BLUNDER INTO FANTASY, 9/10
There are a couple little skips in "Donna & Blitzen" but hardly noticable.


Chapter Nine
(Word Count: 2024 + 1360, 48006 )

“Someone else’s boy, you’ve had it so hard-
Will you grow up to be you,
Or a sum of your parts just hanging in the air?”
- Azure Ray, “Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark”
(download here)

From a detached viewpoint, as Oliver would normally assume when a game plan didn’t go the way he expected, he took stock: He was alone, trapped in Warrington’s imagination, with no idea how he entered this fantasy or dream of sorts, and no way to escape. The setting appeared to be the Slytherin Common Room, but every part of this imagined place was real looking, not at all like the usual haze of a sleeping dream.

On the couch, Warrington quirked his head, staring at Oliver inquisitively, and probably, Oliver deduced, recognizing a game face when he saw one. He fought the temptation to reach for his wand; as natural a gesture as that had become, the action would be futile here.

What’s the play? Oliver prompted silently, trying to channel his inner athletic self. He felt his body – this imagined body, assume game form. Back straight and shoulders relaxed, breath even, muscles ready.

The play was to delay, until McGonagall or Flitwick could get him free, and then concentrate their efforts on freeing Percy, which was all Oliver had wanted in the first place. Oliver flexed his (imagined) hands, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, a casual stance. Reality or fantasy, it was all about perspective, and Oliver’s perspective here and now would be on putting Percy first, including before his personal fears.

“We’re in the Slytherin Common Room?” he asked quietly, baiting the man into security. There were, of course, more pressing questions.

Warrington nodded, but gone was the smug smile from his face. “Imagined Common Room, that is.”

Oliver looked around, nodding as though he were appraising the décor. “Looks very real here. This is your fantasy, specifically?”

The Beater looked away for a split-second before answering uncertainly, “Er, not really. This is an actual representation of the dungeons.”

“I meant,” Oliver continued slowly, fighting against showing his impatience, “this is obviously not part of reality. Is this your fantasy, or are you sleeping?”

No answer.

It was all a bit too much for a man that depended on speed and motion when his muscles were tensed and the adrenaline was flowing through every part of his body. With unnerving slowness, it seemed, Warrington’s body finished morphing back into his true features totally. While the Beater appeared as quiet and thoughtful as he did on the pitch, he didn’t back down from Oliver’s impressive scowl. Oliver was, after all, on his turf.

“So you’re the cause of… everything?” he asked, again with patience, trying to keep any judgement out of his voice. “You’re the reason Percy has been seeing these fantasies?”

Again, no answer.

“Look, obviously you’re the reason for all this trouble. Why else would you be here?”

“It’s not like that,” Warrington started to explain, clearly troubled. “I didn’t mean for things to happen like this.”

Oliver waited.

“I just wanted…” he shrugged, helplessly, looking past Oliver. “Something. Something different. And for the past couple of weeks, I couldn’t understand why that owl wasn’t responding to me properly. I was exhausted, trying to figure out where the charm went wrong.”

“You’re the one who charmed the bird to hold onto this power for you? And you’ve been tapping into it for, how long?”

“Awhile,” was the answer, but Warrington sounded remorseful, and Oliver wasn’t about to back down yet.

“That’s dark magic you’re casting, then,” he said, almost conversationally.

“Not completely, no,” Warrington corrected. “It’s rare magic. My parents are healers, specializing in the psychological. This sort of magic is sometimes used to delve into peoples’ fantasies and, for the more practiced, their deepest desires that even they themselves sometimes can’t see.”

What else would Percy have seen if this had gone on?“I imagine your parents don’t cast such charms without their patients permission,” Oliver said, letting the bitterness creep into his voice. “And you are using this for dark purposes, right?”

In a gesture that would have looked cocky on another Slytherin, Warrington pushed back onto the couch fully and crossed his legs, giving Oliver another thorough look. “It’s… complicated. I don’t know how to explain this so that you would understand.”

His pride hurt, Oliver started to mount a protest, but thought that – yes, Warrington was probably right. He’d just wait for Percy to explain things in basic terms at some later point.

Percy…

He recalled his strange conversation with the redhead Friday night while walking to the dormitory from the pitch, asking Oliver if he ever considered – or had actually gone out with Warrington. He assumed at the time that this bit of information had come from a fantasy. And then there was some mention about Slytherin locker rooms just before he passed out later on… “You knew Percy read your thoughts. Somehow contracted your ability.” He frowned. “Were you with him in some fantasies? In mine?”

