Chapter Text
Marcus Flint doesn’t want to like him. In fact, he tries all that he can to hate and despise him instead.
It doesn’t work though, of course it doesn’t, Oliver Wood has perfect hair that’s beautiful even after a full day of flying, and that look on his face when he defends the goals–
Shut up. Shut up shut up, the man has a soulmate, and whoever it is, it certainly isn’t Flint. Not with the way he stares at that hourglass mark on his arm, with love, and sadness, as if every moment away from his soulmate is a heartbreak…yeah, definitely not Flint.
Besides that, Flint has a soulmate too…whoever they are, he can’t just go around having crushes on random Gryffindors when someone in Slytherin house is destined to end up with him.
He doesn’t know exactly who his soulmate is, but one day he was going to bed after a long evening of studying in the common room, since his afternoon was occupied by his first ever quidditch training, and when he looked at the crook of his left elbow the spiraling hourglass that had been creeping to the moment he’d met his soulmate was still as a statue.
It must have stopped when he was in the common room, maybe he talked to someone new that he doesn’t remember, but whoever they are they’re waiting for him to find them, and he’s out here wasting time with this stupid infatuation with Oliver Wood.
And now, seeing him walking out onto the pitch with his team, that grin on his face like there’s nothing he loves more, probably because there isn’t, it makes Flint’s heart skip a beat–
Maybe his soulmate’s better off without him anyway.
“Captains, shake hands.” Madam Hooch calls.
Flint hates this moment. When he shakes Oliver’s hand– it sends sparks all through him. He knows he’s crushing Oliver’s hand but it’s all he can do so that he can maintain the anger on his face.
It’s what Oliver expects to see.
Flint just channels his hatred for himself, and his hatred for the fact that he loves those eyes so–
Madam Hooch clears her throat.
Right, Flint releases Oliver’s hand, and returns to his team.
At least nothing went wrong.
The first thing Flint notices when they’re in the air is that Oliver’s new seeker is an amazing flyer. For a coward who hid in the muggle world his whole life, Harry Potter is great with a broom.
Or is he? What the hell is he doing? His broom’s gone wild, that’s not natural…oh Merlin is he going to fall off?
Flint’s stupid team isn’t even paying attention to the game anymore. Idiots, Gryffindor dropped the quaffle, they’re all protecting the oh so precious Harry Potter, well they’ll see if that’s really worth it once Flint wins the game.
He grabs the quaffle before it can hit the grass, speeding uncontested towards the Gryffindor goalposts.
Of course, Oliver’s still defending them. He is obsessed with quidditch.
Flint shoots the quaffle towards the rightmost goalpost.
Oliver blocks it easily, and shoots Flint a grin, a challenge.
He is not getting away with that, even if it was adorable. Flint retrieves the quaffle and sends it through the center goal, sneering as there’s a loud ding.
Take that Oliver.
Once he has the quaffle again Flint shoots it towards the right goal again, only to be thwarted. Crap.
He throws it again, and again, and again, until finally, through the left goal, a loud ding. He does a spin on his broom, his hands in the air.
Look it’s harder to get things through the hoops when you’re the only one that the keeper has to pay attention to, alright?
Then he swoops towards the ground, catching the quaffle as it falls, and like a flash throwing it through the middle goal before Oliver can catch it.
Why is Oliver grinning? On that note, why is Flint?
He quickly replaces it with a scowl. Grin he will not. Even if it fills him with warm disgusting gooeyness inside when he sees Oliver’s hair ruffle in the wind.
Stop it Flint. You’re here to play quidditch. Shut down that sentimental brain of yours and get to work.
He tries, he really does, but two scores later and he’s staring again, appreciating the casual way Oliver presents his undeniable skill. He’s a good keeper, but he doesn’t show off, mostly, instead he focuses on the game, and every once in a while a grin of exhilaration and joy will slip through.
Shut up. Why does he have to notice all these little things, why can’t he just be a normal Slytherin and hate Gryffindors, why can’t he just go about finding his actual soulmate instead of being distracted by this ill-advised crush? Why?
He’s so stupid so stupid so very stupid. Oliver is annoying and cocky and so infuriatingly Gryffindor, and Flint is supposed to hate him. Hate him hate him hate him.
His throat begins to close. Shut it. Shut it. Stop stop stop why? Why stop, why think why live and– stop crying. NO not here not now shut up shut up shut up.
A deafening cheer cuts briefly through his thoughts. Gryffindor has won. Harry caught the snitch.
Stupid Oliver Wood. Stupid face, stupid hair, stupid gorgeous grin. Shut up.
Flint throws the quaffle at that stupid smug smile.
