Chapter Text
Alekhine's Defense
Alekhine’s Defense is a hypermodern opening from Black’s perspective. Black dares White to grab space in the center, and intends to then attack to undermine White's central pawns to create a hole in their defenses. However, if White manages to effectively support their central pawns, they will enjoy a strong advantage in the center.
There’s only so much of these events Oliver could stomach before he needed to leave.
It was a slow crawl to the finish line; each year, he’d be expected to participate in about a dozen events where he’d rub elbows with important quidditch officials and event coordinators. He’d smile, play their game, and for what it was worth, he was rather good at it. He could smile and make nice, even when they smelled heavy of strange potions and overwhelming perfumes. He’d let them talk about their accolades and ignore his because it would later mean sponsorship or getting his name in the right mouths. He could do this, at least for now, because he had a reason to - and a manager who could help him achieve it.
That being said, it only went so far.
Eventually, he’d go quiet, and they’d tell him he seemed off tonight—they’d ask him to lighten up, drop a hand to the scruff of his neck and hand him another drink. Oliver would smile back and drink it because if he didn’t make it onto Puddlemere United in the next few years, he’d never make it. They had a strict cap for starting ages, and he’d been traded up three times since graduation - the Tutshill Tornadoes, Kenmare Kestrels, and then the Wimbourne Wasps—he’d been approached by the Falmouth Falcons but had decided on the Wasps after a late night drinking with the recruiter.
He knew his trajectory. It was all about putting in the work and getting there, which were some of the most difficult parts of this process.
He shuffles to the back of the party slowly, ready to sneak out the exit when no one is looking—his manager, most of all, who usually watches him like a viper ready to strike. This was very important, she’d stress, but the words began to feel a bit hollow after the fifth “very important event” of the weekend. This was the last opportunity to schmooze before the annual charity event season kicked off, and until then, they’d be embroiled in the preseason games to kick things off. He had just another year before he turned 26, and if Puddlemere United wasn’t impressed by then, they’d look elsewhere for their new upstart Keeper.
The heels of his well-glossed shoes scuff quietly against the floor as he shifts closer to it.
All Oliver had ever wanted was to play for Puddlemere. It had been hard fought, but it was all he ever wanted, so he knew it was worth it. It was worth the early morning runs, the practices in the cold, the missed out dates, all of it. It would be worth it because he wouldn’t have skipped out on that much good if there wasn’t better in the wind. He knew that’s not how the world worked.
Oliver was an optimist, and it hadn’t served him wrong. If he kept pushing himself, working harder, straining, training, and putting in his time, something would be waiting for him on the other side. A wife, maybe two kids, but more importantly: he’d be the Keeper for a team with a real shot at the cup. He’d play his seasons, make a mark, and be Oliver Wood to people who mattered. Capital O, capital W.
He was doing very well and should be proud of all the hard work that had gone into this. So many hours spent, social gatherings forwent for more ‘important’ ones last-minute—he could almost taste victory.
However, it was hard to feel all that good about it. He was going to parties and bumping elbows with officials who may or may not have sway in his potential future. He knew he had to put in his dues, but it didn’t feel good when those dues were in the shape of portly wizards with thick mustaches and beady little eyes who had called him every other name under the sun except his own. They’d look at him with derision like he was a commodity and not part of the conversation—some meat-headed Quidditch player. Not all of them, but enough. It felt bad when they’d mention his uncle or brother, who played in the league and did their big things and forgot that he wanted to do the same thing. Eventually, that would be his place - they’d tell the next upstart Keeper that he looked a lot like Oliver Wood did in his twenties, or he played real good but not quite like Puddlenere’s finest Keeper in ages. It was nothing against them, he was sure they’d be good, but he wanted to be the standard - he wanted to be the next bar being raised, so people would have something to work for.
Was it really so much for him to be an inspiration to someone?
“Leaving already?”
