Oliver cried too, not nearly as hard as Verity but the emotion was no less real. More calm in a crisis, Margaret quickly found a thick, heavy blanket which smelled homely of her lavender potpourri and tucked it tightly around Verity's body before excusing herself to the writing desk. An owl had to be sent to the Ministry, and another to Verity's family; she would need her mother in this before the end.
'Daphne! Bring some hot water and wash cloths,' she shouted into the house, 'Verity's home.' But none of this registered for Oliver because his entire world was wrapped in his arms.
Several minutes passed before Oliver became aware of anything beyond Verity's solid form. First, was her temperature. Simultaneously she felt wrongly frigid and fiery, too much of her felt that way because, he realised secondly, Verity was very much naked. Words followed, their actual formation far less important than their meaning. Oliver peppered Verity's face with kisses, professed his love, he promised her protection and vengeance in the same breath. Eddie Carmichael was going to pay for stripping her, for daring to touch her, for raping her. There was no doubt about that, Verity was covered in bodily fluids, she smelt of another man, she was trembling in his arms.
Oliver Wood was going to make good on his promise. If Harry didn't find him first, Eddie was going to die the wrong kind of way.
'I swear it on my father's grave,' Oliver whispered to Verity, a man dangerously possessed with calm rage, 'before the end he'll regret what he did you.'