Skin Deep

Summary: Many things have changed since the end of the war- not least Lavender Brown, as Oliver Wood finds out after he undergoes an unexpected career change. OW/LB. A healthy dose of fluff, a large dollop of angst and cameo's from several other HP characters including George, Ron, Hermione and Angelina. Read it and see! Post DH.

Rating: T

Disclaimers: The characters aren't mine. They're lucky enough to belong to JK Rowling; I just like to play with them now and again.

AN: It's been a while since I've posted on here but I've just bought my first house with my boyfriend and have been really busy as of late, decorating and whatnot.

Anyhoo…This ship is somewhat unconventional and one I've never tried, but sometimes it's more fun that way! On the plus side, the majority of this is already written so expect fairly frequent updates. I've posted the prologue and chapter one here for you and thanks for reading!

Prologue

That little thing called irony

"The prognosis really isn't good, mate…" the Physio-healer set down his diagnostic wand and regarded the burly man sat silently before him on the metal gurney with a grim expression; "this is the fourth time in as many month's that ankle's shattered. I told you not to play before the bones had fully knitted properly..."

Oliver Wood's expression was grave even as his face paled and he rolled back down the bottom of his prized Puddlemere robes, feebly flexing his recently treated right foot. "I know but---"

The healer shook his head sombrely not listening to the protestations as he efficiently snapped off his rubber medical gloves, "...not to mention the injuries inflicted on your shoulder," he stated brusquely. "Again." His voice contained an element of chagrin.

Oliver was still in some pain, despite the careful treatment already administered today and was not in the mood for anymore bloody 'I told you so's.' "I know but---" he began again but was cut off mid-sentence.

"No more 'buts' Oliver, I'm sorry," the healers voice was firm but most annoyingly of all, sympathetic and Oliver sensed even before he heard it what was coming next, "I'd be going against every law in my profession if I was to ever let you get back on that broom in the state you're in."

Oliver's stomach lurched sickeningly as he blinked; "you mean…?"

"It's all over Oliver, I'm sorry." Regretfully, the healer placed his wand back in its wrist holster and took a step backwards, setting down his medical chart with a pained sigh; "you're going to have a pronounced limp and the damage re-sustained to the muscles in your shoulder is most likely irreversible. In all honesty, it would be a miracle if you were ever to play Quidditch again."

Dazed, all Oliver could do was gaze at him incomprehensibly, hoping against all futile hope that this was just some kind of bad dream.

…

Three days later, Oliver was still coming to terms with the fact that his beloved Quidditch career was completely down the pan. He'd not eaten or slept and had spent the past seventy-two hours alternating between drunken stupor (fire whiskey was certainly a blessing in these troubled times), hot destructive rages (his flat would most likely never be the same again) and most embarrassingly of all, crying (which he did in the privacy of his bedroom in case anybody unexpectedly stopped by- which they hadn't, yet. Not even his former teammates had enquired after his welfare. Bastards.). The news had made the front page of The Prophet of course, after all Wood wasn't only a quidditch superstar, he was a war hero too- but he just didn't want to hear from any well-wishers or sympathisers as he tried valiantly to come to terms with what was happening to him.

He'd fully firmed up the wards around his home and blocked the floo in case any ardent fans 'stalkers' tried to contact him (which they hadn't- yet), or, worse case scenario, his parents decided to drop by. He wasn't in the mood for sympathetic platitudes from his mother or his father's bellowed commands of 'pull yourself together, boy!' They'd owled him several times already since his spectacular fall from his broom, which he'd so far ignored. They'd get the message eventually: he just didn't want to talk. To anybody.

He was ignoring everybody who did try to get in touch with him as a matter of fact, though unfortunately it wasn't many people- mostly nosy journalists, and suffice to say, the flat was full of owl droppings, unpleasant little gifts from the disgruntled birds that he'd point blank refused to acknowledge with owl treats as they'd dropped off countless letters or enquiries for him. Oliver didn't even have the energy to charm them away anymore, but the smell wasn't so unbearable once you got used to it. It was just like the Owlery back at Hogwarts after all.

He sighed gloomily as he buried his face in his hands now. He'd actually been expecting for the Physio-healer to say he'd be out for the rest of the season, but for the bloke to actually turn around and say he was out of the sport together was absolutely unbelievable. He fully still expected to wake up and find it was all a bad dream- or rather a nightmare.

Fair enough, Oliver knew he'd taken stupid risks, playing when an injury wasn't fully healed on many occasions, but he was pushing thirty after all and he didn't want to lose his coveted place on the first team to some bright young thing heading up the ranks from the Puddlemere reserves. Ironically enough that was how he'd gotten HIS place on the first team way back when- taking full advantage of another team mate's injury, jumping literally into his still-warm boots and the memory stung him now. Karma this was. Definitely very bad karma.

Oliver had virtually lived and breathed the game of Quidditch since he was a young boy which was what made this entire situation so horrific. He felt like he'd lost part of his very soul for he didn't know how to do anything else but play Quidditch.

It was in his blood.

Growing up as the youngest of three boys in a rough and tumble wizarding household, he was only seven when he discovered the sport which would soon become his whole life. It was also fortunate that it was the one wizarding sport his brothers did not excel at- fortunate in that he could actually beat them at something for a change and that they didn't make fun of him for once; however it was unfortunate that in doing so he would also soon become the sole focus of his father's single-minded determination for him to become a champion, for Alexander Wood had once been a beater for the Falmouth Falcons until his wife and kids had came along. He'd lived his career vicariously through his youngest son instead. Pushy parents? Oliver knew all about them. His father could have won awards for it ironically enough. Yet similarly, he didn't push his dad away either- glad to have his attention for a change.

It was also unfortunate in that being so focused on Quidditch, Oliver had let so many other things slide in his life however: academics, relationships, friends… The friends he had had at one point or another in his life were now long gone, despaired and frustrated both by his blind-sided drive and sheer determination for the sport, and Oliver was smart enough to realise that those witches and wizards who idolised him for his tactics on the broom were fickle and certainly wouldn't stick around now that he wasn't going to play for Puddlemere United or for the England team any more. Adulation certainly couldn't be confused with friendship after all. Nor could meaningless sex, the meaningless sex he'd freely indulged in whilst he'd been famous, ever be classed as real love.

Yes, "fans" were one thing; friends were certainly another and were something that Oliver Wood was sorely lacking in at the moment and the realisation stung him, hitting him harder than a bludger. Harder in fact than the wayward bludger that had unseated him from his broom whilst he'd made what was undoubtedly the most triumphant save of his career… funny the way irony worked sometimes, wasn't it?

Oliver took another bitter drag of fire-whiskey and slumped back onto his settee, running a hand through his dark hair, feeling both despaired and lost. Here he was: twenty-eight years old, former world-class Quidditch superstar idolised by millions of witches and wizards the world over and he didn't have a fucking clue what to do with the rest of his screwed up life and worst of all, not one single friend to help him decide either.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

A/N: Just cos' I'm nice, I've posted chapter one at the same time as this. Please read on! :)