Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

All’s Fair in Love and Cabbages

Consequentially Yours:
A Gentleman’s Duty

Chapter Six – All’s Fair in Love and Cabbages

Torches guttered and swam in the breeze generated by their hasty passage, as Oliver followed Professor McGonagall deeper into the dark corridor far beneath the castle grounds. The dampness of the stone walls, and the unpleasant drip… drip… drip that sounded even louder than the hammering of his heart in the gloomy silence led him to believe that the passageway they were in was now under the lake.
This was it. At the far end of this passage would be a heavy oak door, one spelled in place by the Founders themselves to make absolutely certain that the chamber beyond was completely isolated once the door was sealed. There would be no cheating during the upcoming duel, no matter how clever Mr. Malfoy may be.

Word had come through only the night before that Draco Malfoy was stepping in for his distantly related cousin, Goyle. Somehow, no one had been surprised.

The last few days leading up to this had flown by with a speed that had him wondering if it was nervousness about the upcoming duel — or the nearness of his upcoming wedding if he won.

Oliver decided that maybe, it was a toss-up.

Twenty metres - the dark doorposts could be made out of the gloom now, ominous and unrevealing in the darkness. Everything would be decided on the other side of that obscured portal, and so powerful was its presence that Oliver had to push away the feeling that he couldn’t help but come out of this changed somehow; marked in some inescapable way, forever.

Ten metres. He was a fair wizard, he knew. He’d been active in the war, though never in the spotlight like Hermione and her friends, and he supposed that surviving meant he had a certain amount of skill in staying alive, but he was also very aware that he was no duellist. Good with a wand, yes. Fairly handy at thinking on his feet, definitely; but he was well aware that battlefield experiences wouldn’t do him much good in this ancient contest. One week’s preparation, no matter how good the instructor, just didn’t add up to a lifetime of privilege and practice.

Five metres – was this corridor actually getting longer? Is seemed to take forever to traverse the relatively short distance of the corridor – the speed of his thoughts slowing everything else down to a crawl.

The door was made of black oak, its surface scoured smooth with age. McGonagall stepped to the side as they approached.

“You understand that no one is allowed into the Chamber with you? That the event will be monitored magically by three witnesses?” Oliver could hear her voice quaver as her expression tightened under the guttering torch. Swallowing hard, he nodded.

Lips pressed so firmly, that they were nothing more then a thin slash above her chin, Professor McGonagall gestured jerkily for him to enter.

With a steady hand, Oliver reached out for the door.

-..-


“Hail Hogwarts inhabitants!”

“We have returned!”

The triumphant duel cry echoed through the tower, forcing Hermione from her bed far earlier then even she wanted to be awakened, especially as she had only just managed to get back to sleep. With the duel only one more day off, she was finding her sleep increasingly uneasy and broken. Irritably, she pulled the heavy down pillow over her head, stuffing her fists into her ears to try to minimize the discordant noise.

“Wha’s going on then?” came the rather sleepy rasp from the room’s other occupant. Lavender was never at her best first thing in the morning, hardly ever opening her eyes before she managed to make it down to the Great Hall for her morning tea.

Dimly, Hermione could hear sounds from the common room suggesting that the cries had succeeded in waking a number of the tower occupants, despite the hour. Faintly, she heard something breaking downstairs. Muttering under her breath, Hermione swung her legs blindly over the side of the bed, feeling for her slippers with her toes as she resisted to the last possible minute from lifting her head off the inviting pillow.

She groggily finished tying her fluffy terry robe as she came down the last few stairs, yawning hugely, despite her best efforts. Seated around the fireplace in the squashy chesterfield and various chairs and cushions were about half the towers inhabitants sprawled out in their collection of sleepwear, avidly watching two ginger heads bent over something on the hearthrug. Despite a sinking in her stomach — she just knew they were causing trouble already — Hermione smiled happily as she recognised the Weasley twins.

“You had better not be planning to feed that to any first years, you two, or I’ll be sure to take house points.” She had spoken from directly behind them, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek when they startled violently at her teasing words.

