This Muggle train is odd; I can’t help but think it every time I ride on one. They’re too glum, boring, communal... no fun to travel on. These trains are nothing like the Hogwarts Express, where you can sit with your friends in a private compartment. Of course, if I were on the Hogwarts Express now, I would be sharing a compartment with myself, and the kids walking by would laugh at me for being alone.
Today, it’s hot. Too hot. The sun beams through the train’s windows, warming my skin and heating me uncomfortably. I sit awkwardly, wishing the unavoidable heat would disappear behind a cloud and leave me be.
‘Isn’t it a wonderful day? We’re so blessed to have such nice weather – Britain doesn’t get enough of it. Ticket?’ The conductor shocks me, materialising out of nowhere. I shake my head in surprise as I dig in my purse for my pass. He stands beside me, scratching his greying beard and garbling on about nothing. He speaks of the weather, my journey, my destination - the weather again, all in the space of the twenty seconds it takes me to find my ticket.
I hand him the slip of paper and smile up at him politely.
‘Thank you,’ I say as he hands it back, beaming at me.
‘That’s okay, Missy. I’ll bet you yearn to reach your destination, don’t you? This weather is too good to be cooped up inside. Are you enjoying your journey?’
Carefully, I keep the smile painted on my face as I say, ‘Yes, I’d love to get into London. It’s so hot in here. Of course, it’ll be hotter out there, but...’
He gapes at me. ‘What?’ he asks, cocking his head towards me. ‘You shouldn’t whisper, it’s rude.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, raising my voice and giving him a nod, gesturing him towards the next passengers. He gets the message and moves on, genuinely cheerful. I sigh as he begins babbling to the poor couple in the next seat.
When I get off the train ten minutes later, I step onto the platform and glance around, subconsciously taking things in. I can smell chips – though I can’t help but wonder who would buy them on a day like this - hear endless ringing laughter and chatter, and see a blur of about a hundred people just jostling against each other to get to where they want to go.
A man gets off the next carriage, and my eyes hone in on him. I recognise him from somewhere... he’s tall, dark-haired, and well built. Not ugly, but not strikingly handsome, either. As he walks along the platform in my direction, I frown. Despite the heat, he is wearing ridiculously shabby jeans and a Puddlemere United rugby shirt... He is a wizard, and I wonder why he’s being conspicuous and wearing a Quidditch shirt in Muggle society. Then I finally identify him, and I roll my eyes as understanding dawns.
It’s Oliver Wood. When I used to go out with Harry, we’d seen a Quidditch game or two in which Oliver was playing. Harry had told me a little about him, and had occasionally invited him over for dinner. Harry was on good terms with Oliver and liked his company. I don’t know whether they still hang out.
Stepping into his path, I cry in greeting, ‘Oliver! I haven’t seen you for ages. I didn’t recognise you at first. We haven’t met for so long.’
He jumps back in surprise when I bound in front of him, but he quickly regains himself. It takes him but a moment to identify me. ‘You’re Ginny Weasley?’ he asks. ‘Harry’s ex? The Holyhead Harpies star?’
‘The hair a bit of a give-away?’ I joke.
He laughs. ‘Uh, yeah.’
‘Still quite the Quidditch man, I see?’ I comment, looking pointedly at his shirt. ‘A little conspicuous, no?’
He laughs again; I notice his shoulders stiffen a little, tense. ‘Muggles won’t notice. They’re all in a hurry to get places.’ He pauses to look at me, his brow puckering. ‘So, what are you doing here?’
I laugh this time. ‘Could ask you the same thing. No, I’m just going into Muggle London to do some shopping. My friend’s having a baby.’
‘Oh, which friend?’ he enquires.
‘Luna Lovegood – you probably don’t know her. Maybe you’ve heard of her?’
Oliver nods, but his eyes are suddenly glazed, far away.
‘What’s wrong?’ I prompt.
He snaps back into the present at my voice, and shakes his head. Wide-eyed, he quickly composes himself and says, ‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Right...’ I narrow my eyes before shrugging. I’m not convinced it’s ‘nothing’, though. ‘What are you doing, hopping on trains then? I’d imagine you’d rather travel on broomstick. Am I right?’
‘Yeah. I hate trains.’
‘So why did you get on one? Why not Apparate?’
‘Why didn’t you Apparate?’
‘I asked first.’
He shifts his weight. ‘I didn’t think to Apparate. I just wanted to get away. Somewhere different.’
I lean closer. ‘From what?’
He sighs, and looks at a point over my shoulder. The far-away expression is suddenly back. ‘It’s my birthday today. I’m thirty-seven. I’m not young anymore. I just want to forget celebrations and stuff, but my family have a surprise party every year, and... I just wanted to escape it.’
‘Well, happy birthday.’
‘See, and people keep wishing me happy birthday, and I just... I just don’t respond. I don’t realise I haven’t responded until it’s too late, and they’re frowning and walking on by. I just get lost in my realisation that... soon, I really will be too old for Quidditch. Then...’ He shuddered. ‘Then I’ll have to go and get an office job at the Ministry or something, and...’