For a moment it broke through his spiral. That was nice. He took a breath, felt the air in his lungs, then the thoughts came crowding back in over top of everything good and nice.
Then he throws quaffle again, and again, and again until it doesn’t even help anymore, until he eventually starts yelling the self-deprecating loop of insults out loud.
“Shut up!” He throws the quaffle. “Shut up, shut up!” He retrieves the ball and throws it again. “Stupid worthless git!” a thunk as it hits Oliver’s shoulder.
Why isn’t he fighting back, why isn’t he doing something? Flint deserves it, to get knocked off his broom, fall to the ground. Maybe he’d feel less stupid stupid stupid stupid–
“Flint! Detention! And put down that quaffle!” Madam Hooch blows her whistle.
Flint slumps, worthless, sorry, stupid. He halfheartedly chucks the quaffle at Oliver a final time, Madam Hooch retrieves it, and Flint dives to the ground, storming off of the quidditch pitch.
He wipes the tears from his face, and sniffles. So stupid.
It’s not the first time he’s had a spiral like that, and he knows the things to do, take deep breaths, give your thoughts space to breathe, stop yelling at yourself, take a walk.
And yeah they help sometimes, but it’s not a flawless system, and more often than not Flint loses to himself.
Sometimes it doesn’t even feel worth fighting if he’s honest. He probably deserves it.
His soulmate doesn’t deserve someone as pathetic as him.
He doesn’t deserve to have a soulmate. He’s too weak, no real Slytherin is like this, he’s a fluke. So stupid.
Flint stops in the middle of the hallway, and takes a deep breath, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his nose.
Then he takes another deep breath.
Calm down.
He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. The feeling of air rushing into his lungs, the way it cools his throat, and the sound it makes as it rushes into his mouth. The sensation makes him think of a cool blue, like ice, or the sky in midsummer.
In two three four. Hold two three four. Out to three four. Hold two three–
Someone runs into him from behind. Really? Right now? “Watch where you’re–”
It’s Oliver. Of all people. Why?
“Sorry.” Oliver mumbles, his brow furrowed in–
Shit, worry? No, stop, don’t, He doesn’t deserve it. Flint tries to summon his usual anger and hatred. Oliver’s a Gryffindor, and they won the game, and he has a soulmate– yep, that worked. “Go away.”
Oliver shakes his head, stepping closer. Crap. “Are you okay?”
No no no no. Bloody– is he actually concerned? “None of your business, Wood.” There’s a twinge in his left arm, and he rubs it absentmindedly.
“Why do you hate me so much, anyway?” Oliver asks, full of concern instead of the accusation that it should be. It’s like he’s worried that he had somehow hurt Flint– and he’s making eye contact for longer than Flint has ever had to endure before.
He can feel his anger falter.
Merlin, this is bad. Stupid Gryffindors and their stupid good hearts. “I hate everyone.” Flint snaps, turning to walk in hopes that Oliver won’t spot the crack in his facade.
“Not like you hate me.” Oliver begins to follow after him.
Flint hasn’t seen him care about anything other than quidditch quite this much–
And it’s directed at Flint. He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve anything. Especially not from this gorgeous angel– “Go away.” He sniffles. Of course he’s crying, what a weakling.
Oliver puts a hand on his arm.
Flint flinches. “Leave me alone.” He speeds up, breaking into a run as soon as he turns a corner, not bothering to check if Oliver’s following after him as the tears begin to well in his eyes.
He’s not entirely sure where he’s going until he ends up outside the broomshed. It’s actually a fairly good idea, fly around for a while, cool down and sit with his thoughts in a space that’s fairly safe.
Up in the air he can think clearly, so long as Oliver’s not there too.
That’s why he fell in love with quidditch at all, up here, with the wind in his ears, his robes whipping around him, and the best view of Hogwarts to be found, he doesn’t have to worry about things like finding his soulmate.
He doesn’t have to worry about what he’ll tell his soulmate when he finds them, about how to explain that he’s head over heels for someone else, a Gryffindor no less.
How does one find their soulmate once they’ve missed them anyway?
There are tales that it glows at certain points, but those are contradictory. Some say it glows when you kiss, others say it’s when you first think of them romantically.
Flint likes to think it’s more of a case of it helping you along when the time is right.
It’s magic, it can do that if it wants to.
And he really would like to find his soulmate some day, just as soon as he gets over this silly crush on–
“Flint!” Oliver is in the center of the quidditch pitch, waving his arms like a lunatic.
Bloody hell.
He came up here to relax, not to get alone time with the specific person who causes him the most panic out of everyone. He can already feel his heart rate skyrocketing.
