I Love You, Melancholy

Author's Notes: Don't own them still!

Key:

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ = Scene/Time Change (Same day)

------------------------------------------------------------- = Day(s) Later

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Could the weather honestly get any worse? Oliver didn’t think so. Even with the bad weather, it looked like many of the students were still heading to Hogsmeade that Halloween. He, too, was planning on going, but he knew that he was going to get drenched. The rain had started that past week, just light drizzles at first, until it had turned into a full-blown, relentless downpour. He was glad that he didn’t have Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures, because from what he heard from his friends, the rain was making the courses absolute nightmares.

When Oliver arrived in Hogsmeade he darted as quickly as he could into Honeydukes, since he wanted to buy himself some more candy. Despite how bad it was for him he knew that a little bit here and there didn’t hurt, and since there was a game coming up, he would need the sugar to help keep him awake to work on his plays. Since they had just been notified that their opposing team was switching from Slytherin to Hufflepuff, on account of Malfoy’s injury, he had to change his entire strategy. Not only was he counting on their being rain, but he figured that the large Slytherin players would be bogged down by it, but since Hufflepuff had a lot of thinner, taller players (like Cedric himself), the rain would actually probably be an advantage for them.

Not to mention that Harry had been acting weird lately, but that was probably something else entirely. He always was acting weird for some reason or another.

Shaking those thoughts out of his head, Oliver looked around Honeydukes, trying to find his peppermint sticks. Honeydukes only sold the candy canes during Christmas, but, lucky for him, they sold their peppermint sticks year-round. He didn’t know what he would do if they didn’t have them! Chocolate could only do so much for him; especially since he was so picky about what kinds he ate.

The Gryffindor finally spotted them, moving toward the little stand with a smile on his face. When he felt inside his pocket he realized he only had a one galleon and a few sickles on him, which shortened the amount that he could buy. As they were three sickles each, he could still buy five of them and still have enough to get himself a thing of butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. Sometimes Oliver disliked the fact that he didn’t have a lot of money like some of his friends, but then he remembered Percy, who was significantly worse off than he was, and that made him appreciate what money he had. His birthday was coming up in little over a week, but he had asked his parents to save that money for all the necessary fees for trying out for Puddlemere. If he didn’t get onto that team that summer, he had no idea what he was going to do…

Oliver decided to grab just four peppermint sticks this time, figuring that every sickle saved was going to get him that much closer. Just thinking about being able to try out for Puddlemere made him grin. This grin didn’t wipe off of his face until he walked back outside after paying, because the rain was absolutely torrential.

“Shit!”

It was a mad dive to the Three Broomsticks. When Oliver stopped in front of the door he had to wait for someone to come out, almost diving in once they were out of the way. He really should have been paying attention in Charms when they had learned how to dry things off with that hot air charm. All he could remember was that it had a madly complicated wand motion. When had that been? Oh, yes! The game against Slytherin the year before.

Rubbing his forehead and brushing the stray hairs there away in the process (they were getting a bit too long; it was time for a cut), Oliver made his way over to the counter and ordered himself a frothy mug of butterbeer, turning around and checking to see where an available seat was. The only one he saw was near the window, where he also happened to notice Flint, Pucey and Higgs sitting. Not exactly where he wanted to sit, especially since he had a feeling that the other captain had deliberately delayed their match, using Malfoy’s injury as an excuse.

It irritated him.

Nonetheless, Oliver walked over to the little table and took a seat, shrugging off his cloak. It was soaked, and he was glad to be rid of it—unlike in Honeydukes, where he had to keep the wet thing on him. It was one thing when it was Quidditch; he didn’t mind the wet gear. Here, though, when it could be helped? He wasn’t going to pass up on that. The Gryffindor glanced out the window, the oddly entrancing sound of the rain pattering against it being interrupted by the raucous laughter coming from the table not too far from him. He looked over in Flint’s direction, not caring to hide the fact that he rolled his eyes.

This, of course, captured the Slytherins’ attention.

“Oi, Flint,” Adrian said, nudging his friend in the side, “Wood’s rolling his eyes at you. You gonna take that?”

Marcus peered over his shoulder and looked at Oliver, snorting in the process. He looked back at Terence and Adrian. “Yeah, he’s probably just miffed ‘cause his whole plan’s been thrown off. You know, what with Draco’s injury and all that.”

Terence opened his mouth to speak, but the younger captain cut him off, letting out a derisive laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, trying not to laugh again. “Don’t be so self-centered.”

That got their attention even more, and the three of them got up, pulling their chairs over to Oliver’s table. Well, Terence and Adrian did; Marcus simply plopped himself into the chair opposite the Gryffindor, his bottle of cold butterbeer in hand.

