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The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess β¦ (2006)
Dear Oliver
pairing: Oliver Wood & reader
summary: after your article on the last Puddlemere game, their rookie catcher sends you a more than displeased letter. what starts as heated banter devolves into an unexpected friendship, one that you know your secret will never let flourish, much less turn into something else.
content: fluff, lots of lies and pretentious writting, reader has a nosy brother in this
wc: 15k
βDear Mr. Whittaker at Bloody Bludgers,
I write to you to discuss the matter of the snippet you wrote about me on Bloody Bludgers a few days ago. While I can agree my playing wasnβt the best, I find the language you used to describe it harsh and ill-intentioned. Maybe the weight of it being my first official game made my flying not as perfect as it usually is, but referring to it as βreminiscent of a nervous student on their first flying lessonβ felt mocking and childish. No other writer on the sports sections of any other newspaper or magazine that covered the game had anything to say about me or my playing, not even The Prophet, and they wouldnβt be so harsh anyway because they are professional. I hope my letter makes you reflect on the crude words you wrote about a rookie with a Hogwarts Quidditch Cup that was trying to make a great first impression on his first step as a professional.
Best regards,
Oliver Woodβ
You stared at the parchment in your hand. The big, round writing displayed across its surface giving a chaotic look that contrasted with the polite tone of its content, obviously forced. You read it two, maybe three times more as an incredulous smile spread across your face.
βOh, pleaseβ you groaned out loud. βLearn to take some criticismβ
βThat the letter that arrived for you?β you heard your brother yell across the store as he guided some new bats onto the shelves with a twirl of his wand.
The magazine you wrote for was really small, simply an accessory to your familyβs store that you had been writting casually for a few years. It wasnβt popular, hell, it was barely a magazine despite the effort that youβd put into it looking presentable. Having someone read it, let along feel strongly enough about it to write back to you wasnβt a possibility you had ever taken into consideration. And yet, here you were.
βWhere is Claws?β you asked down the hallway of Quidditch equipment.
Β ---------------
βDear Mr. Wood,
Thank you so much for reaching out to me with your honest thoughts about my piece. Iβm sorry if my criticism came across as mocking. I was attempting to paint a charming and endearing picture from your wobbly flying. Iβm sure our readers were able to interpret it that way, and to be fair you might be taking your playing more seriously than anyone did. I assume you went through every writting about the game looking for someone that had something to say about you and when you finally found mine it wasnβt to your liking. Iβll go further and say that the only reason why no one else wrote about your scarce five minutes on the pit is because no one bothered to pay any mind to an unknown rookie sent to help in a pinch, so in that way: you are welcome.
Best regards,
Ms. Whittakerβ
That seemed good enough for you at the time, aware enough that your behavior wasnβt much more mature than his had been. You put the letter in an envelope with the address Oliver had scribbled on the outside of his own. Claws had eagerly picked it up with a pleased screech and leapt from the concrete windowsill of the store soon disappearing behind grey clouds. A few days later another letter with his name on it had been dropped by Claws on your bed. It left your room with a protest so loud you were sure your landlord would come complain to you again. You hadnβt been sure if he would answer, but given how temperamental his letter had sounded last time, you couldnβt say you were surprised. You were excited though, the situation as amusing as it was petty. The handwriting was not as rushed this time, making the lines thinner and letters smaller. You couldnβt tell if it was politeness or measured annoyance what you would discover, but nothing could have prepared you for what you would read next.
βDear Ms. Whittaker,
First of all, Iβd like to apologize for confusing you for a man; my cousin has the same name, and heβs a boy.β
You brought a hand to your mouth to suppress a laugh. The tone shift had almost made your animosity towards him disappear.
βHowever, I still think that your writing was childish and unprofessional. I agree I did not put on a good performance. Iβm sure you remember your first game and can understand what pressure can do to even the most talented players. I hope next time I play I can change your mind, and that you can look at me with kinder eyes. I know you are a professional, so I know one day Iβll make it into your great writing.
Kind regards,
Oliver Woodβ
You read the letter over and over, but not for the same reason you had done with the first one. You cocked your head to the side, confused and intrigued by some of the things written on it. Ever since you had sent your own letter, you had reflected back on what you had written about him and read it yourself, and you had to agree maybe you had been a bit harsh on him. You were confused as to why he had mentioned your first game, which you had never played. You read the word βprofessionalβ over and over again, flattered and feeling your chest swell with pride. Then the guilt seeped in.
βDear Mr. Wood,
I want to open this letter with the admission that my words about you were in fact unnecessarily harsh. While the criticism I wrote about you was valid, the way I placed my words was not, and Iβd like to formally apologise for that.β ... β I have to admit Iβd like to be able to relate to the stomach-turning feeling of stepping on the Quidditch Pitch for the first time, but I have never played myself. Maybe I was jealous that someone my age was already at such stage on his life and the bitterness got the best of me. My enjoyment of the sport is limited to the bleachers, the higher the better, which some people might say deprives my reporting of actual insight. I guess it's not that noticeable since you thought otherwise, which I will admit made me very happy. Thank you for the kind words about my writing and I hope that we can see each other as colleagues on opposite sides of the field from now on. I will be looking forward to seeing you at the next game.
Β Kind regards"
βDear Ms Whittaker,
Are we really the same age? I had assumed you were wayΒ older because I have been reading Bloody Bludgers for years and I remember reading your articles back in school. How old were you when you wrote these? I thought I might have gotten it wrong but I looked for my old volumes and your name is written in them. Were you writing in school? I also had assumed you had played before because of the detail and insight you seem to have when it comes to your writings. Your dissection of equipment is one of my favourite corners of the magazine, and I learnt a lot from it (and I already knew a lot) Will you be at the next Puddlemere game? I doubt Iβll play, but I look forward to reading your take on it.
Best regards,
Oliver Woodβ
That letter had found you on a downcast November morning. Oliverβs owl, which you had met for the first time, sat for a long time on the back of your chair as if waiting. You lay on the bed, feet fidgeting as you read the words over and over again. The overly polite tone had been dropped completely, and so had the animosity. You had in fact gone to watch the game, and as he had said he hadnβt played in it, which you refused to admit had soured your mood.
βDear Oliver,
I did in fact write during my time in school. You probably know this, but our magazine is actually part of our family business, a Quidditch equipment store. It has belonged to my family for three generations, so of course even if I have never played, Iβm well versed in all aspects of the sport. If Iβm being honest Iβm always surprised when someone not local reads our magazine since I started it as a hobby. I guess you must read a lot. I hope I get to see you play soon. I also hope youβll read my article on the upcoming Warwick game and give me your opinion of itβ
He didnβt reply to that one for the next few days. It started worrying you that you might have overstepped by calling him by his first name. Maybe that had been too much too soon. It was the first time in years that you had interacted with someone with the same enthusiasm for Quidditch that you had. Not even your brother matched your intensity, acting more as a resigned heir to the business than anything else. He was also your best friend, which wasnβt saying much, but given the circumstances was understandable. With your friends there was always a detachment, especially the ones youβd known since school. Maybe this was for the best, you thought; becoming friends with someone like Oliver would just start a ticking bomb. So you tried to not feel hurt when another day passed by with no news of him and pretended you couldnβt feel the hope sink down all the way down to the pit of your stomach.
That was, until the Warwick game.
You hadnβt even noticed him even after he had sat down next to you. You hadnβt bothered to turn around when you felt someone sit down, only readjusting yourself when you felt their knee bump against yours. Whoever it was, they were accompanied by the faint scent of leather and an unfortunate choice of cologne. As you finally turned to fetch your writing materials out of your bag, you saw him looking around with a pair of binoculars. However, he wasnβt looking at the pit; he was looking around the bleachers. Your face had already turned into one of mild discomfort when he had turned to you and jumped on his seat when the binoculars fixed on you. As he put them down and stared at you with big brown eyes blown in embarrassment, you felt the air around you still and the noise of the crowd fade away.
βIβm looking for a friendβ he blurted out nervously, each word tripping over the next as the redness spread across his cheeks. You were too shocked to register whatever he was saying, though. There, sitting so close to you his cologne would linger on your scraf for hours after was Oliver Wood. You could recognize him from that Puddlemere game, even if the feeling he gave was completely different. His headset had been hiding his longish chestnut hair, and the clumsiness he exhuded back then was nowhere to be found as he sat with perfect, imposing posture next to you. His eyes were bigger than you would have imagined, long lashes softening the natural harshness of his stare. They shook a bit, alternating between the pit and you. You realized then that your silence and unbreakable eye contact were making him shift on his seat. βWell, someone that I know. Well, sort ofβ
βOhβ you said out loud.
You.
He was talking about you.
It seemed like getting a word out of you actually made him more nervous than your prolongued silence had.
βIβm not doing anything weird, I swear!β he explained, a few spectators turning their heads with interest at his choice of words. His shoulders slumped slightly, as if he was trying to hide himself from them.