‘I know. I’m a Quidditch player, too, only a few years younger than you.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Has Quidditch always been your passion, though? Have you ever dreamed of another career, another goal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it won’t be the same thing when you have to retire. You’ll have a back-up plan,’ he says sadly.
‘Tell you what,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Why don’t you come shopping with me?’
‘Oh, I don’t...’
‘What will take your mind off of Quidditch and age more?’ I ask. ‘Wandering around by yourself with nobody to talk to, or wandering around with me, a distraction, for a few hours?’
He looks reluctant, but says, ‘Okay, then. I guess you’re right.’
‘Come on then.’
We walk out of the station and jump onto the number forty bus.
‘Why can’t we Apparate?’ he asks.
‘Apparate where?’ I retort, unable to prevent myself from rolling my eyes. ‘In broad daylight? In a Muggle society?’
‘Point taken. But why are you shopping in Muggle London anyway? Why couldn’t you shop near the Leaky Cauldron, so you could use Floo powder to get there...?’
‘Drop it, Oliver. You were on a train, too.’ I glower at him, but he laughs.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he tells me.
‘Thanks,’ I reply sourly.
After that, Oliver doesn’t talk much for the rest of the bus ride. That’s a contrast to how I remember him, but I suppose he’s just distracted by his age issues. I’m not sure I would be, but I can see how much it matters to him. His passion for Quidditch just won’t dull. My passion was never just for Quidditch. I don’t think his is, either, but he's had it for so long...
The two of us wander around the shops together, looking at baby clothes and such. Oliver makes the effort to be enthusiastic; he offers up an opinion, points things out to me. It’s nice to have company – Hermione and my other friends didn’t have the time to come out.
He does seem happy to go and eat at lunchtime, though, and we go off to a cafe. Relaxing at an indoor table, away from the outside heat, we both order coffees and sandwiches; he devours his quickly, and I raise an eyebrow.
‘Very hungry?’ I question.
‘I went without breakfast.’
‘Why?’
‘After my mother came over this morning, I just wanted to escape. Of course, Quidditch practice was no better, but it was only an hour’s session today, which wasn’t too bad, I suppose.’
‘Only an hour? And then you could go?’ I frown.
‘I’m not one of the most important players.’ He looks down into his coffee and takes a sip. ‘So...?’ he asks, evidently searching for a change of subject. ‘How’s life with you? Seen Harry lately?’
‘Harry?’ Not many people enquire about Harry, so this is an unexpected question. ‘Um, no, I haven’t. He’s really busy these days.’
Oliver laughs. ‘Doing what?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. An Auror was a pretty big job when I was with him, loads of Dark messages to quash, so... I don’t know - I don’t talk to Harry a lot.’
‘Why not?’
I gape at him.
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ he gasps, looking up at me. ‘That was kind of insensitive. I’m so-’
‘No,’ I cut off his apologies. ‘It shouldn’t bother me. I just didn’t expect the question.’ For a moment, I hesitate, but then I decide just to tell Oliver about things between me and Harry. It’s probably good to talk about it. ‘I don’t speak to Harry much, because he’s just...’ I search for the right word.
Misreading my momentary silence, Oliver reaches out to touch my hand and says, ‘You don’t have to tell me, Ginny. It’s none of my business.’
Suddenly, a wave of confidence washes over me, and I cry out, ‘No – I want to tell you! After he defeated You-Know-Who, he started to go out with me again, because the ‘danger’ had gone.’ I laughed bitterly. ‘That’s crap. Oh, I loved Harry. I really did, but he was too protective, wanting me with him everywhere, so he could keep an eye on me. There was no reason why. I don’t understand it. But, that led to an argument, which I won, but then he felt the need to know where I was all the time, and...’
‘A bit too much,’ Oliver supplies.
‘Yeah. I just... I like my freedom. And being with Harry got a little suffocating, so we broke up. Besides, he had girls all over him anyway. I didn’t like the limelight.’
‘Did you expect to stay apart?’ he asks gently, looking at me over his coffee.
‘I...’ For a moment, I think about it. ‘No. I didn’t. But we have. We’ve been apart for over ten years now, and I... I don’t think I really want him back. I’m not so comfortable around him anymore.’
Oliver nods, understanding. I’m grateful he doesn’t probe any further.
‘But what about you and Harry?’ I ask. ‘You used to be friends.’
‘Oh, I still see him sometimes. He comes to see my Quidditch games quite a bit, but I don’t really talk to him. And his girlfriend...’ He pauses, looking at me nervously.
I laugh. ‘He’s had loads of girls since me, Oliver.’
‘Yeah, well his girlfriend doesn’t like me, so I don’t correspond with him so much.’
‘Why doesn’t she like you?’
‘Guess.’
‘Quidditch teams? Rivalry?’
‘Spot on.’
We both laugh.
