number four,” Sunny rose to her full height, assessing the teen savior’s soul.  “I trust Oliver with my life and that extends to him keeping my secrets. So, you better reconsider those petty little arguments you want to indulge in right now.” 

Oliver watched the spectacle take place. An amused smile graced his features, softening the angry frowns. It appeared his little gamble paid large dividends. If her temper were anything to measure by, which wasn’t always the case, the petite spitfire felt miles better than just an hour ago. Listening to Potter receive a well deserved talking down also did wonders for his mood. 

I trust Oliver with my life. 

A gale of emotion spun out of control, picking up second after painfully long second. Thoughts zoomed past and around, creating chaos and nothing at once. Moments connected together. All the times she broke down around him. She cried. Showed weakness. Vulnerability. Each recollection cemented that truth, especially when looking at Potter. A boy who only knew the knowledgeable, mostly collected, often sarcastic, brave, stalwart older sister. Who couldn’t fathom her insecurities beyond the most shallow. 

The instinctive need to wrap her in his arms and thank her grappled with the current situation. Instead of the intimidation or obligation he expected, a rush of gratitude and awe consumed him, warmed by his own fondness. How such an amazing, powerful, accomplished witch trusted him to the point of stating it as fact baffled Oliver. He swallowed the rest of the tangled mess of possessiveness, primal satisfaction, and affection for the moment.

Leveling an impressive glare upon the other teen, Sunshine strode down the corridor with authority. Turning to a discrete door, she knocked. Her tawny eyes settled upon Potter one last time, rooting him to the spot. A muffled reply answered, admitting her into the room. It appeared to be a small meeting room, connected to the Head of House office. A fire crackled to the left of the room, a small cluster of chairs situated around it. An eerie green light filtered through the large opening along the back of the room. Heavy, emerald drapes pooled within silver cording. 

“Apprentice Granger,” Adrian Pucey bowed upon her entrance. Of course, Oliver breathed, finally understanding her insistence. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“Apprentice Granger,” a silky, smooth baritone greeted. “How fortuitous of us to be graced by your presence. And Mr. Wood.” 

“Professor Snape,” she returned in kind. Merlin, of course she’s safe in the dungeons, he mentally scowled. “I hope you are in good health. If you could provide me with a list of the brewing for the week, I will have it ready for you by the end of the week.”

“That will suffice, Apprentice,” the man rumbled, his abyssal eyes locking on Oliver. A slight pressure pressed against his mind, a sure sign of a test. Raising a brow, the keeper waited, confident in the ability to at least get away should worst come to worst. However, as soon as it touched his mind, the pressure lifted. “I will leave you to it. And remember, Mr. Pucey, Slytherin House takes family quite seriously.” 

“Thank you, Professor,” the teen sighed. A soft click and they were alone once more. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“Any time, Mr. Pucey,” the witch dimpled and took a seat across from the seventh year. “As the next-of-kin for Captain Denton, I am contacting you about his health. I know you are very close to Peter, and I want to assure you he felt much the same. You and his wife are the only next of kin listed on any of his medical records. As such, you are entitled to the full review of his medical status and information. I am here today as the Assistant Healer for Puddlemere United. You are obligated to the right of privacy. Anything that we say here is part of my healer-patient vows, and cannot be discussed without explicit permission.”

“I understand,” he murmured, a twitch of lips breaking the previously flat mask. “My father is a damn good solicitor, despite his flaws.”

“And you intend to follow,” Sunny smiled. “Before we get started, do you want Oliver to leave? He’s not a member of the family-”

“Like Becca won’t just tell the whole bloody team later,” hazel eyes sparkled with amusement as they turned towards him. “Take a seat, Wood. Pete trusts you and likes you well enough. Might as well get comfortable. I’m sure they told you lot something, otherwise there’d be a riot.” 

“Thanks, Pucey,” Oliver nodded, giving the seventh year a fresh start.

“The team bloody well slept in the corridor,” cinnamon eyes rolled. “They tripped over themselves to get into the bay to check on him.”

“As they should,” smirked the Slytherin. 

“What they were told, and it is true, is that Peter will make a full recovery,” her soft smile informed the anxious student. The visible slump of relief reminded Oliver that no one outside of the facility knew Peter’s condition. “He will walk and run, be generally a pest, and boss us all around again. In time. Recovery will be long and rough at points, but he will be fine.” 

“Oh, thank Merlin,” the handsome aristocrat beamed at Sunshine. “I could kiss you right now, Granger!”

“Please, we’ve already done that,” snorted the witch. 

Outrage and anger blew to the forefront, clenching his heart and fist. Forcing back the intense need to stand in front of the witch or to snag her, Oliver scowled at the both of them. She admitted to snogging the bloke over the summer, and at the time, it appeared humorous. More amusing than not. Seeing the reality in his face changed his mind entirely. 

“I was not but an inexperienced lad,” lamented the young wizard.

“And now you have a girlfriend and I have business to attend to,” Sunny snorted. 

“She wouldn’t mind a ménage à trois,” Pucey smirked. 

“I would,” the Gryffindor witch deadpanned. 

“Ah, but it was a wonderful, fleeting dream,” grinned the insufferable Slytherin. “Lighten up, Wood. No harm no foul!” 

“Really?” An exasperated groan answered. “Can we get back on topic? Please?”

“Of course, Apprentice extraordinaire,” Pucey smirked.

“Winky,” the witch called. When the elf popped in, her softened voice asked, “could you please get us tea and a few snacks? ” 

“Yes Mistress,” popped away the elf.

“Good, now down to the nitty gritty, which I’m sure Becca won’t relay the whole of,” Sunshine asserted as Pucey readied the tea. “At approximately seven after seven on Saturday, Peter fell victim to one of the best and most successful back breakers Healer Erkison ever saw. It crushed, and I mean pulverized, both shoulders, and snapped his spine a full 90 degrees. He fell from his broom, and the shock of the stop added little more injury due to how we slowed and brought him in.”

“Merlin,” breathed Pucey, eyes riveted on the witch. 

“The procedure lasted approximately eight hours,” Sunny sipped her tea. “Would you like more detail on what we did or a summary?”

“Walk me through it,” he stated, determination shining in his eyes. “I need to know how he went from nearly dead to ‘he’ll be bloody fine’.” 

“Tuck in,” a dainty hand motioned to the snacks on the table, to which they obliged. “First, I immobilized him. Healer Erikson has a specific spell she uses for her orthopedic surgeries. We started by the basics, stripping him. Despite the brutal injury, there wasn’t a lot of blood since the majority of the damage was internal. With the full body still, Healer Erikson started the procedure as soon as we stabilized his respiration.”

Needless to say, the exacting measure they took to ensure Peter’s health astounded Oliver. He no longer wondered why it took them so bloody long. First, they needed to get to the injury, followed by vanishing and removing the irreparable vertebrae and tissue. Once any chips of bone were removed from the bloodstream, they set to work.  Healer Erikson apparently regrew the majority of the spinal cord nerve by nerve, drawing upon Sunshine’s magic when necessary. 

“I’ll be honest,” Sunny remarked to the stunned silence. “That’s the part that took the longest. She had to regrow nerve by nerve, layer by layer, and all with no wand. Penny truly is a mistress of her craft.” 

“I’d bloody well say,” muttered the pale Slytherin. “How the hells did she land on a quidditch team?”

“She’s an ortho who likes down time to research,” snarked the witch, scone in hand. “You put two and two together.” 

“That’s yer field, Sunshine,” Oliver retorted.

“Like advanced runes are any easier,” she muttered into her ceramic cup.

“They are to some of us,” hummed the keeper, avoiding the swat with practiced ease.

“You know, I never understood what Peter would say about the two of you,” Pucey remarked from his chair across the low coffee table. “But I see it.” 

“Well, if we’re recovered enough to gossip,” Sunny redirected, blunt and obvious (Pucey chuckled, throwing his ankle across the opposite knee). “That leads us to his treatment plan. We cannot do anything more until Wednesday. The trauma to his body was too great, and the number of potions we shoved down his throat nearly gave him toxic shock as is. He’s being kept comfortable and with a set of specialized IV treatment to supplement the potions until they run their course. 

“Wednesday, we plan on doing another major surgery where we get all the bones where they ought to be,” she explained. “It’s more reconstructive, but we are expecting him to be awake by the end of the week should everything go well. From there, we will monitor his immediate post-op and start his physical therapy. Any questions?”

“Thank the gods he has someone as competent as you and Healer Erikson,” Pucey remarked. 

“Yes, he’d be a paraplegic or worse left to the tender mercies of team staff healers I shall not name,” snorted the lioness. “I will have Healer Erikson send over the written leave request when I get back, and you will be free to visit us within our normal hours.”

“Then I’m set,” sighed the aristocrat. Standing up, the meeting adjourned, Pucey crushed Sunny in a bone-breaking hug. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” she murmured, releasing him slowly. “Let’s go see Professor Snape. I need to talk to him anyways.”

Oliver resumed his position, a touch closer than before. Really, the witch should still be in bed not gallivanting around a magical castle. Still, he didn’t fault her for being discreet and contacting Pucey in school, away from the curious media and fans. Stepping through a door to the right, he found himself in a familiar, disquieting office.

“Professor,” Pucy grinned. “I’m afraid I missed my one o’clock.” 

“You’ll have an excuse written up for, who was it, Filius?” The man drawled, never looking up.

“Yes sir.” 

“Very well, off with you,” the man shooed. “Apprentice Granger, is there something you wish to discuss?”

“Yes, Professor,” Sunny answered. “I need to cancel all my tutoring for this week due to unforeseen circumstances.” 

“Ah, I take it the staff is in a frenzy?” Dark eyes glanced up. “And that includes you?”

“Yes, Professor,” She affirmed. 

“In that case, you will be correcting these assignments from years one through three for me,” a hefty pile of scrolls and parchments materialized. “Along with this one for years three through five for your Mistress. Each year has its deadline on this parchment here.” 

“I will send it along with Winky when they are completed,” she demurred. “Is there anything else?” 

“Not at the moment, Apprentice,” Snape replied. “You are free to go.”

“Yes, sir,” chirped the petite witch. Pensive and quiet, Oliver followed Sunny out of the office and into the corridor once more, pensive and quiet.

“How did it go?” Potter trotted from further down the stone hall.

“As well as expected,” the witch remarked, juggling the large bag in her arms. Scowling, a large, calloused hand reached over, relieving her of the burden. “Thanks, Ol.”

“All ye needed to do was ask,” he snorted.

“Ah, but that wouldn’t be Hermione, now would it?” Potter grinned, who laughed at Oliver’s fierce scowl. “Come on! Hermione can take care of herself more often than not. It’s really quite fun to be on the opposite side of this dynamic.” 

“I am not some damsel in distress,” Sunny crossed her arms and huffed. Oliver’s brow rose. “Really!” 

“No, but you are a witch in need of some tea,” Potter beamed at managing his best friend. “And I believe you two have an appointment with our beloved Head of House while I am going to beg for an excused absence for last class.” 

“Ah yes, you missed the High Inquisitor’s class, didn’t you?” The lone witch smirked. 

“Your safety and health is far more important than any class,” Potter bowed, gallant and full of humor. “My education is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“You’d ‘sacrifice’ your education for much less, and we both know it,” snorted the lioness.

Perhaps Oliver understood just a bit more why Sunny suffered through headaches and heartache to be friends with Potter. Anyone willing to both manage and keep her safe was okay in his book. Afterall, she mothered them all.

“So, whaddaya say Wood?” Ethan goaded in the locker room after a stunning victory. 

“‘Bout what?” He questioned, coming from the shower.

“Coming with us to the clubs!” The chaser cheered. 

“I normally do,” Oliver trailed off, glancing at the chaser. 

“Well, sure, you do,” Summers grinned. “But this time, you’ll be the full fledged starter who blanked out the Tornados.”

“I’ve started for a couple of weeks now,” he frowned. “And no one’s paid me much mind.”

“Oh, Ollie boy, the wonder of witches wantonly throwing themselves at you is just about to start,” chuckled Jack, half dressed against his locker. 

“And I’d want that because?” He scowled. 

As a truly private person, the thought of strange women who wanted him for only his quidditch skills were less than impressive. He preferred the fans who talked to him about something interesting, not just plays or moves. It dawned on him, the longer he played professionally, that there is such a thing as ‘too much quidditch.’ A soft chuckle escaped him, thinking of telling the fifteen-year-old Oliver Wood such a thing.

“Well, you don’t have to do anything with them,” Van called out. “But it’s nice to be recognized for a job well done. Appreciated, you know.” 

“Fame seems overrated,” the young keeper maintained. “And bloody inconvenient.” 

“Well, there are the obsessive fans,” the beater relented. “And the stalkers. Though, I haven’t seen Skeeter around this season. That’s a massive improvement.” 

“Gods, and I don’t want to give Witch Weekly a knut,” Oliver groaned.

“Velma does like poking at you,” Christian Thompson chuckled. 

“Why would I tell her something like that?!” The baffled brunette exclaimed. “It’s just asking for trouble!” 

“Yes, well, some enjoy the chaos,” snarked the seeker.

“We’re not all Alexei or Jack,” he groused.

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” retorted his friend. 

 "What do ye mean?" Oliver scowled across the room.

"Just that," Jack shrugged. "If you really are only friends with Hermione, then meeting new birds may be just the thing."

"New birds?" Mossy eyes blinked, almost repulsed by the idea of making himself deal with simpering idiots who saw galleons and a name. 

"I grant you that these women aren't exactly ladies, the lot of them," the chaser continued.  "But it could be a bit of good fun. You know, get out there, be young and unattached and free. Enjoy yourself. You work hard, Oliver."

A pensive frown tugged at the corners of his lips. He didn't want to do anything with strange women. Dancing and pushing said bird onto a more receptive teammate proved to be quite amusing before. Nothing materially changed, though. Even then, Oliver wondered if, perhaps, he missed some instinct or appeal. Those thoughts tugged at the closed and sealed box in his mind, the chains rattling waiting to break.        

"At the very least," Furgeson pitied the young player, "you can figure out if you really do see Hermione as just a friend. That alone is worth investigating, don't you think?" 

"Fine, I'll go ye mad lot," Oliver capitulated. A rousing cheer ran through the locker room. "However! I'm leaving after a couple drinks. I normally grab a few with a couple of friends from Hogwarts after games. I don't intend on breaking that tradition."

"But that means we have you for a couple of rounds," Ben beamed.

"Aye," Oliver responded, dreading his decision already. 

"How are you doing?" Percy inquired, sliding into the booth. 

"Terrible," Oliver muttered, nursing the weak ale between his fingers.

They met for the first time in his hometown, a local tavern used to seeing Oliver since he could run from the estate. Fans and groupies crowded the club the team frequented after matches. Much to his chagrin, and the team's continuing delight, their predictions came true. Men and women threw themselves at Oliver, offering drinks, making propositions, and asking for his signature. That, alone, Oliver understood and tolerated. What he absolutely detested were his teammates throwing witches (and a wizard or two) his way. They clung to him, something the Scotsman despised after the first one. Claws attempted to dig into his person or psyche, and really, it wore on his nerves. He left as soon as reasonably possible. Even then, he just knew the Prophet would have a field day in the morning

"Really?" The ginger man blinked up, bags under his eyes. "Didn't you win a game? A rather smashing performance if what they played on the wireless was anything to go by." 

"Yes, the game itself went rather well," Oliver conceded. The whole new scheme they worked around Oliver's strengths seemed to compliment the chasers quite well. "Their chasers weren't exactly a challenge, though. The Tornados are tied with the Cannons in last place for a reason." 

"Fair enough," shrugged the office worker. "Then why the mood?"

"The lads decided I needed to 'loosen up,' and took me out to the club afterwards," he scowled at his bottle. "It's fine going with them once in a while, you know? They are good fun and there's always a laugh to be had, but tonight they were ruthless. They kept on shoving witches at me, even when I asked them to stop." 

"That sounds rather upsetting," Percy hummed, sipping his own drink from the tap. "Why would they think finding a witch would help?"

"Just, this whole thing with Sunny," the keeper glanced away. 

The inky darkness beyond the window contrasted the rest of his night. Calm. Cool. Only the occasional dot of orange lighting the road. 

"I keep on saying that we are just friends, because what else are we? Really? And their thoughts are if we are just friends, then meeting a bird shouldn't be that big of a problem. They just don't-"

"Understand that it's more complicated?" Percy finished. 

"Yes," Oliver closed his eyes and pinched his nose. 

"You said that there will be pictures in the Prophet tomorrow?" His friend mused.

"I expect so," he sighed. "I mean, I haven't been seen with a witch, I'm the new starter for a successful team, and I've been performing well enough for us to continue winning." 

"You don't need to shortchange yourself, Ollie," Percy smirked. "I can say that I'm just a decent paper pusher who gets things done, but that'd be a blatant misrepresentation. I have been able to keep the department moving and working throughout a tumultuous year and transition it from one head to the next. You're playing very well right now, Oliver, and it's something that has been going around the office like fiendfyre." 