He put the binoculars down on his lap and stared down at the game, and so did you. How much time did you have by then? How long until it was impossible for you to reveal yourself? You had the power to make it end right at that instant with nothing more than your silence. Thatβd make things easier for sure. There was no need to complicate everything and hurt yourself--
βWhoβs your friend?β
The question caught him by surprise, but not as much as it did you. His body, while still stiff, relaxed at the friendliness of the question.
βUmh, someone Iβve been talking to. Calling her a colleague would be more appropriate. Weβve been exchanging thoughts about Quidditch, and I thought we could discuss the gameβ
βA colleagueβ you mumbled to yourself.
βYeah, well, we are in the same field. Iβm a Quidditch playerβ he looked around, looking conflicted about whether or not he wanted people to hear him or not βI, uhm, I playβ
βOh, thatβs awesomeβ you bit your tongue βAnd your friend?β
βColleagueβ he corrected βSheβs a journalist. She writes for a magazineβ
Β Now your toes were truly tiptoeing at the verge of the cliff. If you stayed quiet now, there was no going back. A small quiet lie to stop many other ones that would come.
βAnd you?β He asked suddenly βIβm sorry I didnβt... I didnβt ask you anything. Are you a Warwick fan?β
You felt a painful feeling of relief when the universe seemed to have chosen for you what you knew was the right thing to do. You swallowed the bitterness and gave him a smile.
βNo, not really. I find them messyβ
βHow so?β
βI mean, theyβve got really good players, but they donβt blend well together. I honestly donβt think they get along at allβ
βI know, right?β Oliverβs voice rose as he turned to you on his seat with a small hop. His eyes seemed to shine impossibly bright under the grey sky βWhen they signed Forbes I thought theyβd finally get a hold of themselves, but here they areβ he pointed at the losing sign.
βPeople keep saying they need a new coach, but Sheersmith is fine really. What they actually need is a good--β
βCaptainβ he finished for you.
You both exhanged a smile βYeahβ
βYou know, when I was captain I prioritised chemistry over skills. You can always polish someoneβs skills, but you canβt force good rapportβ
βYou were captain?β you feigned ignorance, having already heard about him by the second letter.
βYes, since my fourth yearβ his puffed his chest with pride βTo be honest I hated it at times. Iβm not good with peopleβ he seemed to think about that before adding βIβm not bad at it either, thoughβ
βSo why did they make you captain, then?β
βBecause I deserved itβ he said matter-of-factly, not a sign of embarrassment on his face even when you stared at him wide-eyed βI knew what I wantedβ
βTo win?βΒ
He frowned, apparently deep in thought. His lips pressed into a pout.
βTo play as long as I couldβ he finally said, then chuckled and looked away βThat sounds sillyβ
βNo. I mean, maybe. But I know exactly how that feels.β
His face lit up with interest.
βSo you playedβ
βYesβ you bit your tongue, hard βSeekerβ
He gave you once-over.
βExcuse my straightforwardness, but how old are you?β damn it, maybe he was sharper than you had been told, but that was on you for being a pathetic liar βI mean, I donβt think I remember seeing you at any games at Hogwarts, but you canβt be much older than meβ
βI am notβ you laughed, and you hoped he couldnβt tell it was due to nervousness βI umh, got hurt during a game so had to stop. Thatβs why I said I understood what you meantβ
βOh, Iβm sorry to hear that. Not recognising you from school makes more sense now. To be honest I didnβt pay much attentionβ He was still staring at you like he was trying to figure you out, and you were terrified he might βWhat house were you in?β
βHufflepuffβ you replied without missing a beat, then held your breath in silent prayer until he said:
βGryffindor. You donβt... remember me?β
He sounded almost offended and you had to stiffle a laugh.
βVaguelyβ
Oliver nodded, the statement obviously hurting his ego a bit.
βI was a catcher. I amβ he corrected βPuddlemere. Or I will be when I get to playβ
βYou are a professional, thoughβ
βIβm very green. I messed up my first tryβ βItβs funny, someone commented on how disappointing my playing was, and I got so upset when I read it, but... I think I was more upset about the fact that it was trueβ
You laughed to yourself.
βYou let them have it?β
βEmbarrassingly, yes. I mean, I had my reasons! It was a very nasty article, but it was trueβ When he felt your eyes on him he straightened up and cleared his throat βItβs alright though. We worked it out. Thatβs why I was expecting to find her hereβ
βTo let her have it?β you joked.
βNo! Merlin, no. Well, I might have back then, but judging by her letters I assume sheβd beat my assβ
That got a genuine laugh out of you, the first honest thing Oliver had heard from you since he had sat by your side. He reciprocated with a smile of his own. Then it dawned on you that his plan didnβt make much sense.
βDid you plan to meet here?β
Oliver scratched the back of his neck, looking away with a frown.
βNo, uhm, I know itβs stupid but I just thought I could bump into herβ
βDo you know what she looks like?β
Oliver made a face and looked at you out of the corner of his eye.Β
βNot reallyβ
βYou didnβt think that one too well, did you?β
He chuckled, the way his lips stretched into a smile making your eyes unconsciously fixate on them βYeah, I donβt know. I just... felt embarrassed to ask if she wanted to watch the game. I mean, sheβs working, you knowβ
His voice lowered a bit, making it almost hard to hear beneath the roaring crowd. A subtle tint of pink spread across his cheeks, and you wondered it maybe he felt really cold. Whatever it was it made your heart skip a beat.
βIβm sure sheβd be happy to bump into youβ It felt awful to say, given the fact you were already lying to him. Still, in a twisted way, you were at least telling the truth.
βYeah, well. Now that I have come to my senses, it might be a bit weirdβ
You nodded, amused yet flattered βJust a bitβ
βIβm not making a good first impression, am I?β He extended his hand to you with an awkward smile. βOliver Wood, by the wayβ
You grabbed his hand before you could even think of what false name you were about to give him. There was no way you could say the real one now. A small droplet fell onto your linked hands, and you thanked Merlin for his compassion.
βItβs starting to rain, I should goβ
You stood up, way too excited to leave.
Β βWait, why?β asked Oliver, whose hand was still hanging in the air after you had let go.
βThe gameβs boring anywayβ
βItβs okay, we can just...β
Oliver pulled out his wand and, as everyone else had done in the stadium, casted a protection charm around him to keep the rain away.Β
βRightβ you said, sitting down again next to him under the invisible curtain keeping you safe from the rain that was violently falling down upon the field now.
You felt his body stiffen when you sat down again, your body pressed against him so you could fit underneath his charm. You werenβt sure at the time if the sudden warmth you felt came from the ehat his body seemed to exhude, or from how the proximity made you feel. Suffice to say, you didnβt pay much attention to the rest of the game. Neither of you did.
βThat was underwhelming,β was Oliverβs consensus of the game. βHenderik needs to give up the sponsorships and actually get a broom that works for him. You would think someone has hexed him!β
You felt the unpleasant feeling of feet sinking onto the mud on your way out of the stadium. Despite the rain having ceased a while ago, the wind was unforgivingly cold, contrasting heavily to how you felt inside. Oliver walked next to you, bumping into you from time to time and hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. You wondered if his hands were as cold as yours, and how would it feel to hold them. Theyβd probably feel rough after the hours of practice, maybe even weasty. But youβd never find out. Maybe in another lifetime, you thought. When you looked up at him after his brief yet unusual silence, you caught him looking over his shoulder.
βWhat is it?β
Β He snapped back, looking embarrassed.
βNothingβ
You bit your lip, pondering.
Β βStill looking for that colleague whose face you donβt know?β
βI know, I knowβ he protested with a sigh βI think you two would have gotten along, by the wayβ
You desperately needed to change the course of the conversation.
βDid you come by Portkey?β
βFloo Network down at The Red Hog. You?β
βPortkeyβ
βI usually prefer portkeys, but Iβm worried about landing wrong and hurting myself. I need to be careful now that Iβm playing professionallyβ he said proudly and you bit back a smile.
The short distance to the entrance of The Red Hog was spent in an awkward silence that could be excused by the fact that you both were freezing, every muscle on your body feeling tight by the time you reached the door. It was a small pub with nice food and usually a great and cheerful atmosphere. An ideal place for witches and wizards to chat about the games before going down the stairs and using one of the many chimneys in their impossibly wide basement to get back home. Not your favourite way of transportation, to say the least.
βThis is itβ Oliver said as he stood by the door, letting people pass him by on their way inside.
βYeahβ
The awkwardness was palpable. He fidgeted with his hands inside his pockets, shoulders almost raising to his ears. You assumed he was really cold.
βIt was funβ He finally said βWatching the game with youβ
You gave him a smile, making sure it wasnβt as big as you knew it could be.
βI had fun tooβ
βActually I should walk you to your portkey, it is getting kind of lateβ he offered.
