March
Chapter 1: Runners
Alhazred - ssjDOTalhazredATgmailDOTcom - alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom
Not For Profit work. Harry Potter and related materials © J.K. Rowling.

It had been such a simple insult, a common one by Muggle standards, perhaps less so in the wizarding world in this increasingly liberal age. Still, some insults were universal. One way of heavily insulting the captain of a school sports team, someone who prided himself on the masculinity that came with that title, was to call them a poofter.

In actuality, had Oliver just called Marcus a poofter, very little would've happened. They had known each other for years, been rivals for years, and it took especially violent things to spark conflict after so much time spent wearing out the smaller insults.

After the last task of the Twiwizard Tournament, after Cedric Diggory came back very dead, after Oliver and his teammates from Puddlemere that he'd gone to see the event with recovered from their slack-jawed silence at hearing Harry Potter say "he's back," well, Oliver just didn't think it was, at all, polite for Marcus Flint to be leaving for the train station instead of going to the Great Hall, where Dumbledore was going to say a few kind words about the deceased. Maybe Flint just didn't have as big of an interest in the whole thing...but that would've just made it worse.

And Oliver caught up with him right outside the front gates. "What's the matter, Flint? In such a rush to get back to your boyfriend or something, you can't show a little respect for the dead?"

It was sudden, unexpected. Even Flint had never simply turned and decked Oliver after a single jibe. Oliver didn't even realize it had happened until he was on the ground, Flint's hands around his neck. "You think that's funny, Wood?! You think that's respecting the dead?!"

Oliver's wand was in a sheath tied to his leg; he couldn't reach it. Instead, he did the next best thing, and drove his knee into Marcus' groin. Eyes popping out, Marcus inhaled a sharp a breath, an odd noise coming from his throat as Oliver shoved him off.

Scrambling to his feet, Oliver pulled his wand and pointed it, but Marcus had been in enough fights to keep his senses about him even during that much pain, and had his out already. Even though his voice was high-pitched and broken, he had no problem delivering an incantation. "Incendio!"

The fire charm winged Oliver's shoulder, singing through his shirt and burning skin easily, but it wasn't his wand arm. "Expelliarmus!"

Disarmed, Marcus merely rose to his feet and stared Oliver down. Oliver's wand shook in his hand, and he felt like the more vulnerable of the two. He covered the distance between them in slow steps, and his mouth moved before he could really think ahead about what he was saying. "I'm gay, Flint...I think I have a right to make poof jokes."

"Yeah, that's mature," Flint answered, his eyebrows rising just slightly. He didn't sneer, didn't growl, he was too tired to put effort into it anymore. "Fine bit of logic that is, Wood."

Oliver, just now feeling the blood dripping from his lip, couldn't help but feel surprised. He'd gone and bared it all; Flint could probably get a decent payoff for selling news of a pro-player's sexuality to the papers. "That's all you've got to say? No big insults for your old rival after he comes out? Not one?"

"You graduated on time, Wood," Marcus deadpanned. "All the insults last year were pretty weak just because of that as it was, I think..."

If Marcus' sudden calm surprised Oliver, what he did next was an even bigger surprise; grabbing Oliver by his shirt, Marcus pulled him close and kissed him, with plenty of tongue to spare.

Shocked out of his mind - and, he had to admit, a little excited by the sheer scandal of it all - Oliver let Marcus get away with it. When Marcus pulled away, Oliver couldn't do anything besides stare at him, waiting for him to say something, anything. Marcus, in turn, stared right back. There wasn't shock in his eyes, or even anger anymore, as if he'd been expecting Oliver to not be there when he was done. "I'm sorry about your arm."

Just like that, Flint turned, collected his wand, and dragged his trunk behind him as he walked for a carriage to the train platform.

The knock on the door couldn't have come at a more inopportune time. Oliver was nearly done packing, as much it could be called 'packing,' anyway. He was really just stuffing as much as he could into his Quidditch rucksack, the embroidered Puddlemere United logo on it once a thing he felt great pride in, and now something that fell by the wayside like so much frivolity.

It wasn't just bad timing. As soon as he heard the noise, Oliver felt his muscles tense. Had he been too slow? Was he going to be detained already? It was entirely possible. Quidditch had never been officially cancelled by the Ministry as it underwent its 'sweeping reforms,' but once it was obvious that the League wasn't going to go on for the year, Oliver knew he had to make himself scarce.

As a professional player, as someone whose name was known by people, even if he wasn't terribly famous, he was sure he wasn't very low at all on the list. Everyone loved Quidditch. Even Death Eaters loved Quidditch. Surely, Quidditch would be given just as much attention in being purged of filthy Mudbloods for the sake of the real wizards' enjoyment just like society at large.

And if protecting his parents wasn't incentive enough to get out of dodge, well...his significant other was a pureblood, and he most certainly didn't like the idea of the Death Eaters taking a hit out on him because of his associations.