Recovering quickly, George’s (he had a freckle on his left earlobe that was sort of sun-burst shaped, while Fred didn’t) arm shot out and punched the shoulder of the unsuspecting third year sitting on the ottoman on his left with enough force to send him tumbling backwards. “I thought you were supposed to mention when our Hermione woke up — something about watching the stairs?” All this was in an undertone, as Fred turned to her with his most charming grin.

“Hermione! Just the person we wanted to see! Looking lovely as ever, I must say…” He wasn’t fooling her, and he knew it, but it was a game they both liked to play since they had come to a bit of an understanding during the months of working together for the Order. While he was speaking, he had angled his body to block her view of some kind of bubble-gum pink… something on the floor. She was fairly sure he thought she hadn’t seen it yet, though he was sure to know she thought they had something.

Using her best You’re Just a Bothersome Boy look, she tried to ease to the right to get a better look at whatever it was behind him, but found that George had already managed to pocket it. Crossly pushing her tangled hair from her eyes, she turned back to Fred. “What are you two doing here? I thought you had re-opened the store?” She settled onto the ottoman George had vacated for her. Seeing that the show was over, the crowd of sleepy Gryffindors began breaking up and drifting their way back to their beds. Ron, Hermione noted affectionately, hadn’t moved. He mumbled indistinctly and turned over before settling once again in the large chair. Harry gave his sleeping friend an amused look, and apparently decided to leave him there, before moving to join them by the hearth.

George glanced at him in welcome without breaking in his explanation to Hermione. “…for two days. Oliver’s a mate, then; how could we not be here for him as he daringly wins his bride from the clutches of the dastardly Dark Wizard who’s claimed her?”

“Nit.” Hermione flushed at the confusion of emotions his simple teasing had evoked. She ducked her head to cover her embarrassment.

“You know it, luv.” George winked lewdly at her.

“I’m surprised you’re not with your shinning knight now, Hermione — being extra nice to him and trying to boost his morale before the duel tomorrow.”

“Fred!”

Laughing, the twins seemed to feel they’d embarrassed her enough, and let it go. Harry joined the conversation at this point, and talk turned to the upcoming Gobstones match.

Keeping track of the discussion with only half an ear, Hermione was soon lost in thought, dazed and very sleepy as Crookshanks jumped into her lap and began to knead her tummy gently.

When she felt Fred nudge her later, she was rather surprised to see that they were alone in the common room.

“Knut for your thoughts, Hermione?” Fred asked, looking up at her from a cushion on the floor, his elbow resting on her bent knee, as he fluttered his ridiculously long eyelashes at her, teasingly.

Swatting him away, Hermione gave in and smiled at him. “Not even worth that much, this morning, I’m afraid.”

“No wonder, you look like hell.”

“You know, Fred, I simply can’t understand why it is that you’re still single,” Hermione responded, dryly.

Fred laughed. “You know, I’ve been puzzling about that myself. I think its George.”

“George?”

“He’s the trouble-maker, you know. I’m completely innocent.”

“Uh-huh. Does that mean you’re going to tell me about whatever it was you were showing off this morning?”

“Now Hermione, I have absolutely no idea what you could be referring to. Besides, any hypothetical object may have, in fact, been an engagement present for my favourite Gryffindor, and as such, should be ignored until such time as it gets presented.”

“Now I am frightened. Should I warn Oliver, then?”

Fred threw a pillow at her. “Just for that, you are no longer my favourite Gryffindor.”

They were both silent for a moment. Hermione leaned her head back and closed her eyes, enjoying the companionable atmosphere. The twins were usually so busy being loud and raucous, that it was easy to overlook how genuinely perceptive they could be.

“Oliver admired you in school, you know.”

Startled, Hermione jerked her eyes open and turned to Fred with a puzzled frown. Fred, for his part, was lounging against the chesterfield, arm dangling loosely over his raised knee. He was facing away from her when he spoke, not turning to look at her as he continued.

“I’m not saying he fancied you or anything — you were only in third year after all, but he thought a lot of your intelligence.”

“Fredrick Weasley, you’re making that up.” Hermione smiled when he looked up at her, ready to argue. “I do appreciate it, though.”

Fred snorted. “Believe what you will, Hermione dear. Oliver’s going to win you know, and then you’re going to have to deal with the fact that you fancy him.”

