Chapter Text
It was safe to say that Oliver wasn’t having a good day.
Rather, it wouldn’t be safe to say, because he’d been hackles raised and teeth bared all morning and any word out of turn would spell out the death of the next poor student who thought it a good idea to question their Quidditch captain’s mood. The better thing to say was that it was all too obvious Oliver was in a sour mood and there wasn’t going to be anything anyone was going to do about it.
If he thought about it, Oliver knew that was how he’d landed himself in the infirmary.
Or perhaps it was several other, more appropriate things—pissing off Marcus Flint, rising into the pitch with the Slytherin Quidditch team, pretending to shake Marcus’s hand but not-so-secretly trying to break his fingers. His boyfriend, Percy, had tried to calm him down but to no avail. He was distracted and his frustration spelled out his downfall.
And so he zipped about the air, eyebrows furrowed with something more than concentration. Damned Marcus Flint. He swooped by the hoop and he could feel air rush about his ears, almost whistling. Who does he think he is? He ushered a Quaffle out of their hoop’s way with a little more intensity than what was needed, glaring at the Chaser who’d shot it toward him.
Marcus Flint only smiled at him, baring ugly teeth before diving down to meet with the other Chaser of his team.
“Seventy-forty to Gryffindor!” Their commentator chirped and Oliver had to suppress a grim smile. Somewhere on this pitch, he knew he and Marcus were thinking of the same thing—good luck, you’ll need it. That’s what the Slytherin had said to him hours before their match, and it was almost funny, how much it backfired on him now.
When Marcus flitted out the corner of his eye, Oliver bared a smile he hoped was as ugly before he carried on. He tried to miss the way Marcus ignored him, taking a sharp turn to intersect with his Slytherin Beater. He could not.
Suddenly paranoid, he spun around, trying to keep track of all of the team members. He could see Angelina, Katie, and Alicia performing some triangle-shaped formation they’d practiced the week before, which was good. Fred and George were off somewhere, and for the first time, Oliver hoped they were causing as much havoc as they could. He couldn’t see Harry, which might’ve been good, but he didn’t count on it.
That was another mistake of his, he supposed. Because while Marcus Flint was usually mad at everyone, he was particularly furious at only one person today, and it wasn’t Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Fred, George, or Harry. It was him. Oliver Wood.
Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint. He was pretty sure they were a rivalry for the ages, but he couldn’t know. He’d have to ask everyone what they thought. But by the way the air between them felt so crackling and electric and alive, he knew it was true. Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood.
Alicia zipped by, nothing more than a passing hiss in his ear. “Get your head in the game, Wood!”
He blinked himself out of his stupor, realizing he’d been in the same position for the past ten seconds. “Seventy-fifty to Gryffindor!” Fifty? When did that happen? He glanced around, but no one else had noticed his stillness. Without anyone stopping him, he flew back into the game.
And all was well. He played Keeper like he flexed his fingers, he dodged Chasers and bludger like he was breathing. He wasn’t trying to brag, but it was easy, especially with all those hours of training racked up behind him. He took a particularly sharp dive to catch up with a running Quaffle. In the simplest ways of it, ducking his head as a bludger almost caught him on the cheek, he was comfortable.
That was his third mistake, he supposed, though he wasn’t keeping count.
Once he knew it was safe to do so, Oliver let himself settle into his thoughts once more. Damned Marcus Flint, he thought, as his elbow shot out to catch a Quaffle before it could touch the hoops. Marcus Flint and his words. And his eyes, his mind supplied, thinking of the mean way he glared with them.
Oliver’s fourth mistake and the worst of them all. Marcus Flint and his eyes.
So perhaps that was why he let it happen, the bludger rushing towards him. The shit-eating grin on Goyle’s face. All of his self-preservation instincts were out the window. All he could think as that iron ball stormed towards him was no, absolutely not. Because how dare a bludger even test him now, when it was clearly not the time?
Oliver’s fifth mistake. He let his eyes flit towards Marcus’s, and for once, the other wasn’t sneering. Those eyes were wide with understanding and horror, mouth parted in the same way.
There was a sharp pain in his head before it all went black.
…
When he woke up, he was in a sterile-looking room that he didn’t recognize, fumbling at sheets that felt like sand on his skin.
It would’ve been wrong to say he was sure of any of this, though. His very skin was permeated with a strong sense of wrongness, of being too small and too weak for the body he was in. Whatever body he was supposed to be in, anyway. He didn’t know what to expect of it yet.
