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Rewind, part III: pin drop

pairing: Oliver Wood & fem!reader

summary: Oliver comes to terms with the fact that he can't rewind time nor a broken tape

genre: mostly angst, my bad...

a/n: really sorry about how long this took, I know so many people have been looking forward to this so I worry this might not live up to expectations, but it's kind of my fault for updating this late. still, I hope it's enough!

wc: 5k

[ part I, part II ]

For the first time in way many more years than most people at the bleachers could bother counting, Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup on May 15. Oliver had cried more in that moment than he ever had, with the exception of a particular summer night with the thick heat of summer coming through his bedroom window.

He had held the cup in his hands, his own distorted reflection bathed in gold staring back at him with a look of quiet sadness he hadn’t been able to shake for a while. He had gotten used to it, but he had hoped that a moment like this would have dimmed it, make it recoil back even if just for a second. Instead, the tears that had soaked his pillow back then fell upon the smooth surface of his trophy down onto the grass of the Quidditch pitch. He had been thinking about how during all these years he had always thought he could tell you about it all one day. He hadn’t been sure of when, but he had known he’d eventually shown you. He had rehearsed it so many times in his head, researched what sort of exceptions could be made so he could tell you all without repercussions. Magical laws and any possible confusion or fear didn’t exist in that scenario, only your surprised and amazed face full of understanding and amazement.

But that would never happen.

For a while now he had lain wide awake late at night until he could hear the early chirping of birds and the snoring of his roommates. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw your front door from across the street. It opened swiftly, glowing like a beacon in the middle of the dark street. The glow dims when the figures enter the house, closing the door behind them, and everything goes dark. He tried not to think about the last words you said to him.

"Excuse me"

He tried not to think about the last time your eyes had met as you moved past him on the sidewalk on a scorching summer day. Nothing behind your eyes but empty politeness.

You had called him to cancel your plans for the evening the same day the tape fell into your hands. It rested over your coffee table, the whole room seeming to sink under the weight of its presence. You had given a poor excuse as to why you wouldn’t be able to honour your plans and thought you’d find a way to cancel Christmas plans altogether once you calmed down. Your phone had rung a few hours later and you had let the machine pick up the message. As you had expected, it was Oliver.

“Hey, uhm ... I hope you are okay... I don’t know what’s going on but I hope we can talk soon. I miss you” there was some shuffling on the other side of the line, followed by a long, heavy silence “Actually I’m sorry but I’m coming over”

You almost ran to the phone, bringing it to your ear.

“No, we can meet tomorrow” he must have known something was wrong by then, and you hoped your fear was unfounded “At the cafe near the station. The one we go to on Sundays”

He paused.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Your grip on the phone tightened, the plastic cracked under it.

“I’ll be there by two”

You hung up, exhausted and scared, upset that you couldn’t spare any kind words.

The cafe was barely full, but it was enough for you. You couldn’t shake the unpleasant feeling that you’d feel better meeting Oliver at a crowded place. A thousand ideas had raced through your mind ever since you had found the tape. Stalking was the most logical, and it made you want to throw up every time you thought about it, but there was a small piece that wouldn’t fit: the tape. Your tape. From your house. That you remembered making, for reasons unknown. Oliver’s name signed in your handwriting, a name you couldn’t remember uttering once in your childhood.

Oliver came into the cafe with the buzzing nervousness you had gotten used to sensing from him, eyes frantically eyeing the customers until he found yours. You could assume the way you had looked away immediately had deepened his frown. He stood for a split second by you, and when he realized you wouldn’t stand to greet him, he carefully dragged the chair opposite you and sat down.

“Do we know each other?” you had asked right away, and made the effort to look at him to check if that caused any sort of effect on him. For a moment there was a small flash behind his eyes, one you have seen many times and never placed “You knew me, right? Before you came into the store”

Oliver’s mouth parted slightly, but he had no intention to speak. You could tell there were many things he wanted to say. Maybe excuses, maybe questions. You grabbed your purse and with anxious fingers you put the plastic tape on the table. Oliver inhaled sharply and straightened in his seat, the reaction enough confirmation for you.

“That’s--”

“Are you a stalker?”

