Work Text:
Marcus Flint hates Oliver Wood. He tries to, at least.
But Oliver is interesting, and kind, and his hair is perfect.
They’ve just played their last quidditch match against each other, and it hurts.
“Flint?”
Marcus turns. It’s Oliver. He tries to glare but it doesn’t last, the moment too bittersweet to hold onto the guise of hatred.
“Good game.” Oliver holds out his hand.
Marcus takes it, hoping the firm handshake can carry all the words of goodbye. “Good game.” His heart aches.
He doesn’t hate Oliver Wood, but sometimes he wonders if it’d be easier if he could.