The voice is all too familiar, but Oliver can’t quite place it. It’s like something out of a memory or a dream that sounds like he knows it but knows that he doesn’t. Like something is off.
Against his better judgment, Oliver looks.
Marcus Flint had not aged a day since their seventh year.
No, that’s not fair.
He had aged.
Just not the way he’d expected him to.
They’d been going around the same circles for ages at this point, but they didn’t cross paths often. Oliver knows this because at every event he’d seen the other man’s name at, he was notoriously absent. Marcus Flint didn’t go to events, even when he said he’d be there, even when it was for charity. Simply stated, he was an arse, just as he’d ever been.
But Oliver had to bump elbows with everyone, even the prick from his year who had done everything to shove his elbows into Oliver’s business and make his world and life a little bit more difficult.
But Marcus flint had changed, and it wasn’t hard to see how. He was always a little taller, but he wasn’t skinny like he used to be - he’d been playing the same game Oliver had for just as long, and it’s hard not to see the effects of it on your body after some time. He looked good, fitter, and healthier, like he’d gotten some sun after all these years. His hair was long and looked better kept these days, which wasn’t something Oliver noticed, but he’d always called Flint a slimy git—it hadn’t come out of nowhere. The other thing was weird. His voice was still the same, but not as sharp - Oliver had long suspected he’d been putting on an accent in school because he’d sounded distinctly less Welsh after the first year. (At the time, no one believed him, and eventually, he didn’t even consider himself. Oliver knew better, but ultimately, he’d had other things to worry about. You’re not always going to be twelve and concerned about the stupid, inane shit your classmate is doing or dissecting the why.)
Marcus Flint looked different in all the ways you’d expect and then some that he hadn’t expected. There was confidence in his expression before but never earned. The man before him looked assured, not cocky. He looked like someone at ease, despite his spotty history,
This isn’t to say they hadn’t played against each other, so in some ways, he knew Marcus quite a lot better than most people realized. He was a notoriously difficult Chaser - better than anyone in the league right now - and made Oliver’s life a living hell on the pitch in every way he could. That is, if he wasn’t immediately pulled from the game. He’d racked up more flags and been removed from the field more times than the Broadmoor twins - and they’d held the record for the last thirty years since they left the Falcons. Marcus’ transfer to the same team had been quick, snatched up before anyone else could even try - though Oliver isn’t convinced they would have if they had the chance.
He was a problem - talented but pissing it away with his anger issues and an inflated ego. He was nearly kicked from the league last year after throwing another chaser off her broom. It was a close call, on her part, from what he gathered. Oliver had been watching the game on the telly but missed the altercation. Charlie Weasley had recounted it to him, but it was one of those weird moments you had to be there. Oliver doubted it - he was a pissant in school, and he was a pissant now, on a public scale. He was more interested in the outcome, but nothing had happened—he stayed off the field for the rest of the season and started back up this season like nothing had happened.
Maybe it was money. The Flints were notorious for tossing money at the league, and it was probably to keep him playing. It would be just like him, and Oliver knew that, unfortunately, that was just how the league worked. You could get ahead a bunch of different ways - most of all, money could grease some wheels for you. Oliver would never—but even if he would, it’s not like he could. He had to save his wages, pay insane London rent, and in the off-season, he did events and appearances to make extra coin to ensure he could keep his gear and broom up to date. Not everyone was blessed with endless coffers.
Marcus was a familiar face, but not in a good way, like a friend or family member. He was a familiar nuisance, and Oliver had been so damned close to leaving without making a splash. He hopes this doesn’t get in the way of it.
“I was hoping to,” he answers quickly, grabbing a swirling drink off the table. Just a moment; he’d entertain conversation briefly but not for too long.
“Pity, I think the party will really miss you.”
