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Montague turned Percy into a Prefect pin, during a Transfiguration class with a distracted professor. Over the next ten days, Oliver wore that pin everywhere he went. He discovered that he really liked talking to Percy when Percy couldn’t talk back, but, ultimately, when Percy becomes human again and apparently doesn’t remember anything, Oliver is left thinking that maybe it was for the best; after all, they don’t really have anything in common, do they?
***
“Finally done staring at that bit of scrap, are you?” a voice called as Oliver walked past. He’d been lost in thought since leaving the boys’ dormitory, wandering with the vague idea of heading to the Quidditch pitch for some airtime.
Oliver jerked around to see Marcus Flint leaning, arms crossed, up against a window in a nearby alcove. “It wasn't just some bit of scrap, you arse—!”
“Do you still think he's handsome?” Flint interrupted.
Oliver blinked. “Wha- huh?!” he replied, feeling tongue-tied and off-step.
“Was just thinking that if you thought he was so great, you'd still be upstairs with him.” Flint’s arched eyebrow left no doubt what he thought Oliver would be doing with Percy upstairs in their dorm. Oliver’s face flushed hot and pink, and he cursed his complexion.
“That's— I don't— Where did you hear that?!”
Flint scoffed. “Are you joking? Even if I hadn’t caught you talking to yourself, the whole school’s been wondering if you’re fit to keep playing, what with all of your obvious head trauma.”
“My head is fine!” Oliver snapped. And then, processing the rest of that statement, “…what exactly did you hear?”
Flint shrugged a shoulder, straightening up from the wall. He took a step closer, then another, until they were close enough for Oliver to feel the size difference between them. Oliver himself was no wilting flower, but up close like this, he could really see why Marcus was so often referred to as ‘troll-like’. He was massive, especially in the shoulders and thighs.
Oliver wondered if he would even be able to reach all the way around him with his arms. Maybe he should ask for a training regime?
“You think he’s handsome, in his own way. You like how his hair gets mussed from sleeping. You like how he listens to you...” Flint trailed off, the characteristic smirk at the corner of his mouth drawing Oliver’s eye.
Oliver swallowed hard. There was a knot at the back of his throat, and his mouth was dry. He became aware of his sweaty palms and tingly skin. Was he sick?
“What’s it to you then?” he asked, trying to follow the conversation.
Flint’s smirk unfolded into a grimace that slashed across his face as he shrugged again, the movement like a nundu shifting its weight.
“Only curious,” he said, stepping back and away. “Ten days ago you were ready to jump down my throat, and I didn’t even cast the spell. Now you seem awfully cavalier.”
Oliver grimaced. He had been a bit rude, but quite frankly he was working on a back debt of rudeness from the serpentine house and it had been a stressful day.
“Right, well. Sorry. For jumping down your throat in class, I suppose.”
That damn smirk was back, teasing up just the corners of Flint’s pink lips. Flint dropped his gaze to Oliver’s throat, bare from where he’d ripped off his tie and undone the first few buttons earlier.
He swallowed hard again. The moment stretched as Flint’s dark gaze returned to Oliver’s. “I don’t really mind.”
Oliver blinked, brow furrowing. “You don’t?”
Flint’s tongue peeked out to quickly wet his lips, and Oliver found himself distracted once again. Flint, apparently done talking, turned to walk down the hall branching off from the path Oliver had been headed down.
“See you around,” he called over his shoulder.
Oliver was left standing, confused, and alone. He had the strangest feeling that Marcus Flint was up to something.
***
Over the course of the next few days, Oliver became aware of being watched.
Not in moments of isolation; it wasn’t the uncomfortable sensation of being observed when there weren’t supposed to be any eyes to do the observing. Nor was it the hunting gaze of a predator.
It was curious, mischievous. It was enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck as if every nerve ending he had were at attention. It had him blushing a furious rose every time he felt that gaze and looked up to meet it.
Marcus Flint was watching him, and Oliver couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why.
***
“Oliver!” Katie called, as she stepped through the portrait hole. She was wearing casual robes, just back from Hogsmede, with her bag hooked on her shoulder and a large package cradled in her arms.