βOh, itβs okay! Iβm waiting for my brotherβ for once that wasnβt a lie βWe promised to meet here after the gameβ
Β Oliver couldnβt come up with anything else to say, so with a thin smile and a shrug he just said:
βVery wellβ
Oliver walked backwards towards the door, neither of you knowing how to properly say goodbye.
βIβll be cheering for youβ you blurted out, your face bright red.
You would have felt mortified if you hadnβt seen how Oliverβs forced thin smile softened into a surprised, genuine one.
βI wonβt disappointβ
You let out a loud, deep sigh of relief once he was gone. Adrenaline was rushing through your system, and your heart was beating at an alarming pace. Suddenly someone grabbed the back of your sweater and turned you around with so much force that you knew right away who it was. Pushing the hair away from your face in annoyance, you were met with your brotherβs shocked face, hands grabbing at your shoulders.
βWhy on earth were you hanging out with Oliver Wood?β
βSo you lied to him?β your brother asked.
βYeah...β
βAnd then in the middle of that lie... you lied again?β
β...yeahβ
You were both trying to walk through the narrow dirt path into the woods, making sure to not slip or step on deep puddles. A few wizards near you had already fallen, and while you two had been quick to stifle your laughs, you didnβt want to suffer the same fate. You were walking a few feet ahead of him, as if that would make the embarrassment more bearable.
βAnd whatβs the end goal here, exactly?β he asked, his genuine confusion mixed with a hint of mockery.
βThere is no end goal. I couldnβt even write anything for the articleβ you groaned.
βAt all?β
βWhat was I supposed to do? I couldnβt just start writing notes. He would have put two and two togetherβ
βI donβt know about that. He was never the most intellectually giftedβ He stayed quiet for a few seconds before he asked βWhy did you give him my story, though?β
βI donβt know! I was panicking and didnβt have the time to come up with anything, so...β You threw your arms in the air and finally, turning to him, said βWe are twins anyway, so in some way itβs a shared experienceβ
βYeah? You played seeker for Hufflepuff?β he mocked βYou got named prefect?β
Β Your hands balled into fists out of embarrassment.
βYeah, I also got dumped by Genevive Hoggings in the middle of Hogsmeade and had to hide in Madame Puddifootβs bathroom so no one would see me cry!β
βYou--!β
He took a big step towards you, and his shoe slipped on the ground. Before he could hit the ground, you held onto his arm and attempted to stop the fall, only to pathetically fall alongside him. Your butt hit the soft, damp ground, the feeling so unpleasant you couldnβt even bring yourself to protest.
βVery niceβ he said, shaking his hands now covered in mud.
βDonβt say it like it was my faultβ
βWe are twins, so technically itβs a shared faultβ
βThat makes no senseβ you both helped each other up, ignoring people's muffled laughter before continuing your trip βI donβt know, I just...β You sighed deeply, struggling to find an explanation that made sense.
βItβs alright.β His tone was lower, comforting. He put a hand on your shoulder. You didnβt even care that the mud it was covered in was staining your coat βI understandβ
Your smile was very small but genuine. It was moments like this that made you feel like he was older. In a way he always had to be. He looked like it too, and it made you feel guilty, like it was somewhat your fault.
βThanks for coming to get meβ
βThatβs what Iβm here forβ Your smile fell a little, and he knowingly raised his hand in protest without even having to look at you βNo, I donβt want to see that lookβ
βHello,
I went to the Warwick game today. I was thinking I might run into you since you said youβd attend. We didnβt run into each other, but Iβll be looking forward to your article. Iβve been thinking about the Puddlemere one you wrote, and I wanted to say thank you for at least having an eye on me. I think that in the future I will appreciate it moreβ
βIt seems like you guys get along,β your brother said over your shoulder once he had finished reading the letter in your hands βBoth versions of youβ
You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply as you folded the letter back in half.
βSo it seemsβ
You rested your back against one of the old mahogany counters. The store was surprisingly quiet despite the nice weather. Warm sunlight bathed the place in a subtle bath of gold, making the many particles of dust dancing in the air visible. There were a few kids eyeing Quidditch appliances, an early sign that August was coming to an end.
βAre you going to reply to him?β
You wanted to, that was for sure. Whether you should or not was a different story. Still, it would be odd to stop replying. Your shoulders rose with a shrug, and you could feel Patrickβs disapproving glare on you.
βWhat even is your plan?β
βI donβt know! We are just talking about Quidditch anyway...β
βHe was looking for youβ he said drily βAt a gameβ
βMaybe he also wants to make friends who are Quidditch obsessedβ
βSo you are just going to exchange letters forever and pretend to be someone else when he shows up looking for you?β
βYeah, well, what was I supposed to do!β You turned to him, and the increase of your volume made the kids turn to you βI wasnβt ready to have to go through all that out of nowhereβ
βI mean, yea, not thereβ
βBut it would come anyway at some pointβ
βWrong, it will come eventually at some pointβ
βAnd you think I donβt know that?β Patrick closed his mouth, shoulders slumping a bit. You knew he meant well, he really did βWe both know lying doesnβt suck as much as the other option. Canβt I enjoy this for a bit?β
βListen, I have nothing against lying and plotting! I just sold an old man polishing cream for twelve gallons when it only costs eight! Iβm just worried about whatβll happen when you canβt stretch this any longerβ
βYou scammed an old man?β
βItβs okay, he wasnβt that old. How are you going to write the Warwick article, by the way? You donβt even know what happenedβ
Β You groaned onto your hands.
βDadβs going to askβ
βWeβll say it was raining and you had to leaveβ
Your head perked up.
βThatβs true! Iβll just write something else. The new Comet design just got released, so Iβll write on thatβ
βGood evening,
Iβm sorry if this letter is excessive, but I think your reply might have gotten lost. Your owl did seem agitated last time it delivered your letter to me, so I wanted to make sure sheβs okay. Anyway...β
The way the handwriting seemed to change at the end of the sentence caught your attention. The words that had been slightly tilted seemed to straighten up as if he had taken such a long pause after the full stop that his flow had been interrupted.
βI attended the Warwick game today. I wasnβt expecting to bump into you there, obviously, but I thought itβd be funny if we had. I was shocked that they put Diggings on the pitch when he has had a ratio of twelve out of fifty this season. I wasnβt surprised at the score at all, I could see it from a mile away. Where were you? Iβm very interested to know your analysis of the game. Iβm looking forward to it.
Oliverβ
But he already knew what your opinion had been. You had told him at the time, sitting on the bleachers with your knees gently bumping against each other once and again. You could remember every word he had said and how he had said them, how his eyes would drift from one player to the other while animatedly giving you his very opinionated take on each play. Not like you were any better. The plan had been to not write to him anymore. Patrick was right, just how long did you think you could stretch this? You had already lied to his face, there was no way to ever come back from that. So why you picked up a new piece of parchment you were not entirely sure.
βDear Oliver,
I havenβt been able to continue our correspondence as I have fallen ill these last couple of days. Due to this, I was unable to attend the game and also to answer your last letter. Thank you for your concern about Claws, but she is completely fine, she actually seems uneasy that she hasnβt had much correspondence to deliver lately, so sheβll be happy about this letter. I think she has gotten used to you. I will be writing a short article on the new Comet model, though. Iβll give you a small exclusive as an apology for not replying sooner: donβt buy itβ
That would be it, the last time youβd write to him. You wouldnβt really have much time to go to your parentsβ store for the next couple of days anyway as Patrick would be busy, so you were hoping thatβd make things easier for you. That was until he had shown up at your door barely two days later. You had actually been scared to open the door, as he had rung the bell multiple times in a frantic manner. When you had peeped through the hole he had said.
βStop looking at me and open the door!β
The safe that always got a bit jammed let go with a bit of resistance. When you opened the door, Patrick stood there, looking a bit annoyed and holding a small basket in one hand and a wrinkled envelope in the other.
βHome deliveryβ he announced, almost mockingly.
βWhatβs that?β you asked, but he didnβt reply as he walked past you into your flat. Instead, he had just handed you the letter and let himself plop down on the couch βYou left the store unattended?β
βSue meβ
βDad mightβ
Deep down you knew this was probably your fault , and when you opened the letter and read its contents you got confirmation of it.
βHello,
How severe is the illness? Are you sure you should be forcing yourself to write while sick? I wasnβt sure about what was wrong with youΒ making you sick, so I bought a few basic healing potions for malaise that the old lady at the store recommended for me. I hope this gets to you before it gets worse, and if you are feeling better, feel free to keep it all for when you get sick again. Of course Iβd prefer if you never got sick again, obviously. Get better soon. Let me know when you do.
Oliverβ
You folded the letter when you felt Patrick reading it over your shoulder again.
βDo you mind?β
βI do, actually! He sends them to the store, so technically I have a right to know!β
βYeah, well. Canβt have an owl coming in and out of my flat, donβt you think?β
βEspecially when the owl is mineβ You had nothing to say to that βWhat even is this?β
βI told him I was sick, so he sent all thisβ
βIβm sorry. Are you dating this guy?β
The letter crumpled in your hand. You turned to Patrick, face red and eyes wide.
