Hello. I’m finished with TAKS! Stupid evil tests.

Had this idea bouncing around all week and it formed after reading review from “Asleep”. People wanted it to continue. So I decide to do a kinda series, but the stories can stand alone or something like that. Too much Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex for me.

Disclaimer: Don’t own anything of Harry Potter. None whatsoever.

Here it is. Enjoy.

My sister tells me to put my beta on this. It’s her aka z0mb13-p4nd4-and-5h1n0b1'5-5p1r1t, she’s the first name.

I’m sitting here at my desk, feeling my body crave the desire of sweet warm comfort of my bed. Our bed, as Oliver shares it with me.

I glance around and my eyes light on the clock. It’s 4:00… in the morning. I then glance at the letter I have been trying to write to the Spanish Minister. Not much headway in the past two hours I’ve been working. I suppose it is high time I left for home.

I put away my quill and place the letter in a desk drawer. I stand up and stretch. One can hear my back crack and does it feel good. I gather my things and make my way to the elevators.

I’m waiting for the bloody lifts. I think it’s a stupid that we can only Disapparate and or Apparate in the Atrium. Those lifts take for ever to reach the level my office is on. At least hardly anyone is here at this time of night… or morning, depending on your point of view. It would take even longer with all the people getting on and off.

The lift arrives and I step in. I press the button for the first floor. I lean my body against the wall and close my eyes, letting my mind wander. A short while later, I feel the lift stop. Strange. No body is usually here around this hour. I open my eyes and see that it is the floor for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Even more strange, that lot is usually long gone by now, snug in their warm beds.

Two men enter the lift. Both are fairly attractive, but no one tops my Ollie. I close my eyes once more. The two men completely ignore me as they start a conversation.

“It’s a shame, a crying shame, really,” says one of them.

“True, very true. Canceling Quidditch,” responds the other, with a hint of disgust.

My eyes snap open at those two words. Cancel Quidditch? A thousand or so questions rush through my mind and I by no more heed to their conversation. When did this happen? Does Oliver know? How did he, or will he, react? What if he doesn’t know? Should I or should I not tell him? Should I just let the Puddlemere United manager tell him?

No, I should be the one to tell him. The way he is, it is most likely that he’ll have an emotional break down. Quidditch is his life. He will need someone to comfort him, and that someone should be me. So I’ll tell him, not matter how much it hurts to see the pain and sadness when I tell him he won’t be playing Quidditch for awhile. Hopefully, only awhile.

“But I don’t see why we had to stay late to discuss this and come to that decision. It could have waited until the morning. I’m dog tired,” concludes the first one as my mind snaps back to reality with the lift stopping.

I roll my eyes at this statement. Lazy, the whole lot of them. I step out into the Atrium and make my way to the place of Apparition. With a slight pop, I’m gone. To my apartment. To my Oliver. To tell him this horrible news.