a/n: this story is reated M for a reason. please do not read if you are under 16 or offended by m/m pairings.
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Oliver Wood was having one hell of a time chasing down his Beaters. Apparently the twins thought that five o'clock on a cold Sunday morning in January was not an acceptable time to hold Quidditch practice. The team's Captain and Keeper, however, had other plans.
Fred and George obviously thought that they couldn't be forced to practice if they couldn't be found. But Oliver had learned a thing or two in his seven years at Hogswart. He wasn't one to boast, but if it had been anyone but the Weasely brothers he would have been dragging them by their ears out onto the snow covered field by now.
At least that was what he would have them believe. Oliver tried to be a decent Captain, even if he was pretty strict on his team. He would never actually do anything to hurt them, unless three hour practices in fierce storms could fall under that category (and personally he didn't think it did). Only if anyone ever hurt his team would they know his true wrath.
Quidditch was his life, and his team was his family. Only too soon winter would end, and then spring would pass before his eyes and it would be summer and time to leave them forever. Well not forever maybe, but certainly long enough for his mates to have moved on without him.
Oliver paused in his search to look around at the hidden stairwell he was currently traversing. He ran his hands over the crudely defined lines of the wall, storing the memory of the rough, uneven textures under his fingers. He leaned back against the opposite wall and looked up. Each brick in the wall was unique and individual, but none stood alone. Instead they supported each other, and together created something greater. He sighed; somehow his thoughts always led back to Quidditch.
Making his way silently down the remaining steps, he nudged the door open slightly to peer inside. There was no sign of the twins to be seen. Instead it seemed he had wandered into an old classroom. Desks and chairs were stacked against one side of the wall. Half erased old spells were still visible on the chalkboards. Judging it safe, he stepped into the room.
To his left something gold caught his attention. He stepped closer and found himself looking onto a beautiful mirror. It was high as the ceiling, a giant work of art. At the top a short passage was inscribed. He read it over several times but could not remember studying a language with any of those words.
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Something was tugging at his mind… Suddenly it hit him! Professor McGonagall had told him about the mirror on accident during his third year. Then again he had heard her speaking to Headmaster Dumbledore about it in his fifth year. Oliver had been exploring and gotten lost and had happened to overhear the conversation. He had put it out of his head until now, but with the memory came the understanding of the words. Backwards, it read:
I show not your face but your heart's desire.
Wood was quite pleased. Now that had deciphered it, his mind recalled several more instances that the mirror had been referred to. He'd heard stories of a mirror which, when looked upon, could paralyze its viewer. The person would remain in a sort of trance, breathing and standing but doing nothing more. What they saw in the mirror was anybody's guess. That mystery was only a shadow though to the greater one of how such a legendary relic had ended up in an abandoned room at Hogwarts.
Now Oliver thought he understood more to this riddle. If he was right, the mirror would cast a different kind of reflection. While most mirrors showed an outward appearance, this revealed what was inside the person—their thoughts and moreover, their desires. It made sense then, that people would not want to look away from the thing which they wished for the most. A test lay before him here. Walk away safely, never knowing what it was that he would have seen. Or look down, straight into his own heart, and risk being overwhelmed by the despair of never being able to attain what there he saw.
It was Oliver's naivety that tipped the scale, for he believed without a doubt that he knew what he would see. With a smile he imagined himself winning the Quidditch cup this year with for his house, being spotted by a recruiter and chosen for the team of some renowned college. Almost inconspicuously hidden in the background of his fantasy was the small but constant presence of his Seeker, Harry Potter, always right there by his side.
His dreams of glory seemed perfectly real to Oliver Wood, who would never boast about his own abilities but was not one to deny them. It was quite plausible and indeed even probable to him that they would be actualized. Therefore the mirror held no threat to him, because what he was certain he wanted most, he also knew he could get.
With such conviction he lowered his eyes to peer into the coveted Mirror of Erised. At first there was nothing before him at all; neither the images of Quidditch he had imagined nor a reflection of himself. Instead there was a cloud of gray which broke into a silvery mist. As he saw the scene below rise to visibility an almost smug smile grew on his lips.
It was a fantastic game of Quidditch, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, every seat in the house filled. The angle swung all about the field, catching each member of the team in their glory. The girls scored ten, twenty, thirty…while every time the Quaffle came his way he displaced it magnificently. The roar of cheers filled his ears and his blood swarmed with excitement as though he was really there. Suddenly the imaginary camera zoomed in on his infamous Seeker, Harry, jet hair whipping wildly, emerald eyes narrowed and focused. His arm stretched out in front of him toward a glint of gold that Oliver's eyes could barely follow, even from such a close distance.
Inch by inch he snuck up on the Snitch until it was almost within his grasp. Then abruptly another person fell into view. It was Draco Malfoy, the horrid boy who was always trying to get at Harry. Anger flooded him and suddenly he was looking at himself. He watched as he grabbed a club away from Fred (or George; honestly he could never tell) and hit a Bludger with all his will and force.