βOf course not!β you said, louder than necessary.
Patricβs eyed the letter in your hands, then the basket βAnd is he aware of that?β
βHeβs just being nice! Itβs called having friendsβ
βOh, so you are friendsβ
Β βYeahβ
βThe two versions of you?β
You closed your mouth, brows coming a bit together as your gaze fell to the floor. Your shoulders slumped, and you felt the texture of the parchment on your hands.
βIβm not writing to him anymoreβ you announced, tone somber βIβll thank him for the medicine, tell him Iβm alright, and never write to him againβ
βThereβs no need for that but...β Patrick stared at you in silence for a short moment. There were many things he wanted to say, but they all had been said before, and he knew it wouldnβt help. He simply sighed βOkayβ
βYou should go back to the storeβ you took the small basket and handed it to him βTake this too, it is not like I can use anyβ
βI mean... you couldβ
βWhat if I explode?β
βThatβd be funβ
βWait, before you go!β you exclaimed as he was about to leave through the door. You disappeared down the short hallway and came back with a piece of paper in your hand βThe new Comet model reviewβ
Patrick eyed it for a brief moment.
βThey are going to sue us for thisβ
βDear Oliver,
Thank you kindly for everything you sent my way, it was very thoughtful. Iβm currently feeling better, so you have nothing to worry about. Hope you are doing well too, as the Quidditch season is reaching the quarter finals.
Good luckβ
βHello,
I am really happy to hear you are all better now, especially as I have heard from the coach that I will be playing in the next Puddlemere game, December 12. I was hoping you could come watch it. Strangely besides my coachβs I think your opinion is the one I care about the most. Let me make up for my disastrous first game? I promise Iβll give you enough material for an awesome article we can both be proud of this time. I sent two tickets in case you wanted to bring someone. We can catch up after the game at The Meeting Point if you want. Hope to see you thereβ
A strong pressure weighed against your chest as you read the letter, and when you had finished it, you knew you wouldnβt be able to bring yourself to read it again.
You had swallowed all your pride when you had asked Patrick to go with you to the Puddlemere venue, unable to look him in the eye. You knew what he looked like anyway, his βI told you soβ face and βwhat is wrong with youβ face mashed together. You both parted through the sea of people until you had found your seat at the very top, Oliver had made sure you got the ones at the very top. Patrick complained about the view, but it made you so happy you felt like youβd burst. It also made you feel incredibly guilty. Oliverβs flying was nothing like it had been during his first game. His clumsiness had morphed now into perfectly timed manoeuvres, the boyish charm of his nervousness was now replaced by the determination and sharpness of a seasoned player. It was the unmistakable sight of effort and discipline, and your heart swelled at the realisation of simply how mistaken you had been. Your hands gripped your binoculars a tad tighter with every Quaffle he blocked from going through the ring, your heart beating with the infectious excitement of his playstyle.
βThis is just cruel. Can we go?β Patrick sat next to you on the wooden table, his complain almost drowned by the loud chatter inside the pub. On a corner at the other side of it sat Oliver, an untouched beer in his hand as his eyes scanned the room every few seconds, his head snapping towards the door whenever someone came in βThis is killing meβ
Patrick dragged his chair back, ready to stand up when you had said:
βIβm going to tell himβ
At first he thought he might not have heard you right, but judging by the look of determination on your face he new he wasnβt mistaken.
Β βAll of it?β
You couldnβt answer that, and you were unable to before Oliverβs eyes caught yours from the other side of the room. It made you stand up immediately, as if you were worried you would change your mind if you took only a second longer to think about it. You made your way across the sea of bodies in the packed pub, glass in hand, painfully aware of Oliverβs gaze on you. A smile spread across his face when you were finally in front of him, and he shifted in his seat, straightening his posture.
βHeyβ
βHiβ you breathed out, your heart racing as if you had just run to him βGreat gameβ
βThanksβ A moment passed between you two. Oliver's eyes were wide and kind, gleaming under the warm vibrant candlelight, but there was something behind them, a restraint of some kind. He seemed to struggle before he asked βDo you want to sit?β
βIs that okay?β
There was a weight on the way you asked him, and even if you knew he wasnβt aware of what you really meant, it somehow felt like he did. He had come to terms with the idea that you wouldnβt show up.
βYeah, sureβ
He stood up and moved the chair away from the table so you could sit on it. The gesture made you melt, feeling grateful for the chair as you felt your legs become weak. Your knees brushed for a moment before you dragged your legs away, embarrassed. His presence felt suffocating, every inch of your body begging you to run away, while his eyes were so kind when they fell upon you. There was a softness behind them now, one not of comfort but of disappointment, and it hurt to know that it was because of you. He was waiting for you to come through that door, and sitting there beside him you couldnβt help but hate yourself.
βI didnβt expect to see you againβ he said, bringing you back to reality. The smile he gave you brough warmth back to the room, his smile seeming to lit it up.
βI didnβt expect you to be that goodβ
Oliverβs smile widened, pride and a bit of bashfulness tugging at his lips.
βYeah, well, I had to make up for the fiasco that was my first gameβ
βHad something to prove?β
βYeahβ His eyes went to the door βSomething like thatβ
You swallowed the lump on your throat, worseded by the way his eyes seemed to shine with hope.
βIt was a really good game, Oliverβ
His gaze snapped back to you and he cleared his throat.
βAre you a Puddlemere fan?β
You shrugged and unconsciously gave him a once-over.
βI might become one after seeing you play.β
His eyes widened in surprise before he let out a surprised chuckle, his brown eyes turning into crescents.
βIβve always wanted to hear thatβ he looked over your shoulder, and his expression hardened a bit. βIβm sorry, thereβs a guy that wonβt stop staring at yo. Itβs making me nervousβ You turned on your seat, but you didnβt need to. You knew youβd see Patrick sitting there βHe looks kind of familiarβ Your eyes fell down to the table as you turned back to him, your expression somber. It made Oliver straighten up immediately βDo you know him? Do I need to have a word with him?β
βNo, thatβs... thatβs just my brotherβ
βOh, right. You mentionedβ you could almost see the wheels turning in his head βDid he ever play Quidditch?β
βYeah, he didβ The grip on your glass tightened, knuckles turning white βHufflepuff seekerβ
βLike you?β he chuckled βThatβs funny. You guys do look alikeβ
βHeβs my twin brotherβ you said clearly, and Oliver was unaware of how heavy the revelation hung in the air.
It didnβt take him long to figure out that something didnβt add up, his eyebrows slowly downing over his eyes.
βSo you were in the same year? Then how could you both be seekers? I donβt remember any house having a rotation system during my timeβ
βThey didnβtβ you thought you were brave enough to look him in the eyes, but you were wrong. A single glance at his confused expression was more than you could take, and your eyes flew to the other side of the pub βI didnβt playβ
βI thought tou didβ he asked quietly, confused.
βI said I did. I lied to you. Iβm sorryβ
βWh-- So, you didnβt play?β You shook your head, and he was silent for a while until he announced rather Β cheerfully βI understand. You met a professional player and felt like you had to say that. Itβs okay, I get it.β
He was so pleased with himself and so kind to you. The reassuring smile he gave you made your heart ache.
βOliver, thatβs not--β
Β βYou didnβt have to lie, I can tell you love Quidditch. You donβt have to play it to love it.β
That made you still. Just how different things would have been if only you could have met him before. If you could not have met him at all.
βThatβs what I would always sayβ your voice came out weak βIβm not sure I love it, thoughβ
Out of all the things you had said so far that was the one that seemed to alarm Oliver the most. He leaned forward on the table, trying to hear you better.
βWhat?β
βI donβt know if I like it or if thatβs just all I haveβ
His hands rested on the table now. If you had moved your hand just a bit you could have held them. Your fingers were shaking ever so slightly as you attempted to keep the grip on your glass steady.
βIβm sorry, what do you mean?β
βItβs me, Oliverβ you braced yourself and held his gaze for as long as you could. His eyes widened ever so slightly, almost as if he was able to understand before you told him βItβs me youβve been exchanging letters withβ
You saw the bretah catch on his throat and his fingers twitch. He called your name in a whisper, you almost didnβt catch it among the noise.
βBut-- Why--β
βI didnβt have the courage to tell you when you bumped into me and--β your voice was shaky, almost breathy βAnd then it was too late to backtrackβ
βWhy? And-- you already told me you didnβt play Quidditch, so why say that you did?β you couldnβt tell if there was any anger laced in his confusion, but it still scared you there might. There should be, you deserved it βTo impress me?β
βI didnβt want to impress you. I--β
βThen why?β
βI...β you shrugged, a single tear falling down your cheek that was swiftly wipped away by the sleeve of your jumper. You shouldβve become better at this by then βI really, really wanted to play. I just wanted to pretend for a moment that I couldβ
A million thoughts went through Oliverβs head, all of them attempting to leave his mouth at the same time only to come out as a confused groan. He flopped back on his chair and stared at you for a few seconds.