Hermione spluttered. “I most certainly do not! I barely know him – we have nothing —”
“Yes, you do, Hermione. You wouldn’t be struggling so hard if you didn’t.”

“Fred, the idea’s preposterous.” Hermione was patient, as though explaining to a small child.

“And what’s wrong with it, then? Hermione Jane Granger, smartest witch of her age, could do something so insensible, so completely feminine as to actually find a handsome, genuinely nice bloke attractive? You’re right, the idea is simply ludicrous.” Frustration made Fred’s response sharper than it might have been.

“Its not that simple Fred, and you know it.” Hermione’s voice caught, and she turned to glare at him, hurt.

“Yes, actually, it is Hermione. You just refuse to see it.” Softening his tone, he reached out and covered her hand with his. “Hermione Granger, you are a silly Puffskein sometimes, aren’t you?”

Hermione looked at him with glassy eyes. “I don’t like being forced, Fred. It’s not Oliver, it’s really not. I really don’t want to be Missus Hermione Goyle, believe me, and when you get down to it, it is rather nice of Oliver to try to help out, I just…” She trailed off, eyes straying to focus somewhere over Fred’s shoulder.

Just when he was about to open his mouth to get her attention, she turned back to him, with a watery smile. “I think we can become friends, though. We’re starting to, I think.”

He squeezed her hand sympathetically. “We can still arrange for Goyle then, if you’d feel better about hating your future husband for the rest of your life. Ginny tells me though, that you’ve almost come to look at your future as Missus Wood with actual good-will.”

“Maybe. I’d love to be there to see him kick Malfoy’s arse.”

They both laughed, and somehow, Hermione felt a bit better.

“Thanks Fred.”

“Anytime, Hermione,” he said, giving her a one-armed hug before she left to get ready for class.

Hermione’s classes that day turned out to be a little lighter than usual, and she wasn’t absolutely positive that it didn’t have something to do with well-meaning professors trying to let her focus on the duel tomorrow afternoon. She really wished they wouldn’t, though. She’d rather have the distraction of the extra loads of class work to keep busy — instead she’d be sitting in the library, or common room, and brooding all evening, and quite possibly well into the night. She was almost finished for the day, which she supposed was a bit of a blessing, as she hadn’t really been able to concentrate properly in any of her classes. It was Thursday, so she only had Care of Magical Creatures left, in the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest today, before she could seek the solitude of her dorm.

“Mudblood!” Draco’s overly cheery greeting floated across the lawn as Hermione made her way to their shared class. She hugged her books a little tighter to her chest, but ignored him as she passed where he was holding court with a group of upper-year Slytherins at the top of the short flight of stone stairs leading down to Hagrid’s hut. As she passed, she felt a hand reach out and clamp on her shoulder. Draco’s cultured voice spoke from just over her left shoulder. “What’s the hurry, Granger? I think Greg might like to have his fiancée join him today.”

Hermione barely suppressed a shiver, and gave Malfoy a determined look. There was no way she would allow him to see her react, especially to let him know how uncomfortable his proximity was making her right now. Instead, she responded forcefully, “No thank you. I think Goyle should be more concerned with enjoying his last day of good health.”

“What’s the matter, Granger? Nervous that your pet gorilla won’t come out of this with his good looks intact?” Hermione had to struggle not to punch his stupid, smirking face, as she had in third year.

“I’d be more worried about yours, if I were you, Malfoy.” Shrugging out of his grip, Hermione hurried down the stairs.

“Be sure to wear something pretty tomorrow, Granger. I doubt it will help, but I think we could all use a good laugh,” Draco called after her. For some reason, Goyle’s laughter sounded particularly loud to her.

“That foul little, insignificant —” Hermione had been muttering to herself ever since she had burst into the clearing at a determined walk, resolutely looking anywhere but at the Slytherin students.

“Oy, Hermione! What’s got you so worked up? You look a right fright.” Ron’s bafflement just made Hermione swear harder as she stomped over to stand by Harry instead. Harry just looked over at Ron and shrugged.

