Oliver’s seventh year was going quite well, he thought, as far as school years went. Winter came in with a soft sigh, before coating the highlands in a couple inches of snow. The major shadows of the land were deeper than other areas due to it melting on and off. He watched as the trees fell bare of leaves and the Black Lake turned to a shade almost like empty space.
The brunette sat down in the Three Broomsticks, waiting for the others to join him. He laid his brown coat over his chair, making sure he hadn’t tracked too much snow and mud into the tavern. He ordered a butterbeer and patiently waited for it to arrive, welcoming the large fireplace's warmth.
Afterwards he planned on stopping at Dervish and Banges for a repair job on his leather Quidditch gloves. He didn’t really have the money to spend on new ones and his parents weren’t too keen to spend it on sports equipment. It was all fine though, he always made do with what he had, no complaint. Only hopes and dreams that he kept to himself.
Quidditch was his life, come rain or blizzard he would play. The Gryffindor team had it tight this year with Slytherin winning game after game these last few years. Flint was good, he had to give him that. Professional grade, if he didn’t find ways to cheat when it wasn’t going his way that is. Which was honestly quite rare. Their challenge against each other- people would call it a rivalry- was at attention, day and night.
Quidditch runs and strategies were constantly filtering through Oliver’s mind. The game was just that good. Showing the best of himself he thought; his spirit, determination, leadership, and wits. Flint only seemed to push him further.
Speaking of the man, Oliver’s eyes found him sitting in the corner, staring off while he twirled his butterbeer glass absentmindedly. His long black coat was wrapped around his daunting form, sharp. What was he thinking? Lately, Oliver had found himself watching the black-haired Slytherin more often the last two years. He had bold features, sharp cheekbones and harsh eyebrows. He’d grown to be a uniquely handsome, tall man.
Just then Percy and some of the Gryffindor team showed up to sit at the long wooden table. They were chattering about a new display in Honeydukes, finding something to do with the floating mice pops very interesting. Oliver couldn’t exactly find himself to listen in very intently, when the Slytherins were laughing across the room. Flint wasn’t. He was still thinking in the middle of the chaos that was Bletchley, Montague and Warrington.
As Flint moved to take a drink from his glass, their eyes caught. Onyx black meeting chocolatey brown like a strike of lightning. Automatically Oliver found himself pinned in place, his breath catching at the intensity he saw there. All of a sudden, Flint seemed very interested in the fact that Oliver was sitting across the room from him and he straightened in his seat. A smirk played at the corners of his lips, since Oliver still hadn’t looked away.
Oliver swallowed, blinking as he looked down at the table in front of him instead. A tingly heat crawled its way up his spine and he vowed his cheeks not to turn ruddy.
“What do you think of them, Oliver?” Angelina Johnson asked, expectantly.
“Uh,” he snapped his eyes up to her, completely clueless of what she was talking about. “Yeah, they are… good.” Oliver slowly answered. She raised a brow in answer. Shite. “I haven’t been to Honeydukes yet,” he confessed instead.
“Yeah, thought so.” Angelina laughed.
“What’s got your mind up in the clouds?” Katie Bell wondered, squinting her eyes at him like it would reveal his secrets.
“Nothing, just thinking about the Quidditch practice schedule.” he shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek.
Percy nearly scoffed. “When are you not, Oliver?” The others gave a short laugh before continuing onto another subject.
Oliver fidgeted with his hands on his coat while they spoke. He tried another look towards the corner of Slytherins. Flint was still watching him, now leaning back into the booth. He tilted his head towards the back hallway leading to the restrooms. Oliver pinched his brows in question. Was he trying to signal him?
Sure enough, Flint did it again. Jerking his head subtly towards the hall. He must want to speak with him, Oliver guessed. Flint left the table, saying something to others before he did.
“I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?” Oliver rushed, snatching up his coat. Percy began to protest, but he was already making his way over.
He went to the back hallway, where he saw Flint disappear. Why he was doing it, Oliver had no idea. Like a moth to flame his mind helpfully supplied, to which he started to feel his heart beat race. The hall to the restrooms was darkened, angle lightly muting the sound of the busy tavern. Private. He looked behind him once, watching to see if anyone was sneaking up behind him before nearly running into Flint’s broad chest. “Flint.”