βIβm sorry, I donβt understand what we are talking aboutβ he said frustratedly βI mean, you can just play if you want it so muchβ
βI canβt. You donβt understandβ
βYeah, I bloody donβt!β he looked aroudn, embarrassed at his own outburst βYouβve been lying to me and I still donβt even know about what exactlyβ
βI should have never written to you. Or I should have never talked to you when you sat with me. This is my fault. Iβm sorryβ
You stood up from your seat, and Oliver followed suit. He saw the tears in your eyes, and his hand reached for yours without really thinking about it.
βWh-- Hold on. Can we just take a moment to calm down? Iβm really trying to--β
βIβm a squibβ
The room seemed to have fallen silent, even if it was only in your head. A few wizards on the nearby table did turn towards you as they heard you underneath the loud atmosphere, but that wasnβt new. Oliverβs grip on your wrist loosened, and it felt like he was letting you fall into the abyss. This was on you. This was you. Your reality.
βWell-- Thatβs--β
Oliver cleared his throat, then seemed to struggle with something to say. This had been the only outcome possible from the beginning, the only one youβd ever had. It still hurt, though, his silence piercing through your chest like a knife. You felt someone grab your shoulder, then heard Patrick mutter behind you:
Β βExcuse usβ
He dragged you out of the pub and into the crisp winter air. You couldnβt even say anything as you both walked down the street and among the passersby that, while ignorant to your presence, still made you feel like you were being watched.
βHold on tightl,β Patrick said as you got to the portkey: a thick, used book.
Β Youβd never gotten used to portkeys, and every time you used one, you couldnβt help but wonder if the nauseous feeling would disappear if you were actually magical. You held onto Patrick and shut your eyes tightly, welcoming the feeling of vertigo as it took your mind off the aching pain on your chest if only for a few seconds.
βDear Oliver,
Β Please accept this letter as my last. I donβt know why I bother with the pompous writing style when you already know how messy my lexicon truly is in person. Still, I think this is me attempting to hold onto the very little dignity I have left at this point. I want to apologise first for lying to you and my behaviour the other night...β
Β The letter ended up being long. Three pages' worth of excuses that had made you take a few breaks in between memories. Your hands were still shaking when you sent Claws to deliver it. You didnβt come into the store for the next few days, not even when your parents had come back from vacation. You quietly turned in your article about Puddlemere and focused solely on your classes: your regular journalism ones. Patrick had tried to drop by on a few occasions to cheer you up, but he had just sat on the couch while you studied until he would give up and leave.
On Thursday the world ended, clouds so think you had casted no shadow as you ran under the pouring rain. Your fingers had been numb as you kept your umbrella from flying away, bumping onto strangers and and the bottom of your jeans damp and heavy as you stepped onto another puddle. You didnβt notice him when you got to the entrance of your building, too busy looking for your keys in your purse while holding your umbrella under your armpit. He took the liberty to lift it, making the rain stop falling on the back of your head. There in front of you stood Oliver, eyebrows sunken onto his eyes and soaked to the bone. He answered the silent question your shocked expression was silently screaming at him.
βYour brother gave me the adress. He said youβd be back soonβ
βPatrick?β Your mind was trying to catch up with the situation, shocked as you were by the state of him. Clothes compeltely drenched and hair sticking to his face βHow long have you been here?β
He took a moment to answer.
βA whileβ he finally admitted.
βWhy didnβt you hide from the rain?β
βI canβt use magic in the middle of the streetβ he spoke in confidence, nervous eyes looking around at the multiple people on the street passing by you.
βI meant like, an umbrella or going inside a cafe or somethingβ
βWell, I didnβt know when youβd be back, so I didnβt want to... it doesnβt matterβ He pulled a hand inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope: your letter. To your surprise, it was still dry βI donβt want to read thisβ he said βWhatever it is, I want to hear it from youβ
You felt so small underneath his unyealding gaze. Your shoulder was freezing, having forgotten to hold your umbrella properly and letting the rain fall on you.
βI thought you wouldnβt want to talk to me againβ
βIβll make that decision myselfβ he stated, and something about it made your stomach turn βSo, can we talk?β
You fumbled awkwardly with your keys, te metal making your already frozen fingers turn numb.
βDo you want to come in?β
His expression became blank for a second.
βTo your flat?β
βI mean, itβs pouring and you are soaked. Iβm really cold and very tired, so... But we can go to the cafe if you wantβ
βNo! I mean, yeah--β
βWe shouldnβt discuss this sort of thing in public, thoughβ
βYeah, exactlyβ
You fiddled with your keys and opened the entrance while he stood behind you at a distance. He took a look at you: the soaked jeans, dirty boots and almost certainly broken umbrella He walked into the foyer after you, politely closing the door behind you. The sound of rain became muffled, and you were suddenly aware of how heavily the silence hung between you two.
βItβs upstairsβ
He made a gesture with his hand, inviting you to go first. He stood behind as you unlocked your door, unable to see you fumbled to put the key in with how badly your hand was shaking. When he walked inside, he took a look around, taking in every detail he could catch. The scarce furniture, the somewhat clean kitchen, the ugly curtains.
Β βHave you ever been to a flat?β you asked, attempting to make conversation.
βIβm from Glasgowβ he answered, still eyein your place. Before you could offer Oliver a solution for his clothes, he took out his wand and performed a drying spell that left strands of his hair sticking out in all sorts of directions βDo you...?β
βNo, thank you. I think Iβll just change out of these clothesβ Oliver stiffened, his eyes dropping to the way your hands were pulling at the hem of your sweater βIβll be back in a secondβ
βOkayβ He watched you enter your room and close the door behind you as he pulled his wand away. He stayed close by it, trying not to think too much of what was going on on the other side βAre you not fond of spells?β
He heard your laugh from the other side, muffled by the thin walls separating you two.
βIt is not like that. My brother has used a few spells on me more than onceβ
βOh, so he is your brotherβ he sounded surprised, and despite saying it mostly to himself, you could still hear him βThatβs good to knowβ
βWhat do you mean?β
βWell, I didnβt know how much of what you said was a lie, so I wondered if maybe that brother of yours was like... a friend?β he hesitated βOf the boy kindβ
You made a face he couldnβt see.
βWhat sort of crazy person would date someone with pretty much their own face?β he was glad that was the part of the question you had focused on. You opened the door, now changed into a more comfortable Canons jersey. He eyed you head to toe, eyes surprisingly soft, but said nothing βBut I guess your impression of me is not the best, so...β
βYou can change thatβ
A warm feeling seeped through your chest before you swallowed it with a bitter smile.
βAre you sure?β you asked, serious βWhat if I explain everything and you still hate me?β
βI never said I hated youβ
βWouldnβt be a stretch to assume... given the circumstancesβ
Oliverβs brow furrowed as he stared at you, deep in thought. He eyed the way you twisted your hands in an attempt to get some warmth.
βWhy donβt we make some tea and you let me decide whether I hate you or not?β you simply nodded and attempted to pass by him towards the kitchen when he stopped you βIβm joking. I wonβt hate youβ he said βI might think you are crazy, thoughβ
It hurt you to smile, but you did nonetheless. It didnβt feel fair. It didnβt feel like you deserved to smile at him. To be forgiven.
βHow do you like your tea?β
He followed you to the kitchen like a puppy, standing close to you and watching you as you filled the teapot with water. Neither of you said anything, letting the familiar sounds of tea making fill the air that feelt so warm now with the storm still roaring outside.
Β βI read your articleβ he finally said βI could tell you were really sorry by how nice your words wereβ
βYou did really well. I was being objectiveβ You caught him smiling to himself as he set two cups on the counter βI almost didnβt go, but I wanted to see you playβ you admitted βI had a hunch that youβd do great, and I didnβt want to miss itβ
Oliver said nothing. He focused on your hands, wondering if they were as cold as his were. He could have told you he had been eyeing the bleachers, as if he could have once again recognised you without even knowing what you looked like. He just assumed heβd know when he saw you, and in a way, he had.
He realized heβd been staring at you for a tad too long βMaybe you have divination skillsβ
βThat was one of the few subjects I could get a grasp onβ you remembered fondly βMy brother used to let me borrow his booksβ
There wass a pause, and Oliver stole a glance at you out of the corner of his eye, hesitating.
βWhen... uhmβ he cleared his throat βWhen did you know...β
You didnβt reply right away, and Oliver started regretting even bringing it up. But you wanted to tell him. Maybe the sharp sting on your chest would finally go away. He made it feel like it could.
βWhen the letter didnβt arriveβ you said with a bittersweet chuckle βFor a while my parents thought maybe it was because Patrick and I are twins, so we just got one letter for the both of usβ
Oliver let out a short laugh before forcing himself to become serious again.
