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1.
“Alright, you lot!” Madame Hooch whistles and her voice projects, resonant across the pitch. She gestures to the line of brooms, spaced out parallel to each other. They’re beautiful. Sure, they’re just the ones the school has provided for them, and since they probably can’t be trusted as first years, they’re all outdated models with lots of scuffs. Still, that’s part of the beauty. So many people have used these brooms before, and now they’re passing them onto him. Oliver can feel himself tearing up a little. He loves these brooms. He wants to fly right now. He wants to play. Right now. The brooms are brilliant. Madame Hooch is brilliant. Life is brilliant.
“Before you is the equipment for today. There should be one laid out for each of you. Now, what you want to do is hold your hand out to the side, keeping your fingers and thumb separated, and tell it, ‘Up!’ You’ve got to have some conviction about it. No wishy-washiness. They can sense it.”
“Yeah, I bloody well know what a broom is,” one boy scoffs. He looks familiar. Oliver squints and frowns. He seems rude. Oliver knows what a broom is, too. His mum told him to listen to his teachers, though, and there are other people in the class who maybe don’t know what a broom is. And if this kid can just please be quiet they can be done quicker and then everyone can know what a broom is and they can all fly and it’ll be great?
Hooch gives a pointed look. “I’d watch my tone if I were you, Mr. Flint.”
“Well, you’re not,” the boy mutters. Ah. It’s Marcus Flint. Oliver saw him once or twice when he was still in Little League. He might have been nine or so at the time. Their teams didn’t see much of each other, since they live far apart, but from what Oliver remembers, Marcus Flint bugged him back then, as well. He has this sort of energy, like he’s just looking to show off or pick a fight. It’s obnoxious. Just let your abilities speak for themself, and others can decide if you’re any good or not. At least, that’s what Oliver tries to do.
Hooch has opted to politely ignore Flint’s remark and barrels onward, “Now, on three, each of you give it a go. Do not mount your brooms yet. We may get to that once everyone’s got theirs. One, two, three—”
There’s a chorus of “Up!”
Oliver beams with pride when his immediately snaps into his hand on the first try. He got it the fastest out of everyone, although Marcus Flint follows just a split second after. He looks around, trying to pick out who seems like they’ve played before, who seems like they could get good, and who might not be cut out for Quidditch. No, that’s ridiculous. How could you not be cut out for Quidditch?
He’s staring at a small blonde girl who’s trying for the fourth time and getting frustrated. C’mon, he thinks to himself, you can do it! Privately, he’s also confused. It’s really not that hard? Why is it that she can’t—
“Grabbed mine first,” Flint cuts off Oliver’s internal commentary, gloating to another Slytherin boy next to him. And, well, that’s just not true. Oliver can feel his brows furrowing and his face forming into what his mum swears is a pout, but that’s really just how his face gets sometimes.
“Didn’t.”
Flint startles a bit at that, eyes widening and head turning to find who spoke. Then, he squints and his lip curls.
“Say that again.”
Oliver crosses his arms. Fine. He will. ‘Cause he’s right.
“You didn’t. Mine was first.”
Flint marches over and jabs a finger at him, starting, “Look, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re—”
“Marcus Flint!” Hooch shouts, and that’s the end of that. Privately, Oliver thinks he deserves it.
Charlie Weasley zips in and out of Oliver’s view through the aged, ornate window frame. He uses the full expanse of the sky, twirling back, forth, and across. It’s captivating, the way he shifts so naturally. It probably took a lot of practice. Maybe Oliver can practice like that once he makes the team. He should try and learn from Charlie’s form on his turns now. Just because he’s not playing for Gryffindor yet, doesn’t mean he can’t try and get good on his own first. Ah. Charlie’s out of Oliver’s narrow line of sight now. He has to crane his neck as subtly as possible to get a better view. He can’t move too quickly or obviously, lest Professor McGonagall yell at him to pay attention. No matter, switch to a different player. There’s Jonah Mallory’s jagged, sharp movements. They’re compelling for the opposite reason; they’re jerky and startling, like a punch nobody sees coming. It’s probably—
“Oliver Wood!” Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice cuts through the fog he feels in his mind.
“Professor!” He blurts out. A couple of people giggle. He feels his face heating up. Shoot.
McGonagall gives him a withering stare, looking at him over her glasses as she says, drily, “I suggest you at least pretend to focus on the lecture, as opposed to staring out the window to watch a team you are, need I remind you, not involved in.”
Everyone laughs at that. Most, to their credit, at least try to pretend they’re not. One person straight out cackles, which is a bit rude. It wasn’t that funny.
Fact is, Oliver tried to join. He’s got a hunch Marcus Flint did too, since Hooch had muttered, “Not another…” when he poked his head into her office. The whole affair was rather stressful, as he didn’t know where her office even was, and the first time he stopped by she wasn’t there, and really he knew it was presumptuous to even try to get on as a firstie, and all that other stuff. But the thought of getting to play — like, play for real, not like Little League — overrode all that. He wants to be on the side of the glass with the sky, not the one with the textbooks.
So, it’s not his fault. He would also rather not be staring out the window at a team he’s not involved in. He wants to be very involved, very badly.
The spring rain’s finally let up long enough that Marcus can go out in the morning again. Technically, he’s not supposed to go out any morning, but the only person who’s ever seen him out here is Oliver Wood. He’s a massive pain, but Marcus can at least respect his love of the game. They’ve got this unspoken agreement where neither of them is supposed to be here, so neither of them will snitch. Harhar. Snitch. Quidditch. Merlin, it’s early.
Marcus is drilling over and over, trying to get the spin just right on his lefty shot from the far side. Every fuck up adds five to the requirement. He throws it, dives down to where it falls once it goes through the hoop, catches it, throws it again. Throw, dive, catch, again. Throw, dive, catch, again. Throwdivecatchagain.
He falls into that rhythm after a while. There’s a beat to it. Not like the waltzes his parents have lamented his lack of aptitude for since he was four. The drills aren’t holding clammy hands with one of the Rosier girls as they shuffle across the living room floor. The exercise is a drumbeat, reverberating across the pitch. He lets the pulse guide him, swinging him back and forth, until he sees a familiar figure heading up.
Because of course. The universe can’t allow him peace for one bloody morning without unceremoniously dumping Oliver Wood into Marcus’ business. He glares, grumbles, and then throwdivecatch chucks the Quaffle at the boy’s head.
Wood dodges swiftly, using the momentum to spin a bit so he can yell at Marcus’ back as he dives down to retrieve it. “You— What the hell! I haven’t even done anything!” he shouts, and Marcus does not have time for this shit.
“Can you just stick to your side?” he asks as he passes by. It earns him an eyeroll.
“It’s not your pitch,” and the way he says it isn’t a self-important scoff. He’s got such a genuine frown of concern, like Marcus’ behavior is a personal attack on him or something. It’s fucking annoying. It reminds him of a toddler’s face moments before crying about how things aren’t being fair.
Everything has to be difficult with him. Marcus never said it was his pitch (they’re probably both dead if any professors catch them out here), he said that Wood should stick to his own bloody side. So they can be as far away from each other as possible. And Wood can be out of his hair. Merlin. Is he stupid? Marcus wonders why he even asked himself that. Of course Oliver Wood is stupid. Mood worsening, Marcus huffs, “Do you have to be a bitch about everything?”
Wood’s response has upgraded from eyeroll to glare, which is good or bad depending on how Marcus feels. This particular morning, he’s still deciding. Wood jabs a finger at him. “Oh, I’m the bitch here? When you’re acting like a five year old who never learned how to fucking share?”
He’s actually stupid. Marcus is going to throw something, or punch something, or cry. Maybe all three. He’s practically spitting in Wood’s face. It’s absurd that he even has to explain. “I’m saying this is my side, and that’s your side!” he exclaims, with flailing arm motions, “So we each have a side! That’s got to be the most basic concept of sharing! Did you fall off a broom while your brain was forming?!”
