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Oliver doesn’t like to talk about why he’s not playing quidditch anymore. It’s really not anyone’s business. His parents and his closest friends know why, of course, but that’s about as far as his trust goes. He’s had his shop, The Pitch, for five years now and he got to play quidditch professionally for ten years, so it’s fine. He’s fine.
He’s thirty-two and lives in the flat above his shop. It’s not the largest flat and he could probably afford something more grand, but Oliver prefers it that way. He likes that he has a view of Diagon Alley from his living room. He likes the way his building leans a little to the left, strongly supported by the Junk Shop; that his walls are a bit quirky and slanted doesn’t bother him. He still wakes up around six; a habit he’s never shaken from his days as a quidditch player, and he spends the first few hours of the day reading, occasionally opting for a morning walk through Diagon Alley.
In the five years of shopkeeping, Oliver’s fame has luckily disappeared and it’s no longer crazy fans and barmy witches that occupy his shop. No, now it’s the true quidditch fans—the ones that don’t just need a pair of keeper gloves, but a pair that is handcrafted and everlasting. Oliver prides himself on his knowledge, on his rare assortment, on the first edition books and all the collector’s items he’s acquired over the years.
The actual revenue of the shop doesn’t matter much to him anyway—he’s got money. It’s not like he ever had time to spend the ridiculous amounts of Galleons he was paid back in the day, and even now, five years later, his Gringotts vault seems just as full.
Somewhere along the way, he hires Neville Longbottom. Neville doesn’t know much about quidditch, but he’s eager to learn. Oliver hasn’t asked why Neville dropped out of his herbology studies, but he hasn’t failed to notice how the younger man always looks so bloody nervous all the time. His great courage during the Battle of Hogwarts appears to have evaporated into thin air. He’s still pleasant to have around though, always polite and always with a gentle smile for the children that occasionally come in the shop. If Oliver’s being honest with himself, having Neville around is mostly about company, now that George and Angelina have their hands full with little Fred and Roxanne. Katie’s still in the big leagues, somewhere in France. Alicia’s never said what she does for a living, but Oliver’s certain she’s an Unspeakable.
Oliver loves his life as it is. He loves keeping a shop. He never thought he’d be a shopkeeper, striking up conversations with complete strangers, but now as he’s explaining to the young Appleby reserve keeper, Michael Hall, about the latest quidditch health book, he’s happy, he’s at ease.
“Huh,” the boy says and Oliver smiles at his lack of knowledge. He had been young once too, ignorant and unknowing of the strains of quidditch, of the toll it takes on the body.
“Tell you what,” Oliver begins, “I think you should get the book and come back for a chat. When I played for Puddlemere, no one told me that the Double Eight Loop was dangerous. Did you know that in 1932, the great Merwyn Finwick sustained mental injuries due to looping too fast? He spent six weeks in St. Mungo’s!”
The boy nods with wide eyes and hands him a pouch of Galleons wordlessly, most likely too frightened by Oliver’s extensive knowledge.
Oliver wraps the book with practiced movements, making sure the corners are neatly lined up, and comes around the counter to hand it over to Hall. “There you go.”
“Thanks, Wood,” Halls says, and then he squares his shoulders and more firmly states, “I’ll make sure to tell my coach about this.”
“You do that,” Oliver nods and waves him off.
A couple of days later, a handsome gentleman comes into the shop. Neville’s down in the basement fiddling with some old snitches, so Oliver begrudgingly makes his way around the counter to greet the man.
It’s not that Oliver minds, but he tends to send the attractive men towards Neville. He hasn’t had much luck in the romance department and at his current age, he feels it’s better to repress it. It’s not fun trying anything physical when his old injuries start acting up anyway. So he steers clear, usually. Avoids the hassle of talking to handsome strangers, avoids the promise of heartbreak.
“Oliver Wood, as I live and breathe,” the dark skinned man says with a charming smile and Oliver finds himself squirming under his intense gaze. He’s well-dressed; his robes are silk lined in a deep burgundy and while Oliver’s never been one to keep up with fashion, he finds himself envious of the luxurious robes.
He’s not sure who the man is or why he knows his name, but then again, he might be a fan, Oliver supposes. A very attractive fan with high cheekbones and full lips. His eyes are almond shaped and awfully intense, honey-coloured and golden, and Oliver didn’t know people could actually look like that. The man would do well on the cover of Witch Weekly.
“Oliver, do you—” And it seems Neville thinks the same because he stands on the basement stairs frozen and abashedly stares at the man. “Zabini?” he exclaims loudly and then instantly smacks a hand over his mouth as if he’s embarrassed by his own outburst.
Oliver remembers the Slytherin now, although very vaguely.
“Hi Longbottom,” Zabini practically purrs and completely disregards Oliver to make his way to the counter. He provocatively leans over the counter and very obviously gives Neville a once-over, his eyes trailing slowly down Neville’s form.
Oliver isn’t sure why the man seems so taken with Neville at first sight. While he cares deeply for the former herbologist, he’s not much of a looker or particularly good with people. Neville leans more to the adorable side. He’s a bit soft around the middle and wears awful sweater vests and all his clothes seem to be some horrid shade of brown or grey. He does have the kindest eyes Oliver’s ever seen however, and though his face is a bit pudgy, his smile is affectionate and bright.
“Oh, this is just perfect,” Zabini laughs low and deep. Oliver narrows his brows in response. Zabini’s flirting is borderline mocking now and it doesn’t sit well with him. Neville on the other hand, watches the Slytherin warily.
Oliver doesn’t know much about Blaise Zabini, but he knows that he must have gone to Hogwarts in the same year as Neville. He vaguely recollects his later Hogwarts years, but Zabini wasn’t on the Slytherin team, so he has no way of knowing anything really.
“What’s so perfect?” Oliver asks with a raised brow.
“Just worried that our neighbours would be of the boring kind, but this is good. This, I can work with,” Zabini’s deep voice seems to get even deeper and Oliver feels like there’s something he’s not quite picking up on.
“You’re buying the shop next door then?” Oliver asks without preamble.
“Yes, my associate and I are opening a tattoo shop,” Blaise winks, “can’t wait to get started. All those naked bodies, ready for my experienced hands on them. Want to be my first client, Longbottom?”
Neville appears to choke on air and Oliver still feels a bit left out.
“Do you want anything, Zabini?” Oliver cuts in, “otherwise, I have to make you leave my shop. Can’t have you flirt with poor Neville during working hours.” It’s not really the real reason. It’s more that Oliver feels a bit like in his seventh year, when everyone around him had been snogging in dark corners of Hogwarts, going to Madam Puddifoot’s and all that faff. Back then, he had never quite gotten it; he’d never spared the time for it.
Now, much later, he’s had a few romances. All were brief—Oliver never quite got the hang of opening up, losing his walls. Oliver’s always struggled with the intimacy of relationships. Back then quidditch had always come first and now, five years into his shopkeeping venture, he’s come a long way. He’s more practiced with strangers and the polite pleasantries of making a sale, but the flirting—
He’s not good at flirting.
Unlike Blaise Zabini who’s now blowing a kiss in Neville’s direction. “Always a pleasure, Longbottom. Wood, good to see you again.” He nods in Oliver’s direction, before he dramatically swirls on his heels and leaves the shop.
They both stand in silence for a good three minutes before Neville clears his throat. “Well, he hasn’t changed much.”
“Were you close?” Oliver asks because it sure had seemed that way.
Neville laughs loudly, a bit bitterly too, before he walks down the stairs again, leaving Oliver to make his own conclusions.
The day the new owners move in next door, there’s a bit of a commotion happening outside. Oliver can’t help himself; he moves to the far right corner of the window, hidden strategically behind a large shelf of magazines and steals a look.
Two men walk towards the facade. Several people wave enthusiastically at them, as if they’re celebrities. The first man is without a doubt Blaise Zabini. Annoyingly handsome and dressed in the sleekest three-piece suit, no doubt acquired from Twilfitt and Tattings. He moves gracefully as he points to this and that and Oliver is one hundred percent sure he’s making comments about the shop’s outside exterior. It definitely needs a loving hand.
From his window, he sees a second man, who’s ruggedly attractive, or at least he looks so from his side profile. He could be a celebrity. His features are a bit harsh; a square jaw, strong nose and thick brows. There’s already people outside the shop, chatting excitedly. Some even shake the two men’s hands and greet them enthusiastically and it looks like the other man is smiling and welcoming them. Oliver isn’t sure why a tattoo shop of all things would get people so excited.
He notices how the large man has short-cropped hair, bulging arms and he carries himself with a confident, almost intimidating aura like that of an Auror or an Unspeakable. He’s got a limp, but all it does is add to the sheer masculinity of him. He’s styled in all black, too; trousers that are perfectly pressed and a dark jumper that clings to his sculpted physique in an unfairly perfect way. Oliver sighs.
“He’s still as scary as at Hogwarts,” Neville’s words break his thoughts.
“What do you mean?” And Oliver is definitely not staring at the man’s strong, muscled thighs or his firm arse.
“Er,” Neville says, shooting him a strange glance, “it’s Flint? You know… the Slytherin Captain? Wasn’t he your rival?”
And just then, as if the man is a bleeding Seer, Marcus sodding Flint looks straight through the window of The Pitch and right at Oliver.
It’s not until Oliver’s own brown eyes meet the sharp, grey eyes that Oliver feels stupid. He should have known that face anywhere. The face that’s now sporting a frown.
Fantastic.
Hogwarts grudges still last apparently, even after more than a decade.
It seems that time slows down for a few seconds because all he feels is Flint’s gaze on him. He shoots a nervous glance at Neville, who’s now busying himself with sorting out the latest magazines, neatly lining them up on a stand.
“I think I’ll go into my office for a bit,” Oliver says to no one in particular. He can practically feel Flint’s eyes burning into his back as he walks behind the counter and through the back door to his office.
When Oliver opens the shop a few days later, there’s a beautiful, hand-painted sign above the neighbouring shop. “The Inked Snitch” it says in curved, silver letters and Oliver thinks it’s a stupid name. He takes down the last of his wards and grumbles loudly as he makes his way through his own shop entrance.
“It doesn’t even make sense,” he complains to Neville who’s polishing the latest Thunderbolt III. Oliver hasn’t gotten around to trying it yet, but he’s going to, eventually… At some point.
“It does make sense, actually,” Neville counters matter-of-factly. “Inked as in tattoos, yeah? And snitch because they’re fast, precise and have flesh memory. So kind of like tattoos, right? Or well, if they do them right they’re fast and precise, I suppose. Still, it’s kind of clever with Flint’s background and all.”
Oliver grumbles. “He was a chaser, not a seeker.”
“Still, it’s quidditch, right?” Neville says with a lopsided smile and as much as Oliver wants to go off in a rant about chasers having no influence on snitches whatsoever, he harrumphs instead and rolls his eyes.
“Let’s see how long they’ll last,” Oliver dismisses, “should we perhaps start setting up for the wee kids?”
Neville nods enthusiastically.
Once a month, The Pitch hosts a broom safety class for children. It’s not anything fancy. They use the old Hogwarts Cleansweeps, a kind donation from Headmistress McGonagall. Oliver had refused at first, reasoning he could afford a few brooms, but his old head of house had insisted he’d take them, not wanting to have them destroyed.
Occasionally, when there’s a child that looks a tad too scrawny and has large, longing eyes for brooms, Oliver will let them take one of the old brooms home to keep.
The thing is, Oliver loves children, loves teaching the little buggers too. Back when he’d been captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team it had been different—he was young and naive, he had let his desire to win trump his relationship with his team mates. He hadn’t really known what it meant to shape their minds, to be a role model.
Now, Oliver knows better.
Neville enjoys teaching children too. While he may not have the same level of skill on a broom as Oliver, Neville’s much better at showing patience and being understanding. Oliver knows he can become a bit too passionate at times.
They set up the Cleansweeps against one of the bookshelves, making sure to charm them not to respond until the spell has been lifted. Some of the children can be a bit too eager at times. Today’s class is only about the broom basics, so there’s no need to book the public pitch.
Out of the blue, Oliver remembers how many of the children like to stay afterwards, asking about this and that, and thinks of what his mother would say if he didn’t have anything to offer the kids. “Be back in a few!” he calls out to Neville, who’s getting gloves, broom polish and rags from the basement.
He darts up the stairs to his apartment. It’s not that his life is particularly boring, but he often finds himself baking sweet treats for his customers. It’s just a nice gesture. His shop should feel like his home after all; warm and inviting. He grabs the cauldron cakes he had baked for himself—twelve was a bit much anyway—and levitates a few bowls, sweets and a bag of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans.
When he’s downstairs again, he lines up the bowls of sweets neatly on the counter, making sure everything is within reach. He fusses a bit over the presentation, wanting it to look nice and inviting for the little rascals.
Suddenly, the doorbell goes off and Blaise Zabini walks in, followed by five children; barely reaching the Slytherin’s hip. The kids are not with him it appears, so they all look expectantly between Oliver and Zabini with large eyes. Oliver doesn’t blame them; Zabini looks a bit like Dumbledore today with a grande, purple robe that sparkles and a hat to match. If that’s what being fashionable looks like, Oliver’s very happy to sit out.
“Hiya kids,” Oliver greets and nods, “Zabini.”
“Wood,” he nods in return with practiced politeness, “where’s my darling Neville?”
“He’s—”
“Mr. Neville is my darling!” A fiery haired girl exclaims loudly with large eyes and a sour expression. She shoots Blaise a narrowed look, as if the Slytherin is here to steal her love away. She’s no more than five probably, but she’s got the attention of everyone. Oliver chuckles at her obvious disdain for Zabini while the other kids snicker childishly at the confession—as children do.
“Well, miss…?” Zabini gestures to the girl with a well-manicured hand, the large sleeve of his robe swaying dramatically as it moves.
“Keira,” she says stubbornly, crossing her arms and glaring up at the large man.
“Miss Keira, I don’t mind sharing and I’m sure Neville doesn’t either.” With a kind expression, Zabini stretches his hand out to Keira, who looks at it with disgust at first, but then she shrugs and shakes it hesitantly.
As the pair shakes hands, the other children giggle; some are already stuffing their faces with the sweets on the counter. Oliver laughs too, surprised with Zabini’s excellent handling of a petulant child.
Neville comes up the stairs shortly after, arms full of equipment. Oliver helps him out by levitating it to the large table in the middle of the shop, making sure to tell the children off with a stern glance. Patience is key and all that.
Neville is met with cheers and the children flock around him excitedly, all jumping up, nearly climbing his legs, trying to get him to lift them. Zabini plops down at a bench near the bookshelves and watches the exchange with keen eyes. Keira, the girl from before, appears to have claimed the gentle giant for herself; she tugs his large hands towards the basket filled with quaffles and Neville obediently follows with a smile.
“Look at you, Neville” Zabini sighs with a fond expression, “so good with children.”
Neville flushes a bright shade of red and struggles a bit with holding all the quaffles Keira is piling into his arms. “Er, thanks.”
