disclaimer: i don't own the things you recognise.

written for: quidditch league fanfiction competition round nine – chaser three / appleby arrows

prompts: "the world isn't split into good people and death eaters." – sirius black; "look, it doesn't matter – forget it, okay?"; glory.

warnings/notes: this round's task was to write a story in a new timeline affected by a canon deviance – as chaser three, this means that this is an au where harry potter died in the forest at the end of deathly hallows. thus, warnings are as follows: au (canon deviance), character death aftermath, swearing, excessive use of minor characters (because lol it's me).

thanks: nic (symphonies of you) for being a golden ear to my brainstorming, bria (gote) for being the ultimate understanding chica and cheering me up endlessly with avengers quotes and also my entire team, the appleby arrows, for being fabby teammates.

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."

- A Farewell to Arms

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—

The world doesn't make sense anymore.

x

Oliver just can't believe that he's dead.

He remembers him, age eleven, glasses framing his green eyes and black hair pointing in every direction, practically humming with the desire to fly. He remembers him, twelve years old, the hero of the school and claimant of young Ginny Weasley's heart. He remembers him, barely thirteen, falling from a broom and then him, weeks later, catching the snitch and winning the championship. He remembers him, fourteen years old but still impossibly young, looking out of the photo next to Skeeter's story. He remembers him, fifteen years old, looking heart-wrenchingly distraught and the rumours swirling amongst his old teammates that it's because of the death of Sirius Black. He remembers him, all of sixteen years and wracked with grief over Dumbledore and anger at Snape during the funeral that even the Hogwarts alumni attended. He remembers him, immortalised forever at seventeen years old, stone cold in that massive marble memorial that he would have been embarrassed to be entombed in.

Harry Potter's the only famous person he's ever really known, but Oliver misses the kid that could outfly Charlie Weasley more than The Chosen One.

He was just so unfailingly good and selfless and it makes Oliver so mad because it's so unfair that he had to die, the explanation about Horcruxes that a tearful Hermione gave to Harry's friends be damned. Oliver just can't get over the fact that every day of his life, Harry was promised by the world around him to be The Boy Who Lived when really, he was marked to die from the very beginning.

Oliver's glad that Voldemort's vanquished; he's glad that Neville killed the snake, that McGonagall duelled the fucking Dark Lord herself and defeated him, honestly, he is. He just wishes that Harry hadn't had to die for it all.

The world never promised to be fair, but for some reason, Oliver had always believed it would be.

x

"Oof!"

Oliver looks up, the sound jolting him into his surroundings, and is suddenly all too aware that he has, in fact, knocked someone over. "Oh. Sorry," he says, offering a hand down to the sprawled girl in front of him. He encloses her hand in his and pulls her up. He can't help but notice how soft her ivory-skinned hands are, especially in comparison to the tanned, calloused ones that years of flying have given him. "I didn't see you there," he says by way of explanation, cringing internally at how pathetic of an excuse it is.

The girl clearly agrees. Arching a pale blonde eyebrow at him in a way that screams pureblood, she huffs. "Yes, well, do try to avoid charging around like a blind buffoon in future," she snarks, reclaiming her hand with a haughty look that fits her elfin features well.

He blushes slightly, before berating himself. He's Oliver Wood, Puddlemere United's star Keeper, and the object of many a girl's fantasy. This conceited little blonde girl should not be able to make him feel like a little boy being sent to McGonagall again, let alone in a time like this, when he's got more important things than soft hands and haughty eyes to worry about.

He's frozen and dead and fucking gone and he was the best of us and there is something wrong with this, don't you think, if I'm alive and he's not?

Oliver glares at her. "I am not blind," he says hotly, "and I'm not a buffoon, either. It's not my fault that you're tiny and insignificant," before wincing inwardly. He knows perfectly well that it is his fault, and he has no right to ever call anyone insignificant, but Godric, she was looking at him with such disdain that it was too hard to bear. It's like he was looking in a mirror and that her eyes were reflecting what he thought about himself. Nobody likes to be reminded of their own shortcomings and self-doubts, least of all Oliver Wood.

The blonde's petite hand connects with his face, accompanied by the sharp cracking sound of skin on skin, and when he looks down at her in shocked disbelief, she's trembling. "I am not insignificant," she hisses, fixing him with a glare filled with such ferocity that he almost forgets how to breathe. "If you were worth anything you would know that, you would have been there—" she stops abruptly, before shaking her head and recollecting yourself. "You would know that, but you don't, because you're blind, pretty boy," she says, looking almost sorry for him. "You're blind, and you don't even know it." With that, she whirls around and stalks out of the establishment. After a minute, the only evidence that she was ever there is the faint scent of freesia and honeysuckle, the stinging in Oliver's cheek and the blow to his pride.

x

He's forgotten about the strange incident by Thursday next week, and he's sitting down at the Leaky, nursing a flagon of mead and his sorrows. He finds himself thinking about something Alicia said to him a few weeks after the funeral.

