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They had a good thing going. Sure, no one knew what they were to each other…they weren’t even really anything to each other accept a good fuck. Except that Oliver doodled his initials next to Marcus’ in hearts, and Marcus flipped through his reading assignments while staring dreamily ahead, daydreaming about the way Oliver’s hair blew in the wind. And they stole glances, and smiles, and notes in their classes and the corridors. But they weren’t anything other than a good fuck in the locker rooms after practices or matches, or behind the storage shed, or in broom closets. They had a good thing going until the final match of the season, Slytherin versus Gryffindor. And Potter caught the snitch, and Marcus watched Oliver get caught in the moment, and he saw the other boy caught in a kiss with someone else. And something snapped.
Marcus ignored Oliver’s letters, his notes went unanswered and unread, his glances weren’t met, and he never went to the places they frequented as lovers. He cut off contact, and acted like he was moving on. Two years of tentative snogging, which lead to shagging, which lead to whatever feelings had developed were down the drain and suppressed, and Marcus’ friends didn’t know what went wrong, and Oliver’s friends didn’t know what to do when he became inconsolable for no known reason. They graduated from Hogwarts, and three years passed. Oliver eventually accepted Marcus’ decision to cut off contact, and became cold toward the other man. He would sneer at him in passing at tryouts to different Quidditch teams. He would position his newest catch within direct eyesight of Marcus at parties, and cruelly comment when the other man was within earshot how he'd never felt this way about anyone before.
Marcus in turn never showed that this bothered him. He would watch Oliver parade his never ending line of men, wishing each could have been him, knowing that he had never meant anything, and these men likely didn’t either. He never dated, caught a quickie or a one-night-stand from clubs, but never pursued a relationship. The war started to gain speed, and Marcus knew he was supposed to choose sides—he was supposed to choose the losing side. So he didn’t. If Marcus Flint was good at anything in his life it was acting like he remained neutral. When Quidditch continued, so did he, and when it stopped—too many of the players captured by the Ministry and imprisoned, or on the run—Marcus did as well. He volunteered at St. Mungo’s, tried to create a safe house for runaway muggle borns, because doing so made him feel closer to Oliver.
Oliver got caught in the war as well. Graduating before Harry’s Dumbledore’s Army, he didn’t have the connection to Defense or to those younger students, but he had maintained contact with his former classmates and team members, and heard of their attempts to fight back. And being a Gryffindor to the core, he threw himself into the fight. They were smuggling muggle borns to safe houses, fighting Death Eaters at points throughout the country predetermined by the Order of the Phoenix, and all of them were watched, so they tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy. Oliver found himself thinking of Marcus more and more. He’d seen him in passing at St. Mungo’s after an attack, and his heart and breath stopped in one when he realized he’d half been expecting to see Marcus’ face under a Death Eater mask instead of uncovered in this hospital. Relief washed over him, and he no longer felt as anxious during the attacks.
Both men found themselves by providence at the Battle of Hogwarts, both fighting for the same side. Marcus was the one who freed the Slytherin students from the dungeons and helped them escape the castle the same way the other houses’ students had. It was there, at the entrance to the tunnel to Hogsmeade in the Room of Requirement, that Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood came face to face for the first time in four years. Neither said a word, but they shook each others’ hands as they had before Quidditch matches years on end in the past. The battle began, and they threw themselves into the melee. Spells of all colors flew by them left, right, and above, only years of Quidditch training allowing them to dodge the fire. Oliver made it to the grounds, battling Death Eaters, giants, acromantulas, and werewolves. Marcus made it to the Great Hall, helping heal those who could be, to ease the suffering of those fatally injured, and to comfort the people grieving those who could not be saved.
Voldemort ordered the cease fire, and one sort of tension fled the grounds, replaced by another. The men worked in tandem with the other survivors, bringing more dead and wounded to the Hall, and caring for them. The sun was just rising when Voldemort returned and announced that he had killed Harry Potter. Marcus’ heart sank, and jolted at Oliver’s pained response. He reached out to the man who stood beside him, and pulled him into his side. Oliver came willingly. The last skirmish between Dark and Light separated them, but they could see each other clearly as the Dark Lord fell and the Light won. They made their way to each other without noticing any other movement in the hall, and sat side by side in the rubble.
“I thought you had forgotten about me.” Marcus said, he voice soft and rasping. Oliver turned to bury his head into Marcus’ neck.
“How could I ever forget about you? You’re everywhere in everything.” Oliver responded. Marcus pulled away with tearful eyes.
“So are you.” And they kissed, passionately, desperately. Putting all the years of grief, separation, and fear into the contact. The world moved on around them, and they moved on with it. Together.