Christmas in the Trenches by VicXntric

Who would have ever dreamed there was a point beyond freezing?

This thought occurred to Oliver Wood as he hunched miserably in the tiny hovel that had been built into the Scottish hillside. Magic was out of the question--the chance that a Death Eater could sense it and find him was too great, even though there had been no sign of Death Eaters for miles.

Even they aren't stupid enough to be in Northern Scotland on the coldest, wettest Christmas Eve in decades.

Oliver was on a mission for the Order, carrying a spelled amulet containing information for Harry and Dumbledore from Snape. The Order had recently given up using owls for important correspondence, after Voldemort developed a new breed of hunting bird that preyed specifically on post animals. Snape's instructions to him had been explicit--no personal magic, or the Death Eaters would be able to track him. Charmed or spelled items could be used, however. That was of no use to Oliver, as the only charmed things he had were his broom and the amulet.

Oliver was never one to waste time worrying about what he didn't have, though, so he popped his tiny Scops owl into his pocket--partially as a backup, but mostly for company, then mounted his broom and began his journey from the Orkney Islands to London. He flew as low as possible, as it was night and Snape had told him the Death Eaters tended to attack at high altitudes. As it turned out, it wasn't Lord Voldemort that attacked him, but Mother Nature.

The storm began buffeting him shortly after he reached the Northwest Highlands, but he kept on as best he could in the blinding conditions. He landed--although that was a rather generous way of putting it--in what he later found out was Glen More.

Hoping for little more that an out-cropping of rock for shelter, Oliver was pleased to find an abandoned caleche--for about an hour. After theat, the cold and damp had completely surrounded him until the caleche wasn't shelter in anything more than theory.

Another hour passed and Oliver knew he was going to have to send his owl out, and worst of all, it would have to go to Dumbledore, not his parents. They would have no idea whether their son was alive or dead on Christmas day, but Oliver knew that his mother would tell him that the Order's work came first. He was more worried about Voldermort's birds of prey than the storm, but Sprite was a clever owl--one that his father raised himself, specifically for the Order. He wrote nothing about his location--he wasn't sure where he was, anyway--only that the amulet was currently in his hands and safe. Then he regretfully sent Sprite off to find Dumbledore or Harry.

Grateful for the fur-lined cloak his mother had bought him when he first became a courier, Oliver huddled into the furthest corner of the caleche and tried to warm himself by recalling past Christmases. It was only Oliver and his parents, unless one counted the owls his father bred for a living, but they were a happy family. This was Oliver's first Christmas away from them. When he had been playing Quidditch, he'd always been able to get home for the Christmas break, even last year, in spite of the War, they had all been together--at Grimmauld Place and only briefly, but together for Christmas.

If not for the War, last Christmas could have easily counted among Oliver's favourites, spent with the Weasleys, Harry, the Grangers, Professor Lupin, the Bells and the Abbotts. That was when he and Percy had renewed their friendship, after Oliver had spoken sharply to the twins in Percy's defence. The twins still hadn't quite forgiven their older brother for his behaviour in the first, un-year of the War, despite the fact that since then Percy had flung himself into the war effort with his usual dedication. In the year since then, he and Percy had only been able to meet up every month or so, but it was enough for both young men to realize that the attraction that had brewed beneath the surface during their years at Hogwarts was still there. The War made it difficult to explore these feelings any further and gave Oliver one more reason to look forward to the end.

Despite his efforts not to, before long Oliver was dozing off, even though he knew he shouldn't. Common sense was telling him he should stay awake and alert, but dream sense was telling him he was warm and cosy and as comfortable as any human could be on stone. Then Oliver dreamed of slim but strong arms around him and soft breathing that matched his perfectly. Common sense told him that Death Eaters could be anywhere. Oliver told Common Sense--"Go 'way. This is the best dream yet." Common Sense chuckled.

Common Sense chuckled?

It took some effort, but Oliver dragged his eyes open. The first thing his saw was fiery hair that seemed to warm the tiny cavern.

"Are you awake now?"

Oliver came fully awake, there was absolutely no mistaking that precise, slightly uptight voice. "Percy?"

"Sprite brought me your letter. I was at the safehouse on Loch Lochy. We can't be seen going there until tomorrow, but I was allowed to come here. Sprite seemed quite happy to lead me."

Oliver saw his owl snuggled on Percy's opposite shoulder. "You flew here?" Percy hated flying, Oliver knew, and wasn't very good at it.

"Apparating is out of the question, as you know."

Blinking away the remains of his dream, Oliver sat up straighter, careful not to dislodge Percy's arms. "You could have come for me in the morning, then."

"I could have," Percy agreed.

"Why didn't you wait?"

"It's Christmas, Oliver. No one should spend Christmas alone in a place like this. Certainly not someone who takes the chances you do for the Order. What's more--" Percy stopped abruptly as Oliver pressed two fingers to his lips.

"Only because it's Christmas, Percy?" Oliver asked softly. "Only because I'm part of the Order?"

Percy's lips softened and he kissed Oliver's fingers.

Sprite squawked as her comfortable perch abruptly went horizontal.

End

Inspired--in part--by the song "Christmas in the Trenches" by J. McCutcheon. The version I have is sung by the incomparable John McDermott.