“What do you want?” Flint shouts back, hovering a good twenty feet above him, not landing just yet.
“Did you know?” Oliver looks so silly from this vantage point, with his hands on his hips like a grumpy toddler. It shouldn’t be funny, but it really is.
Flint has to resist the urge to laugh. In just a moment it’s easy, because what if he’d done something really wrong. “Know what?” He calls instead, trying to keep the concern out of his tone.
Oliver pulls up his sleeve and scowls. “Oh, just come here will you?”
That’s when the true wave of worry crashes over Flint. He can see it in Oliver’s face; Something is wrong, it’s probably his fault, had he really hurt him earlier. He didn’t mean to, he’s so–
Breathe.
You don’t know why he’s here yet.
Still, his worries double when his feet touch the ground, and he sees that Oliver is brushing his fingers over– oh Merlin, it’s his shining hourglass.
Wait– shining? What in the–
Oliver looks up, and punches him in the arm, though it isn’t forceful. “Did you know?”
Flint stares at Oliver’s arm, gaping. “Bloody hell, what’s wrong with it?”
Oliver raises an eyebrow. “Wrong with it? Flint, you’re what’s wrong with it, you git.”
“I–” Flint stammers, of course it is, of course it’s his fault. What had he done? It How does someone even do that? Is it something bad– he didn’t mean to– “Sorry…” He stares at the ground beneath their feet.
Oliver’s expression shifts, the pieces of friendliness evaporating. He glares, and shoves Flint. “You did know. Bloody–” he steps back just before pushing him again, instead fisting his hands and pushing them against his chin. “Why the hell didn’t you say something?”
Oliver looks so heartbroken, and Flint doesn’t yet know what he’d done. Did he somehow break Oliver’s soulmate timer? Bloody hell, how does someone even do that? Of course he of all people would find a way. He knew all along he needed to stop feeling this stupid horrible amazing way about Oliver. Stupid. Worthless. Idiot.
“I didn’t–” Flint doesn’t get to finish.
“Merlin, is this why you hate me so much?” Oliver squeezes his eyes shut, pushing his fists harder into his chin. “Of course you do, I’m a Gryffindor.” He slumps slightly. “Shit.”
“Wood, I don’t–”
Oliver shakes his head, opening his eyes and dropping his hands. “Just my luck, nevermind I…I’m sorry.” He turns around jerkily. “Sorry.” His voice cracks.
Flint watches him walk away, frozen in place. What in Merlin’s name had he been talking about? Flint had he really known he would hurt Oliver? Not really. He really just thought he’d hurt himself, and his soulmate, whoever they are, maybe Oliver’s soulmate too.
Who is Oliver’s soulmate anyway? Flint hasn’t ever seen him with anyone, but Oliver clearly knows who…the way he stares. How did Flint mess with it? He didn’t know it was possible.
Of course though, he’d be the one to somehow break the ancient system that allowed most people to eventually find their perfect match. And of course it’d strike Oliver first. What an idiot–
Breathe in, breathe out.
Flint finally comes to his senses, running across the quidditch pitch after Oliver, forgetting his broom on his shoulder. “Oliver!”
Oliver stops walking. Thank goodness.
Flint catches up, panting. “I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about.”
Oliver’s brow furrows. “The fuck do you mean? I think it’s glaringly obvious.”
“Obvious how?” Flint gestures randomly. “You claim I know something, but I don’t.” He’d been stupid, stupid, what had he done? Why had he let something slip through the cracks? Stupid worthless– a tear slips down his face.
“Flint,” Oliver tugs up his sleeve again, baring his still glowing mark. “It’s bloody glowing, there’s literally one thing that can ever mean.
Flint flinches slightly, but he still doesn’t understand.
Oliver continues. “and it’s because I,” he punctuates it with a shove. “Looked at you.” He shoves Flint again. “And thought you looked bloody attractive in those robes.” He pushes him one more time.
Flint shakes his head, trying to ignore the tears on his face. Maybe if he ignores them Oliver will too.
That doesn’t make sense anyway, Oliver already knows who his soulmate is, and it’s not…it’s not Flint. “No, no because you already know, don’t you?” His voice cracks. “Who it is, and besides,” He pulls up his own sleeve. “Mine didn’t do it.”
It’s true of course. Flint wishes, he really does, that would mean he isn't guilty of anything, but he is. He has a soulmate somewhere and instead he’s all hung up on this Gryffindor who is decidedly not his soulmate.
Seriously, he doesn’t deserve a soulmate at all.
He doesn’t deserve hope either.