His eyes shot up to yours, and despite the hurt behind them, they were steady. As if he had anticipated this conversation thousands of times. Maybe he lied awake at night rehearsing, imagining every possible answer and question you’d throw his way. Maybe he was equal parts eager and terrified of this day to come.

“No. You gave that to me” he said, voice barely shaking “I returned it to you”

“When? I don’t remember that at all”

Oliver feigned memory, pretending he didn’t know.

“Around... six years ago? Maybe. We were still in school”

“We didn’t go to school together” you noted, then doubted yourself “Right?”

“No. It was during the summer”

There was a small sharp pain at the back of your head. You were no stranger to them, having suffered from very bad migraines since your teens, but lately it had gotten worse. You almost wanted to blame the tape. The mere idea seemed to make them hurt worse.

“I called my mum, asked her if she knew anyone with your name. She said you and your parents lived on our street” you omitted the fact your mom referred to them as ‘strange pricks’ that seemed to ignore them on purpose for some reason. You vaguely remembered a few encounters yourself after making some memory “But she said we never interacted with each other, as far as she knew. I called Sammy and he said you never hung out with us either. Everybody corroborated you were in private school--”

“I didn’t lie to you” Oliver interrupted “I haven’t lied about anything I’ve told you”

“So don’t lie to me now and tell me: did you know me before you came looking for me?”

It was hard for Oliver to decide what to do. He couldn’t tell you head felt his heart stop when he had noticed the songs playing over the speakers at the bar that night. Even after all these years he could still remember each song in that exact same order, and when the bartender had given him a name, your name, and a close address he had felt like... well, he couldn’t really say. He had never felt that way before. It had felt like whatever the opposite of the world crumbling down was, he thought. How could he explain that to you.

“Yes” it’s all he said.

You felt your stomach turn. Your fingers curled tightly around the fabric of your sweater.

“What is going on?” you hopelessly asked, exhausted of all the scenarios you had been running through your head for the las twenty-four hours.

“We knew each other”

“No, we didn’t!” you cried out.

“Then why the tape” Oliver eyes dared to rise to yours, his gaze as strangely steady as his voice, as if he knew that’s the piece that wouldn’t fit. He was right. That tape was the whole reason why you hadn’t disappeared from his life by then, you really needed to know. You pursed your lips and looked out of the big window, up at the cloudy sky. Oliver observed you for a second and then sighed, as if he had made up his mind “Would you like to speak about this at mine?”

You scoffed and nonchalantly wiped a tear from the corner of your eye “Sorry, but right now going with you to a flat full of men I don’t know doesn’t sound good”

“I live alone”

“You always say we can’t go there because of your flatmates” you inquired in an accusatory tone.

“I did lie about that. I’m sorry”

“So much for never lying to me, uh?”

“I said that because I can’t take you there. I live too far”

“Where?”

“Scottland”

You paused for a second, astonished that he would dare to joke in a moment like this. Oliver, who had a sense of humor as dry as the biting cold outside the coffee shop.

“Pardon? Are you saying you travel from Scottland to London every day?” you asked sceptically.

“Only when I want to see you” he answered “Which is everyday”

“Is not fucking funny”

“I know. I’m not joking”

It was at that moment that you had the sudden realization that he truly meant it.

“Then wh-- are you filthy rich?”

“No, just... I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know if I can explain it to you without getting in trouble”

“In trouble for what? With who?”

A sharp pain briefly settled in the back of your head. You leant back on the chair, eyes closed in an attempt to soothe the pain and your accelerated heartbeat. What was he even trying to say? Oliver’d brow furrowed, a worried expression on his face.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m scared” you said, exhausted.

“Me too” he admitted to you. He leaned forward, hands sliding on the table. Your body almost reacted to the familiar action, almost reaching out to them. You could still feel the warmth of his rough hands as you intertwined your fingers with his if you tried hard enough “Just once. Trust me just this one last time”

You held his gaze, looking for any sign that he meant you harm and that he couldn’t be trusted. When you couldn’t find any, it somehow scared you further.

“No” you managed to say, before standing up before he made you change your mind “My common sense is telling me to stay the hell away from you”

“That’s good, somehow” he hid a bitter smile “You were always smarter than you gave yourself credit for”

You wanted to ask him what he meant, but you knew you wouldn’t be free if you did.