“Wood,” he acknowledged. “What do you want?” Oliver frowned. “You think I haven’t noticed you staring, Captain?”
Oliver tried not to let the title get to him, making his stomach tighten. “I could say the same, Captain.” he answered, unwavering.
Flint breathed a chuckle, ducking his head before unexpectedly crowding him. Oliver stumbled a step backwards in reaction, back hitting the wall lightly. Oliver raised a hand onto his chest to push him back a ways. “What do you want then, malysh?”
Oliver stood rigid as a board, tilting his head away from him so their faces weren’t so close. He felt trapped under his gaze. Wide shoulders like a stone wall, stopping him from escaping. Flint was just trying to scare him.
What had he just called him? It was so low it was almost a hum. “What is that?” he asked, forgetting the situation he was in.
Flint looked down the hall once before looking back to Wood with his face scrunched up in confusion. “Merlin’s beard, Wood. You’re duller than I thought if you never noticed I speak Russian.”
“You speak Russian?” he blurted, dumbly.
Flint took a step back. The cold air that filled his space brought Oliver back and for some reason he missed the closeness. “I’m half.” he explained, like it was obvious.
Oliver licked his lips, not seeing Flint track the movement. Why had he never noticed before? His mind began spinning as he attempted to recollect hearing him speak it before. He’d think he would remember a different language coming out of Flint’s mouth. “I didn’t know.”
Flint’s brows raised, “There is a lot you don’t know, Wood.” His words drifted over to him, something important underlying them that Oliver could not figure out. Not now. “So what did you want?” he asked for the third time, more impatient.
That haunting word wasn’t included this time and Oliver felt strangely disappointed in not hearing it again. Even if it might have been an insult. “I-” There wasn’t anything he wanted, he just happened to be watching him. “McGonagall said Slytherin will be up first for the first game.” Oliver told him instead.
Flint paused for a moment, “Oh.” His face went blank, hiding whatever he had been thinking. “Are you sure?”
Oliver nodded, “Aye, she told me yesterday. I don’t know who you're up against though.”
Flint gave a short nod in return before leaving him entirely. Oliver took in a shaky breath, feeling like his breathing was strained during the entire encounter. He waited a moment before going out in the open again, where everyone including the Slytherins had left. He shook his head, trying to understand what had just happened.
Dervish and Banges it was.
---
Two weeks had passed since Oliver’s trip to Hogsmeade. Oliver was sitting in Charms with Percy next to him. Flint had decided to sit right behind him, which of course meant he’d have to keep his defenses up. Sure enough, there was a swift tap on his shoulder.
“Wood.” Flint said, while Flitwick was distracted. “Wood.” he hissed again.
Oliver rolled his eyes, before looking at the Slytherin over his shoulder. “What?” Oliver snapped.
Marcus bit his lip, sharp white teeth glinting in the morning light that filled the windows. “Nothing.” Flint shrugged like he hadn’t tried to get his attention in the first place. Arsehole. Oliver frowned, turning back around with a grunt. Just like Flint to bother him for no reason. “I wasn’t done.” he called, unperturbed.
Oliver began to write vigorously, the scratching of quill blocking his crude comments. Flint was usually much ruder when his classmates were around, like they were expecting it from him. It drove Oliver crazy. One minute Flint was somewhat approachable, if not a little difficult, and in the next a complete sod.
Soon a black leather shoe found its way beside him to kick at his foot. After some time, Oliver would begin to think he gave up. However Flint did it again just enough to surprise him every so often. Oliver grit his teeth at around the fourth one, deciding to wait until the next kick to strike back.
Flint’s boot shifted right as Oliver brought his own down to stomp on it with as much force as he could muster while sitting in an ongoing classroom. He felt his lips twitch into a smile when Flint jerked backwards, knee hitting his own desk. Oliver looked at Percy to find a disapproving frown on his freckled face. It only made him let out a small chuckle.
Flint groused a few curses behind him, all in English except for one. “Pizdets!,” as he rubbed his knee. It caught Oliver’s ear immediately as if it was right beside him.