Wood furrows his brow, mouth twisting into what isn’t quite a pout, but is definitely close. He squints at Marcus. “Why can’t you just say that?”
Marcus is going to throttle this boy. “I did,” he hisses, and then chucks the Quaffle violently through the center hoop. Or, he tries to, rather.
Wood darts in, grabs it, and tosses it to Marcus, shouting, “Heads!” before making his way across the pitch.
Marcus catches, then winds up his right arm to have a go at him for real, but Wood’s already on the other side, doing. Whatever the fuck it is he does.
He’s still very much sour about Oliver Wood’s general himself-ness, so he glares darkly for the rest of the morning. However, they seem to have come to a silent understanding for the next hour or so, each willing to leave the other to his own devices. They stay as far away from each other as possible (Part of Marcus’ plan! Things go well when people listen to Marcus! Why is everyone stupid!) and don’t say anything else. Marcus switches to his right side, hurling shot after shot at the hoops. Across the pitch, Wood flits back and forth in his peripheral vision, making sharp turns and bold maneuvers. By the time Marcus decides to stop and get ready for lunch, he’s found his rhythm again and feels significantly less homicidal. Although, this could also be because Wood is no longer saying words. Either way, he counts this as a win.
They don’t talk again after that until the middle of July.
Outside of class and hallway encounters, they run into each other maybe three or four other mornings before school lets out. Neither of them speak, though. They just keep to themselves and everyone’s happier that way. Sometimes, Oliver wonders to himself what Flint would think about a certain game or trade. None of the Gryffindor first years seem too interested in Quidditch, although Percy keeps reassuring Oliver that he’s got little brothers who love it, so Oliver can talk to them when they start going to Hogwarts. He’s got half a mind to think he’s just lying so he can study in peace. Oliver also tries to talk to the upperclassmen about the game sometimes. They’re nice enough, but they always seem too busy for him, and their conversations get cut short. It’s a little disappointing. No matter, though.
Now, Oliver’s at camp, where everybody wants to talk about Quidditch. It’s great! Back in winter, for Christmas, his parents got him this bloody wonderful set of little figures you can get to move around on their own, specifically for planning out plays. There are a couple he’s been thinking about on his own that he’ll finally be able to run by other people. Plus, he’s missing the February edition of Which Broomstick? ‘cause apparently some sort of creature (Da thinks it was a ghoul) got into their mail that week. So, anyways, he’s hoping somebody might have it and be willing to lend it. He doesn’t really know anybody yet — there are a couple blokes who look familiar, but only one person he can put a name to.
It’s Oliver who says the first words. He approaches during one of their water breaks on the first day. Privately, Oliver thinks water breaks are unnecessary and suck up precious practice time, but if Coach thinks they’re important, then sure. Anyways, Marcus Flint’s on the second row of the bleachers and, based on how he’s got his head turned far to the side, seems to be trying very hard to pretend they don’t know each other. Which, normally, Oliver would go along with, but he’s got nobody else to talk to, and he’s also rather curious about something.
“Flint!”
No reaction. Oliver climbs over the first row of bleachers, so he’s just a row below, sitting the wrong way round so they’re face to face. Rather, they would be face to face if Flint turned his head. He tries again.
“Flint.”
He’s still looking away when he bites out, “What?”
“You’re trying for Chaser next year?” The answer’s kind of obvious, but Oliver just wants to make sure.
Flint scoffs, then finally faces Oliver and acknowledges his existence, just so he can roll his eyes. “Fucking ‘course I am. What kind of question is that?”
He can feel his own brow furrowing. It’s the kind of question you ask when you’re paying any bloody attention to the competition. He bites his tongue for the moment though, because he can’t piss Flint off before he asks, “You think you’ll get it?”
He answers with a grin, “If Thompson has any clue what the hell he’s doing, then yeah. Yeah, I will.”
Oliver nods. He agrees. Walker’s graduating, plus the blond from their reserves, so that leaves two spots. There are a couple others who might try (Bishop, the skinnier Fisher brother, and shoot, he can’t remember the other two he had written down. No matter.), but none of them are really impressive. In his private opinion, Flint’s spot is just about clinched.
“You’re going for Keeper?”
He looks up, startled. Flint’s gazing up and off to the side, like he didn’t say anything at all. Oliver smiles wide.
“Yeah.”
2.
True to both their words, Wood’s across the pitch from him in front of the hoops for the first game of the season. He seems a bit nervous, but that’s overridden by how bloody happy he looks. It’s kind of gross. Marcus wants to score back-to-back and wipe the enormous grin off his face.
As soon as the whistle blows, Thompson gets possession, because he’s fucking brilliant, and also Gryffindor’s offense wouldn’t know a Quaffle if it hit them in the face. They try to crash in, belatedly, but he just hands it off to Marcus, who heads straight for the hoops. On the way, he shoves into their Beater — He can’t remember her name. The girl one. — and Nymphadora Tonks says something kind of rude in her commentary.
He makes eye contact with Wood. They’re both grinning, but they’re less happy gappy idiot grins, and more wolfish. It’s the start of something brilliant. He just knows it. He can feel the blood in his fingers as he feints, then scores. Wood’s arm shoots out fast, like some sort of ultra-reflexive squid or whatever, but it’s not fast enough.
First goal of the game. Yep. Fucking brilliant.
In the stands, Adrian’s going crazy. Terence hooks an arm around his shoulders and punches him in the side, laughing and saying, “You bastard,” without any heat to it. And Wood—
Wood’s shifting his shoulders, ready for anoth—
The Bludger hits Wood right in the side of his head, and he falls straight down, like rain when it’s coming down in sheets. Weasley dives almost immediately after, catching him maybe two metres off the ground. They both end up on the dirt after that, but it seems like they’re alright. Well, except for the Bludger Wood took to the head.
Then, everything explodes in a fuss of making sure he didn’t die or anything, hauling him off the pitch, and all that other stuff.
Marcus barks out a laugh, but thinks, dimly, that he wishes the Keeper could have stayed on longer. Would have made the win better.
That feeling sets a precedent for the rest of the year. It’s not that Marcus wants to score less against Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. And it’s also not that he’s a shitfaced ball hog who won’t pass when it’s strategic. (Although, by now, he’s probably the second best Chaser Slytherin’s got.) It’s just that it’s really fun to score on Oliver Wood. He gets so annoyed. It’s like throwing rocks at a flock of birds.
Yeah, he thinks, as he boxes Wood out of a dive for a rebound, Five more years of this sounds good.
“Oliver, are you heading home for Christmas?” Percy asks, rolling his socks into neat little balls and placing them in his trunks. They kind of look like a family of marshmallows.
“Yeah,” he nods, “There’s this youth team, the Comets, that’re holding their tryouts in Carlisle over the break.”
“Oh, like a Little League?” Oliver has to stop himself from sighing. Percy is great, but he doesn't get it.
“No— Well, kind of— Not really. They’re one of three in the UK. They play teams from all over, like Norway and stuff. I know Spain has two teams. It’s pretty competitive, I’m not even sure I’ll get in, especially since I haven’t even—”
Percy cuts him off, “I’m sure you’ll get in, Oliver. Anyways, I suggest you start packing now, instead of leaving it for the last minute possible.”
“I’ll get to it,” he says, but knows he probably won’t.
3.
“You can’t be serious,” Flint says, laughing a bit to himself.
Oliver’s had a hard time believing it, too. That he got on. That he’s here. And so is Marcus buggering Flint, for some reason. It’s like the universe wanted to keep him on his toes because things were going too well.
He starts, “Look, Flint—”
“Bloody hell! I can’t even avoid you for the summer!” Flint flails his arms in the air, and then pauses. “Shit, we have to actually play together.”
