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To his credit, Barry hadn’t asked to be sat next to Oliver Queen for Potions. It’s not his fault that the other couldn’t show up on time and got landed with him as a partner. He just doesn’t need to look so damn grumpy about it.
“That one,” Barry says, sliding the small bowl of pre-juiced squill bulb over to the other teen with his free hand and stirring the potion with the other, rolling his eyes when Oliver just hums in reply, practically glaring at the bowl as he tips the liquid into the swirling cauldron.
What Oliver has against him, he has no idea. It’s been this way since first year. Not that he’s ever been outright nasty to Barry or anything. Well, not in a long time, anyway. But… well, for whatever reason, he just seems to hold some weird grudge, that Barry can’t quite figure out.
Weirdly enough, in their first week at Hogwarts, they’d been shaping up to be pretty good friends. Oliver had seemed nice enough, they shared some interests, made each other laugh. So the switch in attitude certainly taken Barry by surprise at the time.
It doesn’t help that by then, a budding crush had already started to form on Barry’s side.
But then on the Monday of their second week (and, okay, it might be a little bit pathetic that he remembers the exact day, but whatever), when Barry had gone to join the Slytherin at his table, Oliver was less than pleased to see him. That is, if ‘less than pleased’ is the right term for telling Barry to stop being so damn clingy and being met by a chorus of laughter by a group of Oliver’s peers that Barry didn’t know the name of, Barry turning tail back to the Hufflepuff table with his tail between his legs and his face scarlet.
So, yeah. Needless to say, Barry’s not exactly thrilled to have him as a potions partner, either. Even so, he’s trying his best to make the best of a bad situation. He’s trying. Oliver isn’t helping, though.
Fully aware that they have to wait a bit before adding the next ingredient (a fact which Professor Wells had stressed no less than six times during the first ten minutes of the class), Barry rocks on his feet a little, chancing a glance over at the older student.
The thing is, Oliver always tends to avoid his eyes, during the brief, stilted conversations that he had. So no one can blame him for gaping a little when he finds that Oliver’s watching him right back, both boys ducking their heads as soon as their eyes connect, a hot heat forming up the back of Barry’s neck.
What the hell was that?
***
“You’re thinking too hard.”
Barry snaps his head up, breath catching the back of his throat as Iris slides onto the bench next to him with a quiet chuckle, nudging him playfully. “Something on your mind, Bear?”
Rather than answer straight away, Barry stares intently at the dark patch of grass in the middle of the courtyard where several students have gathered to soak up the sun. And there he is – Oliver Queen. Head boy. Beloved by his entire house. Surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls in various coloured ties, and clearly sponging all of the attention he can get. They should stop, Barry thinks, clenching his teeth. Lest it goes to his already overinflated ego.
“Do you think that someone can just hate a person for no reason?” Barry asks, startling Iris beside him. Apparently, his best friend had given up all hope of him talking again.
Still, when she follows his line of sight, she lets out a quiet sigh. “What did he do this time?” she asks, not even appearing remotely surprised. Barry supposes it speaks volumes, but what it’s saying, he’s not entirely sure.
He shrugs in reply. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I just… I don’t get him.”
When he glances beside him, Iris looks torn on whether or not she wants to say something, before apparently deciding to leave it.
Barry’s not sure he wants to know what it was, so he doesn’t ask.
***
He doesn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the week. So consumed with trying to work out the deal with Oliver, he messes up in several of his classes.
Rather than turning a rubber band into a paperclip in Transfiguration like he was supposed to, he’d somehow ended up with a misshaped eraser with the terrifying likeness of an ogre’s face.
Rather than casting a simple disarm spell on Cisco in Defence Against the Dark Arts (normally his strongest subject), he’d somehow managed to disarm himself, sending his wand smacking into the back of Caitlin’s head. He’d have to buy her something from Honeydukes on their next Hogsmeade weekend, he thinks to himself, swallowing thickly as she meets his deeply apologetic gaze with a glare.
It’s not until Friday, when Iris manages to easily get the upper hand on him during a game of wizard’s chess in the Great Hall, that she finally breaks her silence.
“Alright, you’ve been weird all week. Spill.”
“I’m not being weird,” he mutters, glaring at the pawn currently being brutally mauled by Iris’ knight and not even sounding remotely convincing to himself.