He took a drink, raising his eyebrows. “Self-centered?”

“Yeah, self-centered,” Oliver restated. “What, you got a hearing problem?” This was what he had been expecting for a bit, now, what with the whole team switch; they were overdue for their little bickering session.

“What’s up your arse, Wood?” Marcus asked. “You just upset because you don’t get to lose to us again?”

Terence and Adrian chuckled here, but Oliver ignored them. His response was incredulous. “Lose to you again? Not with Potter on my team. But what would you know about good Seekers? You got rid of yours.” Here he looked at Terence, who shot him a rather dirty glare.

“You shut up, Wood,” Higgs said quietly. He looked down after that.

“Malfoy’s a good Seeker,” Marcus said sternly. He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself of this fact than Oliver. “Besides, Terence left the position with honor, didn’t you, Terence?”

Needless to say, Terence said very little, instead just shrugging and nodding. Clearly he still wasn’t happy about having to give up his position.

Oliver snorted, then took a drink of his butterbeer. It had cooled a little. “Whatever,” he chuckled. “He was loads better than Malfoy will ever be, so I don’t know who you’re trying to fool.”

“Whatever to you, Wood,” Marcus spat out. “I think it’s pretty obvious that we’ll have to root for the lesser of two evils during this game. Hope Hufflepuff flattens you. Heard Diggory’s been practicing night and day, even in the rain.”

“Even if he is,” Oliver began cockily, “it doesn’t matter. we’ll beat him, no problem. Rain or shine.”

“Doubt it,” Pucey said simply.

Flint moved to get up, taking one final drink of his butterbeer before putting the bottle on the table. “Guess we’ll see on the pitch, won’t we?” He focused his eyes on Oliver, who didn’t look up at him, and instead drank some more of his butterbeer.

“Yeah, guess we will.”

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“No! No no! NO! Noooo!”

Oliver’s anguished yells were lost among the loud, powerful rain. He could barely make out what was happening but he knew Harry when he saw him, and he saw him falling—falling—straight down to the bottom of the pitch, like a helpless baby bird. When Harry landed there had to have been a sound, but the rain drowned out any and all of it.

That was when he heard Lee Jordan’s voice spewing out words that he never, ever wanted to hear:

“And Diggory’s caught the Snitch! Hufflepuff wins!”

That was it. It was done. No more. Hufflepuff had won, and Gryffindor had lost.

Screams and cheers of delight and victory were coming from the Hufflepuff stands, but Oliver couldn’t hear them. It was like there was a tunnel in each of his ears, and all of the sound coming in just dissipated into murmurs and hums. He didn’t know what to think. He, of course, didn’t immediately fly down after the announcement, because the initial shock still hadn’t worn off quite yet. Once it did, he rode his broom down to the pitch.

He didn’t admit that he needed to clutch onto the broom for support.

“What happened?” he asked.

His voice was barely audible over the sound of the rain, but Madam Hooch’s was surprisingly clear. “Potter fell off of his broom! The Dementors, I think they gave him a fright! He’s being taken to the Hospital Wing right now!”

Oliver looked at Diggory, who was just across from him. The rest of the Gryffindor team was following Harry and Madame Pomfrey, who was griping about the rain and how it was stupid to play in such weather. Cedric looked down, which Wood found awfully strange, considering that he had won the damn game.

Before the Gryffindor captain could say anything, Hooch began pushing them toward the castle. “Come on, in you go!”

It was probably best that she made them go inside, because speaking in the rain probably would have been really hard. They were some of the last ones to go inside, along with some of the Ravenclaws, who had been sitting the farthest from the entrance to the pitch. Oliver, though he partially didn’t want to, still went to go see Harry in the Hospital Wing, and Diggory followed. For some odd reason, that really irked Wood, but he had other things to worry about.

Upon Oliver’s arrival, he saw the rest of the Gryffindor team, Ron and Hermione standing nearby Harry’s bed. Madam Pomfrey was doing something, but he had no idea what it was until he moved in closer. From the looks of it, she was fidgeting with some bandages and bloody washcloths. Being slightly squeamish, he had to look away, and thankfully he did, because he otherwise wouldn’t have seen Cedric’s face.

“Diggory,” he began, sounding somewhat disbelieving, “you’re not frowning because you won, are you?” Because if you are… Oliver added mentally.

“Sort of,” Cedric replied quietly. He looked at Harry, then returned his gaze to the older captain. “It didn’t feel like a proper win. I mean, Harry and I were going for the Snitch, but then the Dementors appeared and…he…well, he fell off of his broom and I caught the Snitch because it flew right at me. I don’t think I would have caught it unless Harry hadn’t have fallen.”