“Al’right class, settl’ down now. Today, I’ve go’ a real treat in store for all o’yeh…”

The look of apprehension on the students faces could be excused, Hermione supposed. While she was glad to see Hagrid was recovering so well, Hermione couldn’t help a small traitorous thought that maybe class was a lot nicer when there was a substitute.

Not that she’d ever admit it aloud, of course.

-..-

Surprisingly, things seemed to have gotten better between himself and Hermione these last few days.
She had even returned some of his greetings in the halls with an uncertain smile, though he had noticed dark bags under her eyes, and resolved to get her to put aside her studding on occasion and relax once this blasted contest was over.

Weasley was still furious with him, but seemed to have settled on a sort of sullen resentment, and had given up trying to be outright antagonistic. Oliver suspected Hermione may have had something to do with that, when one morning she’d come storming into the Great Hall, sitting resolutely at the opposite end of the table then she normally did (not that Oliver was paying attention to where she would normally sit, he told himself). Weasley had followed ten minutes later, looking like he’d been ravaged by a flock of birds. Since that morning, things had become noticeably more civil between the two men, for which Oliver was grateful.

Time with Professor Snape was unpleasant at best, but he was fast learning to make the most of his strengths, and even his weaknesses, and had to, grudgingly, admit a new respect for the greasy bat.

It still didn’t make up for years of foul treatment for any Gryffindor caught in his class, though.

Oliver could feel the sweat beading down his back before being absorbed by his robes. The sensation was extremely unpleasant in the damp chill of the dungeon. He’d been practicing with Professor Snape all evening, and now well into the small hours of the morning, and his eyes felt like they were full of hot sand. Patiently, he ignored the discomfort, and waited. The trick, Oliver had found, was to only allow his thoughts to pass lightly over any given plan or action, as Professor Snape was a highly skilled Legilimens. Fortunately, the concentration required to actually probe his thoughts while also focusing on what was going on around him limited this ability a great deal.

Snape was circling now, to his right, movements slow and flowing, wand held lightly in hand as he watched Oliver intently. Oliver took some pride in the fact that he was breathing heavily, sharp thin wheezes that echoed faintly in the tense silence.

The faint coppery taste of magic (Hermione once told him it was actually ozone generated as the spell passed through the air, whatever ozone was) could be tasted on every breath he took, reminding Oliver uncomfortably of the never-ending skirmishes during Voldemort’s campaign. Magic would hang so think sometimes, it was as if the air itself were bleeding.

“Arcesso Flamma!”

Oliver had only his instincts to bring up his wand in time to deflect the spell as he dodged to the left. He could feel the passage of the flames, singing his hair and clothing, and burning its way down his lungs as he struggled for breath in the supper-heated air left in its wake. He could feel the blisters rising painfully, high on his right shoulder. Coming up from a crouch, his hand shot out, instinctively aiming at a slightly darker patch in the gloom. “Ingenero Fumus!”

Think, billowing smoke began filling the room, beginning where he had guessed Snape to be. Silently he moved, staying just beyond the reach of the smoke, straining his ears for the tell-tale sounds that would give away his opponents position. His hand tightened fractionally on the smooth wood of his wand.

It didn’t take long.

Moving with agility that would have astonished him had he had the time to consider the time, and how weary he was, Oliver raised his wand, suddenly inspired. “Vomica Limax!” He was rewarded with the sounds of retching seconds later. Clearing the smoke with a flick of his wand, Oliver advanced on his stricken teacher.

Several slugs were crawling about him, butting his knees playfully as he crouched, green and gagging as he heaved forth another slimy, wriggling gastropod.

Oliver made sure to make notes, to share with Ron, later; after all, he owed him for the inspiration.

Relaxing slightly, he moved closer, smirking slightly at Professor Snape’s predicament. “Here, Sir, let me—”

Pain exploded behind his eyeballs, bright and immediate, and Oliver found himself staring at the ceiling from the cool flagstone floor. Nausea fought briefly with his control, before giving up and settling to a dull churning. The back of his skull throbbed sickly as he tried to process the wildly spinning room, unable for the moment to understand the drastically changed situation.

“I am not in the habit of wasting my time, Mister Wood, and I expect you to put in the required effort to come out of your duel with Mister Malfoy in one piece.” The low tones of the Potions Master seemed to fill the dank dungeon from somewhere above him, adding to the throbbing of his head. “You had the perfect opportunity to strike, yet you lowered your wand instead. That kind of charitable thinking will cost Miss Granger dearly. Think on it.”

