One. Last. Time. {Oliver Wood}

His pain, his ring, and his voice

Hi readers! I just wanted to let you guys know that I changed my username and the cover of this fanfic because I was unhappy with the previous ones. My new username is wolfstarlovr (duh who doesn't love wolfstar) so don't be confused lol. Also, TW for mentions of physical and mental abuse, unhealthy relationships, and alcoholism towards the end of the chapter, take the mentions as awareness for the people who are suffering in circumstances like these or however you may please, be kind to yourselves, please and enjoy this chapter! :)

Oliver's POV

December 21, 1991

As Oliver stumbled into the bathroom the next morning, he tripped over the jersey he so hastily threw across the room just the night before.

He still hurt. Everything in him hurt, but he had to go on. Or else he would be left behind. Again.

Oliver bent down and picked up the long-sleeved, red, and gold, Quidditch jersey. He rubbed the soft cloth between his fingers, feeling its painful dryness, before tossing it on his bed.

He assumed Percy was already down at breakfast, considering his horn-rimmed glasses weren't on his bedside table.

The boy yawned and walked into the bathroom. He took a glance at himself in the mirror; he looked like crap. His eyes and brows were red from all the tears he shed last night, and his tawny hair was going every which way. Oliver pulled off his clothes and stepped into the shower.

The hot steam seeped into him and soothed the knots that had formed in his muscles from Quidditch practice.

He thought and thought and thought some more.

Oliver wondered why. Why didn't she tell him? Why couldn't she tell him? Why could she confide in everyone but him? Why did she say she loved him when that might've just been another lie? Why and why and why.

But when he wasn't wondering why, he was thinking of her.

Her and her lovely, long brown hair that flowed down her back like an everlasting waterfall. Her soft, tan skin that he wanted to trace shapes into with his hands for the rest of his sleepless nights. Her right hand, the fingernails painted lavender, and the blue and silver ring that gleamed off her middle finger.

Absently, his hand reached for the ring on his own middle finger. He slid it on and off, contemplating whether he should take it off or not.

Keep it on, a strangely familiar, and nasty voice said in his head. So, she bought it for you, big deal. Keep it on and show her you could care less. But he did care. He cared more than anything.

Oliver reached for the ring and began pulling it off.

If you take it off, she'll notice. She'll notice, the voice added with sudden seriousness, and she'll ask, and you'll have to break-

Shut up. Oliver snapped at the voice; it wouldn't get to that. He hoped it wouldn't, he hoped with every last fiber of goodness in him that this was just another obstacle in his, in Valerie's words, screwed up life.

He slid the ring back on and turned off the shower.

***

Oliver pushed Valerie out of his mind as he walked into the Great Hall. All he was thinking about was a piece of toast with half butter, half grape jam spread on it. Valerie teased him for enjoying something so odd, but always made it for him at breakfast.

Damn it, he scolded himself, stop thinking about her.

He didn't know what he was going to if he ran into her. Would he kiss her and act like everything was fine? Would he hold her in his strong arms and pretend that he wasn't slowly crumbling apart deep inside himself?