Oliver Wood hated formal robes. No matter how many times he wore them, he would never enjoy the stiff collars or the pressed lines that, no matter how often he practiced the charm, he could never for the life of him get crisp. He hated to bother his mother but, for this, he’d been willing to make the Floo up to Scotland.

Kearney Stevens’ hearing. Ryan had made good on her word, pushing paperwork through to get them here. Three weeks had felt like forever, but when he’d heard how long others had been waiting, well… they were lucky.

Manpreet leaned into his side beneath his arm, her face drawn with worry. She’d been a good manager and a better friend in the years he’d known her. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady herself. Oliver squeezed her shoulder.

“Hoo’s yer wife daein’?” He asked. She sighed in relief, evidently welcoming the distraction from the courtroom looming ahead of them. “I huvnae seen ‘er around th’ pitch lately.”

“Gaelle’s in Iceland on a field expedition,” Manpreet smiled softly, and it was one of the few genuine smiles he’d seen her give since before the war. “I’m taking the Floo over after the hearing. She’s got some time off from chasing after Yetis and armored bears.”

“Hoo much lahnger will she be gain, dae ye reckon?”  He remembered the woman from a team holiday party—Gaelle always left an impression. The curly haired magizoologist was certainly a character, flitting from thought to thought without finishing half her sentences. He’d rather liked her, even if it was evident that was the sort of brilliant that meant she was completely mad. 

“They’re scheduled to come home late October,” she sounded reasonably cheerful, all things considered. “And she’s promised no more field work until next summer, at least. It’ll be nice having her home, driving me spare.”

“Mr. Wood. Mrs. Bellamkonda,” a small wizard in stately black robes had exited the courtroom. He eyed them rather condescendingly. Oliver arched a heavy brow. [i]Behave. For Kearney,[/i] he reminded himself. He smiled politely, slipping his arm from Manpreet with a pat on her back. “The Wizengamot is ready for you now.”

[i]Where’s Lockwood?[/i] Oliver glanced down the hallway. Maybe she’d decided not to show her face. Surprising—he’d thought, with what she’d told him about her husband, that she might have shown. He nodded, following the tiny wizard and Manpreet into the courtroom. The Wizengamot was as untouchable as ever, many of them dour, and his jaw clenched tightly. 

Many of these same people had sat on the registration commission. He may not have been a Malfoy, filthy ferrety bastard, but his family was old enough to have linked him to a good deal of other wizards in Britain. He [i]knew[/i] some of these bastards—and they belonged in Azkaban far more than his chaser.