It was a long while after Snape had flowed from the room before Oliver left to seek his own bed.

-..-

Thursday was a dull grey morning, and Oliver had been sitting at the small table by the window, writing a letter to his sister in Fife, when the hearth had suddenly erupted in bright flames. Without looking up, he continued sharpening his quill before resuming his letter. Despite the sound of someone clearing their throat, at first a polite announcement of arrival, quickly changing to an exasperated reminder of its presence, Oliver pointedly ignored his visitor for the ten minutes it took him to finish his correspondence.

His sister, Adrianne Margaret, had read about the upcoming duel tomorrow and had made sure he knew about her pique at being overlooked in sharing such important news. He’d woken up this morning to a rather large and very red howler. It had already been smoking acridly when he opened his eyes, the owl carrying it trying to edge away from its own leg nervously, and had taken off in a cloud of feathers as soon as Oliver released it. As a result, he wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards Percy at the moment, his fingers still bearing the marks of some rather frantic pecking.

Percy spoke from the fireplace. “Alright, Oliver. I’m sorry for alerting the Daily Prophet. I should have warned you; but I did tell you that you were doing this to lead the way on this – how else did you think I was going to let people know what was going on?”

“Surely, a former Hogwarts Head Boy could come up with something a little less tacky.” Oliver grimaced at the faintly greenish disembodied head in his fireplace. “You’ve go’ no idea the kind of mail the owls brought this morning. I’m personally sending you th’ nastier ones, you know. With much love, and a big stick.”

“I’ll consider that fair warning,” Percy said dryly. Shaking his head slightly, as if to clear it, he gave Oliver a long, searching look. Oliver gazed back, one eyebrow raised curiously, at the uncharacteristic silence.
“How do you feel about the upcoming challenge, then?”

Oliver shrugged. “Better. Malfoy’s a little twat, but still dangerous. You are going to owe me for all the time I’ve had to endure with Snape, mind.”

“I’d like to send you out for a few days – no, let me explain –” Percy had to speak rapidly over Oliver’s objections. Quickly, the Assistant Minister sketched out the details for him, his face carefully blank, as a man trying to hold back great emotion. After hearing what he had to say, Oliver understood perfectly; he had to physically clench his teeth against the urge to hurt someone.

“The Muggle authorities think it’s a, what did they call it? A grain killer, whatever that means.”

“Muggles are rather odd.” Oliver said vaguely, as he rubbed the skin between the knuckles of one hand, where he’d broken it years before. The motion was absently rhythmic as he stared at the fraying rug thinking hard.

Oliver looked up, speaking quietly. “It’s out of the question, Perce. It’ll have to wait until after the duel.”
Oliver made a sour face at his friend. “Of course, if you really wanted me out there immediately, you could always just repeal this law of yours, and give the girl back her freedom.”

The lanterns set in the room gave everything a mellow glow that reflected off Percy’s ghostly glasses as he seemed to try to peer farther into the room than the confines of the hearth would allow.

“The duel is still two days off, isn’t it? Couldn’t you just Apparate out for a quick look? I could issue you a Time-turner, to give you a few extra days — ”

Oliver hunched his shoulders, dropping his gaze to stare at his hands again. “I’ve got Draco bloody Malfoy, not to mention the rest of the Serpent house here with me. How much do yeh want to bet at least a couple of them would pass on any information of interest to someone connected to what’s left of the Death Eaters, or one of these fringe groups tha’ have cropped up?”

Percy nodded reluctantly. “It’s your call of course – and you’re probably right. It’s just when it’s children —”

He didn’t need to finish; Oliver’s guts were still twisting at the thought of those Muggle children. His first instinct had been to fly out there immediately, as though somehow mere speed could make him strong enough to deal with what was going to be an awful situation.