“That’s how being on a team fucking works,” Oliver says, glaring, “Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you while you’ve been pitching a pretty little fit.”
Flint splutters, “You—”
Oliver barrels over him, “Look. It doesn’t have to be bad. You like to win, I like to win, let’s just leave each other alone and win, yeah?”
He doesn’t put his hand out for a shake, because ew, gross, shaking hands with Flint. He leaves the air open though, waiting for a response.
Flint nods, “Okay. Yeah.”
They manage to fight their way to octofinals before their hopes of winning are snatched from underneath their noses by the Malmö Nightjars’ Seeker, a wiry Swedish lad who’s carried his entire team since 1985. It’s common knowledge that unless they find a replacement soon, the Nightjars are completely and utterly fucked once he graduates out of the league.
Collberg — the Seeker — sits far above them, unmoving, for the first couple of minutes. He seems restless, but barely shifts at all, except to slip away from the Beater marking him. There’s an uneasy tension about the team, with the acute awareness of who’s hovering overhead, but everyone’s still at the top of their game. At a nod from the oldest Chaser, Marcus gets into position, and they score back-to-back, like the Keeper’s barely there at all. It’s the cleanest that play has ever gone and earns them an early lead, before the Quaffle switches possession.
The opposing Chasers, like Marcus, favor rough play and stealing. They’re also complete shite for how far they’ve advanced. Over the past couple of days, Wood’s been playing some of what Marcus would call, privately in his head, the best defense the guy’s ever played. The offense never had a chance, especially not at their level. They shoot once, and the Quaffle’s caught in an airtight save. Normally, there’d be a bit of a celebration over that, but they’re all on edge, because it’s too easy to keep going like this. Oliver Wood’s just made one of the most gorgeous saves of the season, but it doesn’t really matter at all, because everyone’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
As if on cue, Collberg shoots down, like a turd deposited straight from the heavens’ asscheeks, hurtling toward the ground. There’s barely even time to react — dimly, Marcus thinks he sees their Seeker move in his peripheral vision, faster than the rest of them, but not near close to keeping up — before the whistle blows.
The locker room is about as uplifting as a soggy pair of socks. Somebody offers a halfhearted remark about how it’s great they made it this far. A few people offer low-energy agreements, but for the most part the air is deflated and dejected. Nobody seems to want to stick around. After a few moments, the last couple of stragglers walk out, and the room is quiet. There’s only two of them.
“Well,” Marcus breaks the silence, “There goes this year’s cup.”
“You don’t say.” Wood shoves his uniform into his duffel bag like he hopes it suffocates inside. His voice wobbles a bit, and it’s so obvious. He’s always so obvious about how he feels, all the time; it’s a wonder he’s survived this long.
“Come on. Why do you have to get like that?” Marcus doesn’t really mean it at this moment. He feels the same childish indignation. They were fucking robbed. Still, he says it anyway.
Wood doesn’t grant him a response. He acts like he’s busy packing up, which is bullshit because they’re the last two left in the locker room. Marcus lets him sit for a moment, unsure of what to say, or if he can say anything at all without making it worse. Eventually, he breaks the silence, more for himself than for Wood, because the guy might be volatile, but Marcus needs to say it before he combusts.
“You know, I really thought we could have won.”
Wood wipes his nose on the back of his hand and nods.
“‘Course. Fuckin’ know we could have. Next matchup was the Lightning, and considering we’ve got two lefties for Chasers and that’s thrown off their Keeper ever since they moved Mallory to the defensive side, we could beat them ea— well nothing’s easy, but we could beat them. And then—”
Marcus nods, “Denmark for semis, was my guess, and either the Pythons or the Raptors in finals. All bloody excellent teams, but not unbeatable.”
“I— You know— Merlin, it’s just— we didn’t even lose to a team that’s fucking good!” Wood’s really on the verge of tears now, but he continues, “And it’s— what are we even supposed to do about that? Like, if we lost because I tried my bloody hardest but couldn’t stop the Quaffle, yeah, I’d be upset, but I could live with it. If we could look and say, ‘You know, we lost, but we gave them a good fight. It was really close,’ I’d— What is it. I’d chill the fuck out. But it’s—” He finally cuts himself off, staring down angrily at his fists.
Marcus feels a bit like his throat is closing in, so he just nods instead of speaking. He holds an arm out. He’s not entirely sure what for, maybe for a high-five, or a handshake, or a gesture at the world around them, or just to lay a hand on Wood’s shoulder in understanding. It doesn’t matter what Marcus intended anyways, because Wood grabs him in what would be a bear hug, except he’s still shorter and wispier, so his head ends up shoved into Marcus’ shoulder.
For a moment, Marcus stands still, baffled. His reaction should be to push him off violently, but he doesn’t. It might be because he’s also nursing the wounds left by their team’s too early exit from the tournament, but he wraps his arms around, and then they’re stuck like that. What’s happening is not warm comfort, nor is it like coming home. Marcus is holding onto Wood as if handing the refs the remains of his spine will get them into quarterfinals. And honestly, he kind of wishes it would.
They cradle each other forcefully, sealing their anger airtight between the two of them. It’s less of an embrace, and moreso a better alternative to howling or punching or everything else that seems like a good idea right now. They stay like that for a while, not-embracing. Wallowing in bitter defeat and rage.
Wood sniffles quietly and this is when Marcus becomes dully aware of the fact that each of them is smearing his own snot on the other’s clothing. He also feels a fist jabbing over and over into his left thigh, so feelings seem to be mixed. Wood had never struck him as a particularly well-regulated person anyways. Despite how single minded he was, he always seemed volatile — snapping at his teammates then hoisting them on his shoulders, remaining unfazed after being scored on back to back while onlookers holler something about “Your mum’s a troll” or the like, then sulking in the showers for an hour after a scrimmage — one bad game away from breaking down crying or flying into a fit of rage. Then again, Marcus is at least self aware enough to know he’s not much better. Matter of fact, all the sports guys he knows are a bit mental. Certain memories come to mind. A voice wobbling even as the same hands landed blows to his jaw and stomach. Struggling to stay on his broom underneath the force of celebratory smacks on the back that bordered on violent. Shaking — the calm handshake between teams, and the way the shed rattled from the weight of a heavy punch. That’s the way he knows how to play the game; with hormonal children who are off the shits, who everyone is supposed to pretend are normal. Even now, he realizes that on another day, he would have long since flown off the handle at Wood essentially blowing his nose on Marcus’ jumper. There is no consistency, not even in his own behavior.
Unstable. Everyone in this bloody league is completely unstable.
Probably comes from caring so much, he muses silently, as he tries to shove down the hot tears he feels welling up.
The next day, after breakfast, Marcus goes with the group watching the Denmark Daggers’ quarterfinal. Wood glances at him as he leaves, then chooses the group watching the Pythons. They don’t see each other until close to lights-out. Neither of them mention yesterday. Marcus worries, briefly, that it will become one of those things Wood’s got to poke at and be a demanding piece of shit about. He’s wary of the moment where Wood will be annoying and ruin it all, so while he mostly forgets about it, he still stays on guard in case Wood brings it up. But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t, and he doesn’t, and camp ends, and it’s all alright.
“Old man and I aren't close.”
Wood says the words gruffly, sitting cross-legged on the pitch, looking up at the dark sky. Marcus is lying face down, to his left, breathing in the cool grass, praying a maggot doesn’t climb up his nose. It’s cloudy tonight — they stopped flying early, because the visibility was shite, and any charms would risk getting spotted by professors. They don’t usually talk when they’re out together. They usually don’t acknowledge each other at all. Tonight, though, it seemed neither of them was ready to go back in yet, but the hoops were nearly invisible at this point, so they ended up settling on the ground, side by side.
Marcus grunts, “Same.”
There’s a beat of silence after, and it seems like that’s the end of that, until Wood starts again, “Lost interest once everyone figured out I’m too stupid for ministry work. Tried for a bit.”
