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Oliver Wood (olliewood_) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

Oliver didn't remember the bomb going off. At this moment he didn't really remember anything, especially not how he ended up on his back in the middle of Tavistock Square. His eyes couldn't have been closed that long; though how long he was unsure. Oliver opened his eyes, awareness slowly chewed and shredded the edges of smoke and confusion as he still clung to those hazy, unreal images from moments ago. He'd heard about the bombings less than a mile from where he'd been shopping, and in true Oliver Wood fashion hurried off to lend his support in anyway possible. There had been a bus parked on the opposite side of the street, which Oliver had paid no mind until it emanated a very bright flash of light.

Struggling to get to his feet Oliver realized nothing hurt and everything hurt at the same time. He was barely aware of anything beyond the deafening rush of blood past his ears and the ragged sound of his breathing. Dimly aware that his legs worked, Oliver moved blindly forward. Everything moved so slowly; the daylight was too bright and too dull; time stood perfectly still and was zipping around him as though someone had cast a charm to shield him from the effects of time. The next realization was just how many people were laying on the ground around him and they were moving. Some groaned, some cried and screamed, others stood, scurrying to help those not standing.

Oliver wasn't sure just how many people he'd helped pick up from the blood stained ground. From an older gentleman with bits of metal sticking in his skin to a young lady seemingly untouched but unnaturally pale, he helped as many as he could, all while dimly aware of what was going on. He heard his name, of course, swimming somewhere in the back of his mind as he scooped up the body of a small teenage boy.

Funny. He looks like Collin Creevy.

Blue eyes stared at the face of the boy, unable to tell the difference between him and Collin. Was this even London anymore? Or was this Hogwarts during that awful ceasefire during the attack. Trying to move seemed like a harder task with each step but Oliver eventually settled the body on the ground, staring blankly when he turned to the person who touched him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Oliver knew it was Alicia, and yet his eyes didn't light up with recognition. A sticky half-mask of blood coated his face and matted his blond hair, dripping profusely onto his very stained and ripped blue t-shirt. His arms were cut up, red from an angry rash scraping against the pavement, and bruised.

“Doesn't he look like Collin?” Oliver asked Alicia casually, as though they were talking about the weather, looking back to the young man.