That last word he had called him in the Three Broomsticks had hung around with him these past weeks no matter how hard he tried to get Flint’s voice out of his head. Maddening. Oliver didn’t understand it, but he wanted to hear more. See how much he could get the other to say. Flint’s baritone -no matter what he was saying- curled around inside Oliver like a purring cat. In Russian it was something even stronger; the idea of not knowing. The Gryffindor thought it was better if he didn’t question why.
The next time Oliver had a chance to speak with Flint though, he was wet, muddy and tired from Quidditch practice. Not exactly in the mood for his taunts, which he was sure would be released tenfold since the entire Slytherin team was with him. Along with Oliver’s own team.
He was just leaving the field as they showed up for their turn. There was a few sneers and jeers between the teams in passing, but Oliver kept his eyes ahead. He forced his line of sight from the other captain, his neck prickling with the weight of too-observant black eyes.
“Don’t let that confidence go to your head, Wood. Might just let your team down.” There were some snickers from the Slytherin side at the words, to which Oliver ignored again.
Flint’s stab towards his team made his shoulders tense, knowing he couldn’t let that go entirely. Oliver turned his head, fixing the taller man with a sharp glare.
Flint glared back, dark hair in constantly messy, roguish spikes. Before he continued on his way, Oliver watched his lips move from afar, not understanding the words as he muttered them. For a moment he wasn’t sure if he had said anything at all. His heart stuttered at the way Flint rolled the stark consonants. “Vozvrashchat’sya, kukushka.” That entangled look in his eyes again.
Oliver left, unsure of what he might find if he stayed any longer.
That night Percy caught on to his overthinking, after Oliver paced around his bed for a while. “What happened?” Percy sighed.
“Nothing. Just Flint.” Oliver muttered before laying down with his worn copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. Percy made a knowing hum, because he was used to Oliver overthinking things about Marcus Flint.
“I hear Flint’s team is up for the next game. Up against Ravenclaw.” Percy said, trying to draw Oliver out of his stubborn shell.
“Aye,” That low whisper in his ear, echoing through his head once again. “And if they succeed, I’ll be there to wipe that smirk off his face.” Oliver smiled to himself, reading the stained pages for the hundredth time.
“Right.” Percy answered, blowing out the candle near his bed stand. “Don’t dream about him too often, mate.”
“Ha, ha, very funny.” Then he winced to himself, thinking that he has in fact dreamt of versing Flint in Quidditch before and other random interactions. He blinked away the thoughts, going back to team formations.
---
Slytherin won the game by 180-20 points. Ravenclaw wasn’t standing a chance this time. Oliver could admire Flint’s strategy this game, even if he got beat up pretty badly. Oliver had felt his mitten-covered hands clenching the railing until he’d thought it would snap. His stomach flipping when he saw Flint hang by one hand on his broom over a hundred feet in the air.
The audience bundled in scarves and hats gasped in shock, fear making a sickening silence. Eventually Flint was able to pull himself back up, before being hit in the shoulder by a bludger. Madame Pomfrey had him in the Hospital Wing right after their victory was announced.
Alright, so maybe he was starting to care a little more than was appropriate, if the worry filling him was anything to go by. Oliver didn’t see him again until Potions class two days after the match. Flint sat at one of the work tables a few spots over, where Wood could observe him from afar. The Slytherin seemed to hold the injured arm a bit close to his side, not wanting to jumble his shoulder around.
“We will be brewing Wolfsbane. You attempted to brew this potion the year before, yet there have been altercations and studies done which has made the effect of such a potion, relieve stronger…” Snape’s drawl faded away as Oliver wrote out a message on a piece of parchment.
‘Are you alright? That was a brutal game, still a victory in the end. O. W.’ He licked his lips, folding it up before subtly charming it to Flint’s desk when no one was looking.
Oliver went back to listening to the lecture, waiting for Flint to notice where it was placed on top of his book. A minute later, Flint had read it. Only watching Oliver with narrowed eyes and ignoring him for most of class. Oliver supposed it was a strange thing for him to do and now he was a bit embarrassed for writing it in the first place.
He’d nearly forgotten about it after several minutes of class. Oliver was gathering the giant moonwort off the shelves when a piece of crumpled paper hit the side of his chin. He looked around to see Flint looking back from his desk. Oliver gave a half smile at the fact that Flint just crumpled up and literally threw it at him. He bent down to pick it up, placing it in his pocket.