Marcus grunts again, this time with a bit of air to it, so it’s almost a chuckle, “Same.”
Marcus is wary, because he knows Oliver Wood is always planning — it’s a wonder his head doesn’t explode, with the proportion of thoughts to brainpower.
He plans because he wants to win. He wants to win how Marcus wants to win; enough to cry and scream and punch and yell and get beat up over. He’s pretty sure they’re the only people in this whole damn school who want it so bad. So, maybe he keeps talking because Oliver Wood is the only person for miles who understands what he’s saying.
“I think a lot about going pro,” he says softly, like it’s a confession. It’s not like it’s a secret or anything — probably everyone and their mum could have guessed that. Still, it was always an unspoken assumption, rather than something he’s said out loud, for real. A breeze goes by, and he shivers.
“Me too.” Everyone and their mum probably could have guessed that as well.
“Yeah.”
“It’s tough,” Wood mumbles, picking at the grass, “Hogwarts kids rarely get signed. Charlie probably could have, but he didn’t want to. But even he only got scouted ‘cause one of ‘em happened to drop by Hogmeade on the way to Durmstrang.”
“Durmstrang,” Marcus nods.
“I mean, I love playing here. It’s brilliant. But, it’s the same teams all year, and nobody’s actually serious. Summer league’s our only chance at getting scouted for us, and even then, we’re matched up against kids who are playing other schools, with teams where they have off-season training and stuff, and—”
“Yeah,” Marcus nods, “I think about that a lot.”
They’re quiet for a while after that, just sitting in the cold, faces obscured. He lets the wind prickle against his arms, breathing slow and steady.
“It’ll work out.”
4.
The summer before their fourth year, they each grow into themselves. They’re both still on the shorter side and stocky — Oliver slightly shorter and significantly stockier, and Flint more hulking than portly — but it’s as if they finally fit into their own frames. Oliver’s finally filled out the height that he gained from the back-to-back growth spurts from his tween years, so any residual gangliness and lankiness in his limbs has settled. Flint is intimidating, glowering over most others, despite being average height on a good day.
Oliver figures it’s about time anyways, because they’ve both made captain.
Tryouts brutally chew up, spit out, and stomp on Oliver’s hopes of a new Seeker. It’s so depressing, he almost wants to laugh. Oliver’s always known himself to be ambitious about the learning curve; no matter how inept a player is, there’s always a way to make them get it. He can and will Bludger it into their skull. However, there are only two who even try out — both delicate and nervous-looking second years — a pale, blond boy and an olive-toned brunette girl. The girl (Belmont, he thinks?) falls off her broom immediately, and Oliver is set on cutting her until the boy (Hooper? No point in remembering) gives it a go and somehow outdoes her by getting onto the broom backwards and falling off immediately. It’s concerning, to say the least. The whole spectacle borders on comical at this point. It’s possible to get them to play properly, but he’s already thinking ahead about the amount of time and energy he needs to sink to get them there and if it’s worth it at all to try, or if it’s better spent planning around a useless Seeker.
Merlin, how did he end up with this batch? Can the two kids even be called a batch? Is there nobody better in this school? Sure, Oliver’s tough on his teammates, but he’s not asking for another Charlie — he just wants someone decent enough to give them a fighting chance at the cup.
For a decent while, he genuinely wonders if he could get Katie or one of the twins to play Seeker. They’ve got the best builds for it, and at least they can keep their arses in the air. Ultimately, he decides against it. They’re doomed to have a shite Seeker regardless, so he needs the best possible lineup in every other regard — he can’t afford to waste any of them. He picks Belmont and tries to tell himself it’s not so bad. She’s still got a better shot at grabbing the Snitch than the other kid, or than if there was no Seeker at all.
It starts like most of the others.
Turn the corner in the hall, mean look from Flint, snide comment from the twins, hex from Flint, fists from both sides.
It’s not really clear who hits first. However, Oliver has learned after all these years, that even though Flint’s a piece of shit, unfortunate-looking bug, he can respect him, because he doesn’t think he’s too good to fight with his hands.
After a couple of moments, he has Flint in a headlock with his right arm, the other boy repeatedly bashing his left fist into Oliver’s stomach, trying to break free. Oliver’s groping around with his other hand, trying to grab Flint by the wrist so he can stop trying to force his lunch back out from his guts. Pucey maybe elbows him in the side, but it’s hard to tell if it’s intentional, or because he’s dodging a hex Fred sent his way. Oliver pivots on one foot to swing sideways a bit, and thunks Flint’s head against the wall.
He lets out a yelp of pain, then wriggles a bit, and bites out, “You’re dead. You’re so dead,” before breaking free and giving Oliver a swift right hook to his nose.
George knees Flint hard in the stomach, and he stomps on Oliver’s foot before doubling over coughing.
They play that game for a bit, until a professor - this time Flitwick, finds them, yells at them, and sends them down to Pomfrey.
Oliver’s sitting on the edge of one of the hospital wing beds, the taste of blood still in his mouth. Flint is lying on the bed to his right, each arm hanging off a side, eyes closed and expression calm. Pomfrey catches this out of the corner of her eye and scolds, “You shouldn’t sleep on that head until we know you’re not concussed! I’ll be over in just a moment, hon.”
Flint grumbles something unintelligible, then flops over onto his side and shuts his eyes again.
Oliver looks for a moment, at the gentle rise and fall of Flint’s chest. He’s got what Oliver’s mum would call a severe brow, and the same puck marks he does from acne over the years. His nails are short and jagged, like everything else about the two of them. Oliver feels uncomfortable, as if he’s intruding on something private.
He gets up and walks out, but hears Flint call to him without moving or opening his eyes, “Watch your back, you hear?”
Maybe it’s supposed to sound threatening, but the tiredness has dulled the acidic edge to his voice, so it sounds more like a “Good game, take care” type of tone.
Later, washing the remnants of his nosebleed off over the nearest bathroom sink, the pink-tinged water swirling down and clearing, Oliver grins.
Whatever ended up in his system in that moment — maybe it went down his throat with the blood from his nose — he spits back out the morning of the first Saturday after Halloween. They’ve got a game against Slytherin, and Belmont’s out at the last minute because Flint and Pucey charmed her eyebrows to grow to the floor. She refuses to let anybody see her, and Pomfrey says the removal will take until at least the hour past noon. Oliver doesn’t get why she can’t just get on the bloody broom — it’s what he’d do. It’s ridiculous, frankly. She can just tie her eyebrows back? It won’t affect her play. The whole thing is bewildering to him. But Alicia warns him that Belmont sounded like she’d been crying, so he tries to tamp down his bluntness, crushing it between his teeth as he clenches his jaw instead.
Higgs gets the Snitch within the first 20 minutes. Fred mutters something about slimy, cheating Slytherins, and how if they’d had a Seeker it would have been different, but they all kind of know it’s not true. Flint grins and Oliver doesn’t fucking understand. It’s not like Belmont was a threat anyways. The closest she’s gotten to the Snitch all year is 4 meters. It’s pathetic, to still be kicking his team when they’re already down. Why her and not literally any other player?
The more Oliver simmers silently, thinking about it, the more upset he gets. He’s hunched over on the bench in the locker room, with a murderous expression, hair dripping and hands clasped together, when Flint walks in.
He opens his mouth and starts, “The first—” but Oliver abruptly stands, grabs his bag, and leaves. He doesn’t give a rat’s tit for whatever Flint was about to say.
It’s clear between the two of them that they’re not on speaking terms after that. They’ve silently agreed upon this as if they were ever on what could have been called speaking terms at all.
5.
Oliver’s knee-deep in thoughts of plays very much not based around good Seekers when McGonagall pulls him out of class and practically drops Harry Potter — scrawny limbs, beat-up glasses, mop of black hair — into his lap. Oliver is beside himself - his prayers have been answered. He feels the exemption to the team age-requirement is not entirely unbiased, but he’s also smart enough to know not to mention it.