“Mr. Neville, you mustn’t drop them!” Keira tuts, stacking more into his arms.
“Oh Keira, don’t you worry. Neville’s got large hands,” Zabini’s tone is nowhere near fit for a child to hear, “I bet he’s exceptionally skilled with handling balls.”
The child doesn’t appear to understand the innuendo, luckily, but Neville beams bright red and Oliver can’t help the snort that escapes him. Zabini’s got a knack for crude jokes and funny one-liners and as the class begins with broom care, it appears that nothing escapes his quick wit. The class is spent with many double entendres from the sidelines as Zabini observes Neville with hawk eyes.
As Zabini fires off jokes about having a firm grip and making sure the broom is slick enough, Oliver muses whether it’s meant to come off as flirtatious or if he’s just teasing poor Neville. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a distrusting voice tells him to be weary; Blaise Zabini is a Slytherin after all, an associate of Marcus Flint and no doubt just as cunning and resourceful. He can’t help but wonder whether Zabini’s taunts are a way of tormenting Neville or perhaps the result of a dare or a bet—it wouldn’t be the first time Slytherin gambles for sport, after all. During his days at Hogwarts, he’d seen plenty of Galleons exchanging hands after quidditch matches, practical jokes and even the occasional teenage heartbreak—usually at the hands of Slytherins.
He looks at Neville and observes the shy, stolen glances at the handsome, brown-skinned man; there might be a chance that Neville is in for something even worse than teenage heartbreak.
Sometime after lunch, when Zabini has gone and Neville’s tinkering with broken snitches in the basement, Oliver goes into the narrow alley between The Inked Snitch and his own shop to dispose of the trash.
Just as he steps out, much to his dismay, Marcus sodding Flint is there, polishing a motorbike of all things. Oliver’s not sure how Flint got the blasted bike into the snug alley, but it’s there, black and shiny, blocking the way for anyone wanting to pass through. The former chaser hasn’t spotted him luckily. He sits on the ground by the bike with his broad back to Oliver, right arm flexing as he moves a hand with a rag over the side of the bike.
There’s an awkward moment where Oliver considers clearing his throat or speaking to make the other man aware that he’s there, but he ultimately decides against it. Instead he stands there like a bleeding idiot, blatantly staring.
Flint’s wearing a white, tight tank top and Oliver has to mentally scold himself for almost swooning at the sight of his tanned skin and bulging muscles. There’s intricate tattoos, patterns and shapes covering his arms, some moving endlessly as his arms move. There’s a particularly large one on his back too, but Oliver can’t quite make it out due to the tank top. He sort of wishes it wasn’t there because he’s intrigued now.
Tattoos are fairly new in the wizard community. Oliver’s seen them before; on friends, on lovers and on strangers, but it’s never taken his fancy. Flint’s tattoos, however, look like art.
He wants to go closer, to touch them, to trace them with his fingers—
Oliver has to fight the urge to reach out and touch, to trace the lines, map out the illustrations. He thinks about whoever tattooed Flint, imagines them bent over Flint’s muscular body, touching him and seeing so very much of him. Suddenly Oliver feels a squirm of something in his stomach. He wonders how Flint had looked while it was being done. What expressions he had made, if Flint’s the type of man who grits his teeth in pain and tries to ignore it, or maybe he’s the type that lets out a groan or a whimper—
“You alright, Wood?”
“What?” Oliver shakes his head, trying to clear his head of the imposing thoughts.
Flint is turned sideways on the ground, still sprawled out next to the bike and it’s really not fair how the other man manages to look a lot like the men on the pull-out posters in Witch Weekly, all scruffy and masculine. Flint’s gaze on Oliver is steady, sharp, grey eyes running down his form slowly. There’s the hint of a smirk on his lips and Oliver can’t help but scowl at the obvious assessment from the other man.
“I’m fine,” he grits out. He, a tad too aggressively, lifts the lid of one of the metal bins and drops the trash bag into the cylinder. As he slams the lid back on, all too hard, he winces at the sharp sound of metal hitting metal.
“How long have you had the shop?” Flint inquires then, and Oliver finds himself taken aback at his former rival’s curiosity, the genuine interest that’s apparent on his face. There’s no gleam or twinkle in his eyes, no instead, they are carefully blank. Neutral, even.
“Nearly five years, Flint,” Oliver replies stockily, careful not to overshare. For all he knows, Flint and Zabini could have some strange bet going—perhaps to see who can torment a poor Gryffindor most.
“Er,” the chaser’s heavy brows narrow and he blinks for a few moments. “Thought you’d still be with Puddlemere,” he adds, his eyes meeting Oliver’s curiously. There’s no accusations in his tone, but the weight of the question is too much for Oliver.
“Well, I’m not,” he snaps defensively and he’s now about eighty percent sure there’s a bet in place because Flint could have at least asked around if he wanted to know so badly. “I’d appreciate it if you park your bike behind your shop instead. There are people that actually use this alley, you know.”
And with that Oliver opens the door to his crooked building hastily and slams the door after himself.
Inside, in the safe confines of his shop, he leans against the door, unusually out of breath. Tilting his head back, he sighs with instant relief. For some reason, even after not having seen Flint for more than ten years, the man has the same ability to get under his skin because he feels itchy and hot.
He’s a little surprised too, not only with Flint’s politeness, but his own reaction, too. For someone who prides himself in being friendly, he sure had not extended that courtesy to Flint during their brief encounter.
After three weeks of neighbouring The Inked Snitch, it’s very clear that Blaise Zabini doesn’t do any actual work because once again—for the second time this day—Zabini’s in their shop, following Neville around.
“Call me Blaise, love.” Zabini purrs.
“Don’t call me love, Zabini.” Neville retorts, shoving a pile of books onto a shelf.
While it’s nice to see Neville slowly growing comfortable in his comebacks, they tend to lose their effect when they’re combined with Neville’s furious blush. The flirtatious, borderline ridiculous, attempts from Zabini are appearing less and less like the results of a dare and more and more like some idiotic, teenage crush. Oliver’s not sure what to make of their endless bickering and the obvious attraction between them.
“You boys want to come over for a drink later?” Zabini asks then, studying his nails intently and leaning against the bookshelf Neville’s tidying.
“Is tonight going to be another one of those ruddy parties?” Oliver retorts with a sharp tongue, while Neville seems to have found something interesting in the book he’s holding.
He has heard the noise of course. The past few weekends, Oliver’s sleep pattern has been deeply disturbed by loud music and laughter ringing from Flint’s flat. Occasionally there’s been roaring voices and obnoxious singing as well, thundering through the alley and out into the night. Not once has he dared near his own window and sneak a look for the fear of being caught. Flint’s living room window is directly across from his own bedroom window and since accidentally seeing his former rival shirtless, strutting around in muggle joggers, Oliver hasn’t drawn his curtains back once.
It’s mostly because he doesn’t want Flint spying on him, is what he tells himself. Not because he’d be tempted to lurk on the 200 pound man of muscle.
“Don’t know if one could call it a party,” Zabini smirks, “It’s mostly Flint and his Swedish quidditch mates, getting absolutely smashed, singing ridiculous songs in strange languages.” He rolls his eyes dramatically.
Oliver already knows. He had laid in his bed one too many nights, wondering what language he could hear in the alley, until last Friday, where he had laid down prepared with an identifier spell—courtesy of George—and found out that not only was the language Swedish, but the voices he heard was of legends; chaser Olaf Andersen and Lorre Gustafson, as well as keeper Martin Helström and the one and only, Marcus Flint.
“Flint speaks Swedish?” Neville incredulously bursts out; a mixture of disbelief and skepticism on his face.
“He played in Sweden for a decade, darling.” Zabini rolls his eyes. “I don’t fancy Swedes much. They’re a bunch of drunks. No class at all. I definitely prefer English men—especially tall, sandy-haired Gryffindors who are good with children. Daddy material, if you will.”
Oliver rolls his eyes. Neville turns tomato-red.
It’s an hour till close and it’s awfully quiet. Oliver hums to himself as he writes down next week’s orders, occasionally twirling the quill in his hand as he thinks. Now that the Ministry of Magic had finally allowed flying carpets in Britain again, it would be the perfect time to order a few of those hand-woven, Moroccan ones he’d seen once abroad.
“Did you want to go to the party?” The tentative voice of Neville breaks his musings.
“Oh,” Oliver says plainly, leaning back against the counter. “Well, I figured that you might go. With Zabini,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “because you’re… interested. In him?”
Neville looks constipated. He stares at the floor for a bit. “I don’t think I’m ready for anything quite yet,” he mumbles.
Oliver frowns and puts down his quill and parchment. “You seem interested though. It looks like you’re ready.”
Neville shakes his head softly and Oliver can only stay quiet. There’s no sense in pushing the younger man. If Neville’s not ready for anything, so be it. Never mind that Zabini’s been relentless in his efforts and Oliver’s getting rather tired of being a third wheel.
“You know,” Neville starts with a distant look in his eyes. He’s focusing on something outside the shop, fiddling with a miniature quaffle in his hands. Oliver isn’t sure why he ordered them. The kids that come into the store don’t seem to find them very interesting. “I—I dropped out of herbology because… There was this bloke—Blimey, I’ve never said this out loud,” Neville laughs nervously and Oliver feels his heart ache at the sight of his helper’s obvious discomfort.
They’ve never talked about Neville’s tragedy. Oliver knows there is one because he was there, at the Battle of Hogwarts. He knows Neville had become a confident man, so brave and honest, a true embodiment of a Gryffindor, but then something had changed in the years between then and when he’d walked into Oliver’s shop. He only knows that Neville had studied herbology with Professor Sprout for a few years, been abroad too, but that was about as much as he knew.
“You don’t have to tell me—” Oliver tries with a grimace.
“No, I want to,” and it’s a strange sight, but Neville looks serious, almost sullen, all of sudden. “I… So, I’d just started my apprenticeship with Professor Sprout and—well, it was stupid of me to assume that in the first place, but I wasn’t the only apprentice starting that year.”
Oliver heaves himself up on the counter to make himself more comfortable. Neville shoots him a small, wry smile.
“Dunno, if you know him, but his family’s sort of famous for herbology and magizoology. His name’s Rolf Scamander.” The name rings a bell, but those subjects were never Oliver’s strongest, so he goes for a shrug in response. “Anyway, he...he was so clever. At first I was so jealous because he was better than me— at everything.”
Neville tosses the quaffle back in the pile and sighs, his gaze now on the floor and Oliver’s heart breaks a little at the dejected look on his face. “Professor Sprout was so nice about it too. She kept telling me that it didn’t matter and Rolf,” Neville takes in a sharp breath, “he came to me. Told me that he’d help me. That he’d teach me and that he didn’t want me to feel inferior or bad around him, so I—I believed him.” Neville’s voice breaks at the last part and Oliver slides off the counter in an instant. He makes his way towards the younger man and grabs his shoulders.
“Look, Neville,” Oliver says, too terrified of Neville’s apparent distress, terrified of where the story is going. He’s not sure he wants to know now. His eyes meet Neville’s hazel ones and all he sees is how Neville looks seconds away from crying. “You don’t have to tell me. I’ll be here no matter what. Always.”
“No,” Neville says firmly, though his eyes are still wet, “I’ve never… I’ve never told anyone. And I want to tell you.”
There’s a long silence that passes where Oliver just stands there gripping Neville’s shoulders tightly, staring blankly at him. Perhaps, it’s because seeing Neville let out his pent up frustration is terrifying and liberating at the same time.
“Okay,” Oliver nods after a while, stumbling back a little, overwhelmed by the blatant trust Neville has in him. “Let’s go sit down,” he says and he’s not sure if it’s Neville that’s trembling or it’s himself.
They move quietly into the office, Oliver taking his beloved chair behind his desk, while Neville sits in the armchair across he’d brought from his Gran’s house. Oliver squirms a bit, unsure of how to handle the situation. He’s never had a real heart-to-heart. While he loves his friends and trusts them with his life, he’s not much of a sharer.
“Go ahead,” he settles for because he knows he’s not meant to be saying much. This is Neville’s time to talk.
“Er, well,” Neville wrings his hands nervously in his lap, “he started tutoring me and it was great . We’d do everything together and I was learning so much. He—uh, he started taking me to all these places too. He showed me the original Jabuticaba trees in Brazil and took me to places like Reinebringen and Roy’s Peak and I was so stupid.”
Oliver narrows his eyes and tries to intervene, but Neville holds up a hand to stop him.
“I was so young and I thought—I thought that now that everyone liked me, he would too. I was so bloody confident and then… it just sort of happened. One day we were trimming Sopophorouses and he kissed me. I’d barely kissed anyone before that. I didn’t even know I was bloody gay!”
Neville’s eyes are large now, watery too. There is not a sound coming from the shop and it seems almost too quiet in the little office. Neville clears his throat.
“Then, we had our first assignments, our first real independent job and he—” Neville's voice becomes a strangled cry, a whisper. “He sabotaged me. He poisoned my Snargaluffs and when I confronted him—he laughed. Told me I was stupid, that I was so gullible—and he was right— I was.”
“No, you weren’t,” Oliver snaps, “didn’t you tell Professor Sprout?”
“I couldn’t—I wouldn’t do that to him,” Neville sighs, looking out the window behind Oliver and into the alley. “He was too good at herbology for me to ruin his career and I—I panicked. I sent a letter to Professor Sprout and packed my things. I left within the hour.”
Oliver bangs his fists against his desk in anger, “Neville, we have to do something. You can’t just—”
“He was my first,” Neville interrupts quietly, staring down at his hands. “And my only, not that that’s hard to believe. I haven’t been able to...well, yeah.”
He falls silent and a few tears spill from his eyes, slowly trickling down his cheeks. Oliver can hear the ticking of the clock on the wall and the muted sounds of people in Diagonal Alley in the distance.
“And where is he now?” Oliver asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer. He might want to hunt the man down and beat him to a bloody pulp for treating Neville like that. It all hits too close to home. Trusting someone blindly, letting them in on your secrets and your desires, only to be deceived and left broken.
A loud series of thuds suddenly goes off in the shop and Neville stands up immediately, wiping at his eyes. Oliver follows Neville hastily and when Neville stops in the doorway behind the counter, he almost crashes into the taller man’s back.
Blaise Zabini looks caught red-handed, eyes wide and mouth agape, standing in a pile of quaffles, several of them still rolling across the floorboards.
“I swear I only heard the last part,” Blaise says hastily and he looks pleadingly at Neville then, “tell me who he is and I’ll fucking kill him.” Blaise Zabini takes a step towards Neville and Oliver catches himself thinking that Blaise looks positively gorgeous when he’s agitated.
“Look, I don’t know who that fucking wanker is, but you don’t deserve that, Neville. No one does,” He says and tightens his face, his cheekbones somehow even more pronounced and he squares his broad shoulders defensively. His eyes are vivid now, and he barely blinks as he looks intensely at Neville. This moment now seems intimate however as a long silence passes between the two men and Oliver sort of wishes he’d stayed in his office.