"There were so many of us there, and it didn't make a damn difference. Well, it did – we won the war, after all, but it didn't save him. So don't beat yourself up, Oliver— it's our mantle to bear as much as it is yours," she'd said, looking at him with so much sadness and understanding that he wanted to tear himself out of his own skin, because there was nothing in him worthy of that look in Alicia's eyes—

He shudders, pulled out of his memories by the sudden hush that falls over the tavern, and the sound that follows, the too-loud kind that tries to compensate for previous silence and just makes it seem all the more foreboding. He glances around, trying to see what caused such a reaction, but is startled by another person sliding into his booth instead. He looks up into familiar green eyes, and for a second he has an impossible name on the tip of his tongue, but he chokes it down when he recognises them to be the eyes so full of disdain from last week.

"Oh. It's you," the girl says, not sounding particularly thrilled.

He raises an eyebrow at her audacity. "Excuse me, but you joined me," he points out, before furrowing his brow. "And why did you join me? I don't even know—" he protests before being cut off by her hand covering his mouth.

"Hush!" she commands in a fierce whisper. She peers around the edge of the booth, and Oliver catches sight of two blondes huddled in a corner before her words recapture his attention. "I'm on recon," she explains grudgingly. "Not that it's any of your business," she tacks on snootily, nearly succeeding in making him feel like he's in the wrong for questioning her actions.

He surveys her. He's been referring to her as a girl in his head, though he supposes young woman would be more accurate; she looks like she's about eighteen – making her his age, Oliver's mind whispers, though he squeezes his eyes shut as if it will banish the torrent of emotions that always threaten to overflow whenever he thinks about him – and quite beautiful, he admits grudgingly. Her green eyes are just as striking as his were, though more because of the pure emotion she manages to convey with them as opposed to aesthetic value, despite their undeniable prettiness. He can't imagine what business any girl as pretty as her has stalking a couple, nor why a girl so haughty would be skulking around a tavern and seeking shelter with him, of all people.

"What, stalking an old flame?" he asks flippantly, curious about her business but determined not to show it.

She whips her head around from watching the pair, and stares at him. "Don't be ridiculous," she says scathingly. "She's my sister, and he's—" she hesitates, before deciding, "an old companion."

He raises an eyebrow. "Right," Oliver drawls. "Would 'old companion' be another term for 'old fuck buddy'?"

The girl actually looks nauseous for a second, before her features settle into a look of outrage. "What the hell kind of sisters would we be if we went around dating each other's fuck buddies?" she demands, and he finds himself absurdly pleased that she threw his own phrase back at him. He can't help but find it satisfying, this haughty blonde girl's cultured tongue swearing just as his own common one did. "So why are you hiding?" he shoots back at her.

She looks annoyed, though he doubts she realises it. "She didn't tell me she was going out with him," she mutters petulantly.

Oliver can't help but guffaw. "Some sisters," he says, grinning when her eyes flash.

"I think she's— not ashamed, exactly, but concerned about everyone's reactions… but she's got to know that I don't care, doesn't she? I mean, I can't say I always liked the bloke, but after seven years, I sure as hell understood him… better than most, anyway," she says, and by the way her eyes are moving over the tabletop distractedly and the fact that her words make absolutely no sense to him, he guesses that she's talking more to herself than him. He fixes his gaze on the two blondes that she's stalking, and furrows his brow. They look so familiar… he suspects the female seems familiar because of the resemblance to the girl in front of him, but the man, where has he seen that man—

A chill runs through him as he places him. Draco Malfoy. He remembers the slicked back hair of an arrogant blond snake with far too much reliance on his cowardly, serpentine father. "Your sister is dating that snake?" he practically spits out, before his brain catches up to his mouth. His expression changes from shock to horror as the girl glances up to stare at him in surprise. "You! Seven years! Fuck, you were a snake too, weren't you?" he accuses, and it's only the pure rage in her eyes that stops him from tacking on another accusation.

"See, it's you, you're the type of asinine bigot that is causing her to hide, even from me!" she flings back at him, and somehow they're standing and he's not sure if they're shouting or nobody else is talking because they're the only noises in the room. "You think you're so great, don't you, Wood, so much better than everyone else, with your precious Quidditch career and glorious Gryffindor pride," she spits out, her teeth bared in a feral snarl and for a second he's almost afraid of her.

"As a matter of fact, yeah, I do think I'm better than some fucking Death Eaters," he bites back, his quick temper getting the best of him. It's only the Leaky's patrons' collective intake of breath that makes him realise that his Death Eater comment was in the plural form.

The look on her face has him the closest to apologising that he's ever been, but before he can do anything, she steps backwards out of the booth and fixes him with the direct stare that he already associates with her. "You and your fucking Gryffindor glory," she says quietly, the whole tavern leaning in for her every word. "You think every Slytherin is a bad person, that every Slytherin is a Death Eater? You think that Slytherin and bad person and Death Eater are all interchangeable terms?" and she has the whole tavern's attention, and if he wasn't so caught up in everything, he'd envy her command of the room, one that would put his Gryffindor Quidditch captainship skills to shame. She shakes her head at him, and for the first time since he guessed her house, anger isn't etched onto her face. Pity is. "The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters, and if you weren't so busy chasing your damned glory, you might even realise that." She opens her mouth, as if to say something else, but a movement in the periphery of their vision catches both their attention, and they turn their heads to see Draco Malfoy stride out the door, her sister following him quickly. Oliver turns back to the blonde girl, only to find her looking stricken. Without even a parting shot, she runs out the same door, and the resulting slam as the door finds its way back into the frame feels like Oliver's world crashing down around him.

x

Katie Bell shakes her head at him sadly. "You," she begins, jabbing him in the chest as she follows him out of the Leaky Cauldron, "are a fucking idiot."