"I guess," flushed the young keeper. "I just donnae see it that way. There is a lot of versatility we lost when Capt went down. We're just lucky that the chasers are good at playing around my limitations at the moment." 

"See, and that's why you hate all the attention," snorted the other man. "You like the game for itself, for improving, competing, and winning. Not for anything else, which is something of a novelty to most fans. You don't want to pander to them."

"Thank ye," Oliver exclaimed, excited that his best friend understood . "I dinnae go into the sport for the fame and fortune. Me family's rich enough and I just donnae like all the false attention."

"It's not false," Percy snorted. "There are good reasons to be paying attention."

"Superficial attention," mossy eyes rolled at the semantics. 

"Better," enthused the intellectual. "Now, about those pictures tomorrow," the man remarked, catching his interest. "How are you going to handle that?"

"What do ye mean?" A nonplussed frown creased his lips and brow.

"You know I'm not good at being subtle with you, right?" Percy sighed, rubbing his face. "Hermione is going to see whatever pictures they print first thing in the morning while at Hogwarts, in the Great Hall. What do you think will happen then ?" 

Oh bollocks. Oliver never thought of that being an issue before. Then again, Hogwarts loved the juiciest, most salacious gossip possible. Considering he marched into the castle not two weeks ago to personally find and escort the witch would be everything they talked about for days after. Sunny told him as much. 

"This isn't going to be good, is it?" A hand held his head from falling onto the table.

"When is the Hogwarts rumor mill a good thing," snorted the man across from him. Leaning forward, Percy's blue eyes pierced Oliver, a thoughtful, calculating gaze assessing his expression. "But take this moment and think, and I mean really put some thought behind it, Oliver. Your mates on the team weren't wrong to take you to that club and to tell you to get your head straight. Anyone with two eyes can see you two are very good friends, and have probably mistaken you both for more. So, take a moment and really consider, would that really be so bad? Or would that be what you want? Because if you don't want to be with her, then perhaps letting some space grow between you two isn't the worst thing."

Pain, unexpected and cruel, pierced with each word spoken. Unlike his team, who badgered and baited with the ease and familiarity of a family, Percy never played with emotions. Growing up in a large family with little attention to go around, the redhead in front of him understood the weight of misplaced expectations and emotions. To hear, even him, suggest Oliver move on or forget about Sunny in any regard hurt . The thought itself choked his throat with the emotion alone. 

"And if you can't find that as a sustainable solution for yourself," Percy leaned back, his own occlumency and political experience keeping his face clear of expression. "Then, perhaps, you should consider what you really want from your relationship with Hermione. Both of you deserve the chance to find someone special. It's up to you to decide for yourself what that means and how it looks for you."

"Do ye know how much I hate ye right now?" Oliver growled, moody and upset. 

"Yes," his friend sighed, glancing out the window himself. "I do." 

Mossy eyes snapped to the haggard face before him. The sparkle of determination and righteousness dimmed his blue eyes. Bags darkened his face and his pale complexion lost what little color existed. Instead, a melancholic air and drawn expression painted his features. Frowning, Oliver cast his mind back to their previous meetings. They usually met twice a week, on Wednesdays since Percy left work early that day, and Saturdays after Oliver's games. 

"How long have ye two been having issues?" He inquired, low and quiet.

"Gods, for the past few months," Percy sighed, gusty and long. "I know that a large part of it is my public indifference towards my family and what they're saying. She doesn't quite understand that it would mean my job , my livelihood should I publicly defend my parents and their stances. Her family has money . Not like Hermione's, mind you, but enough to allow her to follow her heart."

"And this is yer only chance at getting any sort of independence," Oliver concluded. "Otherwise, ye'd be bowing and scraping to make it by as a shop boy, and ye're too smart for that." 

"Exactly," his friend echoed. "You, at the very least, get it. Even if you were disgustingly rich before you started playing professionally." 

"It still comes from hard work," Oliver shrugged. "We take care of our village and make sure that the forest is seen to. Keep the crops healthy, and the magic in balance. There is quite a bit that goes into it, really." 

"And I know that," sighed the ginger. "Just like you know there's a lot more that goes into my family situation than just being one of many. Hell, even Hermione understands, and she's in a bloody similar situation. In some ways, her circumstances are even more unbelievable." 

"So, what are we to do?" Oliver mused, leaning his head against the back of the booth. 

"The thousand galleon question, that is," Percy snarked, a sparkle of mischief glimmering in his eyes once more. "But at least we have each other. If you want to use me as an early out in the coming club nights, I promise I won't be offended."  

"I'll take ye up on that offer," chuckled the keeper.

"And you should have seen it," Jack enthused as Oliver walked into the classroom. 

Hermione stood several feet away, nodding along all the while. Oliver spent the majority of Sunday at home calming down his mother, and explaining ( again) what the Prophet caught. He stood, ready to go and meet the lads on the dance floor when Ben shoved a tall blonde in his path. Her hands clung to him fiercer than any Devil's Snare he encountered in Herbology and with just as much might. Really, some women need to respect themselves a bit more. 

Not all of them were as empty headed as they pretended. At least, that's what Oliver dearly hoped after the procession his team brought before him. Either way, the photo depicted him catching the witch, as if dipping her in some sort of dance. What they didn't show, however, irritated the Scotsman. Polite as he could muster at that point in the night, Oliver set the woman on her feet, stepped away and promptly excused himself, tired of the team's antics.

"I bet it was quite the sight," Sunny murmured, twirling the chalk in her fingers. 

"You've no clue," the man exclaimed.

"And that's enough of you lot," Jonathan instructed, striding into the room. "Enough of your escapades, Jack."

"But this isn't about my adventures, oh master of numbers," the cheeky chaser grinned, taking a seat. His twinkling eyes darted towards the keeper in their midst. "And I thought you were supposed to know all! It's about Ollie's night." 

The man in question audibly groaned, settling into his normal seat. Taking the briefing and playbook out of his bag, Oliver's ears burned. Hearing his friend's exaggerated account of Saturday night knotted his stomach. Perhaps most concerning, however, Sunny remained silent and blank. Not so much as to draw the attention of the team, no, but Jonathan surely noted the difference. As did Oliver. In fact, she rarely spoke towards him more than necessary. Considering her normal contributions dispersed throughout the team, it drew little to no attention. Still, it felt wrong. On the way out, he tried to catch her. 

"Hey Sunny," he greeted the witch.

"Oliver, did you get to speak to Percy?" She inquired, soft and concerned. 

"Yeah," he blinked, thrown for a loop. 

"How's he doing?" Sunshine inquired, frowning in thought.

"He's in a bad way," muttered the Scotsman. "Things aren't going well with Penny."

"That's what I thought," teeth nibbled on her lower lip. "He hasn't come out and said as much, you know, but I can tell. I really think they're going to break up soon."

"That's me impression," Oliver sighed, running his hand over his face. 

"Percy will need a good friend during that," she eyed him, meaning clear.

"I donnae abandon my friends when there's trouble, Sunshine," he frowned.

"I know," the hint of a smile, the first he'd seen directed at him all day, curved her lips. "But it's something to keep in mind. Now, I have to return. Umbridge has been more power mad than normal, so I can't stick around."

"Take care of yerself," Oliver called after the witch, feeling torn as she walked away. 

The next two weeks followed similar patterns. Sunny would show up, do her work, and generally be a good friend. She'd joke with the team, listen to their increasingly ridiculous stories about their days out. Ignoring him, Oliver mused, would've been more tolerable than the friendly distance she placed between them, slow and steady. Her generic complaints and glossed over stories of the school tasted bitter. Having quite enough of it, Oliver planned to corner the lioness and figure out what to do, because he hated it. 

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Professor Vector chanted under her breath. "Wood, with me, where's Jonathan?" 

"In his office," Oliver pointed behind, having just left the room seconds before. 

"Good, put up those wards Hermione insists you're better at than her," she demanded, striding through the doorway. Following the order, Oliver shut the door and started to sketch runes. "I see she wasn't exaggerating. Good. Get Penelope and Bartholomew. Both need to be here for this. And they aren't going to like it one bit."

Nodding, black boards appeared out of thin air. He recognized them as the very same ones they worked on not a few months ago. Numbers changed over time, he noticed. The equations increased in complexity the further down the chalk scrawled. Knowing nothing good accompanied any of this, the keeper raced through the facility to find both members of staff. Within minutes, they appeared once more to find a silent, brooding Jonathan and frantic Professor Vector. Tea, finger foods, and alcohol laid upon a silver tray. 

"Pour and sit," the woman instructed. "And, Wood, if you would be so kind, please activate the wards now."

Pushing his magic from his core through his body no longer exhausted him as much. A gust of energy and power energized the latent runes he sketched earlier. White, glowing symbols blazed bright for a moment before fading to nothingness once more. Doctoring a mug with a good dollop of whiskey, Oliver missed the intrigued Healer Erikson and the thoughtful Jonathan. Only Coach knew the extent of his abilities and studies, thinking it important to keep the man abreast. 

"What happened, Septima," Healer Erikson inquired, glancing at the assembled group. "And where's Hermione?"

What an excellent question , the keeper wondered. The only time the Arithmancy Mistress stormed into the Puddlemere facility in a panic involved a singular witch. One Hermione Granger, suspiciously absent from the current proceedings. 

"There is," the woman sipped her tea and slumped. "So much to cover. The long and short of it is that Albus Dumbledore is no longer the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Dolores Umbridge has seized control of the school and has proclaimed herself Headmistress." Oh bloody hell. "As it pertains to the team, Umbridge has decided to take the contract literally. Hermione is only allowed to be here between one and three in the afternoon Mondays through Fridays."

"What?!" 

"How can they do that?" 

"What do ye mean 'only allowed'?" 

"Please just, wait, I promise to answer all your questions," a slim hand shook. "The Ministry's stance is well known on the current non-conflict, and so they sent a toad to monitor Dumbledore. Needless to say, her teaching is less than desirable. Wishing to do something about it, Hermione convinced Potter to create a study group that went underground almost as soon as it started. Umbridge caught wind of the idea and outlawed all school groups unless they were approved by her, and banned any gathering of four or more students." 

"There is not enough alcohol in the world for this shite," Jonathan mumbled. 

"There never is," sighed the mistress. After a fortifying sip of the English repast, she continued. "Needless to say, Hermione is remarkably ingenious and a little too clever for her own good. Before the ban, she created a contract with some built-in safeguards. Vindictive little thing when she chooses it." 

Coach snorted, a sly smirk on his face. "A most useful tool to keep the lads in line."

"Truly it is," Jonathan chimed in. "Helps keep them on task during our meetings as well."

"Good, she’s used to corralling the wayward person," Professor Vector massaged her temples. "Which is what she ended up doing. For months, they practiced and no one turned them in."

"Until today," Oliver groaned, not wanting to be right.

"Well, I'd say the informant in question was more coerced and blackmailed than a willing participant," her lips pursed. "But the result is quite the same, yes. Umbridge brought her thug force, the Inquisitorial Squad , bloody stupid name that, and broke down the door to their meeting place. Caught several students. Except, Hermione tutors during their lessons more often than not. However, the informant insisted to that bitch that Hermione organized the whole thing, using Potter as a convenient figurehead." Here, the woman paused, weighing the words in her head. "Which, to be fair, is true."

"Yes, well at least she is qualified in that subject," Healer Erikson remarked. 

"It's the reason she agreed to help," the exhausted, beleaguered professor groaned. "If I weren't getting older and my alcohol tolerance so shite during the school year, this would be so much easier." 

"Can you explain how all of this relates to Hermione's duties with the team?" Coach asked, not unkindly. "I need to know what to say when the bosses ask where the witch is hiding."

"Bloody fucking," muttered the woman, hunched over and shaking. "That power mad bitch is torturing my apprentice and there's nothing I can do about it." 

"Septima, you're scaring me," Jonathan murmured, moving towards the woman. Kneeling down, a large hand rested on her shoulder. "Just tell us what happened."

"Right," a soft sniffle broke through, alarming Oliver. The woman stayed calm and collected in every situation. "Well, the bitch called for Hermione before any of us knew what was going on. Called her in to be questioned with Potter in front of Fudge and several aurors for conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic." A litany of swearing greeted those words. "Before it could be done, Albus disappeared, stunning everyone in the room but the children. Which left them to the tender mercies of the High Inquisitor . She procured a certain device to control Hermione's movements. Suffice to say, Hermione is more of a prisoner now than a student."

"What happens if she disobeys or stays late by accident?" Jonathan breathed. Oliver watched the tears gather at the corners of Professor's glistening espresso eyes. Wet trails shimmered in the torchlight. "Oh gods, is that even allowed?"

"It doesn't matter whether or not it's legal, Jonathan," murmured the distraught witch. "It's already happened, and the only way to release her from them is to-"

"No longer be a student, and therefore the Head's responsibility," murmured the man. "But what about-?"

"She won't allow it," gritted the woman, swiping at her face. "Practically boasted about how much pain and agony she expected Hermione to feel. Hell, she expects Hermione to take it without complaint because she is-"

Jonathan closed his eyes and leaned back, tears starting to run down his face. Whatever device they talked about flew over Oliver's head. The repercussions were so severe that neither arithmancer thought to speak them aloud. Coach sighed, rubbing his face. Healer Erikson turned an understandable shade of green. And he was supposed to talk to her. 

"What can we do to help?" He whispered, lost and powerless.

"I don't know, Wood," murmured the woman. "Umbrdige is sure as hell not going to let any letters leave the castle. The post owls have been searched since October. She literally cannot leave the grounds, and Umbridge will not grant you access. Not after your little display a few weeks ago." 

"So, we just," Oliver struggled to find the words. "Wait?" 

"There's nothing else you can do," the professor murmured. "You just need to keep your head down and stay out of trouble. Hermione will worry herself sick, and you well know the lengths she goes to for those near and dear. As for the rest of you," turning towards the other staff members, "give her something to do. Something she can complete and send along with her elf. Stats, potions work, essays, hell I don't care if it's a stupid game of tic-tac-toe!" 

Guilt wracked Oliver. He knew the castle grew more and more dangerous every passing day. Understood the real danger living there posed to Sunshine and the rest of the students. His gaze drifted to the desk against the wall, frowning. Why the guilt? What did he do that warranted that particular emotion? Letting the gap grow between them? Not talking to Sunshine sooner? What would he say, anyways? Still, it persisted, eating away at his thoughts. At the very least, it reigned in the seething fury running through his veins. Despair twined with everything else. Was he reduced to being unable to help ? 

No, he decided. The others debated and strategized the best assignments to pass along. I'll give her something else to think about, he promised. 

Chapter Text

Dear Oliver,

It's crazy we're back to just writing letters, isn't it? Usually, we spend so much time together that it feels silly to pick up a pen and write down anything more than a short note. The world is an odd place and I swear the Fates have a most perverse sense of humor. Thinking on it, I, too, would be easily amused in their situation.

Everything at the school is going about as well as one can expect. Without Professor Dumbledore here to keep the peace, I am quite amused to report the castle has fallen into a state of chaos. The illustrious Undersecretary added a decree some time back, demanding that teachers only instruct their given subjects during the appointed hours. That, and taking all disciplinary action unto herself, has left the staff rather unwilling to interfere with the students. Namely, the Twins.

I swear, if they applied themselves just a touch more to their classes, they'd  have the whole school beat. They created what they call a 'portable swamp.' It is what one expects with such a name -muggy, muddy, and bug infested. The fact that it spanned the entire entrance hall and instantaneously created an entire ecosystem is absolutely astounding. Of course, the Toad couldn't stand such a thing in her school, but Professor Flitwick insisted it'd take him some time to undo the charms in a safe manner. Professor McGonagall created a bridge to safely traverse the swamp. 

In fact, shortly after this incident, they began to further trick and prank that odious, insipid amphibian masquerading as a human. The twins created their own firecrackers. Unlike the ones in Zonko's, they can’t be deactivated with a simple finite or banished, these packed something of a punch. Banishing them multiplied the amount of fireworks. Finite makes them grow. Hell, they created a full dragon one could fight like King George or King Arthur. Bloody impressive, really, and it has the dual purpose of keeping the Toad so busy with putting out literal and metaphorical fires that she has little time or energy to torture anyone else.

That being said, I have a sneaking suspicion that the Twins aren't long for this school. I don't think they'll make it to the formal NEWTs. They are planning something, and the girls and Lee are in on it. I don't blame them, not really. If I could just up and leave, I would. However, unlike those two, I value my education and cannot just abandon my duties and responsibilities for momentary relief. Instead, I am living vicariously through them, helping where I can. It brings joy to the younger years and keeps Harry and Ron entertained. 

How is everything going there? How is Peter healing? Becca writes to me often, but it's not quite the same. Tell the lads I said hello, though Ben finally struck up the courage to write to me after a year and a half. A miracle, really. 