“I was there, yes.” His forehead was drawn into tight lines. “I didn’t mean to-- eavesdrop. Days before, I thought that Percy had somehow found out my secret and, well, he seemed to be reacting to my dream in the prefects’ lounge. And he was carrying his bird, who was obviously distressed.”

Not any more than that creature near death in the Owlery, Oliver bit back words.

“Everyone has something, you find? A talent or a hobby that lends itself to a future career or a future usefulness.”

Oliver finished quietly, “And you wanted this to be yours.”

Warrington looked at his hands. “He does like you a lot. Percy, I mean. He’s… different around you than around others. Part in awe, part curious, full of affection. He dreams differently around you, and he doesn’t even realize it. He--” He stopped talking.

“I don’t need to hear that,” Oliver said, and he meant it.

“Yeah, but… I think I did,” Warrington said, looking a little amused.

“Is that why? Is that why I’m here, to be a part of your fantasy now?”

Warrington looked tempted, he really did, and Oliver could taste his own blood, biting hard on his tongue, keeping his anger to himself. He was nearing the point of violence, he knew, and his expression must have spoke volumes, as Warrington eventually answered, meekly, “I saw there was some commotion in the Owlery, and when I noticed Flitwick heading that way, I knew another charm would be cast. I thought this might be my only chance.”

Oliver let out a short, cruel-sounding chuckle.

“No, not that,” Warrington smiled – actually smiled! – before continuing, “I’ve been… It’s in my blood, Wood. This magic of sorts, it’s all through me. It’s a drug, and the past two weeks have been the worst of my life, unable to come into this world, sneak away from the actual one.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Two years, almost,” Warrington admitted.

As stunned as he was at this omission, the questions in Oliver’s mind maintained their detachment - And how many owls have you gone through? How many fantasies and dreams have you violated? What if you put this power into the hands of those in your House, the ones who, like you, were looking for a ‘hobby’ of sorts that would cast them in a good light towards those in the dark arts?

For five long minutes, both young men sat in silence, not meeting each other’s eyes.

Against his better judgement, Oliver found himself inching closer to the couch. As tempting as anger had been and still was, he couldn’t give into the emotion fully. The situation was more pathetic than anything else, and foolish, especially considering what Percy was currently experiencing at the Infirmary. In his past six and a half years at Hogwarts, he certainly gave some thought to Warrington, but only in his ruthless Beater’s capacity.

He wondered if that had been the problem, that no one really thought of Warrington beyond the ‘Beater’ and ‘Slytherin’ tags. He wanted to ask Warrington if he ever saw himself in other peoples’ fantasies but didn’t, thinking that the answer could very well be ‘no.’

How sad, Oliver thought, especially for someone like Warrington. He obviously craved attention and understanding. And now, to realize that he was just as small and insignificant as he feared everyone had perceived him…

“You need help,” Oliver said quietly, close enough to reach his hand. Warrington felt surprisingly real, and he patted his wrist reassuringly.

The Slytherin wouldn’t look at him but nodded. “Yeah. I know,” he whispered. “I-- I don’t know if I’ll wake-up from this, Wood. I don’t think I want to.”

Oliver couldn’t blame him, but said in all honesty, the captain’s hat falling on him once more, “You don’t just leave the game because you think you’re losing. You never know what’s going to happen until it happens. And perhaps, well, this will be all for the best.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver answered, again brutally honest. “I really don’t. But somehow the game comes together in the end. You just have to stick it through.”

Warrington’s form flickered, and he looked up at Oliver with worried eyes.

“I-- I don’t think I can hold my form here much longer,” he admitted. “I-- Thanks. I mean… I’m sorry. Can you ever…”

What could Oliver say to a man that appeared near suicidal? He was angry that Percy had been put through so much hardship, not to mention the harm he’d done to how-many owls, but as Percy told him, the past two weeks had changed his (their) lives. Oliver figured for Percy, this was one of those events that he wouldn’t wish on anybody, but also wouldn’t regret that it had happened.

And as for himself… he had Percy, didn’t he?

And so, despite the urge to pummel this fantasized Warrington into oblivion, Oliver settled on a small smile and nodded a little, and the Slytherin took that for all it was worth. He flashed Oliver a hopeful grin before vanishing completely.

Oliver remained trapped in the Common Room for a long while, the air growing colder and thinner, and leading him to bundle under green blankets on the couch, trying to stay warm.