But of course it’s there, whispering maybes in his ear. ‘Maybe you’re wrong about when it stopped,’ and ‘maybe you’re not as terrible as you think.’
Why does hope have to be so bloody perseverant? The tears are back. Merlin, he does not need more of those.
“Damn.” Oliver stares, just stares, motionlessly watching Flint’s mark, as if it would do something now.
Flint sighs, and runs his hand through his hair, allowing his sleeve to fall back over his arm. “Don’t you have your soulmate already anyway? So why would you–”
“No?” Oliver interrupts, his eyes snapping to Flint’s face. “I’ve never known…” He studies Flint for a moment. “Are you alright?”
Shit, he’s seen the tears.
Flint shakes his head, and wipes the tears off of his face. “I’m fine. Forget it.” There’s not much more he can say without embarrassing himself. So instead he gestures at the mark, returning to their conversation. “The way you look at it…like you’re missing them.”
“Flint,” Oliver says quietly, “I’m staring at it because I’ve never had a soulmate to miss, I’ve never had a single inkling who it was, I might have missed it stopping by weeks for Merlin’s sake.” He glances at his mark. “I didn’t pay enough attention to it back then, I didn’t want to make that mistake again.”
Everything shifts. Everything Flint had believed was either a little or a lot wrong.
“In a way I am missing them.” Oliver sighs, and looks at his hands, turning his palms up like he might find answers there. “I just never knew who it was I was missing.”
Flint shakes his head. “I’m not your soulmate. Mine stopped in the common room. Sorry.” He turns away, planning to launch back into the air, planning to finish his cry while he’s up there.
“Can I come with you?” Oliver gestures to Flint’s broom. “I’d rather not be alone at the moment…if that’s okay.”
Flint really doesn’t want him to come. He wants to be alone, and if not alone, with anyone other than the person that he’d really like to be his soulmate. But he shrugs, he also doesn’t want to hurt Oliver further. “Whatever.”
Oliver’s face splits into a grin. “Wait here.” He runs off to grab his broom, and Flint realises something that chases any thoughts of tears out of his head.
Oliver had said he’d thought Flint looked– oh, Merlin. He turns very red, and hopes it will subside by the time Oliver returns. He never thought that Oliver would look at him like that…he’d never even considered the possibility.
Eventually Oliver does come zipping back on his broom, flying a loop above Flint’s head, and then dropping a quaffle on top of it.
“Thought we could practice, come on.” Oliver starts flying lazy circles. “Try not to attack me this time.”
Against his better judgement, he’d been doing a lot like that lately, Flint grins, and grabs the quaffle, speeding into the air to join Oliver.
It’s amazing, Flint flies like he’s free, practicing shooting against Oliver. He even gets a few through, though not nearly as many as Oliver blocks.
“Hah!” Flint shouts after a masterful feint on his part. “I knew you’d fall for that!” He does a celebratory loop.
Oliver shrugs, his smile unwavering. “What if I’m just boosting your confidence?”
Flint laughs, a ringing joyful sound. He doesn’t often laugh like that. “Nice try, but it’s all lies.”
“How do you know?” Oliver raises an eyebrow, then feigns an innocent expression.
Flint spins the quaffle in his hands. “I’m always right.” He shoots Oliver a teasing smirk.
Oliver’s blushing, Flint can see it. “Are you–” Oliver starts, but Flint rushes forward, using his distraction to shoot the quaffle through the hoop. “Hey! No fair!” Oliver crosses his arms, but his persistent smile gives away his joy.
“Always stay alert while playing quidditch!” Flint catches the quaffle, and flies back in front of Oliver. “And I knew that would work too!” It’s weird, being this happy and friendly with anyone let alone a Gryffindor, especially Oliver of all people, but Flint likes it, scratch that, he loves it.
They keep practicing, some moments joking with this new uncertain dynamic, and others competing like they always had, like they wanted to slit the other’s throat. Except now they’re both smiling.
Flint speeds around the quidditch pitch, close and far, trying to distract Oliver before he takes his shot. It’s not very easy considering Flint’s the only one on the pitch, but it’s good practice.
He makes a sharp turn, and takes his shot, the quaffle flies free and clear towards the left goalpost and– Oliver smacks it away. “Nice try Flint!” He taunts challengingly.
Flint smiles, and lets the quaffle fall to the ground, flying up beside Oliver. “It’s probably time for dinner by now…”
He’s hesitant to go inside, while they were here he feels free, safe. If they went inside that would evaporate. Oliver Wood would be a Gryffindor again, and Marcus Flint would always be a Slytherin.
“I’m not particularly hungry if I’m being honest, you?” Oliver shrugs, glancing at the quaffle as it hits the ground.