The kid’s so good, it’s actually kind of stupid. He’s completely clueless, asking stuff about baskingball or whatever the hell it’s called, and Oliver’s going to have to spend a lot of time catching him up. None of that matters, though, because he flies like he’s been doing it for a decade instead of a day, and Gryffindor finally has more than a fighting chance.
Nobody’s supposed to know, yet Marcus Flint barges unceremoniously into the Captains’ office at five in the morning, not even a full two days later, and before Oliver’s even told the twins. His entrance is startling, and Oliver jolts in his seat, messing up the rotation he’s been drawing out.
“What the fuck?” he yelps, which is a perfectly reasonable question in this situation. He’s pretty sure he just pressed his elbow into a giant inkblot.
“What the fuck, you!" Flint jabs a finger at him for emphasis, then scoffs, “A first year? Is Gryffindor that desperate?”
“Mind your own damn business.”
Flint ignores him, unsurprisingly. “Whose bloody arm did you twist? I know both of us tried and failed to get let onto our teams first year and they wouldn’t budge. And that was us." He throws a hand up at the room, gesturing at the stacks of papers, the diagrams, the Captain-ness. Then, he scrunches his face up a little bit, as if suddenly aware of and disgusted by the implication of an ‘us.’ Oliver quirks up the corner of his mouth a bit. He gets it. Flint barrels on, “Now you’re telling me this shithead little kid, knows nothing about Quidditch, is somehow the miraculous exception? Did you fucking poison that old hag?”
“Nobody’s telling you anything,” Oliver replies, tone light. He gives a little half-shrug with one shoulder, like he doesn’t care and isn’t mentally sifting through a list of who the hell could have told Flint (probably Snape?). “And I didn’t twist anybody’s arm.”
It’s the truth, but Flint seems skeptical. He squints and scans Oliver’s face, like he’s digging under his skin for the lie he thinks should be there.
“Whatever, don’t tell me. It’s not so much how you did it, but look. You know this isn’t fair.”
And yeah. Oliver does kind of know it isn’t fair, but neither is most of the shit Flint pulls on and off pitch (he’s still bitter about Belmont’s eyebrows), so he feels bad, but not bad enough to really care. Every time he gets heated about something unfair, he gets told to suck it up. He thinks Flint should suck it up. If he cares so much, he should just train his team to get good enough to beat Harry.
Flint continues, “You probably know our lineup this year. Admit it. If we could have taken the second years last year— If Thompson could have taken me in my first year— Hell, if the Weasley twins had been on with their older brother— I—” he takes a deep breath, then presses his palms together and points them at Oliver. “Look, this is fucking ridiculous, and you know it.”
On one hand, Oliver knows he’d throw a fit if this was the other way around. On the other hand, he likes to win and isn’t stupid enough to throw away this opportunity.
“Take it up with McGonagall if you’re so upset about it,” he shrugs, and okay, yeah, it is a little petty, but who said he wasn’t allowed to be smug?
Flint stands for a moment, then grabs Oliver’s shoulder, pressing his fingers in harsh when he says, “I don’t know how you did it, but you better be fucking careful,” before storming out.
Funny , Marcus thinks, as he grabs the cup, Potter didn’t make a difference in the end .
The kid was passed out the entire final. It was brutal.
There’s a chorus of people singing some sort of chant, Terence is punching him in the arm over and over, which, ow, somebody else has dumped some sort of liquid on his head and it’s running into his eyes, all the air smells like dirt and sweat, and it’s all wonderful.
It’s wonderful, and Marcus can’t imagine doing anything else for the rest of his life.
The two of them lie spread-eagle on the pitch, cheeks ruddy and chests heaving, with enough distance between their arms that they won’t brush hands by accident. Side-by-side like this, Oliver can’t see Flint’s expressions or movements. He can only hear both of them breathe as he looks up at the sky, squinting at the sun’s brilliance.
“Who’ve you got your eye on with the incoming second years?” He drums his fingers against the earth, mentally arranging available players with open vacancies. He could probably figure it out on his own anyways; he understands Flint’s sense of strategy well enough, and there are only so many kids in this school. Matter of fact, he doesn’t really need to be here at all — could be running plays with his set of minis back in his dorm, could be putting the gear back in the shed, could be checking for updates on the Harpies Keeper (he reckons they’re trading her to the Falcons, even though team PR denies it), could be catching up on two weeks of Divination homework, could be staying the right hell away from Marcus Flint. Instead, Oliver’s here, grass itching against the section of his neck that’s not covered by his robes, wrist starting to ache from the rate he’s tapping his fingers on the ground, the air filled with the silence left in the wake of his question.
“Looking for a new Seeker,” Flint starts slowly. Oliver stills and takes in a breath. The thought had crossed his mind, but Higgs honestly wasn’t the worst part of the Slytherin team (probably Bletchley’s atrocious Keeping, but then again he might be disproportionately critical in that department) — he can’t imagine why he would be replaced, or with whom. Apparently one of the Greengrass girls can fly but refuses to, there are a couple of troll-looking oafs, and there’s—
“No bloody way!” Oliver yelps and then reaches out, as if to smack Flint but again, they’re a ways apart, so his hand just hits the ground with a hefty thump.
“What?” Flint sounds annoyed, “Terence said he’s getting busy ‘cause of stuff with his parents,” and come on. Oliver doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Terence Higgs (well, he does, a little, since he won Slytherin their matches) — he cares about really the only option he could be replaced with.
“The Malfoy brat?! But you hate him!” Greasy little brat. Says the nastiest shite about Muggle-borns and the Weasleys and everyone else under the sun, then cries when anyone retaliates, so then half of Oliver’s goddamn team is missing practice for detention. Why does he have to parade about in a way that affects Oliver’s team?! Why can’t he keep his slimy, dainty hands away from the sport Oliver loves? It’s maddening.
A heavy sigh from beside him confirms his guess. There’s a moment of tense silence, and he thinks Flint’s pissed and going to leave, but instead he just sounds resigned when he explains. “He’ll at least practice over summer, and his workload’s way lighter than Terence’s is gonna be.”
“But you hate him,” Oliver repeats. Flint probably can’t say it, because they’re in the same house, but that’s fine — Oliver can say it for both of them. The kid is insufferable. Flint sighs again.
“There’s politics to it.” The words are clipped and have a taut feel to them, like a string stretched to its far ends. Oliver wants to turn, to see Flint’s face, but something about the idea fills him with dread, as if it’s an Orpheus-esque setup and as soon as he fixes his eyes on something other than the arrangement of the clouds, he’ll fall, violently, out of this moment. He glances quickly anyways (he’s never been a person with the restraint to let things be) — sees the tight lock of Flint’s jaw, the furrow of his brow, and the way his eyes jump from the sky to the side away from Oliver, like he’s trying to hide. There’s something telling about it.
“Oh, I get it. There’s some tight-arsed, inbred family bullshit—”
“Wood, just leave it,” Flint bites, and there’s a decent amount of heat behind it, as if he has the right to indignation.
“No, I don’t think I will. There’s some bullshit — like, what, his douchebag father offers a bunch of money, says his prized pile of dung better be starting or else he’ll get his cousin’s stepmom’s goddaughter to disinherit your third cousin, and take your Da’s seat in the Department of— of— of Unnecessary Departments at the Ministry. So, you take out a perfectly acceptable player — well, that’s high praise for Higgs — you take out a nearly alright player, subject yourself to an eternity of miserable practices with a— a little slug even slimier and stupider than the rest of your team, sacrificing performance, sacrificing the game for—”
“Just fucking leave it," Flint snaps. Then mutters, “Not like you’ve ever had to carry this shit.”
6.