And, well, it was a piercing fact now, but he wasn’t sure of anything. It wasn’t that he didn’t know, of course. He knew what sand was and he knew how it was coarse and he knew these sheets felt too much like it. Except, he didn’t know what memory he was drawing on to know any of that at all. What was sand to him? How had he come to be so familiar with its sensation? He drew up on too many blanks to count.
He knew he was certain of one thing, though: the pounding ache that thrummed through his bones like fire, growing behind his eyes and bursting beneath his skin. There was not much he could do with that, though, so he tried not to think about it.
“This is all your fault, you know.”
“D’you think your boyfriend’s considered not being a dick?” The voice sounded bored, which was a wonderful contrast to the despair of the former. He thought this one sounded familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. “S’pose if he learned some manners then he wouldn’t be here.”
“God—fuck you, fuck you.” It took him a moment to realize the other was sobbing, his words punctuated by the occasional sniffle. Instinctively, he felt the need to reach out and pull him into his chest, though he refrained. He wondered why that was. “He’d hate that you’re here, you know that?”
“Mhm.”
“Then why are you here at all?”
Silence. It was obvious that the second voice didn’t know how to answer that, and he had the somewhat bizarre urge to help him, to coach along the words he wished he knew. He doubted he could help much at all, though, if his current state was anything to tell by. “McGonagall told me to apologize.”
The first person laughed, though it was sharp and bitter, no warmth at all. Strangely, he felt as if this wasn’t supposed to be the case. He wondered if he’d heard this person laugh before. “Yeah, as if you have any sort of regard for what the professors say. You only want to spite him, don’t you, Marcus?”
Silence again, and he had the feeling that there were many questions that Marcus—whoever that was—couldn’t answer.
“Maybe.” There was a snicker somewhere in that tone, which he thought was rude, but he digressed. “He deserves it a little bit, no?”
This only resulted in the first voice bursting into what he knew couldn’t be the first round of tears, which he thought was a damn shame. Somehow, deep inside the murky mess of his mind, he knew his laugh would sound better. Much, much better.
At the same time, he couldn’t quite identify the feeling he had towards this Marcus character. The urge to hit him, maybe. Scold him or make him swear he wouldn’t talk to the other one like that again. And it felt natural.
Normal.
Familiar.
His eyes snapped open, feeling electrocuted by the sensation. Familiar. So this must’ve been the appeal of knowing things: having something to latch onto, breathing in the scent of the memories and the warmth and the meaning. Having something to draw onto.
Of course, that didn’t mean he remembered Marcus. Quite the opposite, really: he found the green-robed boy in front of him as good as a stranger, blinking back with steely eyes. But the feeling was there, and he clung onto it like an anchor, desperate for any relief.
“Marcus,” he greeted eagerly, sitting up on his elbows though it did nothing to serve his pounding headache. “You’re here. You’re here.”
He had no idea what his statement was supposed to mean, but he saw their effect no sooner than the words had slipped out of his lips. The pretty redhead on the left of him paled, their lips parting in shock. He must’ve been the one crying, he thought to himself, eyes tracing over his rosy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. He wished more than anything else that he could wipe the tears away, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be.
“Don’t be so surprised, Wood.” Marcus’s words were laced with so much disgust that it almost surprised him. From what he could gather from the hazy pieces of his mind, though, it did not. “McGonagall’s golden boy always gets his apologies.”
“Don’t you dare talk to him like that—”
“Wood?” He blinked at Marcus, disregarding the anger of the pretty redhead. He was sad to do so, but he wasn’t keen on any fights breaking out by his bedside. It would have been very inconvenient and he felt as if he’d gotten enough of that for a lifetime. “Is that me?”
Silence.
“…Oliver?” The pretty redhead was staring at him, bright eyes wide with fear. Fear. He wanted to kiss it away, and he almost shuddered at the sudden thought. Merlin, where were these urges coming from? “What are you talking about, Ollie?”
Huh. Oliver. Ollie. Wood. If they knew they were confusing him with all the names, they didn’t seem to know, staring at him with expressions ranging from concern to revulsion. He supposed he didn’t blame either of them, not really.
Still, though, if any of those words were meant to be his name, then he was well and truly fucked. “I’m not…” Oliver. Ollie. They fit wrong, like an oversized shirt. He felt like he was drowning in it. In whoever Oliver was supposed to be. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Hey, hey, Ollie.” The pretty redhead reached out to clasp onto—Ollie? Was that him? The other had reached out to clasp onto his hands, anyway, grounding him in a way that sandy sheets and disgusted looks couldn’t. “You’ll be fine, okay? Just calm down for me. Tell me what’s happening.”
