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TheDookieNut
Ten months—Kearney Stevens had been locked up for ten months and it had taken less than an hour to clear his name. Oliver Wood could not remember having ever been this angry before. Maybe when Fred had died—brave and good and too vibrant to be gone—or maybe when little Colin Creevey—too young to die, too valiant and kind—
Now that Oliver thought about it, he had been this angry for the past two years.
Lockwood’s testimony had been another misery to stoke the fire of his fury. She congratulated them, as if she hadn’t just spoken about the fate of her late husband to that hag Mirren. She was composed—too composed, with that edge that Oliver had seen in others. Percy looked like that sometimes, perfectly fine until they were six drinks in at the Hogs Head and his hands started to shake. Angelina as well; she never so much as blinked with grief, just worked her hands to the bone hunting down the Death Eaters on the run. She’d save the world and everyone in it before she so much as admitted to an ounce of pain.
Oliver hated that they lived in a world where tragic heroism and grit teeth had become the norm.
“Yoo’re th’ on ‘at got thes trial, Lockwood. We owe ye a debt ‘at cannae be repaid,” his voice was even, steady. It would do no one any good for him to lose him temper, to give the verbal lashing to the Wizengamot they so deserved. So many fat and vile blood maniacs among their numbers—ten men and women who thought that Kearney ought to rot in Azkaban. It was reprehensible. He offered a parting nod as Lockwood left them in the rapidly emptying courtroom.
“Thank you,” breathed Manpreet, her voice less solid, her hands trembling at the edges. Oliver laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, I—“
“Go oan, Manpreet. Pass oan th’ team’s hellos tae Gaelle. We’ll tak’ cair ay Kearney until ye gie back.”
“I—okay. Make sure he gets his—“
“His gauld an’ his hoosin’ sarted. I willnae lit heem starve oan th’ streets. Go.”
“Thank you,” Manpreet took a shuddering breath, squeezing his hand tight. Oliver joined her, holding the door before she scurried off to the lift, shooting the courtroom a withering look.
Lockwood wasn’t far—Oliver was surprised to see her lingering, leaning against the wall as if she might not stand without it. He tilted his head, approaching cautiously, hands finding a home in his pockets.
“Ye alrecht thair, Lockwood?”
Now that Oliver thought about it, he had been this angry for the past two years.
Lockwood’s testimony had been another misery to stoke the fire of his fury. She congratulated them, as if she hadn’t just spoken about the fate of her late husband to that hag Mirren. She was composed—too composed, with that edge that Oliver had seen in others. Percy looked like that sometimes, perfectly fine until they were six drinks in at the Hogs Head and his hands started to shake. Angelina as well; she never so much as blinked with grief, just worked her hands to the bone hunting down the Death Eaters on the run. She’d save the world and everyone in it before she so much as admitted to an ounce of pain.
Oliver hated that they lived in a world where tragic heroism and grit teeth had become the norm.
“Yoo’re th’ on ‘at got thes trial, Lockwood. We owe ye a debt ‘at cannae be repaid,” his voice was even, steady. It would do no one any good for him to lose him temper, to give the verbal lashing to the Wizengamot they so deserved. So many fat and vile blood maniacs among their numbers—ten men and women who thought that Kearney ought to rot in Azkaban. It was reprehensible. He offered a parting nod as Lockwood left them in the rapidly emptying courtroom.
“Thank you,” breathed Manpreet, her voice less solid, her hands trembling at the edges. Oliver laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, I—“
“Go oan, Manpreet. Pass oan th’ team’s hellos tae Gaelle. We’ll tak’ cair ay Kearney until ye gie back.”
“I—okay. Make sure he gets his—“
“His gauld an’ his hoosin’ sarted. I willnae lit heem starve oan th’ streets. Go.”
“Thank you,” Manpreet took a shuddering breath, squeezing his hand tight. Oliver joined her, holding the door before she scurried off to the lift, shooting the courtroom a withering look.
Lockwood wasn’t far—Oliver was surprised to see her lingering, leaning against the wall as if she might not stand without it. He tilted his head, approaching cautiously, hands finding a home in his pockets.
“Ye alrecht thair, Lockwood?”