“Fucking hell,” not once does Blaise’s eyes stray from Neville’s, “I swear, I’ll ava him if I ever meet him.”
“No, Blaise,” Neville speaks softly. “Please, leave.”
“But—” Blaise doesn’t get another word in, before Neville promptly walks down the staircase to the basement that’s slowly becoming his safe space.
Oliver’s left standing with Blaise. The Slytherin looks completely lost, staring after Neville with a grim expression on his face. It’s all a bit overwhelming and Oliver feels his heart beat too fast, too hard in his chest.
“Who is he, Wood?” Blaise questions with a firm tone and sharp eyes.
“I don’t think that’s my place to say,” Oliver replies, clicking his tongue. There’s a tingle in his left arm now, the stress of not outing the name becoming too real. He ignores the brief pain and the thudding in his chest; the promise of an oncoming cramp. “You should respect his privacy.”
“Bollocks,” Blaise spats, “you want to kill him as much as I do!”
“Can we not—” Oliver cuts off as his arm begins to spasm. “Oh, bugger! Fuck—” His upper arm burns and he feels the strange sensation of his muscles clenching and unclenching—as if something is locked and nothing is willing to move.
“Wood?” Blaise looks concerned now and Oliver helplessly clutches his arm as a sweat breaks out all over his body.
“Get Neville,” he manages, leaning against the frame of the doorway. The sweat that breaks out on his forehead at the burn is nothing new. Oliver should have known that this would happen. It’s been a good four months since his last seizure.
He wants to summon the salve himself, but there’s no way he’s going to risk that. He’s left-handed and he’s absolutely shit with his right hand. The possibility of performing a spell wrong doesn't sit well with him. Not after everything that has led to this moment.
Much to his luck, Blaise Zabini is nothing other than quick on his feet because in a matter of seconds, he’s dashing down the stairs to the basement, yelling loudly, “Neville! There’s something wrong with Wood!”
It all happens faster than Oliver can blink. One second he’s sliding down to the floor and the next, Zabini’s large frame surrounds him and he’s lifted into his office, where Neville throws a blanket over him because oh—the shivers are back.
He barely gets a word out before Zabini flicks his wrists and the buttons on his shirt open one by one while Neville helps him shrug out of it. The salve and a Calming Draught are already placed on his desk and Neville, bless his heart, wastes no time before applying the thick, mustard-yellow paste on his shoulder and down his arm.
“Reparifors,” Neville mutters then, gliding his wand over the paste slowly, just like Oliver has taught him.
Oliver grabs the Calming Draught with his good arm and downs it in one go, hoping for an immediate effect. The mixture of pain, anxiety and stress doesn’t do him any good. He’s lucky if he’ll be back to his old self in an hour. Casting a glance at Zabini, he murmurs, “thanks.”
As the paste on his arms hardens and turns into a horrid shade of violet while Neville chants the spell, Zabini stares intently, clearly confounded with Oliver’s sudden injury.
“Is this why you don’t play? What kind of quidditch injury is that?” Zabini looks far too intrigued, his sharp eyes fixated on the violet cast on Oliver’s arm.
“It’s not a quid—” Neville begins.
“It’s fine,” Oliver cuts him off with a firm voice. “It happens sometimes. I’ll see my healer tomorrow.”
“That looks like dark magic, Wood.” The former Slytherin looks serious and he casts a reprimanding look at Neville. “I’ll respect your privacy for now—for the both of you,” he mockingly states, “but whoever did this to you, Wood, should be in Azkaban. That’s not some bloody sprain—that’s clearly a dark spell. You need proper help.”
“I know damn well what it is!” Oliver bellows, too frustrated with Zabini’s prodding. The Calming Draught does nothing to hinder his next words. “It was a mistake—I was young and foolish, too trusting of what he—”
“He?” Zabini interrupts, “are you both mental? You Gryffindor lot sure are trusting, aren’t you? You let someone do this to you?”
“Get the fuck out my shop,” Oliver spits, too angry with Zabini for meddling, with himself for oversharing and his bloody arm for acting up at such an inconvenient time.
Zabini looks at him with a hard glare, before he turns dramatically, his long silk-lined cape swivelling behind as he leaves through the back door next to the office. Neville doesn’t say a word; instead he puts a comforting hand on Oliver’s shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh.
Flint stares at him a lot.
In the two months since The Inked Snitch (Oliver still hates the name) opened, there’s been an annoying amount of people gathering outside Oliver’s storefront, mostly to line up for the other shop.
Occasionally, Flint’s outside the shop, handing out butterbeers and apologising for the wait with a sheepish smile and Oliver can’t really compute the fact that he is the same boy who used to nearly break his hand before every quidditch match at school. He’s the same boy who taunted him for years and tried to scare poor Harry by dressing up as a dementor of all things.
He’s also the man who played for the Falmouth Falcons for three years before he mysteriously disappeared to play quidditch abroad—or to avoid the war. Oliver doesn’t know much about Flint’s later years. They had played each other exactly six times during the three years Flint had been in England and there had never been more than spiteful glares between them; the school boy rivalry never forgotten.
This man, outside his shop, seems different however. He’s more open and talkative, striking up conversations with perfect strangers out on the cobblestone street. Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever heard Flint utter more than ten words in a sentence. Now, however, as he sneakily spies on the other man through the window, he sees how Flint throws his head back as he laughs, strong shoulders shaking and Oliver finds himself wishing that he could hear his laughter.
Whenever Flint’s eyes meet his, the other man doesn’t look away, instead he keeps his eyes firm on Oliver’s as if he’s trying to figure him out. Sometimes he frowns, other times he looks like he’s just eaten something sour.
If Oliver’s being honest with himself, those sharp, steel eyes make him feel something, but he’s not ready to dive into it, feeling far too tired to bother with the deep abyss that is his subconsciousness.
He’s shaken out of his thoughts when Neville suddenly speaks.
“Blaise keeps asking if we want to attend one of their parties. Apparently Flint’s hosting another one this Friday,” Neville attempts casually. Oliver wouldn’t know about that; he’s successfully avoided the handsome Italian, still touchy about the subject of his old injury. Instead, he humours Neville, taking the conversation into another territory.
“Why Neville, do you want to go?” Oliver asks with a sly smile. Though the young herbologist had wanted to seem indifferent, the intrigue had been clear in his tone. “I suppose it would be a good opportunity to see Blaise.”
“No, I thought you would want to go,” Neville retorts with his own cheeky grin. “Apparently Flint wants you to come.”
“Why would he want me to come? We’ve barely spoken.” Oliver can’t help but feel curious that Flint apparently has asked for him. Specifically. As if he’s interested.
“Maybe he thinks you can be friends after everything. I mean, you’re both retired now, got a lot in common, both single—”
“But I hate Flint,” Oliver interrupts stubbornly.
“I think you hate Flint as much as he hates you,” Neville speaks softly, eyeing him carefully.
Oliver doesn’t reply with words. Instead, he scoffs and shoots Neville an annoyed look.
“Alright, Flint,” Oliver says one day in the alley because quite frankly, this is getting ridiculous. It’s the fifth time he’s taken out the trash to have Flint be in the alley as well. “What’s your problem, then?”
“Don’t have one, Wood,” Flint shrugs before he crosses his large arms, drawing Oliver’s attention to them. “Just didn’t know you had stopped playing.”
Marcus Flint can think whatever he wants to think, so Oliver doesn’t bother addressing the unspoken why. It’s fairly obvious Flint wants to know why. “Why’d you stop playing then?” Oliver asks instead, throwing the larger man a suspicious glare.
“I got injured during a game against a Norwegian team, fucked up my leg,” Flint grunts, “that’s why this is alright. I can tattoo and sit down—’s not too hard on the body. Wish I’d known that back then. Would’ve stopped earlier.”
“Why aren’t you coaching then?” Oliver counters.
Flint looks at him with a tired expression. “You know why. It’s too hard to watch the game and not play.”
Oh, but Oliver knows that better than anyone. He had tried coaching, first semi-professionally for third division teams and then onto training junior league, but even coaching children was difficult. Not being able to fly with them, to show them properly.
“What about you?” Flint says nonchalantly, lifting his chin questioningly.
“I had an accident,” Oliver answers carefully. It’s not far from the truth. “Can’t play anymore. Couldn’t train. Not good enough with politics for the Quidditch Association, so I ended up buying this place.” He gestures behind him in explanation.
“Blaise said that it was bad,” Flint says quietly, nearly tentatively.
Oliver can’t help the murderous expression that crosses his face.
He’s used to people asking. It happened far too often in the days after his injury, though now, after so much time, it’s rare that it’s even brought up and he finds himself putting up his defences, not wanting to discuss the subject at all.
Flint clears his throat, clearly picking up on the “I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it” energy he’s exuding, and scratches his chin with bitten down fingernails.
“Do you want to come this Friday? For drinks. I suppose Blaise’s already invited you lot, yeah?” Flint asks a little hurriedly and Oliver nearly has to do a double-take because Flint seems nervous.
It must be a trick or something. Perhaps he’s becoming a little hard of hearing too. Wouldn’t surprise him anymore, not with how bad his body has been getting.
“I can’t,” Oliver hastily replies, perhaps too rushed, “I, er, have to get up early Saturday. Get the shop ready, you know.” He smiles sheepishly for the effect.
“You don’t open until eleven on Saturdays.” The smile falls off his own face as Flint smirks—not unlike the way he used to back at Hogwarts.
At Oliver’s no doubt shocked face, Flint laughs. It’s a deep, heartfelt sound that echoes through the alley and settles somewhere close to Oliver’s heart.
He’s fucked.
He didn’t go to the party the night before.
Instead, Oliver had laid in his bed, listening intently to Flint and his former teammates laughing and singing loudly. It had been a slightly pathetic attempt to seem indifferent and as if he would have a busy evening by himself. The truth was, he had spent most of it wallowing in self-doubt and getting up several times to put on clothes and nearly make it out the door, only to stop at the last second.
Deep down, he had wanted to go. He had wanted to see this new Marcus Flint, this apparently charming and likeable man that everyone else sees. He had wanted to get to know him, understand him, perhaps even more.
But the idea of his injury acting up or having to explain his own choices, why he had retired to Marcus Flint, of all people, would be too much of a hassle.
Now, the next afternoon, he tries very hard to push his thoughts deep in the back of his mind. There’s no need for dwelling in his useless self-doubt when he has things to do.
Like closing the shop.
Which he has put off for nearly half an hour because of Flint and his mates standing outside The Inked Snitch. Through the window he can hear the laughter and he feels… Well, pathetic is the only word to use, really.
He’s a grown man of thirty-two years of age.
And he’s hiding like some school girl because he’s… nothing. He’s feeling nothing. He’s feeling absolutely nothing about his old school rival and he’s certainly not intimidated by his sudden popularity.
Grumbling to himself, Oliver begrudgingly forces his body to move towards the door. It’ll be quick, he tells himself. Wards and then back inside. It’s a minute tops.
When Oliver then actually makes it outside and sees that Flint’s friends are actually The Falmouth Falcons, he accidentally drops his wand into a puddle between the cobblestones..
He quickly bends down to retrieve it though, but when he looks up again, Flint’s in front of his shop, looking at him with an odd look in his eyes.
Oliver scowls while putting up his wards and makes sure to evaporate the puddle. Might as well make sure it doesn’t happen again, he thinks. He shoots a curious look towards the former chaser and sees how he smiles at the Falcons players as they mount their brooms and wave their goodbyes.
Flint smiling is something else. He’s grown into his horrid teeth—-they’re still crooked, but a lot less horrible. There’s no mischief or ridicule about his smile. It’s honest and it reaches his eyes, little crow's feet forming at the corners of his eyes and his smile lines make him look older, but distinguished.
The only smiles Oliver’s ever gotten from the former Slytherin, are the kind that aren’t smiles at all; taunting smirks, evil grins and mocking sneers. It’s a strangely sad feeling, never having been on the receiving end of Marcus Flint’s genuine smile.
Oliver shakes his head, trying to clear his head. He’s not sure when it happened, but lately Flint has been taking up far too many of his thoughts.
The next morning, when Oliver opens the shop, the two boys waiting eagerly outside his shop don’t even acknowledge him. They’re both gaping at The Inked Snitch and Oliver feels himself grow annoyed.
Gwenog Jones, the captain of Holyhead Harpies, is standing patiently outside the tattoo shop. Flint comes out a few moments later to greet her, clearly friends with her by the way they hug and smile at each other and Oliver slams his shop door closed so hard it almost falls off its hinges. The boys look a bit frightened by his sudden aggressive outburst, but at least they stay for a while, eagerly flipping through the latest Seeker Weekly.
Three days later, Angus Campbell, chaser for the fucking Montrose Magpies—Oliver’s favourite team—comes out of Flint’s shop around noon.
Oliver doesn’t understand how Flint can be friends with every single legend from the English, Scottish and Irish league when he didn’t even play in any of them. He’s a little jealous because he did play in the English league and he hasn’t really bothered with staying in touch. Though now, he kind of regrets it.
It also becomes very obvious—after several days of observing (not spying on) Flint’s shop—that Flint is popular with the female population. Several witches come out of his shop, giggling and acting like love-smitten teenagers and many of them become returning customers.
It’s not like Oliver can blame them much. Flint has become annoyingly handsome in a masculine, rugged sort of way. It does bother him a little that some of them even flirt with Flint—at least from what he can see from his window, a few witches laugh exaggeratedly and touch Flint on his stupidly fit arms and his broad chest. One morning, Oliver had even caught a woman putting on lipstick before she entered The Inked Snitch, using Oliver’s shop window as her mirror.
A week or so later, there’s a picture of Campbell’s stupid tattoo in the bloody Prophet. There’s a whole article too.
ANGUS CAMPBELL’S QUAFFLE HAS A MIND OF ITS OWN!
The Magpies star seemingly has paid a visit to his old friend, Marcus Flint—former chaser for The Skånska Short-Snouts—and his newly opened tattoo parlour in Diagon Alley. Campbell’s tattoo was revealed earlier this week at the Montrose/Falcons match and my dear readers, I can’t I’m surprised. It’s a quaffle on his chest, although it appeared to move wherever it wanted during our one-on-one after the game.
Campbell showed it off rather proudly and said;
“Flint’s an old mate. Shame we never got to play for the same team. He’s made the shop very inviting. Wouldn’t surprise me if half of England started sporting his work. Brilliant with a quaffle and phenomenal with a quill too. I’m absolutely smashed about my quaffle! It’s usually on my chest, but it tends to move towards my arms whenever I’m playing. I think it can sense the quaffle.”
There you have it, folks. I will be paying The Inked Snitch a visit very soon. Would it be too ironic with a tattoo of a quill? Maybe. But I must say, Flint’s work with a quill and the spell work on Campell’s quaffle is an extraordinary sight. Don’t mind if I’d like something like that for myself too. The word is, that Flint has become something of a looker too. I think I shall see for myself, if that is true as well.