He looked down at the hands that the redhead was holding, knowing that they were his, but still not getting himself to believe it. Oliver’s hands. “I don’t know who I am.”
A look of terror flashed over the other’s face for a moment, though it passed just as quickly, replaced by a soothing expression before he could blink. “Yes, you do, you do, Ollie. You’re just… disoriented. That’s it, isn’t it?”
No, it wasn’t. And he found it terrified him to no end, feeling the tenderness radiating from the other boy. Because he didn’t deserve it, whoever he was. Because that softheartedness was made for someone he didn’t remember. Despite it all, he swallowed, looking away.
“Weasley.” Marcus’s voice seemed far away, but even from wherever his mind was drifting, he sounded scared. It didn’t sound right in his voice. “…’M gonna get Pomfrey.”
“Yeah, do that, please.” Weasley—the pretty redhead, and though he had his name, Oliver wasn’t sure he would stop thinking of him as such—seemed to have forgotten to be angry at Marcus, which served well for the both of them. He didn’t even turn around as Marcus shot up from his seat, trudging off into the corner. He wondered who Pomfrey was.
“Ollie?” Weasley’s voice was small and his eyes were wide with concern. “What do you mean you don’t remember who you are?”
For whatever reason, the other’s voice made him feel small, though not in a way that felt… bad. In fact, it felt quite lovely. He felt the frustrating urge to lay his head across the other’s chest and close his eyes for however long he wanted to. Oliver wondered where that came from, too.
“It’s—” Oliver felt like he was being choked. He didn’t deserve the way Weasley was looking at him, and the worst part was that he couldn’t remember who had gotten the honor. “I don’t know.”
He couldn’t put it into words, the gaping void that had opened up inside of him. Ready to claim whatever else was left of him. Fumbling for any piece of relief that he could find.
He was supposed to be someone else, he knew now. Oliver Wood. Had he been loved? Clearly, by the hands that held onto him. He’d been hated too, as evidenced by the fleeing form of Marcus from a while ago. He felt like he owed them something, like a piece of him was supposed to be theirs. Not anymore, though. That piece was long gone, floating about in the abyss of his mind.
His headache grew worse and worse as the minute passed him by.
“Don’t you remember what happened?” Soft hands ran over him, as if the other was trying to hold the broken parts of him together. It wasn’t working. “You know, about Marcus… You remember, don’t you, Ollie?”
He had the strange feeling that Oliver and Ollie were different people. “What did he do?”
Weasley’s face fell and his heart dropped with it. “The bludger, don’t you remember?” Oliver was quite tired of trying to remember, but he nodded along. “It’s—well, it was a bad hit and a worse fall…” He worried his already bleeding lips, which made Oliver want to swat his arm, but he tried his very best not to. “It makes sense, then, I suppose you’ll just need some more time…”
“Fall?” Oliver felt as if he was lost, wandering his mind. “What fall?”
“No, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine.” The pretty redhead shook his head, as if that helped anything at all. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Oliver. “You’ll be fine in no time, I’m sure. Madam has it all under control…”
As if on cue, a voice came from around the corridor. “Mr. Flint, how many times do I have to tell you that patients need rest?” She sounded every bit the familiar, scolding mother that he should’ve had had he remembered anything at all. “If you think that I’m going to let you squabble with Wood now that he’s awake, then you’ve got something else coming—”
She stopped dead in her tracks as she caught sight of him, Marcus stopping abruptly behind her. His stormy eyes flitted about, as if looking for any improvement. When he found none, he slunk away, hiding behind the nurse. Oliver thought it looked quite silly, as he was almost a foot taller than her, but that was beside the point.
“Mr. Wood.” Her voice was gentle, a far cry from the scolding tone she addressed Marcus with a moment ago. This must be Madam Pomfrey. She didn’t seem to know what to say to him, eyes darting across every part of his body. Oliver felt as if he was being examined, every inch of him being evaluated for its flaws. He was sure she’d find many. After a moment or so of this, her eyes darted to Weasley beside him, and if possible, she softened further.
“Percy,” she murmured, stepping forward. Percy Weasley. Without any warning, Percy’s hands dropped from his, laying rigid at his side. Oliver found that he sorely missed the touch. “Has he gotten his rest…?”