Oliver can't help the sigh that follows, nor can he resist from wrapping his arms around her. It has nothing to do with romance, no matter what Witch Weekly said when news broke that he'd suggested that Puddlemere sign her before the Harpies got their hands on her; she reminds him of happier times, and right now he could do with a bit of comfort. Nobody's ever accused him of being a bigot before, and he's uncomfortable with how tightly the skin seems to fit.

She hugs him back, but pulls back and appraises him. "Seriously, Oliver," she sighs. "Accusing Daphne Greengrass of being a Death Eater? Really?"

His head snaps up from where he'd been staring at his feet. "You know her?" he demands, running his head through the dates. Katie'd have been at Hogwarts at the same time as her, most likely, but if Oliver was right about her age, Katie'd have been in a different year group, so how—

"She's friends with Marcus," Katie says by way of explanation. Oliver nods, his expression suddenly darker, though he doesn't say a word. He's never understood what on earth would make pretty Katie Bell give Marcus Flint, of all people, a chance but she's happy, so he won't say anything against it.

"Why's it so bad to call her a Death Eater?" he asks.

Katie stares at him. "Oliver, she Avada'd her brother to save Hermione Granger's life."

x

He tracks her down.

"Daphne Greengrass, kinslayer," he says by way of greeting, and when she sends him a look of pure loathing and points her wand at him, he finds himself regretting it. "Sorry," he says, repentance staining his voice. He throws up his hands. "I just wanted to… talk," he finishes lamely.

"I think you've said everything you needed to say," she says stiffly.

He winces. "I'm sorry about that," he says. "It was unfair to call you that, especially—"

"Seeing as I killed my brother to save a Mudblood?" she interrupts darkly. At his wince, she snorts. "What, you can stand me killing my brother, just not saying 'Mudblood'?" She shakes her head. "Fucking pathetic."

He would almost believe that she's as sure of herself as she wants to seem if it wasn't for the way her voice broke on 'brother'.

"Why did you—" he starts, before stopping.

"Why did I what?" she snarls, suddenly on the defensive.

"Nothing," he says.

"No, tell me," she demands.

"Look, it doesn't matter – forget it, okay?" he tries to placate her, wishing he'd never said anything.

"No, say it. SAY IT! Ask me why I killed my own brother. That's what you want to know, right? What could ever motivate me to kill my brother, for a Mudblood of all people?" she flings back at him and suddenly she's shouting and crying and there's so much pain in her voice that he's rooted to the spot. Her screaming dissolves into wracking sobs, and she sits there, weeping into herself as he stands three feet away, watching the ice queen fall apart.

"I wasn't there," he finds himself saying. Daphne looks up, still beautiful despite tear-stained cheeks. Something in her eyes, so similar to his, makes him continue to let the guilt spill out. "I wasn't at the battle. I heard from Lee and Alicia that it was happening but I— I couldn't go. I'm a fucking coward and now he's dead and he was the best of us and what if—"

"Shut up," she says quietly, the words sharp in the air. He looks at her, and finds her looking him straight in the eyes. "I was there. It was chaos, and massacre, and everything that you're never meant to have to live through. There is nothing you could have done for him— he went to the forest, alone, and he was good and selfless but if you think he went in there expecting to come out, then you're fucking stupid. He didn't die because there weren't enough people there, he died for all the people, there or not. Don't undermine what he did by taking the fault for his death onto yourself when it was a sacrifice that he made and that we should honour, not chagrin," she says, a steely edge to her voice.

He looks at her, and asks, "why did you kill your brother?"

She doesn't answer for a while. "He was going to kill her," she says quietly. "He was going to kill her for no reason other than she was a Mudblood, she was good, she was fighting for what she believed and she didn't believe the same as him and you know, I could have accepted that, if she was the same, but she wasn't. She— she wasn't willing to kill him, you know? And he'd have killed her. It doesn't matter what she believes, or him, or me, it just wasn't a fair fight."

He gets that— he's always had quite a strong opinion of justice. "Do you miss him?" he asks.

She's quiet for a long time. "Every day," she says finally.

x

He's a coward and she's a murderess and somehow the world makes more sense when they're together.

a/n. please review, it's mucho appreciated, and please don't favourite without reviewing. i feel like this is pretty ehhhh and also euuurgh and just ugh. i've had a really busy week and deadlines and wordcount limits and all (also please don't listen to ff wordcount, i have no idea what the heck's wrong with it, this is only a tiny bit over 3k) but yeah, reviews super appreciated xxxx