I just wanted to leave a short note saying that this is a newly edited revisit to this story that I began a very long time ago. That being said, I want to let you all know that this is to take place as though the seventh book never existed, but after the character's seventh year.

The Prologue

Oliver Wood stared at the paper in his hands with a frown, his head slightly cocked to the side. Silently his lips formed words while his eyes scanned down the page. Between calloused fingers, the words aily Prhet could be distinguished, the bold letters seemingly ordinary, mundane even. Yet if the photos were of any indication (this issue sported a shot of Puddlemere United's manager, Philbert Deverill, heatedly talking to a crowd of reporters), then the paper that Oliver held was anything but ordinary. He paused his silent reading, a furrow in his brow appearing, before continuing down the article.

To any passerby, the frown merely signified that the man in question had read news of the usual disturbing sort- politicians embezzling funds, global warming throwing off the ocean's deep currents, an odd species of lizard becoming endangered, etc… Yet to the trained eye (including and not limited to his dear ol' mum and Newfoundland, Quaffle) Oliver was in a state of deep mental distress. A tic was forming in his clenched jaw, and his fingers were drumming out a furious beat against his thigh, each tap resonating with an increasing intensity. And then the paper was resting on the coffee table, the hands that were previously occupied now could be found running through the man's shaggy russet locks. With a sigh Oliver allowed his hands to slip down to cradle his face, elbows resting against his knees, while he considered letting out a scream. Oh yes, Oliver was in a state of deep mental distress.

Quaffle watched his master with mild curiosity. It wasn't often that he saw Oliver acting so…odd. Quaffle cocked his head to the side and perked his ears, letting out a yelp as Oliver flung his body into the plush cushioning of the couch. He lowered his head onto his paws and studied the dejected form of his owner.

At twenty five and three quarters, Oliver was a sight to behold…at least that's what all of the women he had brought to the flat said. He was tall and obviously athletic. Years of Quidditch had seen to that. Dark hair fell into chocolate eyes that sparkled with mischief and excitement, and a lopsided grin made his appearance practically fatal to the opposite sex. Except now. Now, the glimmer that seemed a permanent fixture in his eyes had dulled. Now, hollow cheeks formed shadows against the pallor of his flesh. Now, Oliver was exuding a wholly unbecoming stance of defeat. Something that, in Quaffle's opinion, was down right unacceptable for a man like Oliver to exude. It was time to intervene.

Quaffle raised himself up off the floor and shook out his furry body from nose to tail, ridding himself of any lingering drowsiness. What Oliver needed was to get away from the paper and walk around. Yes, a good walk would do wonders for the man that was currently staring listlessly at a speck of dust floating on the air. Quaffle's paws made a hollow thudding sound as he padded across wood floor to Oliver, nudging the man's leg with his nose. When Oliver didn't respond, Quaffle let out a high pitched whine and quickly shifted his weight between his legs, causing Oliver to snap out of his trance.

The man spared the dog a startled look, seemingly haven forgotten that there were other beings inside his flat aside from his own pitiful self. He took in the oversized dog's impatient pacing between the couch and the front door, before a rueful smile spread across his face. Of course. It was time for the dog's ritual nightly rounds of the neighborhood. With a grunt, Oliver hefted his body out of the couch's welcoming folds and made his way to the front door, his hand running along the dog's fur as an afterthought.

"Sorry abou' tha', boy," muttered Oliver as he wrenched open the door. Quaffle, thoroughly satisfied with his success at getting Oliver to leave his spot on the couch, let out a terse 'ruff' in response before prancing into the night.

With a sigh, Oliver allowed his body to rest against the door frame while he attempted to follow the body of his black dog as the animal ventured into the front lawn. His efforts were only made with half a heart though, for his mind was already recalling the article that had bothered him so.

Really, it shouldn't have bothered him that much. After all, there had been rumors for months, and Philbert had spoken with them. It was just seeing it in ink…seeing it made it definite. Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, removing the kinks that had formed there since he had read the article. Now what was he going to do? Oliver grimaced at the onslaught of worries that question brought forth. Best save those thoughts for a different time. Better to focus on the now.

Like, for instance, now he was shivering. The crisp night air curling around his body spoke of autumn leaves and chilled winter nights that soon would be taking up residence throughout the country. Oliver peered into the night, looking for any signs of his dog. Seeing none, he pushed shut the door, deciding that when Quaffle was ready to re-enter, Quaffle would loudly (and impatiently) make his presence known. There was no reason for him to stand and wait for his finicky dog to return. Oliver made to move back towards the couch, but hesitated, his eyes alighting on light switch which controlled the dull bulb that hung over his front steps.

It's not like Quaffle needed the light. The dog knew which door was the one that lead to his home…yet it would be nice to see if it was indeed Quaffle that was begging to get in, and not the embittered Pincher that belonged to his neighbor, Mrs. Wheets. So without a second thought Oliver flicked up the switch and headed back to the couch which beckoned him with its leather exterior and plump padding.

If one were to take the time to consider the act performed, the flicking of a light switch, one would presumably remark upon the simplicity of the task. Really not much effort is put forth aside from the lifting of the hand and the flicking of a finger. Yet, unbeknownst to Oliver, this simple task set forth events totally and invariably out of his control. Wheels were being set into motion, and from that moment forth, life as he knew it was about to change dramatically.

Had he been more aware, Oliver may have heard the sharp ticking of the souvenir Quidditch clock he had hanging above his breakfast table which, due to his slight hesitation, struck 11:47 pm precisely when his finger struck the switch. Had he been more aware, he may have taken notice before he swung shut the door a shadow slightly darker than the night lingering down the street, evidently waiting for something or someone.

Consequently, Oliver took heed of none of the above, thus rendering him utterly oblivious to the turn his life had just taken. What he had taken heed of was the couch, and with a sigh he allowed his body to sink into the inviting piece of furniture. Maybe he could take a nap before Quaffle began his incessant baying to get in…

And it was with that thought that Oliver allowed himself to drift off into the depths of slumber. That is until an insistent pat pat pat on his door jerked him awake and sent him careening off the couch and onto the ever comfortable hardwood floor.