FIC: "Colour to a Sunset Sky" for cuorefreddo Recipient:cuorefreddo Author/Artist: ??? Title: Colour to a Sunset Sky Rating: NC-17 Pairings: Oliver Wood/Gregory Goyle, brief mention of past Oliver Wood/Harry Potter and suggestion of Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy Word Count: ~5,600 Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *Character death (not Gregory or Oliver), mild Angst, some violence, hurt/comfort*. Summary: Oliver would watch him sometimes, recognising him vaguely, like an old memory which had gone fuzzy around the edges with the passing of time. A story of a fragile and unlikely friendship which grows into something more. Author's/Artist's Notes: I have never written either of these characters before so I had to take a lot of time researching the snippets we can glean from canon, which was such a fun exercise. For the purposes of the fic I have departed from canon and assumed the Dementors are still guarding Azkaban post Deathly Hallows, although this was unlikely to be the case. The title is loosely adapted from the Rabindranath Tagore quote “Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky.” Thank you to V for cheerleading and support and to A for the beta read.
He was a thick-headed and stocky looking sort of bloke who would sit in the corner of the Leaky on a Friday night looking surly as hell and snarling at anyone who came too close. He was like a caricature of himself in those moments, with his shoulders hoisted up to his ears defensively and his over-large fingers wrapped around his pint protectively. He was always alone. Sometimes it looked like some in the pub recognised him, but he would respond with a grunt and a scowl and they quickly disappeared.
Oliver would watch him sometimes, recognising him vaguely, like an old memory which had gone fuzzy around the edges with the passing of time. He was a Slytherin, Oliver knew that much, and he remembered him from old Quidditch rivalries. Rumour had it his father had been one of the Death Eaters and most avoided him for that reason. It always surprised Oliver that he would chose the Leaky as his watering hole of choice, with its bright lights and laughter. He seemed like the sort who would have been better suited to the shadows of Knockturn where nobody would have disturbed his drink.
He would have three pints of ale, no more and no less. He drank the first as if he was in a hurry, the head of the pint leaving a moustache on his upper lip. He would slam the glass down when it was finished and gesture for another without a word of thanks. He nursed the second pint more tenderly, savouring the flavour and turning the pint glass around in his hands, looking at the dregs with surprise when he finished, as if he hadn’t expected his drink to have disappeared so fast. He never read or scribbled in a notebook or even took the time to observe what was going on around him. He just stared at the table and picked at the worn-out wood with his blunt nails. His third pint took him longer still to drink, and he never seemed to be enjoying it. It was as if it had become part of his ritual and he couldn’t break it for that very reason, even if he no longer desired another drink.
He was taller than most, with broad shoulders and short hair. He looked as if he was too big for the seat, choosing a small cubby-hole in the back of the pub every time he came in, instead of one of the more generous seats which would have been more suited to his stature. He hunched over his pint, the small space making him look larger by comparison, as he glared, grunted and growled at those who invaded his territory.
His eyes were small and had a glint in them – the sort of look people have when they are capable of wicked things, and he repulsed and fascinated Oliver in equal measure. More often than not, Oliver found himself gazing at the same spot and the same man, watching as he drank his ale.
“Bloody hell, are you even listening at all?”
Oliver looked at George and shrugged, tapping his empty glass. “Sorry – got distracted. Fancy another?”
“Thinking about Quidditch again, I bet.” George snorted and then settled back in his seat. “Might as well – it’s your round, after all.”
George had slimmed down since the final battle although he had always been tall and wiry. In contrast to the man Oliver had found himself watching every week, George looked too small for the space he was in. Without Fred it was like he was missing a limb, the space next to him always kept warm but never filled. George was never crowded into one space and people tended to hang back to leave the seat next to George for the one person who would never come and fill it. It was a mark of respect, Oliver supposed.
Harry was out tonight, sitting at the bar on a high stool, his head bowed close to Draco Malfoy which made it look like they were plotting something together. Oliver noticed that Harry didn’t come to sit with them, giving them a wake and a wink instead. He remembered how Harry had felt under his hands what seemed like years ago now. Harry was one of the few men Oliver knew who had openly come out after school and one thing had led to another. They had seemed like a natural fit at one time, with a shared love of Quidditch and flying.