“Oliver?”

He turned his head to the side, waking up fully upon realizing that Percy was kneeling next to the couch. He was dressed in robes, looking like his usual spiffy self, staring at Oliver with muted concern.

Oliver panicked. “What are you doing-- Are you okay? Why--?”

Grinning, Percy ran his fingers gently across Oliver’s ear, and the Keeper nestled down into the pillow, at once at ease. “Warrington is in the Infirmary right now. Don’t suppose you care to join me there?” his voice was low and teasing.

“Yeah?” Oliver said dreamily, happily, enjoying Percy’s touch.

“So, ah,” in the imaginary dark lighting, Percy’s expression turned from peacefully content to almost painfully bashful. “Do you, er, you know…”

“Here?” Oliver asked, as Percy inched closer, and he started to nuzzle his cheek.

“Here? Oh, that? Oh, no,” Percy laughed, the joyous sound of newfound freedom and limitless possibilities. “Oliver, our roommates have taken you to the Infirmary. You’re right beside me, and I’m holding your hand. McGonagall was able to guide me in here by some minor link of Occlumency. I’m not quite certain how that works.” His face took on a wistful quality, one that Oliver recognized as his usual classroom façade.

“Occ--?”

“She thought I’d be the best candidate, considering I’m use to seeing fantasies and dreams.” He looked around the Common Room, as thought trying to memorize the place, but he didn’t look wistful. “I won’t miss the talent, but…”

Oliver nodded, understanding. It was one thing to regret the experience – quite another to appreciate what happened, as everything had happened for the best. Though he was quite ready to move forward, into reality, and leave fantasies where they belonged, tucked away privately for limited indulgence.

“How do I wake-up?” he asked, suddenly eager to look over and see his real Percy, in real life, and put an end to Warrington’s mess.

“That’s up to you,” Percy smiled, and then faded away.

--

”Oh what a sight
As they take their first flight
Oh darling it's all in time”
- Badly Drawn Boy, “Donna & Blitzen”
(download here)

“Oliver?” Percy whispered again, encouragingly, as he smoothed the hair back from Oliver’s face. It’d been over an hour since McGonagall cut the link between the three, and he’d taken to chanting Oliver’s name and talking to him as one might to a coma patient. The professor had remained in the room, keeping to herself for this while, waiting for Oliver to awaken. She must have been nervous, Percy realized, as she hadn’t reproached him for his mindless babble to Oliver, instead patiently allowing him to comfort his friend as he felt fit.

Continuing to tangle his fingers in Oliver’s hair, a gesture he felt as soothing to him as the recipient, he glanced around the room, his eyes catching sight of Warrington. The Slytherin was found by Professor Snape hours before and, once extracted from his fantasy with Oliver, had been placed in a catatonic state immediately. Pomfrey had given him special medications that would allow the dark magic to seep away from his body entirely, but the process would be painful and probably last a few days. His parents had been notified, he heard a house elf tell McGonagall, and already made arrangements to take him home in a week’s time.

He hoped Warrington would find the help he needed, deserved, especially with parents who were the wizard equivalent of muggle therapists. He’d had the opportunity to hear bits and pieces of Oliver’s conversation with Warrington, picking up on those points, and had been able to fill in the others before McGonagall eased him fully into the fantasy. After Snape had taken out Warrington, that is.

The academic in him was elated at seeing such magic in use.

But his practical side was numbed, knowing that when the shock would strike him, it would be full and alarming to his senses. How eerie to have all this trouble caused by the insecure whims of another student, dabbling in the dark arts only to fit in and feel some sense of purpose.

Worse, he knew that in another time and place, he could have easily fallen into Warrington’s place. If he had felt left behind and bitter, without the solace of his studies, his duties as Head Boy, to get him through the hard emotional times perhaps he too would have turned desperate and tried to fit in by any means possible.

It was a fine line, marked only by the fact that he didn’t cross that line. He had his family, and now friends and Oliver, and the knowledge that most limitations were only in his head. Every action he made, every reaction to another, was his decision. His power. What did Warrington have? What did he end up with now? Less control, and broken.

“Perce?” Oliver mumbled groggily, dragging himself out of sleep. His grip tightened on Percy’s hand, as though making sure he was real. Then glanced around hurriedly and tried to sit up, but Percy shushed him.

“Feeling better, Wood?” McGonagall asked from the corner of the room.