Later on, we go back and board the train. It’s late afternoon by this time, and the sun is beginning to hide, so it is a lot nicer to travel on. Oliver sits in the same carriage as me, and we continue the chatter we’ve kept up all afternoon. He’s come out of his shell a bit as I’ve distracted him from his birthday, his age, and I’m quite proud of myself for that.
The carriage we are on is empty, bar for a young woman with a bawling baby. She tries to tuck it into its bassinet, but it squirms, and continues to cry. Echoes of the shrieks ring in my ears, and Oliver doesn’t seem particularly content with the noise either. I think to go and see if I can shut it up, but I never do. I’ve never really been around any babies, and I wouldn’t know how to make it quiet. You’d think I would be perfectly fine with them, though, as most of my brothers have had one or two at least.
‘We’ll have to meet up again sometime,’ I say to Oliver as we step off the train, at the end of the journey.
‘Yeah.’ He smiles down at me. ‘I’ve enjoyed today.’
I smile back at him, and say, ‘Hm, I... I hope you enjoy your party.’
I regret it as soon as it’s out, as his face immediately darkens. The words hover in the air between us for a moment before he responds, ‘Thanks...’ He tenses, then relaxes, and adds, ‘Why don’t you come to this party with me? You understand.’
‘To a surprise party? That I’m not invited to?’
‘Well, it’s hardly a surprise when they pull it every year. And I’ve invited you.’ He catches my eye. ‘Please, Ginny. I know I don’t really know you that well, but I think I’d... I think I’d enjoy it more if you came...’
~
The party is awkward to begin with; I don’t know most of the people there. I just stand in the kitchen doorway for most of the night with a glass of Butterbeer. The back door is open, and the cool breeze that has come after the sweltering day, enters and calms me. After a while, Oliver is able to escape from the people wishing him a ‘happy birthday’. He emerges from their chatter, looking pretty depressed.
‘Smile,’ I tell him, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’ll be over soon.’
‘Oh, but it won’t. I’ve still got next year, except next year I probably will be a retired Quidditch player. And the party will have something Quidditch themed – I guarantee it.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ I agree, eyeing the Snitch decorations adorning Oliver’s flat.
He sighs and leans against the wall.
‘Butterbeer?’ I ask him, holding out my cup for him to sip from. He takes it without hesitation, and swigs down a load.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ he sighs, a little more content.
Oliver’s mother weaves through the dancers towards him; grinning, she pinches his cheeks, and says, ‘Aw, look at my little birthday boy!’
‘Mum...’
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ she asks him. Then, she looks at me and says indulgently, ‘What about you, dear? And why are you both hanging around here? It’s your birthday party, Oliver! You should be mixing in a bit more. Dance!’
‘Okay, okay,’ Oliver says, shrugging aside his mother. He looks at me meaningfully. ‘Ginny?’
I nod and walk onto the dance floor with him. I can feel the burning gaze of his mother following us, and it seems he does too, for he says, ‘Just sway to the music a bit. Maybe jump up and down. That’ll satisfy her.’
I do as he says, watching his unsmiling, concentrating face, as he does the same. After a few moments, a slower number comes on. Oliver looks at me shiftily.
‘You don’t have to dance this one if you don’t want to,’ he says, smiling sheepishly.
I glance in the direction of his mother, who’s eyeing Oliver dotingly.
I shake my head. ‘No, it’s okay. I want to.’ He frowns at me, taken aback. So, I step towards him and reach for one of his hands. He puts one hand on my waist and grasps the other, while I rest my other hand on his shoulder. We relax like that, and begin to sway gently to the song.
‘Thanks,’ Oliver says, smiling down at me appreciatively. His head is very close to mine; I can see the soft layer of stubble on his chin, and smell his Butterbeer-laced breath. ‘You’ve made this party better for me. With you here, I have somebody to talk to who won’t go on and on about my birthday and Quidditch. Any other day, I’d welcome Quidditch talk, but...’
‘I understand.’
Our eyes lock. His hand squeezes mine, making my lips pull up slightly as a warmth fills me.
‘Quidditch isn’t all I care about, though, you know,’ he says, frowning suddenly, blinking, and breaking the eye contact.
‘I know,’ I reassure him.
And then slowly, he begins to lean in, and I find myself doing the same. His lips touch mine, and I smile against them, relishing his flavour and the content warmth that is spreading through me. I break away, and he smiles down at me, too.
‘I know,’ I repeat.
He just smiles, and as the song ends, we simultaneously leave the dance floor. Our interlocked fingers fall from each other as we enter the kitchen, and his mother greets us there.
‘Enjoy yourself?’ she asks. ‘A good dance is refreshing sometimes.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘sometimes it is.’
Journey by inspirations
Story Notes:
I would like to thank Hailey/grangergurl for beta'ing this! -hugs- And, '40' is referred to via the bus number. :)
Chapter Endnotes: If you want to review... please do. Concrit = <3 Yes, really. ;)