The world is spinning. Oliver feels nauseous. Surely this is a dream - but he knows it's not. All he wants to do is collapse on the ground at Marcus' feet and sob. But he doesn't. He holds it in. Barely.
Marcus looks at him levelly.
"Get out." Who knew two simple words could hurt so much? Marcus' present slips past Oliver's fingers and thuds to the ground. This wasn't supposed to happen. After everything that they've been through, it ends like this? He feels sick as he realizes that all the little things Marcus did weren't because he loved him. Oliver was just desperate, clutching at any little thing. Anything to justify what he felt.
Surely this can't be happening.
"Marcus - "
"Go away," His voice is level, his eyes emotionless. It's always like this - Oliver can't hide his emotions, an art that Marcus has all but mastered. How can he be so damn calm when Oliver is shattering into a thousand pieces? In the end Marcus has to get up, has to push Oliver out of his dorm and shut the door in his face. Like a broken record, Oliver's mind repeats again and again: Never want to see you again. Never want to see you again. His head hurts. He stares at Marcus' door. He thinks that if he stands there long enough, time will go backwards, and things will be better.
He's wrong.
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Oliver is on his back, floating on the surface of the water. He's in the prefect's bathroom. He isn't a prefect. He doesn't care.
Slowly, he exhales, the air that had been holding him up being pressed out of his lungs. He sinks beneath the surface, his back sluggishly hitting the cool tile bottom. The water is clear; he can see the wavering lights through its surface. It's oddly comforting: the press of water all around his body, the muted sound of blood rushing in his ears.
He tries to convince himself that he'll get over it. He tries to tell himself that the world is not ending, that this too will pass. It doesn't work. It would be so easy to open his mouth, let the water flood in, taking him away from all this. So. Very. Easy.
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It doesn't really hit him until one afternoon, after Quidditch practice. His skin is cold. His robes cling to his body. He's muddy.
But none of that matters. Because the most important thing, the only thing that matters, is Marcus. And Marcus is gone.
Knees hit the floor, hand fly to his head, and he's screaming. Not a proper scream, even. His teeth are clenched, and the sound is strangled and hoarse. He should be waking up any second now... But he doesn't. The supressed screams die quickly down into pathetic, helpless whimpers.
Flint warned him. He didn't listen. And now he's paying.
Love is a game you can't win. If you fall in love... you lose.
Oliver has most certainly lost.
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Marcus can see his future, laid out like the squares on a boardgame. There aren't many squares - Marcus isn't going to have a very interesting life. An arranged marriage to a suitable pureblood witch. Several kids to ignore. On the surface, it's enough. But, somehow, life doesn't seem to mean much without Oliver in it.
You could change your future, the voice suggests. Nothing's set in stone yet.
He could change it. He could get Oliver back. He would be happy. Oliver would be happy. They would be happy. He could let himself do it.
But he can't bring himself to. Because Marcus is Marcus. Marcus is a Slytherin. And Marcus knows how wrong it all is.
So even though he knows what he could do, what the right thing is to do, he doesn't.
Because it isn't supposed to happen.
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Oliver's grip is unusually weak as he shakes Marcus' hand before the match. He's trying to forget all the wonderful things that these wide, calloused hands have done to him. Things that they'll never to do him again. He drops the Slytherin's hand early, doesn't meet his eyes. Oliver's teammates mutter to each other behind him, worried looks on their faces. Where is their fiery Quidditch Captain now?
They kick off from the ground, Oliver takes his place before the goal posts, sitting limply on his broom. He listlessly watches as Slytherin scores twenty points, making no move to stop the Quaffle. His mind feels fuzzy, disconnected. He stares at the ground far below him, the stands, stares at anything other than Marcus.
Then Marcus is there, in front of him, red ball under his arm. So close. His eyes meet with the Slytherin's for only a moment, but it's enough. Enough for Marcus to see a flash of anguish. The Chaser is momentarily stunned, and has just enough time before he throws the ball through one of the goal hoops to think: Oh, God, what have I done?
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It's after the game. The sun is sinking below the horizon, spilling bloody light over the grounds. Marcus Flint is sitting in the stands, his broom leaning next to him, his face in his hands. Everything he's ever known is being challenged by that glimpse of Oliver's eyes. That look that always makes him want to hold the Gryffindor in his arms, stroke his hair and tell him everything's going to be okay.
Someone's sitting next to him, robes rustling. He lifts his head slightly, to see Albus Dumbledore, staring at him with bright, periwinkle eyes. His eyes widen, startled to see the bearded wizard.
"What you did - it's hurting both of you, you know," he says in that calm, quiet way of his. Marcus blinks at him.
"How do you know - ?" He smiles vaguely, and his message is clear: Does it really matter? Dumbledore seems to know everything, anyway. Marcus lets him continue.
"Mr. Flint, there's something I think you should know about Mr. Wood," he pauses. For once, Marcus listens to the thing he least wants to hear. "He's obsessed with winning. It used to be the most important thing in his life. But for you, Flint, he puts everything on hold. For you, he'll lose. No matter what the... personal cost." Dumbledore sits silently for a few moments, looking thoughtful,then stands just as abruptly as he sat. "I think you know what you should do." There's something akin to pity in his eyes. Meddlesome old fool. The Slytherin stares out across the pitch, listening to the headmaster's receding footsteps. A cold wind whips at his robes. Yes, he knows what he should do. The question is, can he do it?
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Oliver Wood doesn't know why it happened. Why did he fall in love with someone who had been - and should still be - his enemy? A Slytherin troll? He doesn't know why. He still doesn't care. He loves Marcus, simple as that.
But Marcus is different from him. He doesn't just accept his feelings, he locks them away, like a true Slytherin. That's part of why Oliver loves him so much. And even though it kills him to be without Marcus, he'll wait. Even if it takes Marcus an eternity, he'll wait for him to come around.
Simple as that.
A/N: Yeah, all angsty and dramatic and slowish, I know. Plus Dumbledore was really random (Please tell me if he was IC enough - because I don't think he was...). But here it is. Next chapter will be more interesting, I hope. Thank you so much to treana, who was my beta. Oh, and if I get some nice, well-thought-out reviews, I'll put some lovely, slashy fluff in the next chapter.