Percy’s lips trembled, and for the first time, Oliver realized he was shaking. Quivering all over, from his shiny eyes to his bottom lip to his bouncing legs. He didn’t think Percy could stand up if he wanted to. “I–I don’t—”
Without any warning, he burst into tears, burying his face into the hands that had once held Oliver. And he wished, more than anything, more than the gathering pain and the gap in his memories, that he knew why watching him cry hurt. Why the gathering pressure in his chest seemed to want to tear him apart. Why he wanted to reach out and hold him until it went away.
Why.
Madam Pomfrey ushered him away, whispering things into his ear that Oliver couldn’t hear. None of them seemed to help. Somehow, he knew he could’ve done more, knew he could’ve stifled that sniffling in only a moment. If only he could find the words. If only he could find anything at all.
A period of silence followed, and that was when he realized it was only him and Marcus in the room. They eyed each other from opposite ends, one unable to approach and the other unwilling to. Oliver didn’t know if one of them was the predator or the prey. He didn’t know if they were both just caged animals, after all.
And of course, there was that feeling between them, that blessed familiarity that he’d forgotten the sensation of. Something in that upturned sneer and that cold stare that he found something warm in, that he found something safe in. Impossibly.
Marcus Flint was impossible.
“I know you, don’t I?” which he figured was the wrong thing to say, judging by the scowl that deepened on the other’s face, but he wasn’t one to be discouraged. He forged on. “There’s something about you, you know. Could you tell me what it is?”
“Stop.”
Ignoring this, he continued. “It’s this feeling. Like I can close my eyes right now and it’ll be fine for as long as you’re here. Does that make sense to you?” When he got no answer, he continued. He was starting to figure out that Oliver Wood, whoever he was supposed to be, wasn’t one to back down. “I’m sure it does, anyway. You get it, don’t you, Marcus? Tell me you feel it too. I know you do.”
“Stop.”
“I mean, it can’t just be me, right? I can't be the only one who feels like this.” Marcus looked equal parts pissed and terrified, which Oliver thought was a step in the right direction. “But the thing there is I don’t know. And no one’s telling me anything. Look at you, I mean—you’re just sitting there.”
A mirthless laugh escaped him as he shook his head, the pounding growing worse with it. “I’m just saying, Marcus. You’ve got to feel it too.” The aching pulling thing in his chest. The wailing burning thing that settled there, somewhere, somehow. “I can’t be alone here.”
It sounded like begging, which was really quite pathetic, though he tried not to mind it. Opposite him, Marcus had gone pale, his already stark skin now blending in with the pastel colors of the infirmary. It was funny, in a way, though he felt it was wiser not to mention that.
And there were a few things Oliver hoped he’d say. Things like I know what you’re talking about, or I feel it too, or you’re not going insane. He’d even take a good fuck you over the silence between them. At the very least it would confirm that he existed.
Instead of that, any of that, Marcus said something entirely different.
“You’re gonna break your boyfriend’s heart like that.”
It sent a jolt through him like nothing else, the word—boyfriend. It was one of those things that felt like they were supposed to be familiar but remained, stubborn as ever, not. Oliver realized why.
“I have a boyfriend?”
“‘Course you do.” Marcus’s scowl returned, stronger than ever. Only the trembling legs he held himself on betrayed him. The ruddy hue still hadn’t returned to his cheeks. “That’s why you don’t go around saying things like that to people, alright?”
Silence.
“Alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” A pause. “Alright, Marcus.”
Marcus was gone before he finished.
He tried to grapple with the weight of everything that had already happened and found himself woefully incapable to do so. For all of the empty space in his mind, he took a damn long time to process things. The first thing that dawned on him: a boyfriend. He had one of those. Oliver had one of those, and he didn’t even know who Oliver was.
For the second time that day, there was a sharp pain in his head before it all went black.
And because Marcus Flint was a coward, he didn’t look back.
He couldn’t bear it, not when Oliver was looking at him like that, with all the intensity in the world. Except there was something different in his forcefulness, a difference that produced something wailing and unholy in him that he dared not name. Something that leveled him till he felt unrecognizable, even to himself.
You’ve got to feel it too.
He did. He had. He’d been feeling it for as long as he could remember, and Marcus didn’t want to face it. He didn’t want to acknowledge it. More than anything, he didn’t want that feeling to look him in the eyes, the soft brown hardening and Marcus’s resolve weakening. It felt as if he was stripped bare; all of his sins were recited back to him and Oliver didn’t even flinch.
