Chapter 8 – Knives in the dark

Harry and Ron were already a short distance ahead, when Hermione stopped to look at the window display of Bolo's Bookstore for Wizards. Apparently, a large, leatherbound copy of Hogwarts: A History had attracted her attention.

Oliver readjusted his cloak, and quickly walked up to her as soon as he saw Harry, Ron and what remained of their group, disappear safely behind a turn. He positioned himself behind her and saw their reflection in the window, a tall, dark boy looming over a slightly smaller girl with bushy hair. When he reached inside his robes, Hermione raised her head and looked briefly into his reflected eyes.

Feeling uncertain about what to do next, Oliver rushed past her and into the store. Minutes later, he emerged again, fumbling with his moneybag, muttering to himself. An enormous book was tucked in underneath his arm. He turned to Hermione, took a deep breath and failed spectacularly to say anything. He did not know where to start.

"Well?" Hermione enquired casually, still looking at the books on display.

Oliver looked at her, flummoxed.

"Are you going to give me that?" She pointed vaguely at the book he had just bought.

Oliver managed an unconvincing "Erm...", then cleared his throat loudly and handed her the parcel.

"Thank you," Hermione said. "And...?"

"And what?"

Hermione sighed loudly and looked at his face for the first time. "And you're going to apologise for being unforgivably rude, just now."

Oliver's eyebrows rose in surprise, but Hermione just went on.

"I am going to accept, but will suggest that you go and apologise to Harry and Ron too, particularly Ron because I gather you kicked him rather hard. So."

"So what?" Oliver said automatically, but nodded when Hermione tapped her foot impatiently. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"Apology accepted. Now come on, it's freezing out here."

She grabbed his arm and dragged him away, heading for The Three Broomsticks at a fast pace. When they had reached the pub's large swinging doors, Oliver held open the door for her out of habit, and she swept past him and into the pub without so much as a "Thank you". They sat down in a quiet corner of the pub and ordered butterbeers (or at least Hermione ordered butterbeers, and Oliver acquiesced silently).

After a moment of silence, Oliver felt acutely uncomfortable. Silences were something you did when you were alone. He cleared his throat and leant forward slightly.

"I do mean it, you know," he said slowly. "I'm sorry I called you a – that. It's just..."

She looked at him seriously. "I know what you were doing. Otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here. You looked so nervous about the whole thing, it was perfectly obvious."

"I looked nervous?"

"Written all over your face."

"I thought I was doing rather well, actually."

"Well, I suppose your back's a better actor than your face." She gave a slight smile. "Don't worry, you won't have to tell Harry and Ron. I'll explain it to them later."

Oliver nodded glumly. He had been a bit apprehensive of that. "I still don't think they'll like me much, after this."

"Well, they don't, anyway."

Oliver grunted loudly. "Thanks."

"You can't blame them. Everyone knows You-Know-Who is after Harry and Ron is very protective about his friends."

"Yes, I noticed that. He's not very bright, though, is he?"

Deep lines appeared on Hermione's forehead as she narrowed her eyes.

"Why do you do that?" she asked him.

"Do what?"

"Insult people. Make them mad at you."

"I don't..."

"Yes, you do. You do it all the time. You make people mad at you." She held out her hand and started counting off on her fingers. "On the Hogwarts Express, you had no business with my private life. Same goes for Potions, the day after. There are a few Gryffindors who swear you were inches away from Cursing them for looking at you. And from what I've heard you jumped down Thom's throat last night as well."

Oliver had been slumped in his chair until now, but sat up in surprise at this. "How do you know that?" he asked. "How do you even know Thom?"

Hermione waved her hand vaguely. "He's been asking me out for months. He told Cho, Cho told me. You know how it is. There's a lot of talking at Hogwarts."

Oliver's face darkened and he nodded slowly. "Really," he said coarsely.

"So why do you do it? Why drive people away?"

"I don't...drive people away," he said reluctantly. "I don't need to."

"If you're referring to your family..." A sharp intake of breath and a dark look told Hermione that he was. "Of course I looked it up as soon as I got here," she explained.

"Do you want me to congratulate you? Everyone did."

"Before Dumbledore's speech. I looked it up on my first night here. The next day, I tried to apologise to you."

There was a meaningful pause. Oliver felt the heat rising in his face. "You don't have to sound so smug about it," he mumbled.

Hermione frowned at him. "See? You're at it, again. I'm not trying to impress you here, you know. I'm just trying to say that people do have a point. Your family history is definitely against you."

Oliver gave her another dark look. He could feel the anger rising up in him again, the anger that always seemed to be boiling so closely beneath the surface, these days.

"So what are you doing here?" he spat.

Hermione tried to ignore the venom and frustration in his voice. "I'm here because I want to give you a chance."

"Really?" Oliver had a hard time keeping his anger in check. He rose out of his chair stiffly. "Well, thank you so very much. I think I'll pass."

Before he could leave, however, Hermione looked up at him and asked: "What were you doing with Malfoy?"

Oliver stopped and hesitated. "I was having a drink," he said, not turning around to face her.

"Why Malfoy?"

He exhaled slowly. "Because," he said quietly, "there's no catch in his voice when he talks to me." Even if he doesn't like it, he added mentally, and turned around slowly to look Hermione in the eyes. When she neither blinked nor averted her eyes, it made him only angrier. "And no fear in his eyes."

"I'm not scared of you," she said, and Oliver thought there was a new quality in her voice. Warmth? Compassion?

Pity.

He stared at the table for a while, trying to decide what to do and say, unsure if he could trust her to trust him.