Oliver sets his jaw and fights back the pit of nausea rising in his stomach. Gryffindor courage has never felt more like sheer idiocy. “Can I kiss you?”
Flint doesn’t move for a moment, just stares. Then he twists his expression and frowns off to the side. Sighs. “Does it have to mean anything?”
Years ago, Oliver would have fought back, saying, Of course it does, dipshit. Because how can something mean nothing at all? Now, though, he pushes that urge to the side, because either way, what Flint’s asking means they’re on around the same page. So, he shrugs in an Oh, what the hell sort of way, and says, “Guess not,” before he huffs a small chuckle and leans in. After that, there aren’t many words between the two of them.
“You know, you’re not as subtle as you think you are,” Percy announces primly as they walk back from Honeydukes.
“Don’t know what you’re on about,” Oliver says, even though he has a pretty good guess.
“Well, that’s concerning, as I was holding out hope that you at least knew what you were doing,” he sniffs, and. Look. Things with Percy are nice. They’ve got this setup where Percy gives him a fighting chance in Potions and Transfiguration and wakes him up on time, while Oliver tags along for all the stuff Percy’s too scared to do alone and shoves people who give him shit. And they both talk sense into each other when one of them gets too in his head about what he’s good at. It’s been that way since their first year, and it’ll hopefully be that way until they graduate.
It’s just that sometimes, Percy hovers around like a ginormous, loquacious, smug, overbearing beetle evolved to tell Oliver when it thinks he’s making decisions that are ‘ill-advised, brash, and irresponsible.’ It probably comes from some well-intentioned part of his big, buzzing beetle heart, but that doesn’t change that half the time, it makes Oliver want to throw him into a trunk with a muffling charm on it.
“I mean, I do understand that I may be overly optimistic in my expectation of your critical thinking skills, but I am, nonetheless, still holding onto my pipe dream that you might, for once, exhibit any semblance of sense or at least discretion.”
Now is one of those times.
Oliver tilts his head back a bit so he can see more of the sky. He focuses on the feel of the ground through his boots, thinking about air visibility and wind speed as Percy prattles on in his right ear.
Quidditch is cancelled. Marcus wants to kill himself. Just let the Basilisk fucking get him. There’s no point anymore.
“Why the hell would it attack a Pureblood,” Miles mutters from the bunk across, hunched over Arithmancy homework. The remark hasn’t got much force behind it at this point, since this might be the fourth time they’ve had this conversation.
Marcus groans and then punches his mattress repeatedly.
Adrian sighs, then halfheartedly offers, “Chin up. Think about how much Oliver Wood’s probably been crying about it.”
It’s an understandable mistake on Adrian’s part, caused by his honest misconception that Marcus is a relatively well-adjusted person who makes decisions that can be in any way considered reasonable. Unfortunately, Marcus appears to be the victim of some sort of brain-eating fungus that incapacitates all mental function, because in the 3rd floor supply cabinet during Tuesday’s lunch, he made out with Oliver Wood for probably the fifth time. Merlin. The whole thing’s batshit, and he has no clue how or why it happened. Well, he does have some clues. He could probably sit down and parse things out and figure out exactly when he became the exact type of stupid that runs off to supply cabinets with poorly emotionally regulated brunets. Thinking about it too long makes him kind of nauseous, though, so he’s been ignoring it all. But now, since he’s apparently utterly deranged, instead of ‘chinning up,’ he’s once again thinking about how he’s fooling around with Oliver broomstick-stuck-up-his-arse Wood. For some reason.
It’s all ridiculous. No Quidditch. No practice. Oliver bloody Wood. Marcus feels a bit like throwing up. Or going to find Wood again. Oh, bollocks. No Quidditch. What the hell. See, the kicker is that they’re both pretty ugly, in Marcus’ opinion. Shit. Bugger. Fuck. Merlin. Marcus accidentally slams his arm into the wall, before turning on his side for a nap.
There’s got to be something deeply wrong with him.
Oliver thunks his head against a particularly large textbook before laying his cheek down on the tabletop and muttering, “If I don’t show up to class on Thursday, it’s Snape’s fault.”
Flint frowns. “What?”
He flops his arm halfheartedly at the strip of parchment. “Essay.”
Flint’s frown becomes frownier. “For Potions?”
Oliver rolls his eyes. “No, he’s recently decided to transfer to Divination.”
Flint brushes over the sarcastic response. His eyebrows look like they’re attempting to form a beautiful union together. “Do I also have this?”
Oliver thinks he can feel his face melting into the table. “We’re in the same class.”
“Right. Fuck.”
What he gets in response is a sympathetic nod, except Oliver’s face is still on the table, so it’s closer to a strange wiggle. They sigh in unison and then it’s silent for a bit, save for Flint rummaging around his bag before, “What’s the prompt?”
Great question. What is the prompt? Truly. “Uh. Something cauldron heat circumvent— circulation. I think.”
“Oh. My favorite.”
“Yeah?”
“‘Course. I’m always on about cauldron— cauldron certifi— Motherfuck.”
“‘Course,” Oliver agrees, and that’s the last thing he says before he’s out like a light.
He wakes up when Flint forcefully kicks him in the shin. The light hurts his eyes for a second before they focus again. He peels his face off the table, noting that it’s probably got a pink mark left from being there for however long he was asleep. He can also see a bit of drool on one of his pieces of parchment, which is kind of gross. But he figures nothing he’d written earlier was really that much better before it got slobbered on.
By the time he’s gotten his bearings, Flint’s already at the doorway. He huffs, “Later, Wood,” and then he’s gone. Oliver presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and cracks his neck before packing up.
Marcus heads over to the pitch after shoving most of his belongings into his trunk. He frowns a little bit recalling the process; there had been seven distinct socks with no partner, and some fifth year’s secret pet newts had been loose through the dorms the whole time. It’s not that Marcus is a squeamish person, the newts were just armed with the element of surprise when they chose to appear. Really, he feels a bit bad for the little buggers. When they were born, they probably didn’t want to be cooped up in an odd-smelling trunk. Maybe they dreamed of cool shit. Like the open sky above the pitch. Or grass. Like on the pitch. Merlin, Marcus loves the outdoors. Mainly just the pitch. It’s like a second home by now, and he stands, taking in the air and feel of it for what’s probably the last time, at least for a few months. Wood is there too; from the looks of it, he was just leaving. After almost the entire school year, it’s still not remotely clear what the hell the two of them have been doing the whole time, and he’s actually not in the mood to taste Wood’s spit right now, so Plan A is to walk by, avoid eye contact, and pretend they don’t see each other.
“Hey, Flint. Are you doing league this summer?” Well. So much for Plan A. Generally Plan B is to act openly hostile, but Marcus has noticed that the more time they spend obnoxiously Frenching each other like the couple in that one series his mum pretends she doesn’t read (the one with the Veela and the widowed baron), the more irrelevant Plan B becomes. It still plays a role around other students, but there’s nobody in eyesight and Marcus doesn’t really have the energy to yell. He tilts his chin a little, his own way of saying he heard.
“Yeah. First session.”
Wood’s stopped to face him now, arms crossed, “You’re not staying for the second?”
“Can’t. Old man set up some ministry rubbish.” Why is he even saying this?
“Ah,” Wood frowns, then tilts his head and asks, “Why?” Exactly. As in, why don’t you just go away? As in, why are we still talking? As in, why’d you cry a bit when you pulled us into the broom shed last week? Fuck. Marcus jolts in a startled sort of way, like when Adrian tells him something in the middle of the night from the top bunk. This shit always sneaks up on him.
“Still holding onto hope that I’ll decide I want to ‘preserve the family legacy.’” Marcus would, frankly, rather eat his own foot than ‘preserve the family legacy.’
Wood just frowns more. “Isn’t that rough with scouting?”