It’s not that Iris can’t kick his ass at this game. She has, on several occasions, wiped the floor with him. If there’s one thing Barry admires about the older girl, it’s her intelligence. Which, unfortunately, comes hand-in-hand with the ability to observe Barry far too easily. He never was good at lying to Iris.
But then again, it’s not like he knows what’s got him feeling so wound up about his interaction with Oliver this week. It hadn’t been all that different from the norm.
Maybe Barry’s just growing sick of the game that they’ve both been playing. Pretending not to notice when he can practically feel Oliver’s eyes on his ass, attempting to hide his blush when the other’s gorgeous blue eyes flicker over to his own. Ignoring the way that his heart sinks in his chest every time Oliver breaks contact, and goes on to pretend that the interaction never actually happened in the first place.
“Oliver, huh?”
With a loud sigh, Barry’s glare could practically burn a hole through the chess board. “Tell me to stop it with this stupid crush. The guy’s an asshole.”
Iris hums, balancing her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand in order to balance herself as she observes Barry carefully – and why does he suddenly feel like he’s being dissected and held up for display to the entire school?
“You know, he’s not that bad,” Iris replies, giving Barry a knowing glance. “Pretty easy on the eyes, too. If he wasn’t too busy staring at you with heart eyes whenever you’re around, I might have taken a shot at him myself. I mean, those arms.”
Barry raises his eyebrows, ducking his head when his entire face begins to feel hotter all of a sudden. His first thought is to argue that Iris already has a boyfriend, but then he blanches immediately when he truly realises what she said.
“It’s not- he doesn’t- that’s not what he does,” he manages to stutter through the feeling that he’s about to choke on his own tongue at any given moment.
“No?” Iris chuckles. “Because that’s what everyone’s been saying, and it’s definitely what it looks like from my point of view. It’s only you that doesn’t see it, dummy.”
Not trusting his own voice, Barry returns to the game, dropping the subject from conversation entirely. Iris seems content to let it simmer, smoothing down her robe before carrying on with their game.
***
And simmer it does.
He spends a lot more time paying attention to the way that Oliver interacts with him. For example, Potions the following Monday, trying to look at it from Iris’ perspective.
Oliver doesn’t seem hateful towards him, he notes. Actually, it’s more discomfort than anything. Has he had it so wrong the entire time? Has he let five years of unresolved tension build up in his head into something it’s not? If so, what exactly is it that Oliver’s so uncomfortable over?
It’s not until the end of the class that Barry finally sucks up the courage. With their Hogsmeade visit so close, it’s kind of the perfect opportunity to maybe try to squeeze the information out of the other. Maybe this can be put to rest once and for all, and everyone can move on with their lives.
“Do you have plans for Saturday?” Barry asks as the classroom begins to clear out, only a few students straggling, thankfully far too wrapped up in their own conversations to pay Oliver and Barry any notice.
Oliver’s face the picture of confusion, Barry almost laughs, if it wasn’t for the nerves fluttering in his stomach. Still, he waits. Observes. What does he have to lose, really? If Iris was wrong and Oliver really just disliked him as much as Barry thought he did, what harm can it do? Everyone already thinks Barry’s weird, anyway.
“It’s… Hogsmeade weekend,” Oliver tells him, cocking his brow.
Hardening his resolve, Barry presses on. “Yeah, I… that was kinda my point,” he says, hand rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “I was just… I wanted to ask if you wanted to, um.” Okay, this time he might actually choke on his tongue, the way that his throat is tightening around it. “Ifyouwantedtogetadrinktogether,” he spits out, words all running together as he cringes internally.
He’s not sure what he was expecting. For Oliver to sneer, maybe. To snort in disgust. Maybe even laugh in his face. It certainly isn’t the fond chuckle ringing out from the other, and Barry’s eyes snap up to meet a softened gaze.
“Better be a damn good drink. I’ve been waiting since first year for it,” Oliver teases, nudging his arm lightly, and Barry flushes once more. “It’s a date.”
“It’s- no, it’s- not a date,” Barry calls after the retreating boy. His words might as well fall on deaf ears as he hears Oliver laugh once more.
He has to admit, it’s a pleasant sound.
***
It’s totally a date.
His first sign, really, occurs before he even goes to meet Oliver. He’d spent far too much time picking out his outfit and fixing his hair than normal. And if he’d maybe used a tiny charm to help hold it in place, then no one really needs to know.
