Oliver adjusted the pocket square in Marcus’ suit. In the ten minutes he’d had it on, he had somehow managed to crumple the thing.
“Can you just stop touching it?” He groaned.
“I’m nervous,” Marcus snapped back.
He’d been slightly surprised when Oliver’s invitation to the Weasley-Delacour wedding had arrived with a plus one attached. Even though they had been together since school and he’d slowly integrated himself into the core of the Wood era Gryffindor team, Marcus still wasn’t sure where he stood in terms of the Wizarding elite.
He wasn’t really sure where he stood anywhere.
Oliver handed him a pin which was shaped like a miniature sword.
“What do I do with this?”
“It’s technically a kilt pin and I know you’re not wearing one but I thought it looked a bit punk and you could wear it on your lapel.” He held up a matching one, “this is mine and I got one made for you that matched.”
Marcus choked slightly and stared at Oliver, “Erm, I love it, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” Oliver smiled.
Marcus snapped himself out of his moment of vulnerability and smirked at the pile of items still on the floor next to the bed.
“Are you still not ready?”
Oliver batted him away as he laughed and picked up the brogues with entirely too long laces.
“Well I’m sorry that my people have such elaborate formal dress,” Oliver laughed as he hitched the sporran through the loops on his kilt.
They hadn’t attended a formal event outside of Hogwarts which, of course, required robes, so Marcus was entranced by the rigmarole.
“Pass me the Sgian-dubh,” he gestured to the pile.
“What’s that in English?”
“The dagger thing.”
Marcus’ eyes lit up, “you get to wonder around with a dagger?”
“It’s just ceremonial Marc,” he tutted and pushed it into his sock.
“Honestly, this is ridiculous,” Marcus sat back onto the bed and fiddled with his pocket square again.
He stopped immediately and shrugged as Oliver glared at him.
“So do you like, pick your favorite tartan?”
“You can,” Oliver fastened his pin to the edge of his kilt and sat on the chair in the corner to tie his shoes, “this is my mothers though.”
“Your mum has a tartan?”
“Just her family name, MacKenzie. So I guess I’m technically a MacKenzie as well as a Wood.”
Marcus nodded and played with the chain round his neck.
“So,” he started to stare at the floor, “like, if we got married, could I also wear the MacKenzie tartan?”
He half expected Oliver to laugh or storm out at the fact that he could suggest such a thing but instead he heard rustling in their wardrobe. Marcus allowed himself to glance up in time to see him pulling out a shoebox.
Oliver sat on the floor and the kilt splayed out around him. He opened the box and pushed some belts around until he pulled out a piece of material in the same tartan he was wearing.
He held it up to Marcus, “this is one of my dad’s old pocket squares.”
Marcus took it silently.
“Being an English wizard, he never really cared for kilts. Mum used to give him these to wear so he didn’t feel left out at parties.”
“Oli, I can’t.”
Oliver laughed and took out the old square from Marcus’ slate gray jacket, “yeah you can. And honestly, I should have done this way sooner.”
Marcus took Oliver’s face in his hands and kissed him softly, “thank you.”
“Blue goes with your eyes,” he breathed.
“You’re a fucking sap Wood,” Marcus pressed his forehead against Oliver’s, “now, will you finished getting dressed, we’re gonna be late.”
He pushed Oliver back and started to fold the tartan cloth to put in his pocket. He glanced over at his boyfriend and best friend, he was so effortless and positive and handsome. Most days he wondered how he had managed to stumble into this life where he was undoubtedly loved and valued. Marcus knew he was safe here, with Oliver, but he lived with the constant weight of fear that he might lose it all because he wasn’t worth it.
As his negative thoughts began to bleed into his mind, Oliver stood up and smiled. The look of happiness and affection in his face helped dampen the darkness and Marcus shook his head to readjust himself.
“Ready?” He asked.
“Ready.”
They moved into the living room and Oliver took some of the powder out of the Floo pot off the fireplace.
“You look really fucking hot in that by the way,” Marcus smirked, “are you a true Scotsman?”
Oliver stepped into the fire, “might let you find out later if you’re good.” He winked and was engulfed by the bright green flame.
Marcus bit his lip and groaned before following suit.
He stepped out into Devonshire sunlight, somewhat warmer than it had been at their flat in Glasgow. The Weasley’s had set up a Floo station which led straight into their rolling garden and Oliver was stood just outside the doorway. In the seconds which it had taken for Marcus to appear, he had already managed to be in conversation with who he assumed to be a Wesley sister.
He sidled up to the pair and nudged against Oliver’s side to make his presence known.
“Hey Marc,” his smile was more radiant than the sun and Marcus reminded himself to stop being so soppy, “this is Ginny.”
Marcus nodded and extended his hand, “Marcus Flint.”
“I know who you are,” Ginny laughed and shook his hand, “I kind of idolised you both for a couple of years.”
“Erm what?”
Oliver laughed at his sheer look of surprise.