Your friend,

Sunny

Mossy eyes roamed the parchment once more, dissatisfied. He expected her to withhold certain information, for example, anything regarding what is actually limiting her time in the stadium. After the first day of their new arrangements, neither Jonathan nor Healer Erikson dared speak of how they controlled her. The pain and upset in their faces dissuaded Oliver from even trying. Instead, he watched as the people all around him munched on their lunches. Everything felt off. Reading through the letter once more, his frown returned. He hoped, with the explanation, she'd open up a bit more, talk about some interesting book she read or how her potions have been progressing. Instead, generic stories about mutual friends and run of the mill questions. 

Maybe she needs more time, he frowned.

"And then she said that if I'm too much of a coward to stand up for what is right, then I wasn't the man she thought I was," muttered Percy, voice soft and broken. "I know I'm not as brave as my brothers. Merlin, Bill is a bloody curse breaker with Gringotts, and one of their best and brightest from everything I've heard. Charlie works with literal, fire-breathing dragons, and the Twins are willing to risk the rage of our Mother to get away from school and home." 

"Ye're not a coward," Oliver reassured his friend, shoving his own problems to the back of his mind. 

"How can you say that?" Grouched his friend. "I've been nothing but a yes-man. Where is the courage and bravery in that?" 

"That's the bloody problem with this whole country," sighed the keeper. "We all pigeon-hole ourselves into these little, tidy boxes, and for what? To always assume we must be defined by them? So others can judge us by those expectations? It takes a lot of bravery and courage to stand up to yer whole family, the only people ye know in this world. Who love ye, despite their ridiculous and sometimes shite way of showing it, and support ye. Gods, what's wrong that only putting yer life in danger can be considered courageous?"

"You really think so?" Shining, blue eyes held his own, hopeful and earnest.

"I know so," asserted the Scotsman. "Ye explained to Penny what ye actually believe and why ye can't fully acknowledge the facts in this climate." Percy nodded. "And ye also haven't outright denied or refuted the claims." His friend's head bobbed once more. "Then, ye are being strategic. Ye can provide help in other ways. Merlin, just being informed of what's actually going on in the ministry would be a boon." 

"But who would listen to me now?" The pessimist at the table snarked.

"Sunny," the answer left his lips before he could think. 

"Yeah," the man across from him nodded, a thoughtful tilt to his head. "She'd listen. Might be the only one-"

"I cannae promise anyone else will take her word," the keeper inserted, hoping to keep his friend's expectations level. "It seems Potter and yer brother are more pigheaded this year than ever."

"So she's said," muttered the man across the booth. "Hermione mentioned how Ronald is more insistent recently, trying to get her alone and away from people more often. Normally, I'd applaud my brother for acknowledging his feelings." 

Oliver scowled, hating every word out of his friend's mouth just now. The little boy who only thought of himself didn't deserve someone like Sunshine. Someone who devoted the majority of her life to helping others, despite the way the world hurt her over and over again. 

"Well, aside from your unresolved issues there," Percy smirked, small and shaky. "She wrote about how it freaked her out. She'd be coming back from the library, and suddenly he's around a corner. Or how Hermione would be taking an odd route to the common room to think, and Ron would be waiting behind a tapestry, always trying to get too close. She's resorted to staying in her private rooms as much as possible, and only going to the tower to sleep."

"Why can't she sleep in her own quarters?" His mind raced with the possibilities. 

"Because she's a student and the charter dictates that she must reside in the dormitories until she graduates," Percy groaned. "Whatever Umbridge is using to control her is doing a far better job than it should." Looking into his green eyes, his friend entreated him. "I'm worried about her, Oliver. If anyone has a chance of breaking through to her-"

"I donnae think she'd-" The words squeezed past a lump in his throat. "She barely mentions herself in our letters anymore." 

"Well, that's probably due to the fact that she doesn't want to make you worry," frowned his friend. "You know how she is about her own wellbeing. Borderline negligent, really."

"While true," Oliver conceded, "I meant in general. She won't tell me about what books she's read recently, or what the girls have been up to, or ask me about wards and runes and the like. When I say Sunny isn't really talking to me at all-"

"You mean she has stopped talking about her life to you," Percy nailed it on the head, the reason the letters fell flat every time he opened a new one. "What the bloody hell happened?"

"I donnae," Oliver exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "It's like something snapped that day after the lads took me to the club. She started saying things like 'I donnae want to hold ye back,' and 'ye donnae need to worry about me all the time, ye know.' Just, baffling things. I told her, of course, what happened on me end, but it hasn't helped like I thought it would. She's not cold or anything." 

"She just isn't as close," nodded the redhead. "Have you ever considered that she thinks you want space from her?"

"Why would she think that?" The indignant response spat out his mouth. 

"Oliver, you're an attractive, single, wealthy young wizard who has a lucrative, blooming career," Percy stated, blunt and factual. "You're intelligent, witty, and generally a good bloke. From her perspective, she's a schoolgirl stuck in some circle of hell, forced to play part in a war she doesn't want, and she's never had the best self-esteem. Despite what you or I or the rest of the people in her life see, Hermione doesn't view herself as anything special." 

But she is, a quiet, plaintive thought wound through his mind. 

"So, what, she thinks-"

"You're a single wizard having fun while he's young," Percy finished for him. "That's probably what she's thinking. And, knowing her, she feels guilty for holding you back from enjoying yourself. She knows how hard you work, Oliver, probably more so than everyone else. You are allowed to associate with whom you want, when you want, and Hermione knows she has no say over it."

"Damn yer bloody logic," Oliver muttered, looking away. 

Oliver wanted to punch something, or fly until his anger no longer pounded in his ears. And really, how could he fault Sunny for thinking that way? He still didn't know what he really wanted from her, and having given no indication beyond friendship, what did she know? Nothing. Except that he went out with the team and they wanted him to meet as many eligible witches as possible. Maybe she felt they didn't think her worthy enough for one of them? That thought punched him in the gut. If anything the team thought her too good for him. She wouldn't believe them even if they told her.

"Have you figured out what you want with her?" His friend inquired. Seeing Oliver's torn, angry face, Percy shook his head. "You might want to get that down before confronting her about it. You and I both know she'll poke holes through anything you say, especially if it's half-baked."

"Hey Oliver, what's up?" Peter asked. 

The recovery proceeded apace. Peter walked around, stiffer than normal and with assistance for the time, but still, he moved. He walked. He talked. All of these things brought Becca to tears almost every time she stopped to think. Oliver, often visiting Medbay to do his part, collapsed into the visitor's chair. Healer Erikson hit the nail on the head. The subject of flying sometimes upset or freaked the man out, let alone suggesting he returned to a broom.

"I'm confused about something," Oliver settled upon, trusting the man. 

If any of them comprehended the dynamic between quidditch stars and the witches in their lives, it would be Peter. His relationship with Becca warmed Oliver's heart every time he watched them interact. Sure, they bickered and teased one another, but they adored each other in equal measure. Their relationship withstood over fifteen years of play, ten of which consisted of being a star starter for a major club. Not that Oliver aspired to their kind of relationship, he quickly reassured himself, pushing those types of musing away. Just that, he'd know better than the rest of the numpties on their team, what to make of this situation.

"Ah, I see you're finally talking to me about Hermione," the man grinned, settling into his pillows. 

"I beg yer pardon," he blinked, not expecting to be so transparent. 

"What? It's been a bit of a talking point," Peter chuckled. "I swear, Jack and Ben are trying to see who can figure out what happened in the first place. The pair of prats haven't realized they caused the problem. Thought it'd just be a bunch of fun and games, I'm sure." 

"Well, in that case," Oliver trailed off, at a loss. 

"From the start, Ollie," he prompted. 

"Ah, well I suppose it started a bit before her current circumstance," began the younger keeper to the elder. He explained her treatment and his explanation. How her letters lacked quite a lot of her, by all means. "It's been maddening. I was going to talk to her, but then the school went to shite. I can't even see her anymore." 

"That was purposefully done," Becca remarked from the door. 

"Ah, Beckie, my love, my light-" The Captain beamed, light and humorous. 

"Yes, yes, I got you that curry you like," her brown eyes rolled, the smile wide on her own face.

"You are an absolute angel," the man exclaimed.

"Until I make you do your exercises," snorted the amused witch.

"Do ye want me to leave?" Oliver inquired.

"No, no," Becca assured him. "You need to know something. Umbridge is employing more than just physical and magical torture to keep Hermione in line. She's using emotional and psychological warfare against her. Nothing so overt that either her or her mistress can pinpoint and target. No, it's the small things that add up to more than the sum of their discomfort."

A large, rough hand brushed through his hair. "I feel like I should've seen this coming. Or happening."

"Ollie, you cannot stop the world from hurting her ever," his friend's wife clucked. "That's impossible, especially considering her position. What you can do is reassure her that you do care and that you won't abandon her. It's not much, but it'll have to do for now."

"And if it's any consolation," Peter called out, having shuffled with his magical walker to the kitchen table. "When I joined my first team, before Becca and I were really dating, the lads did much the same."

"Really?" Oliver frowned, glancing between the pair. 

"It was bloody miserable," the man remarked, an almost fond smile on his face. "Hated it with a passion. They dragged me out for months before I told 'em to shove off and asked Becca out." The couple beamed at each other. "Not my finest moment, honestly, I more or less just said we're going out and she said where, and that was that. Point is, they mean well, truly the ponces do, and this is their way of helping you make up that mind of yours. You tend to overthink and overanalyze things, Ollie."

Oliver meandered through the bustling store. Sunny's latest letter included the details of how the twins busted out of Hogwarts, took their brooms, and opened their shop. Considering the rather covert nature of the two, and how no one truly knew more than they sold and tested products, it surprised Oliver they already had a store ready to go. He suspected a certain apprentice knew more than she let on. Parents and young children alike browsed the wares this Thursday afternoon. Some gawked, others actually asked him for autographs, though not as many as Jack or Ethan who accompanied the keeper.

"Look who's come to visit us during opening week!" Exclaimed an excited, enthused twin. "If it isn't the newest, rising star of Puddlemere United."

"They grow up so fast," the other appeared out of nowhere, sniffling.

"Twins," Oliver nodded, grinning at their loud, fuchsia outfits and rather garish orange stripes. "I see ye two have been rather busy."

"Of course we have!" The first one beamed. "Can't start a business without first doing some work, can you?"

"Not that Mum would understand or believe us," the other snorted, straightening stock on the shelf and cleaning up a mess. 

"Still, it's rather impressive," the keeper beamed, eyeing the different products that littered the shelves. 

"Yes, and the mail order is quite lucrative right now," smirked the first Weasley. 

"I take it Hogwarts is having quite some fun with yer products?" Oliver chuckled, well imagining the kind of chaos the students could unleash. "How do I find that unsurprising?" 

"Well, you can't expect someone who never dealt with children to understand how to deal with them, now can you?" A rather malicious, toothy grin spread across the latter twin's face. 

"Anything to make life there more enjoyable," his brother nodded. "There's not much to laugh about right now."

"But enough about that," his mirror clapped a hand on the other's shoulder. "I see you've brought a few teammates with you. Why not introduce us to some future customers, Ollie ol' boy, ol' pal." 

"Then we can catch up after we close up for the night," the first murmured as Oliver led the way to a guffawing Jack and glowering Ethan.

"Sounds good to me," the quidditch player nodded. 

Watching the four men get along like a house on fire, Oliver wondered just how much he'd come to regret this meeting. Yet, having just left the school days prior, the Twins possessed the most up-to-date information on Sunshine. Her letters, while growing longer and recovering some of their previous warmth and humor, still lacked much information. Hearing his former teammates opened up their own shop in Diagon proved to be the best opportunity available. 

The clock struck half after eight, and the last of the customers wound through the shelves of products and out the doors. In short order, the twins whipped the shop into shape. With some help, the men walked through the doors into muggle London before nine. Finding a local pub not too far from the entrance, a place Mr. Granger often brought the Wood men on their outings, Oliver requested a table and soon leaned back in the booth. 

"And how do you know the muggle world so well?" One of the twins asked, sitting down at the table.

"I've come here often enough," broad shoulders shrugged, amused by the dumbfounded expressions worn by the twins. Gods, no wonder Thomas and Sunshine love bringing me out here. "Me Da, Mr. Granger, and I stop by for food either before or after muggle football matches." 

"Really?" Ethan gaped. "I didn't know you were that close to Hermione." 

"What do ye mean?" Oliver frowned, sipping the drink the waitress brought. 

"I mean, you know her family, she knows your's, you have attended events with each other," the chaser ticked off his fingers. 

"Don't forget Ollie here brought her work to her current Mistress," one of the twins grinned, eyes taking in the sights. "If not for him and one of our many siblings, Miss Hermione Granger may not have been an apprentice at all!"

"Wait, you did?" Gasped Jack. 

"I dinnae do that much," flushed the keeper. "Just brought the notebook she kept stats into Professor Vector." 

"And likely changed her whole life," snorted the other chaser. 

"Ye all are saying these things as if she hasn't done anything for me," Oliver flushed under his teammate's surprise. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" One of the twins ginger brow raised up.

"Yes, do elucidate, oh Captain my Captain," the second grinned. 

In for a knut, in for a galleon, Oliver moaned. "Who do ye think dragged me to the Puddlemere try-outs in the first place?"

"What?"

"No!"

"Really?"

"Well, that explains a lot," Jack muttered, eyes recalculating. 

"You weren't going to try out?" Ethan gaped, wondering just why . "Not to sound like the bloody paper, Wood, but you're a damn good player." 

"Call it indecision," Oliver remarked, eyes trained on the table in front of him. 

"Well, that bird has all my respect and more," the tall, dark wizard nodded. "Has a good eye, that one does." 

"That she does," Jack nodded, tilting his head to the side. "Can't say I understand her taste in all things, but then again, it is what it is." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oliver's curious mind blurted out.

"Just that," his friend shrugged. 

"Well, I'm sorry to report that Hermione's not exactly had a kind time since everything went to shite at school," the first twin muttered, dark and broody. 

"She won't talk about it with me," the keeper sighed, eyeing the unusually somber set of twins. "Not a lick of what's happening. All we know is that she comes in for two hours a day and has to leave on time. No one's even told us what the punishment would be for being late." 

"Hermione hasn't exactly told us anything, either," the first twin shook his shaggy, ginger hair. "It was... bad. Like, very bad. Of course, the majority of the students rebelled however they could, but Umbridge might as well have put a collar on 'Mione. She's been in detention every day for hours at a time. She's not allowed to go to Hogsmeade. None of us actually know what they've done, but she can't even use most magic." 

"What do ye mean she can't use most magic?" Frowned the concerned Scotsman. 

"We don't know what else that means," the second twin scowled, a finger idly tracing some pattern on the condensation of his plastic glass. "Just that she refuses to do most anything. Sure, she can levitate a book or summon a scroll, but that's about the extent of what she does."

"Of course, most people don't even notice that, " groused the first. "The number of times I've told Ron and Gin that they needed to go easy on 'Mione because she's being hurt is incredible. In addition, the Toad has been having special 'guests' present during her detentions."

"Gossiping little cows, the lot of them," the other huffed. "I don't know what they talk about. All I know is that by the end of each session, she comes back a shell of herself." 

"Wait, doesn't she have detentions with the others?" Jack frowned. 

"No," one of the twins answered. "Harry, Gin, Ron, Lovegood, and Longbottom all receive detention together in the evenings. Due to Hermione's tutoring schedule, which Umbridge has kindly allowed to continue-"

"For approved students only, of course," the other snarked. 

"She has them while others are in class," the first continued. "I don't know what they are talking about or what they are doing, but none of it can be good. " 

"Not to mention our darling little brother, Ronald, has taken to stalking her," frowned the second. "Bloke doesn't know when to leave it well alone. At first, we wondered if he actually realized what an amazing person Hermione is, you know?"

"But no," his mirror image picked up. "It's some weird competition in his mind, who can possess the witch first? Apparently, he heard Cormac McLaggen mention how he wanted to defile her."

"Now he's got into his head that he needs to do something about it," the first grumbled. 

"And not just, you know, tell the bird that one of the guys in the dorm is trying to get her alone and do things to her."

"No, no, by trying to be the first one to do anything to her," rolled the eyes of the first twin. 

"What a bunch of bloody morons," Ethan sighed. "I swear, we weren't this bad when we attended."

"And what does your brother think, exactly?" Jack snorted, crossing his arms. "That no one noticed Hermione before him?"

"Well, no," the first twin chuckled. "He knows that Krum noticed her first. Pissed him off something fierce when he learned that, not only did Hermione have a date to the Yule Ball-"

"But it ended up being with his man-crush, Viktor Krum," the second smirked. 

"Too bad Ronald opened his mouth and made a scene," scowled the first. 

"Made her cry that night, he did," remarked his brother.

"She was fine the next morning," Jack recalled. "Came to us with the story and everything. A little tired, but considering what happened, that's to be expected."

"Still, to be stalked," scowled Oliver, leashing his temper to the best of his ability.

"Yeah," the first twin sighed. "We tried to tell Harry-"

"But he's so stuck in his own world and his own head," the other frowned. "He's been on and off blaming Hermione for half of the things that have gone wrong in his life. Why did she abandon him with us over the summer instead of staying?"

"If she's so powerful and well connected, why can't she stop him from going back to his family," the other rolled his hazel eyes. 