βSorryβ
βItβs okay. It is funnyβ You lifted your hand about to pat his shoulder but you stopped yourself, letting it fall on the counter again, fingers drumming nervously on it βI feel bad for them when I think back to it.β
βNothing compared to how you must have felt, I assumeβ he said as if he was trying to retort to that.
You looked at him like he had said the oddest thing, and he stared back at you with something akin to indignation. It was an odd thing for someone to be on your side. Most people would pity you, feel bad for your family, so Oliver being on your side felt foreign and strangely overwhelming.
βYeah... I was small, so I didnβt really understandβ You swallowed the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You always got it when you talked about this, even if it didnβt happen often. They were the words you always tried to swallow, and for some reason, in the comfort of your kitchen and Oliverβs undeserving understanding you finally let them out: βIt sort of felt like I had done something wrong, you knowβ
βYeah, but you didnβtβ he replied, indignation making his accent dance wildly across his words.
Who could have thought compassion wout feel more overwhelming than rejection. You felt yourself smile, and the tears didnβt take long to pile at the corners of your eyes. The whistle of the kettle was a good excuse for you to hide this fact from Oliver.
βCan you get that?β
Oliver hesitated but finally pulled the kettle away from the fire and pretended to not see you wipe the tears away, carefully pouring the scalding water into each cup. Maybe he put a bit more on yours.
βDo you need sugar?β you asked him, opening the cabinet above you.
βNo, thank youβ
βReally?β
βYeahβ he was confused βWhy?β
βI donβt know. I sort of assumed you were the extra sweet typeβ
Oliver shrugged and gave you a nonchalant smile.
βI can beβ You felt the heat crawl up to your cheeks, and you were thankful the single lamp you could afford to decorate your living room with was so dim. This was wrong. Oliver Wood standing in your kitchen, making you tea and smiling at you like this could become a habit. But you were getting ahead of yourself, and you couldnβt allow yourself to daydream about such things βSo...β he trailed off, the tips of his ears a bit pink βDo you use sugar?β
βYeah, a lotβ
You led him to the couch, letting the cup rest on the coffee table as you shifted on your seat when he sat next to you. He kept a polite distance but his whole body turned to you.
βMy grandmother, my mumβs mum, sheβs a muggle, so she did help. With all the school stuffβ
Β βMy dadβs a muggle tooβ he chirped in βHeβs really upset that wizards donβt seem to care about The Beatles and all of thatβ That made you laugh, which gave him a sense of pride βItβs a give-and-take situation: my dad rages to my mum about music, and she rages to him about Quidditchβ
βSo sheβs the fan that birthed the famous Quidditch Monster?βΒ
Something flashed behind Oliverβs eyes, and he crooked his head to the side.
βDid you rbother tell you about that?β
βHe might have mentioned a thing or two about your reputation.β
βYou know what, I thought about him for a long time, and I remember him being an appalling seekerβ
βOh, I know that. Ironic, isnβt it?β
βBecause you are an expert on it?β
βNo, uhm... our parents are Quidditch enthusiasts, hence the family Quidditch store. I was shocked you were subscribed to our magazine. We have maybe only fifty regulars that doβ
Β βIβm subscribed to every Quidditch magazineβ he stated proudly.
βIsnβt that a lot of money?β he simply shrugged, and you shook your head in disbelief βIs it worth it at least?β
You took a sip from your cup, the steam pleasantly caressing your face. When it had dissipated, you caught Oliver staring at you as if deep in thought.
βYeah, Iβd say it isβ He blinked a few times, looking away and reaching for his cup βSo, Quidditch?β
βAfter we came to terms with the fact Iβm not magic, I held onto it because it was the only magical thing I could still... you know? Nothing stopped me from watching games and learning and reading about it...β
βBut you couldnβt playβ
βYeah. My brother tried to get me on a broom once, my parents were not happyβ
βI remember him from back in school. He was a year or so belowβ his brows furrowed in concentration βLousy flyingβ
You left your cup on your table in a sign of protest.
Β βYou already said that!β
βItβs all I rememberβ he defended himself with a smile βI really tried to remember you, and it was driving me insane!β
Your gaze fell to his hands, holding the steaming cup of tea. The idea that Oliver had spent time thinking about you was flattering, the little joy it brought you was immediately swallowed by guilt.
βIβm sorry. I wrote that in the letter, but since you didnβt read it, I should say it aloudβ You bit your lip, drawing in a deep breath βPeople are not... nice, usually. When they find out about the squib thing. People at Diagon Alley will still look at me weird if I happen to be at the store. They donβt say anything, but they donβt really have to. I canβt be there often anyway. I only go to help Patrick run it from time to time. Heβll be inheriting it soonβ
βHe is?β
βYeah. He doesnβt even want it, to be honestβ
βDo you want it?β
That caught you off guard.
βDoesnβt matter. Iβll have to distance myself from the magical world for good eventually anywayβ
βWhy?β He set the cup on the table, body turning to you even more.
βCanβt expect my brother to act as a driver for me foreverβ you explained, pretending the way he leaned towards you wasnβt making your heart race βI can use Flu Network and Portkeys when in the company of an actual witch or wizard, so he always has to be around meβ
βIs that how you get to the Quidditch games?β
You nodded βHe takes me in and out of the magical world. Itβs such a hassle, it makes me feel badβ
βIβm sure he doesnβt mind.β
βHe does. I just wish heβd say it sometimesβ You admitted, for the first time out loud βI know he feels guilty. thatβs why he wonβt complain, everβ
Β βThatβs harsh. You donβt know thatβ
βWouldnβt you?β Your eyes landed on him, not defiant but sympathetic βAt some point heβll have his own life... he canβt always be there for me. It is not fair.β
He sat in silence for a few seconds, pondering whether or not it was his place to get into your family business like that. He decided he shouldnβt, no matter how much he wanted to.
βYou could also meet someone that would... you know, do all thatβ he left the idea hanging in the air and waited for the inevitable sceptical look youβd give him βWhat?β
βI already told you, most people are not fond of my kindβ he grimaced at the term, and wondered if youβve had it thrown at you often βIβll just cross onto the muggle world completely. Get a job, take the tube every day, nine to five, microwave my food--β
βDo you want to do that, though?β
βWant what?β
βLive without being part of the magical worldβ
Your shoulders rose and fell with a shrug.
βItβs not like Iβve ever been part of it anywaysβ the sad look he gave you stung, so you gave him a resigned smile βItβs just the hand Iβve been dealtβ
Β βI can offer you my handβ he blurted, way before he could realise how odd it sounded.βLike I can-- if you need someone to keep you in touchβ
βYou would do that?β you asked sceptically. He answered with a shrug βBring me in and out and from one side to another like a chauffeur at any time of the day, every day?β he seemed to think about it, and considering the argument won you added βItβs a lot, Oliver. Staying on this side permanently is the sensible thing to doβ
Oliver bit the inside of his cheek and decided to take in a deep breath as he glanced around your apartment. Winning time until he got enough courage.
βYou could always meet someone who wants to do all that for youβ He knew the look you were giving him before he set his eyes back to you βWhat? You are talking like itβs impossibleβ
You wanted to explain to him how it truly felt like it was. For most of your life, it had been a quiet reminder that it wasnβt really a choice for you.
βIt isnβt impossible, but itβs not very probable eitherβ
βI just offeredβ he must have seen the look on your face, nervously backtracking almost immediately βLike, as friends. I could do that as a friend.β He got nervous when you said nothing, only stared at him in disbelief, and said, βWhat?β
βWhen I got your first letter I would have never thought you were this kindβ you said, your voice quiet βAll Iβve done is lie to you, and yet...β
βIβm actually being selfish. I canβt give up on the only person who can keep up with my Quidditch talkβ
βIs that so?β
βYou wrote very nice things to me in your last article tooβ
βYeah, well, it was supposed to be a secret apology letterβ
βWhatβs this supposed to be then?β
Your lips parted, despite knowing that you didnβt have it on you to tell him. Under his surprised exression you reached for the letter and ripped it into pieces.
βNothing, reallyβ you discarded of the pieces on the bin. His mouth was hanging slightly open, not really sure of how to react. You cleared your throat as if to say something important and he fixed his posture, ready for whatever you were about to say βThank you, Oliver. For coming all this way to let me explain and for just... being kind to me, despite everythingβ
You both stared at each other for what felt a really long time. His features were soft, only a subtle smile adorning them. You stood there, hands grabbing the hem of your jumper for courage.
βNo problemβ
He saw the way your shoulders relaxed, your eyes nervously looking around the falt as if looking for something else to say.
βI actually have something to take care of...β
Oliver stood up immediately, making sure to place the cup gently on the table.
