For the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.

Holyhead Harpies, Beater 2

Mandatory: Write about a known Quidditch player using the prompt associated with your piece of equipment.

Bludger: Write about a witch or wizard being attacked.

Optional: (setting) Quidditch pitch, (word) slate

Thanks to Bex, Sam, and Lizzy for beta-ing this!

Word Count: 1,440

Oliver makes his way to the Quidditch pitch, several others following behind him, their arms burdened by broomsticks. "We'll get an aerial view," he says, echoing McGonagall's instructions to him. "As far as we know, none of them have broomsticks on them. This will give us an advantage."

Now that he's beyond the castle walls, the gravity of the situation hits him. He can see the flashes of light streak the air as the enemy attempts to erode their protective barrier.

"Why the Quidditch pitch?" someone asks.

Oliver smiles to himself. They're right. There are plenty of vantage points across the grounds, and other groups have been sent to guard those. The Quidditch pitch had been his idea. "If I'm going to die, I'm dying where my heart has always been," he answers.

The others mutter amongst themselves, but no one questions him further. Oliver holds his head high, squaring his shoulders. He tells himself that this is just another match; the people waiting to storm Hogwarts are just opponents. He's lead Gryffindor to victory time and time again. Now, he will do the same for his group.

He leads them onto the pitch, his heart swelling with nostalgia. A smiles tugs at his lips as stares up at the hoops he's guarded so often. It had been so simple back then. Quaffles are easier to block than curses.

His excitement quickly changes to something darker when he notices a figure in the center. Marcus Flint meets his glare with a smirk, stepping closer. "Why am I not surprised to find you here?" the former Slytherin Captain asks, folding his arms over his chest.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here, Flint?" Oliver demands. "How did you even get here?"

Marcus raises his brows, his smirk growing into a smile. He leans against his broomstick, offering Oliver a shrug. "Can't give away all my secrets, Wood," he says innocently.

"Why are you here?" Oliver asks again, his voice more a growl now. He isn't in the mood for his rival's games. "Shouldn't you be on the other side of the barrier?"

Marcus shifts his gaze to the barrier in question. The arrogance fades from his expression as he shakes his head. "I love this place just as much as you do, Wood," he says. "My loyalties are here."

Oliver searches his face for any signs of deception. It must be a trick. After all, no Slytherins seemed eager to fight. Why should Marcus be the exception?

But when Marcus meets his eyes again, Oliver can only find sincerity there. He shifts from foot to foot, torn. Attacking a hungry dragon while unarmed seems like a smarter idea than trusting Marcus Flint. Still, Marcus' love for Quidditch has always matched Oliver's. All he can do is hope that his rival is sincere.

"This is a battlefield, not the schoolyard," Marcus says. "Let's put our hard feelings behind us and start with a clean slate."

He extends his arm. Oliver hesitates. He's had to shake Marcus' hand countless times before matches. They had been opponents then; now, they have to do this as companions. Grudgingly, he takes Marcus' hand.

"It's coming down!" Alicia screams, gesturing wildly.

Sure enough, the barrier begins to melt away. Oliver swears under his breath. He had hoped for enough time to develop a plan. "Let's do this!" he calls. "Stay above the crowd and stay alive!"

Marcus snorts. "Thought you liked giving longer pep talks," he teases. "Maybe you could try that. Bore the enemy to death with your speeches."

Oliver rolls his eyes and mounts his broom. "Try to keep up, Marcus. I know Slytherins tend to be a bit slow."

Before the other wizard can respond, Oliver kicks off, letting out a happy shout as the wind tickles his skin. His heart races, and that familiar rush of adrenaline floods his veins. For a moment, the war doesn't matter. He is just a boy with his broomstick, at peace in the air.

For several moments, it's silent. Oliver almost considers moving his group to a different location for a taste of action.

"Heads up!" Marcus calls.

Oliver turns his broom just in time to see the swarm of people rushing onto the pitch. He readies his wand, taking a deep breath. Silly fights during a match are one thing. This is war.

"Stupefy!" Marcus yells, and a figure below drops to the ground. "Keep up, Wood."

Oliver narrows his eyes. He tries to remind himself not to let Marcus goad him, but he feels a surge of competitiveness. Some habits will never die.

"Expelliarmus!" Wood watches as a wand flies through the air; within seconds, Marcus casts a summoning spell, retrieving it with a smirk.

The old Gryffindor Keeper grins. He's never cared much about Marcus, but there's no denying his skill now. "Not bad, Flint," he laughs. "Much smarter than a troll."

"Careful, Wood. You don't want me to mistake you for a Death Eater over there, do you?"

Oliver rolls his eyes and carries on. It amazes him that he and Marcus move in sync. They've spent so long on different teams, and now Oliver realizes that they could have been great together.

He moves past his old rival, examining the crowd. His group has thinned it out a good bit.

Feeling bold, Oliver swoops lower, firing off a jinx at a masked man. He doesn't realize his mistake until he hears a voice cry, "Crucio!"

His body spasms, his mind blurring. With a scream, Oliver loses control of his broomstick and falls, crashing unceremoniously to the ground. Dirt and grass fill his mouth, but he doesn't have a chance to spit it out as the Death Eater repeats the curse.

Oliver cries out, his limbs contorting. Above him, he can still see his group sending spells at the remaining enemies. No one will even notice that he's fallen.

"Crucio!"

Every nerve in his body feels as though it's been set on fire. He doesn't know how much more he can take, but he begins to pray for death.

"Oi! I'm the only one allowed to slaughter him on the Quidditch pitch!"

Oliver blinks, dazed and confused by the new voice. "F-Flint?"

Slaughter. That word echoes in his head, and Oliver hates himself. He should have known Marcus would turn on him.

Slaughter. He only hopes Marcus will be merciful and give him a swift death.

"Stupefy!"

Oliver hears a heavy thud. He tries to lift his head, but the effort is too great. He slumps back onto the ground pitifully.

Strong hands grip him and pull him up. "Can you stand?" Marcus asks.

Oliver tries; his balance is off, and he sways. Marcus grabs him again. "You're in no condition to fight right now," he says, wrapping an arm around Oliver's waist. "I've got you. Come on. Move. We'll get you to safety."

The next few moments are a blur of noise and colors. Oliver is vaguely aware that he's moving, that Marcus is still sending spells this way and that, but the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse linger, making it difficult to focus on anything other than the pain that still courses through his body.

"Here you go," Marcus says, guiding him onto the stairs that lead to the stands. "Rest. I'll keep watch."

Oliver leans back, eyes fixed upon the starry sky above him. "You saved me," he says.

"Don't read too much into it," Marcus says sharply.

"You hate me, but you saved me…."

"And I'm already regretting it," the Slytherin grumbles. "Seriously, shut up, Wood. Just accept a good deed and move along."

Oliver sits up straight again. He watches the battle on the pitch draw to an end. Stunned witches and wizards are strewn across the grass. Here and there, he recognizes some members of his group, and his stomach sours as he realizes not all of them are breathing.

"I couldn't save them," Marcus says quietly, as though he can read Oliver's thoughts. "I couldn't-"

Oliver rests a hand on his arm. "You saved me. You've done so much already," he assures him. "Your slate is still clean."

The other man's lips draw into a thin, bitter smile. "Yeah. I hope so."

The Gryffindor grips his hand, nodding. "Come on, teammate. We've got a war to win."

Marcus' smile broadens as he pulls Oliver to his feet, nodding. "Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Don't worry; I bounce back fast."

Oliver never thought he'd stand by Marcus' side as an equal, but, as the war rages on, he can't imagine being anywhere else.