“Honestly, apart from Harry, you guys were the best to watch on the Quidditch pitch. It was like watching the ballet when you’d be sparring,” she smirked in a way which would rival Marcus on his best day, “not that much of a surprise when we all found out you were madly in love.”
Oliver was laughing so much he’d had to lean against the wall.
Marcus took a moment to swallow the comment.
“I like you,” he nodded approvingly.
“I like you too,” she nodded sagely and then turned to Oliver, “I need to mingle but make sure he has a nice time. And don’t let my mum say anything mean, she’s not a massive fan of piercings.”
“What’s wrong with my piercings?” Marcus touched his nose ring protectively, “Is she going to complain about my hair too? It’s just a bit of bleach.”
Oliver smiled softly and began to pull him toward the pastel tent, “you’re perfect Marc, shut up.”
The ceremony was short and cozy, for which Marcus was thankful. He also secretly hoped that if he was lucky enough to get married, he would have a similar style. Although, he admitted, with much fewer guests. Maybe Oliver’s friends would be able to make up the numbers.
Oliver had softly threaded his fingers through Marcus’ when the couple said their vows and this made his heart bloom.
Being such a social butterfly, Oliver had paraded around the room to speak to old friends and dance with elderly women who seemed to gravitate toward the kilt. As more of an observer, Marcus found himself wandering toward the bar to acquire another firewhisky. He took his drink with a smile and found a wall to settle on to watch Oliver twirl a beautiful women with white hair who could only be a relation of the bride.
“Aren’t you going to dance?”
Marcus’ head whipped to the side to see Hermione Granger clutching a flute of champagne.
“Erm,” he blanched slightly, remembering that he’d not been the most pleasant to the girl during school, “not much of a dancer really, he’s got all the talent.”
“He has always loved a party,” she mused, “we all used to fancy him you know.”
“Oliver?”
“Yeah, how could you not,” she laughed, “he’s gorgeous and he was Mr Athletic and then, well, most of the girls in our house realised that none of us were really his type.”
“He was also just a bit too single minded on Quidditch,” he smiled at the thought.
“That too,” Hermione nodded.
Marcus swirled the liquid around his glass awkwardly.
“Listen Granger, about school and me-”
She cut him off with a wave, “it’s ok Marcus, we were just kids.”
“It still warrants an apology,” he said solemnly, “I was less than kind to you. So, yeah, I am really sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” she smiled at him and proffered her glass, “new start?”
“New start,” he clinked her glass with his and drank.
“Have you met Viktor?” She asked.
“As in Viktor Krum who I’ve been staring at nearly as much as Oli?”
“That one, yes,” Hermione looped her arm in his and started to guide him along, “he doesn’t know many people here and I feel you’d get on well.”
Crafty, thought Marcus and downed his drink.
It had been over half an hour since Oliver had last seen Marcus, who had been speaking to Hermione no less. He’d finally had to stop dancing and take a break, he definitely needed another drink.
As he sipped on a whisky, he scanned the room for Marcus and hoped that he wasn’t sat alone in a corner somewhere. Instead, he was sat at a table covered in glasses and gesturing wildly to an intense looking Viktor Krum. Oliver dodged round the people in conversation to the small table and leant up against the side of Marcus’ chair. So deep in conversation, Marcus had no idea he was there, but Viktor looked up and smiled in acknowledgement.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Marcus leant into the sound of his voice, “can I get a dance?”
“Only if you lead,” Marcus smiled and stood up, “good to meet you Viktor, we will speak again soon.”
Oliver downed his drink and put down the empty glass on the table. He took Marcus’ hand and led him toward the dance floor.
“Were you just speaking to the greatest Quidditch player ever?”
“Don’t even,” Marcus choked, “I honestly nearly threw up on him.”
Oliver laughed and pulled Marcus closer to him. Knowing that he wasn’t one for making a scene, Oliver held him close and swayed to the music.
“Thanks for coming today, I know you were nervous.”
“It was less weird than I thought,” Marcus hummed, “and I totally get why you fancied Charlie Weasley, I might leave you for him.”
“Understandable,” Oliver laughed.
Just as Marcus looked up at him, a bright light shot through the flowing fabric of the tent and the voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt rang out.
"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."
“Fuck.”
Marcus started to scan the room as people screamed. Viktor disappeared, as did a number of others and, before he knew it, he felt a hand slam on his wrist and the familiar feeling of apparition.
They slammed on their living room floor and Oliver started to put up wards immediately.
Marcus felt sick.
He stared at the floor and started to rake his fingernails across the expensive fabric of his suit trousers. He slid his back down the wall as thoughts of his father dressed in black hooded robes filled his senses and he began to hear himself starting to hyperventilate.
It felt like an eternity before he felt Oliver kneel down infront of him. He took his hands and began to go through their breathing exercises until Marcus came back to himself.
“Are you with me?” Oliver whispered.
“I’m here,” Marcus nodded and looked up into his eyes.
“He is not going to get near you,” Oliver leant forward so their foreheads touched lightly, “I’d take on an entire army before I let that happen.”
Marcus didn’t know where he belonged in the world but, with those quiet words, he knew that he would follow this man anywhere.