The brief moment of— of whatever is gone, and Marcus doesn’t want to talk anymore. He hunches his shoulders and glares. Of fucking course it’s rough with scouting. It’s things like this that make him remember why he’s never liked Oliver Wood. Because he asks stupid questions, like this one, with obvious answers. And then Marcus always ends up thinking about stuff he’s trying not to think about. He used to think it was on purpose, but at this point he’s truly considering the idea that Wood might just be dumb. Everything’s salt in the wound with the two of them. So he bites out, “What do you think, dipshit?”
Wood scoffs, “Easy, mate, it was just a question.”
Marcus is no longer feeling peaceful. This is familiar. He knows how to play this game together. “Yeah, well it was a dumb question.”
“Why don’t you fight him on it?” Wood presses. Again, with the stupid questions. Marcus would laugh a little, if he could better regulate the anger he can feel rising in his chest.
“You don’t think I tried? He—”
“Try harder,” Wood snaps, and steps into Marcus’ space. He’s spitting a little when he says, “If you don’t give enough of a shit about the game to challenge your pretentious dick of a dad, you wouldn’t have earned any offers anyways.”
Oliver Wood always hits where it hurts. Part of Marcus jumps to bite back because how dare question his commitment to the game. How dare he doubt how much he cares about his literal only interest for his entire miserable life. How dare he suggest, that after summers and summers of league, after hours and hours of extra practice, after battles and battles for the House Cup, that Marcus doesn’t give a shit.
However, there’s another, more subdued part of him that he’s been trying to ignore forever — something he was doing just fine, thank you very much before Wood poked at it. This part wonders if it’s really an option to go pro. Only the big shots get paid big money. Hogwarts isn’t a Quidditch school — they don’t even play with other academies, he’s getting no new exposure, already a step behind players his age from places like Durmstrang. And his whole life, it’s just been Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch. Merlin knows he’s already demonstrated his lack of ability for dancing, accounting, negotiating, and many other things his parents have had him try over the years. If he keeps going as is and a pro career doesn’t work out, he doesn’t have anything to fall back on. He doesn’t usually think about stuff like ‘safety apprenticeship’ and ‘keeping your options open’ — he generally tries not to think at all, when possible. But here comes Oliver bloody Wood again, dredging up the nasty gunk Marcus thought he had buried properly.
“Say that again,” Marcus dares. Wood juts his jaw forward, petty and defiant.
Marcus grabs Wood’s chin and jerks his head to the side, repeating murderously, “Say that again, and you’re gonna— Ow, fuck!”
Wood lunges forward and snaps his teeth, deciding what he’s gonna do is try and bite Marcus’ fucking thumb off.
“What the hell!” Marcus shrieks, in a voice a little too high for his liking. He feels the last flicker of self-restraint leave his body as he swings his fist at Wood’s face.
7.
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fif—
“Shit,” Marcus mutters under his breath. He’s trying to find— Come to think of it, he forgot the guy’s name. He’s trying to find somebody’s file in this horrific flood of files, and he’s lost his place for the third time while counting. Since it’s hols, he can’t even use a charm to find it. The whole affair’s been just this. Not this specific file, but this frustrated, file-finding feeling. The air in here’s always just a bit too cold, so his hands are always clammy. His tie always feels a bit too tight ‘round his neck, but when he tries to do it looser, Father catches him before he leaves and redoes it. Everybody here is dull, mean, or both. Forget when they cancelled Quidditch — this whole place makes Marcus want to light himself on fire.
Sometimes, people ask him if he’s scared; of flying upside down, split-second turns, the Bludgers, the idea of falling. He’s not. It’s the idea of doing this shit for the rest of his life that really makes his blood run cold.
The first game of the season was actual shit. It wasn't fun, or fair, and as soon as Oliver gets to the lockers, he punches Flint in the gut and promptly heads over to the shower to cry.
It's a Sunday afternoon in November, the scent from some obnoxiously strong herbal candles on the centre table wafting up throughout the dorm. Marcus sits, probably smelling bad, even with the candles' help, still yet to shower, one leg hooked over the side of the Common room armchair. Adrian’s on the floor, leaning against the other side. There’s a rustle as he tilts his head up, although Marcus still can’t see his full face from this angle.
“Hey, man,” he starts, and his tone is less sharp than usual. It’s almost hesitant. Marcus is suspicious.
He grunts once, not deigning to respond with words.
“D’you have plans for after Hogwarts?” Sign with the best team he can, move the fuck out, play hard, break shit, and see how far that can get him before a Bludger takes him out for good. Once he’s out, he’ll coach until nobody will let him and then die or whatever.
“Uh. Quidditch, I guess.”
Adrian nods. “Figures.”
Then, after a moment, he backtracks, “Any other options?”
Marcus sits for a moment. No, there’s no other fucking option. He’s absolutely certain anything else would make him miserable. Even if he doesn’t get scouted — shit, he shouldn’t think it into existence. Shit. No, there’s no way nobody will scout him. Well, but if — shut the fuck up, can’t think like that. Even if. If. Even if then, he’ll still try for some community or rec team and hopefully get picked up by at least Minors that way. He can’t waste away, Quidditchless, behind some horrid desk. He’s got barely any semblance of skill in other departments. He can feel his heart beating faster than normal. He really has to do this. It is seriously, completely, Quidditch or bust.
He hums in the back of his throat, eyes closed, “Not really, no.”
Flint’s back makes a dull thud against the wall of the locker room, and Oliver can feel his shoulder bone firm beneath his palm. It’s hateful, the way they push and grab at each other. After Flint pulls him forward particularly violently, Oliver mutters between heaving breaths, “Fuck. I don’t even like you.”
Both of them laugh a bit at that, and he can feel the rumble in Flint’s chest when he replies, “Yep. Same.” Then he adds, “And neither of us is cute, either,” before making what seems to be his best attempt to eat Oliver’s shoulder.
He’s not wrong.
“Gross,” Oliver says, but he could be referring to anything and everything at this point. Like the way his own sweaty bangs sit on his brow and make him look trollish. Or the residual locker room stench that’s fought back against centuries of cleaning spells. Or the fact that Flint’s crooked teeth are on his skin. Or the way it’s the two of them here and not literally any other combination of students in this ridiculous school. Or the pile of dirty clothes in the corner that belong to neither of them. Or the way his hand is cradling the back of Flint’s neck.
“Fucking disgusting,” Flint agrees, before kissing Oliver again.
Marcus stares at the parchment. He’s almost giddy with relief, letting it wash over him. Even though in his head he knew he had to have clinched at least one team, that wasn’t enough to stop months of random moments of anxiety about what if seriously nobody will take him. Getting scouted, even for Minors, is a feat in and of itself with this bloody school. At least now he knows he’ll be somewhere. He’ll be playing Quidditch somewhere.
He laughs a little. Merlin’s balls. He’ll be playing Quidditch somewhere. Not just ‘somewhere.’ In fucking Spain. Professionally. For money. In a real fucking league. No need for a contingency plan anymore — which is good, because he never had one in the first place — he just has to make sure he graduates (although Transfiguration is making it look a bit dicey), and then he’ll be free.
Bloody hell.
He’ll be free.
Oliver turns the letter over in his hands, still in a state of shock. Appleby are shite, but they’re real league, which is a miracle considering how Hogwarts kids match up against the rest of the Quidditch pool, so he’s not complaining. He had run out of the Great Hall when he got the owl, and then proceeded to bawl his eyes out because holy shit, it finally happened. Even if they’re the worst in the Prem, he’ll get to play the absolute best players there are. He thinks he could find a way to be at peace being scored on if it was by the Harpies’ offense. Holy shit. Imagine stopping the Harpies’ offense.
He practically falls out of bed, before scrambling over to grab his well-loved set of players.
Percy laughs, looking up from his book, “Congratulations again, Oliver. I’m sure you’re excited.”