The image of a soft brown mouse and curls thick as taffy inserted itself against the impulse before he could even seriously consider it. He would be useless if he exhausted himself by living a half-week of forty-hour days – and for what? He wouldn’t be able to do anything for those children at this point. He had a responsibility here, someone who needed him here, and he was startled to find how quickly and easily that job asserted itself as his first priority. The duel was more immediate, he reassured himself – Hermione was someone his actions could still save. The Muggle children would still be just as dead in a few days. In the back of his mind, he tried to ignore a small voice, telling him that, coat it however he will, he was acting on more selfish feelings.

Aren’t you really staying because it’s Hermione that needs you?

Disquieted by his conversation with Percy, Oliver went in search of the twins, hoping for a distraction.
Fred and George were two of the most naturally talented beaters Hogwarts had ever seen – the two men seeming to think with one mind on the field, achieving amazing synchronicity that put mere teamwork to shame.

Oliver often found himself wishing they could have put the same effort into practices as they did into causing trouble, though.

“Really, Oliver, it’s going to be a blast.” George was assuring him blithely. They were sitting comfortably with a couple of draughts down in the village, plans for their latest prank still in the air between them, and Fred casting an appreciative eye over Madame Rosmerta whenever she brought a new round.

“Really, Fred, she’s at least half again as old as you are.” George smirked, and lifted his eyebrow suggestively at the rather handsome pub keeper.

“Just a number, Georgie-boy – and the benefit of more experience.” Fred drained his jug quickly, raising it inquiringly as he caught the brunette witch’s eye where she stood behind the bar. “I’m sure she’d appreciate the benefits of a younger man’s stamina.” Fred grinned licentiously.

Oliver snorted into his pint. “Somehow, I do'na think she’d be as interested exploring the benefits of the age gap, Fred.”

Suppressing a laugh of his own, George turned back to Oliver. “Given his terrible judgment, are you really sure you want him as you’re Second tomorrow? I’m sure we could dig up someone else for you – say, Lockhart? I’m sure he’s even mastered joined up writing by now… Ow! Fred – Leave off!” George sat back, rubbing his shoulder.

“I think you may want to steer for safer waters, Georgie-boy" Fred glared playfully at his scowling twin.

“Goyle will never be expecting it.” Fred changed tracks smoothly, as Rosmerta served up the new round, deftly swiping up a few stray spills before setting the fresh pints before them. “Here, luv,” Fred smiled warmly, handing over a galleon and a few sickles. “And take something for yourself.”

“Fred Weasley, I’ll not be having any of your filthy lucre here.” The affectionate smile she gave them belied the sting of her words as she stared the unrepentant twin down, hand on her hip.

“Then be sure to add whatever you’re having,” he called after her as she turned to leave, swatting him lightly with an admonishment as she moved to serve someone else.

“Keep trying, Freddy. But I think it’s generally considered a bad idea to tip a girl you’re trying to pull – might give her the wrong idea.” Oliver smirked teasingly as Fred flushed.

“Oliver – that’s disgusting. I’m proud of you.” George laughed as the meaning of what Oliver was implying suddenly occurred to him. “Anyway, if Goyle’s not expecting it, with both of us back in the castle, then he’s an even bigger lump than I thought.”

Fred shrugged, indifferently, eyes gleaming at the thought of their proposed mischief. “So, it’s more sporting this way. Besides, what better way to show our excitement over our good friend’s engagement than a little planned chaos?”

“Fred —” Oliver’s voice was warning.

A blast of night-chilled air as the door was opened caused all three wizards to look up from their plotting. A familiar sharp-nosed blond strode in, talking animatedly with his companions.

"Oy! Who let him in?" Fred's loud protest was thankfully lost to the sudden burst of raucous laughter from the group as the casually pushed their way to a nearby table.

"Let off, Fred." Oliver warned, sharply. "There's enough in the air, what with the duel tomorrow, as it is; let's not go making things any muckier than they are already."

Fred gave him a sour look. "You used to be a lot more fun before you started hanging 'round Percy, you know."

With a few pints in him, Oliver knew that Fred could get very belligerent; surprisingly, George was the far more easy-going drunk. Keeping his tone easy, he replied, "Not really, I just don't wan' there to be any way tha' that little twerp can wriggle out of a good thrashing tomorrow."

Fred settled down again, a gleam in his eye at the thought of the proposed beating he'd get to witness. "It would be a shame to let Malfoy miss a much needed lesson in manners. Maybe we should include him in our plans for Goyle.”