Oliver puts down the paper on the counter, peering at it curiously.
There’s a photo of Flint too.
It’s from his early quidditch days. He looks not unlike the Marcus Flint Oliver remembers. A little less broad, with no stubble and a rounder face. The trademark sneer is present however, unlike now where Flint always manages to look rather… friendly.
Even the younger version of him, the one Oliver remembers well, has a strange allure over him. Oliver’s not sure if it’s the Falcons kit he’s wearing in the photo, the fact that he’s on a broom, or just the imagery of a young, ambitious quidditch player with enough attitude and bravado to challenge anyone. It’s alarming really.
No matter how much he wants to repress it, he’s very much attracted to Marcus Flint, past and present, the fierce, English quidditch player who was a raving success in Sweden, and the very same man, now retired, calm and oddly friendly, good with a quill and who rides a bleeding motorbike.
When Blaise Zabini comes in for the third time that day, Oliver instinctively sits down on a wooden crate, ready to observe the train wreck that is Neville Longbottom and Blaise Zabini interacting.
It’s not like they notice him much whenever they’re in the same room anyway.
Blaise saunters , elegantly so, around the shop until he stops in front of Neville who looks positively terrified. Blaise makes a point of running a long finger slowly down poor Neville’s chest and Oliver thinks it is almost nice of him that he pretends not to hear the choked sound Neville makes. At least Oliver thinks so because Blaise doesn’t bat an eye at Neville’s obvious flustered state. Oliver doesn’t like to pretend anything so he lets out a snort at the sight instead.
“So, my client wants me to do a Nimbus 2000 on her—Merlin knows why, awful broom—and I thought that you might be able to help me out with one for reference? Be a darling and fetch me one, will you?” Blaise flutters his lashes excessively at Neville and Oliver has a very hard time not laughing at Neville’s eyes widening excessively.
Neville looks at Oliver for permission and all he can do is nod because he’s not about to laugh at his helper’s expense. Neville takes a sharp turn down the stairs and Oliver can’t help but notice how Blaise’s gaze follows him appreciatively.
Oh, to be looked at with such want.
He can’t remember the last time anyone looked at him that way.
When Neville comes back up with the said broom in his hand, Blaise hops up on the counter—which only worries Oliver a little because Blaise is rather strong and the counter’s not particularly sturdy—and then proceeds to snatch the broom from Neville’s hand before he leans in and kisses Neville’s cheek with his full lips.
“Thanks love,” Blaise winks and his lips spread into a cheeky grin as his hands suggestively slide down the broom, “a broom for me? A long, hard—”
“Oh no,” Neville whimpers, probably mostly to himself, and hides his face in his palms.
“Now you’ve done it,” Oliver chirps, struggling to hold back his laughter. Blaise shoots him a devilish grin.
“But—but you said you needed a broom!” Neville cries, looking desperately at Oliver, like he’s supposed to do something about Blaise’s obvious flirting.
“You are just adorable, Neville,” and with that Blaise Zabini hops off the counter and lands perfectly on the heels of his dragon skin boots and walks out the shop with the broom under his arm.
“He’s so…so infuriating!” Neville exclaims the second the door closes. His cheeks are blotchy with red patches and his hazel eyes are large and wild. It’s rare that Neville gets worked up. Oliver’s never seen as much of a hint of irritation on the younger man’s face. Not even in August, when eager soon-to-be first years waddle around the shop, breaking several items, yelling and screaming. He looks oddly out of character as he sputters incoherently, staring helplessly and lost out the store front.
“I think he likes you,” Oliver says, shooting the man a cheeky smile. He was young once, after all. He knows the dance; the secret glances, the rosy cheeks and the nervous chatter. While Neville doesn’t respond to Blaise’s advancements, his body seems to give it all away.
“No, he doesn't,” Neville spits bitterly and Oliver has to do a double-take at the dark expression on his face.
“I don’t know, Neville, I honestly think he does,” he tries, keeping his tone a bit more neutral.
“Men like Blaise Zabini don’t go for men like me, Oliver,” Neville says quieter, brushing his fingertips over the counter as if it’s dusty.
“Neville, I’m pretty sure he genuinely likes you, or did you forget about the part where he was going to kill Rolf Scamander?”
Neville sighs then and gives him a look. “You don’t really know who Blaise is, do you? He’s a—well, he’s shagged half of Britain, really. Why would he have changed? He doesn’t even know me. He just wants to get in my pants, I know it.”
“How do you know that?” Oliver inquires, getting up from the crate to rearrange the magazine stand by the door. He makes a mental note to order more of the American magazine ‘Quick Quidditch’.
“I don’t,” Neville makes an offended sound. “He used to tease me at Hogwarts all the time. He wasn’t horrible like Malfoy—it was more that he just made these… suggestive comments. About myself, about Ginny at the Yule Ball, about Hannah in our seventh year…” Neville trails off, staring blankly out of the shop window.
“You know what they say,” Oliver hums, flipping through an interview with the Parkin brothers, “pulling pigtails and all that. Teasing usually means someone likes you.”
“...so it was the same for you and Flint?” Neville shoots back, raising a brow. He looks far too smug with himself.
Oliver closes the magazine with a sigh. “That’s not—it’s not the same!”
The self-satisfied, smug look on Neville’s face says it all. Whether Oliver wants to admit it or not, there’s a slight possibility that his schoolboy rivalry with Flint was more than just that.
Oliver wakes up in a grumpy state for the third time this night. The amount of noise coming from Flint’s flat is frankly ridiculous. Against his better judgement, Oliver decides that perhaps it is time to draw back the curtains and let Flint know that people actually live here.
As soon as he opens his bedroom window, the sounds of some rock band hits his ears. Then, seconds later, the door from what he assumes is the back of Flint’s shop opens up wide, though he can only hear it echoing into the alley, not see it.
In an attempt to sneak a peek at whoever’s left the party, Oliver leans out the window to get a better view. He tightens his grip on the wooden frame of the window, nearly hanging out the window in a dangerous pursuit of a look. Curse the crooked building and the narrow alley, Oliver thinks.
It’s a strain on his arm to be doing this, holding his weight and balancing his upper body on the edge of the window sill, his feet dangling in the air with no support, but he manages to see him.
It’s unmistakable. It’s Flint with his large frame and recognisable limp.
Flint stands alone in the alley, a few empty bottles in his arms, only lit by the moonlight and the light from inside the door. Flint picks up the lid to one of the bins and drops the bottles into the trash, the horrid sounds of glass breaking and hitting metal echoing into the alley.
Oliver leans further over the window sill, trying to get a better look at the former chaser.
As he leans further over the ledge, he loses his balance and tumbles out onto the slanted roof, his bad arm breaking the fall while he clutches the rain gutter with his good hand. His legs flail uselessly and the pain upon the impact is too strong to bear.
Flint luckily doesn’t notice and Oliver grits his teeth in restraint, trying not to make a sound. He watches silently—with a tremendous amount of effort—as Flint makes his way inside his building again.
It’s a miracle that he manages to push himself back over the ledge, carefully landing on his feet while his left shoulder and arm both throb painfully. The injury burns with agony and he stumbles to his bed in something reminiscent of a fever haze, the room spinning and blurring before him. He curses his reflexes for not catching on and he plonks defeatedly onto his bed, his hands shaking from the overexcitement.
He fumbles briefly with the drawers of his night stand before his trembling hands close around the vial of Calming Draught he keeps there for bad days.
Oliver downs the potion in one go, swearing out loud at his carelessness.
All that for a glimpse of Marcus Flint.
After Oliver’s trip to his old healer, he heads back to the shop, a little grumpy at the possibility of his arm taking longer to heal. It’s a sprain, of course, nothing too serious, though the prospect of having to be more careful than usual doesn't sit well with him.
It’s nothing new to him, really. In the months after his injury, he’d been careless: he’d still ridden his broom and trained like usual, convinced that the implications of it would disappear with vigorous exercise.
It hadn’t been the case of course. Now, five years after the incident, he knows better than to exceed himself, to test his limitations. It’s no use. It’s the smallest things that can set the curse off; a sprain, a stressful moment or even an emotional encounter.
It has made him cautious. Watchful of the company he keeps, wary of anything new and… well, it’s made him rather boring.
When he makes it through the front door to the shop, his eyes immediately draw to Neville and Blaise, standing in the middle of the shop floor with their sides to him. The tension is quite obvious, both men radiating completely different energies. Blaise looks furious, his strong jaw clenching and unclenching and broad shoulders tense. Neville on the other hand, looks a bit like a mouse, timid and nervous, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.
It’s a wonder there’s no customers. The small space of his shops feels strained, stretched even, and Oliver swears he can hear his own heart beating in his chest.
“Neville,” Blaise says firmly, “did I ever give you the impression that I found you beneath me?”
Neville shakes his head, watching with wide eyes.
“No,” Blaise sneers, “I bloody well tried every fucking move in the playbook.”
Oliver clears his throat, the sound cutting through the brief silence, just to let the two men know that he’s there.
Neither of them even spare him a glance.
“What made you think I was playing you? Huh?” and Blaise doesn’t hold back now, it seems because his voice gets stronger, “I did find him, you know. That Scamander bloke.”
Neville looks frightened. Oliver stands frozen in the shop door, too afraid to move. Blaise doesn’t even acknowledge him before he takes a deep breath and continues; “He’s an arrogant arse, that man. I don’t even know what you saw in him. Merlin, what is it with Gryffindors and abusive men?”
“What?” Oliver says, though no one seems to care that he’s there. He didn’t know there were more of his housemates with similar stories.
“Look, I didn’t kill him.” Blaise pauses and his lips curl into a cruel smile. “I scared him a bit. Told him to refuse a job at Hogwarts if he’s ever offered it. Told him to never step foot in London again. I made sure he’ll never be in a ten mile radius of you.”
Neville smiles bitterly: a wry sort of sad smile. “Blaise, you don’t need to do all this.”
“Of course I have to!” Blaise bellows, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Merlin, when you said you hadn’t…” he throws Oliver a sideways glance, “...you know. I just—I couldn’t believe it. You deserve someone that fucking wants the whole lot with you! You’re fit, Neville. I’ve told you that a hundred times already. I’d have you in a heartbeat. I’d never let you leave my bed. I’d fucking cherish you,” Blaise’s voice breaks. “You’ve got to know that by now.”
Oh.
What Oliver wouldn’t give to hear a confession spoken so powerfully and passionately towards himself.
Though it appears that Neville isn’t won over by the confession. Instead, he looks guarded and unsure at the same time, his hands shaking by his sides as he peers up at Blaise.
“I can’t, Blaise.” And Blaise’s shoulders drop and his entire face falls. The Slytherin looks wrecked and Neville, sweet, lovely Neville doesn’t falter. “I’m not ready.”
Even though Oliver wants to intervene because surely, Neville’s ready—they’ve discussed it a hundred times already—he keeps his mouth shut and watches with sad eyes as Blaise mumbles something incoherent and pushes past him, leaving the shop in a few short strides. Oliver doesn’t dare say a word so he waits instead, waits for Neville to say something but alas, Neville just grants him a tired look, one that is too weighted to describe with words and Oliver watches as the pudgy man makes his way down the stairs to no doubt seek solitude.
Left on his own, Oliver contemplates whether or not he’d do the same as Neville.
Probably not.
Blaise’s consistent flirting has, if anything, reminded him of the fact that he’s no longer young and that soon, time will catch up with him and he’ll have no one by his side to cherish him or comfort him with romantically whispered words or lingering touches.
If anything, Oliver would give an arm and a leg—even the good ones—to receive such admiration and affection from another person.
It’s a quiet close the day after; Neville’s decided to stay home which Oliver could only allow. Blaise has been by the shop far too many times and Oliver has had to console the man several times. Now, Oliver’s wrapping the last owl parcels for the day, one-handed and making a damn fine job of it and then suddenly a strong voice breaks him out of his trance.
“He’s moping around the shop, refusing to go home.”
Oliver practically jumps a feet or two up in the air and Marcus has no right to look so amused. At least Marcus has the good manners to look a little sheepish about startling him, but only after Oliver shoots him a glare.
“Wood,” Marcus begins, making his way to the counter. He then leans in, all too close, and speaks low. His low voice sends a shiver down Oliver’s spine. “We should talk. This thing with Blaise and Longbottom—it’s not good for business.”
Oliver nods and works with an almost mechanical hand, wrapping the parcel with expert speed, and he jerks away with a startled yelp when one of Marcus’ large hands darts out to take hold of his injured arm. Marcus looks stunned in response.
“Pardon me,” Oliver snaps, sharper than he intends. He keeps his injured arm tucked against his stomach and fastens the binding securely in a tight, one-handed knot as he steps back to put some space between them. Marcus drops his hand after hovering it mid-air for a few seconds.
Marcus stares at the parcel with incredibly intense scrutiny, as if he’s offended by its very existence, like Oliver’s supposed to just put it down and forget about it. Instead, Oliver shoots the man a smirk and puts the parcel in the sack ready for deliveries. He’s not useless like this. In fact, he may come out of this injury ambidextrous.
After a moment of gawking, Marcus shakes his head roughly. “Are you alright?” he asks then, his voice softer, more careful, and Oliver can’t help but scrunch up his face in confusion.
“Yes?” he says slowly, “I’m perfectly fine.” He shoots the brute a reassuring smile.
“Did you fall off your broom or somethin’?” He says now with a weird strangled voice, his eyes wide on Oliver’s limp arm. His thick brows narrow in anger and Oliver isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve this, but Marcus Flint isn’t his bloody saviour and he’s perfectly fine.
“No, I don’t fly anymore, remember?” he drawls drily, “I just don’t like being touched by strangers , that’s all.”
It’s a horrible excuse because Marcus Flint isn’t a stranger, never has been. But it’s not like he can tell him that he sprained his arm falling out of his fucking window due to the fact that he was trying to spy on the handsome man next door, who just happens to be Marcus.
Marcus looks unconvinced, his expression set in stubborn lines as his gaze shifts from Oliver’s face, down his body, and back up again, as if he’s figuring Oliver out. Already aware that their exchange is changing, going from a confrontation to whatever this is, Oliver feels his cheeks go hot.
“Someone hurt you,” Marcus states and this time it’s between gritted teeth and Oliver has to try really hard not to reveal what happened, but he cannot —under any circumstances— ever tell Marcus about it. “Who hurt you?” His voice is persistent, firm even and Oliver kind of wants to laugh at his seriousness.
“No one has hurt me, Merlin’s beard,” Oliver rolls his eyes and tries to steer the conversation in another direction. His good hand shakes a bit, so he curls it into a fist by his side, hiding it from Marcus’ view. “Just a little clumsy, that’s all. Anyway, I—”
“Tell me his fucking name and I’ll kill him.” Marcus cuts him off with a scary voice. He looks very much like he did in school; grey eyes hard and cool, mouth curled in a downwards frown and his shoulders tenses.