It would take a week of Oliver not contacting you to make you wonder if he actually had let you go, or if it was a ploy to make you reach out to him first. The idea that he was a manipulative stalker never leaving your mind as the weeks turned into a whole month, with the tape buried deep inside a cabinet in your living room. You could feel it through the walls, ever-present since the moment you stepped into the apartment. In the end, you gave in and called him. He picked up before it even rang the second time.

He had met you at the tube, and you had hated how you had found him in the same way you had done countless times ever since your first date, where your heart had been about to burst. You hated how it still felt that way, like your heart refused to forget him and face the facts, as if it knew something you didn’t. You also wondered if he was wearing the same outfit he wore on your first date on purpose. You thought then he probably didn’t even remember something like that.

“Have you been well?” he asked when you had stopped in front of him, before awkwardly adding: “You look great” You had though about what to say back, but there was nothing that seemed appropriate. Whether aggressive or friendly, it all felt wrong. Oliver simply nodded at your silence, understanding as always. It bothered you how disarming his apparent nervousness was “Shall we?”

“Where exactly are we going?”

“The pub” he said, then added “You’ll understand”

And so he took you to a small pub not too far from the station. You noticed the way his left hand dropped from his jacket pocket as if expecting you to hold it just like you always used to. He must have caught himself too, because he quickly put it back. The pub was slightly packed, with a few tables available at the back. However, Oliver didn’t stop at any of them. After greeting the old man behind the bar, he took you down a steep stone staircase to a lower floor and into a small room. It was decorated like a small living room, with a couch, coffee table and chimney. In a moment of absolute confusion, you asked:

“Is this your house?”

Oliver couldn’t help the genuine laugh that the question knocked out of him. It made you feel strange, how the sound seemed to fill the room instantly. When Oliver turned to you with that familiar wide smile that made his eyes shrink, your heart ached in a way it hadn’t done in a long time. It was accompanied by the image of bright sunlight and the stuffy smell of an unfamiliar room. Then there was the sharp pain at the back of your head again.

“That’d be easier to explain” he said, more to himself than to you. Then he stepped inside the chimney, careful not to hit his head against the stone arch. You stood still by the entrance, looking at him like he had gone absolutely mad. He seemed aware of it “Come in”

“What?”

He didn’t say anything else, just squeezed himself against the wall so you could fit. Only when you realized he might wait there the whole day for you to step inside did you tentatively join him.

“Hold tightly onto me, and whatever happens, don’t let go” he instructed rather sternly. Despite how respectfully distant he had been until then, he grabbed onto your wrists and put your arms around his torso. When you looked up at him, his eyes were trained on you “Please, I’m serious”

Oliver dug his hand on a pot near the chimney, a small trail of something akin to sand... ash? Falling from his fist. Your hold on him tightened in anticipation, or maybe just because you missed him. He then spoke an address loudly before dropping what he was holding onto the floor, his arms quickly holding onto your frame before the flames engulfed you both.

Oliver held you as you yelled and attempted to get away from his grip until it had all gone away. There was a feeling of vertigo coming up from deep inside the pit of your stomach, disorienting you as he guided you outside of the chimney. You fell to your knees, the fall softened by the soft carpet. Your mind was spiralling, and yet had enough time to remember the sound your shoes had made over the hard stone floor of the room you had come in a few minutes ago. It had been replaced by wood, covered by a soft rug that seemed to be quite old, its touch a bit rough. The basement room had turned itself into a modest living room, soft sunlight coming through the wide windows. You waited for the room so stop spinning before you started panicking. Maybe you were just a bit confused.

“What?” it escaped your lips, too many thoughts and questions going through your mind.

Oliver helped you get on your feet, despite your legs feeling numb aside from the tingling feeling spreading through them like rows of ants. You felt yourself being sat on the soft couch, Oliver’s hands placed on both sides of your face, analyzing your expression.

“You okay?”

“The room--” you managed to push out, throat dry.

“Does anything hurt?” he eyed you from head to toe, his hands going from your face to your shoulders, knees, as if checking that all your bones were in place.

“The room changed” you repeated, this time trying to put emphasis on it, but all Oliver gave you was a small nod.

