"Oliver!" "That was quite a risky maneuver near the-" "Wood, look here!" "Oliver, a moment please!" "Anything to say to the Prophet on your feelings towards-" "Just a picture!" "You've been named third all-team Keeper for the league, how do you-" "Please, just one picture!"

Oliver resisted the urge to elbow his way through the crowd outside the Puddlemere locker room which, for reasons of security, was off limits for apparation. It was hard, sometimes, to shift between the brutality of the pitch and the false civility required in any interaction with the press. Even after a win like tonight's- hard-fought and reasonably satisfying- he found himself struggling to muster up a smile for the camera, or a clever line for the perpetually scribbling Quick-Quotes Quills. He wanted a drink, something that would hit him hard. He was hungry, too. He hadn't eaten since breakfast early in morning, as the game ran nearly all day. He could feel his stomach growling, though the crowd drowned out the noise. As the Puddlemere manager and publicist had so often told him, the image he portrayed to the public could be as important as how he played on the pitch. Eyes focused ahead, he tried to fix his face into a less miserable position.

"Great honor," Oliver said to no reporter in particular, moving forward. The crowd grew impossibly quiet when he spoke to allow their quills to pick up his answers. "Both teams played a good game. We've got a weekend of rest ahead before the next few games, I'm looking forward to it."

The crowd seemed sated by these vague claims, and they moved onto new material. He felt his hair, still wet from the shower, dampen his shirt collar.

"Witch Weekly's named you as one of the most eligible-" "Can you comment on the rumors surrounding Streetwater All-Stars Beater-" "How's you're mum, Oliver?"

"I'm really trying to focus on next weeks games, guys." Oliver tried an apologetic smile, emulating the overly friendly manner some of his teammates adopted around the press. Apparently, people found it endearing. "If you've got any questions-"

"Oliver Wood, you numpty!" Half the cameras turned towards the voice, mysteriously springing from outside their circle. Oliver turned as well, spotting just the top of someone's head, fiery red. Recognizing it, Oliver stepped towards his old friend and the crowd parted. Charlie Weasley clapped him on the shoulder, a fierce smile on his face. "Pulling a Starfish and Stick will get you killed against beaters like the Kestrels' lot."

"Charlie, I didn't know you were coming-"

"And if you did, you wouldn't have put yourself in the path of two Bludgers to stop the Kestrels scoring once?"

"I blocked the goal, that's my job-"

"Risking life and limb, as always. The least you could do is get me decent seats, let me see the carnage."

"If I would have known you were coming-"

"Right, right." Charlie laughed. His criticisms were the habit of an old Quidditch captain, the teasing of an old friend. "Mums upset you haven't come for dinner since you got the job. Getting too big for your britches, with all these folks around?" Charlie motioned towards the crowd of press, raptly capturing the friendly reunion for their readers. Oliver turned his back to the crowd, leading Charlie farther from the locker room, closer to a safe space to apparate. The reporters followed at the distance, the presence of an Order member, and therefore war hero, reminding them to act respectfully, to some degree.

"I've been busy."

"You're always busy." He wasn't wrong. Oliver knew he always found a way to devote his time and effort wholly to a cause. He was dedicated- obsession, his friends called it. Usually, his cause was Quidditch. "I'm headed to the Burrow now. The Harpies had an early game, so Ginny's coming round for dinner. I know everyone would be thrilled to have two Quidditch stars at the table."

"I wouldn't want to-"

"You're off for the weekend, I know. Ginny's Harpies are on the same schedule. No excuses." As Charlie interrupted again, Oliver remembered that this was what it was like at the Weasley's place, over dinner. They talked over each other, interrupting to finish stories or begin completely new ones. The manner in which Charlie spoke reminded Oliver of the Charlie he knew in his earlier year. Not strict, exactly, but commanding. Larger than life. He had been Oliver's hero.

"Alright," Oliver conceded, casting a look back to the locker room. They seemed far enough from the protection of the Puddlemere facilities to apparate successfully. "Your mum's pie is still the best I've had."