“What?” Oliver blinks. What is it with Slytherins and threatening to kill people?
“Suit yourself,” Marcus sneers and gives him a long hard look, before turning and purposely striding out the door, slamming the door violently behind him.
Oliver is left feeling stunned and dumbfounded. He’s surprised, to say the least, by Marcus’ apparent insistence, his perseverance, his sudden need to know. And strangely enough, it’s what he wants. He’s torn between wanting to chase Marcus, run after him, tell him everything that happened and why he’s been so standoffish, but the fear of judgement holds him back.
He wants the attention, he craves it—most of all from Marcus, but now that it’s been given, he feels divided. He’s terrified of Marcus finding out. He’s unsure and frankly sceptical that Marcus would ever understand—Marcus Flint, a starting chaser straight out of Hogwarts, Marcus Flint who’s apparently still friends with half the ruddy league. Of course, he’d judge him. He’d call him a cheater. A liar too.
And though Oliver’s been called worse in his life, by opposing team’s fans, by ex-lovers and journalists, Marcus Flint thinking less of him, as an athlete, as a man, is too grim of a thought.
“I just don’t—why is he so persistent?” Oliver exclaims the next day, furiously flicking his wand at the cash register. The Galleons all line up into neat little stacks, ready to be counted. “It’s not important for him to know!”
“Maybe he’s just worried,” Neville muses, painting neat little gold snitches on a banner. Today is Seeker Day—not officially, it’s just a day Oliver’s made up to get Harry to come by and talk about their days of glory at Hogwarts.
“I mean,” Neville continues, “...it is a bit strange that you’re suddenly injured, when you don’t fly or go out… at all.”
“I can’t bloody tell him!” Oliver’s angry outburst accidentally sets his magic ablaze and like a child having a tantrum, his magic makes the lights flicker and the shelves shake for a brief second.
It’s embarrassing. Magical outbursts from an emotional state don't happen to adults and Oliver can’t help the whimper that escapes him.
Pathetic is what he is, what he feels.
Neville’s eyes hold a brief glimmer of pity before he sets down the paint. “I know you’re scared that he’ll judge you,” he holds up his hands placatingly at the sight of Oliver’s indignant face, “but I honestly think that he’ll understand. Perhaps he’s the only one who’ll understand, actually. You know… because of quidditch?”
“I suppose,” Oliver muses out loud.
“Why don’t you just go over there and—”
The shop door opens and of course, it’s Marcus standing there. With his broad arms crossed over his chest very defensively.
“Can we talk later?” is what he asks gruffly and all Oliver can do is nod because even when Marcus looks grouchy and uncomfortable, he’s all sharp lines and pure rugged masculinity and it makes Oliver feel a bit dizzy.
Neville’s eyes flicker between them and he lets out a cough to break the heavy silence. “So,” he clears his throat, “how’s Blaise?”
“He’s every bit as hurt as you think he is, Longbottom.”
The words that leave Marcus’ mouth aren’t exactly friendly and Neville, the poor lad, grabs the gold paint and brushes silently before he escapes down into the sanctuary of the basement.
“Should we—” Marcus starts.
“We’ll talk later, Marcus,” Oliver interrupts firmly, eager to check on Neville.
Marcus huffs childishly before he leaves out the door, just as Harry makes his entrance.
Harry looks a little bewildered, as usual, his hair shaggy and sticking up in several directions. He’s holding a purple plant under his arm that is shaped a bit like loads of snakes. He swivels on his feet towards Diagon Alley and clears his throat with his back turned to Oliver. He’s put on his Gryffindor jumper, though it’s a little too snug on him.
“Was that Marcus Flint?” he asks unbelievingly, scratching the back of his head with his free arm.
As Harry turns back around, Oliver grumbles out loud. “Aye, he’s been causing a lot of trouble lately.”
“I suppose that means nothing’s new, huh?” Harry grins crookedly and Oliver’s instantly taken fifteen years back in time and sees the then scrawny, wispy kid that had been so spectacular on a broom. “Anyway, where’s Nev? I picked up this…” Harry squints his eyes at the little label on one of the branches, “ Trachyandra Tortilis for him. It’s apparently super rare!”
Sweet and considerate Harry, Oliver thinks. He smiles ruefully at Harry, giving away the dreadfulness that is Neville’s current mood. “I think it’s best I go check on him before the wee kids come around. There’s been a lot of stuff happening, Harry. Bloody Slytherins—they’re too much trouble, I tell ya.”
Maybe it’s a trick of the eye, but Harry’s cheeks redden and he definitely mumbles something along the lines of “don’t I know it” but Oliver doesn’t stop in his tirade. “—Zabini’s been flirting Neville’s ears off—”
“He’s still doing that?” Harry looks surprised. “I thought he gave up at Hogwarts.”
“Well, apparently not. And now Neville’s gone and rejected him again and—I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I almost feel sorry for Zabini. Though I don’t know why Neville’s being so tetchy. He brought this on himself.” Maybe his words are a tad harsh. Especially because Neville can hear him from downstairs, but it’s the truth and Oliver has quite frankly had it with the silly will-they-won’t-they that is Neville and Blaise.
“He’s just scared of getting hurt,” Harry whispers quietly. “You know what that’s like.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Oliver retorts angrily.
“Oliver, I set you up with like four different blokes and you didn’t even bother showing up for two of them,” Harry scolds, the irritation clear on his face.
Oliver feels ashamed because he might have done that. In retrospect, he’d been fresh off the pitch at the time and had still not come to terms with his injury. Though he doesn’t manage to think of a reply before Harry’s maneuvered past him and made his way down into the basement.
It’s not until it’s five minutes to twelve, mere minutes before the kids come crashing through the door that Harry and Neville come up from the basement. Oliver doesn’t prod and gives Neville an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder as a show of support. Partly because he’ll need the younger man’s encouragement if he’s to have his dreaded talk with Marcus Flint later.
At the end of the day, Oliver sends Neville home a quarter before closing.
They’ve had a talk, a seemingly hesitant and difficult one, mostly consisting of Neville insulting himself and Oliver reassuring him, encouraging him to accept Blaise’s proposal. In return, Neville’s made it quite clear that Oliver needs to come clean about his accident, especially if he wants anything to do with the shop next door and its occupants.
It’s the silence before the storm, Oliver feels. It won’t be long until Marcus will come through the door and he’ll have to come clean about his embarrassing failure. The thing is, even for all their past indifferences and silly arguments back at school, Oliver knows that Marcus Flint loves quidditch and respects the game as much as Oliver does.
He knows that Marcus won’t understand. That he’ll hear Oliver’s story and he won’t be able to relate. Marcus had a great career. His injury came in his later years, not when he was at the top of his game. He got to play for many years, for great teams, with great players… and Oliver didn’t.
Oliver stands in the middle of the shop, cursing his own bitterness. It’s a slippery slope—get a little crush on a bloke, question your sanity, deny it with all your might and then all of sudden, you’ve lost control and have to spill your deepest and darkest secret.
On the other hand, perhaps it’ll make it all go away. Maybe, Marcus Flint will think less of him and leave him to his own. Maybe, he won’t ever talk to Oliver again and they can go back to the status of being old rivals. It’s not like it would change anything either.
“You ready?” Marcus’ gruff voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Do I even have a choice?” Oliver answers drily, turning on his feet towards the dark haired man.
Even if Oliver wanted to pretend he’s not affected by Marcus’ presence, it is surely ruined by the warmth that creeps up his neck and onto his cheeks as he takes in the sight of the broad chested, tattooed quidditch star before him.
Marcus looks positively rugged. Dressed in casual, grey slacks (that hugged his thighs very well) and black, wrinkled t-shirt. It’s sort of half tucked in and hanging half out of his trousers and something about his dishevelled hair and rather unkempt appearance makes Oliver feel a tingle all the way down his spine.
“Is it windy out?” Oliver asks breathlessly and unthinkingly because Marcus’ hair looks like someone has run their fingers through it several times. He’s so enthralled by the sight in front of him that he doesn’t even notice Marcus’ reply. Instead, Oliver uses the moment to properly study the tattoos that he’s never gotten to see up close.
On Marcus’ muscular arms there are several patterns; some look like ancient runes, while others move and form shapes such as a broom, a quaffle and the one that’s furthest from his eyes, just peeking out from the sleeve of Marcus’ t-shirt looks a bit like a chain or a braid, slithering tantalisingly up underneath the shirt.
“What?” Oliver asks automatically because the older man clearly had said something while he was too busy ogling the little bit of skin he’d been treated too.
“...Blaise says my hair looks better like this,” Marcus mumbles and then clearing his throat, he adds, “so yeah, not windy.”
“Oh,” Oliver replies intelligently. “It looks… good, yeah.”
An awkward silence settles between them and Oliver briefly considers going outside to at least set up his wards, but decides perhaps he should just get it over with. Like taking Skele-Gro from Madame Pomfrey.
“So, I suppose—”
“Could you just—”
They both take a step back, oddly in sync, and Oliver lets out a broken laugh. “How about I just talk? And maybe for once in your life, don’t interrupt or jump to any conclusions before I’ve finished talking.”
Marcus’ heavy eyebrows draw together and he looks quite ticked off.
“So… I had an injury and was retired,” Oliver starts nonchalantly.
“You weren’t retired,” Marcus snaps, “you quit. You could have taken time off and healed, but you didn’t. Now you’re injured again and you’re not healing.”
“Merlin’s bloody beard,” Oliver mutters under his breath. “Look, I don’t exactly heal, alright? I ruined my muscles in my upper body and they don’t quite work properly. Sometimes it takes me months to heal. Sometimes it affects my whole body, sometimes not.”
“What? Did he use an Unforgivable on you?” Marcus looks pained and frustrated, like he’s torn between several emotions.
“Who is he? ” He’s not entirely sure what Marcus means and the way he’s staring at him in disbelief, makes him frustrated.
“Whatever bloke you were with.” It comes out between gritted teeth from Marcus, heavy brows narrowing in anger.
“What?” Oliver stares, quite confused by the turn of the conversation.
Marcus stares at him with intense eyes, his chest heaving as he breathes heavily and Oliver can only admire the way his jaw clenches in anger, making the sharp line even more prominent.
“Look,” Marcus starts with a hand coming up to cover his now tired face, “Blaise noticed some things. I noticed some things too. There’s no record of your injury anywhere—”
“You checked, did you?” Oliver spits, suddenly enraged at the thought of Marcus invading his privacy.
“Well, it’s not like you would fucking tell me, now is it?” Marcus roars and Oliver doesn’t flinch, he only raises his voice to match.
“It’s none of your business! You don’t know me, we’re not—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Oliver. I was bloody worried, wasn’t I? Then Blaise told me about all that Scamander business, that you don’t see anyone, you don’t go out and I thought that you were just bitter and lonely, but then you’re suddenly injured again. And then Blaise said that it wasn’t a quidditch injury and there was some ‘he’ involved. Excuse me for trying to connect the dots. Why would you—” Marcus voice breaks and turns hollow, “why would you go back to someone that hurts you? ”
Oliver needs to sit down, because his right forearm tingles now. Small, brief bursts of pain run through his arm and—it’s all overwhelming and strangely endearing too.
Marcus Flint thinks he’s being abused.
Marcus Flint is worried about him.
“Accio salve,” Oliver waves his wand as Marcus blatantly stares. The little jar flies into his hand and he wastes no time; he plops down on the wooden crate by the till and carefully shrugs off his outer shirt.
In any other circumstance, Oliver would be embarrassed with having to strip in front of the shredded Slytherin, but as his shoulder spasms and Marcus looks on with worry in his eyes, Oliver pays the flush that spreads down his neck no mind. He spreads the paste over his entire arm and does the spell with only a little difficulty, ignoring the way the paste tugs on the wispy hairs on his arm.
He lets out a sigh and looks up at the older man who’s watching him very intently.
“Do you know Malcolm Travers?” Oliver questions.
“Isn’t he the wanker who got himself banned for taking potions and whatnot?” Marcus looks confused.
“Yeah,” Oliver replies bitterly. “Well, he’s the he.”
“You were dating Malcolm Travers?” Marcus asks flatly. There’s a brief glimmer of bafflement on his face, no doubt to the fact that Malcolm is about ten years older than them and not particularly charming or good-looking—and he just happens to be a Sacred-Twenty Eight, as well as a Slytherin too.
“Merlin, no,” Oliver rolls his eyes. “I… I looked up to him, you know? And then one day, he cornered me in the lockers after we lost to him. Said he’d been taking these potions and his performance had—”
“Why didn’t you fucking report him?” Marcus snarls and Oliver finds himself jerking in shock at his harsh words.
“Will you just let me finish?” Oliver snaps in retaliation and Marcus looks disgruntled and crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. “I didn’t report him because I wanted the same. Do you realise how bad Puddlemere was doing in ‘04? We were last in the league. I was the worst fucking keeper in England, Marcus. Malcolm said he saw the potential in me, the drive I had.” He takes in a sharp breath, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with his own words. Leaning back against the till and stretching his legs in front of him, Oliver looks up at the dark-haired man to find him strangely solemn and void of any emotion.
“Anyway, he helped me get a hold of two of them. One for agility and one for strength. Taught me the spells and—” Oliver’s eyes tear up on their own and his voice breaks. “I didn’t know it was dark magic. I thought… I just thought it was one potion here, one potion there—”
“It never is,” Marcus grits out and then he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Why didn’t you report him? You—you were always such a do-gooder! Fucking called out every foul on the pitch—even your own ones!”
Oliver exhales noisily. “By the time I wanted to, it was too late. Couldn’t report him without implicating myself.” Oliver looks at the floor in anger. “I just wanted to win. To be better,” he whispers.
His eyes blur and it’s suddenly difficult to keep his breathing steady. He stares so hard at the hardwood floor that his eyes hurt with the strain and the annoying silence only makes his agony worse.
It’s probably around two minutes that pass. Two minutes where Oliver can practically hear Marcus’ teeth grinding, the gears working in his head. Then, out of nowhere, a large shape obscures his vision and it’s Marcus sodding Flint, sitting down across from him on the shop floor with crossed legs and a strangely calm expression. He does grimace a little from the strain it puts on his legs, probably, but it’s quickly gone and he fixates on Oliver with a soft gaze.
“So you retired voluntarily,” he states quietly and then looks down at his large palms. The quaffle on his forearm moves in circles around his wrist and Oliver notices the Flint family crest there too, green, silver and black like the house of Slytherin.
Oliver nods slowly, meeting Marcus’ misty eyes. “They’d notice the injury sooner or later.”
Marcus furrows his bushy brows at that. “Can it get worse?”
Oliver contemplates a bit before answering. “My healer says it won’t as long as I keep applying the salve and do the healing spell. It won't ever properly heal,” he reprimands, “but I’ve gone months without anything happening.”
“What about that day?” Marcus asks, leaning back on his hands, “that day with Blaise and Longbottom?”