“Seems like you are fine. Let me get you some water”

You grabbed his arm when you felt him get up, not entirely sure as to why. It was as if you were worried the world would disappear if you let him go. Even if your brain, with what little capacity for thought it had at the time, assumed this was his fault, you couldn’t help but to hold onto him. Oliver carefully peeled your fingers away from you and stood up, walking out of sight through what you assumed was the kitchen door. Your eyes wandered around the room, and you froze when you felt something move out of the corner of your eye. You didn’t want to look, for you were worried the pictures hanging on the wall were actually moving on their own.

You took your hands to your eyes and rested them there for a few seconds, that feeling of nausea more noticeable in the sudden darkness. You rubbed them and opened them again, and when the thousand small dots dissipated, the moving pictures were still there. You stood up and approached them, ignoring how a minute ago your legs had felt like jelly. They were all pictures of Oliver; in some he dressed in strange robes and awkwardly smiled to the camera, in others he was flying... over a broom? Then your eyes skimmed through the words plastered through the newspaper articles.

“This is the sport I play, is very popular” Oliver had come back, holding a glass of water. He hesitated before adding “In the magical world”

You turned to him, even if your eyes still wanted to remain on the pictures.

“Sorry?”

Oliver could tell your mind was not slowing down, and in fact this might be going as poorly as he had anticipated. He thought about the glass of water he was holding. About how that was the one he’d always give you when you would come over. About when you’d go back home and his room suddenly felt too empty, he’d let it rest there on his desk as a reminder you had been there with him. Sometimes his mother would come over later in the day and ask if she should take it with her to wash. He’d tell her no, and refuse to elaborate when she enquired further about it.

With a small sigh he let his hand let go of it, but it remained completely still in the air. For a long second you stared at the glass, and Oliver stared at you. You poked at the glass with a shaky finger, and having confirmed it to be levitating, your mind short-circuited and your hand instinctively pushed it to the floor with a loud gasp.

“Sorry” you blurted out, kneeling down about to pick up the pieces when Oliver stopped you. He gently held your wrist and tugged at it to help you straighten up.

“Careful”

Without letting go of you he pulled a long, wooden artefact from his back pocket. It made your heart hurt. Oliver inspected your reaction, and when he didn’t seem to see what he expected to, he simply waved it lightly and the pieces of glass reassembled themselves, the water on the floor filling it up by itself. The apparently perfectly new glass landed on your slightly trembling hand.

“You shouldn’t drink that, though” Oliver joked, and for a small second you smiled. Then, when the situation had fully dawned on you, you felt like throwing up.

You pushed the glass into Oliver’s hands and ran all the way to the downstairs bathroom, not bothering to close the door before you knelt on the cold tile floor in front of the toilet. You focused on steadying your heavy breathing, feeling your heart race faster than you had ever felt it. Or maybe you had. That time Oliver introduced himself to you at the store, when you had felt the same strange feeling of unease and panic. You heard Oliver stop at the door, watching you with worry in his eyes but too scared to get closer. It was then you felt the tears running down your cheeks.

“How did I know?” you asked him “How did I know where your bathroom was?”

The cold breeze had been somewhat soothing, a brief distraction before you had looked around and you realized where you were. You were standing across the street from your old house.

“Scotland weather is no better than England’s” Oliver said when he noticed light rain falling down “But you already know that” He was about to ask you if you’d rather go back in, but you simply sat down on the cold cement in front of his door, and so he sat next to you, wishing nothing more than an excuse to be close to you “My parents moved long time ago but I didn’t want to leave it...” he rubbed his hands together before saying “I don’t know, I thought maybe someday you would...”

“I would?”

You turned to look at him, unaware it was the first time since you arrived there that you were properly staring at him. He was aware, though. It made his heart stop.

“Thought that you might come back”

Your lip quivered, and you had to bite it down as you thought about what exactly it was that you wanted to say next.

“When?” you asked quietly “When was I here? With you?”

“Many times” he stared far away, his words coming out with a pained chuckle “You came over almost every day” He pressed his palms against his eyes before he breathed in deeply “Will you listen to me till the end?”

