Chapter Text
Seventeen.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Oliver said, dropping his bag on the floor. The train compartment clearly hadn’t been subject to a wave of cleaning charms –the dry familiar smell of dust filled his lungs. “Thought you’d be off to training camp by now. Didn’t you get an offer from Montrose?”
Flint didn’t say anything, just gave a short nod of acknowledgement. He was sitting near the window, softening the leather on his Chaser gloves. Sweat was on his brow, September proving hotter than normal. He was tan –while Oliver burned, Flint always ended the summer with lines where his uniform cut off. Oliver had always been a little jealous of that.
Oliver shoved his bag towards the opposite end of the compartment, letting the leather glide across the floor before coming to a natural stop in front of Marcus’ feet.
“Ignoring me for the whole train ride, are you?”
“No,” Flint said immediately, “But you can imagine I’m not in a particular mood to chat –given.”
He gestured to the compartment and the quiet truth of it: Flint’s NEWTs had proved unsuccessful. He’d repeat his last year. It was an open gash on anyone’s ego. He’d learned over the years that Marcus, for all his bluster and bravado, also cared deeply about how other people thought about him.
Oliver settled across from Flint. “Do you still have the captaincy?”
Marcus’ mouth twisted. “Yes?”
“Then it doesn’t matter, does it?” Oliver grinned.
For a moment he wasn’t sure if Flint was going to punch him or jinx him, but then the slow smirk he’d come to know spread across Marcus’ face. If he was being honest, it was a relief. If he was being vulnerable, it was one of his favourite expressions.
Flint dropped his gloves and reached below his seat, emerging with two glasses of Butterbeer. The glass was already littered with condensation, but Marcus used both to uncap each other, a nice little trick Oliver had seen many times at camp when there was no opener in hand.
Marcus handed a Butterbeer to Oliver. The coolness sat heavy and pleasant in his palm.
“Well, cheers to you for coming of age.” Marcus knocked the neck of his bottle against Oliver’s.
“Great,” Oliver laughed, “I love responsibility.”
“No, it’s fantastic, really,” Flint returned, “You can apparate and splinch yourself whenever.”
“Pomfrey will love us more than she already does,” Oliver said sardonically. There would, undoubtedly, be more broken bones, missing teeth, bruises and scrapes and broom twigs giving them splinters in unsightly places waiting for them the rest of the school year. If they didn’t have classes together, they’d still wind up in the Hospital Wing complaining about bed rest at the same time.
They played a round of Exploding Snap before the compartment door slid open and burst their little bubble. Adrian Pucey peered in curiously.
“Flint! We didn’t –well, Warrington thought he saw you but I didn’t believe him, y’know, because he’s a prat – did you know he got a new girl? She’s in my year though, so –”
“Pucey,” Flint sighed, “Please shut up.”
Oliver couldn’t stop a laugh, but Pucey seemed completely unaffected –Oliver got the sense this happened often.
“Right, what’re you doing back?” Pucey asked finally, having taken it upon himself to sit next to Flint. He didn’t give Oliver more than a precursory glance. It was an amusing sight: Marcus, broad-shouldered and still grumpy, dealing with a chattering, hyperactive teammate.
“What do you think?”
Pucey tapped his chin. “You missed us all so much, you decided you just had to come back.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Marcus hissed, as Oliver laughed loudly again.
Adrian Pucey grinned, clearly not backing down. “You missed Wood,” he proclaimed boldly.
Flint’s eyes narrowed, and Oliver choked mid-sip of his Butterbeer.
“I failed my NEWTs,” Marcus said hotly, having had enough of his teammate’s pestering. “And while no team cares, you’re well aware that our families do.”
“Oh,” Pucey blinked, slightly taken aback. “Are they –are they really that hard?”
“Oh my god,” Marcus groaned, “Wood, put me out of my misery. Open the window, I’m about to jump.”
The appeal took both Oliver and Pucey by surprise. He averted Pucey’s curious gaze – the last school year had been filled with awkward silences, Flint avoiding all contact with Oliver unless it was to target him specifically on the pitch. Oliver had given up hope of ever returning to a quasi-normal speaking relationship with Marcus the first semester of his 6th year, and he’d spent a good two months mourning something he wasn’t quite sure he had the right to grieve.
Until Flint turned up one day while he was stuck at the library trying to finish a Potions essay. Oliver had seen him coming from the entrance, back straight and striding with a purpose directly to where he’d sat.