“Oh,” Oliver utters, picking at his fingernails, unanticipatedly feeling anxious. “Uh… Sometimes it’s random and other times it’ll appear because of stress or, well, emotional overwhelm.”
Marcus hums noncommittally. “Is that why you don’t get out much?” He quirks an eyebrow in amusement.
“I—I do go out!” Oliver splutters, though it doesn’t seem very convincing to the ex-chaser who just lets out a bark of laughter.
“I’ve been back in England for a year,” the raven haired man muses, “haven’t seen you anywhere. At matches, at parties, at the Ministry… Practically met all the Weasley’s the first month.”
“Looked for me, did you?” Oliver looks up.
Marcus remains silent. He uncrosses his legs, moving to stand up and for a split second, Oliver thinks he means to leave but then Marcus takes a step forward and reaches out his palm. “Of course, I did,” he says, like it’s nothing.
Oliver grabs the hand with his right hand and lets Marcus haul him up with ease, as if he weighs nothing at all. He stumbles a bit from the effort, but Marcus strong hands grip his waist slotting into the dip there perfectly, the rough skin grazing his own, and Oliver feels a bit like a fair maiden in a fairytale, because he has to steady himself with his good hand placed firmly on Marcus’ pectoral muscle.
He’s not really sure what to say and the only thought that seems to go through his head is that he has yet to lock up and anyone could walk into the shop and find him half-naked in Marcus Flint’s arms.
“Oh,” he breathes belatedly, not sure of what else to say. He doesn’t dare look up into Marcus’ eyes, too afraid that his own will give away the overwhelm he’s feeling. He can feel the stormy eyes on him and Marcus practically radiates heat and the hands on his waist tighten for just a fraction of a second.
“I dunno.” Marcus’ deep voice rumbles in his chest. Oliver can feel it going through his hand. “I just figured that I would run into you at some point.”
“I suppose,” Oliver replies automatically, still not keen on looking up.
“Yeah,” Marcus lets out a small laugh, “Imagine my surprise when I found you in Diagon Alley of all places.”
Oliver still can’t quite muster up any quick-witted replies and he’s damn grateful that Marcus is there, steadying him, because it feels a bit like the Earth is spinning too fast and he can’t feel his body properly.
“Then you turned out to be a grumpy, old Gryffindor and I didn’t know if it was because of our time at Hogwarts or—well, I was a git to you. So it was fair if it was.”
This time Oliver actually looks up to see the wry smile on Marcus’ lips and the honesty in his eyes. “I—I wasn’t grumpy , per say,” Oliver counters and Marcus just lets out a bark of laughter in response.
“You didn’t even acknowledge me. You didn’t even come to see our shop,” he reminds him and then he (much to Oliver’s sadness) lets go of Oliver’s waist and steps back with his hands on his hips. “Come to think of it, you still haven’t been.” It’s followed by a pointed look and all Oliver can do is laugh.
“Alright, alright,” he rolls his eyes, “I’ll come see your stupid shop. Just let me put on a shirt again, I won’t have the good folks of London thinking anything wrong about us.” He grabs his discarded shirt and puts it on, leaving the cuff of the left sleeve unbuttoned so it doesn’t tug on the hardened paste.
“Would it be so bad if they did?” Marcus asks as he makes his way to the door and Oliver has to remind himself that the former brute is only teasing and he looks at the back of Marcus’, takes in his broad shoulders, his long legs and that lovely bum.
“Of course it wouldn’t,” he tries and then, because Oliver’s very much a self-deprecating person and couldn’t possibly ever land a man like Marcus Flint, he adds, “but who’d ever believe that someone like you would be with a cripple like me?”
Marcus doesn’t reply, he just holds the door open for Oliver and gives him a strange look. Oliver shrugs to no one in particular before he walks out in front of Marcus.
Perhaps his words were just too real.
The month of December passes by quickly. The shop’s been swarmed with customers and Oliver has barely had time to think about his new-formed... friendship with one Marcus Flint. In all the gift-giving stress, the basement is nearing on empty and he’s got to compile a new order because even with four days until Christmas, it appears several wizards and witches still come in with very specific wishes.
It’s comforting, at least, that his sprain has healed and Oliver’s back to using both of his hands again. He’s in the middle of going through the bookshelves, jotting down book orders, when the bell on the door goes off.
“Sorry, we’re closed!” Oliver calls out, not bothering to turn around. It’s been a frequent occurrence lately—people, caught up in getting their gifts, not respecting the opening hours.
“Yeah, I know.”
Oh.
Oliver knows that smug voice.
He whips around in a quick movement, nearly falling over from the force. “Oh, hi. Marcus,” he adds, cursing his own awkwardness. It feels strange to him, this sudden familiarity: being on first name basis, Marcus popping in occasionally for small talk, Oliver blatantly ogling him and stuttering through said small talk with cheeks redder than Rudolph’s nose.
“Hey,” Marcus grins and it’s the kind of boyish, lopsided, cheeky smile that makes Oliver feel unnaturally self conscious. He’s a bit sweaty, his clothes are rumpled and his hair’s probably sticking up in several directions. Oliver rues that he didn’t think to dress better on the last day before the holidays because Marcus looks well put-together.
Even though Marcus is very much an intimidating presence, tough and thuggish in appearance, he manages to look positively adorable in a fuzzy, navy jumper and black jeans. His ears and nose are tinted red from the winter cold and he holds an envelope in his large hands, clutching it protectively in front of his chest.
“Er,” Marcus begins, the highest points of his cheekbones turning red, “I made you something.” He sticks out the envelope in a hurried motion. “For Christmas,” he adds sheepishly.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Oliver says politely but the reality is that he’s very much grateful that Marcus has, because in the cabinet underneath the counter, there’s a neatly packed present waiting to be given to the man in question.
He takes the envelope with a curious look at Marcus, who in return manages to look a bit embarrassed. His hands shake a bit as he tears off the seal and carefully lifts the flap to reveal the parchment inside.
Oliver’s lips part of their own accord and he carelessly drops the envelope to the floor.
It’s a drawing of him.
“I’m still shit at charms, so Blaise helped me out,” Marcus grimaces and shoots him a nervous glance.
It’s beautiful.
Marcus must have found some old newspaper clippings of him, because the drawing is clearly based on his Puddlemere victory against Tutshill: he’s on his beloved Firebolt Supreme, decked out in his Puddlemere gear with one fist raised in the air, the quaffle safely tucked under his arm and looping joyously in front of the hoops. His chest is puffed out and he breaks out into a large smile before the drawing loops back to the beginning of his victory pose.
Oliver blinks.
Oliver manages to mouth a quiet 'thank you' while absentmindedly bringing his hand up to rest on top of Marcus’ well-sculpted shoulder. He gives it a small squeeze before retreating his hand slowly. Then, as the weighted look of Marcus becomes too much, he lets out a “Oh!” in realisation and quickly stumbles across the shop to pick up the parcel in the cabinet underneath the counter. He feels the cool, steel eyes following him, the burn of Marcus' stare becoming too intense, and he tries desperately to hide the hot flush that spreads across his face.
“I—er, got you something as well.”
Oliver steals a glance at Marcus and there it is.
The trademark frown, cool and collected, demeanour void of any visible emotion. It’s a facade of course, because there’s the tiniest tint on the former chaser’s cheeks. Oliver can’t help but admire him for this ability to apparently turn his emotions off at will, because he sure as hell can’t. He, on the other hand, is still flushed, heart beating hard against his chest, and realistically, he knows that this might be the most straightforward gesture he’s ever done.
Marcus nears the counter in a painfully slow movement and Oliver has to bite back a smile at the state of the larger man. He looks so stoic and poised, as if he’s preparing himself for battle.
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Marcus states, though the underlying tone of curiosity is there.
Oliver puts the parcel on the counter, sliding it slowly towards the burly man with a grin on his face.
It had taken him four days to track it down and he’d paid a pretty price for it too, but as he watches Marcus unravel the strings and carefully peer into the box, it’s all worth it.
Gifting someone jewellery—particularly a ring—is rather personal. It’s not something Oliver’s ever done before and he feels rather anxious as Marcus picks up the ring with his thick fingers. He says nothing as he runs the rough pad of his thumb over the emblem and Oliver can only wait impatiently for a reaction, some words, anything that indicates whether Marcus likes it or not.
“You—” Marcus’ voice breaks and his eyes meet Oliver’s, “how’d you find it?”
“I remembered this old interview you did with Quick Quidditch, back in our early years,” Oliver admits quietly. “The journalist asked you about your most prized possession besides your broom and you said your Hogwarts ring, but that you had lost it. I don’t think I could ever lose mine, especially because it sort of symbolises—”
“Quidditch,” Marcus finishes for him, nodding along.
“Yeah,” Oliver smiles. “It’s not actually yours though. I had to buy it off a Slytherin from your year—Gemma Farley? Got it resized and changed the initials of course. Neville wrote McGonagall too, but it turns out they stopped making them when Dumbledore died.”
“I don’t know what to say, Oliver,” Marcus says honestly and Oliver watches intently as he breaks out into a lopsided smile and puts the large ring on his left index finger. It fits perfectly and Oliver lets out a deep breath.
“It’s nothing really,” he tries dismissively and waves a hand into the air but Marcus catches it with his own, squeezing it almost painfully tight.
“It’s not,” he chastises, giving Oliver a serious look. “You’re a good man, Oliver,” he adds and his coarse thumb strokes Oliver’s palm softly.
Oliver didn’t know how much he needed to hear those particular words, but his knees nearly buckle, his legs shake and he has to step back from the counter and let go of Marcus’ hand to put more space between them before he does anything stupid.
If Marcus is at all irked by the sudden movement, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he grins again, lopsided and crooked, so irresistibly charming and teasing that Oliver has to bring up the current league standings to distract himself from falling completely in love.
For New Year’s Eve, Oliver’s been dragged—quite unwillingly—to Marcus’ party.
He had spent most of the Christmas holiday with his extended family in Scotland, running after the wee kids and pretending not to hear whenever his mother had made a comment about wanting grandkids of her own. He had made it home with a trunk full of leftovers and barely managed to be back in Diagon Alley for an hour, before Neville had barged in, flustered and with windswept hair, asking him to accompany him to Marcus’ New Year party. If it had something to do with a certain handsome Slytherin, Neville hadn’t mentioned it, though Oliver had a feeling it had to be.
So Oliver goes, of course—mostly because now that he’s on better terms with Marcus, he could finally get a peek into his life and the opportunity to figure out whether Marcus is bent or not. Unlike Oliver, Marcus has lived a mysterious life outside of quidditch and in his search for information, he’s found that the former Falcons chaser has always deflected any questions about his love life to the press.
It is ridiculously late into his infatuation to be thinking of the aspect of sexuality, but he hasn’t asked. He doesn’t want to either. So instead, he settles for observing the man in question and making rounds talking to every single one of his old team mates. It’s not like Marcus has time for him currently, anyway. He’s still welcoming people in, shaking hands and giving bear hugs to old team mates.
It’s not until Oliver’s talking to the Swedish keeper Martin that Marcus decides to acknowledge him.
“I know those Swedes are handsome,” he playfully ruffles Martin’s hair and gives Oliver a cheeky grin that makes his whole gut clench, “but I promise you, they’ll only break your heart. No,” Marcus takes a long swig of his beer and Oliver can’t help but admire the way his Adam’s apple bobs, “you’re much better off with an Englishman. We’re reliable, you see.” And then he winks.
Oliver blushes profoundly and he doesn’t even get to say a word before Marcus is off again, playing the part of a good host.
The party is rather splendid. There’s a large assortment of various alcoholic drinks and the large wooden table in Flint’s flat seems to have been spelled with to never be empty of food. The atmosphere is what to be expected of quidditch players of season: loud, rowdy and a bit too fast-paced, but Oliver manages to talk to most of the Swedes and half of the Falcons, before Blaise finds him and drags him off to the kitchen in an attempt to question him.
“Do you think Neville’s enjoying himself?” He hisses and Oliver has to do a double take, because Blaise Zabini looks insecure.
They both peek through the opening to the living room and sure enough, Neville’s sitting on the sofa between Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy who both seem to question him rather aggressively, because Neville looks a bit sick.
“I think he’d be enjoying himself more if you were the one talking to him,” Oliver says pointedly, sipping his own drink.
Blaise squirms uncomfortably. “I would,” he swallows thickly, “but I’m not sure he wants me to.”
“I think you just need to go for it,” Oliver says, leaving out the part where he’s watched the two men carefully for most of the night and neither of them are being particularly subtle about their longing looks and shy glances.
“I think you should just go for it too,” Blaise mutters under his breath. “Already gave him a fucking ring too. Merlin.”
Oliver doesn’t manage a reply before Blaise strides purposely towards the sofa and very deliberately positions himself between Malfoy and Neville. Malfoy rolls his eyes in return and walks off to somewhere.
There’s only a few minutes to twelve and Oliver takes in his surroundings with a strange feeling. Marcus is nowhere to be seen and Oliver feels like he’s lost in the crowd and not notably important to anyone. He’s not quite sure where to place himself in the commotion, so he settles for standing a bit awkwardly by the living room window, people-watching and sipping his drink quietly.
When the clock actually strikes twelve, everyone breaks into loud cheers. There’s hugs and kisses being exchanged all around him and Oliver, in the midst of it all, feels a pang of loneliness in the spectacle around him. He tries to locate Neville in the room and oh—
Blaise is holding Neville by his tie with one hand, the other is firm on his waist and they’re engaged in what looks like the most obscene kiss for a public setting. While Neville’s eyes are closed, Blaise's eyes are open, looking down at Neville with an intense look in his eyes. The whole ordeal is so passionate that it’s not only Oliver who notices. Now, a mix of “get a room”, laughter and wolf whistles erupts around the couple.
“Alright you two, pack it in,” a deep voice says beside Oliver and it’s followed by a soft, low chuckle.
Oliver doesn’t need to turn sideways to identify the voice, because it sends a shiver down his spine. He stands frozen, forced to keep his eyes on Neville and Blaise, who are both now looking at each other with sappy faces. It’s a bit sickening really, how sweet they look.
“‘S good for them,” Marcus’ says quietly and while his voice had been perhaps a metre or so away before, his voice is now a few centimetres from Oliver’s ear.
Oliver turns towards him slowly, too affected by the closeness of him. All he manages in response is a slow nod. Marcus' eyes are very intense up close; like a rainy day, just before thunder and dark clouds, Marcus’ eyes are stormy and piercing.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Marcus accuses softly, his words full of amusement and warmth.
“I haven’t,” Oliver manages, though it doesn’t quite come out the way he wants it to. It sounds a bit like he’s swallowed a toad.
“Don’t lie to a Slytherin,” Marcus scolds, though there’s no heat in his words and the way he looks at him makes Oliver feel all kinds of things.
It’s not until now that Oliver realises that Marcus is wearing the ring. On his hand clutched around a beer bottle, on the index finger, the ring sits, silver and gleaming.