After he got his supplies around his cauldron, he flattened out the crumpled paper to read his own message. A disappointment fell in his chest, for being rejected in a way. He glanced at Flint with a frown. Turning it around he found Flint’s heavy, scrawled handwriting. Oliver swallowed.
‘Don’t look so worried, Wood. I’m in good enough shape to beat you any day.’
There were no initials, but Oliver didn’t need them. He gave a small smile at the familiar challenge. Getting out another piece of scratch parchment he wrote another one. Unexpectedly, they continued the note passing for a whole two days, talking in a way they didn’t usually because of social circles. Plus, usually it seemed like Flint just hated his guts. They exchanged short ideas on Quidditch and favorite professional teams. A few other things came up, but mostly about that.
It lasted a couple days because, well, it was Christmas break and Oliver would be leaving Hogwarts. Or so he thought, until his father sent him a short-notice letter telling him that they would be traveling. Without him. Oh, well. He supposed he could find ways to have fun here at the castle. Hogsmeade was always an option.
Oliver refused to say that he missed his and the Slytherin chaser’s notes, but they were a highlight in his day this past week. The longer he stayed in the castle, thinking back on it, made him feel incredibly lonely. Christmas Eve, Oliver made his way down to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. That would cheer him up loads.
Strangely enough, the tavern was closed. He frowned, pulling his coat around him as the fluffy snowflakes descended. Perhaps Honeydukes or Madam Puddifoots were open today. He turned around, marginally disappointed when he heard a familiar voice call his name. Oliver spun to see Marcus Flint standing there in a green jumper, the door to the tavern held open with his hand. The warm light coming from the building was very welcoming, even with Flint’s broad outline blocking most of it.
“I thought it was closed?” he said, perplexed. It was getting late now, the sky darkening quickly. Oliver tried to ignore the chill he got as the snow began to fall harder.
“Bloody hell, Wood. You’re mental. Come inside!” he waved him towards the warm tavern. Oliver didn’t think much and walked up to him. “What are you doing out here in this weather?”
Oliver made a face, looking around a shade clueless. “This is normal winter weather, Flint.” The black-haired man only scoffed, something sort of crazed in his eyes. Like he wasn’t getting something very obvious. Without warning, Flint grabbed ahold of his arm and pulled him into the building, closing the door solidly behind them. The usual smoky-ish air surrounded Oliver at once, a soft chatter in the main room. A delicious spiced smell floating through the room. “What’s going on here?” he asked, looking slightly up to Flint while pulling off his coat.
Flint hesitated for a second, before quietly answering. “Well, my mum’s been friends with Rosmerta for many years. They decided to have the Eve dinner here tonight.
Oliver paused before attempting to pull his coat back on. “I don’t want to intrude, Flint. I’ll just head back to the-” There was a yank on the hood of his coat.
“Derr’mo.” Flint cursed. “Just stay.” The words rang in the air, making Oliver flush. Flint hurried to defend his reasoning. “It’s dark now and it’s snowing hard. You’ll find I’m not that cruel, Wood.” he added, bitterly. Uncharacteristically hurt at the notion.
Oliver bit the inside of his cheek, not sure what to say. He nodded silently instead and a tenseness seemed to fade a little in Flint’s stance. Flint scratched behind his ear, looking away in nervousness. He’d never seen that look before and it greatly intrigued Oliver. “I guess… let’s introduce you to my family.”
Oliver, on any occasion, did not think he’d hear those words leave Flint’s mouth. Embarrassment flooded Oliver’s face, that he would in fact be meeting Flint’s family. Like friends or a couple would. Breath stuttering, he shuffled his boots to knock off the clumps of snow.
He followed Flint into the main eating room, “Keep in mind, the cousins can be a bit rough. Thank fuck, not all of them could come. They’ve come up from London. And my dad is working, so he won’t be terrorizing you.”
Oliver wanted to ask if it was because he wasn’t part of the noble family circle or if because he was a stranger. Instead he asked, “Have you done this before?” Wondering if he’s done this with his friends or a date. “I mean bring someone to your family dinner, that is.” He was just trying to be polite or maybe he was curious, but Flint gave him a questioning glance instead of answering. As if Oliver had another meaning behind everything.
“Not jealous, are you Wood?” he asked finally, making Oliver snort.