“You still won,” Oliver said. Part of him felt guilty for having pretty much yelled at Harry to get the Snitch or die trying. He wasn’t…dead, was he? “But…good game.” Oliver stuck his hand out.

Cedric shook the extended hand. “Good game.”

“Now, I think I’m going to go take a shower.”

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Marcus and Oliver were too much alike that it was just funny. Or freaky.

After watching the Gryffindor captain get flattened by Hufflepuff, Marcus wanted to go and rub it in his face. He, of course, saw that Harry had been taken to the Hospital Wing and watched Oliver follow. But he knew the other boy wasn’t going to stay there for too long. Where was he going to go? Where else did one go when they lost their game and wanted to mope about it?

Once he saw Oliver heading off to the Hospital Wing, Marcus decided to go to his dormitory, change and grab his umbrella. The rain wasn’t going to be stopping anytime soon, that much was for sure, and he didn’t want to be drenched by the time he reached his destination. That had happened from just watching the game, and it was a nightmarish feeling.

He crossed the grounds, clutching his umbrella close to him as he grunted quietly. The wind was picking up, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. Bad weather or not, Marcus wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to pick on Oliver when he was all by himself. From what he figured, the Gryffindor wanted some peace and quiet, and so he was going to go to the locker room to get it. Every one of the other members of his team was probably in there worrying about Potter, or some other nonsense like that.

When he reached the door to the Gryffindor locker room, Marcus cursed rather violently. In the moment that he had let go of the umbrella with both hands to rub his eyes from the onslaught of raindrops, the wind tore it out of his hand, flinging it carelessly into the sky. He would have looked up to try and see it, but that would have meant more, and that was certainly not something that he needed.

As Marcus made a mad dash to get under the protective surface of the covering that led to the Gryffindor locker rooms he covered himself with his cloak, the loud pounding of the raindrops on top of it freaking him out just a little. This was, by far, the cruelest month in terms of weather. He couldn’t believe that it was only the beginning of November and they were already having these torrential rainstorms.

Flint reached the doorway safely just a few moments later, giving a rather irritated growl at his cloak, which was now fully soaked. He pulled it off of himself and let it fall to the concrete floor in a pile of wet mess, trying to ignore the strange slurping sound it seemed to make when it landed on the ground. He returned his attention to the door almost immediately after and touched the knob; he was unsure if he would be let in, but when it turned without any difficulty and it opened right up for him, he smiled, however briefly.

He couldn’t hear Oliver right away, only the sound of the rain hammering against the rooftop of the locker room. Marcus stepped cautiously through the unfamiliar territory with both quiet amusement and curiosity—having never been in here before, he was curious as to what he might happen upon. Of course, with his luck, it would probably be nothing. Shrugging that thought off he continued walking deeper into the room until he finally heard a rather loud, almost obnoxious and melodramatic sigh come from not too far away.

Ah, there was his target.

Folding his arms over his chest, Marcus advanced forward, clicking his tongue against his teeth in an almost chastising way when he saw Oliver slouched over a bench with his hands covering his face. He was taking it just about as hard as Flint had expected him to, which was good. Easier to provoke that way.

Oliver glanced up and over at the Slytherin captain when he heard the clicking noise, letting out an exasperated sigh. “What do you want? Come to rub it in my face?”

“Didn’t know you were a mind reader!” Marcus teased joyfully.

The other’s response was unexpected. “Yeah, well, maybe that would have come in handy back in third year when I failed Divination.”

How was he supposed to have a comeback to that?

“S’why I didn’t take it,” Marcus offered nonchalantly. He shrugged.

“Good for you.” Oliver’s response was petulant, which was easier to respond to.

“No need to be so snappy, Wood. I was just sharing a story with you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want your stories.” Standing up, the younger boy moved over toward his locker and popped it open. He had apparently decided to hide himself behind the door.

Marcus didn’t like that much, and so he moved closer, wandering around to the other side. Oliver furrowed his brow and let out an annoyed sound. He looked the other captain dead on for just a second, and then let his gaze fall down to the floor.

“Whatever.”

Oliver certainly sounded defeated. Marcus reached out and pat him on the shoulder in an obviously patronizing manner. Angry, the Keeper smacked it away.

“God, Flint, why won’t you go away?”

This was the perfect opportunity, Marcus thought. He reached out, poking the Keeper in the shoulder with each and every word that he said. “Because—I—don’t—want—to.” He smirked rather smugly afterward.

Didn’t last long, though. Oliver, clearly enraged, reached out and shoved Marcus as hard as he could. The older one was caught off guard and stumbled back, nearly falling over. Now he was angry. Stepping back toward the Keeper, Marcus pushed him back. “What the fuck, Wood? Don’t push me.”

Wood was prepared, however, and barely moved at all.

“You wanna go at it, Flint? Then let’s go.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

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