“Er. Much,” Oliver smiled tightly, as though for their benefit, but immediately threw an arm over his eyes.

“Headache, probably,” Pomfrey was saying as she entered the room, already in conversation, “One more night in here for both you boys, and then you’re back to the dormitory. Any strange behaviour, come back in and I’ll see what I can do for you,” she continued calmly. Percy was amused. They hadn’t been admitted with something so trivial as the common cold, but this, he felt, was the equivalent of being sent home with the instructions to drink fluids and rest.

It was late, and with one final quick examination at Warrington’s bedside, Pomfrey and McGonagall made their quick goodbyes. The boys (and a comatose Warrington) were left alone.

“Stay,” Percy unnecessarily warned Oliver, moving away from the bed. “Drink that,” he said in mid-step, pointing to the goblet Pomfrey left at his side. Oliver didn’t protest.

Wearing an Infirmary-issue gown, Percy walked on the floor, barefooted, to the doorway, and looked around. Satisfied, he tiptoed to Warrington’s bedside, making certain he was sleeping, and then approached Oliver once more, dragging a white privacy screen with him, and placing it strategically beyond the door’s viewpoint.

He smiled at Oliver, who proudly held an the empty goblet in his hands. “Hi.”

Oliver chuckled, and tried to say through a yawn, “How are you feeling, Perce?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Good. Headache’s gone now,” Oliver rubbed at his head. “Just tired. You are feeling better, though? You look like yourself.”

“Better. Better than I’ve felt in…”

“Two weeks?”

“Oh, much longer, Oliver. Much,” Percy nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed. “My headache and exhaustion disappeared almost at the exact time that Flitwick cast the charm, as I’m to understand things. When you passed out, McGonagall came to the Infirmary to stay with me and keep an eye on how my condition progressed. Apparently, they anticipated that the wizard who initiated all this would be lured into the fantasy. I don’t think they counted on you being the one taken in, though. By the time McGonagall got to the Infirmary, she was surprised to see me already awake.”

“They wouldn’t tell me they thought you’d be dragged into a fantasy with the initial caster,” Oliver pressed his lips together, his frustration showing. Percy wouldn’t answer. “I passed out when Flitwick performed the charm, then?”

“Alex and Arvin carried you here, and Felix filled me in on what’s happening.”

Oliver groaned, closing his eyes. Percy sympathized. No matter the seriousness of the situation at the time, and the concern on his friends’ faces as they carried him in, not one of them would ever let the Keeper forget that he had to be carried to the Infirmary. Not an easy task for one with a Quidditch psyche.

“Professor Flitwick stayed to go through the owls, one-by-one. He’s going to make a more thorough examination tomorrow.” Percy felt the excitement brewing in him. “He said I could help!”

Oliver looked like he was going to be nauseous. “But you are feeling better, Perce, right?”

“Oh, much. And rested! I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“Well, uh,” Oliver licked his lips, not looking directly at Percy, but letting his fingers trail down the bed. Percy got the idea, inching his arm up further so that Oliver was able to grasp his fingers around his wrist. Cold fingers. Real. “I have an idea to make you tired.”

Tip-lipped, Percy shook his head briefly, in Head Boy mode. “You have a headache. You need rest.”

“All gone,” Oliver proclaimed innocently, his legs fumbling down the bed as he tried to move the sheets aside.

Percy didn’t move, instead watching with amusement as his roommate tried to cuddle into his arm and failed, the distance between them too great. He settled for rubbing his head against Percy’s shoulder, and the redhead laughed at the attempt, shoving him over gently so that he too could sit fully beside him in the bed.

“C’mon here,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around Oliver, and clasping them firmly. Obviously neither boy had the energy for more exuberant demonstrates of emotion, and besides, there would be plenty of time for such affections to develop naturally.

Lots of time, Percy reassured himself, closing his eyes, taking in the smell of Oliver’s hair and the feather-like softness against his cheek. They were both due for life to slow down a tad, anyways, considering the drama of the past two weeks. He was looking forward to enjoying life, enjoying every day and moment, instead of just ‘getting through’ life, working towards an uncertain end.

Oliver sat back in his arms and sighed contently, and as they both drifted towards sleep, Percy realized he could get used to this give and take. Taking care of each other, giving the best to each other. The happiness he’d always felt to be undeserved or, if experienced, than a price to pay at a later time. Today’s suffering equals tomorrow’s happiness, or some such nonsense. He was done with that attitude now.

He was loved.


To Be Continued...