_oliverwood (_oliverwood) wrote in snitchers, @ 2017-08-21 22:30:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | char: oliver wood |
Who: Oliver, Angus and Penelope Wood
What: Family secrets
When: Monday morning
Where: Oliver's childhood home
Rating: low
Warnings: Language at most
Oliver walked up the familiar stone path (most sunk into the ground) to an off-white cottage: home. Of course he’d known the nightmare had been just that, but a small part of him felt an immense flood of relief that the house bore no signs of fire damage. The house had a very practical layout. The lounge was the first premise to the left from the short hallway. Its windows overlooked the windswept moor, providing light all day. A short distance down the main hall the kitchen opened to an open porch with patio chairs and wooden tables under the canopy. The garden provided a good view of old, grey, moss covered stones, unruly windswept amorphous bushes and tall, wild grass that one might mistake for the sea. From the lounge a narrow staircase led to the second floor of the house where three bedrooms and another bathroom. The house might be a bit large for a pair of empty-nesters on a lonely moor, but it was certainly just about the right size when the Wood children came home for a visit.
“Ma! Da! I’m home!” Oliver boomed over the creaking of the front door, answered in return from an equally loud greeting from his father. A smile lit up Oliver’s face as he walked the familiar path toward the lounge to hug his father tightly and exchange pleasantries before heading off to the kitchen where the ever familiar smell of something delicious filled the air and tested his resolve. Popping his blond head into the kitchen, Oliver sniffed hopefully at the air detecting the scent of his favorite treat: rosemary shortbread cookies.
“Hello love,” Oliver’s mother, a vibrant woman still holding traces of her youthful good looks, beamed at her oldest son. The two launched into an immediate conversation about Quidditch and the various odds and ends of their lives. Penelope gossiped about her two other children while prying at the stories the papers had written about Oliver; he politely listened and tried not to devour his beloved cookies.
"Oh! Ma, speaking of gossip!" Oliver's dark blue eyes lit up. "You know how people like to flap oun about Cormac McLaggen and I looking alike?" Penelope suddenly became very stiff. A brief silence settled heavily between them, punctured by Oliver's obliviousness. "I figured out why!"
"Is...is that right?" Penelope struggled to keep her voice even while her dark blue eyes - the same shade as her son's - narrowed into slits.
"Yeah! Cormac and I chatted about it: you're from Glasgae, yeah? Well so is his mum! You're clearly kin somewhere down the lin- ma?" Oliver's smile faded as his mother stood swiftly from the table, unable to hide the fury in her face. She stormed to the sink and clutched at the edges for support while the delicate knuckles turned white.
"Is it that way then, Ollie? Might want to ask yer da on that." Oliver hesitated, feeling the danger in the air. "Is it, Angus?" She called out, her voice higher than usual with a note of controlled fury. Quickly trying to placate his mother, Penelope ignored her son's attempts to drop the subject before his father's footsteps led him to the kitchen. Angus, tall and broad with an impressive dark blond beard, lumbered into the kitchen with a smile. "Goan, Angus," Penelope's pitch rose higher. "Goan and tell him."
"Tell him what, hen?" Angus looked from his wife to his son.
"TELL HIM HOW CORMAC MCLAGGEN JUST SO HAPPENS TO LOOK EXACTLY FOOKIN' LIKE 'IM! GOAN!" Penelope's anger broke over her husband, momentarily stunning him as she swirled, her face contorted with rage. Oliver felt his breath catch in his chest. This had to be another nightmare; he squeezed his eyes shut, willing this to all go away, but reality bore down on him. This was real. How had such an innocent conversation sped full tilt into this trainwreck?
"Ma..." Somehow Oliver found his voice, surprising himself. "Gonnae no dae th-" The plea died in the furious look Penelope shot to her son. Oliver had never seen his father, a towering man who seemed larger than life, stand so silent and unable to lift his gaze from the floor.
"Goan an tell 'im. You certainly ken Orianna McLaggen quite well." Penelope reigned in her anger, dropping hey voice to a deadly calm whisper. "So goan: are she and I kin?" Angus' statue still body didn't move beyond the frustrated twitch of his beard. One twitch. Then another. Finally raised a heavy hand to press the bridge of his nose and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a 'no'. Oliver's eyes burned as he stared hard at his own hands clenched into fists in his lap.
Oliver could hear his own blood rushing past his ears, muffling his parents angry conversation. How could Angus have done this? How could he have strayed from a woman as wonderful as Penelope? Of course Oliver knew his father regretted leaving the Quidditch world prematurely, but had he regretted getting married too? Having a family? Suddenly a realization dawned on Oliver.
He's done the exact same thing to Emilia.
While their relationship wasn't as solidified as his parents, Oliver had nonetheless strayed from an absolutely wonderful woman. Had his father felt a connection with Orianna? Maybe even loved her? Or had she been some secret meeting born out of a selfish desire. A sick feeling rose in his throat at that word; Terence accused him of being selfish, as had Angelina. Another feeling bubbled through the tempest of emotions: betrayal. Oliver had always looked up to his father as a benchmark for the kind of man he wanted to be; of course Angus wasn't perfect, but had always - until now - been a devoted husband and father. He'd put aside a career for his family. How could he be capable of so selfishly putting his desires first?
Oliver stood so suddenly his chair fell back to the floor with a clatter, ending the argument between his parents. Neither moved, looking like uncanny wax figures of people Oliver barely recognized. They seemed so unnatural in the skin he'd known since before he could comprehend the world. Angus reached out to touch his son, only to have his hand roughly shoved off. Oliver's legs seemed to operate on autopilot, crossing the room on without their owner's awareness. Another hand, this time on his shoulder, and he slapped it off once more, breaking into a full run followed by a loud crack as Oliver's body disappeared into the morning sun.