“How was the village?” he asked, relaxing his writing hand for a moment. He still had a few inches to write for this essay, but he could afford a bit of a break.
“Fine; the usual. Alicia got stopped by Filch on the way back in. The Weasleys were going to distract him from searching her pockets before I came ahead.”
Oliver tilted his head to the side, bemused. “You didn’t stay with her?”
Katie blushed, avoiding his gaze. “Well, I knew she didn’t have anything contraband on her.” She coughed. “Anyway! This was outside. Has your name on it.”
The package she dropped in his lap was lumpy, brown paper tied with twine. The card tucked between the two did indeed have his name, written on a piece of parchment alongside someone’s family crest. A bear, stood on its back legs, teeth bared in a snarl.
Confused but curious, Oliver untied the twine and gently parted the wrappings to reveal soft, green fabric. He blinked, missing Katie’s snort as he pulled out the jumper. It looked like it would be a bit large on him, roomier in the shoulder than he was used to, Soft, though. Comfortable.
It wasn’t new either; that or someone had liberally doused it in Amortentia before dropping it off. Oliver felt his shoulders relax into the squashy cushion of his chair as he breathed in pine and leather.
“Well,” said Katie, amused for reasons Oliver couldn’t quite place, “have a nice night, Oliver.”
She walked away, shaking her head and leaving Oliver to return to his essay. If he kept the sweater wrapped around his shoulders for the rest of the night, well, that was his own business.
***
The thing was…
The thing was that Oliver was aware that most people would not call Marcus Flint handsome.
His teeth, although clean, were crooked. He was large, though not fat. His face was generally settled into either a scowl or a smirk.
But, and Oliver could not believe he’d had the thought, it turned out that Marcus Flint had some charming points, too.
He was good with animals, for one thing. It had been a surprise the first time he’d watched those big hands gently cradling a mouse in Transfiguration, but Marcus had looked perfectly comfortable letting the little thing scamper about his palm.
Which, of course, brought to mind all of the times Oliver had watched Marcus’ hands and thighs grip his broom, flying through the air more gracefully than he ought to, windswept hair brushing over his brow, and all of his teeth showing in a bright grin.
He was good with subjects that necessitated a bit of physicality: Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures, he knew, the Slytherin’s captain maintained marks near the top of their year. Oliver couldn’t really judge him for failing in other areas, could he?
If Marcus wanted to fly around looking fit and raising an army of crups and herbs, then, well, that actually didn’t sound too bad.
But, and here’s the important part, Oliver didn’t actually know Marcus Flint all that well. The key to his observations was just that: they were bits and pieces that Oliver had derived from noticing Marcus in the halls, in classes, at games, and at mealtimes. The kind of osmosis that you couldn’t help but learn about someone sharing close quarters with you for six years.
***
Oliver did know one detail about Marcus Flint that not many others did.
“Knew you’d look good in my jumper.” The gravel in his voice sent shivers down Oliver’s spine even as Marcus’ mouth pressed a kiss beneath his ear. One of his big hands teased along the hem of the jumper, the other pressed into the wall at Oliver’s side, pinning him between the stone and Marcus’ body.
Oliver tilted his head back, eyes closed and hands clutching at Marcus’ broad shoulders.
They should not be doing this here, now, in one of the hidden alcoves infamous among students for exactly this purpose. With anyone else it wouldn’t matter, but Flint? If his team knew, he’d never hear the end of it.
Oliver gasped, eyes slitting open at the gentle nip of Marcus’ teeth against his jaw. He was breathing hard, mind whirling with a thousand thoughts. “We should… we should talk about this.”
Marcus hummed against his throat and Oliver’s fingers spasmed. “Alright,” he answered.
But Oliver wasn’t really listening anymore, as Marcus’ hand had made contact with the skin of his torso, his lips dragging against his Adam’s apple, and, quite frankly, they had all the time in the world to talk, but only so much time before someone got suspicious about this particularly secluded corner.
His fingers curled into Marcus’ short hair and tugged. Just before their mouths connected again, Oliver muttered a quick, “Later.”
After all, Marcus excelled at physical tasks.
And, it turned out, kissing was no exception.