“Thanks, Perce. You’ve got no idea. I’m— what’s the— I’m ecstatic. It’ll be all these brilliant players, so much beautiful Quidditch, and no blasted Potions class. No class at all, actually.”
Percy frowns at that, and when he opens his mouth, Oliver guesses he won’t like what’ll come out. Granted, it’s been like that most of the time with Percy, lately. N.E.W.T.s have driven everyone mental, but especially him. His natural state was already so high strung, this whole year has only made him jumpier, wedging the stick further up his arse. That’s probably why he decides to ask something asinine like, “Don’t you think you at least ought to keep your options open?” Probably. Oliver isn’t too sure. He wasn’t listening in the first place.
He’s getting pretty fucking sick of people asking him about playing it safe. Sick of all the talk about what he’s going to do after Quidditch. As if it’s a hobby, and not the game he’s been breathing day in and out the entire time they’ve known him. Sick of people who don’t take it seriously.
Just about ready to explode out of his skin, he hops to his feet, mumbles something like, “I’ll see you later, Perce,” and heads out to the pitch.
Oliver’s been checking the Owlery at the end of meals for a while now, for any last-minute updates. The twins say it makes him seem a bit mad, but they don’t understand. He keeps going in, but as decision dates get closer, Appleby solidifies in his mind. Frankly, it’s a bit of a miracle he got on in the first place — he figures it’s not like he’s going to get a spot anywhere better without the work of Merlin or some otherworldly force. He holds out a bit longer, but he needs to decide by New Year’s and the owl takes a bit of time, so midway through December, he figures he might as well get it over with. He holds tightly to the sheets of yes-no-maybe as he marches over.
He’s not alone.
“The hell are you doing here?”
Flint just stares at him, expression blank. “Mailing a letter.”
Oliver frowns. He’s not exactly the type to write home. His instinct is to figure Flint’s there for the same reason, but who is he to assume anything? He wants to ask, but also wants to kick himself for caring in the first place. The guy can drop out and become a full-time cake decorator for all he cares. Oh, but he does. He’s nosy; wants to know if Flint’s committing to the sport, where his options are, where he’s headed. Still, the letter could be anything. Could be a bloody paper airplane for all he knows. No matter. He must be making some kind of face, because Flint sighs and looks so annoyed he’s just flat-out glaring.
“Decisions in.” ‘Course. Fucking knew it. Flint keeps things short and curt, as if he’s trying to figure out how to maintain as little conversation as possible. Which is generally the case, but today he’s also speaking unprompted, so now Oliver doesn’t know. Either way, Flint’s minimalist approach to the English language means it’s hardly in the word budget to tack on 'What the fuck else would it be?’ or ‘Like you don’t fucking know’ to the end, but Oliver gets the point. Still, it seems like he’s caught Flint at a relatively good time. He doesn’t seem angry, just bothered and tired like every other sorry kid in their year. Oliver guesses it’s probably safe to engage, then.
“Right. Same.” Concise. Eloquent. Wordsmiths, the two of them.
Flint gives a nod of acknowledgement and eyes the papers in Oliver’s hand before scanning his face.
“Where?”
“Appleby reserve,” He knows Flint knows who Appleby are, so he doesn’t elaborate — still, it feels like he should say something else, so then he adds, “Keeper,” as if there was a chance they signed him as a bloody Chaser.
Flint rolls his eyes, “Well, duh.” Then turns his head to the side to look him in the eyes and adds, softer, “That’s big.” Oliver figures that’s as close to ‘Congrats’ that either of them’ll get. He’s not accustomed to this; he doesn’t know how to respond to the compliment.
Half uncomfortable and hoping to move on, half genuinely curious, he asks, “You?”
“The Torches. Madrid.” He doesn’t add Chaser, but what the hell else would it be. One of the best teams in Minors. They’re constantly snatching other teams’ good players, and the big league is constantly snatching theirs. The Chasers in particular get shuffled around like a deck of cards.
“Don’t get attached,” Oliver warns. Again, they’re not meant for ‘congrats,’ but it will do. After all, they’re being civil, not rewriting their personal history.
Flint snorts. “Yeah. Said something like that in the letter.” A bit forward, considering they supposedly want or like him. It’s at least a little funny, but probably not much more. Still, Oliver’s not really seen anything humorous as of late, so suddenly it’s comedy gold.
He gives a harsh bark of laughter and twists his lips like he’s almost smiling, punching Flint in the shoulder. “‘S good. You’re an asset.”
Flint shoves him back and grins. “Yeah, fucking ‘course I am.”
Exams are over.
Marcus has always been more of an in the moment sort of person. It’s easiest to experience life as it happens, instead of skipping backward, forward, then back again and tripping over his own brain. Today, however, he’s being sure to remind himself to savor this feeling just so he can reminisce on it years later and remember how bloody happy he is right now.
Thank fuck. Never getting asked about the stirring pattern for Wiggenweld ever again. Thank fuck. Never getting asked about the Goblin Treaty of 1284 ever again. Thank fuck. Never getting asked about the organ alignment for a mid-stage teapot to rabbit Transfiguration ever again. Thank fuck. Never getting asked about four-layered Charm arrays ever again. Thank fuck. No more bloody tea leaves! Joy.
Marcus wonders, dimly, as he steps onto the pitch, if this feeling might be what it’s all about.
Course, it doesn’t matter, because Oliver bloody Wood’s shown up and now any sort of beautiful, emotionally intelligent moment has been choked off. Another day, Marcus might tell him to piss off and maybe call him a wanker, but he’s in a good mood so he just rolls his eyes, nods, and dawdles a bit as he gets set up, so Wood can catch up and take off at the same time.
They make it a couple meters above the hoops before Wood slows down and says, “Probably don’t want to be seen up.”
Marcus is about to agree, but then remembers it’s basically over (No more tea leaves! Joy!) and shrugs. “Fuck are they gonna do?”
Wood’s eyes widen a bit, like he’d forgotten for a bit as well. “Hm. Right.”
They don’t say anything as they make their way up. Just ascend side-by-side, watching the ground below shrink slowly. It’s peaceful, like this. Seeing progress, but not rushing it. Together, but no pressure to talk. A comfortable silence accented by passing birds and the whistling wind nipping the tips of his nose and fingers.
“So, I’m thinking over this play,” Wood starts. Pauses. Waits for Marcus to fill up the empty silence, like it’s his job or something. At least one of them’s stupid here, because Marcus doesn’t get why Wood needs to be prompted to prattle on about Quidditch. It’s all he fucking does regardless. No need for Marcus to enable him. Yet still, Wood leaves the air open, carving out a space for Marcus’ voice to slot into. It’s all stupid. It’s all so very stupid, and he doesn’t get it. So Wood’s stupid, or he’s stupid, or they’re both stupid.
He turns his head in acknowledgement, but refuses eye contact. Mutters, “Yeah?” and figures they’re probably each the biggest twats to have ever hauled their arses onto a broom.
“Kind of wonder what would happen if the Seeker was used as bait — like, bring ‘em down below hoop level when there’s nothing there, then deflect a sent Bludger up, take out the Keeper? Or the opposing Seeker, if they followed…” His brows are furrowed, nose scrunched up and mouth twisted to the side, like he’s actually thinking hard about it. It’s a wonder smoke doesn’t start coming out of his ears. Marcus kind of wants to punch him. Wants to crush Oliver Wood’s scrunched up face in his hand and watch it crumble down like the butterfly wings that get ground up for Potions.
It’s asinine. There’s so much logistically wrong with this concept, it’s almost overwhelming. Marcus scoffs, “Like you have the guts to carry that out. Thought your lot was all too good for foul play.”
“Right,” Wood nods. Then, he says, cheerily, “Good man!” and rams his shoulder into Marcus, shoving him off his broom and into the lake.
Yeah, he thinks to himself as he falls, wind hissing against his body, this is probably what it’s all about.