It did take a long time for Oliver to explain it all to you, long enough that the rain had soaked your clothes and the sky had turned too dark to see, street lamps lit. It all sounded ridiculous, impossible to believe if it weren’t for all the things you had gone through, and all the things that made sense then. Oliver’s private school, how he never wanted you to see his matches, the tape, where your sudden love for music had come from. He even made a point to apologize for getting mad at you when you had entered his room once as he was reading a magic book. It hadn’t been the story itself that had made you believe him, but the overwhelming feeling that something inside you had healed. Something you hadn’t known it was there. He let you sit there, taking it all in after he had finished, wanting to hold your hand but holding himself back.

“I love you” he spoke out of nowhere, and you had to turn to him to make sure the words had actually come from him “I don’t know what you’ll do after this, so I just need you to know that. I don’t want you to go away again without me being able to tell you”

Oliver hand reached out for your face, hesitantly brushing a strand of hair away from your face as if worried you’d move away. It was soft, yet heavy, as if he felt it was the last time he’d get to touch like this, again. He had thought about the last time he had seen you before you had started to avoid him. The last time he had held you, kissed you, passed his hands through your hair. Had he known they’d been the last he’d have fallen to his knees and begged you to please not go away. He was trying really hard to not do that at that exact moment too.

“Can I show you something? Inside?”

Oliver led you inside and up the stairs, and you knew you were heading for his room before you even got there. An uncontrollable urge to cry came over you when you stepped inside of it, you had to bring your hands to your eyes to stop it. The bed, the bookshelves, the smell... even the way his desk chair protested under your weight was so familiar to you. The silence was loud, only interrupted by the sound of the rain against his window. Oliver sat on the bed opposite you, and with trembling hands he took the guitar resting against the wall near his bed and propped it over his lap. The first chords shook you like lightning, an intense, almost painful warmth spreading through your chest.

He sang Fast Car for you, voice shaking and missing chords more times than you could notice just as he had done back in 1989. You sobbed from the first verse to the last, and even when you had buried your face in your hands he didn’t stop, even when he himself started choking up he pushed through till the end, hoping, wishing. When he finished, the last note seemed to hang in the heavy air of the room.

“Do you remember?” Oliver asked after clearing his throat.

You took a short look at him. His face was a mere blur through the tears.

“No” you admitted with a pained sob as you shook your head “It just hurts”

You didn’t see the way Oliver set his guitar down, passing a hand through his face, eyes red and full of frustration and pain. Then the sun peeked through the cloud and Oliver’s yellow curtains, engulfing the room in a golden hue. You saw the yellow bathing Oliver’s features, his messy bed and the posters on his wall, making your heart ache and head hurt. Moved by something you couldn’t bother to understand, you stood up from the chair and stepped towards the bed, hands reaching for Oliver’s face before you kissed him. Kissed him like he might disappear. Like he had, somehow, at some point. God, did your head hurt. You let go of him before he had time to kiss you back, his eyes lost for a second after he opened them to look at you. He saw your pained expression, and carefully brought his lips to your forehead.

“I’m sorry” he said, as if he knew “It hurts a lot?”

You nodded. When your eyes found his it felt like it hurt a bit less. You kissed him again, softer this time, as if testing the level of pain you could endure. He kissed you back, albeit with a bit of restraint. Instead he just let you kiss him, one brave hand on your face while the other balled into a fist on his messy bedsheets. He let you touch his face, his neck, shoulders, and he didn’t have to wonder if you could remember. He had kissed you a hundred times, held you tight against him for countless seconds. He knew the way you touched him, the paths your fingers would follow, the way you tasted. And this was all different. Heavier.

“Stop it now” he whispered as he pulled away ever so slightly, having noticed the way your lips pursed after another burst of pain pierced your skull.

Without a word he simply dragged you into the bed with him, letting you rest next to him, hand never leaving your face. His thumb drew circles on your temple, hoping it might ease the pain. It wasn’t worth it, he thought. Not if it’d be like this. For a while you both remained like that, and while comfortable, you couldn’t shake the idea that there was something missing.

“Can you play some music?” you asked, absentmindedly playing with the buttons of his shirt.

Oliver smiled softly against your hair.

“What about some Spandau Ballet” he asked before he used his wand, and low music started playing softly through the room.

Oliver thought then as he held you closer and softly pressed his lips against your forehead that it’d be okay if you didn’t remember. This was enough, and the future had way more to offer you both than he could imagine. He’d have time to think about that tomorrow. You’d still be there then, and that was enough.

-

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