Oliver bites back the urge to tell him to Piss off by instead taking a sip of his drink. It’s too sweet - there’s something about enchanted drinks that boils the flavors all down to dull sweetness that he can’t get over. It even dulls the alcohol, to an extent - not enough to not get drunk, but enough that you don’t realize it until it’s too late. There’s nothing wrong with a good Muggle whiskey now and again - wizards were slow to adapt, but surely this was an exception?
“You played well at the charity game, Wood. I was impressed.”
“You weren’t playing,” Oliver says immediately, too aware of the chaser’s position until recently.
“Does that mean I can’t come to watch?” He says, through a half smile, “it was for a good cause, you know.”
Oliver does know. He hadn’t been able to donate much, but he had convinced a few school friends to buy plates for the banquet. The Janus Thackey and the Smethwyck ward had been working with the league for ages because the game brought a lot of joy to the permanent residents—the more they could do for them, the better. Oliver’s mum had been in there after a particularly bad rebounded obliviation; she was a little better now, but things still came in very foggy. Oliver did what he could, which wasn’t much—but it was more than the Flints tossing some coin to get back in their good graces before the season.
“Well, thank you for your support, I guess.”
“You’ve been practicing,”
Oliver stares at him: What does he want? Of course, he’d been practicing before he could even walk, and he only had another year to impress Puddlemere United. Was he not supposed to be practicing? “Yeah, I guess so.”
“I’d love to do some rounds with you sometime. Whenever we have some downtime between games, that is.”
Oliver scoffs. Really? “I’d literally do anything else other than that, Flint.” He bites back, finishing off the swirling, sparkling drink. The glass disappears in a puff of smoke as it’s emptied.
To his surprise, he’s not met with another snarky comment back - but a crooked smile and a light laugh. “Think about it. It’d be cool to get out there and give it all we got like old times.”
“Old times, like you blurting the Weasley twins to fly into me in the middle of the game? You’ve nearly given me head trauma more than held a conversation, Flint.”
There was a pause, and Oliver was provided with another drink though he was not entirely sure how. He didn’t see one of the waiters come by, but this one was different - swirling gold and purple in his hand as it smoked over the rim. It smells sweet but also like currant, and he can’t be helped there. He loved currant.
“Would you like to change that?” Marcus asks after a moment, and Oliver is about to say no and bid him goodbye - except something about the look in his eye tells him it is more than just some passing offer.
Not just the usual friendly words you exchange between old acquaintances looking to touch base. Something… else.
Of course, that’s not the case, but he also can’t help but shake the weird feeling he gets thinking about it. Like he’s supposed to … say yes, or something.
It’s Marcus fucking Flint. He couldn’t give less of a shit if he wanted to be friends now, he’d spent the last decade or so being a massive pill, and Oliver knew this was more of the same.
He certainly didn’t care if that wasn’t the case, either.
Oliver doesn’t get a chance to respond because a tall, stocky player from Bulgaria comes up beside Marcus and taps his elbow. The two bow their heads together and say something that Oliver can’t hear (he also doesn’t care about this and instead uses the excuse to drink more of the sweet drink—
“Oliver, we’re going to have to rain check on this one, I’m apparently needed,” Flint says, and for all intents and purposes, he sounds regretful. Like he'd wanted to keep talking, but why would he?
Oliver gives a scoff; he doesn’t mean to be so off-putting, but it’s hard when it comes to someone like Marcus Flint. Someone who made his life actively more difficult every step of the way, and suddenly now he wants to reconnect? Is he on a PR tour to win over every person he’s ever wronged? Oliver wouldn’t be part of it if that was the case - maybe don’t wrong people in the first place.
Marcus is gone before he can say anything. And Oliver figures it’s for the better - what would he say, fuck your rain check? He finishes the second drink and looks over his shoulder - catching a glimpse of the Bulgarian player’s robes as he looks around, instead focused on the apparition spot by the coat check.
Honestly, maybe he would eventually get to tell Marcus to take his PR tour bullshit and shove it—and maybe that would feel rather nice.