Finally he reached a decision. He slid a hand inside his moneybag and tossed a few coins on the table to pay for the Butterbeer, then looked straight at Hermione. His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper, the emotion behind it clearly audible.

"Then," he said, "I suggest you take a closer look at my family tree. You will be."

With that he turned around and half ran out of the pub.

He flung the doors open, heard them slam against the wall with a satisfying thud and crossed the street hurriedly. On the other side of the wide promenade, directly opposite the Three Broomsticks, a narrow, gloomy alley led off to other parts of the settlement and Oliver quickly ducked into it. When he had put a sufficient distance between himself and the busy street, sheltered from the looks of other people, he stopped and lighted a cigarette. Leaning against a dirty wall, he smacked the back of his head against it repeatedly, his wand enclosed in his clenched fist.

That arrogant little...He shook his head violently. I don´t bloody need her. I don´t bloody need anyone! He sighed deeply. And what if I do?

Oliver wondered if he had become so accustomed to people distrusting him, that he himself had forgotten how to trust. Had he become so engrossed in his past experiences that he simply could not grasp the possibility of different ones, anymore? Better ones?

He took a deep drag of cigarette smoke and slowly exhaled through his nose. A gust of cold wind tugged at his robes. Cold. It was always getting colder. He glanced down the glum alley, stared in the direction he had just come from. Through the large window of the Three Broomsticks he could see Hermione, still sitting at the same table, supporting her head on her hands. She had opened his present and started reading.

Thom was right. She should have been in Ravenclaw.

He started walking again, putting more distance between himself and her. What was he doing? She was right, he knew that. Maybe, if she could look past his family and his past, others could. Maybe even himself. If she really was not scared of him, then maybe he, Oliver, need not be, either.

He slowed down, then stopped completely.

Perhaps she could trust him. And perhaps he could too.

"No," he said loudly. "Sod it."

He turned his back to the busy street and started walking again. Before long, the narrow passage opened up to a small square. There was nothing much in it, a patch of green in the middle, a signpost indicating directions, and a few benches arranged along the house walls. At each corner of the square, a passage similar to the one Oliver had just walked through connected it to the rest of the village.

He walked over to one of the benches sat down on it, pulling his cloak closer around him as his cheeks burned in the cold wind.

So cold.

He rubbed his hands together to keep them warm and felt the anger ebbing off gradually, frustration taking its place. He'd gone and done it again. One of these days, he knew he had to get a grip on his temper. And on his pride.

It's all their fault, he thought darkly. His parents' impending visit had thrown him off balance completely, and it was worse, because he did not know why it upset him so much. Granted, his relationship to his father and mother had never been a very cordial one. Most of the time, both parties were quite contend with ignoring each other as far as possible. On some subconscious level Claudius and Messalina Rapace probably felt, rather than knew, that Olvier was their son, just as Oliver – somehow – felt vague affection for them. But on the whole, their relationship had so far been one of blissful isolation, largely, Oliver supposed, because their living space permitted it. Their estate in Prague was vast enough to hold half a dozen dysfunctional families. Oliver had had almost the whole west-wing to himself, and only ever had to face his parents on bank holidays, when they would give splendid parties he had to attend. But at least, for the greatest part of the time he spent there, Oliver had had his privacy. And one thing his parents had never done before, was visit him at his school. They hardly ever called on him, except maybe to pass along instructions or announce their moving to yet another different country.

And so, Oliver sat on a bench in a cold, derelict courtyard, leaning against back, eyes closed and wondered what his parents wanted with him, just as he had done the whole night. It was not good news, that much he could guess.

A gush of cold wind blew his hair into his face, and for the nth time today, he wished he had brought his scarf and fished for another cigarette. Smoking, at least, gave him the impression of being warm. As he exhaled heavily, the blue cigarette smoke mingled with the vapour his breath formed as it hit the cold air, and he sighed.

Leaning back against the bench, Oliver could see a large flock of birds circling overhead. Squinting his eyes, he could make out a pitchblack speck among them and knew it was Corvus. Some of the owls were fluttering about nervously, swooshing to and fro in an excited manner. Others were content with soaring through the air quietly, occasionally flapping their wings to gain momentum, eyes darting right and left, as if they were hunting.

Oliver watched them silently. After a while, Corvus seemed to grow tired of the game and came sailing down. With a quick flap of his wings, he perched on the signpost in the middle of the square and looked at Oliver quizzically. He gave a greeting hoot.

"You don't look like you're having fun, either, my dear lad."

Corvus hooted again and started cleaning his feathers with his beak.

"That's right. Personal hygiene. Very important."

A flicked of movement caught his eye and Oliver looked sideways. A squirrel was going through a collection of rubbish bins, its head completely disappearing under the lid.

Not moving his eyes from the squirrel, Oliver gave a low whistle to get Corvus' attention. "You hungry, mate?"

A second later, the lean body of his owl came swooping into view, going after the squirrel. As he came closer to the rubbish bin, Corvus stretched his talons out under him and tried to grab his lunch. The squirrel did not move, obviously ignorant of the very real, feathered danger.

But Corvus failed to catch his prey. His talons did not rip into the soft flesh of the small rodent. Instead they went right through it, as if it was not even there, and got tangled up under the lid. Corvus smashed face-first into the wall.

Still the squirrel didn't move.

Oliver rose, alarmed. Instinctively, his hand went inside of his cloak and reached for his wand, bringing it up to his face as he got to his feet. He pointed it at the squirrel.

"What the...?"

Before a coherent thought formed in his mind, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and turned on his heels.

"Stupefy!" he cried.

In front of him, a middle-aged man seemed frozen solid, a terrified expression on his face. Oliver looked at him quizzically.

Very slowly, the man fell over backwards.