Flint pauses, wondering if maybe Oliver…no. That’s a stupid thought. “Same as you.” Flint agrees, even though it’s a little bit of a lie. Then he just hovers there for a moment, almost as if waiting.
Oliver clears his throat, and looks down at the quaffle again, fifty feet below them. “You gonna get that?”
Flint swoops down to the quaffle, and time fades into the back of his mind again, it doesn’t matter that he’s probably not honing his skill anymore. Okay he’s definitely not, he’s having fun, not training like he should. He’s probably reinforcing bad habits with all the inaccurate and irresponsible shots he’s taking, but he doesn’t really care. He’s flying, and he’s flying with Oliver, and it’s amazing, and he loves that look on Oliver’s face when he blocks his shots, even if they’re terrible ones.
Then it starts to get dark, and Oliver catches the quaffle, sighing and flying closer to face Flint. “Filch will have our heads if we stay out now.” He glances at the sky.
How desperately Flint does not want to go inside. This moment of perfection is built on hope and air. The moment he goes inside he knows it will break, something or someone would break it. It might even be him.
When he looks up, he sees the same longing in Oliver’s eyes.
Then– Oliver is grabbing the front of his robes and kissing him. It’s soft, and fleeting, like an apology, and before Flint can think, or respond, or kiss him back, Oliver is flying towards the castle.
Flint stays there for a moment, staring at the stars, and wondering how a single day could change so much. Maybe it didn’t have to crumble.
Bloody hell his arm is itchy. He glances down and– he can see it shining through his sleeve. Shining, actually shining, shimmering, and glowing. It’s beautiful, it’s gorgeous, it’s everything Flint has wanted for a year and a half, and it’s as complicated as potions.
It’s a wonder Flint didn’t fall off of his broom to his death, but he manages to keep his bearings, and flies frantically towards the castle. “Wood!” Then he shakes his head. “To hell with that,” he mutters, “Oliver!”
He catches him just as he’s walking away from the broomshed.
Oliver turns. “Flint, what–?”
“You were right, Damn it, Oliver, you were right.” Flint doesn’t explain further, just tumbles off of his broom, and pulls Oliver in by his waist, kissing him exactly the way he’d wanted to for all this time.
Oliver clenches his fists into the sleeves of Flint’s robes, and the world melts away. As far as the two of them are concerned there’s nothing in the world except for them, and there never has been.
Then Flint breaks away for air, and steps back. “Oliver I…look.” He tugs up his sleeve, revealing the brightly shining hourglass just below his left elbow.
Oliver reaches out, and brushes his fingers over it. Immediately it goes out, and Oliver pulls his arm back abruptly. “I– sorry.”
Flint shakes his head, grinning. “I never thought…I mean I convinced myself that…” he shrugs. “Guess I’m not right all the time.”
“Like I said,” Oliver smiles, and lightly shoves his shoulder. “I thought your timer stopped in your common room though.” His face drops slightly.
Flint nods. “I thought it did.” He slides his hands back onto Oliver’s waist, and Oliver rests his hands on Flint’s forearms. “But that was the day of my first quidditch training. I hadn’t checked it since early afternoon.” He smiles at the memory. “But we ran into each other at the broomshed, remember? I’d completely forgotten, I didn’t know you back then, but it was both of our first practices, we had to share the pitch.”
Oliver’s face lights up. “I do remember! You were insufferable, we were supposed to split the pitch but you kept whizzing around on our side and distracting me.”
“I was simply making you practice focusing.” Flint argues, but lightheartedly.
Oliver lets out a small laugh through his nose. “Well, I’m allowed to be distracted by my soulmate, aren’t I?”
“Oh so you’re saying I have an advantage? Can’t wait to tell my team that we’ll be winning the cup this–”
There’s a meow somewhere nearby, and the two of them glance around nervously.
“We should really get out of here before we get detention.” Oliver points out.
“Yeah,” Flint agrees, leaning back to glance around a corner for Mrs. Norris. “I’ll see you…” he hesitates, because when will he see Oliver again? It’s not like the Slytherin and Gryffindor quidditch captains can suddenly start dating without anybody saying something about it. Besides, the castle shatters good things. The eyes of others pry them open and the whispers chip away at every crack. Flint had learned that long ago.
“Soon.” Oliver confirms, squeezing his arm comfortingly. “There’s always time for a little extra quidditch practice, yeah?”
Flint smiles nervously, and nods, finally releasing Oliver’s waist and letting him walk away. Then he turns, and goes the opposite direction. Towards the Slytherin common room, hoping that everyone's asleep.