It caught the brat in the shoulder and knocked him out of the picture. Once again all attention was on Harry. Oliver caught himself urging him on, "Come on Harry, come on," under his breath. Harry's face tightened with strain and his hand had gone white. With one final burst of speed he closed his fingers around the Snitch and the crowd erupted.
Oliver could have cheered himself but he remembered where he was, and thought of what trouble he might be in if someone found that he had snuck in here. One hand clapped over his mouth, he watched gleefully as Harry dropped to the ground. Of course he was already there, and Harry ran into his arms clutching the golden ball tightly. The Oliver in the mirror swung the smaller boy around and around, both of them laughing and crying simultaneously. He was overwhelmed with pride and joy. Arms encircled his neck and he held his Seeker tight to him. The real Oliver's arms and neck suddenly began to feel strange, as if some weight were missing there. Somehow it made him sad.
He had not realized it had faded to black until another scene presented itself. Tiny lights began to appear and he found his double dimly lit in a room he could not recognize. A figure across from him became visible. Harry tilted his head down to the floorboards, the movement illuminating streams of gold running down his cheeks. Within the mirror he stepped forward so that they were close, not inches apart, and his hands crept slowly down to find Harry's. He barely touched them when the younger man gasped and jumped. He drew back slightly, hovering over him now, waiting for the signal that it was okay.
From the crying or something else, Harry's breathing was uneven and his chest shook slightly. Oliver found his own rhythm difficult to control. Slowly he touched Harry's palms, ready to pull back at once but the other boy did not make an effort to pull away. Oliver slid his fingers through smaller, smoother ones and their hands melded together, fingers locking.
Harry was wracked with a small sob, followed by another, and he turned his head away in shame but did not let go. Instead he squeezed Oliver's hands fiercely, and in turn Oliver felt the pressure on his heart. Harry's eyes shut tight and he fell forward onto Oliver, who caught him and held him securely, one supporting him around his back while the other cradled his head, fingers gently massaging him through his thick black hair. Slowly the body relaxed against him and the two stood there together, a single silhouette against the candlelight.
Oliver shook himself as the picture faded. What was that about? Certainly that had gone on a tangent from his Quidditch fantasies, to say the least. Nothing like that had ever happened between him and his Seeker. He had only ever been Harry's mentor, his friend, sometimes his protector… Many times he found himself looking after the underclassman—but that was only because Seekers were always the ones to get fouled the most. Besides, he was the youngest on the team. As a senior member of Gryffindor it was his duty to look after Ha—after his fellow house members.
Was it more than that? Did Oliver care more deeply for Harry as his friend than he had let himself believe? They had always had a sort of easy friendship. Harry fit in with his team right from the beginning. Indeed, once he joined the Gryffindor team, Oliver felt as though a final piece of a puzzle had locked into place. A part of him—no, his team had become complete. It simply made sense to have Harry there, to be teaching him, listening to him, playing and winning with him. And truth be told, when Harry wasn't with him he usually sought him out, using the excuse of giving him tips about the upcoming Quidditch game, their opponents….
Maybe it had been a bit much. He could remember a couple of times that Harry himself had gotten mad, namely when Oliver had made him late for class pointing out the same things he had already told him a million times over. But so what? Being Captain meant making sure that everyone was at their best, as prepared as they could possibly be. And if he was especially on Potter's case, it was because he saw so much potential in him.
Still, his arms missed warmth he had not known. He hugged himself, doubt showing its ugly face, impossible for him to ignore or wish away.
Why was the mirror showing him this? It had to be a mistake—a flaw or a glitch. Yes, he it had to be. He knew it was. If he looked again it would certainly show a fabulously decorated dorm room at Puddlemere or some other prestigious college. He needed to look once more, to prove it to himself that it had been wrong. Harry Potter was a friend and a teammate and nothing more.
The mist cleared away almost immediately now, and this there was no way to misinterpret what he saw. Quidditch suddenly became the farthest thing from his mind. He was in the Gryffindor locker room. The sound of the showers ran in the background, and Oliver could almost feel the heat on his skin. He pushed Harry against the slick tiles that lined the wall. The dark head smacked up against it as Oliver kissed a hungry trail down his chest. Short, stubby nails dug into his neck, the stinging triggering a wave of heat throughout his body that centered in the area carefully hidden by his towel.
Harry was moaning his name, imploring him, dropping aimless pleas over him like falling stars. Oliver reached the scant piece of material that separated them and caught the younger man's eyes, waiting for permission. Harry opened his eyes long enough to meet his gaze and nodded weakly. He thought his heart would simply break free of his chest as he removed the white cloth tenderly. Hands were on his shoulders now, seeking his support. He grabbed hold of Harry's hips, both holding him up and at the same time leading him towards his mouth.
