Oliver Wood (woodatdawn) wrote in eminor_macula, @ 2008-04-02 22:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | katie bell, narrative, oliver wood |
Narrative
Who: Oliver Wood and Katie Bell
When: April 2, 2000, nightfall
Where: Diagon & Knockturn Alleys
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
Status: In progress
Summary: Oliver Wood is making ends meet when he runs into a familiar face
It was nearly six. There was a time when all the money in the world couldn't have put him in Knockturn Alley after dark - but, that was before the war. As it stood now, the best business came at night and as a government labeled threat, you took business when you saw it and didn't ask questions. Oliver couldn't really describe what it was he did. He got paid to do just about anything anyone asked him to do - deliver a few packages the client couldn't be seen with, the odd job around a manor handling dangerous materials.
He'd been paid for sex twice. The first time was some Pureblood bitch who'd been rather attractive and Oliver had been considerably drunk. He hadn't thought it had been that bad for the most part, but when he went to leave she handed him forty galleons and couldn't stop gushing about how it had always been her fantasy to sleep with a Quidditch player. He'd started using a better glamour after that, making sure to change the shape of his nose and jaw as well as the colour of his hair. He'd stopped shaving as well. It hadn't stopped the second offer or Oliver's gut reaction.
"Fuck off, mannie. I'm no intae buggery."
"That's acceptable. Five hundred galleons and I'll swear an Oath not to attempt fornication with you. Just for the pleasure of your company, I assure you." Five hundred galleons changes one's opinion on most things.
There had been a time when Oliver had wanted desperately to rid himself of the scars. He was too proud to go to St. Mungo's after or accept the man's offer of the use of his private healer. Oliver had managed to get to the dingy little inn at the end of Knockturn Alley and get up to his room and into his bed. He slept for a day after and hadn't eaten for three. He'd had a hard time cleaning the wounds on his backside. He couldn't quite reach them and they had gotten infected, forcing him to seek medical treatment. Even then, he'd gone to a Seller who's wife was a healer. He'd not have his face in the Prophet for flogging himself. The man had certainly been true to his word, but while he had not used Oliver for sex, Oliver thought there was certainly something sexual about flogging oneself at the command of a man pleasuring himself a few meters away.
But, five hundred galleons had paid his grandmother's bills, kept her fed and her taxes paid. The Ministry never had a reason to call upon her again after the day they arrested him. His grandfather had been a Muggleborn and, by requirements of the Non-Magical Registration Act, all of his grandfather's children and grandchildren had been arrested and given the mark of Non-Magic blood - well, all except Emilie, who was still safe in France. If he was lucky, they'd never know about Emilie. Oliver's hand moved instinctively to the scar on his thigh. He'd never let that happen to Emilie.
In the privacy of his own home he took the glamour off, but as he very rarely returned to Glasgow, he very rarely ever looked like Oliver Wood. As it was his hair was dirty blond and curly, his own slightly crooked nose was now straight and smooth and his chin was a bit more square. He changed his glamour a little bit every now and then, never keeping the same look for quite too long. He took a drag of his fag before crushing it out with his foot. A woman called to a passing man. He turned his head as she called again, closing his eyes in a quick attempt to block out what was left of the light on the street. It was all street light now, he knew, but he had been lingering in a patch of sunlight the entire time he'd been standing on the corner of Knockturn and Diagon Alleys. Even if the sunlight had faded within five minutes of his stepping into it, the warm remnants from the day lingered on the stone behind his back and standing in the shadows always gave him chills.
Fuck it all. That girl had looked like Katie and he'd be arsed if he was going to think about her and George and the old team when he'd spent every day since December trying to forget his old life, his friends, and just get through what he had to get through to survive.
"Pardon me..? Pardon... Sir?" Oliver glanced up only when the girl stepped into his periphery. She must have said 'Sir' nearly four times before he looked up - but he wasn't exactly used to being called more than 'man', or 'hey, you'. He frowned at the girl and persistently pushed away any thoughts she caused to rise in the back of his mind as she peered at him in the twilight.
"What are you looking for?" It was Sellers' Code, vague enough that an Auror couldn't pin him for anything. Giving directions to someone wasn't against the law. Still, it was specific enough to let a client know he was a Seller. "I said, what are ye lookin' for, lass?" he asked again, not caring for the way she stared at him in the street light. It made him uneasy and he could feel his defenses drop and his accent seep through. He tried his very best to drop his accent while working. An Auror could more than likely place a two meter Scot with a thick Glaswegian accent, bright blue eyes and a crooked nose from an unhealed break, but some random homely English bloke with dirt blond hair and dull eyes didn't stand out as much. They'd chase the bland, boring Englishman for weeks and never catch him because Oliver didn't let him exist outside of work - but Oliver Wood did exist and Oliver Wood was a Half-Blood who had refused to register his blood status. The truth was, the Ministry didn't care about the Purebloods. All their talk of non-prejudice and anti-segregation was a lie. The skulky and rattiest registered Pureblood could sell whatever he wanted on Knockturn Alley, but he was a Half-Blood and a traitor, and for him to be caught Selling meant arrest and torture.
"It is you!" The girl rushed forward, reaching out immediately to touch at his face as if his true identity could be discovered by simply stretching and pushing parts of his face around. "I wasn't sure, your glamour-" She fumbled and looked down, then back up at him, her touch gentling. "It's your lips and the freckles on your nose. I- Well. Ravenclaw's cunt, as George would say... we thought they'd killed you." He stared at her until she morphed from a stranger back into the Katie Bell he'd seen last, fighting fiercely beside him in the final battle. He'd been there with two of his teammates. They'd fought and bled and it hadn't meant a damn thing. Fred was dead, the Order lost and he had scars on his body that no magic could heal. Oliver glanced up and down the street before pulling Katie back into the shadows around the corner. He frowned at her and gripped her shoulders tightly in his hands, striving for something appropriate to say.
"They didn't kill me," he finally spoke, choosing his words carefully, his voice a deceptively dulcet sound amidst the tones of the street around them. She beamed up at him, her face bright and warm and certainly something Oliver was not used to any longer. His frown deepened and he backed away from her smiling recognition. "Wha' d'ye want?" he asked, not bothering with his accent.
"You're a Seller?" she asked, realising belatedly what his being where he was, when he was and in disguise likely meant. He took a deep breath and pulled out another fag, lighting it with a practised hand. He gave her another long look before exhaling through his nose.
"What are ye lookin' for?" he asked again. If she knew what a Seller was, then she'd know what they said. She frowned and turned her head away. She watched him from the corner of her beady little blue eyes but she didn't turn back to face him and even in the dark he could see her tight frown and wrinkled nose. It reminded him of Fred for some strange reason and he tried not to gag at the images that came with those thoughts.