I can’t be alone here.
You’re not, Marcus wanted to say, desperately, needlessly. I’m right here. I’m with you. But the words lodged in his throat, and whenever he tried to open his mouth, he found Percy Weasley on the back of his eyelids, all sharp edges and tear stains and Oliver Wood.
Percy Weasley.
Guilt welled up inside him and Marcus didn’t even try to stop it. He deserved it, anyway. Deserved it all. Because even through all of this—all of him—the Weasley hadn’t even been the first one to come to mind. He should’ve been. For how much Weasley and Oliver loved each other, he should’ve been.
And now Marcus had Oliver, bare-backed and frowning and so, so vulnerable. Telling him that there was something about the way he was. Like I can close my eyes right now and it’ll be fine for as long as you’re here.
And Oliver wasn’t even his.
But that was fine, of course.
This was fine.
He was fine.
It was what he repeated to himself the entire sprint to the Slytherin common room, trying and failing to hammer the statement into his head. This was fine, he thought, rounding the corner. He was fine, he thought, finding Oliver’s intense stare in every painting that he passed by. Everything was fine, he thought as Oliver haunted him with every turn he took.
But that was fine, of course.
He was fine.
Marcus never looked back.
The moment Percy stepped foot out of that infirmary, he did the one thing he’d been waiting to do the entire morning—he crumpled to the ground.
He couldn’t do it in the Quidditch stands, of course, however much he wanted to. His first instinct was to fall as Oliver did, to succumb to that sickening crack. But he stopped himself. Of course he did. Percy always stopped himself.
The next time he felt like he was falling was when he sat by Oliver’s bedside, arguing with Marcus. His stomach gave a disgusted lurch every time the Slytherin spoke, abhorring every moment of it. He’d hate this. He’d hate this. Oliver slept along, peacefully, cluelessly. Catching bludgers in the head. He’d hate this.
The worst part of it all was when Oliver didn’t.
He’d woken up, mussed up hair and all, freckles that had disappeared in the winter now pale on his cheeks, and for one naive movement, Percy had been happy. So blindingly happy that it hurt to look at him. Like looking at the sun. Like the short hours that Oliver had been gone made him vulnerable to the warmth he’d grown used to. And he stayed like that until—
You’re here, Oliver had said. To Marcus, Marcus Flint. He was still so beautiful, even though it felt like Percy’s heart had stopped in his chest. There was the brightest of smiles on his face, directed towards the Slytherin; it was the smile he reserved only for Percy.
Once.
Not anymore, apparently.
He wondered when that had changed.
The wood paneling of the floor was cold against his cheek, and he found he didn’t want to stand, the chilling sensation at least reminding him that he was alive. He could feel Pomfrey’s voice by his cheek as she tried to talk him up, but he couldn’t. Didn’t want to. After the week he’d had, he was feeling quite inclined to melt into the floorboards.
At some point, he found it in himself to stand up, though he wasn’t sure if it was strength or numbness holding him together. Nevertheless, he traced the path to the Gryffindor dorms, feeling as though the spirit had left his body. Feeling as though everything that had been driving him was gone.
Because he was it, for Percy—Oliver. There was no one else for him. The moment he’d met Oliver on that train, on that table, on their bed, he knew he was gone on him. Gone on Oliver Wood, which wasn’t as bad a fate as he thought it was the time he realized it. And that was supposed to be that.
And of course, Marcus Flint had to enter the scene.
He hadn’t even thought about the Slytherin, too focused on Oliver than to think about whose fault it might’ve been. So no, he did not think about Marcus when he begged Madam Pomfrey to let him visit his boyfriend. No, he did not think about Marcus when he walked into the infirmary and found the Slytherin there first. He hadn’t even thought about Marcus when Oliver opened his eyes, hadn’t let any other feeling other than relief rush through him once the moment arrived.
But of course, he’d never been it for Oliver.
It had always been Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch. It had always been his rivalry. It had always been Marcus Flint and the ugly sneer he wore on his face. Marcus Flint and his disingenuous plays. Marcus Flint and the way he’d looked at Oliver that one time, that one moment, that one place that he simply couldn’t stop thinking about.
Percy had tried to ignore it, because his world started and stopped with this boy, because he couldn’t bear to think Oliver would have anyone else. Because for now, he’d chosen Percy, and that was all he could ask for. All he deserved. But that choice was gone.
And with it, Percy too.