Who: Oliver Wood and George Weasley Where: Their bungalow When: Saturday afternoon What: Talking! Or an intervention? Rating: Possible language Status: Incomplete
It was very strange. Oliver had been friends with the Weasleys ever since starting at Hogwarts, different generations of them interacting with him on account of Quidditch. They were all different in their own ways, but Oliver truly couldn't recall George Weasley ever being so grumpy. Even when they lost to Slytherin, to Hufflepuff, to any team really, no matter how devastating the defeat, Oliver had been the one trying to drown himself in the showers. George might not have been quite as upbeat as usual those days, but he was still a right sight better off than he was right now.
Fred was alive here. George had to have known that, and given that he was older than Oliver here, he had had more time without his twin than the George Oliver remembered. He should be happy, not stomping around, with the grumpiest puss anyone had ever seen.
Oliver had no idea what he was doing in the bedroom, but whatever it was, it was loud. He knocked on the door and spoke through it, announcing himself and hoping he wouldn't get anything chucked at his head for his efforts.
"George, it's Oliver. I'm coming in." No offer to come back later, no inquiry as to if that would be alright, a statement. A warning to prepare himself because here he comes.