Oliver was watching outside the mirror, eyes gone wide. The scene on the mirror was captivating, provoking both his greatest fear and desire. His eyes began to water as despair filled him. Was this what he had secretly wanted all along, to corrupt the boy who looked up to him, who idolized him? Did he really want to take advantage of Harry's innocence like this? He was absolved in his own self-loathing which grew every second as he found that he could not look away.
Now his likeness pulled himself up with effort before Harry could finish. Harry groped at him aimlessly, at his arms, his chest, any bit of skin that he could find. Then Oliver was being pulled in for a kiss. The boy was urging his mouth open, seeking passage with his tongue. Oliver felt a fire growing in his stomach as his mouth was penetrated. He reveled in the feeling of being so exposed, his heart and body open to be explored.
He grasped Harry's wrists as gently as he could and led him down to his own towel. Harry removed himself from Oliver's mouth to look down at the place where his fingers lingered on the rim of his Captain's towel. His eyes spoke a silent question and Oliver answered by pushing softly down on his wrists which he still held tentatively. Harry followed the gesture and un-tucked the towel, pulling it free and revealing Oliver completely.
Oliver wanted to stop. He didn't want to see what would follow, to feel the ghost of his Seeker's hand on his hot, aching member. He couldn't bare the sight of him sliding Harry up the wall, leading his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist. When his counterpart braced himself against the wall with one hand and led himself to Harry's opening with the other, the dual aches of guilt and longing became too much for him. He dropped to the floor in front of the mirror, crying, the sobs of his body matching the rhythm of his other self pumping into the smaller man's body. He grew hotter and lost all track of his breathing, his body culminating into a single point of ecstasy. His conscience and his passion struggled fiercely, tugging him one way and then the other. For his own sake, for his team's, for Harry's—he had to stop, before he would see the thing that he desired most of all and then would never be able to look away.
With a great effort he closed his eyes tightly and threw himself to the side. He felt almost at once as though he had just awakened from a dream. He was back in the secret room he had found, the one that he had wandered into while searching the grounds for the Weasely twins. It was all coming back to him now. The blaring heat of the imaginary locker room was replaced by the cold stone he had landed on when he fell. And his body was beginning to return to its state of normalcy, once again falling under his control.
He stood up and brushed the soot off his robe and then turned around and screamed. Professor Dumbledore was sitting on the ledge of a window, hands folded casually over crossed legs. He peered at Wood over his glasses, an inquisitive look twinkling in his eyes.
"I'm rather impressed," the Headmaster of Hogswarts admitted, "that you were able to look away. Countless men have rotted before the mirror of Erised, slaves to their thoughts and desires. It takes one quite brave to turn from it willingly."
Oliver Wood was not feeling brave. In fact, he could not assign any good or redeeming quality to himself right now. He was corrupt. Dumbledore should have been able to see that, if no one else. Then at once the Professor leapt up and laughed. "My dear boy!" he exclaimed, clapping Oliver on both his arms. "Did no one ever tell you that you take too much of the world on your shoulders?"
He wasn't sure how to answer that question. And he certainly didn't understand how he was being commended instead of punished for sneaking into a secret part of the castle and purposefully staring into a forbidden mirror.
The Professor winked at him and then made for a door which was so obviously placed, Oliver was sure he couldn't have missed it when he came in. The old man hesitated on the door knob and then turned back to Oliver.
"Five points from Gryffindor!" he exclaimed as if he were announcing something great. Then he leaned toward Oliver as if he were to tell him a secret and said, "For missing Quidditch practice." Oliver raised an eyebrow but said nothing more as he was pulled out into the hallway which ultimately lead to the Great Hall.
"I should hope you do not spend your time thinking about that mirror, young man. Whatever you saw in it, it's best that you don't see it again, no matter how much you are wanting to."
"Yes sir," Oliver muttered, quelling the contradiction inside him that immediately rose up. They walked for a bit in silence. However, a question kept turning over in Oliver's mind. "Sir?" he asked cautiously. Dumbledore acknowledged him with a slight nod of his head an Oliver continued, "Do you…know what it is…that I saw?"
The old wizard took a moment before answering. "Certainly!" he said at last, as though he had just figured it out for himself. Oliver went red in the face. His heart began to leap with fear. If the Professor knew what was in his mind, then surely he would be expelled from Hogwarts.
"Mirrors," Dumbledore was saying, "are tricky things though, you see. What is seen there one day might be something else altogether on another. Ha! I dare say if you looked at the end of your time here, you might see nothing at all but your own reflection. Oh—well this is where I get off." They had stopped in front of the door to the kitchens. "I think I may just see if Chef Hordav has any of his delicious ostrich cake left." And without so much of a goodbye he was gone, leaving Oliver to ponder the meaning of his words as he made his way to the Quidditch field in a daze.