"Tell her that." He grabbed Oliver's forearm, ready to apparate. "She'll send you home with seven."

Oliver found himself glad for his empty stomach; side-along apparation with Charlie was bumpy. Solid ground appeared below him and he had scarcely ever been happier to see it. They didn't stay still for long; Charlie released Oliver and made his way towards the front door. Oliver followed, but paused right outside the doorway, suddenly aware that he was in a bit of a daze. He hadn't been here in years. The change in plans had happened rather quickly, especially for someone usually very concerned with plans and their execution. A few minutes ago, he had been headed home, away from the chaos of the week. Now he was headed into a different kind of chaos. From outside the door, he could smell dinner. He could hear Mrs. Weasley welcoming Charlie, who announced his guest. Oliver would not be allowed to stay outside for long.

"Oliver Wood! Come in, dear." Oliver had heard his name called quite often that day, but not yet with such fondness. He allowed himself to be pulled into the the Burrow by Molly Weasley. "Right in, come near the fire. It's cold out there, you'll catch death with that wet hair."

"Well, Oliver Wood!" There was his name again, with the same warmth. Arthur Wesley, who had previously occupied the chair closest to the fire, stood to offer it to their guest. Molly all but physically forced the young man down into the armchair as Arthur settled into the one beside it. "It's been too long."

"Still look like you did the year we dropped Percy off for school- a bit skinny, and with that floppy hair." Mrs. Weasley patted his head in a way he would usually find condescending, but without ulterior motive. It felt, as he was sure it was intended, comforting. "Dinner will be on in just a minute. Make yourself at home."

There was shriek of laughter from the front yard as Charlie came back from the kitchen, holding an apple. "That'll be George and Angelina."

"You'll ruin your dinner, dear." Molly plucked the apple from Charlie's hand as she passed him, disappearing back into the kitchen.

"Look who we picked up!" George bounded into the house, having literally picked up his sister, Ginny, and thrown her over his shoulder. She was laughing, and followed through the door by Harry Potter and Angelina Johnson, none of whom were finding this occurrence at all unusual.

"Fresh off a win, and smelling rank," added Angelina. "Speaking of, if it isn't Puddlemere's star keeper, Oliver Wood!"

George, spotting his old friend, went straight towards Oliver's chair. He made a show out of shaking his hand, then bending to allow Ginny, still over his shoulder, to do the same. "Well, to what do we owe this honor?"

"Cornered him in the parking lot," volunteered Charlie from the couch.

"Never been more proud." George patted Charlie's shoulder as he released Ginny. He sat himself on the couch, between his older brother and Angelina. "You picked a good night to stop by, Ol. Mum's doing a roast."

"Four Gryffindor Quidditch captains in my house for dinner- what a night," added Mr. Weasley politely, standing to free up his chair to any of his guests. Ginny took it in a matter of seconds, apparently used to the high demand for seating. Harry leaned against it's arm, nearest Oliver. "Maybe after dinner we'll go out back and put together a scrimmage?"

"And have half the country after us when we injure Ginny and Oliver and they have to sit out a game?" George asked, rhetorically. "Not bloody likely."

"Language." Mrs. Weasley came in from the kitchen, a tray in her hands. She set it on the coffee table and began distributing cups. "Some tea and a few cookies- that should hold you over until dinner. The roast is taking longer than expected. Our guests first- Harry, dear, here you are. And one for Angelina. Oliver-"

"I'm alright, thank you," Oliver said quietly.

Mrs. Weasley ignored him, pressing a mug into his hand. "There you are, that'll warm you up. Arthur, could you have a look up in the attic, while you have time? That nasty noise I've been telling you about."

"Right, of course. I'd bet it's that ghoul again." Arthur Weasley headed towards the stairs, taking his wand from his pocket. Molly stormed forth, once again, into the kitchen. It appeared as if they were intentionally leaving the younger ones alone.

"Warm enough there, Ollie?" Angelina joked, nodding towards his lap.

Wincing at the nickname, a dramatic reaction Oliver has kept up since they started calling him Ollie, he looked down. It appeared Mrs. Weasley, without him noticing, had somehow tucked a blanket around him. He pushed it off to the side, a difficult feat while balancing a full cup of tea.