Breath quickening, heart pounding, Oliver pulled his wand and inched his way over to the door. The knock came again, and, deciding it was now or never, Oliver grabbed the door handle and yanked it open before it even stopped. He already had his incantation going before he even saw anything, knowing that striking first would give him a much better chance at overpowering his attacker. "Stupefy-ohshitMarcus!"

Marcus Flint had practically dived onto the floor to get away from the stunner, but hedid succeed in evading it. The blast of red fizzled harmlessly on the wall of the hallway. Eyes wide, his hands shaking from the sudden adrenaline rush, Marcus tried to glare at Oliver but ended up looking more frightened than anything. "Oliver! Merlin's pants!"

"Marcus," Oliver squeaked. He really didn't have time to talk, and he really didn't want to see Marcus, either. It was hard. It hurt, thinking about how he had to leave Marcus because of politics and the Dark Lord and...it all really just sucked. "Marc, what are you doing here?"

"I came to getyou, what do you think I'm doing here?" Marcus' eyes glanced down the hallway both ways before he forced himself inside, shutting the door behind himself. "You've read the paper, right? Did you get my owl? We can't stay here, we gotta go."

Oliver noticed that Marcus was carrying his old Hogwarts bag, and it was stuffed to the brim. He put some thought into how Marcus said 'we can't stay,' as well, and he drew the obvious conclusion. It wasn't, at all, something he was willing to do. "Marc..."

Marcus was reaching his own conclusions while Oliver struggled to find words. Glancing at Oliver's rucksack, at the note left on the table, at the way every single light in the Muggle flat was turned off, Marcus made the obvious observation. "You...you're already leaving?"

"I," Oliver swallowed hard; he knew he was being a total arse, skipping out on Marcus without saying a word. It was just so much easier. Being busted, on the other hand, wasn't so easy at all. "I...Marc, I have to make myself scarce, they could come after my parents, they could come after you..."

"Christ, Wood," Marcus' voice sounded cold, but he couldn't muster real anger. He was too worried, and perhaps even paranoid, if the way he walked over to the window and peeked out from behind the blinds was any indication. "To hell with me, or do you expect me to hide under my bed and wonder all the time if you're okay or if you're..."

Marcus didn't finish that sentence, but the look he gave Oliver when he turned back around was enough. It moved Oliver, it really did, the idea that Marcus cared for him that much. He sometimes felt like he wasn't enough for Marcus, in no small part due to Marcus' own words on the occasion they'd started dating. Not now, though. Still, that feeling was something Oliver returned, but in Oliver's mind, letting Marcus act like his personal bodyguard was how not to show it. "You're...you're a pureblood, Marc. You can't come with me; you're safe so long as no one knows about us."

"Ollie," Marcus was practically whispering, his tone halfway between sorrow and angry. When he walked over, Oliver turned his head down, eyes fixed squarely on his hands as he wrung them out on each other; Marcus reached over and took Oliver's hands in his own. "I'mout of the closet, remember? When they're done rounding up the Muggleborns, when there aren't so many left that they can't use them as a scapegoat to 'protect' everyone from, how long do you think it's going to be before they blame other minorities for everyone's problems? How long do you think it'll be before poofs like me are blood traitors for not carrying on the family tree?"

"Shit," Oliver felt like crying. His one comforting thought thus far had been the idea that Marcus would be safe, that he didn't need to worry about him. Running away without anywhere to go was a terrifying prospect, but he accepted it as something he had to do, a fact of life. The idea that Marcus might not be immune to it all practically destroyed him. "Shit, Marcus..."

"Yeah, we're both in that pretty deep," Marcus said. "Are you ready to leave? Do you have anything else to take care of?"

"I'm packed," Oliver hefted his rucksack over his shoulder; it seemed heavier than when he packed for weekends away with Marcus. "Well, if you can call it packed, I really have no idea what I'm doing...I left a note for my parents when they get back, but I need to send a letter to them through the Muggle post, let them know what I'm doing, and all...tell them not to acknowledge I exist if anyone asks."

He said it matter-of-factly, but Marcus wasn't oblivious to how it must've made Oliver feel. Still, he didn't know what he could possibly say to make him feel better. "Alright." Glancing around his parents' flat, Oliver tried to think of anything he might be forgetting, and came up blank. "I guess this is it, then."

Once Oliver locked the door, he hid the key under the doormat. It wasn't so much that he wanted to prevent it being found as he didn't want to be carrying it if, Merlin forbid, he was killed. Better to have nothing that could be followed back to his family.

Tugging at the strap of his rucksack, Oliver looked at the door with trepidation. He almost wanted to put a locking charm on it, even knowing that his parents wouldn't ever be able to open it. "This is it...isn't it? I feel like I'm just heading out on a camping trip."