βOh, yeah. I actually should be on my way to practice. It seems like the coach is letting me be a starter again, so...β
βAre you serious? Thatβs awesome!β you approached him with stars in your eyes, and he thought he wouldnβt mind the sight for a little longer. Then your smile fell βYou shouldnβt have risked it to come here, thoughβ
βYeah, probably notβ he admitted, a quiet settling between you two once again.
βYou are going to be so busy from now onβ
βMost definitelyβ he smiled βCanβt waitβ
You smiled up at him and he followed your eyes as they seemed to commit every one of his features to memory. He could feel the warmth reaching his cheeks when you finally said.
βGoodbye, Oliverβ
There was something in the way you had said that that had rung alarm bells in his head, but he figured he had just imagined it. There was no need to ruin what had been a pleasant moment with you with unfounded concerns. And so he said goodbye to you and walked down the staircase towards the door, the storm waiting for him on the other side.
βDid you tell him?β
You were standing by the counter of the Quiddtch store, eyes lost somewhere at the end of the maintenance aisle.
βNoβ
There was a sigh muffled by the gentle ruffling of clothes, and you could just picture your brother rubbing his face on his hands. You had been in the same position as him multiple times within the last few hours before you had made an emergency trip to Diagon Alley. You had paced around nervously waiting for him to pick you up, by then all your nails were bitten.
βWill you tell him then?β
βI donβt think thatβd be necessaryβ you said, the statement weighing heavy on your chest.
βReally? The guy that barged in here demanding to speak to you. You donβt think you should tell him?βΒ
βHeβs a Quidditch-obsessed, borderline-workaholic perfectionist that is about to become the youngest pro in the league. He wonβt have time to remember me in a weekβ
Patrick scoffed and shook his head dismissively.
βYeah, keep telling yourself that. Canβt you just cancel this whole thing?β
βIβm not having this conversation againβ You raised your hands in the air βYou were already okay with itβ
βYeah, well. That was for your sake, and still... You can change your mind. I donβt know...β
βThereβs nothing new to talk aboutβ
βNot even Oliver?β
βYeah, not even Oliverβ you lied.
Β βYou are just being stubborn! Heβs good for you, if only you stopped lying to him!β
βOliver is just a guy I talked to for a few months, okay? Heβs not like, someone who is going to change my life. He canβt do that, and I donβt want him to do that anywayβ
βSo you are just self-sabotaging againβ
βHe canβt change anything! Iβve made my mind, and I donβt want to see him again, so just stopβ
There was a familiar creak of wood, and despite being so used to the noise whenever people walked around the store, you both turned at the same time towards the noise. There stood Oliver, a basket with baked goods in his hand, bigger than the one he had dropped when he had believed you to be sick. When you had lied to him about being sick. Your heart sank to your stomach before you even heard the way his voice strained a bit when he finally broke the tense silence.
βI came to apologise for barging in the yesterdayβ he said and left the basket carelessly on the counter βExcuse meβ
He didnβt even bother to look at you when he left, bushy brows sunk deeply over his brown eyes that stayed fixed on the floor, slamming the door hard on his way out. The loud noise made the few customers turns their heads with curiosity.
βArenβt you going to follow him?β Patrick asked as you both watched him through the display window, his silhouette disappearing into the crowd.
βItβs easier this wayβ
Patrickβs chest rose with a heavy sigh.
βYou are a coward and a loserβ he stated, a bit more bitter than usual βLet me know when you want to get backβ
Stepping onto the Quidditch pitch felt like entering the beastsβ den. It had taken you a week of isolation and sleepless nights to decide on this. The grey, gloomy days you had stayed inside looking out of the window, no lights on in the flat, contemplating what you should do had blended into each other. It had taken a bit of trickery, but you had scored an anonymous interview with Oliver through his head coach, who was happy to give him any sort of publicity. You knew he wouldnβt meet you unless he was tricked into it. You could lie to him at least one more time, if only for the sake of coming clean once and for all.
He had been sitting at the benches waiting for you, taking care of his broom. There wasnβt any sign of surprise when he saw you approaching him, but his eyebrows did get a tad bit closer together before he looked down to the task at hand again.
βI imagined it was youβ he had said when you had got close enough.
βAnd you still came?β
βI still have to practise. It has nothing to do with you or whatever excuse you are planning to give meβ
He didnβt sound upset nor bitter, just mercilessly distant. You took in a deep breath, bracing yourself by holding your own hands.
βI have no excuses. I meant everything I saidβ he scoffed incredulously βBut the context... I should at least give it to youβ
There was a brief pause, then he said:
βI donβt care.β
He got up broom in hand and brushed imaginary dust out of his clothes. He walked up the stairs to the pit, and you knew thatβd be the last time youβd see him.
βI wish I had met you beforeβ is what you wanted to yell at him, but instead it came out in barely a broken cry βIf I had magic, meeting you...β you swallowed, picking at the skin around your nails. You thought about the idea of meeting Oliver at some other time, at some other place, under other circumstances you had daydreamed about so often βSo I hate that you showed up now. Not being able to meet you... thatβs what I hate the most nowβ
You were sure you had been talking to yourself, but he was still there. He stood tall at the top of the stairs, back to you. The grip on his broom tightened as he spoke.
βAfter the other day I thought we were...β His steady tone withered before falling to a short silence. βOn the same pageβ His head turned ever so slightlyβI have to practise. You should leaveβ
His foot had just stepped onto the soft, freshly cut grass when you spoke again, a bit louder to make sure he heard you.
βIβm getting the Obliviate charm next week. I decided on it a few days before your letter arrived, and Iβve been preparing for it ever sinceβ
Β The sound of Oliverβs heavy Quidditch boots stomping on the grass stopped at once, and all the indifference he had been carrying himself with washed away just like colour on his face as he turned to you.
βWhat?β
βI explained it on the letter I wrote you last time. It was supposed to be a goodbye letter, but...β
He reached you in only a few steps, but as he stood in front of you, he was breathing like he had just run a full lap around the pitch. You were sure you could almost hear his heartbeat, but maybe that was because of how close he was standing.
βWha-- wh--β he stammered, suddenly frantic βIs your family okay with it? Patrick?β
βMum and Dad were fairly easy to convince. Patrick not so much, but eventually he got around itβ
βBut, why? If itβs because of what you said the other day? Thatβs--β
βOf course it is because of what I said the other dayβ You cut him off βI donβt want to be a burden anymore. To my brother or...β Your eyes left his, busying themselves on a random corner β...anyoneβ
Oliverβs breathing stilled, and the next words that came out of him did so in a low mutter.
βIs that what you meant? About me?β
Your face flushed immediately, feeling exposed and embarrassed.
βIt is not like I assumed you would-- like... I was just explaining to him why itβd be better not to be... friendsβ
βOh right, because Iβm a useless meathead that canβt help?β he asked bitterly.
βBecause you are kindβ you answered, and the harshness of his stare softened before he composed himself βBecause you would waste your time and energy to help me out, and I donβt want you to do thatβ
βSo what?β He retorted drily, his voice steady. It took you aback, and you unconsciously leaned back.
βWhat do you mean?β
βI will make my own mind up about thatβ
βOliver--β
βYou canβt tell me what I can or canβt do, alright?β he finally snapped. The stoic expression he had made sure to maintain until then dropped completely βWhat, you donβt want to be a burden to me? Tough luck! If I want to stand in the rain for hours waiting for you, thatβs on me!β He pointed his finger at you, actually poking you on the shoulder and throwing you off your balance βIf I am late for practice because I have to take you somewhere, thatβs my decision! You donβt have the right to decide whether I fancy you or not!β
The silence felt louder once Oliverβs outburst finished, and the echo of his voice died between the walls of the pit. His face was hot, his eyebrows deeply sunken over his eyes that were fixed on you. They shook slightly when reality started to dawn slowly on him, but he kept his cool. His chest rose and fell with heavy breathing, and this time you were sure you could hear his heartbeat.
βOkay,β itβs all you could say, still trying to process all he had said.
βOkay?β
There was a brief second of hesitation before you grabbed onto his face so you could kiss him. It was surprising, just how soft his skin was, it felt hot under your touch. He tensed up before he relaxed with a content sigh when your lips met his, and his arms held you closer when he felt you pulling away. He made a noise you could only interpret as a protest before he kissed you again, just as soft and airy, letting it linger, a bit drunk on the taste of your lips and your body pressed against his. When he finally decided he had had enough for the time being, he allowed you to take a small step back, but his arms were still firmly wrapped around you.
βIβm sorry,β you said, breathless.
βItβs okayβ he reassured, trying to catch his breath βIβm sorry I raised my voiceβ
Your head rested against his chest. He felt you relax with a sigh as his hand stayed on the back of your head.
βItβs alright. I liked everything you saidβ
Oliver chuckled, his face breaking into a smile. You wanted to look up and stare at it, at the wrinkles that formed at the corners of his eyes when he did.
βI could have said them betterβ
βGood enough for meβ you mumbled onto his chest, and he squeezed you tighter for a second.