Honestly he wasn’t sure how to react to that. “Pft, jealous? Why should I be-”
“Marcus, darling, who is this?” a tall woman with striking black hair in an intricate tangle of braids asked. She had a long, dark fitted dress and deep blue eyes. Oliver immediately assumed she was Flint’s mother because the resemblance- other than her having a softer face- was uncanny. She walked up to them with great elegance, like she was floating. In a quieter voice she continued, “I know your father is not here, but remember what he asked of you. I know it is unfair, darling.” There was a slight accent underlying her voice. She was probably Marcus’s Russian side. “You-”
“Mum, please. He is definitely not what you think.” Flint hissed, but she didn’t react. She only looked at Oliver with curiosity. “Found him wandering in the blizzard.” he then said, a laugh hidden in his voice.
“It’s hardly a blizzard out there!” he gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry for intruding ma’am. I can leave immediately, as I am sure your family would not want me here to ruin everything.” He could see Flint’s astonished face in the corner of his eye.
“Is that a threat?” she asked bluntly. Oliver opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Shite. Suddenly she began laughing, “I’m only joking, Mr. ...?”
“This is Oliver Wood, mum.” Marcus answered. A lilt in his tone made Oliver think the small introduction meant something more.
She hesitated for a second, looking back to Oliver with understanding in her kohl-lined eyes. “Captain, Wood I assume.”
“Y-yeah.” Oliver narrowed his brows, looking between the two of them. Instantly he felt very cornered. Before he could ask anything, she pushed both of them toward where they had placed multiple tables together to create one giant one.
“Sit.”
Oliver sat. With all the people filling in, Flint was soon squished into his shoulder. After a moment, he asked Flint under his breath, “Is it just me, or does your mother somehow know me?”
Flint tensed even more beside him, “May have mentioned you once or twice over the years.” Oliver scrunched his face up, slowly turning to look at Flint. The man swiftly kicked him in the shin, slumping into his chair as his mother sat down at the head of the table. Oliver jerked in his seat, trying not to squirm as the others began to take notice of him.
Some older than either of them, the rest were teenagers and children. All with dark hair and sculpted features. “Who’s this then?” A young man- Oliver supposed, was one of Flint’s cousins- asked accusingly. His hair was buzzed short with a chubbier look about his form, but still very tall. “Another b-”
The woman next to him elbowed his side before he could finish. Scolding quietly, “Yevgeniy, don’t start. Eat your food.” As she said it, the family began gathering food from the table to add to their plates. She stood up, reaching over to grab Oliver’s bowl and proceeded to fill it up with a dark red soup from the large pot in the center of the table. “Ever had borscht, darling?” The woman asked, thick hair tied into a bun at the base of her neck. Oliver shook his head when she placed it back in front of him. “Pirozhki? Sochivo or Priyaniki?” She began asking in rapid fire, pushing the dishes toward him.
“Aunt Anna! He doesn’t know none of it.” Flint complained forcefully. Making her sit down once again with a shrug.
“I suppose he’ll just have to eat all of it then.”
Flint spluttered for something to say, scoffing.
“It’s fine. Thank you, Mrs…?”
She grinned, “Temnyy-Mane. Call me Aunt Anna.” Oliver tried a spoonful of the soup to find it spicy and full of beets. It was hardy and delicious.
The meal went on with chattering and clinking of dishes. Oliver’s ears pricked up when his uncle Mr. Temnyy-Mane, asks Flint about school, though. If he was planning on following in his father’s footsteps with the Ministry. It looked like the man was picking a fight. Aunt Anna rolled her eyes beside him. “You ask me that every year. I think you know the answer, Uncle.”
His uncle’s face became firm, a moment of silence drifting between the other conversations. “Yes, unfortunately I do. You plan on doing nothing, that right? And only bringing someone over when your father isn’t here. Coward of a man.”
Flint’s hands clenched the metal fork in his hand so hard it began to bend, knuckles turning deathly white. The tension made Oliver’s ears buzz. “Enough!” Mrs. Flint snapped, in a cold tone. “This is a family dinner, try not to ruin it.” She glared at the man.
Oliver could pass out in relief that he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. Flint was still tense next to him, hands nearly shaking in anger. Unconsciously, he squeezed at his sweater clad arm. Flint flinched in response, before glancing over to Oliver. His black lashes fluttered, expression confused and disconcerted when he looked back down at his food. Still boiling inside.
