April, 2001
The London flat remains just as he’d left it, although everything has a distinct layer of dust. The flat was the first thing he’d bought when he started making decent money from Quidditch, a simple two-bedroom one bathroom that’s decently close to Puddlemere’s home Quidditch grounds. The only other appeal at the time was that the neighbourhood was quiet for London, just far enough from the commotion of the inner city but not far enough to escape it completely. The complex itself was modest in size, it fit uniform on a straight street filled with similar buildings, all grey bricks and plain exteriors. The flat was nothing special, but it was enough.
It’s been three years since he’s been here, there are still clean dishes sitting in the sink and the blinds half open, and venturing further, clothes and shoes strewn across the bedroom. He didn’t take much when he left, only a small suitcase full of clothes and whatever small belongings he could fit with them.
Soon he spelled everything clean, the dust gone and the clothes—he ignores the painful tug when he sees a flash of old Quidditch robes—haphazardly back in the wardrobe, a high stack of letters straightened on the coffee table. The apartment was bare even before he’d left, training and travel for games often left him little time to worry about personalising the space. At the time, it was solely reserved for eat and sleep.
And—Percy.
He spares a quick glance at the magic photograph of the two of them that hangs in the hallway, one of the few personal items he’d left behind. It was taken at the afterparty of Gryffindor’s Quidditch Cup win in their seventh year, and Oliver remembers the moment well. The team were on a well-earned high, the whole house celebrated the victory and morale had never been higher. Firewhiskey and various drinks were passed around, and the mood was so elevated that even head-boy-Percy couldn’t reprimand anyone.
In the heat of the moment and an act of bravery, Oliver planted a kiss on Percy’s cheek. Neither could bring themselves to care about the flash of Colin Creevey’s camera, and the next morning Oliver asked for a copy through a haze of hangover.
The memory is a good one, something he’d always held close, but guilt pangs in his heart nonetheless. Being back in the apartment was enough to remind him of what he’d left behind, what he’d abandoned after the war, even negating the reason for his return.
An incessant tap draws him towards the window, another owl. Upon opening the blinds he’s met with a balcony covered in newspaper, despite his absence the post had never stopped coming. He obviously forgot to cancel his subscription to the Daily Prophet before he left, three years of it laid across the balcony. He relieves the owl and sets about vanishing the old newspapers, levitating the current days issue onto the coffee table next to the pile of letters.
He looks over at the headline, and promptly wishes he hadn’t.
Former Star Puddlemere Player Terri Carmichael, Dead at 27
Details of how she died aren’t known to the public, a fact that makes Oliver somewhat happy. She’d always hated the life of paps and publicity that came with professional Quidditch. Regardless, the lack of confirmation of her cause of death does nothing to stop speculation.
…Carmichael was reportedly found unresponsive in her Manchester home on April 25th, and was pronounced dead at the scene. While her cause of death has not been released, authorities have confirmed that there was no evidence of foul play.
The former Quidditch star fell from grace in 1999 when she tested positive for multiple illegal substances during random drug testing within the league. Puddlemere released a statement soon after of her resignation, stating that her split from the team was amicable…
Oliver blinks at the page, holding it so tight that his knuckles are white. He hadn’t known it’d gotten so bad for her.
…following her leave from the team, who won the League Cup last season and are the favourites for this years European Cup, it is reported that Carmichael spiraled further into drug use, which possibly contributed to her death.
He throws the paper back onto the coffee table, he’d read enough.