"Why can't she teach him the skills he needs instead of going to a professor who specializes in this specific kind of magic just because they don't like each other."

"The list goes on and on."

"Needless to say, there is no shortage of fireworks to set off with our wonderful Boy-Who-Lived and then grew up to be one hell of an angsty teenager," the other snorted.

"Yer Mum nearly took her wand away by force last summer," Oliver stewed, remembering the incident quite well. 

"She did what?!" His teammates gaped. 

"Well, Mum is a bit of a bully," the first twin sighed. All conversation stopped as the waitress passed out the platters of food. Once she departed, the young wizard began once more. "She likes the idea of Hermione."

"Clever, smart, rule-abiding Gryffindor girl," the other brother ticked off. 

"But not the reality," the first concluded. 

"You mean the fact that Hermione is headstrong, independent, and has her own bloody mind?" Jack snorted. "Say it ain't so." 

"There's a reason we all have left the house as soon as possible," one of the twins echoed his elder brother's words, unknowing and just as earnest. 

"Well, hell, no wonder Hermione doesn't like to talk about it much," Ethan murmured. "And it makes sense you two don't invite Lee over."

"I don't think Mum could handle three of us together," the second twin hummed. "Almost makes me wish we tried."

"Almost," the first emphasized.

With that, they dug into their meal, and all talk turned towards the shop and quidditch. Conversation swirled around Oliver, flowing from one man to the next. The only thing in his mind was how better to construct his letters, the only point of communication left to him. If what the boys were saying was correct, and Oliver believed them wholeheartedly, then several conclusions presented themselves. 

First of all, whatever detentions Sunny suffered through forced her to use her occlumency. Likely, no one in the tower recognized the signs. Nor the inherent danger in their prolonged use. 

Secondly, Potter and Weasley proved themselves to be shite friends. Teenagers, on a whole, tended to be selfish, self-absorbed beings, self-conscious and worried about what everyone else thought. Which left only the girls, who displayed more self awareness and support than the two boys. 

The last point, that Weasley continued to pursue Sunshine against her wishes and interest concerned Oliver the most. For once, he allowed the more possessive side of his nature to surface. The fact that she continued to write and thaw towards him warmed his heart and tickled that need to be recognized, the want for attention. 

Half paying attention and participating in the on-going conversation, the rest let him be. He thanked his lucky stars that the people Oliver decided to surround himself with understood when to leave him well enough alone.

"How are ye doing, Perce?" Oliver inquired, watching his long-time friend.

"Better now," the young man nodded, looking out the window of the tavern. "Between you and Hermione, I don't feel as horrid about myself and my actions. I did what I did for a damn good reason. If she can't understand that, and doesn't want to, it's not my problem in this case."

"I'm glad yer doing better," he smiled at Percy. 

"Yeah, it's been almost liberating, you know? To not have to constantly justify myself and my actions," the man grinned. "I have enough moral crises without having someone continuing to pile it upon me because they don't like how I handle things." A small frown tilted his lips down. "I may have also casually mentioned how the hospital in Paris is taking applicants, and how Pen would be a good fit."

"I take it she understood the hint?" Oliver remarked, sipping his favorite ale. Percy nodded, looking out the window once more. "Good. At least that's one more person out of harm's way."

"I know that it can't be easy for you right now," the redhead frowned, looking back towards the quidditch player. "She's still on a ban of pretty much everything, right?"

"To me knowledge," a deep, frustrated sigh rushed out. "I donnae what else I can do but send letters with the elves, ye know? Ask them to leave it in her rooms for her to find. Thanks to yer youngest brother, I donnae trust it being sent to the dorms anymore."

"Understandable," Percy nodded. "Ron has always been impetuous and selfish. More so than the rest of us. He may have gotten the material hand-me-downs, but he never realized just how lucky he was, is, and continues to be." A bitter scowl marred his normally placid expression. 

"Mummy's little boy, always getting the most attention, the excuses made for him, being told to go and play while the rest of us did work around the house. Whenever Ron so much as sniffled, it was one of our faults. Not his for trying to snatch what we were doing or playing with at the time. I see he hasn't grown up much since then, and Mother dearest continues to coddle him." 

"The way ye describe it makes me glad I'm an only child," Oliver remarked, wry and bemused.

"I love my brothers and Gin, really, I do," blue eyes widened in a sort of endearing panic. "But at a distance. My relationship with both Bill and Charlie drastically improved once they moved out of the house. I think, while we were growing up, we all tried to fit into the little mold Mum tried to put us in, and the pressure that resulted hurt us all. Away from being the proper heir and spare, with me being the good-son, the three of us have been much better."

"I'm glad to hear something good has come of it all," snorted the keeper. 

"Yeah," long, thin fingers played with the glass on the table. "I've still been writing to my brothers, you know? They actually understand my position. Bill, more so than Charlie. It's just so difficult to be everything they want me to be, expect me to be." 

"I cannae imagine," Oliver hummed, glad to see his friend much recovered from his break-up. 

"But enough about me, " Percy frowned. "I have heard some rather disturbing things in the ministry lately. Whispers of the things that Umbridge requested. I'm not high enough to get more than things through the grapevine, but even if one of those things turns out to be somewhat true, I truly wish I could do more."

"What do ye mean?" Frowned the large man, mossy eyes glancing up.

"There are certain artifacts that Hogwarts and the Ministry keep to use under dire circumstances," his friend chose his words with care and precision. "For the most part, they are for convicted criminals and those proven to be entirely too dangerous to society. Hell, most of the Death Eater caught never touched one of the things. If Umbridge requested even a fake or something like it, and for whom I think, then things are really, really bad." 

"From what yer brothers said," Oliver chimed in, mind racing at just what it could be. "It is locked down. The professors only teach during classes, students are pranking, using spells and such in the halls, without consequences, and they are right terrorizing the toad. It donnae sound good for Sunshine, though." 

"No, it sounds like it could do some serious damage," brooded the man across the booth. 

"And all of this, and she still isn't talking to me," Oliver muttered, letting the hurt he normally shoved aside show. Sunny always shared her problems with him before, and Oliver prided himself on being reliable and steady. To be kept in the dark, whether intentional or otherwise, struck much closer to home than anything else. "At least I've gotten her to talk some about her life."

"That's a start," Percy remarked. "But you still have to decide what you want from her. She's doing her best to protect everyone as much as possible. The last thing she needs is mixed signals. Hell, from what I've gotten from her, Hermione has been absorbing a lot of the attention from Harry."

"Selfish git," growled the keeper. "Of course she's taking more punishment for Potter. And how does he thank her? By yelling at her and blaming her for everything going wrong in his life. I would've been done with him long ago."

"No, you wouldn't have," snorted the ginger across from him. He chuckled at Oliver's surprised expression. "Oh, you would've yelled at him, probably burned some of that anger off in a duel or a quidditch practice or even a fight, but you'd stick it out. You're damn loyal, Oliver. Once someone is your friend, you stick with them until the end or betrayal. You don't give up on people," a smile softened his friend's features, "and that's exactly what Hermione needs. Someone to not give up on her, because her life is pretty dark right now." 

"Fine, ye have a point," an amused smile bowed his lips. "Granted, I'd be mighty annoyed with Potter." 

"And you are," his friend pointed out. "You haven't actually abandoned the git, despite everything that's happening. Even if it is just for Hermione's sake, you are not condemning the lad." 

"Granted, if he were to ever hurt her in any way," Oliver threatened.

"You really need to figure out what you want," snorted the ginger across the table. "To be more precise, you need to accept that you know what you want, but are too afraid to admit it to yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Scowled the Scotsman.

"Stop lying to yourself, that's what," Percy, ever prim and proper, threw a balled up napkin at Oliver’s head. 

"OLIVER CALLEN WOOD, OPEN UP THIS DOOR THIS INSTANT!" A painfully familiar voice shouted through his door. 

Checking the clock above his mantel, the man frowned. Each tick of the black second hand increased his confusion. What caused Sunshine to beat on his door at midnight on a weekday? Grabbing a jumper and throwing it on, the tired, bedraggled quidditch player stumbled through his apartment. Flicking his wand at the grate of his fireplace, bringing some light to his living room, Oliver went to the front door. Opening it, a pale, shaking, bloody determined Hermione Granger stood, fist in the air ready to knock once more. 

"Is there a-" He began, eyes drinking in the sight of her exhausted, distressed state. 

"You need to go to Mungo's, now," she cut him off without so much as a hello. 

"I beg yer-"

"Get your father while you're at it," Sunshine commanded, her efficient strides eating the distance between his rooms and the corridor to the staff floo. Instinctive and automatic, Oliver shuffled into shoes and pulled a robe around his pajamas. The amount of occlumency the witch used downright terrified the man. "And be prepared for the worst, Ol. I mean it, it's not going to be pretty." 

"What the hell is going on?!" Oliver demanded. Catching her hand in front of the staff floo, he tugged, gentle and insistent. "I cannae be calling me Da in the middle of the night without a reason." Noticing the shaking in her body, his thumb brushed against a cold piece of metal that wrapped around her wrist. Her trembling now shaking her whole body, Oliver dropped her fingers and, without second guessing himself, held her soft cheeks in his large, rough hands. "Talk to me, Sunny." 

"Fuck," she whispered under her breath, clearly not intending him to hear. "Right, okay," her soft, mezzo muttered, trying to gather herself. "Professor McGonagall took six stunners to the chest fifteen minutes ago." Oh shite, that was not what I was expecting, his mind flew though he kept calm and still. "I really shouldn't be here right now-"

"Is that why yer shaking so hard?" He murmured, watching the physical effort she exerted to stay standing up while his calloused thumbs brushed along her cheekbones.

"Yes," her embarrassed flush answered. 

"Bloody hell," Oliver whispered. "Get back to the castle and get some rest. I donnae care if yer supposed to be in the bloody tower, sleep in yer rooms. It's safer." 

Slim arms twined around his middle, holding her warm frame against his, tight and firm. For a single moment, everything felt alright for the first time in months. His muscular arms wrapped around her, nose buried in the perpetually messy mane of chocolate curls. Everything else fell away. Only the witch in his arms and her comforting, familiar scent of parchment, ink, and warm spices. He swore she murmured, 'I missed you,' only to be muffled by his shirt and robes. Noticing her condition worsening by the second, he stepped away, slow and regretful of the necessity.

"Ye promise ye'll go and rest as soon as ye get back?" Oliver prodded, needing reassurance. 

"Yes, I'll be fine ," the witch rolled her cinnamon eyes, fond exasperation coloring her voice. "Now go! I'm not the one who took six bloody stunners meant for Hagrid to the chest."

"Oh, bloody hell," the Scotsman groaned. 

"Now get going ," small hands pushed against his back. 

"As long as ye promise-" Fingers pinched the green powder, throwing it down for him. 

"I promise there is almost nothing I'd like better than to collapse in bed in my own quarters," Sunshine reassured, impatience and pain sneaking into her tone. 

"Fine, but we're going to talk after all of this," Oliver asserted, close to figuring out just what he wanted to say.

"Oliver Callen-"

"Wood Estate," he rolled his eyes and stepped through the flame, leaving an infuriated, amused witch behind.

"Master Oliver, whats you be doings here?" Tufty inquired, popping up at his arrival. 

"Is Da still awake?" He asked, the anxiety for his aunt creeping over him now that Sunshine no longer stood in front of him.

"Yes, Master Oliver," the elf nodded. 

"Good, make sure things are ready for a quick exit," Oliver strode through the familiar corridors and open halls of his family home. "Aunt Min is in hospital." 

"Yes, Master Oliver," Tufty bowed and popped away.

"Da!" He called, barely knocking on the door. His father glanced up, surprise clear on his face. "We need to go to Mungos."

"Good Godric, what happened?" Ian Wood exclaimed, getting up from his desk without question. 

"Aunt Min-"

"I'll go wake yer Ma," his father apparated out of the room with a loud crack.

Blinking at the spot his father previously stood, Oliver retraced his steps. At some point, he'd have to inform the team of a family emergency. He walked out to the reception room, mind recalling and blurring together the past fifteen minutes. As much as he worried for his aunt, death terrified Oliver. No one knew, but he always saw the skeletal thestrals that pulled the carriages to and from the school. He watched his Grandma  pass at eight, tears in his little eyes that one of his favorite people would never wake up again. He dreaded to think of what would happen should they be unable to help Aunt Min. At least he said goodbye to his Grandma. 

"Tufty, tell Da and Ma I went ahead," Oliver instructed the waiting elf. 

"Of course, Master Oliver," the little thing nodded with determination.

Thanking her, he spun through the green flames once more. Entering the bustle of the emergency reception room of Saint Mungos, Oliver waded through the myriad of people gathered. Some appeared much like the Weasley twins, colored or with odd and awkward appendages. Others coughed and wheezed, mumbling in pain. 

Upon reaching the reception, the witch who called him up gaped for a few moments. Keeping his expression neutral, a single eyebrow rose in question, as if reminding the woman to get back to her job. Taking the subtle hint, she cleared her throat and glanced at her parchments.

"Welcome to Saint Mungos, what can I do for you, sir?" She simpered.

"I'm here in regard to a patient," he stated, keeping the irritation off his face as much as possible.

"Name?" 

"Minerva McGonagall." 

"Professor-?" Her voice trailed off.

"Is me Great Aunt, yes," he replied, curt and concise. 

"Right, well, you will be going to Spell Damage, which is ward three on the first floor," the insipid witch fluttered up at him.

"Thank ye," he nodded, keeping his manners and wits about him. 

It wouldn't do for the team or his family to be openly rude to a fan. Even if they were being highly unprofessional in his humble opinion. Long legs followed the clear signage through the sterile, bright hospital. Liking it less than the more comfortable Medbay or the oddly homey Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, memories consumed the man. He never knew his other grandmother, the one on his mother's side. Her family disowned her for going against their wishes and marrying his father. 

All the better, Oliver snorted, he didn't want to be associated with that line anyways. In that way, Aunt Min acted like a second grandmother, taking care of him during the summers, letting him run wild in the moors as a child. He really should have taken more time to be with her since graduating, his maudlin thought circled in the echo chamber of his mind. 

"Hello, sir, how can I help you?" A polite, older witch greeted him at the Spell Damage ward.

"I'm here to see my aunt, Minerva McGonagall," Oliver answered, at ease with this employee. "I was told she was taken to hospital not too long ago." 

"Ah, yes, very good, and a name, dear?" Her maternal smile nudged. 

"Oliver," he blinked. "Oliver Wood. Me Da, Ian Wood, will be here shortly as well."

"Very good, Mr. Wood," the woman nodded. "If you could have a seat here, the healer will be out as soon as they are able. And don't you worry too much, dear, I remember your aunt from our school days. She's tough as nails. She'll be fine." 

"Thank ye, ma'am," a tiny flame of hope flared in his chest. 

Plopping into the inevitably uncomfortable waiting room chair, time passed by. Within ten minutes of his arrival, both his parents rushed through the entrance. The witch pointed towards his brooding character, her soft assurances following them as well. 

"Do ye know what happened, Ollie," Ma asked.

"I have most of the story," he murmured, letting his mother fuss. "Well, not the context at any rate."

"And how did ye know she'd be here?" Frowned his father. 

"Ah, Sunny stormed into the facility," he recalled, seeing her pale, shaking form in his mind's eye once more. "Woke me up and told me to get ye and come to Mungos quick as possible."

"I thought she couldn't come to the facility outside of her hours," his mum's brow furrowed, likely recalling a conversation with Mrs. Granger. 

"Me, too," Oliver frowned. "I thought it was a travel ban. But, after that," he hesitated, not at all liking the implications of what he observed. "I think they are controlling her in a much more painful, visceral way."

"Oh Merlin , no," his mum breathed, glancing up at his father. "They said they'd gotten rid of all of them, Ian." 

"Well, obviously, one or two slipped through the cracks," he rumbled, arms crossed. 

"Tell me, Ollie, did she have anything on? Anything she normally wouldn't?" His mother's penetrating, green gaze locked onto his face.

"Ah," his brow furrowed in thought and concentration. Nothing stood out immediately. Sunny rarely wore any of her jewelry around the castle, worried the muggle material too vulnerable to the magic that ran rampant. Only her locket remained on her person at all times. Then why did she have a bracelet? "A metal bangle around her wrist." 

"Oh, Merlin and Morgana, I am going to kill them," growled his mother, surprising the son. "How long was she there, Ollie?"

"No more than five minutes," he frowned. "Ten tops." 

"Thank Circe for the little mercies," the fiercely protective woman fumed. "She was conscious when she left?"

"Ma, yer starting to scare me," Oliver murmured, unsure of how to take his mother’s interest. 

"As well as ye should be," she asserted. "I know ye donnae really understand the importance of what ye saw, but it is something that I cannae believe they allowed to happen to a student, let alone an apprentice." Turning her fiery gaze back onto her son, Sophie Wood pinned him. "Now, tell me, was she conscious when ye left?"

"Yes," he answered, looking wide eyed and concerned. "Berating me for taking too long to go through the floo despite me asking what was wrong." 

