A/n: Hey hey hey! New fic for you guys. The Lily/James one has to wait a little longer because of delays (e.g. two weeks vacation for me) and creative problems (e.g. fitting the story with Shakespeare's Sonnet 148).

This is a Katie/Oliver fic. It has nothing to do with Listen (i will finish Listen, don't worry) and it's quite fresh. The story popped into my head when i was in bed last night. I was reading Time Magazine, an article about people suing other people for the custodu of their pets (ehehehe, sorry, i'm babbling).

Anyway, please read and review. This is the prologue, and chapter one will come soon (probably this afternoon if i'm lucky).

Disclaimer: No, not me. Not mine.

Dedication: To my reviewers! (Screw Snooze, i'm over him).

Love, in the Closed Ward

Prologue

England- 270

Bulgaria-260

He punched the air and shouted, victorious at defending the hoops once again. Throwing the Quaffle to a teammate, he settled back into fleeting around the middle hoop, his brown eyes again glazed over giving him a look of almost predatory-like gleam. Every now and then, a cool breeze would ruffle his short brown hair, a sight that the female witches seemed more than willing to communicate to their neighbors—the wizards didn’t appreciate it though, often rolling their eyes. The game became more intense then, the Chasers zooming back and forth in field while the Beaters mercilessly volleyed Bludgers back and forth. Now would be a good time for England’s seeker to catch the Snitch, an English victory for the first time in 135 years. He did not share this restlessness, he possessed an easy calm that most would call unnerving. His eyes attentively following the opposing Chasers’ every move.

The players became more urgent now, with very little time remaining. The Bulgarians chanted the names of their players, almost fervently as prayer—for to win this game, they would need prayer to break that insufferably good English Keeper. The Bulgarians needed two more goals to catch the Snitch and win while England only needed to stall time before their Seeker catches the Snitch. The Beaters’ exchange became more aggressive now, heavy metal Bludgers soaring from one end of the pitch to the other; once nearly knocking out a stray Bulgarian Chaser. With a great heave, the dark-haired Bulgarian Beater smashed the Bludger towards England’s goalposts (whether accidentally or not, we will never know) and, with a communal gasp from the female audience, hit the Keeper on the back of his head while he was circling the left hoop.

He fell, in a weird slow motion, as several witches tried to direct Pennifold Charms until the WizaMedics cast proper charms to slow down his fall. Above his spectacle, unbeknownst to the masses below, the English Seeker caught the Snitch. Bewildered, he might have expected some sort of applause which he did not get. And with an ‘I-knew-it’ look on his face, he smacked himself on the forehead and began to descend. He thought, with looks—and talent—like that, why wouldn’t he NOT steal the spotlight from England’s victory?

“Emergency Serious Quidditch Injuries. Dai Llewellyn Ward. Healers, please congregate at the waiting area in the First Floor. Dai Llewellyn Ward, Healers please proceed to the waiting area immediately.”

St. Mungo’s was filled with photographers and writers straining to look at the injured Quidditch player, the waiting area are would have been more choked up if the player’s—er—well-wishers were allowed in. He was levitated in, looking worse for wear, as light bulbs shamelessly and burying the area in a thick purple smoke. He opened one bleary eyed and closed it again, from exhaustion or annoyance it’s hard to tell. Two Healers strode quickly in to the room, a redheaded witch and a younger blonde-haired wizard, both dressed in blue robes with the words: Dai Llewellyn Quidditch Injuries stitched on their right front pocket.

“I suggest you stop taking those damned photos.” The witch snapped causing the photographers to hiss obscenities at her.

With no other words, she signaled to her apprentice to go on. The blonde-haired wizard levitated Oliver Wood to a conjured stretcher and they both left with him, leaving the cranky photographers and writers to themselves.

He awoke with a start, startled at the stark and sterile surroundings. As if suddenly stabbed, he started writhing in agony and moaning. His skull felt like breaking into two, the back of his neck stabbed by millions of tiny daggers. His groans were punctuated by tormented screams. In the darkness, a figure was already at work. The redhead was pottering about a long table containing several vials and glasses and a cauldron. A small puff of green smoke erupted—mushroom-like and smelled of pickled newt—as she mixed some potions together. The pain felt more unbearable now and the apprentice entered the room just as he heard the screams. The apprentice lighted each of the candles and cast the room in a gloomy yellow light. The redhead instructed the younger one in a methodic and urgent voice. With a final wave from her wand, she took a goblet and ladled a thin orange liquid into it. The patient screamed louder, the stabbing pains growing deeper, as he writhed in pain. The apprentice seemed hesitant to go near him, probably fearing that the pain had driven him mad. The witch rolled her eyes and strode briskly towards him and with one arm; she lifted him to sitting position while the other arm held the goblet to his lips. Subconsciously obeying her, he gulped and sputtered the liquid as tremors ran up and down his body until exhaustion took him. The last he saw before darkness enveloped his vision was a pair of green eyes staring at him.

Please review! I need all the help i can get. -grin-