βSo..β you cleared your voice βYou fancy me?β
To your surprise, he didnβt look embarrassed, even if his face got a bit red. He looked as proud as ever when he stated, almost nonchalantly:
βI thought that was obvious by the third letterβ
βNot reallyβ you pondered.βIf anything, I might have thought that when we met at the Warwick game... when you thought I was someone elseβ
βYeah... it was definitely a weird feelingβ he joked, conflicted βBut in the end I guess I canβt help myselfβ
Your head turned to the side in confusion; his fingers threaded a little deeper into your hair.
βAbout what?β
βAbout fancying youβ he replied βEvery version of youβ
ππππ πππΎ πππ ππΏ ππ .. π₯
just a little moment between you and neil, a sickly sweet fluff β‘ ( + and my first work . . hehehe)
the late afternoon sunlight streamed through the apartment windows, casting warm shadows across the living room. neil was sprawled on the couch, sprawled comfortably with a book in his hands, but his attention was less on the words and more on you. you were laid against his chest, comfortable and almost dozing off, except you were too focused on his face.
your gaze lingered, soft and warm, and he realized you weren't just lookingβyou were admiring him. the brown of his doe eyes, his freckles and rosy cheeks, pretty lips. you traced every subtle shift of his expression like you were memorizing it, storing it in a little pouch into your brain. your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fiddled with the hem of his your sweater as though it was grounding you from grabbing his face roughly and kissing him senseless.
could anyone blame you? this was a totally normal reaction and way of thinking, of course.
neilβs heartbeat stuttered in response, realizing you had been staring longer than you thought. βmy loveβ¦β he said lowly, voice teasing but loving, it felt coming home.
you blinked, caught, and immediately looked away, cheeks blooming a soft, impossible pink. your lips pressed into a small, embarrassed line, and you hid your face in the crook of his shoulder when he leaned in, just close enough to kiss your temple.
βiβuhβ¦ i wasnβtβjustβ¦β you stammered, voice trembling slightly. even after dating for so long, an anxious part of your brain hoped that he didn't find your staring weird.
neil laughed quietly, not mocking, just the low, romantic sound of someone utterly enchanted and in love. he set his book aside and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you tightly. βi saw you,β he murmured. βyou wereβ¦ staring.β
your throat worked, words failing you entirely. you wanted to scold him, brush him off and claim you weren't, to regain control, but none of it came out. instead, you gave his neck a small kiss, soft and hesitant, and peered up at him afterwards, letting your hair fall over your flushed cheeks.
βyou think I didnβt notice?β neil added with a grin, though his eyes were warm and tender. so beautiful.
you giggled nervously, you couldn't help but feel small under his piercing and warm gaze, a tad bit nervous. how could you have noticed? you were too busy staring at his pretty face to think about anything else. βi was just.. appreciating,β you mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but him.
βappreciating?β he repeated, amused. βyeah, you totally weren't so captivated by my eyes.β
your eyes couldn't help but roll your eyes at his teasing, playfully pinching his shoulder. βyouβre ridiculous."
neil grinned, heart swelling. he loved moments like this with uou. "you love me,β he said, and you smiled. you do, so much.
in that cozy and warm moment, neither needed words. your loving gaze had said enough, and his eyes, filled with fondness and warmth, said the rest.
π΄π₯ππ± π‘π¬π’π° π¦π± πͺπ’ππ« π±π¬ π‘π―π’ππͺ?
i need to pretty up this account and make tags UGHHHHHHH also kinda wanna start writing for pjo π
ππππ πππΎ πππ ππΏ ππ .. π₯
just a little moment between you and neil, a sickly sweet fluff β‘ ( + and my first work . . hehehe)
the late afternoon sunlight streamed through the apartment windows, casting warm shadows across the living room. neil was sprawled on the couch, sprawled comfortably with a book in his hands, but his attention was less on the words and more on you. you were laid against his chest, comfortable and almost dozing off, except you were too focused on his face.
your gaze lingered, soft and warm, and he realized you weren't just lookingβyou were admiring him. the brown of his doe eyes, his freckles and rosy cheeks, pretty lips. you traced every subtle shift of his expression like you were memorizing it, storing it in a little pouch into your brain. your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fiddled with the hem of his your sweater as though it was grounding you from grabbing his face roughly and kissing him senseless.
could anyone blame you? this was a totally normal reaction and way of thinking, of course.
neilβs heartbeat stuttered in response, realizing you had been staring longer than you thought. βmy loveβ¦β he said lowly, voice teasing but loving, it felt coming home.
you blinked, caught, and immediately looked away, cheeks blooming a soft, impossible pink. your lips pressed into a small, embarrassed line, and you hid your face in the crook of his shoulder when he leaned in, just close enough to kiss your temple.
βiβuhβ¦ i wasnβtβjustβ¦β you stammered, voice trembling slightly. even after dating for so long, an anxious part of your brain hoped that he didn't find your staring weird.
neil laughed quietly, not mocking, just the low, romantic sound of someone utterly enchanted and in love. he set his book aside and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you tightly. βi saw you,β he murmured. βyou wereβ¦ staring.β
your throat worked, words failing you entirely. you wanted to scold him, brush him off and claim you weren't, to regain control, but none of it came out. instead, you gave his neck a small kiss, soft and hesitant, and peered up at him afterwards, letting your hair fall over your flushed cheeks.
βyou think I didnβt notice?β neil added with a grin, though his eyes were warm and tender. so beautiful.
you giggled nervously, you couldn't help but feel small under his piercing and warm gaze, a tad bit nervous. how could you have noticed? you were too busy staring at his pretty face to think about anything else. βi was just.. appreciating,β you mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but him.
βappreciating?β he repeated, amused. βyeah, you totally weren't so captivated by my eyes.β
your eyes couldn't help but roll your eyes at his teasing, playfully pinching his shoulder. βyouβre ridiculous."
neil grinned, heart swelling. he loved moments like this with uou. "you love me,β he said, and you smiled. you do, so much.
in that cozy and warm moment, neither needed words. your loving gaze had said enough, and his eyes, filled with fondness and warmth, said the rest.
π₯π¦π«π±π° π¬π£ ππ©π²π’
Cats. Cats never change. Postcard from my collection, no date/info.
ππππ πππΎ πππ ππΏ ππ .. π₯
just a little moment between you and neil, a sickly sweet fluff β‘ ( + and my first work . . hehehe)
the late afternoon sunlight streamed through the apartment windows, casting warm shadows across the living room. neil was sprawled on the couch, sprawled comfortably with a book in his hands, but his attention was less on the words and more on you. you were laid against his chest, comfortable and almost dozing off, except you were too focused on his face.
your gaze lingered, soft and warm, and he realized you weren't just lookingβyou were admiring him. the brown of his doe eyes, his freckles and rosy cheeks, pretty lips. you traced every subtle shift of his expression like you were memorizing it, storing it in a little pouch into your brain. your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fiddled with the hem of his your sweater as though it was grounding you from grabbing his face roughly and kissing him senseless.
could anyone blame you? this was a totally normal reaction and way of thinking, of course.
neilβs heartbeat stuttered in response, realizing you had been staring longer than you thought. βmy loveβ¦β he said lowly, voice teasing but loving, it felt coming home.
you blinked, caught, and immediately looked away, cheeks blooming a soft, impossible pink. your lips pressed into a small, embarrassed line, and you hid your face in the crook of his shoulder when he leaned in, just close enough to kiss your temple.
βiβuhβ¦ i wasnβtβjustβ¦β you stammered, voice trembling slightly. even after dating for so long, an anxious part of your brain hoped that he didn't find your staring weird.
neil laughed quietly, not mocking, just the low, romantic sound of someone utterly enchanted and in love. he set his book aside and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you tightly. βi saw you,β he murmured. βyou wereβ¦ staring.β
your throat worked, words failing you entirely. you wanted to scold him, brush him off and claim you weren't, to regain control, but none of it came out. instead, you gave his neck a small kiss, soft and hesitant, and peered up at him afterwards, letting your hair fall over your flushed cheeks.
βyou think I didnβt notice?β neil added with a grin, though his eyes were warm and tender. so beautiful.
you giggled nervously, you couldn't help but feel small under his piercing and warm gaze, a tad bit nervous. how could you have noticed? you were too busy staring at his pretty face to think about anything else. βi was just.. appreciating,β you mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but him.
βappreciating?β he repeated, amused. βyeah, you totally weren't so captivated by my eyes.β
your eyes couldn't help but roll your eyes at his teasing, playfully pinching his shoulder. βyouβre ridiculous."
neil grinned, heart swelling. he loved moments like this with uou. "you love me,β he said, and you smiled. you do, so much.
in that cozy and warm moment, neither needed words. your loving gaze had said enough, and his eyes, filled with fondness and warmth, said the rest.
β Piano Man, Billy Joel (insp.)
- lost in thought
phew... wipes sweat nervously