"Bloody witch is too strong minded for her own good," muttered his mother, fond and exasperated. "Tufty!"

"Yes, Mistress?" His family's elf popped into existence. 

"Could ye please check that Miss Granger is safe in her bed at Hogwarts? She's been drained and went to find Ollie with no regard to her own health," his mum inquired, kind and direct.

"Yes, at once, Mistress," Tufty left before he could think. Within moments, the elf returned. "Missy Hermy is in her beds at the school, Mistress."

"Thank ye, Tufty, that'll be all," his mother sighed in relief. 

"Drained?!" Oliver hissed. "Is that what that thing does?" 

"Yes," his father sighed, leaning back in his chair. "The Wizengamot keeps a set for prisoner transport, but there were quite a few dug up during some of the raids after the last war." The keeper turned and listened, knowing his father was a man of few words. "They were supposed to be inventoried or destroyed. There were rumors that some went missing some time ago, but no one truly knew that for a fact."

"And I bet that's not all Dolores did," growled his normally placid, correct, and very polite mum. "I cannae tell ye how many times I had to go through and try and stop her from doing anything she ought not. But no, instead, there are all sorts of missing artifacts that no one wants to question. Nothing at all. No one even looked into them.

"What exactly does it do?" Oliver inquired. " I mean I saw her shaking, and I know for a fact that it kept all her shields up to be able to so much as to talk to me." 

"It drains the magic of the individual to a level of a near squib," his mother growled. "As a student, there is no way that she should even be near one."

"The twins did say she couldn't do the barest of magic at times," he recalled, soft and horrified. 

"They are correct," his mother nodded. "Any magic she used would be absorbed by the bangle. In fact, anything else done would do so. She has strict parameters, I assume, and couldn't go out outside of those strict times."

"Yes, that's what Professor Vector indicated," Oliver nodded. "What happens if she breaks those rules?"

"You have to understand, Oliver," Da murmured, quiet and tired. "There is much in this world that is neither dark nor light. What matters in intent, and, when it comes to artifacts, the intent behind their creation determines how we judge it. In the case of these bangles, they were designed to hold magical prisoners for long periods of time. Should Hermione have broken her 'parole' or set limits, the bangle activates and sends pain not unlike the cruciatus, increasing in intensity the longer the directive is ignored."

Leaning back, the young wizard absorbed what his parents just imparted. Sunny literally tortured herself to make sure he knew to be here. She understood how important what little family he had meant to the Scotsman. That fact alone froze his mind a bit. Hermione Granger literally took a prolonged crucio for him and his family. Full stop. A large hand covered his mouth, eyes cast to the side in deep thought. Professor Vector mentioned, when the situation first arose, the lengths Sunshine reached for her 'near and dear.' Would he do the same for her? Yes. Instantaneous and absolute, Oliver acknowledged the truth.

"Family of Minerva McGonagall?" A mediwitch inquired from the door into the ward.

"That'd be us," Da stood and strode forward. 

"Please follow me," the witch turned. 

White walls and wooden doors passed by in a flash before they stood in front further in the ward. The witch nattered on about their evening, and apologized for not being able to say more until they entered the safe, warded zone, to protect patient privacy. Well acquainted with that idea, Oliver allowed his thoughts and memories to run free. The last time he visited happened to be the last he saw his Grandma alive. Shelving those panicked thoughts in favor of the more pleasant ones, he dearly hoped this time would be different.

"Ah, Lord Wood, Lady Wood, Mister Wood," the healer bowed upon their entrance. "I am Healer Artie McConnel. You are all here, wonderful. I believe the only other person allowed on this release is a Miss Granger." A surprised gaze swung between his parents. They knew something. "Am I right in thinking you will be able to contact her?"

"Apprentice Granger is currently in residence at Hogwarts," his father remarked in his low, unhurried cadence. "She had the unfortunate circumstance of witnessing the event first hand. Due to her obligations, she could not stay with us, but Miss Granger is at least aware of Minerva's situation."

"Very good, Lord Wood," the man gave a shallow bow. "Then you know that she was hit in close range by six aurors attempting to apprehend a half-giant staff member, correct?" They nodded. "Very good. Mistress McGonagall is remarkably lucky to be quite as fit and healthy as she is. Her exercise has kept her heart in excellent condition, making it quite easy to correct the arrhythmia the stunners caused. There will be no long term damage done." 

"Oh, thank Merlin," Ma sighed, walking to the bedside of the slumbering witch.

"However, in the short term, I'd like to keep her here for observation," the Healer McConnell informed the family. "If, by Monday, everything is back in order, then she will be released from the hospital and I'll give Poppy my follow up instructions. She will be short winded for some time, and will need a cane to help get her up and down all those stairs. However, in time, Mistress McGonagall will recover from these side effects."

Thank Merlin, Oliver sighed, shoulders slumping in relief. As the healer went over particulars with his parents, feet wandered over to the window, eyes gazing out into the night. Relief, sweet and quenching, blew the fear from his mind. Assured of Aunt Min's recovery, Oliver wondered about the other lioness he saw that night.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Coach," Oliver muttered, half asleep as he ambled into the dining hall. "I have something to tell ye." 

"Oh, please tell me it's nothing bad," the man grouched, his wife patting his arm next to him. " I don't think I can take more of your brand of 'news', Wood." 

"Ah, it's news," he helplessly shrugged. "Me aunt, Minerva McGonagall, is in hospital." His shrewd gaze snapped to his face. "She'll be fine, but I'm wondering if I can spend the night with her?"

"Is that where you wandered off last night?" The man's brow furrowed in thought.

"Yes, sir." 

"And did I hear Hermione waking you up?" He gazed up, shrewd and assessing.

"Unfortunately, sir." 

"Bloody witch is going to get herself killed," the man groused. 

"Ye knew?" Oliver blinked, surprised and a bit outraged.

"About the suppression cuff? They're not a state secret," Coach remarked. "Did you just find out-"

"Last night? Yes," groaned the starting keeper. "I dinnae know she wore it. I haven't seen her since before." 

"I suppose that was part of the point, wasn't it," mused the older wizard. 

"So I've been told," Oliver muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Well then, I see no reason to bar you from seeing to your family," Coach nodded. "Just be sure to get some rest. Play-offs are soon, and I'd much rather have home field advantage than not."

"Yes sir!"

"Ach, Ollie lad, I just want to go and get meself a glass of water," the cat animagus muttered, her lips pursed.

"And yer healer told ye to stay put and not use yer magic," mossy eyes rolled, wondering if Gryffindor witches were all bad patients, or just the ones he knew. "It's a bit busy, ye know, healing ye." 

"Very funny, lad," snorted his aunt. 

"I thought it was," he flashed a boyish grin and conjured a glass before filling it with water. "Will this do ye?"

"You could be a bit more stiff in the wrist when it comes to that up-flick," she critiqued. "It'd create a sturdier final product, ye know."

"Thank ye for the lesson, Aunt Min," Oliver rolled his eyes, good-natured and amused. If his aunt felt well enough to instruct him on his transfiguration technique, she'd be right as rain in no time at all. "Yer expertise is, as always, appreciated." 

"What else am I to do with ye?" The elder Scotswoman chuckled. "Ask about ye runes and wards? Between Penny, Miss Granger, and ye, I reckon I know more about Puddlemere than anyone off staff at this point."

"Sunny talked to ye about her job?" Oliver tilted his head, curious and amused.

"Aye, that she did," Aunt Min confirmed, sipping her water. "Even though she has her Mistress, Septima was a Ravenclaw. There are some things she just cannot understand. Like the necessity to bash heads in every once in a while, or that Gryffindor boys, especially the older teens, are an absolute nightmare to handle."

"I wasnae that bad," exclaimed the keeper, feeling a bit called out by the knowing, arched brow. 

"Ollie, I love ye, truly, but we had bets in the staff room how long yer next Shower of Shame would last," his aunt sassed. 

"Not ye lot, too," he laughed, remembering a conversation from long ago. 

"Ye weren't exactly subtle, Oliver," chuckled the cat. 

"But surely, that's the extent of it?" He smiled, sheepish and apologetic.

"Do ye remember that time in yer class when ye couldn't get the spell and, in a fit of frustration, drew yer wand and ended up tripping over ye chair, falling forward, toppling several students in the process, and creating one hell of a chain of accidental transfiguration?" Oliver's face flushed darker and darker with each word out of his aunt's mouth.

He repressed that memory as often as possible. Yes, he danced as well as any pureblood, but really, he tripped over thin air at times. Being reminded of his second year fall often rendered him incapable of speech. More often than not as of late, out of laughter instead of the current (and previously prevalent) mortification. 

"I try not to remember it," grumbled the keeper.

"I cannae say I've seen such a spectacular transfiguration accident in years," mused his aunt, clearly enjoying the moment. 

"Oh, hush," Oliver flushed, "and eat yer chocolates."

"They look quite delicious," his aunt's hazel eyes glimmered above the rims of her glasses. 

"The Grangers know a fantastic chocolatier," the man eyed the treats with envy. "Best sweets I've ever tasted." 

"Go ahead and have one, Ollie," Aunt Min chuckled. "I cannae have them all."

"Eat one and then tell me that again," he laughed along. 

"I think I will," the cat smirked and popped the sweet in her mouth. After a few moments of blissful consumption, her eyes narrowed. "I take it back, they're mine." 

Shaking his head back and forth, Oliver settled into the transfigured reclining chair. He didn't believe in leaving his aunt alone if it could be avoided. Luckily, being young, he swung the overnight shift so his parents could rest. Pages rustled in the room, each Scot absorbed by the book in their hand. Aunt Min read whatever novel Ma left on her bedside earlier. As for Oliver, he perused an interesting book on runic bonds and their use in wards. For some time, they passed the evening in companionable silence. 

Ears picked upon a coming storm. It started soft and far, the shouts and exclamations. Nothing unusual in a hospital, emergencies happened all the time after all. As they grew closer, the frantic energy infected his previous calm. Mediwitches busted past, shouting instructions as they passed the nearby station. Scraping and rattling proceeded the gurney, flying as fast as safe within the building.

"WE NEED A CURSE SPECIALIST, STAT!" 

"Gringotts or-"

"WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO WAIT ON THE GOBLINS, WHO'S THE DARK ARTS EXPERT ON CALL?"

"Dennovich," the startled witch answered.

"GET HIM TO THE O-R STAT!"

"Yes, Healer," the mediwitch rushed.

"What the bloody hell-" Oliver blinked, wondering what happened and why it felt like a vice wrapped around his gut. 

"Oh no," murmured his aunt.

A rush of the other mediwitches flew past, orders for the potioniers running past. Standing up, the keeper peeked out the room to find the ward a buzz of activity. While normal during the day, the manic energy at this time of night worried him. Papers flew through the air, elves popped in and out, and the rune glowed bright next to the operation room.

"Excuse me, miss," Oliver inquired of one of the less busy staff. "Could ye explain what's going on?" 

"Well, I'm not sure," the mediwitch, maybe a year or two older than him, hesitated. 

"I, too, would like a proper explanation, Miss Cartcliff," his Aunt commanded from her hospital bed, patented stare over her rims fixed on the poor witch. 

"Ah, yes, of course ma'am," the witch gulped. "You see, there was an altercation in the Department of Mysteries," Oliver's eyes narrowed, "and one of the students was hit with a-" she glanced between the pair. "Well, to be blunt, a fatal curse."

"A name, Miss Cartcliff," Aunt Min cued, strict and direct.

"Miss Hermione Granger," the mediwitch gulped. "A Gryffindor sorted my seventh year."

"And have ye alerted her family?" Oliver inquired, attempting to direct his emotions somewhere useful.

"N-no they're-" The mediwitch shrank from his glower. 

"That's enough, Miss Cartcliff," interrupted his aunt, tone clipped. "I understand that our society has a habit of not informing family unless absolutely necessary." Disdain dripped from her voice. "Have ye, by chance, alerted her Mistress . Miss Granger is, in fact, a bonded apprentice."

"S-she is?" Stuttered the mediwitch, slowly moving away from Oliver.

"Go and alert Septima Vector at Hogwarts," the transfiguration professor directed. "As her Head of House, I am authorized to know all the details of her health, do ye understand?"

"Yes, Professor," the witch squeaked before wheeling away.

"Go get the Grangers, Ol," Aunt Min suggested, soft and understanding. "Ye need to be doing something useful right now." 

"Are ye sure, Aunt Min?" He stood, torn between rushing and staying with his family. 

"Ye might as well bring yer parents back, child," she patted his cheek. "Now, off you go."

Leaning over and kissing her brow, Oliver rushed through the corridors once more. Apparating directly to his house, Oliver found his parents still awake in the library. Taking in his panicked state and Sunny's name, they sat him down with a tumbler of firewhiskey. In short order the Grangers appeared in the grate, remarkably put together for a couple pulled out their bed at midnight. Shaking those thoughts off, he stood. 

"I donnae what happened, but Sunny's in operation at the hospital," the keeper explained, steadying the shaking in his hands. "Something about a fight in the ministry, and they needed a dark arts expert. That is all I know right now."

"Well, off we pop," his mother remarked. "Again."

"Again?" Mrs. Granger blinked, glancing at his family.

"We'll explain when we get there," Da reassured them. 

Just like that, a sense of deja vu settled over the keeper. Spinning through the floo, it deposited him in front of the reception desk once more. Instead of walking up and wading through the plethora of individuals, he waited. Much better to take care than to rush off. If he read the situation right, the road to saving Sunny required time. Just like Peter. No news is good news, and whatnot. Oliver recited these things, waiting until the parents arrived. 

First, the Grangers strode from the grate with practiced ease, brushing off the ash from their casual robes. The keeper thanked the gods that his parents convinced them of the idea all those years ago. The media that started to fill the reception room expected to find a muggle couple. Instead, out stepped a pair of pureblood socialites in all but magic.

"Ah, Oliver, so good to see you dear," Mrs. Granger bussed his cheeks as if they didn't see each other just minutes before. "How is your aunt doing?"

"Quite well, all things considered," he answered, following their lead. 

"Good, good, we came to give our well wishes," Mr. Granger began to navigate the hospital corridors with the ease of a healer.

"Please don't hold it against us for being so late," his wife demurred, walking past the receptionist desk with a nod towards the same witch as the previous night. "We just returned from a trip abroad and our sleep isn't quite aligned yet. We knew your Aunt would appreciate the company."

"Aye, that she would," Oliver agreed, keeping an eye out for anything strange. "She's been ready to get out of bed since waking up. The healer insists that she needs to stay put at least until the morning."

"I'm sure the healer knows what they’re talking about," Mr. Granger chuckled. "Then again, it's hard to control the more headstrong patients." 

"You say that as if you're an easy patient to care for yourself," Mrs. Granger snarked. 

Walking into the spell damage ward, the crowd increased. Some of the people were aurors. Others milled about, acquaintances, no doubt. Protective instinct rose to the fore, noticing the blood and cuts and tears across the different witches and wizards. Putting his increased height and breadth to good use, the quidditch player shielded the Grangers from sight. Nodding to the kind, competent receptionist, Oliver escorted the pair of muggles (though he started to suspect they were squibs in actuality) into the ward. Buzzing around, the staff bustled from one spot to the next. Shining bright, the operation room rune blazed with light.

"And me Aunt Min is right here," he announced, more for the performative aspect than any real reason. 

Once inside the room, he left the elder Grangers to greet the transfiguration mistress. Not trusting the people in the waiting room, runes blazed bright and white for a moment before fading, shielding their conversation from outside interference. Much more reliable and sturdy than basic charms, Oliver needed to create some sort of safe space. Glancing back, his aunt's shrewd, hazel eyes assessed the work. A single brow arched in question, and he flushed. 

"I've been practicing," he mumbled. 

"I can tell," the cat animagus snorted. "Ye might want to put one against animagi at the entrance of the ward. Hildie wouldn't mind it in the least."

Narrow, green slits assessed his aunt. He never thought about wards against people transforming, not before Sunny mentioned it in January. Now, his own aunt brought it up. Instead of sweeping it away as a consideration she took into account, considering her own talent, Oliver realized something, or someone, posed a threat to Sunshine. Withholding a roar and snarl befitting his House mascot, the Scotsman nodded, leaving the Grangers in the knowledgeable, if not currently capable, hands of his Aunt Min. 

"Ma will be in soon," he nodded, walking towards the door once more. "If things are truly that bad, Da will be called in tonight."

"Aye, lad, that he'll be," Aunt Min sighed. "If something happened there, grave enough to send Miss Granger here, I expect yer father will be quite busy for a while. "

"Great," he grumbled, walking into the corridor. Finding the elderly receptionist once more, he inquired, "Ma'am, I've been asked to put up wards against unauthorized animagi by me aunt. Do ye mind? They're temporary and I can take them down at any time."

"That would be much appreciated, Mr. Wood," the woman dimpled, pointing to an existing ward line. "If you could lay it right there, I think it would do quite well. Don't want any of the nosy insects that circle the ward to get news that is not theirs to share." 

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed. 