Oliver grunted, noncommittally, as he emptied the dregs of his glass. “I’m no’ so sure you —” He was cut off by a loud outburst from the Slytherin table.

“…And I said, you might try looking your best, not that it would inspire anything other then the desire to run in the other direction, but hey, it’d be good for a lark…” Oliver was vaguely aware of Draco Malfoy’s faintly nasal voice just a few tables away, bits of their conversation drifting in and out of focus as the general noise level in the pub lulled.

“I rather think Goyle would look good as produce. Maybe a cabbage.”

“Why a cabbage?” Oliver asked George, not really curious, but trying to ignore Pansy’s rather horsy laughter.

“Well, it’s sort of Slytherin colours, idn’it? Sort of sprouts out of the mould like fungus, and rather prone to being wormy…Not really much of a change, then, right?”

“…hair's a complete horror…” Pansy’s sneering voice grated Oliver’s nerves. With a face that looked like she’d been in a high-speed wall accident at birth, he wasn’t quite sure how she got off disparaging anyone else’s looks. Shaking his head slightly, he came back to the conversation.

“… not much time of course, but we’ll manage. Anything for a mate, right Gred?”

“What’er you two on abou’ now?” Oliver asked, irritably.

“Your bachelor party, of course. And you’re Blackening – wouldn’t miss that, now would we?”

“Wee?” Oliver choked on his ale, looking up at his two grinning friends, speechless. The wizarding community in Aberdeenshire was a rather traditional place, but he’d really hoped to avoid the village display.

Rather than try to deal with the disturbing idea of the Weasley twins planning any kind of social functions for him, not to mention how uncomfortably close this brought his thinking to things like wedding nights and beds in conjunction with soft, warm bodies and pretty brown eyes, Oliver decided now was the perfect time for a strategic retreat to the loo.

He had actually been rather surprised, and embarrassed at how natural the image of Hermione, smiling happily as she cradled a baby in the protective embrace of her arms had seemed; a baby with unruly brown curls and a rather crinkled smile…

No more getting dunted with Fred and George, obviously.

He was passing by the Slytherin table, trying to block out the unpleasant sound of Goyle’s lumbering laughter as Malfoy’s voice rose above the general mirth, voice full of cruel amusement.

“…I suppose she’s got decent legs though. I’m sure Greg can manage to overlook her other qualities; after all, they make gags for a reason, don’t they?”

Bits and pieces of the overheard conversation resolved themselves rather sickeningly for Oliver, and suddenly it was rather obvious who the topic of this rather disgusting conversation was. The rage was so sudden, so unexpected, he wasn’t aware of his intentions until he found himself already crossing the few steps between them.

His arm shot out before he had even paused to think, snapping Malfoy’s head back with a sharp crack as he hauled him bodily out of his chair, and had him shoved firmly into the wall behind him in a rush that forced the air from the other wizard with a sickening wheeze. Dimly, part of Oliver’s brain noted that he could feel the force of the impact shudder through the slender body under his hands.

Shock quickly gave way to outrage once Malfoy realised what was happening. Oliver could hear his cronies moving behind him as the three of them began fanning out from their seats, but he was focused entirely on the blond in front of him. “I would’na recommend letting me hear you saying such things again, Ferret.” The warning came out from between clenched teeth, as Oliver became aware that the strain on his arms was actually because he had unwittingly hauled him a few inches off the floor. Malfoy glared back, furious, but before he could retort Rosmerta’s voice cut across the excited exclamations of the other patrons surrounding them.

“I won’t be thanking you, Oliver Wood, if you go breaking anything in my pub.”

Everything in the pub went still, watching the tableau curiously. When he made no immediate move to back off, Rosmerta added rather pointedly, “That includes Mister Malfoy, Oliver.”

The blond wizard smirked at him, raising his eyebrows mockingly. Oliver continued to hold him to the wall, eyes narrowed warningly as he fought to suppress the desire to simply ignore the inappropriateness of it, and knock Draco’s head from his shoulders. Slowly, and very carefully, he forced his fingers to uncurl from the expensive silk lapel as he took a step back, still glaring, daring Malfoy to move. Though the self-styled Serpent Prince continued to smirk arrogantly, Oliver was satisfied that none of them attempted to move until he’d made his way back to his seat.