At last it was over, people hardly asking him questions in the chaos- thankfully having mercy on him. Afterwards, the older cousins around their age met up in a corner of the upstairs on the couches and windowsill, music playing in the background. One of them pulled out a bottle of firewhisky and two bottles of a drink Oliver didn’t know. Dragon Tears Vodka was stamped across the black and purple cover. It was completely clear and stronger than anything he’d ever smelt.
They all looked at Oliver, going quiet when seeing him. Studious and rather discourteous at having a guest. Flint glaring at them all must have made them decide to do otherwise, for they began talking again.
“Does it actually have dragon tears in it?” Oliver asked, staring at the bottle unsure.
The one named Yevgeniy laughed with a simple, “No idea, but it certainly feels like it.”
Flint waved a hand, grabbing the whisky and poured two glasses. “You wan’ one?” Oliver rolled his lips in and nodded, thinking it was harmless to have just one. He still had to walk back to the castle after all.
“You’re a Scot righ’?” another asked. A woman with icy blue eyes and a wicked scar stretching from her ear to above her upper eyebrow. “Ya can keep righ’ up with us then!”
Marcus scoffed tilting his head. “You’re half Brit, so we’ll see how well that helps ya, Viktoria.”
She frowned with a growl. “So are you!” she shot back childishly.
“Never said I wasn’t. By the way, this is…” Marcus pointed to each of them, “Yevgeniy- Yev for short, Viktoria, Oksana, Timmy, and Abram. Cousins, this’s Wood.”
Oliver smiled, taking the glass Flint handed to him. This was so strange. The fact that this side of Flint was soon going to disappear once they went back to school kept nagging at him. Instead of letting it get to him too much, Oliver just tried to smile through it. That tight feeling in his gut never letting up once.
Flint finished his whisky very quickly and started on the Dragon Tears vodka.
After a while they weren’t too bad, but Flint was right about them being a bit rough. Half the time he didn’t know when they were being sarcastic or if they really meant some of the rude things they said so bluntly.
“You play Quidditch?” Timmy asked, by far the tallest in the room.
“Aye, I’m the Gryffindor team captain.”
Timmy raised a brow, the rest staring at him. Viktoria nearly choked on her drink before blurting out, “This must be terribly awkward for ya. Mee’ing with us.”
“So… you're not together then?” Timmy asked very slowly, looking between them.
“Together?” Oliver changed from befuddled to aghast in half a second. Suddenly the conversations down stairs made more sense. When his mother had first walked up to them, his uncle. Flint must have brought a date at some point and his father told him not to- at least not to certain events. A bloke. They had thought that they were possibly… Gulping gargoyles.
Oliver began to feel a little dizzy, not knowing what to think or what to say. In a low voice, Flint said, “No, we’re not.” Bitterness and finality plain to see. He stood up from where he was seated with his elbows on his knees. “Come on, Wood. Best to leave now, before they get too wild.”
Oliver swallowed the rest of his whisky down, following him down the stairs. A little girl stopped them in their tracks, round eyes looking up at Oliver with determination. “Oh, Marcus! On takoy krasivyy!” He looked over at Flint confused, eyes widening when he saw the other turn pink.
Rudely, but gently he pushed her back into the main room by a hand at the back of her head. He began whispering furiously to her. “Da, Raina. Idi igray seychas.”
Oliver watched the scene from a distance wondering what was happening when she stopped in her tracks. It was odd to see Flint kneel down to a child’s level and talk to them without bullying them. Her eyes popped over his shoulder looking at Oliver with a sigh. “Vernetsya li vash muzhchina?”
“On ne moy, Raina. Ya yemu ne nravlyus.”
“On tebe nravitsya?”
Oliver couldn’t see Flint’s expression, but he seemed to pause when his mother came into view looking at them with something sad, but knowing in her eyes. “Mozhet byt’.” Flint said, shortly before standing back up. The girl ran off and Mrs. Flint took her place.