A deep breath filled his lungs, before he expelled it once. Repeating the process twice more, he calmed the riotous, incoherence his mind flew into after learning of the patient on the stretcher. Magic fed on intent, and the wards he aimed to craft drew from his own emotional state. Protection, not vengeance, he reminded himself. 

The line between malicious and protective wards blurred when anger bled into the intent. Instead of the pain and anger that roiled in his stomach and clenched his chest, Oliver focused on the defensive front. The need to keep all those meaning to harm or manipulation away from his family. Away from the Grangers. Away from Hermione, the Sunshine in his life. 

Forcing everything else down, Oliver entered a state of focus reserved for quidditch games. Magic uncurled from his core, flying through his arm into his finger tips. Tempering the gale, fingers directed the power into familiar patterns. Protection. Healing. Defense. Pure intentions. Muttering the last of the low chant, the magic flared before dissipating into the air. 

"That is quite impressive work, young man," the woman behind the desk smiled, kind and intrigued. 

"Runes are useful," he shrugged, a hand scratching the back of his neck. 

"When they're used like that, I bet they are," her bell-like laughter filled the space. "Now, I know you can't see what's beyond this door, but I do believe there are quite a few people trying to see that young woman." Her voice dropped. "And one of them is the Headmaster. Be prepared, Mr. Wood. I'm afraid he'll try to throw his weight around."

"We'll see about that," Oliver growled under his breath and stepped through the door.

"Ah, Wood," Auror Shacklebolt greeted, harried and ruffled. "We need to go in there-"

"I dinnae know why ye need to," the quidditch player frowned. "The Healers are in surgery."

"Ah, Mr. Wood, how good to see you doing so well," the benevolent grandfather of Wizarding Britain sauntered through the ward as if he owned the hospital. "I am glad to hear Minerva is on the mend. Always good news to hear that, especially with the rather somber news of the night."

"Headmaster," Oliver greeted, neutral and wary. "Are ye here to see Aunt Min?"

"Oh, no no," baby blue eyes twinkled above half-moon spectacles. "I know she is in the best hands possible. I am here in regards to Miss Granger. As her legal magical guardian-"

"I believe ye are mistaken, Headmaster," he stated, letting none of the heat or ire in his heart leak on his face or voice. "Hermione is a bonded apprentice to Professor Vector."

"But I am the Headmaster of the school," he asserted, a patronizing smile gracing his lips. 

"And she's an apprentice that has finished her exams, no longer counting amongst the student body," Oliver stated, having discussed the topic earlier with his Aunt. 

"Be that as it may," the man capitulated with condescending grace. "It is imperative that I go in and help however I can."

"While the sentiment is appreciated, sir, unless ye have suddenly developed a mastery in the dark arts, the Healer wouldn't let ye into surgery," the keeper maintained, guarding the door to the best of his ability. Thoughts flew behind his polite mask. Why did he need to get to Sunny so badly? What damage control did he deem necessary? "I cannae let ye through, Professor. It's past visiting hours. Only family beyond this point, I'm afraid." 

"You are not a security guard, Mr. Wood," the man frowned down upon him. 

"He is not, but I am the one who told him to help me," the woman behind the desk frowned. "And Mr. Wood is correct, Albus. If you do not stop, I will have to call our actual security." 

"But Hildegard, surely, you can see that I only mean to help," he turned his guileless, helpful countenance to the  older woman. 

"You are the Headmaster, Albus, and as such, should be attending to your school," frowned the woman. "Do not test me here. I know your ways." 

"Ah, perhaps," the man frowned, keen glance going to the assemblage of people, the Order, Oliver pieced together, behind. "You are quite right, Hildegard, as always. I do believe I shall visit young Miss Granger in the morning, then."

Oliver frowned, watching the elder walk away and knowing he hadn't seen the last of the man. An ominous sense of foreboding settled upon his mind. The Headmaster took unnatural and unprecedented interest in Sunshine's life, and it didn't sit right with the wizard. 

Looking back, the woman winked, her icy eyes sparkling. Nodding, he made to turn when one of the crowd squeezed forward. Bill Weasley, the eldest of the brood, stood before the quidditch star. He assessed the man, noticing he now towered over the previously intimidating and undeniably cool eldest Weasley brother. The redhead remained lean and athletic, built more like his father and Percy than the rest of the brothers.

"Wood," he greeted, glancing between the receptionist and himself. 

"Weasley," Oliver arched his brow, waiting.

One of the hardest lessons he learned revolved around patience. Waiting out an opponent yielded the best results. They often telegraphed a tell or movement right before they intended to score or feint. Split seconds decided which, and moving too early compromised Oliver's ability to act correctly and on time. Applying that here, Oliver watched and waited. 

"I'm here to help," he rushed out after a moment. "And I mean it. I'm one of the best curse breakers at Gringotts and whatever hit her-" 

"Not before you talk to me," exclaimed a familiar voice from behind. 

Down the ward, Healer Erikson marched through the hospital with authority. Following close on her heels, Coach and Jonathan strode down the hall. Blinking back his surprise, Oliver watched as the diminutive witch opened a path to the front with no effort on her part. An aura of danger and reckoning surrounded the healer, one he knew well. Raising a brow, and denying the part that wanted to rear back with the rest of the room, the keeper stood guard over the door into the ward.

"Ah, Penny, so good to see you," grinned the older witch behind the counter.

I swear, they all know each other, Oliver's hysterical mind remarked. 

"Hilda, I wish it were under better circumstances," the stern healer nodded. With a sharp turn, she pinned Weasley with her gimlet gaze. "The only way you'll be allowed past this door is if you give me the vow of medical assistance and confidentiality."

"What?" A peg-legged man growled from behind him.

"Are you crazy?" Tonks, a Hufflepuff who graduated two years ahead of him, gasped.

"No," snapped the healer. "I don't care what little crusade you have going on. Right now, my patient and assistant is fighting for her life, and I will not allow you, nor any other nosy, scheming, manipulative bastards, to use her pain and sacrifice against her." Snapping her attention back to the cure-breaker, Healer Erikson growled, "so you're either giving me that vow or you are not to go past these doors, do you hear me?"

Oliver frowned. Their reactions felt and sounded disproportionate to the request. Patient to healer contracts require secrecy. Did they think that simply offering aid would do? That there would be no repercussions if they accidentally slipped vital or intimate information to someone unauthorized? What world did they live in?

"Not like the Goblins would let me do otherwise," the eldest Weasley son rolled his eyes, in apparent agreement. "I'd be fired faster than you can say quidditch if I assisted in a formal surgery without taking the vow." 

"Well, I don't like it," the old Scotsman growled. "Making ye magically vow things. They come back to haunt ye, they do." 

"Only if you let them," the heir of House Weasley retorted, well versed in vows. 

"Oh, thank the gods you are all here already," Professor Vector rushed in, Professor Snape on her heels. "I heard the news and fetched Severus as fast as possible." 

"Thank you, dear," Healer Erikson nodded. Turning her steely gaze on the dark man, everyone stopped. "And you- "

"Yes, Mistress?" The dour man sighed.

"You are a terrible correspondent. The least you could've done was send a letter or pop by, but no, you let us wonder what happened to Miss Granger for months now," berated the woman, laying it into the potions professor. 

"Things have been difficult in the-"

"It is your duty as my apprentice to keep me informed of these details," her leveled, no-nonsense glare shrunk the rest in the room. "Now march, Severus Tobias Snape. We have some work to get done."

"Yes, Mistress," the normally intimidating Potions Master muttered, sweeping past Oliver. 

"Wait, why didn't you stop him?" Tonks exclaimed.

"Because he's my bloody apprentice, and those bonds are for life, little girl," sneered the normally calm, respectful healer. Oliver gaped, never knowing Healer Erikson to be so demeaning. "Do not go talking about things you do not understand. Now, Mister-"

"Weasley," the ginger answered the prompt.

"Right, the eldest of Molly and Arthur's brood, right?" She waited for his nod. "Good, good. Vow. Now. Time is of the essence." 

"I, William Arthur Weasley, do swear to execute the duties of a specialist assisting in healing. I vow to keep the details of the patient, their circumstance, and the information I provided to myself and those authorized to the individual. I do promise to only release this information upon official approval by the patient and their healers. Should the patient be considered a minor, I will require the permission of their guardians to release said information. Should I attempt to communicate the knowledge I have in regards to this subject, be it by magic, writing, speaking, or any other form of communication, I forfeit my rights under the laws and magic that protects healers in their line of work. So mote it be." 

After that rather impressive vow, spoken from memory, Healer Erikson nodded and strode away. Her strong grip squeezed his shoulder as she breezed past, William Weasley in tow. In front of him, a small knot of people Oliver assumed to the mysterious Order conversed amongst themselves. Every so often, they would glance up at him, as if debating the merits of rushing past. Until, of course, Jonathan waved a hand in front of his face.

"What are ye doing, ye bloody numpty?" The keeper scowled. 

"Oh good," the arithmancer remarked. “You’re still responding to stimuli.”

"I'm bloody well and fine," Oliver frowned, not quite understanding the problem. 

"You've been standing guard like a goddamn gargoyle since we walked in," his friend and mentor observed, soft and amused. "Could you at least tell me what happened?"

"I donnae know much," a rough hand ran along his face. "I was reading with Aunt Min when they rushed her in. A mediwitch told me Aunt who it was, and I-" 

Oliver paused, not knowing what else to say. Everything roiled and wrestled in his mind, resulting in a sort of nothingness. Not quite numb, easy to anger, and extremely protective. Perhaps a third party would say exceedingly so at this point in time. Still, the thought of doing nothing, of just letting people go and mess with Sunny while her life hung in the balance, could stand for nothing less. Instinct and occlumency took over, allowing his mind to stay in a blank state, comfortable and manageable. 

"Fuck, yeah, okay, so that makes sense," muttered the man in front of him. "What if I stand here, look all intimidating and unwelcoming while you go and explain what the bloody hell is happening here, yeah?" 

"Ye mean ye ran here in the middle of the night without so much as knowing why?" Oliver inquired, dumbfounded by the arithmancer’s actions.

"I mean, when Penelope is at your door, a sonorous on her vocal chords, yelling at you lazy sods to get out of bed, you don't question things," Jonathan snarked, a playful smirk curving his lips. 

"Well then," the keeper blinked, finally coming back from his place of hyper focus. He noticed Peter and Becca, watching with worried eyes, the former temporarily forgoing his cane. Coach and his wife perched on a sofa across the way, their eyes tracing a line between him and the small knot of vigilantes. Luther, ruffled and frowning, leaned against a wall, taking everything in. His calculating, questioning stare settled upon Oliver's shoulders for a moment. "I guess I'll tell them what I can." 

"That's the spirit," Jonathan grinned, clapping his shoulder.. A gentle shove pushed the Scotsman towards his team. "Now, let me play the part of enraged, protective lover for a bit." 

"The what?" Oliver gaped. 

"Please don't tell me we'll have to talk you through that one, still," groaned the other man, taking his place in front of the ward doors. 

Ignoring his friend, the keeper walked towards his coach and captain. They greeted him, some with confused smiles and others with more somber words. Still, no one acted like they were preparing for a funeral, and that helped more than Oliver admitted. Peter followed his steps, creating a sort of wall from the rest of the room. Luther joined in from the wall, pushing himself into the mix.

"Can you explain to me why Penny decided to wake us all up at one in the morning?" growled an unamused Coach Burton.

"Sunny's in surgery," he murmured, eyes cast down. 

"She's what? " The man frowned.

"There was some battle in the Department of Mysteries tonight, and Sunny got herself injured something bad," Oliver revealed, clenching his hands to stop the insistent shaking. "All I know is that the healers ran through the ward, demanding a dark arts expert and said Gringotts would be too slow."

"Merlin and Morgana," Mrs. Burton gasped, eyes wide and searching. "It's happening again, isn't it?" 

"How did she even leave the grounds for that long?" Coach Burton groused, collapsing into a chair. "She's been wearing a suppression cuff." 

"She's been what?!" Becca exclaimed, listening in. 

"Since that bitch took over, Hermione's been forced to wear a magical suppression cuff," their coach reiterated, shocking the majority of the gathered people. 

"That's why she could never stay," murmured Luther, more aware of the artifact than the rest of them. "That's bloody barbaric." 

"They were supposed to be purged or in the DoM," Peter remarked, arms crossed over his chest. 

"Me Ma is not exactly pleased with it," Oliver nodded along, trying his best to steady his racing heart. "Said there were discrepancies in the numbers, but no one investigated."

"Of course no one looked into it," scoffed his captain. "How could the Ministry be wrong about a bloody thing?"

"So, what do we do now?" Luther interjected. "Hermione's in surgery, Healer Erikson is with her, and now we're here. The reception room is mobbed, and the only reason we were able to barge through is in there." 

"I don't know about you,” Becca flopped into a chair. "But I'm going to wait right here until we get some good news." 

"Might as well," her husband hummed, settling next to her. 

"As if I'm going to leave while my little sister is in there,” muttered the blonde woman.

"Well, if you insist," Peter chuckled. 

"What did I miss?" Ma strode into the ward, looking upon the assembled Puddlemere staff. 

"Why don't you and Mr. Wood go in to see your Aunt Minerva, dearie," the receptionist chimed in from the front. "I think I have enough strapping young lads to protect me from the wayward and hostile rumormongers." 

"You are a treasure, Mrs. Bowyn," his Ma's arm twined through his. "I do believe that is a wonderful idea." 

Being swept away from the now crowded reception, Oliver found himself once more in his Aunt's private hospital room. The Grangers sat upon a comfortable looking sofa, tea in hand to combat their pale faces. Professor Vector fussed around the bed, plumping the pillows and muttering to herself. His own mother slipped her hand from his elbow and greeted the room. Conjuring several more pieces of furniture, Oliver settled in for what promised to be the longest wait of his life.

Oliver reflected on the theory of relativity. Silent and alone with his thoughts, memories of the conversation from just months earlier (and, Merlin, did it feel like years instead) flickered across the pensive of his mind. How time passed slowly or quickly depending on multiple factors, according to Sunny's rather sparse definition. Waiting for news, each tick of the second hand feeling like an eternity, must be one of those 'slower' moments, when time seemed to stand still. Their family depicted the tableau of 'awaiting news.' 

Aunt Min slept, fitful and uncomfortable in the hospital bed. Mrs. Granger's head rested on her husband's shoulder, and arm wrapped around his waist, eyes looking out into the corridor. An arm wrapped around her shoulders, a cloud of dark, partial curls sitting atop her chocolate hair. His mother perched on a chair next to Aunt Min, book in hand, her other stroking the stiff sheets beneath her finger tips. His father swept in for a moment to say hello and check for news before being forced to return to the Ministry. Opposite his mother, Professor Vector faced the door, her eyes a blank mask, chin sat upon curled fingers. 

Which left Oliver alone with his thoughts.

Emotions ran circles in his mind, banging and clashing against the neat, little box he learned to shove them in long ago. It made sense then. He turned seventeen, then eighteen, then nineteen while Sunny was thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen. A child in the eyes of the world, the uncomfortable observations resided hidden from his view. That, alone, kept him safe from the intense feelings she inspired. 

Then, this year, things started to shift, imperceptible at the time. She talked about courting , of other boys and young men looking for her favor in the hopes of marrying her one day. They laughed about previous romances, scandalizing her best friend in the process. A dull clunk echoed as a chain or two fell from the chest that stored those thoughts. 

Cue the constant danger of the year, and Oliver admitted to himself that it awakened the protective, possessive side of his nature. He guarded his friends and family, his loved ones, with an uncompromising steadiness. Coupled with the growing affection, and it's no wonder the team and others teased him so much. 

Being around her brightened his days, and thoughts of her visited throughout. How she'd find it amusing that Jack and Ben collided in the corridor one day from opposite ends while eyeing the same woman. A new book he found in his family's library she'd find interesting. The way she scrunched her nose in thought or rolled her eyes at all of their posturing. 

Oliver frowned, letting the heavy links of metal fall. Thunk. Clunk.  Thunk. If ever a time to be honest with himself, it would be this, waiting in his Aunt's hospital room for news of her surgery. Each emotion demanded release, building and roiling over time to overwhelming levels. 

First, and easiest, attraction. Sunny drew people in like moths to flame, and really, he counted amongst the first. From her lively, curly hair, inviting and as untamed as the witch to her sparkling eyes that ranged from warm cinnamon to hard amber, her personality shone above it all. Clever, compassionate, and patient, the witch also possessed a mischievous streak that turned vindictive and malicious when threatened. Yes, Oliver admitted he long found her attractive and far more than just the physical aspect.

"Oliver, do you need anything?" Professor Vector inquired, soft and unobtrusive. 

"That is reasonable at this moment?" He snorted, pulled from his partial reverie. "Tea. Or coffee." 

Nodding, the woman rose from her chair and walked towards the anxious parents. 

Another thing, Oliver mused, they were similar. Single children to wealthy, successful parents that actually grounded them. Perhaps that's why they understood each other so well. 