"Oh, leave him alone, Angelina," George said. "He had a long game today. Need to be coddled. You know how he gets."

"You played rather well, Oliver," offered Ginny. "Got to watch a bit of it, when mine was done."

"Thanks-" Oliver tried to speak, but found himself, once again, too slow. George began a story about his day at work. Some kid had sampled too many candies at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and turned purple in what seemed to be an irreversible manner. The pace of the conversation was something that it would take a while for him to understand- nearly an art form. Fatigue setting in, the Keeper settled for watching them talk, like a verbal game of tennis. Angelina and Harry seemed accustomed to it, able to take a swing once in a while, but soon Harry grew quiet. He turned towards Oliver, talking under the buzz of the regular conversation.

"How've you been, Wood?"

"Good, good. Though I reckon I should be asking you that."

"I hear it enough."

"You're at the Ministry now?"

"Yeah- just finished Auror training. It's going well."

"That's great," Oliver said positively, then added, "Sure is a waste, though."

Harry frowned and glanced towards Ginny, who was now listening to their conversation, before inquiring. "What do you mean?"

"Youngest Seeker in Hogwarts history should be on a pitch somewhere, in my opinion."

"Maybe if I had focused on training more in the later years."

"I left you my team, and you got lazy?" Oliver was smiling, well aware of what Harry meant.

"He got busy," answered Ginny.

"Didn't seem to stop you," Oliver said to the youngest Weasley, in way of kindness. "You won the Quidditch House Cup your seventh year, didn't you?"

'Yeah." She shrugged, firing back. "But he defeated Lord Voldemort the year before, so no one really pays it any attention."

Everyone laughed. Oliver looked up. He hadn't realized that the others had begun to listen to their conversation. He sipped at his tea, allowing the conversation to fall into someone else's hands once more. It would be quite easy to feel at home here. In fact, Oliver could already feel the warmth of it all lulling him into comfort. Much better than his empty little house in the suburbs. Maybe he would stop by more often, if the invitations continued. Minutes later, Mrs. Weasley called to dinner, and Oliver's stomach kept him from dwelling anymore on the status of his invitation.

Oliver began to find that it was impossible to leave the Burrow. Dinner ended very late, and Charlie invited Oliver to stay the night in the house. Both George and Ginny offered up their rooms, as Ginny was staying at Harry's flat, and George had promised Angelina's parents that he would spend the night at their house. Mrs. Weasley pledged to make whatever her guest wanted for breakfast. Oliver, flattered, thanked them but denied the offer. They pressed on.

"Come on, Ol," pleaded Angelina. "George, Charlie and I are going to Hogwarts tomorrow afternoon, to watch Gryffindor's first practice of the year. You can join us."

This did sound like fun, but Oliver felt he was taking advantage of the Weasley's hospitality. There was also a large part of him that was dying to have a minute alone. He pressed his heels into the ground of the Burrow's entryway, trying to be gracious. It didn't come naturally to him. "I can meet you there, then."

"Nonsense, I've already decided to make make a big breakfast," argued Mrs. Weasley. "We'll just make it a brunch. You'll come and eat here, before the practice." After several minutes of discussion, it was decided. Oliver would go home tonight, but come back in around noon to eat. After, he'd borrow a broom and fly with Charlie to Hogwarts to meet the rest of the group.

The party broke up rather quickly. Harry, Ginny, Angelina and George all said their goodbyes and dissapparated. Mrs. Weasley told Oliver to wait, that she had something for him in the kitchen. The house was, all at once, strangely quiet, but not unpleasantly so. Mr. Weasley clapped Oliver on the shoulder, a fatherly gesture. Charlie was banished to the kitchen to help charm the room into self-cleaning, as Mrs. Weasley reemerged, a few boxes in hand. Mrs. Weasley pressed the parcels into his arms, and Oliver could smell baked apples and hot sugar coming from within the packaging. "There you are, dear, Charlie says they're your favorite."