“You’re wearing it,” Oliver helplessly states.
“Of course I am,” Marcus' lips twitch. “Why wouldn’t I? Some of the lads have been joking about you ‘putting a ring on it’ as they say. Didn’t have the heart to tell them that there was no proposal with the ring.”
Oliver turns bright red. “I don’t—I mean, I didn’t—what?”
“Only joking,” Marcus laughs with his head thrown back and that exposes his broad neck, the rounded Adam's apple and the bits of stubble, just underneath his sharp jawline. Oliver has to avert his eyes so he doesn’t lean in and licks the tempting skin there.
“Right.” Oliver looks into his glass while he swivels it, feeling a bit restless. “Well, happy new year, I suppose,” he adds lamely, unsure of what else to say.
“Yeah,” Marcus' eyes sparkle with amusement and he doesn’t try to hide the way his gaze runs over Oliver’s body appreciatively and Oliver suddenly feels overwhelmed.
“Thanks for inviting me. It’s been nice. I—I think I’ll head—”
“You’re not leaving,” Marcus cuts him off, grabbing his arm. For a glimmer of a moment, Oliver’s certain that old, familiar temper of Marcus’ is back, but Marcus drags him towards a corner table where Gwenog Jones, Angus Campbell and Lev Zograf are seated and playing cards. Marcus wastes no time and manhandles Oliver into the only empty chair left at the table and then puts both his warm hands on Oliver’s shoulders, kneading them softly while he proceeds to introduce Oliver to the top players in the world.
Oliver can barely form any coherent sentences in the presence of his childhood idols, but when Marcus pulls up an extra chair and proceeds to explain the rules of the card game, Oliver feels slightly more at ease, having Marcus there by his side.
The clock is nearly three o’clock when Oliver realises he’s been left alone with a very drunk Swedish team, including one slightly inebriated Marcus Flint.
Blaise and Neville had made a disgustingly affectionate exit, holding hands and practically snogging all the way out the door, though Blaise had stopped briefly to give Oliver a very knowing grin and a dirty wink which Oliver in return completely ignored because of Marcus’ standing right next to him.
Perhaps he had blushed a little, but he wasn’t about to make his dirty thoughts obvious to the Slytherin. The very same Slytherin who’s currently wrestling one of the Swedish beaters on the floor, shirtless.
In a moment of weakness, Oliver catches himself thinking that watching two half-naked, absolutely shredded men roll around the floor, trying to upstage each other, is actually much more of an arousing sight than it should be.
Sighing to himself and ignoring the loud cheers from the Swedes around them, Oliver downs a glass of Firewhisky and does what he does best: lays down a game plan.
It’s nothing new to him, being the only sober one. Well, he’s not completely sober, but his head is clear and the shouts in a foreign language only makes him irritated.
He starts by flicking his wand around the kitchen, letting all dishes, cutlery and glasses find their way to the sink where a good scouring charm removes most of the mess. Then, while another match starts in the living room—an arm wrestling one, if he’s not mistaken by the sound of chairs being pulled out—Oliver casts a freshening charm on the leftovers and puts them in the icebox.
When he’s satisfied with the kitchen, he moves onto the living room. He doesn’t miss how Marcus’ momentarily loses his grip on the beater’s hand, because he’s too busy looking at Oliver. He lets out a chuckle and gestures towards Marcus’ opponent as if to remind him of what he’s currently doing.
Marcus childishly knits his brows in concentration and carries on while some of the Swedes throw little pieces of paper on the table, shouting and cheering all at once. Oliver can only assume the notes are muggle money.
Oliver’s managed to straighten out most of the furniture and cast scouring charms on the sticky parts of the floor, when Marcus Flint’s deep, rumbling voice roars.
“Jag har vunnit, du svenska djävul!” He calls out, pointing a finger at his opponent accusingly.
Oliver’s not sure if he’s won, lost or if someone’s cheated, but he decides he’s had enough of the noise and he mostly just wants to get back to the comfort of his own bed.
“Alright, gents,” Oliver cuts in smoothly, raising his voice over the sounds of what he believes are colourful Swedish swear words being spat. “I believe it is three o’clock and many of you have families to go home to? I live next door, you know, and you’ve cost me quite a lot of sleep over the past few months.”
Many of the bearded men look a bit sheepish, guilty even, shuffling their feet like children being scolded. Oliver struggles to hold back a laugh at the sight of the largest, most masculine men he’s ever seen look so ashamed.
All in all, it takes him about fifteen minutes to locate their Portkey back to Sweden, as well as some missing items of clothing because Swedes apparently tend to get naked when they drink or something.
It’s not until he’s said goodbye and shut the door behind the last hulking Swede that he realises there’s one man left in the room who’s looking at him very intently.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” Marcus says quietly, awkwardly scratching the back of his head.
“Of course, I had to. You’re drunk, Marcus,” Oliver reminds him and unconsciously smoothes his own hands over his thighs because he’s not sure what to do with his hands.
“Yeah,” Marcus laughs and half-tumbles forward towards Oliver.
Oliver catches him with a lot of effort, slightly stumbling himself at having to steady such a heavy weight crashing into him.
“Alright, let’s get you to bed,” he tuts, shaking his head in amusement.
With great difficulty, Oliver manages to push Marcus down the hallway, only crashing into a wall two times and he tries very hard not to think about his hands on Marcus’ warm, broad shoulders. It’s a ridiculous few feet to the bedroom, because Marcus seems to be wavering between awake and asleep which only makes moving him around much harder.
Then, when he’s finally gotten Marcus in the bloody bedroom, Marcus slumps onto the bed like a giant sack of potatoes, only he doesn’t fall asleep right away, no.
No, he shimmies, no, squirms, out of his trousers, kicking them off carelessly and flings of his socks too, before he leans back on his elbows onto the bed and looks at Oliver with what can only be described as bedroom eyes.
Oliver stands there stupidly, gaping.
“You can touch them,” Marcus drawls. Oliver has to take in a sharp breath, because shirtless Marcus—all hard lines, tanned skin, tattoos and bulging biceps—but a flirting, nearly-naked Marcus Flint; a Marcus that watches him with dark eyes and licks his lips, is something else entirely.
“Wh—what?” Oliver stutters, because his head doesn’t feel properly screwed on.
“The tattoos,” Marcus says pointedly and chuckles, low and rumbling in the quiet room, and Oliver realises his face must have given away that he was thinking about touching something else entirely.
The tattoos. Right. The tattoos move beautifully across Marcus’ body. There are far too many of them for Oliver to get a good look. What looks like a roman soldier raises his sword on Marcus’ thigh. Something resembling a pirate ship moves across his right pectoral and a rather beautiful, peach coloured flower unfolds right over his heart.
“I love them,” Oliver admits, unable to take his eyes off the flower.
“It’s a Begonia,” Marcus helps out. “‘S my mother’s name.”
A flower, for his mother, over his heart.
Oliver’s hand moves without his brain telling it to do so.
When he brushes two fingers over the flower, the colour intensifies as the pink undertones brighten around the edges and the flower grows a little in size. Marcus lets out a groan at the touch.
As if feeling stung, Oliver moves his hand back, letting it hang limply down his side.
“Goodnight Marcus,” he says automatically as if he’s been imperioed. Marcus looks at him with dark eyes and a jaw loosened from its hinges. Oliver doesn’t dare look further down, further than his firm abdominal muscles, the little hairs that lead down—
“Oliver?” Marcus asks, sitting up, swaying a little, probably at the sudden shift of gravity.
Oliver’s mouth feels dry and he’s not sure what to say. There’s a resounding silence in the bedroom and the air feels thick and heavy, as if the whole world has stopped spinning and every single living creature has gone to sleep.
“I can’t,” Oliver whispers helplessly, an alarmingly high-pitched noise ringing in his ears.
“You can,” Marcus says firmly, reaching out and grabbing a hold of the bottom of Oliver’s shirt. It’s probably the alcohol in his system, but Marcus seems frustrated and his grip is rather forceful. A rough thumb pad slips past the edge of his shirt and brushes the skin on his left hip bone curiously.
He may have had his doubts about Marcus’ sexuality before, but it’s as clear as day now. Marcus wants him as much as Oliver wants him.
A shudder runs through Oliver at the thought.
But Marcus is drunk and it doesn’t feel right. It’s not how it’s supposed to go. It’s not what Oliver wants.
He moves Marcus’ hand away by the wrist. “I’m sorry, Marcus. Not like this,” he says and leaves the tense bedroom without any other words.
It takes Marcus three days to come by the shop.
It doesn’t bother Oliver in the slightest, because he’s spent the last seventy-two hours going over their last moment together, over and over, asking ‘what if’ questions and questioning his own choices. He’s had a few wanks over it too.
He’s helping out a mother with a book on the history of beaters when Marcus comes into the shop. He’s got his hands in his pockets casually and stands quietly, observing as Oliver finishes the sale.
Oliver tries not to let his nerves show and he smiles far too widely at the witch as she leaves, shutting the door behind her gentlemanly.
“So,” Oliver claps his hands together in front of himself awkwardly, “how are you? Here, have a Butterbeer.” Oliver summons a bottle for him, handing it over not quite as casually as he intends.
Marcus curls a brow in the most Slytherin fashion and takes the bottle, plopping down on the crate by the till. “Blaise is currently too busy snogging Longbottom in every corner of our shop and my eyes feel violated. My ears too. The fucking sounds they make.” He makes a grimace that’s similar to gagging.
Oliver lets out a huff and gives Marcus a reprimanding look. “Let them be happy.”
“What about you?” Marcus inquires.
“Not much, I’ve just—”
“No,” Marcus cuts him off. “I mean, what about letting yourself be happy?”
Oliver pauses. He should have known that eventually the subject of his restraint would come up. It’s just that he’s not sure what to say.
And he doesn’t have to say anything apparently, because in storms Pansy Parkinson, dressed in black as always and in a hurry as usual, the impatience and dismay evident on her face.
“Flint, you arsehole!” she shrieks, gesturing wildly with her hands. “You haven’t responded to the invitation. I need to know today. Bloody walked in on Blaise with Longbottom, can you believe it?”
Marcus doesn’t even stand up, he just gestures with his bottle lazily. “Why do you think I’m here? They’re practically attached at the hip now.”
“Well, that may be, but at least Blaise had the decency to decline in good time. Apparently he’s taking Longbottom to Italy? Merlin, I’d never thought I’d see the day Blaise would settle down.” Pansy rolls her eyes. “Suppose it’ll be a month or two and he’ll get tired of him. Don’t think Longbottom got much to—”
“Oi!” Marcus reprimands just as Oliver lets out a “Watch your mouth, lassie!” Oliver gives Marcus a grateful look.
“Alright, alright,” Pansy waves a hand dismissively. “I suppose you don’t even have a date, then? Millicent won’t like that. You know how she gets. Everything has to be absolutely perfect. Honestly, a winter wedding. I don’t know what she was thinking. Just imagine—”
“I have a date,” Marcus interrupts gruffly, and Oliver’s stomach twists in a painful knot.
“Oh, really?” Pansy raises an eyebrow, obviously not believing her friend at all. “Who is it, then?”
Marcus sets his Butterbeer down and gets up from the crate with a grimace, and Oliver has to brace himself for the impending talk about Marcus’ date. His whole being feels sunken, as if he weighs several tonnes and his feet won’t move.
But Marcus takes one step forward, then two, and then he’s standing by Oliver’s side and draping a heavy arm around his shoulders and Oliver tries not to tense, but he doesn’t quite manage it; his entire body goes stiff at the touch.
“I’m going with Oliver,” Marcus announces, and the knot in Oliver’s stomach loosens, painfully slow. He doesn’t dare look at Marcus, for fear of seeing laughter in the man’s beautiful eyes. He’s afraid that this is just one big joke. He’s terrified of his own face even, that it’s clear as day that he wouldn’t mind if Marcus’ words were true.
Pansy scoffs, waving her hand around; “Why would you go with him when you can—”
“No,” Marcus interrupts firmly, his hand on Oliver’s shoulder tightening. “I’m going with Oliver.”
Pansy blinks, once, twice, opens her mouth, then closes it, eyes darting between the two of them and narrowing suspiciously.
Oliver swallows and has to lean into Marcus because his knees feel wobbly. They’re nearly of height, with an inch or two in Marcus’ favour, maybe, but Marcus’ chest is broad and holds his weight well.
“Okay then,” Pansy says slowly. “The seating plan will have to be completely rearranged now. You were supposed to sit with Pucey and that lot, but I suppose you can sit with Oliver . Now, what are you wearing?”
And then Oliver’s brain checks out—he can hear Marcus telling Pansy that he has a robe sponsored by Twilfit and Tatting from his professional days. She also mentions something about Montague and his new wife and some charity Gregory Goyle has started, but Oliver’s having trouble focusing through the haze in his mind.
Eventually, he realizes it might be Marcus’ closeness that’s causing the trouble and he pats Marcus’ warm chest awkwardly, stepping away from him. His mind doesn’t clear much and Marcus gives him an odd look that could be a question or just confusion, but Oliver doesn’t have the capacity to try to read into it.
He makes for the safety of his beloved desk and slumps down into his chair. He lets out a heavy sigh and buries his face in his hands because now he’s Marcus’ date.
Which may or may not be mind boggling and anxiety inducing at the same time.
He’s not really sure how he feels about it.
“You alright?” Marcus asks from the doorway and Oliver looks up to see carefully blank eyes resting on him.
They haven’t even talked about New Year’s and a shiver runs through him at the thought of having said conversation now. Especially now that Marcus wants him to be his date. It must be romantic, this thing between them.
“Yeah,” he responds, swallowing thickly. “I’m… your date?”
Marcus bows his head sheepishly, his large hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’d prefer to go with you… if that’s alright?”
The question comes off as unsure; nervous even and Oliver has to take a sharp breath at the pure uncertainty in those usually confident eyes. Marcus looks a bit sick, turning pale and oddly skittish under his gaze and Oliver realises his silence is being taken the wrong way.
“I—yes. It’s fine, er, yes.” How eloquently put. He clears his throat and tries again: “I’d love to be your date.”
The wedding turns out to be much bigger and extravagant than Oliver could ever imagine.
The ceremony is being held on the Bulstrode grounds and while Oliver has had to take several moments just to take it all in, most of the clientele appears to be accustomed to this type of splendor and majesty. The party is all the things Oliver would never want for himself: a pompous spectacle with far too many people and awfully orchestrated segments of entertainment.
Oliver isn’t too keen on Celestina Warbeck’s love ballads and he thinks it’s a bit much with the banshee back-up singers. He doesn’t say anything when Pansy asks if he’s enjoying the entertainment.
Oliver’s never been around this many Slytherins before and he doesn’t fail to notice how he and Marcus attract a lot of attention. Maybe it’s because they’re both ex-quidditch players, or perhaps it’s because anyone who went to Hogwarts knows about their old rivalry.
Adrian Pucey is the first to comment on it.