But it’s not until they’re crammed inside the small coffee shop that Barry’s internally cursing himself for picking the place. What the hell possessed him to suggest Madam Puddifoots for their meetup? Eddie brings Iris here on dates all the time. He knew this going in.
“So… not a date, huh?” Oliver asks, putting voice to his internal dialogue and leaning back on his chair, two steaming mugs of tea being ignored between them.
Choosing to ignore the comment for now, Barry begins to tear his napkin into little pieces, completely stuck for words. He stills, though, when Oliver’s hand comes to cover his own on the table, and it’s like his skin has been ignited all of a sudden as the napkin falls from his fingers in his loosened grip.
“Barry,” he says, waiting patiently for Barry to look him in the eyes. When he finally does, he notes that Oliver’s wearing a more serious expression than he’s ever seen on the other boy in the entire time he’s known him. “I’m sorry. For making you feel uncomfortable. And… for how I acted, before.”
“Um, before?” Barry practically squeaks in reply, mentally cursing himself.
Oliver even looks ashamed, running the fingers of his free hand through his short blond hair. “First year. And… after that, I guess. I… was scared. You always made me feel things – things that I wasn’t old enough to understand. And when I couldn’t understand, I got mad, and I, uh. Lashed out.”
Thinking back to that moment at the Slytherin table, Oliver’s sudden change in attitude – it makes so much more sense, now.
Clearing his throat, Oliver pushes on. “And then, I guess… I was ashamed. And you just seemed so… mad at me. Rightfully so. I was… an asshole, and there’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t m-“ Barry goes to protest, but he swallows down the rest of his words. He was a little mad at him, wasn’t he? After all, he’d let it affect his perception of Oliver’s behaviour after that one moment. Instead, he just nods, giving him a soft smile. “Water under the bridge, right? Maybe we can, um, have a fresh start?”
Oliver grins, his eyes crinkling at the sides, and it’s one of the most beautiful sights that Barry’s ever seen, making his heart flutter in his chest a little. “I’d like that.”
***
The rest of the day passes by pretty fast – the saying that time flies when you’re having fun never ringing truer.
As it turns out, Oliver actually does have a sense of humour. More than what he’d caught a glimpse of during their brief first year friendship. So much so, that they’re still laughing as they make their way back through the entrance hall, arms bumping together as they tease each other.
It doesn’t occur to Barry until they reach the end of the kitchen corridor where the entrance to his common room is located that Oliver was walking him back, but it causes a rush of warmth in his chest and makes him grin all the wider when he stops outside the small nook.
He doesn’t quite want it to be over yet. Unfortunately, though, it’s getting late. Curfew is in about half an hour, and Oliver still needs to navigate his way back to the dungeons – quite a feat when there are excited students crowding the halls, still riding the high from their day out.
“So… is this the part where I kiss you goodnight?” Oliver asks, leaning against the wall with a smirk lining his lips as Barry feels his back bump with the stone.
Rolling his eyes with a chuckle, Barry’s about to quip back that he’ll have to try again on their next date, when he catches the look in his eyes, and… oh. He was being serious, Barry realises, breath catching the back of his throat as Oliver moves in, their lips inches apart.
He doesn’t press in, though, until Barry nods somewhat shakily.
And, oh, god. Even the mere press of their lips when Oliver pushes them together is enough to send his head spinning and his adrenaline soaring, and he grips onto Oliver’s bicep in order to stop himself from collapsing on the spot. Oliver’s hands skim over his hips to hold him in place, trailing tingles over his abdomen with his thumbs, and Barry deepens the kiss, their tongues eager to explore.
Even when they break apart, Barry can still feel the tingling sensation on his lips, and he doesn’t even realise that he’s brought his fingers up to touch them until he hears Oliver’s chuckle.
“Don’t worry, I plan on doing that a lot more often,” the other teases, taking one of Barry’s hands and bringing it up to his lips in a soft kiss. The sheer sensuality catches him off guard, and he just about manages to stop himself from stumbling backwards. “Unless you have any objections?”
Barry lets out a breath, before leaning in once more, letting his lips communicate what he can’t verbally, pouring every inch of warmth that he feels towards the other in the kiss.
“That answer your question?” he murmurs against his lips, arms winding up and around the back of his neck.
“Mm, nope. Try again.”
Oliver might end up getting detention for breaking curfew the next day, but he just gives Barry a wink when he retells the battle of wits between him and Professor Wilson, and tells him that it was entirely worth it.
Barry can’t help but agree.