Eyes shifty, Marcus added, "You know, if we can't find somewhere to lay low for awhile, that might not be far off."

The streets of Muggle London didn't seem as foreign as they usually did. The Muggles felt their own fear; nothing so direct as the wizarding world, but they knew something was wrong. Random deaths and disappearances were increasing everyday: some who didn't know the people next door were Muggleborn wizards didn't know why their neighbors were just gone one day, and direct Muggle deaths were becoming more numerous.

It was as if everyone in Britain expected a bomb to drop any second.

Marcus picked a spot to stand outside of the post office, and told Oliver, "Go on...I'll keep a lookout."

Going inside, Oliver found himself unable to stop his hands from shaking. He muttered, "Get a hold of yourself...no one's after you yet, that's why you're leaving ahead of time..."

Oliver had received his notice to report to the Ministry for his hearing only yesterday, but he was supposed to be there at this very moment. He didn't think it was unreasonable to assume that response time would be slow, given the inquisition's recent implementation. Bureaucracy, even magical, draconian bureaucracy, always had its kinks to work out and its red tape to cut through.

After paying the postman behind the desk and seeing his letter off, Oliver turned and almost walked straight into Marcus. "Marc, Merlin's beard! I thought you were waiting outside..."

"Well, what can I say," taking another of his nervous glances around, Marcus found the time to give Oliver a little, snake-like grin. "I always second-guess myself." He took notice of Oliver's wallet as they walked out. "You've got Muggle money?"

"I had my entire savings converted yesterday," Oliver nodded. "I didn't want to keep it in Gringots, who knows what they'll do with the Muggleborn assets there once they think of it..."

"Smart," Marcus said. Coming from a pureblood family, he had no such worries. All of his savings were in a joint account with his parents, anyway. "I've got some Galleons on me, so we don't need to worry about that...I hate to sound like a mooch, Wood, but if we're going to wait for this stuff to blow over, we should probably keep to the Muggles...easier to get lost in the crowd."

Guilt hit Oliver subtly, a fist pushing his stomach in rather than punching it. They were adults, after all. Wizards, and good ones, at that; Oliver through virtue of serious studying for the N.E.W.T.s he'd earned, Marcus through virtue of practical application more than academics that didn't do much for him. Was running really the best they could manage? "We could join up with the Order of the Phoenix."

He half-expected Marcus to call him an idiot. The response was pleasantly surprising, if not reassuring. "If we could find the Order of the Phoenix...all the open resistors are on the run and who knows where...it's not like they can run a recruiting office."

"You're right," Oliver conceded. Marcus wouldn't even know the Order existed if not for Oliver, and Oliver wouldn't know if the Weasley twins hadn't told him they could use more help. Still, his disappointment was evident in his voice.

Marcus picked up on it. "He who fights and runs away, Ollie...I want to do something about it too, I really do, but we're not exactly equipped to do anything at this very moment...this is how Slytherin-Gryffindor relationships work, you know. You try to rush off and get yourself killed, I figure out how to get us killed smartly."

Glancing at Marcus as they walked, Oliver said, "You think...you really think they'll come for me?"

It was a ridiculous question; Oliver had been the one planning on leaving, after all. He regretted saying it the second the words left his mouth. Marcus didn't bring that up, though. "I'd bet on it...especially since the Order's gone to ground; they'll have more time for everyone else. My parents heard scuttlebutt that there are gangs cropping up everywhere, looking for Muggleborns on the run for rewards from the Death Eaters."

"Your parents," Oliver didn't hear anything after that. Oliver was forced to give up Quidditch and his family; Marcus had given them up by choice, forhim. "Your parents must hate me."

"My parents are too lazy for hate anymore," Marcus' voice sounded sad. His joke was a weak attempt at lightening the subject matter, and he suddenly became very interested in his own trainers rather than looking through the Muggles for anyone who might be a Death Eater. "It takes more effort to hate something than to realize the world is changing. Or was changing, at any rate. They're just like they were when I brought you home with me that first time...they whisper when they think I can't hear and then act civil for my sake."

"Honestly, Marc," Oliver couldn't help but laugh. There was some dark comedy in the way Marcus' family worked. "If all pureblood families were like that, none of this would be happening."

"Like what?" Marcus laughed too, catching it from Oliver as opposed to understanding the humor he saw. "Old fashioned wizards who are more surprised their son is seeing a Muggleborn than the fact that it's another bloke?"

"Old fashioned wizards," Oliver repeated, "Who love their son more than they hate their prejudices."

Marcus stopped in his tracks. The Muggle immediately behind him on the sidewalk ended up bumping into him, excusing himself as he walked by without a second thought. Oliver stopped three steps ahead when he noticed Marcus wasn't next to him. "Marc?"

"Ollie," Marcus swallowed, "When this is all over...introduce me to your parents."