Money and status meant nothing if you did nothing with it. Wealth couldn't buy true loyalty, nor care for those you love in the most important ways. Yes, galleons and gold bought healthcare and material possessions, but never happiness or love. Their parents showed them, day in, day out, what loving another really meant. Going to sports matches to spend time with their other. Booking tickets to that orchestra concert where their partner's favorite piece would play. Bringing flowers on a random day just to see them smile. 

And didn't they already do something similar, Sunny and him? He'd bring books from his family's library just to watch her eyes light up. She'd work on different models to help and visualize the wards he liked to tinker and work on. Sometimes, she'd just let him bluster about his day and how Jack needed to be strangled. In the next minute, her irritated mezzo berated the Boy Savior and his best mate, lambasting the pair for their atrocious study and preparation habits. They understood one another, simple and sweet. 

"Here you are, Oliver," the Mistress returned, steaming cup of coffee in hand. 

"Thank ye, Professor," he nodded.

"Don't mention it," a hand waved away the thought. "And try not to barricade yourself behind your walls. It's bloody difficult to disengage once you've started." 

"I didn't realize-" Mossy eyes blinked up.

"You've been occluding something fierce since the moment I saw you," her sharp, espresso eyes locked onto him. "And I don't blame you, but it's okay to process what you're feeling."

"I'm trying," his soft baritone whispered. 

"I can see that," the witch smirked, handing off other hot beverages. "Why do you think I talked to you?" A thoughtful frown tugged at his lips, not considering just why the Professor chose that moment to talk to him. "Diving into your mind while occluding as hard as you have been is remarkably dangerous. It's how we accidentally disassociate. You don't need to drop your shields, but lower them a bit." 

Oliver nodded his understanding, considering just how well the woman taught in private tuition. Subtle, unobtrusive, letting the person figure out what's happening and why. He never considered the damage to his own mind through all of this, and yet she noticed. He basked in the warm, affectionate thought that Sunshine taught much the same, a skill she learned from her Mistress (and definitely not her Master during classes, at the very least). Scalding liquid warmed his hands and his throat, bringing to focus the room and people. Aunt Min's rhythmic breathing comforted him, another lioness in their corner. 

Delving back into the whirlwind of emotions, mindful of his own immersion this time, everything else started to make more sense. He didn't share well, Oliver acknowledged, rueful and sheepish. The downside of being an only child, lacking the need to share. He wanted Sunny's attention on him as often as possible (and of the positive, teasing variety more often than not). Seeing and hearing about other males trying to gain her affections, be they boys or young men, unleashed the jealous, possessive rage he buried. Any events they attended together, Oliver remained close, either formally escorting her (he rolled his eyes at the term, realizing just how much he did not want to be just an escort ), or keeping his eye on her. 

Even as far back as the Yule Ball last year, the rage and annoyance aimed itself at the wizards paying too much attention to her. Viktor, for all their monthly correspondence, aggravated the keeper for a longer time than he'd like to admit. If anyone threatened his place on Sunshine's list of candidates, Viktor Krum exemplified every trait. Smart. Dedicated. Clever. She enjoyed his brand of dry sarcasm and he appreciated and mirrored her more serious application to things. 

Oliver lucked out when the two formed a more sororal/fraternal bond. Really, the mysterious boy from Ravenclaw shook him more, knowing just enough to be afraid of what could be. Still, the look and light brush cleared any worries on that front. The seventh year treated her with tolerant condescension, using her love of knowledge as a cute trick as opposed to valuing her mind.

Oliver wanted to roll his eyes at his meandering thoughts. Really, it all circled back to the fact that he adored one Hermione Granger, and isn't that a rather blinding truth. He wanted to be more than just friends, even best friends. 

Turning back time, a conversation from years ago floated through his mind. Of Sunny asking the girls just how to treat her two year-mates. At the time, a bittersweet sadness washed over the keeper, watching this young girl decide if people wanted to be her friend for real . Looking back now, he understood the context of the question, but more than that, he drew his own conclusions. He intended to be Sunny's very best friend, but that didn't mean he wanted it to stop there. 

"What are you chuckling about, Wood?" Professor caught him.

"Just, a conversation from her first year," he answered, somewhat more settled than before. 

"Are you going to make me ask?" A manicured eyebrow lifted. 

"Well, I am a Gryffindor," the keeper affected a look of innocence. "We don't always know what ye're wanting to know without being directly told." 

"Cheeky sod," muttered the woman, the beginnings of a fond smile on her face. "What conversation is making you laugh right now of all times?" 

"Did ye know that when Potter and Weasley first became friends with Sunny, she walked right up to us in the library and asked if it was real?" Mossy eyes twinkled in the dim light of the hospital room. "Went up to Angie, Alicia, and Katie, serious as could be, and asked if they really, truly meant it." 

A melancholic air consumed the older Grangers, likely well aware of the cause of her reluctance. Professor Vector frowned, her brow furrowed as if attempting to divine the humor in such a situation. Sure, it sounded dire and rather quite sad, but the simple answer of different types of friends held more merit than he first realized. I should probably give them some tickets to a game, he mused. As a thank you. They wouldn't know what for, but that's just fine.

"Well, the girls all listened to how Potter actually attempted to get to know Sunny," he continued the story, letting the guardians in on the rest of the tale. "Of course, Weasley didn't so much as want to know her as much as to know how to help himself. The girls thought for a moment and decided together that it would be best if she kept Potter as a friend and tolerated Weasley."

"She should have dropped him," muttered the Mistress.

"Yes, well, one of them pointed out men are, and I quote, 'weird about their mates'," eyes rolled at the memory, fond and amused.

"She's not wrong," Mr. Granger chuckled, his gaze considering. 

"I thought as much," Oliver admitted with a shrug, heating the coffee in his cup. "Of course, one of the girls mentioned that she could be different types of friends with the boys. A more genuine friendship with Potter-"

"Which has grown into a bloody fraternal bond," Professor Vector mused, sipping her own tea. 

"And to tolerate Weasley," Oliver finished. 

"Tolerate is a strong word on most days," Mrs. Granger smiled, eyes still on the corridor. "I swear, half her letters were asking about how to keep him away. I told her that doing anything overt, like ignoring him or pushing him away, would only increase the boy's desire to chase." 

"She hasn't killed him yet," the professor pointed out. "That's a show of great restraint, especially considering that boy has no filter and what he thinks is on full display." A dainty sip pulled hot liquid from the paper cup. "Severus and Minerva are quite hard on the boy for more than his lack of discipline and work. The fact that Hermione lives in the same tower as the boy for years and has yet to murder him in his bed is a miracle, really." Eying the Scotsman, a sly smirk added, "and you don't want to know what about." 

"Please, I much rather not kill my best mate's little brother," scowled the athlete. 

"Good call," a paper cup raised in salute. "But please, where is the humor now? I am frightfully curious." 

Green gaze considered the woman for a moment. Head canted to the side in thought, wondering just how to put the emotions, untangling one by one, into words. He rather not confess his heart and mind at such a time, even if these people judged him the lightest of all. No, he wanted the first person to hear these things to be the object, not her family. 

"Let's say," he hummed, low and thoughtful, before turning his gaze to the empty corridor. "That it is all just different types of friendships, isn't it?"

Alight and curious, the Arithmancy mistress leaned back. Thoughts and calculations churned in her mind. A soft, considering smile curved her lips, as her eyes glimmered with some new idea. For the first time, Oliver understood the differences between Slytherins and Gryffindors. They possessed many of the same qualities, but expressed them in different ways. The keeper recognized, instinctive and true, the Mistress caught on to his meaning. Instead of explaining it in detail, all she needed was a story and a statement. Together they unlocked the meaning. 

"Family of Apprentice Granger?" A mediwitch, mussed and tired, rushed into the room.

"Yes, we're her parents," Mr. Granger stood to his full, impressive height. 

"I have news," the woman frowned. "We have been able to stabilize the majority of the curse-" a sigh of relief went through the room, "-but are in need of some help."

"What do you need?" The man inquired, his salt and pepper hair gleaming in the torchlight. 

"Well, to be short, she'll need an influx of magic," the mediwitch explained. "It's usually best to use the closest bonds, often being parental. I can test your cores, if you'd like, and we can see what would be best."

"I regret to inform you that we are squibs," Mrs. Granger kindly explained. "While we have enough magic to navigate the world, I don't think-"

"But I am her Mistress, would that work?" Professor Vector interrupted. 

"It should," frowned the harried woman. "If not, does she have any siblings or a significant other?"

Three sets of eyes settled on his shoulders. He blinked, owlish and puzzled. True, they were close, and yes, Oliver admitted to himself the fact that he adored the witch, wanted her to be his, but only to himself. Yet, six eyes landed on him, waiting for an answer. As if I'd say no if it'd help her , he wanted to snort. 

"I have a question for ye first," a thought occurred, remembering the incredulous expression from March. "What exactly is required? Not that I'm saying no, mind ye, and not that this would change my answer-"

"You didn't," gasped the mistress, putting pieces together. In a soft voice, almost to herself, she murmured, "makes sense, though. Came back raving about how you did something and had no bloody clue what it meant. Couldn't stop blushing when she said it, either." Sharp, hawkish eyes landed upon him. "What did you do?"

"It wasn't bad, " he flushed, feeling caught out. 

"Oh, now I'm curious," smirked Mrs. Granger, enjoying the byplay far too much for his liking.

"Whoever said it was bad or that you're in trouble ," a black brow rose. "I simply asked what you did , because if it's what I think it is, you had better be the one to go and help." 

"Ye have to understand, Professor," Oliver attempted to explain. "It was the day after she finished healing Peter, she shouldn't have been in Hogwarts in the first place, and Umbridge surprised us-"

"Pulled up all her walls at once, did she?" Professor Vector remarked, wry and knowing. "Almost put herself into a bloody coma." Turning towards the Grangers, "tell me why you raised such an independent, headstrong child again?"

"I like to think she's clever, resourceful, and has excellent critical thinking skills," Mr. Granger rebuffed, diplomatic and shrewd. 

"So, what did you do? She obviously didn't pass out, and she ended up back in the facility after tea with your aunt," the mistress turned once more to him. 

"Well, there's a book in me family's library about transferring magic through the use of runes," he scratched the back of his neck, noticing his mother's eyes on him now. "To be fair, I donnae remember the context and other side effects, just that it can be done between people, too." 

"Ach, Ollie," his mother shook her head. "Ye really are a handful at times, aren't ye?"

"Let me guess," long fingers massaged the temples next to the professor's long hair. "You, with your runic knowledge mostly in regards to wards, chose a couple, invoked them, and pushed a bit of magic through?"

"That's the short of it," he fought a flush, feeling oddly like a scolded schoolboy instead of a responsible adult. 

"And ye have no idea what that could mean," Ma chuckled, cryptic and bemused. 

"Not particularly outside of the obvious," his mind raced, trying to piece together. "That it worked and the runes did the job they were supposed to perform." 

"So, I'm taking Mr. Wood, then?" The mediwitch concluded, forgotten until that moment. 

"Yes," Professor Vector confirmed. "I'll explain to Daniel and Jean the finer points of what's happening."

"Very good," the mediwitch nodded, brushing back the black flyways from her face. "Do you consent to give magic to Apprentice Granger, Mr. Wood?" 

"Aye," long legs stretched from their previously bent state. "Do I need to sign anywhere or make any vows?"

"No, no, just a verbal confirmation that you were not coerced into it," she smiled, leading him from the room. "Magic cannot be 'made' to do anything the person doesn't want it to." Considering her words, he followed her into the quiet corridor. "Do you mind me asking how you know Apprentice Granger? It will help narrow down which incantation we'll be using to establish the flow of magic."

"I've known Sunny since her first year," he answered, allowing himself to think back with clearer eyes. Even then, he knew the little witch to be something different. Something special. "She would watch our practices and take stats for us, without our asking. We've been close since."

"And how would you classify your relationship?" The witch inquired, her wand pointing to a panel next to the operation room. A quick series of flicks, and different runes lit, admitting them to a small holding room. "The procedure we will do needs to be as precise as possible, otherwise it could have unforeseen and undesirable consequences." 

"Like linking siblings as lovers?" Oliver considered as he eyed the sparse furnishing and equipment cupboards.

"Exactly," the mediwitch nodded.

"I'd say it started as friendship and is right now more than that, though nothing is openly acknowledged," words fell in a careful, precise order. "If ye need my specific feelings on the matter, then know I'd do anything for her and leave it at that." 

Her shrewd, brown eyes peered into his face, searching. Pushing forth all the sincerity and honesty possible, Oliver resisted the urge to cross his arms and scowl. The private part of him balked at revealing so much to a stranger, but needs must. Nodding, the witch explained the detection spell, used to show the caster the bonds. He appreciated the appearance of choice, even if it laid a thin veneer over the otherwise linear situation. 

"Right, I'll tell Healer Erikson you're here," gasped the mediwitch, scurrying beyond the swinging door.

Leaning against the wall, his eyes traced the lines of the room. An overflowing basket of linens stacked on one side. The amount of bright scarlet peeking through the lid stopped his heart. Clinging to the words spoken before, breathing returned to normal. He tried to calm his galloping heart, the wait playing on his mind. 

"How did I know it'd be you, Wood?" The familiar, petite healer remarked upon her entrance.

"I donnae what ye mean," a look of innocence settled upon his face. "I'm an angel." 

"Honestly, how we put up with you lot, I don't know," her lips quirked up. "Now, I'm going to repeat Amanda's spellwork. I think she left a bit or two out, and just panicked. Probably didn't expect to see something that needed more attention." With expected efficiency, the healer watched the mystery revealed for her eyes alone. "Not wholly unexpected, though I can see why it'd alarm her."

"So, I can help?" He asked, eyes flicking to the swinging doors opposite him.

"Did you think I'd let you stay, and nearly call you myself, if you couldn't?" Healer Erikson scoffed. "Yes, you can help, and if what Amanda says is true, it will be far easier than I imagined." Crossing her arms, a serious mien on her face, she addressed him. "You do know the consequences of doing this, again, and with far more clear intent, yes?"

"I'd rather ye explain it," huffed the man. "I've not been told anything specific." 

"Let me put it this way, Wood," the woman chuckled. "You already have an unfair advantage in winning our little lioness on that table. Doing this would create a more permanent, tangible bond between the two of you. It wouldn't be fair. There is really only one way it will end up, Oliver." 

Oh. His mind blanked on that point. He did it once, connected his magic to her own and transferred power, just as a means to help her heal. To protect her from the bitch who tortured her later in the year. Now? To do so with the revelations of the night? A snort stuck in his throat. As if I'd want this to end any other way.  

"I cannae say I've considered much more beyond me own mind and making it clear," a large, lungful of air gusted from him. "But I know meself and me family." He smirk flashed upon his face. "As if I'd want this to be fair." 

"So, you are saying?" the woman chuckled.

"Ye act like I'd say no," Oliver's baritone rumbled, arms across his chest. 

"Well, I do want you to be prepared at the very least," Healer Erikson remarked. "And in that vein, let me warn you, it's not a pretty sight. The curse she took bisected her torso-" A litany of words flew past his lips. "We have been able to slow down the damage to her internal organs and reverse the curse for the most part, but it feeds on her magic as it tries to heal. Severus and Weasley are just about done extracting the rest of the curse, but-"

"She'll be too drained to be healed," Oliver concluded, remembering her stint after Peter's healing. 

"And with the extensive damage done to her body and internal organs, not to mention the absolute mad levels of blood loss, she'd die without an infusion of magic," the woman concluded, collecting several things from the cupboards. "And, unlike Peter's case, the injury is magically induced, not physically, thus she needs an infusion of compatible magic. Any healer won't do. The closer the connection, the better."

"Her parents," pieces fell into place. "They're squibs, apparently."

"I guessed as much," Healer Erikson hummed, checking her collection of vials. "Now, you'll be looking at her face. I'll need a bit of blood from you, willingly given, and then I can start with the potion and incantation. You'll feel the drain, especially with the practice you've put into your wards and occlumency. Don't be alarmed, that's perfectly normal. Stay calm, and try to keep it as steady as possible. You'll be holding her hand during this, and it is imperative you hold on, no matter what. Do you understand?" 

"Yes, Healer," brunette hair nodded, his eyes fixed on the doors beyond her shoulder. 

"And one last thing," the diminutive spitfire turned to face him once more. "It goes without saying, but nothing you see or hear here is to be repeated beyond the doors to anyone but her and her family?"

"Ye know her mum will just tell mine?" Oliver nodded, not needing to be told. 

"Fine," sighed the witch. "Beyond those who Hermione would tell, including her Mistress." 

"Ye don't have to tell me," muttered the worried keeper.

"No, but it needed to be said," an arm reached out and pushed the door open. 

Beyond, bright lights shone down upon a lone figure. Dressed in a hospital gown, white with a soft, blue pattern, Sunshine laid lifeless upon the table. Gulping, Oliver forced himself to follow the healer instead of rushing past the people working on her. Snape stood to one side, robe long gone, sleeves rolled up to reveal pale skin and a dark mark. Weasley chanted next to him, sweat trickling down his brow and slicking the hair. 