“I broke up with MacDougal.”
It had been the first time Flint had said anything to him in more than three months that wasn’t revolving around cursing him out. Oliver’s brain had blanked immediately; anything about Dreamless Draught was now a long forgotten memory.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Flint had replied, and he pulled up a chair at the table. “Not a big deal.”
“If you say so?”
“Not a big deal,” Flint repeated, and then he poked at the essay in front of Oliver. “We did that last year. You want Higgs’ old copy?”
It had been Flint’s version of an olive branch. And now here they were, sitting in relative ease in the train compartment. Pucey was well aware of whatever vendetta Flint had had against Oliver the previous year, but neither quidditch captains felt like explaining. Oliver didn’t know if he could put it into words easily.
“Okay,” Oliver said after a moment of consideration, “Good for me then. Gryffindor will win the cup.”
Pucey snickered. Marcus glared at the both of them, at the betrayal of it all. Before he could open his mouth to tell them both to piss off, the compartment went dark with the sound of glass shattering.
“What was that?” Pucey said sharply.
“Probably a blown fuse,” Marcus slid back the compartment door, peering outside –other compartments of students were doing the same. The windows were starting to fog, a sudden chill blowing through the air.
Pucey cast a hasty Lumos, and in the backlight of his wand, they saw a slinking hooded figure creep down the compartment halls.
“Merlin,” Pucey uttered, as Flint quickly shut the compartment doors at the sight. “Dementors? Here?”
“f*ck,” Flint cursed, pale and eyes blown. He looked ready to throw up and Oliver didn’t feel much better.
He’d never been around a dementor –had horrid, second-hand stories from Percy and Charlie when they’d shadowed Arthur Weasley into the wrong part of the Ministry courts. It had sounded like the worst nightmare imaginable, a dreadful thing you couldn’t wake from. Now he was getting the first hand treatment.
Every single old injury in his body ached. All Oliver could muster was a groan –his skin was clammy, pulse racing so fast he could hear it in his ears. He couldn’t shake the feeling of despair, like pitching off a broom in a storm with no ground to catch him. He couldn’t shake the image of his sickly father in bed back home. The guilt of leaving every year and never knowing what he’d be returning to. The irony of a medi-wizard with no ability to heal himself.
“Oliver,” Flint’s voice was distant, tinny.
It pulled him out of his thoughts. The chill was leaving now, at least from their direct compartment. Slowly, the shadowed figure moved from where it had loomed outside the compartment door. They were lucky that whatever the dementors were looking for, it had little to do with them.
“I heard rumours,” Marcus continued, voice hollow, “That they were on the lookout for Black.”
“On a train to Hogwarts?” Pucey sounded sceptical.
“Who knows. They’re here, aren’t they?”
Oliver pushed his head into his hands – his head was spinning, shoulder injury from his third year still stinging. He’d read the papers –had heard his mother’s anxiety around an escaped convict. But it seemed a leap of logic for there to be Sirius Black on a train to Hogwarts. He hadn’t given it much thought until now.
Marcus nudged his knee with his own. “Wood –you alright?”
Oliver grunted, lifting his head up. His eyes were hazy from pressing his own fists into them, stars spinning in the now lightening compartment.
“Chocolate, here.” Pucey offered a bar of Honeydukes.
Both Oliver and Marcus eyed him oddly.
Pucey huffed. “Clearly, neither of you pay attention during class.”
Flint took a large slab, and broke a section off to pass along to Oliver. His hands were cold as well. Oliver remained tongue-tied until the chocolate melted on his tongue, sweet and rich and soothing to his nerves.
“Er, thanks.” He gave an awkward nod to Pucey –Marcus’ teammate was pale but seemed less shaken than either of them, moving more animatedly than Oliver could even consider. Maybe he had less injuries. Maybe he had less familial concerns.
Pucey waved away the thanks, and pulled his robes closer to his body. He led by example, chomping down on the bar with a rigorous rhythm. Marcus and Oliver had no choice but to follow with their respective candy pieces.
They spent the rest of the journey in fretful silence, with little interruption now that Pucey had retreated to his own friends. Oliver didn’t know what was broiling in Flint’s mind, but the heavy scowl on the man’s face across from him was enough for him to know not to ask.