"I," unable to look away from him, Oliver spent several seconds trying to think of any way to change the subject. Or even any way to refuse. He couldn't say 'no,' though. Not when Marcus asked for something truly important. "I...alright."

He half-expected Marcus to lecture him on how he was being stupid, how his parents would still love him if he came out, how they were decent people, certainly above the Flints in terms of humanity, and if the Flints accepted Marcus, surely, Oliver's parents wouldn't even blink. It was something Marcus had tried to convince him of on several occasions.

Marcus almost never looked genuinely happy. The man wore the face of a true Slytherin day-in and day-out, though Oliver had learned to see through it. Right now, though Marcus' face barely changed, Oliver could see a difference. The slight way his eyes widened, the way his lips curled into the faintest of grins said it all.

Eventually, Marcus started walking again, and he said, "So...do you have a plan?"

"Are you kidding?" Oliver almost laughed. His voice strained, he added, "My big plan was to take the tube as far out as I could, walk until I'm out of the city, and then...I don't know..."

"We could go abroad." Marcus made this suggestion with the same trepidation as Oliver has mentioned the Order with. In this case, Marcus knew that going abroad was flat-out abandoning the fight; he felt shame in thinking it, but the idea of real safety was too good to completely ignore.

"Sure," Oliver chuckled. "So instead of figuring out what we do here, we have to figure out what we do in another country...after we figure out how to get there."

Growling under his breath, Marcus added, "I was hoping you'd have relatives in America, or something..."

Sighing, Oliver answered, "All my relatives are Muggles back in Scotland, and only my uncle knows I'm a wizard. Doesn't matter, it's not far away enough. You-know-who's got that covered."

"You're right," Marcus said. "Can't blame me for hoping, right? Besides, if I were Voldemort, I'd already be planning on expanding over the oceans once everything here is taken care of..."

It was a scary thought; the Dark Lord with dominion over the world. Could it really be done, Oliver wondered? Could one man take that much? Maybe not, but Oliver was inclined to believe that if anyone could do it, it would be him.

Lost in his thoughts, Oliver was surprised when Marcus nudged him in the side. "Don't look back, but I think we're being followed."

"Already," Oliver almost lost his gait, his voice coming out faintly. Apparently, the Ministry was more efficient than he'd given it credit for.

His voice urgent, Marcus turned his head left and right, looking for some avenue of escape. "We need to lose ourselves."

Thinking back to his original half-baked idea, Oliver saw their escape as they almost walked right by it. Throwing discreetness to the wind, he grabbed Marcus by the arm and dragged him down the stairs of the Underground station. "C'mon."

Oliver had his wallet out long before he reached the Multifare machine. Marcus was incredulous that they had to stop, as if the Muggle transit system should've expected them to be in a life-or-death rush. He was forced to stand and anxiously eye the stairs as Oliver paid for their tickets.

When the men Marcus had thought were following them showed themselves, all doubt vanished from Oliver's mind. They were pushing through people, and of the three, one of them was clearly wearing the robes of a Death Eater. He'd forgone the hood and mask, but it was more than enough.

Oliver and Marcus were moving again before they were spotted, and they were through the faregate when the Death Eater and his friends gave a more active chase.

Finally chancing a glance behind, Oliver took one look at their pursuer's increased gait and started to walk faster, his arm instinctively going over Marcus' back to pull him along.

Marcus was the one to start them running, though. It became a race not to see who could reach the train, but over who could shove Muggles out of the way faster. When the man in Death Eater robes yelled out "Hey," Oliver lost his concern over being rude.

Luck had been on their side; not only had the ticket machine been free of a line, not only was the train here and bound to leave very shortly, but a ticket inspector had seen the Death Eater jump the turnstile.

The time it took for the men to decide the Muggle authority had no authority over them and shove him aside like everyone else made all the difference. By the time they were running for the train, Oliver and Marcus were inside and the doors had closed, leaving them to stare out through the window at their pursuers.

It didn't seem like Voldemort's lackeys were willing to cause too much of a scene in front of such a large crowd, because the train pulled away with no fuss.

Resting his hand gently on Marcus' back, Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, at least one good thing came out of that..."

Staring at him, Marcus said, "And what's that?"

"Now I know it was smart to leave..."

"Yeah," Marcus nodded, glancing about at the Muggles on the train, his own paranoia causing him to wonder if the ones with their faces hidden by newspapers might be undercover Death Eaters. The floor seemed to shift under his feet, and he quickly, if awkwardly, followed Oliver's example of hanging on to a rail. "Anyone ever calls you a Mudblood, Wood, I'll kill 'em. Damned if I would've thought of this."

His eyes following Oliver's, Marcus tried to make sense of the route map hanging above the window. Even if he understood it, though, he knew that the map wouldn't provide what they needed; a place to go.