"Talk later."

The words had been signed, not spoken out loud.

It was the last thing Oliver had said to Jasper.

He'd been standing at the back of the church where Jasper and Meg had been married, dizzied by betrayal, in the frame of the doors that Sirius Black and Frank Longbottom - both gone mad now - had held opened for Meg to walk through. Now he, Oliver, had to pull the door open himself and he paused, halfway out the door, to look back and met Jasper's eyes, standing at the podium, paused mid-speech.

"Honestly, I think it's better you've decided not to go all done up." Wally patted Oliver's shoulder. Oliver's blue-striped polo under a light, blue-grey jacket was clean cut and casual, better than the Cannons number jumper he might've worn if left to his own devices but not as strict as the tie and suit coat they'd attempted to do him up in the day before.

"I feel more comfortable," Oliver admitted.

Wally said, "You look more like yourself." He ran his fingers through Oliver's floppy blonde hair, giving it the windblown look that Oliver wore best. "I know you're nervous. I can sense it."

"Yeah. Well."

Wally put his hands on Oliver's biceps and looked into his eyes, which looked even bluer than usual because of all the shades he was wearing.

"Are you going to be here when I get back?" Oliver asked.

Wally said, "I really have to go and see Geri. Have a little talk. Hopefully calmer this go-round since we've had a few days apart. We're meeting at that little sandwich shop on the Embankment. If I have a chance to see Olivia..."

"Obviously, see Olivia if you can," Oliver nodded.

Wally nodded, too.

Oliver wanted to ask if he'd get to properly meet her - he hadn't, really, other than those few minutes he'd held her away from that Death Eater at the World Cup, and he desperately wanted to know more about the little girl who looked so much like her father. Wally had been carefully mentioning her only sparingly, as though he didn't dare to speak openly about her to Oliver, whether that was because he thought the existence of her pained Oliver or whether he didn't want him to know a lot about her, Oliver wasn't entirely sure. He had so many questions, but he knew Wally had to mix the waters of his two lives slowly.

Or maybe this week with Wally at his house had been an exception. Maybe Wally didn't intend to mix the waters. Maybe he meant for them to stay separated. Maybe Oliver was simply being tried on for size and would be thrown away once Wally had done the charitable thing and put him back together. Maybe that's why it was so important to Wally that he go and talk to Jasper.

"I'll try to be back before you are, though," Wally said, meeting Oliver's eyes.

It was like he'd heard all the panic in Oliver's thoughts, and Oliver breathed a tiny bit easier.

"Alright, now go on and remember to keep an open mind alright?" Wally instructed him.

Oliver nodded.

It was nice for an autumn day, and Oliver was pleased there was no rain though there was a bit of an overcast glint to the sky and a breeze that made Oliver glad he'd worn the jacket. He used the Floo Network to the Leaky Cauldron and wore a skipper's cap pulled low over his brow, keeping his eyes down, to avoid being recognized much, though he heard his name at least two conversations at the tables he passed - people were gossiping about the news of his dismissal by Oskar Krum. 

He jammed his hands in his pockets as he walked through Diagon Alley. It was relatively quiet - for Diagon Alley, at least - and it took barely any time at all to reach the square that Fortescue's was on. The tables outside were empty, too crisp of a day to sit outside eating ice creams, but he could see through the warmly lit windows that there was a crowd inside, clustering about the counter and in the booths. Michael was behind the counter, Oliver could see him hard at work, wearing one of those goofy pink parlor hats.

Oliver stood outside in the square, watching the hub-bub for a few moments, smelling the warm caramel-vanilla scent of the hot waffle-style cones that they made at the parlor, fresh for every order so that they were still warm and a wee bit soft when the dishes were handed over. It smelled like home, and Oliver's heart ached.

Finally, he stepped through the door on the left of the parlor's entrance - the door to the flat upstairs. He walked up to the top of the steps, holding onto the bannister from habit because Meg had always insisted on it, and stopped at the landing. A small brass bell button was to the right of the front door, and on the left was a stone fox that the younger two boys had painted once for Meg for Mother's day years ago wish garish orange paint. A small, faded mat lay at the door, which read Welcome in Meg's own hand writing, magicked on.

Oliver stood there, taking a deep breath, staring at the door.

It was some anniversary, some milestone number of days and Jasper had  just been awarded some major chip - essentially a new keychain for keys that he insisted on using, even though he didn't have to because of magic.

"Coming to terms with things we've done wrong and having the strength to accept the things of the past - the bravery that takes - it's what fuels us to move forward, to take the necessary next step of healing," Jasper had said to begin his speech, and then he'd looked directly at Oliver in the front row, where he sat in a cluster with Kevin, Michael, Nathan, Eli, the twins, and Meg on one side of him and Wally, Uncle Toby, Uncle Ethan, and Uncle Francis on the other. "Sometimes," Jasper said, and Oliver felt a pit rip open in his stomach - he knew, knew before Jasper spoke what was coming - "Sometimes, we have to be told the things that we don't want to hear in order to make us see and accept the things that can't be changed so that we can have the wisdom to change what we can, which makes all of the difference."

Wally's hand had grabbed Oliver's wrist.

Stay, his grip said silently.

But Oliver had stood up and stepped around his family, ignoring the whispered plea of his mum, and started down the main aisle of the church that ran between the pews. People looked at him, but he was used to that the way that most famous people are used to being stared at. 

At the door when he paused and looked back, Jasper's eyes caught the light just right so that the tears threatening them shimmered.

Oliver shook his head in disbelief, in betrayal, in anger.

And Jasper's hands had raised up.

"Talk later," he signed.

It was Oliver that closed the door.

And here he was, staring at another closed door, too many years later, biting his lips.

There was a window to his right, which overlooked Diagon Alley below, and he could see the clouds had decided to rain after all. He stepped up to it and peered out and saw the wind gently rocking the pink-and-green striped awning and the umbrellas over the patio seating below. The rain hit the window and left streaks of water that ran down in rivulets across the glass.

Oliver turned suddenly when he heard the door of the flat creak behind him and he stared, wide-eyed as though he were a trespasser being caught as Jasper Odair stepped out onto the landing, wearing khaki trousers, a white oxford shirt, and the pink-and-green striped apron of the Fortescue's uniform. The parlor hat clutched in his hand, the keys he insisted on using locking the door behind him, that same anniversary chip hanging from them...

He turned around and stopped short, seeing Oliver there, and they stared at one another - blue eyes meeting brown - neither daring to move, as though any sudden movement might scare off the other.

Oliver hated that there were lines on Jasper's face that hadn't been there before. Lines from age. From time passing without having seen him, little lines that stretched from the corners of his eyes, and a scruff about his chin and cheeks that said he'd not shaved in the past couple days. 

He'd been sick when Oliver had been there last, hadn't he? On Eli's birthday? His eyes still had a slightly sunken look to them that came from exhaustion. Was he still not feeling well, even now, two weeks on?

Several minutes had passed, neither had spoken or moved, other than to search one another's eyes.

"Ollie," Jasper said, his voice no more than a cracking breath.

"Dad," Oliver said.

Jasper's breath left him - a gasp of disbelief, of relief, of hope, of -- tears welled in his eyes, and his mouth opened to speak, but Oliver cut him off.

"It's later."