He didn’t want to talk much, either. The crushing despair was less suffocating after the chocolate and time had passed, but he couldn’t find the energy to engage with anything but Quidditch Through The Ages. His eyes blurred over the same paragraphs, over and over. All he wanted to do was curl up on the compartment seat, pull his jacket over his entire body, and disappear. But that wasn’t something he’d ever live down in front of Flint, so Oliver chose to continue watching the diagrams in the book loop in animation.
The screech of the train pulling into the station roused them to action. Marcus lingered by the doorway, waiting for Oliver to finish packing up.
“Wood,” Flint said, when they finally made to exit the compartment, “Don’t be a stranger this school year, yeah?”
It was silly, how much the question made Oliver’s pulse quicken. “I’ll do my best?”
Marcus’s expression was unreadable, but he gave a sharp nod before he stepped out into the train corridor, leaving Oliver in the quiet confusion of their tentative friendship.
Eighteen.
Dear Flint,
Training camp has me falling asleep into my oatmeal every morning, and I’ve been trying to find a decent flat with the sh*t pay. Which is why I haven’t written.
Overheard from my mum that your family has a private booth at the World Cup – who’re you rooting for? Krum’s even younger than us, it’s mad. Although Ireland has been so good on the defensive front, so dare I say I can’t see Bulgaria getting enough of a lead to win.
Anyways. Hope life and training’s going alright. Still shocked you went with Tutshill.
Best,
Oliver Wood
Dear Oliver,
Are you always so awkward when you write?
Dear Marcus,
You’re a prat.
Dearest Oliver,
I feel very sorry for your old owl for having to fly all this way just to deliver a one-liner. You should feed her more treats, she seems sweet.
Where are you looking for a flat?
Ireland’s defensive front isn’t good enough to hold off Bulgaria – you’re just in love with Ryan and think he can do no wrong as Keeper. But yes, the parents and some family friends have gotten a booth together. It’ll be a boring group (all Ministry sods).
Are you going? And if you are, will you take a picture of you inevitably crying at the glory of it all?
Training’s hell, and I don’t think I’ve had a day where every muscle on my body hasn’t been sore. And don’t tell anyone but I’m considering a trade.
I’ll tell you some time in person.
Best,
Marc
Marc,
Don’t call me dearest, idiot. When in person?
I’m trying to be as close to the stadium as possible, so somewhere still in Dorset, I suppose.
And I’m not in love with Ryan, and he can do wrong as a Keeper, just minimally so. I never took you as much of a bandwagon fan for Bulgaria though –maybe I wrongly assumed you’d be unphased by stardom.
My parents scored tickets! We’re not quite as fancy, have a slot in Campground B and our seats are in the nose-bleeds, but I almost prefer it that way. A few of my old Gryffindor team will be there, so I’m excited to see them again. If you get bored of the Ministry talk, you can come drop by and tell me about the trade, if you’d like.
And I will not cry. Prat.
Best,
Oliver
Dearest Oliver,
I’ll stop when you buy me a round at the Leaky this Friday. We can figure out World Cup plans then, since you miss me so much.
Best,
Marc
Nineteen.
“Are you flirting with me?”
Flint raised a dark eyebrow, grin spreading across his face in an almost predatory manner. “What makes you say that?”
“Nothing,” Oliver stumbled, “Just –nothing.”
Marcus flagged the server down for the tab, galleons already prepped in hand. “You can interpret anything however you’d like.”
“Will you ever stop speaking in f*cking code?”
The two of them had somehow fallen into a steady cadence –once a month, dropping into a booth in the corner to discuss everything and nothing. They’d talk about what was happening at the Ministry on occasion, the underlying politics that flooded each headline, but more often than not they argued over plays and referee calls. Quidditch was always safer.
And then sometimes it wound up like this, drinking firewhiskey as a stress relief, dancing around the unspoken.
“C’mon, Wood –you’re smart enough to figure it all out.”
“I don’t like puzzles,” Oliver huffed, downing the remainder of his beer in one go. “Let alone ones from you .”
Marcus put a hand to his chest in mock affront. “You wound me.”
Oliver kicked him under the table. He took grim satisfaction in Flint’s yelp of pain.
“Are you?” Oliver asked again, once they’d paid their tab and stumbled drunkenly out into the cold November night. It was embarrassing but he was unable to keep the question from bubbling up again, a twisted anxious hope. “Flirting with me, I mean?”
Marcus laughed, a bright sound that still made Oliver’s stomach flip. “You’re a f*cking idiot. Of course I am.”