He thanked Mrs. Flint for their hospitality and quickly made his way out the door. Oliver needed some fresh air after that whole peculiar evening. Flint had stayed back to speak with his mother, for which he was grateful to have a moment to himself. “Wha’ the hell is happenin’?” Oliver groaned to himself, running his gloved hands over his face. Blinking up at the snowflakes falling down and how they faded into the darkness surrounding them. The fog had rolled in while they were inside, leaving a couple more inches of snow.
He heard the squeak of the door open and close. “Thanks, for ya know...” Oliver said, rather awkwardly. “Nicer than eating alone on holiday.” Flint only grunted, looking at the snow piling on his boots as they began walking to the edge of Hogsmeade. “Ya don’t have to walk me back, ya know.” Sensing that Flint was unhappy.
“Just thought I’d-” He didn’t finish that thought. Oliver wished he had, so he may better figure out what the man was thinking. “The break ends soon.” Flint voiced after a few minutes of silence. “I’ll be going to the castle tomorrow. Mum knows I can’t stand being there long; with the family.” His brows were pinched, walking next to him in his black coat. He looked… rueful? It was driving Oliver insane that he could and couldn’t read Flint so well.
He finally snapped, “What are you thinking?”
“What?” Flint asked, surprised.
“If you’re regretting lettin’ me meet them- you are the one who told me to go in!” he grumbled. Oliver wanted to be sympathetic after seeing how much pressure Flint had from his family, but he was getting angry that he should be the one to feel like some sort of trespasser. “What are you playing at? You hate me.”
They reached the end of town where the spindly trails led back up through the hills. Thankfully there was still a hooded carriage standing in the distance. The station lamps lightened a white orb effect of foggy air up high in the night. Flint stopped where he stood, that solemness he held when lost in thought fleeting past his dark eyes. “You’ll always think that won’t you, Wood?”
“Have you given me reason to think otherwise?” It came out before he could think on it. Oliver didn’t know if it was true anymore.
Flint looked away, breath rising in the night before heading to the carriage. Following behind him, frustrated, Oliver watched astonished as Flint opened the door to the carriage for him. The Gryffindor clenched his jaw, only staring at the taller man. “You wan’ something to shout at me for, then pick anything else. But I never hated you, Wood.”
Oliver made a tsk sound, blinking away. Not believing the words despite Flint’s seriousness. Instead Oliver climbed into the carriage and stared ahead. Their acquaintanceship was in a word confusing.
Flint pulled out his wand and waved it towards Oliver. “What are you…?” Suddenly a wave of warmth filled Oliver’s cold hands beneath his gloves. Had Flint seriously just casted a warming charm for him?! “Flint…”
He closed the carriage door, leaning his forearm on the window board. “I don’t regret this evening. I just regret I wasn’t able to introduce you as something else.”
Oliver’s heart stopped in the next second. He blinked. Marcus Flint liked him. For how long?
“Don’t say anything, Wood. Just go and forget about tonight, yeah?” He began to turn around, but Oliver grabbed a hold of his hand.
“Prove it then!” Oliver demanded in a rush. Flint made a confused frown. “You like me, yeah? And I… might- might have felt the same. Feel the same. So after break, get some bloody courage and talk to me then! Not just when the others have left.”
It took exactly five seconds for Flint to comprehend the words. The dim light and dark shadows made his jaw sharpen as the muscles bounced. White light shone bright in his eyes. He rose on his toes, moving his other hand to brace on the top as he leaned into the window. “You really want me, too?”
“Aye, Flint.” he nodded, looking at him with the same determination he’d show in a match. He wasn’t sure how he felt yet, but this felt right. Like the next step. Flint slowly smiled, making Oliver smile back. “One more thing?”
Flint hummed, looking at Oliver with careful eyes. Bloody hell, how had he not noticed it before.
“Back in The Three Broomsticks, the first time I heard you speak Russian?”
“What about it?”
“What was it you called me, what does it mean?”
The carriage jostled in its place, about to start moving. Oliver watched as Flint’s gentle smile turned into a smirk. He stuck his head through the window and pecked a kiss onto Oliver’s lips. The carriage began to roll away and Flint didn’t seem to have any intention of telling Oliver the answer.
Oliver raised a hand to his mouth a bit dazed at the abruptness of it. A smile found its way to his lips, looking back to see Marcus waving with a matching grin.
Oliver sighed, falling back into the seat. So that’s what dragon tears taste like.