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He doesn't see
Marcus at the Battle of Hogwarts. Oliver wasn't expecting to see him on their side, but he doesn't see him on the other side
either, and he finds that makes him happy. It doesn't help Marcus after the war, when he's an out of work Slytherin with what
are probably Ts in his OWLs. So when Viktor Krum, who shakes Oliver's hand like they're brothers or something, which is amazing
(his Mum doesn't get how he can be so blasé about knowing Harry Potter, and yet so excited about know Viktor Krum, but bless
her, that's because she doesn't get quidditch, not at all), is talking to him at probably Charlie's wedding about how the
Vultures desperately need a chaser, Oliver mentions that he knows of a half-decent one who's not got a team. It's not like
he's helping the enemy, 'cause the Vultures aren't in their league, and unless they're drawn against each other in the Euros
it's not like it'll ever harm United. 'But', and he makes sure to tell Krum this, 'don't ever tell Flint I suggested him.'
He's reasonably sure that Viktor doesn't, but it doesn't stop his good deed blowing up in his face, like a blast-ended skrewt.
Because he's only a fringe player, he's probably the last to hear when
United get a new reserve chaser, and he's definitely the last to know that it's Flint, back from his spell in Bulgaria, the
Vultures having gotten over their injury crisis.
They avoid
each other. Just because they're on the same team now doesn't mean they like each other. Or even tolerate each other. Reserve
games are normally okay, because they have to play together, and not against each other, and they're not near each other,
with Flint being right at the other end of the pitch from him. They can cope with that. Distance quells the worst of their
tendencies, and they behave.
Of course, that's when some genius in
the coaching squad decides that they ought to play beaters and keeper versus chasers, with the seeker practising on the other
pitch.
It takes five minutes before the referee has to separate
them and by the end of the practise Oliver's bruises have bruises.
He's
under the shower, working out the worst of the knots in his muscles, when the door shuts. It doesn't slam, but he knows who
it is without looking.
Oliver steps forward and opens his eyes.
Time has not helped any of Flint's features, the ears and teeth still
stick out, but he's filled out, a bit, all sinew and muscle. Oliver's eyes move down Flint's chest, to where flesh meet the
deep blue training vest. He can see a fading line there. Flint still has the scar Oliver gave him that last year at Hogwarts.
Something inside Oliver tightens. He didn't know Marcus still had that scar.
"I said I'd keep it till you had a matching one." Flint took his vest off, hands crossing over his head. Then his hands
went to his breeches.
Oliver's mouth goes dry because he knows
where this is going, he thinks of all the times they fought, all the times when someone, normally one of the twins, wondered
why he didn't just hex Flint into next week and he found himself unable to explain why it was just more satisfying to hit
him.
And Flint gave as good as he got, they'd both ended up
in the hospital wing far more times than anyone else, even taking sporting injuries into account.
Flint doesn't give Oliver even a second's warning before punching him straight in the side,
far too close to his left kidney. Oliver crumpled, and Flint pushed him back against the shower wall. Flint's hand finds its
way down to Oliver's hip; where there's already a bruise forming from the body-check he got from Jones during the practise.
It says everything about Oliver; mostly that he's just as messed up as Flint, that he takes Marcus's hand and presses it in
harder against the bruise.
Their mouths clash, knocking into each
other like beater's bats to bludgers, as they slip and slide over each other, desperately trying to grab at each other. Oliver
has just enough of his wits left to cast a locking spell. He didn't want a repeat of the time Alicia walked in on them. Bless
her, she never told a single soul, which he was grateful for, since he knew that knocking off the Slytherin captain was not
the kind of thing the Gryffindor captain ought to be doing. It wasn't his fault that Marcus remained the only person he'd
ever met who'd ever given him what he wanted, when it came to something this. Like right now. Most people would have avoided
that bruise, or, if Oliver had said 'please', would have poked at it gingerly, but Marcus really went for it, palm heel pushing
in.
Of course, it'd never do to let Marcus have it all his
own way. Oliver knew his grasping was going to leave marks, deep scratches he hoped, the kind of thing that hurt when sweat
got into them.
Flint grabs him by the throat, thumb right into
Oliver's windpipe, so Oliver slammed down on Marcus's elbow. There were an awful lot of flying limbs, scratching and biting
until they fit against each other, like cogs in clockwork.
In
between the slowly fading adrenaline rush from the match, and the second spike just now, there's nothing neat or tidy, or
slow or particularly long-lasting about it.
The next time Oliver is
entirely with it, Marcus is similarly spent and lying half on top of him, right leg between Oliver's thighs. They're going
to catch a cold from the tiles, not to mention they both need another wash.
Oliver shook himself free and started the shower again. The kick he aimed at Marcus's arse was somewhere between a
love-tap and something that would be sore afterwards. He's washing himself when Marcus gets up. Marcus grabs his head and
forces him into a kiss. It would have been a hard tug on his hair if he'd grown it out. Oliver starts to wonder what he'd
look like with longer hair.
As the season progresses, Oliver supposes
he gets used to Flint being there, and he even gets to play a few league games as keeper. Not that either of those things
prevents them being at each other's throats, and more often than not, other parts. It gets so bad that even the press notice,
there's a photo of them after they beat the Bats and while the rest of the team are smiling and waving, he and Flint are trying
to beat seven shades of it out of each other in the background.
The
reporter from the Prophet asks Jones, one of their beaters who'd been in Ravenclaw a few years above them, about it, and her
quote, which ended up emblazoned on the back page of the Prophet the next day was 'if you think this is bad, you should see
them in practise.'
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