A healer bent over her form, hiding the majority of her body from his sight, his wand in a forearm holster as his hands worked. Another healer siphoned a black vapor with great care, trying to keep it from escaping back. All the while, a couple of mediwitches bustled back and forth, summoning clean cloth and bandages, keeping the table clean, and potions within reach. 

"Oliver, look at me," murmured his healer, soft and gentle. "Do not look at them. I need you to focus, can you do that?" He nodded. I'm a bloody quidditch player, of course I can focus , his mind snapped back to her. "Good. I'm putting a chair right next to Healer Dennovich. You are going to sit there." 

His eyes never left the chair, concentrating on the task in front of him. Chants, soft and musical, filtered into his mind. The blinding spotlight created a macabre medical scene, all bright light and dramatic shadows. I'm here to help, repeated over and over again in his mind, recognizing himself far from shore. Flicking his wrist (stiffer as earlier instructed), he augmented the provided chair to be more cushioned. If he needed to sit here for an undetermined amount of time without moving, he would rather be comfortable than risk messing it all up.

"Palm out, Mr. Wood," the healer instructed. A small, silver blade cooled his hand. "Now, I need you to make a shallow cut along here," she explained. 

Right, blood willingly let, Oliver reminded himself. Taking the smooth, wooden hilt, he tested the weight for a moment. Finding it similar to the set he inherited on his seventeenth birthday, a singular, sure stroke sliced his skin open. Flipping the blade in his left hand, Oliver presented the medical athame to the Healer Erikson.

"I see you've done this before," she muttered.

"Me family uses certain rituals and rites to help maintain the magic in our land," he shrugged. "I started participating with me Ma and Da when I was a wee bairn, though I didn't get an athame and begin letting until my seventeenth." 

"Right," a thoughtful frown tilted her lips.

"People always forget we aren't idly wealthy," mossy eyes rolled, used to the assumption. "We have responsibilities to the people under our care and our lands." 

Healer Erikson nodded, cleaning the athame and turning towards Sunshine's side. Picking up her right hand, far more pale than it should be, a practiced stroke opened a similar wound on her hand. A clear liquid, iridescent in the blinding surgery light, dripped into the cut. Soft alto murmurs, no doubt a long incantation, fell from Healer Erikon's lips. One dainty hand held the young witch's wrist. Her other hand reached out for his hand, scarlet liquid pooling within. She maneuvered it forward, large drops of the potion dripping onto his palm and a strange sensation started in his chest. A gust of magic separated from his core, flowing the now familiar pathway to his hand, pooling with his blood. 

"Very good," a soft murmur remarked, seeing the results of the potion. "Once I put your hands together, do not let go. I'll come and separate you." 

Oliver tilted his head forward, acknowledging the directive. Clammy and cool, Sunny's hand met his. Not for the first time that night, worry and fear filled his heart. Frowning at her unconscious, almost peaceful expression, he didn't notice anything else for a moment. Instead of the strong burst of energy that ran to his hand, a smooth, calming breeze whispered between their fingers, dancing with the characteristic warmth he associated with the witch. Nothing discomforting or unsettling happened, like Healer Erikson warned. Instead, a natural, comforting, balmy flow of magic soothed his nerves and relaxed his shoulders. His eyes outlined the curve of her lips, the pert tip of her nose, how the freckles danced along her cheeks. 

"You two are un-bloody-believable," Healer Erikson groused, wand flicking up and down several times. "Really, I don't know what to do with either of you."

"I'm doing what ye asked me to," Oliver replied, nonplussed. 

"One day, when neither of you are in danger of dying and have the time, we're going to have a nice, long chat," she continued to grumble. "I probably need to talk to Jonathan and Bartholomew first, though. Possibly Septima."

"Am I supposed to be doing something about this?" A brow rose in question.

"No, no you are not," the witch frowned. "In fact, I have several questions for you. First, how are you feeling?"

"Fine," he answered, quick and without thought. "Better than, really." 

"Makes sense," a fountain pen danced along the page of a journal. "And how are you finding the magic? Hard to control? Easy? Natural? Some thought involved?" 

"I-" Face scrunched in pensive silence. In reality, if not for the constant, steady stream of magic unfurling from his core, he'd never notice anything happened. "I know it's happening, but that's only because I've used my core enough to notice."

"And it's not fluctuating? Not giving too much? You don't feel it overwhelming her magic?" Questions fired from her, eyes alight with curiosity. 

"It's been what it started as," Oliver answered, trying to assess and answer her questions. "I donnae think it's too much, and her magic is there. I donnae how to tell if it's overwhelming her's or not." 

"Good, good," more notes scribbled down in black ink. "You are able to feel her magic, and it's there without any discernible changes. I trust you'd know if her magic levels dropped. All you're doing is bolstering her own reserves as the healers get to work patching her up. Once they are done with the operation, her own magic should suffice to heal her." 

Nodding, Oliver stayed silent. Nothing remained to be said or done until they were good and ready. Shifting upon the chair, his eyes settled upon Sunshine once more. A bit of color returned to her face, no longer as pale as death, even if her complexion lacked its normal warmth. He turned his hand, twining their fingers together and waited for the witch he loved to finally be recovering and safe. 

Loved?  

His mind chewed on the idea, throwing it around in his mind. It sounded right. Like as a descriptor, left much to be desired. As did many of the words that popped into his mind. Fancy. Adored. Fondness. Cared. All lacked a certain depth that he certainly felt applied in this situation. A part of him argued with the word. The events of this night knocked some sense into him, finally admitting his romantic interest in Hermione Granger. To jump from that to love jarred his careful, private, and deliberate sensibilities. 

It's not that sudden, though, is it? Another voice reasoned. They knew each other for five years now, almost six. For the past almost two years, they spent almost every day together, be it with the team, their families, or simply because they wanted to. Before the whole club-debacle, in which Oliver swore he'd take his team to task if it separated them for any real amount of time, they spent quite a bit of time simply being around each other. He'd study his playbook and theory craft while she prepared for exams or brewed. Neither needed to interact to enjoy the other's company, something he thoroughly cherished as the hustle and bustle of being famous asserted itself. 

His mind tested the winds, wondering what changed and when, to even make it possible. If he had to pin-point any one time, the Quidditch World Cup stood out. Every year at school, their relative stations always remained fixed. He was four years her senior, an upperclassman. For the first time, meeting out of school, she appeared closer to his age, more relatable and every bit as excited as he for the future. Seeing the very real danger that traced her footsteps and followed her shadow awakened the protective side of his nature, and not in a platonic 'how dare you call my friend a slur,' kind of way. Someone dared to mess with his loved ones, and his nature demanded action. 

Between that and working with her that year, he started to see Sunny in a different light altogether. The team treated her like an adult, respected her thoughts and opinions, and his mind followed suit. He reasoned if the team saw her as an adult, then so could Oliver. Of course, the past summer simply cemented his… affection? Fondness? Like? Oliver struggled to find a word to define the way the teasing warmed his heart, or how he looked forward to visiting. Hell, the rage at Mrs. Weasley nearly keeping her hostage indicated much more than just a platonic friendship. He wanted to do nothing more than go over and yank her away from the matron. 

Bloody hell, I cried and she cried, and I didn't want to let her go when she told me about her fall, he berated himself. So, maybe he lived in self denial for the past six months or so. The thought of Percy or Jack or Thomas falling to their deaths would've enraged the Scotsman, sure, but not to the point of tears. Not clutching them close to make sure they were alive and well and safe.  

Oliver groaned, remembering the situations since, one after another. Meeting Birch and Valentine's day, his pride in her ability after Peter's injury, and the subsequent, unquenchable panic that persisted until he found her at Hogwarts (and acted as her shadow for the rest of the day). Hell, even the club! Not a witch (or wizard, despite Ben's insistence) caught his attention. 

So, he licked his lips. Love. Right. I, Oliver Wood, am in love with Hermione Granger.

Taking it all in for a moment, he let the myriad of emotions detangle and stretch out, finding their places within his mind and heart. The protectiveness and affection, possessiveness and jealousy, all wrapped in the desire to be around the witch for as long as he lived. Mossy eyes watched her eyes flutter, as if dreaming and he wondered, for the first time, who did she see? And how do I make sure it's me?

"Fuck, Professor, how were you able to disentangle all of that?" Weasley's quiet mutter brought Oliver out of his quiet contemplation some time later.

"I'm her bloody Master, you figure it out," the man growled. 

"Huh," the cure-breaker blinked. "I didn't see that one coming."

"That's the point," he snorted, fetching his robes from beyond Oliver's view. "And you're still under oath, so there's no way you can tell anyone," the man's voice dropped to the terrifying, silky drawl every student dreaded. "Do you understand , Mr. Weasley?" 

"Clear as crystal," the man saluted with a cheeky grin.

"Merlin, save me from your bloody family," a large hand ran down his face. "Overdramatic lot." 

"Ah, but it takes someone with a flair for the dramatics to recognize it," smirked Weasley. 

"How are you holding up, Mr. Wood?" The potions master inquired, flicking his wand in the same way as Healer Erikson. Dark eyes assessed the read-out before him. "I see you've been practicing. Do you need an invigoration draught?" 

"I feel fine right now," broad shoulders shrugged. "I donnae if that'll change when I try to stand up, though." 

"Fair enough," raven hair, tied up behind his head, nodded. "I'll leave some with Mistress. Are her parents here?"

"With Aunt Min and me Ma," Oliver informed him.  

"Good, and Septima?" Dark eyes locked on him. 

"With them, too."

"So, all at once. That'll make things easier," mused Professor Snape. "Luckily, I wasn't called away tonight, though that will change, I'm sure. Daniel will want to know what she'll need at home."

"Will she be going home soon?" Green eyes lit with hope.

"No," Healer Erikson answered for the other man. "She'll be taken to the facility once it's safe to move her. I don't trust the wards here to keep her from harm. The stadium is practically warded to the teeth after January."

"Hermione told me," the dark wizard hummed in thought. "More so than other stadiums, it appears."

"The Bosses are protective of us," Oliver shrugged. "They know that if we've stable and safe homes, we perform better overall. The years before the end of the last war proved that to them."

"That and they take protecting their assets seriously," Healer Erikson added. "They know that the players and staff make them quite a bit of gold, and having the stadium warded protects their investment." 

"It doesn't hurt that they love her," the keeper snorted, a fond, amused smile creasing his lips. 

"Very good," Snape nodded. "I'll inform her family of what I know-"

"And I'll tell the team," the healer finished. "However, I believe some of your compatriots will be awaiting outside as well."

"I've sworn not to tell anyone anything," Weasley shrugged, completely unbothered. "It's not for them to know. There is, however, the issue of Dumbledore trying to do something to her. He was rather insistent earlier to try and help her."

"Albus probably wanted to put some blocks on her," a growl escaped the potions master. "Or check her bloody 'aura' and see if it's still pristine enough for Potter. "

"Why wouldn't it be?" Oliver glanced up, confusion in his eyes. "And even if it were not pure as snow, it'd be due to protecting Potter, wouldn't it?" 

"The Headmaster has some rather fixed ideas of what is and is not acceptable," muttered the dark wizard. "And until I am called, which should be within the next day or so, none of us know the extent of the damage done. Except, of course, for Sleeping Beauty, here."

"That's to be expected in this kind of situation," Healer Erikson remarked, nudging the Dark Arts specialist from Oliver's side. "Go get some rest, Denny, I'll get her from here."

"You are an absolute gem, Pen," the man nodded. "I wish it were under better circumstances, but it has been a pleasure working with you, Curse Breaker Weasley, Master Snape."

"Master Dennovich," bowed the dark wizard. "I, too, will be off. Weasley, as her Master, I am giving you permission to say that she will live and nothing more. Do you understand?" 

"Yes sir," the redhead frowned. "But why nothing more?"

"Because I want to watch Albus squirm when he inevitably asks Septima about her condition," a malicious smirk bloomed on his face.

"And not her parents-?"

"Because Daniel and Jean deal with more sycophantic, manipulative, ruthless bastards on a daily basis than Albus Dumbledore could ever hope to be when he grows up," dark satisfaction filled his face. "Come to think of it, Hermione does, as well."

"She's good at court," Oliver shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes, she learned from her parents, who have proven to be quite an example," the dark wizard agreed. 

"At court?" Blue eyes blinked between the other two men.

"Not a word of this, Mister Weasley, you are still under oath," a sharp grin broke over the Potions Master's lips as he slipped away. 

"Oh, bloody hell, Ron never stood a chance, did he?" The lost man gazed at the witch's countenance.

"Could you imagine yer brother actually in the muggle world, let alone trying to act during 'polite, social functions'?" Mossy green eyes rolled at the thought. 

"Gods no," the eldest Weasley son laughed. "He'd die of boredom before he so much as walked in the doors." 

"Then let me deliver some bad news for yer brother," Oliver smirked, smug and far too pleased. "That part will only grow over time. I know, for a fact, she's scheming something with a friend of hers, and that's not including whatever she's been doing this year." 

"And she's not a Slytherin how?" Frowned the curse breaker.

"Why should she be?" Oliver countered, having that thought many times before.

"I mean, rich, well-connected, successful, does what's needed to get what she wants, knows how to be silent and how to misdirect others," fingers ticked after each trait.

"Are ye describing me or her?" His chuckle rumbled in his chest. 

"Huh," the eldest brother remarked for the second time. A new type of curiosity and respect gleamed in his blue eyes. "I suppose we all have different parts of the other Houses in us."

"I'd hope so," snorted the keeper. "I know I'm as loyal as any Hufflepuff and the two most intelligent people I know are Gryffindors."

"Touché," grinned the other man. "I do believe it is time to infuriate one of the most powerful men in all of the British Isles."

"It's rather exhilarating," Oliver smirked, settling back in the chair. 

Time slipped through his fingers once more. Healer Erikson and the other healer, her initial caretaker, murmured back and forth. Several mediwitches checked on him, asking the same questions as Professor Snape. In all reality, aside from feeling his magic breeze through his core and out his hand into Sunny's, he didn't feel any negative effects. No lightheadedness or dizziness, nor magical aversion, which worried the healers the most. 

"And that will do, Wood," Healer Erikson murmured, her wand pointed at the juncture of their hands. "I'm going to end the enchantment and heal your hands. Knowing your luck, your magic may still flow into her for some time, it will just require more effort on your part, and I ask you do not drain yourself."

"I won't encourage my magic to go to Sunny, I promise," muttered the man, bemused at the request. 

"Just so you know, this normally takes actual effort and people don't normally feed magic between each other like this," her finger waggled at him. "So, do not push it, Mister. You are to relax the rest of the morning, and, if you are lucky, you'll be cleared for afternoon practice. You have a game in two days, and you know Hermione would have your hide for missing on her behalf."

Wide eyed panic settled into his heart. A fearful gaze settled upon the much recovered witch in question. 

"How about I get that rest first," he hedged, watching the amused healer. 

"That's what I thought you'd say," a satisfied smirk curled her mouth.

Chapter Text

"Shh, you'll wake him," someone whispered from the doorway.

"Ah, sorry," another voice murmured further in the room. 

Resisting the urge to move, awareness returned to the Scotsman. The hospital and visiting Aunt Min followed by the absolute chaos of Sunshine being admitted to St. Mungos. Time slipping by slowly, each grain of sand dropping one after the other as he waited, and then helping. By the time they settled her in a room next to the transfiguration Mistress, exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, his feet feeling like lead weights. Still, he insisted on placing runes around both women's rooms, refusing to rest until they were safe in his mind.

"He'll need to wake up soon, though," the second voice, sounding suspiciously like Peter Denton, remarked. "Afternoon practice starts in an hour." 

"Yer nattering already woke me," grumbled the sleepy, sore keeper. "What time is it?"

"Just hit noon," his captain smirked, tired and relieved. "You've been out like a rock since you set up the room."

Stretching his neck and shoulders, bones popped back into place after a long and uncomfortable night. Blinking away what sleep he could before coffee, light streamed into the room. Sheets, white and starched, warmed beneath his fingers. Pale blue walls surrounded him, paintings hanging every so often. To one side, a mediwitch station housed the necessities for the room. Most importantly, color returned to Sunny's skin, her cheeks and hands no longer resembling a warm corpse. Someone braided her normally unruly, riotous curls, the length of hair laying down her shoulder. Glancing up, the standard diagnostic charm displayed normal signals. 

"She hasn't woken up yet," Becca smiled, holding her husband's hand. 

"I'd be worried if she had," Oliver admitted, rough hands rubbing his face. "She's not supposed to be awake for another day or so."

"Really?" Peter frowned. "I didn't realize it was quite that bad."

"Probably worse than what ye're thinking," the Scotsman remarked. 

"But she'll be fine?" His captain inquired, a keen gaze locked on him. 

"Aye, she'll make a full recovery," a small grin broke through the tiredness. "It'll take a long time, though. For now, ten potions, three times a day. They'll taper her off to one dose session a day at some point."

"Won't she get toxic shock?" Becca frowned. 

"No," he recalled the harried potions master. "They have a specialist making her potions to ensure they don't react negatively."