“Still think we’d better lay off?” Fred asked, face pale with suppressed anger and pushing across a fresh ale to the glowering Scotsman.

“Just so long as I don’ end up in any more trouble with Hermione.” Oliver glared across the pub at Goyle’s smirking face.

-..-

Oliver thought that perhaps his robes were still smouldering, but couldn’t really concentrate on that right now. Spells had been flying thick and fast for the last twenty minutes, with little or no break between the barrage of sizzling magic. Malfoy had caught him a lucky shot with an Incendio spell, igniting his sleeve while he was concentrating on a truly nasty Verrucae curse. It was exceedingly petty, but Oliver could be like that sometimes. Malfoy wouldn’t be sitting down for anything for at least a week, even with Madame Pomfrey’s help.

Kneeling tensely behind a quickly Transfigured barricade, Oliver paused to catch his breath, and absently Extinguished his robes. He strained is ears in the sound-dampening atmosphere of the duelling chamber, but Malfoy seemed to be taking this opportunity for a bit of a breather as well. Quietly, he crept from the cover of the barricade to the deep shadows of the wall on his right. Sweat beaded down his forehead, chilling him despite his exertions. He was tired; his head ached and felt as if it were full of nettles, sharp little tendrils of pain shooting through his skull to distract him, and his arm was tender where his robe had caught fire. A hundred other scrapes and bruises added to his overall weariness.

He hoped Malfoy’s arse hurt for a month.

“Contortusaum!”

Yellow light came streaking out of the darkness, burning so brightly it blotted out anything else. The harsh cry and the crushing pain as he was picked up and slammed into the wall behind him were separated by no more then the blink of an eye, and he’d had no chance to escape. Oliver slid down the wall bonelessly, wind knocked from him and struggled to breathe despite the horrible dry sucking as he fought to find oxygen with empty lungs. Ruthlessly he forced his broken body to move, feeling bones grind together in his shin as he forced it to take weight enough to stagger and twist a few steps just ahead of the follow-up curse. Small chucks of mortar rained down on him as the spell hit the wall where he had been a second before, but it didn’t matter, he could feel Malfoy’s curse really beginning to take hold of him now, senses bleeding together like wet paint in the rain.

His veins felt like it was acid coursing through them, agonising and hot. He didn’t know where Malfoy was, but he had to be getting close. Oliver stumbled twice and went down to one knee, fighting furiously against the sensation that he was dissolving, his conscious thoughts running together into a murky puddle, he swung his head wildly, desperately seeking his opponent with senses that were failing. His eyes still showed him pictures, colourful and moving, but it was as if the brain could no longer process what it was being shown – the objects had lost all connotation and meaning to him; blind in a world without those connections. There was an overpowering roaring in his ears that may have been the sound of his own desperate screaming, or may have been the ragged whisper of his breath.

Bringing his wand up in what he knew was a futile gesture, Oliver struggled with lips that felt like sloppy mush to form the spell — any spell, as his world went dark around him.

He’d lost. The thought was very bitter as his confused senses vainly pushed against the blanketing veil that covered them, his last thought before losing consciousness was of Hermione in Goyle’s arms.

≤hr≥

A.N.

Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing - I make sure to pet each one frequently *lol*

Just a couple of notes for those who are curious:

'Contortusaum' is a conjugated (badly, I'm sure - I'm a horrible language student) form of the Latin verb for 'confuse'. It also means 'whirl, turn violently or contort; in throwing, or hurl powerfully.'

'Limax' is the Latin genus name for the slug family. I apologise for any mistakes in my Latin - I'm not a language wizard, I'm afraid. ;-p

As a final note - It was asked why Oliver would refer to Malfoy as Ferret, when he wasn't there for Moody's little punishment. I'm making the assumption that since Oliver is good friends with Fred and George, he would be fairly up to date on things like that - I mean, if someone you absolutely hated was subjected to an amusing, and absolutely mortifying incident, wouldn't you bring it up with your friends?

Love you all!

Ny(ruserra)

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