Oliver awoke the next morning with the feeling that he had done, or would soon do, something terribly wrong. He had awoken before his alarm clock, so he used the remaining 18 minutes of rest to decide what, exactly, he had managed to screw up. By the time the buzzer rang from his night stand, he had already decided: he never should have accepted that ride home.

Having dressed, made his bed, put on the kettle and cracked two eggs into a pan, he finally arrived at the reason that this particular decision was a mistake. To allow Katie to fly him home was, for a number of reasons, reckless. As a professional Quidditch player, he needed to protect his physical state. He scolded himself silently. If Katie would have made a minute mistake in her flight, he could have lost his career. She had, after all, flown with more risk than necessary, just for the fun of it. Furthermore, if someone had spotted them- well, a Muggle would have called the Police, and word would have gotten to the Ministry. A witch or wizard would have called the Daily Prophet, which may have been far worse. Katie Bell was a good friend, and an old friend, but the papers didn't care. Oliver reckoned he could be spotted on the back of Horace Slughorn's broomstick and still hear rumors of a torrid affair.

With that unpleasant picture in his mind, he set about eating his breakfast. He steeped his tea routinely, for three minutes at 96 degrees celsius. He had read it on a box years ago and stuck to it. He dipped his toast, perfectly golden, into two sunny-side up eggs. He saved the sausage, his favorite part of the meal, for last. He cleaned the dishes. He wiped the table. He stared at his kitchen. A day off.

He had a day off routine, when it wasn't hijacked by the Weasley family. In about thirty minutes, he should be beginning his run. Even filling the small gap of time between breakfast and his workout seemed impossible today. A day off was, as he had decided long ago, the day to clear his life of anything that could possibly become a distraction from his career. This didn't usually consist of much, because Oliver was never easily distracted. But today, the distraction had woken him up and kept his mind occupied during breakfast.

Oliver waved his wand, and the thin top drawer of the desk in his small office, a piece of furniture he rarely touched (but never got rid of, because an office needed a desk) slipped open. Out of it flew a few pieces of parchment, envelopes and, from the desktop, a single black pen. From the kitchen, Oliver could hear the young tawny owl in the office caw at the sudden movement. One sheet settled nicely onto the kitchen table, the pen waiting for Oliver's open hand. The rest of the paper and the envelopes hovered above.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,

Thank you very much for dinner, as well as the apple pies which, as I'm sure does not surprise you, I've already eaten.

Okay, that last wasn't quite true. But it would be, as soon as he was back from his run.

I'm sorry that my arrival was so last minute, but Charlie's invitation was hard to resist. I haven't had a roast in ages, and yours was absolutely delicious. It was so great to see you all again. The reason I'm writing is to repay the favor. I assume Ginny offers her share of player's guest tickets to the family, but I wanted to ensure that whoever wanted to go was able to. I never use my guest tickets, so if you'd like to bring the whole family to the Puddlemere/Harpies match, they'll be waiting at the box office under Mr. Weasley's name. There are five of them, and they're good seats, right with the guests of the Harpies' players.

Thanks again,

O. Wood

There, that was fine. It was short, of course, but Oliver never wrote long owls- he rarely wrote owls at all. He felt it was only appropriate to thank the Weasley's for dinner. The parchment had a bit of grease smeared on the bottom, left over from breakfast. Myopically focusing on the task ahead, Oliver ignored this. He pushed the finished letter to the side; is folded itself and slid into an envelope. A new piece of paper settled in front of him.

Katie,

Thanks for the ride home. I should have thought to bring my own broom. I know you said Ginny got you a ticket for the Puddlemere/Harpies match, but I want to make sure you could bring a friend, if you want. There's a ticket under your name at the box office. Figured you'd need someone to offer you solace when your Harpies can't get one past the Puddlemere Keeper.

"No team can ever best the best of Puddlemere!"
Oliver

Signing off with the Puddlemere anthem, Oliver couldn't help but hope that it made the letter appear more casual than it felt. He hadn't spoken to Katie for months before he saw her at Gryffindor's practice the day before. Now he felt compelled to repay her for the sudden flight. His house may have been between Hogwarts and Katie's own home, but London was not. She had flown way out of her way to- what? To make him look silly for laughing at nothing, like a madman, on the back of her broom? No- she had been laughing, too. For allowing her to relish in his lack of control for just a few minutes longer? Maybe, but even he had forgotten to be dissatisfied with his position by the time they reached the Thames. Why, then-

Distractions. Oliver cut his own thoughts short, looking over at the clock. Time for his run. He released the piece of parchment that held his note to Katie, allowing it to fold itself and nestle into an envelope. He scribbled the names of the recipients onto the letters and, with a wave of his wand, sent the rest of the supplies back where they belonged. He followed them into the office, carrying his envelopes, and went straight to the open bird cage in the corner. The owl stared back at him silently.

"Grenouille, you've got work to do." The big owl didn't budge. It was named, not long after Oliver's mother's death, not for the French word for frog, but for the Keeper in the Alas, I Have Transfigured My Feet, a silly book Oliver's mother used to read to him when he was young. The owl didn't know, nor did he appreciate, the rare piece of sentimentality on his owner's part. Oliver attached the letters to the bird's feet and yanked opened the window. The bird stood still. "I know it's been a while. It's just two deliveries, alright? You can stay out as long as you want and when you come back-"

Finally, and quite suddenly, Grenouille took flight. Oliver watched for moment before turning away, leaving the window open. It was nice outside- not quite the cold of winter yet, just the cool of fall. In the sparsely populated county side of Piddlehinton, autumn had already made itself known in the rust red color of the trees. The colors were beautiful at this time of year; the grass was greener than in most areas of England, the trees a myriad of fall colors, blending together, if you looked long enough, into a mesh of smooth beige. The flowers on the ground were still, for the most part, in bloom. It would be a nice run today, with scenery made for a postcard. Oliver didn't notice. He had very little interest in foliage. It was hard enough to keep focus today without thoughts of the beauty of nature. He pushed most things aside, and today 'most things' included the truth.

The truth was that last night, for the first time in a long time, he had a dream. He didn't dream of the night's flight, the rushing of wind or the glassy surface of the Thames. The clouds were no where in the dream, nor thoughts of trophies or brooms. Even Katie Bell, the smile of whom had been lingering at the back of his mind all morning, was not in his dream. He could blame her, if he wanted, for being his distraction, but there was something else, something deeper, that he refused to admit. The flip of his stomach, the unsettlingly pleasant warmth of Katie in his arms, shaking with laugher as they flew on and on- that was not the warmth of which he had dreamt. The part of him that he struggled to control wanted to see her, but ached for something else, too. Suddenly, he had begun to want the warmth of the Weasley home- the fire, the steam of his tea warming his face. He wanted a warm meal in his stomach, and he wanted the symphony of simultaneous laughter. He wanted more. He wanted not to want more.

He wanted to blame his want on someone other than himself. He laced up his trainers and ran.

A/N: This one was fun to write, but rather introspective for Oliver, so I'm afraid I may have lost a few of you. I hope not. There's more fun to be had in the next chapter, promise.