“Always knew there was something going on between you two,” he says with a smirk. “You’d either kill each other or fuck each other—”
Marcus smacks him over the head in a brotherly way and Oliver can’t help but laugh at the reaction in unison with half of the old Slytherin quidditch team. No one asks if they’re actually together.
They make their rounds, exchanging pleasantries with several famous families and Oliver doesn’t fail to notice that Marcus doesn’t introduce him as anything other than “Oliver”. Whether it’s a good or bad thing, he’s not sure.
It’s fairly obvious that Marcus doesn’t mind being seen with him and he definitely doesn’t care about what could be perceived as something romantic, because he fetches Oliver drinks, leads Oliver around with a hand low on his back and just once, he fixes Oliver’s tie in plain sight.
Perhaps it’s a wedding thing, but there’s a lot of talk about why he isn’t married and why Marcus isn’t married. It mostly comes from nosy witches who also seem to have completely disregarded the fact that they’ve come together. A few of them even shove their daughters towards them—well, mostly Marcus, because he’s a Sacred Twenty-Eight.
At some point, Marcus has been whisked away by Pansy and Oliver’s left with a silver-haired woman at their table. Oliver looks down on his plate and moves around the remains of his cake with his fork.
“You married, boy?” The lady asks, raising a fine brow and sipping her tea expertly.
“Oh. Er, no,” Oliver answers politely, putting down his fork and instead fiddling with tablecloth out of her vision.
“What family are you from again?” It comes out a bit suspiciously.
“Not—not an important one. I’m a Wood. Oliver Wood,” he explains hurriedly, hoping to end the conversation already. His family name doesn’t hold much meaning to this lot, he thinks bitterly.
“Scottish clan, yes,” she mumbles and much to Oliver’s surprise, she doesn’t ask about his blood status at all. Instead her cool, blue eyes rake calculatingly over his form. “So no marriage—no girlfriend either?”
Oliver shakes his head.
“Do you even want to get married? Have children?” She questions harshly, her tone a little condescending. Just a little.
“Er—yes,” Oliver answers nervously, eyes flickering around the room, hopelessly looking for Marcus who is unfortunately nowhere to be seen. “Just haven’t had much luck, that’s all.” He adds the last bit with a bit of a pout so she’ll take pity on him, instead of interrogating him as if he has done something wrong.
“A handsome fella like you?” she scoffs, “you’d have three children by now if you were married to my daughter! Poor boy. We’ll find you someone.”
Thank Merlin, it works.
Then, a warm hand lands on his shoulder and Oliver looks up to see Marcus behind him, drink in hand and a hint of a smile on his lips.
“You giving poor Oliver trouble, Mrs. Fawley?” He pulls out a chair next to Oliver and sits down, scooting closer to the table.
“Oh, Marcus, lovely to see you,” the lady—Mrs. Fawley, apparently—smiles affectionately at Marcus. “Just wondering how such a handsome young man such as Mr. Wood here hasn’t started a family of his own yet. And you too! You’re a Flint, boy—don’t think I’ve forgotten. Such a large estate shouldn’t go to waste.” The looks she gives Marcus is firm and reprimanding. “I think I might introduce Mr. Wood to the younger Astoria girl.”
Marcus laughs, a deep, rumbling laughter that seems to confuse Mrs. Fawley and Oliver’s face heats up. Mrs. Fawley looks at him expectantly.
“Oh no, I’m—” Oliver chokes a bit, unsure if the woman is capable of accepting his choice of life. Marcus’ large hand finds his own under the table and squeezes it reassuringly. Oliver clears his throat. “Well, that is to say, I’m, er, I prefer men.”
Mrs. Fawley cackles hysterically, nearly spilling the tea in her cup. “I see,” she smiles, “you must be Marcus’ guest, then?”
Marcus, still holding his hand under the table, answers for him. “Yes, Mrs. Fawley. He’s my date.”
“Well, you ought to hurry up and marry him then!” She tuts. “Stop giving all these lovely girls false hope! I do enjoy a good wedding. Did you hear Celestina’s new record? I thought it was absolutely lovely.”
Marcus nods agreeingly and under the table, out of Mrs. Fawley sight, his thick, roughened fingers stroke the back of Oliver’s hand, slowly and tantalisingly.
Oliver gives a polite smile to Mrs. Fawley, not listening to a word that comes out of her mouth. Instead, he’s utterly and completely distracted by the effect Marcus has on him.
For the rest of the night, even in plain sight, Marcus doesn’t let go of his hand.
When they arrive back in the alley, Oliver’s left shoulder is burning. It’s just his luck really. A perfect evening and then this happens. He can’t pretend it’s not there, he can’t hide the emotion on his face either and there’s no point in doing so anyway, not when it’s this bad. So he lets out a groan and promptly clenches his jaw shut, grinding his teeth in pain.
“You alright?” Marcus asks, the concern evident on his face.
“Not really,” Oliver grits out, clutching his shoulder.
“Should I apparate you to your bedroom?” Marcus questions with a furrow in his brow.
“No, it’ll only make it worse,” Oliver gasps out and much to his surprise, Marcus takes the matter into his own hands. He waves his wand firmly, opening the door and then without warning, he lifts Oliver into his arms, sweeping him off his feet.
“Oh—no, you don’t have to—” Oliver manages, but Marcus lets out a grunt of exhaustion, no doubt from carrying Oliver’s weight.
“Just let me help you, Wood,” and Oliver can only slum helplessly in his arms.
“Your leg—” he manages, staring up at Marcus’ face. His strong, stubble-lined jaw and crooked nose are still attractive, even from a strange angle.
Marcus carries him with ease and if his leg is acting up, it’s not evident on his face. Oliver, on the other hand, struggles not to feel slightly inferior and just a wee bit pathetic at having to be transported in such an intimate way.
When they make it to his bedroom, Marcus stops in the doorway.
“You hung my drawing,” he states bluntly, staring at the wooden frame on the wall next to his wardrobe.
“Piss off,” Oliver rolls his eyes.
It’s a defense mechanism—the reality is that he is quite embarrassed that Marcus has seen it, because there it hangs, in his bedroom, next to his wardrobe, where he sees it every morning and every night. Where it gives him a rush of emotions; not only because it’s a reminder of his days of glory, but because this is how Marcus sees him; strong, defiant and determined. Marcus, who he hasn’t seen in a decade, who still holds him in the highest regard and all it does to Oliver is melt his insides, flutter his heart and make his legs feel like jelly.
Sensing Oliver’s discomfort and awkward squirming, Marcus drops him gently onto his bed.
“Do you need that paste?” He asks tentatively and Oliver can only nod, watching with large eyes as Marcus summons the salve with ease. Marcus unscrews the lid while Oliver shrugs out of his robes and unbuttons his shirt and it all feels a bit overwhelming.
He’s stripping in front of Marcus Flint.
The muscles around his shoulder burn and all he can do is lie down and reach blindly out for the cream.
The bed dips.
“Turn over,” Marcus says gently, on his knees in the bed and Oliver’s pale skin flushes a deep red because he’s imagined Marcus saying those words before—just not in this context.
“Oh no, I’ll just do it—” he fusses, struggling to even sit back up. His shoulder aches, the pain making him feel much heavier and sluggish than he is.
Marcus lets out something between a huff and a laughter and then, two strong arms surround his waist and he’s manhandled onto his stomach. He lets out a weak protest, but Marcus ignores it completely and settles for putting a pillow underneath his head and Oliver helplessly let’s his arms hug it.
“I can do it myself you know,” Oliver huffs into his pillow, feeling a little embarrassed.
“Yeah, but you’ve already seen me almost starkers. Only fair if I get to see a bit of you.” The larger man has a small, playful smile on his lips when Oliver looks back.
There’s something intimate, comforting and startlingly right about Marcus’ large hands on his body. Marcus’ hands are rough and calloused, skimming over his shoulder carefully. The paste is cool and calming against his skin and the older man kneads his injury with cautious precision. He mumbles the spell and Oliver feels the paste harden around the injured area.
He’s about to express his gratitude when Marcus’ hands are his back again.
“You’re so tense,” he hums, gliding his hands over Oliver’s shoulder blades and into the dip of his waist and further down. Marcus finds a knot close to the base of Oliver’s spine and begins to work it, gently and in circular motions, sending small bursts of pleasure through his body.
Oliver lets out a moan; long and draw-out, low in his belly.
He freezes instantly after: a sense of complete horror and embarrassment running through him.
However, Marcus’ hands continue their work and Marcus doesn’t even acknowledge his wanton sounds, completely ignoring whenever Oliver lets out a mewl or a moan. No, what happens is Marcus fucking Flint just gets on with it, continues like nothing’s happening, like Oliver isn’t letting out obscene noises during an innocent massage.
At the end of the night, Marcus probably spends around thirty minute working out all the kinks and knots in Oliver’s lower back and before he leaves, like some fairytale prince, as if Marcus Flint was ever a gentleman, he leaves Oliver completely mellowed out, body like jelly, in his bed with a steaming cup of tea on the nightstand.
He doesn’t say any other words than “goodnight” and if Oliver’s not mistaken—which he could be because his brain’s gone all fuzzy—Marcus may have brushed his lips against the back of Oliver’s neck.
Oliver spends the next day feeling mostly frustrated.
He’s quite certain he’s given himself away. Made his feelings known. Holding hands all night and letting out embarrassing noises that definitely steer towards being sexual. Marcus must be aware of Oliver’s attraction towards him by now.
It bothers him a little that Marcus has yet to make a proper move. Not that it has to be Marcus. It could be him. He should just say it.
Just let it all out and be done with it.
If he had any doubts about his feelings being requited, they’re all gone now. He’s one-hundred percent certain that Marcus must feel something too.
That’s how the day passes: Oliver politely making small talk with his customers, offering sweets for children and trying not to be envious of the letter Neville’s sent him from Italy, describing the two lovebird’s growing relationship and how Blaise’s mother is one frightening lady, although not as terrifying as his own grandmother.
It’s not until he’s putting up the wards around the shop that Marcus makes his appearance.
By frightening the life out of Oliver.
It shouldn’t be possible to be such a large figure and sneak up on Oliver silently, but it happens. One second Oliver’s about to go back inside, hand on the door handle and everything, and the next, a loud clearing of a throat makes him startle.
“Merlin,” Oliver breathes as he turns to find Marcus standing there.
“Sorry,” Marcus chuckles and Oliver takes in a sharp breath because he looks like a dream. Dressed in all black: wool slacks and what appears to be an expensive, cashmere jumper, Marcus looks like something right out of Bachelor Wizards.
Even his usually tousled cropped hair has been combed neatly back.
“I thought—”
“What do—”
Oliver stops himself and motions for Marcus to talk.
“I thought we could, er, go for a walk?” He asks, sounding nothing like his usual confident self.
Oliver can only nod in response, his hands twitching at his sides. He wants to grab Marcus’ hand, and wants to squeeze it tight like at the wedding, but he refrains and follows as the former chaser takes the first step down the cobblestoned street that is Diagon Alley.
The walk is silent and Oliver tries not to make it too obvious that he’s jittery with nerves and that his heart’s beating so hard it nearly hurts his ribcage. Marcus drags his feet, walking rather slowly by his side and Oliver tries to keep the same pace even though he mostly wants to walk faster, perhaps even run. Away. From this.
But that’s not what’s supposed to happen, so he squares his shoulders and opens his mouth.
“So I just—”
“Would you like—”
They both stop in their stride and meet each other’s eyes.
“Go ahead.” Marcus gestures with his hand, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Oh,” Oliver states dumbly, completely forgetting what he wanted to say. “Just wanted to say that… it’s nice, this. Us. Being friends.”
It’s not what he wanted to say. Far from it actually. Oliver’s brain must have shut off, because all he can seem to think of is how heat radiates off the former chaser’s body, warming his own, and how gorgeous he looks in the evening sun.
The larger man nods slowly and lets out a slow exhale, running a hand through his short, black hair. A flicker of frustration crosses his expression, but he barely lets Oliver see it before he starts walking again.
They fall into a comfortable silence and though Oliver itches, burns to know whatever Marcus wanted to ask him, he keeps his mouth shut. He wants to tell the other man how much he’s enjoyed himself the past few weeks. He wants to tell him that Marcus, with his hard exterior and soft-spoken words of reassurance, has shaken him to his very core. That he has won him over, body and soul and not a day goes by where he doesn’t long for the older man’s calming company.
They walk for a bit, not speaking, a fraction of a pace off, until Marcus suddenly stops again, and whirls around so they're facing each other.
“Oliver,” he begins shakily and Oliver’s never heard anyone say his name with so much emotion.
Marcus brings his broad hand back up, curls his fingers around Oliver's jaw, and kisses him.
Marcus' lips aren't soft; they're slightly chapped. They're everything Oliver has wanked off to, desperately so, in the confines of his bedroom. He can feel his own lips reddening, his face heating up and a distinct tingle shoots right down his spine. Something in his magical core snaps and sparks, and there’s an electrifying rush, tearing through him like a shockwave. Oliver feels like he’s flying, but the firm body against his holds him close and grounded, safe and warm.
When Marcus ends the kiss with a sweep of his tongue over Oliver's parted lips, Oliver tries to turn his head to chase after those sensations, but Marcus' rough fingers tightens on his jaw and stops him.
“Wanted you for so long. From the first day I saw you again.” Marcus murmurs harshly against his lips. “I—I don’t know what to do. Tell me what you want.”
He pulls back so Oliver can look in his eyes. His gaze is intense, and Oliver's heart flutters. He wants, oh, how he fucking wants all of Marcus sodding Flint.
“I want everything,” Oliver finally says, when he can speak and then all his dreams, his thoughts, his fantasies, tumble out from his mouth in a never-ending ramble. “Everything—quidditch, dinner, breakfast in bed too. Oh, and a dog. Children— with you. And we’ll coach them. We should connect our flats above the shops too. Perhaps, we should get a house, actually. With a field. Oh. A garden wedding, maybe? I don’t care, actually. We can get married however you like it. I mean, not that I’m expecting anything—”
Marcus's eyebrows draw together during Oliver’s ramble. His steel eyes burn into Oliver's, and the other witches and wizards fade away, the shops, the entirety of Diagon Alley, seem to fade away into nothingness. There's nothing else in the world for Oliver but them and the thundering of Oliver's heart, the sizzle and snap of the magic in his core reaching out to touch Marcus.
“Whatever you want,” Marcus finally rasps and then he kisses Oliver again, licking into his mouth like a starved man, enchanting him with the thrust of his tongue and the drag of his teeth.
Marcus kisses like a man, not a boy. He’s generous and sure of himself; his thumb rubs hypnotically at the nape of Oliver’s neck while his tongue strokes in smoothly and wet in his mouth. Marcus, who has no doubt wanted this for just as long as Oliver has, takes. His kisses take Oliver’s breath away, his hands greedily feel up his body—never mind that they’re in public—Marcus owns and seizes him; whatever he can take, he takes.
And Oliver can give him no less than everything.