When he was asked why they had stopped seeing one another, Oliver always shrugged and said he could hardly go out with a Cannons supporter, it wouldn’t be proper. It wasn’t true, of course. Harry was a good mate but they just didn’t work as anything more.
Oliver always wondered if Harry wasn’t just a bit too good for him. Every time Oliver was with Harry, he was reminded of his own flaws and if there was one thing Oliver hated, it was losing.
“Cheers,” George clinked their glasses together and Oliver nodded to the fellow in the corner he had been watching a few moments before.
“Cheers. Do you know who that bloke is? He’s in here all the time.”
George looked over his shoulder and pulled a face. “Goyle. His father was a Death Eater. A real piece of work. Like father like son, I think. Ron told me he used to be a fan of Cruciatus. No wonder he always drinks alone.”
“Yeah, no wonder.” Oliver kept half an eye on Goyle until the third pint had been drained like the first and second before it. With a clatter of glass against the wooden table, Goyle stood and made his way to the door, grabbing a coat and rubbing his hands together as he headed outside. Oliver noticed with some surprise that Goyle moved swiftly and relatively lightly despite his size. The clumsiness which Oliver had expected simply wasn’t there.
As he watched Goyle leave, Oliver noticed a group he vaguely recognised as Ravenclaw students following close behind. Their faces were set and they had their wands clutched in their hands. The ringleader was nervous and twitchy, looking around as if he didn’t want to be seen. Oliver listened to George speaking for a while longer, noticing the table vacated by the crowd was still full with drinks, as if they were planning to come back. He thought of the way they had looked at Goyle and stood, dropping a hand onto George’s shoulder.
“Back in a tick, there’s something not quite right.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“S’alright, I’ve got it.” Oliver wandered quickly outside noticing the chill in the air. It was bloody freezing, as if winter didn’t want to let go while it clung on to early spring.
“That’s for your father, you bastard.” Oliver heard the crack of knuckles and the sick thud of a fist connecting with flesh and rounded the corner, his wand drawn.
Goyle had been pulled up against the wall, bound with some sort of magic and stretched to his full height. His face turned to the side with the force of the punch to his jaw, and Oliver could see his lip was split and bleeding. What surprised him most of all was Goyle’s demeanour. He wasn’t swearing blind he had nothing to do with whatever crime the group wanted retribution for – in fact, he wasn’t fighting back at all. Instead, when his eyes met Oliver’s, they were dull and resigned as his body twitched beneath the blows.
“Just fuck off and leave him alone,” Oliver growled. He pointed his wand at the assembled group, feeling inexplicably furious about the treatment of a man he didn’t even know. “Don’t you realise this makes you just as bad as him?”
“His father killed my brother.” The man who had punched Goyle flexed his hand with a wince and Oliver noticed his knuckles were scraped and bloodied. He wondered how long they had been punching Goyle for and swallowed thickly, thinking about how long they may have continued.
“I’m sorry.” Oliver nodded a curt understanding and gestured to the door of the Leaky. “I’m drinking with George Weasley tonight – he lost his twin and I lost a bloody good mate. I don’t see either of us charging about rounding up the sons and daughters of Death Eaters to dole out vigilante justice. It’s not right and you know it.”
“Wood, isn’t it?” There was a sneer as one by one, the group pocketed their wands. “Our quarrel isn’t with you. We’ll get him yet.”
“I’m sure. Now piss off.” Oliver glared at the group who turned to leave and shook his head, waiting until they were gone before collapsing back against the wall with a sigh of relief. The possibility they might not leave hadn’t really occurred to him, which it probably should have done. “It’s true what he says?” Oliver eyed Goyle curiously who grunted in response, his eyes downcast.
Oliver pushed himself off the wall and used his wand to sever the bindings, stepping back a little as Goyle stumbled and then steadied himself. Oliver was reminded strangely of a foal, standing without having learned to use its legs yet, although there was nothing spindly or slight about Goyle. He seemed bigger close up – taller than Oliver, which was rare and not at all unwelcome.
Oliver shook himself and handed Goyle a crumpled tissue from his own pocket, gesturing to the split lip. “Might want to clean that up. Fancy coming back in for one more?”
Goyle raised his eyes, narrowed them and shook his head. Oliver could tell he didn’t trust him.
“Right,” Oliver nodded his understanding awkwardly. He wasn’t used to someone who conversed solely in grunts and monosyllables. “See you around, Goyle.” Oliver shrugged and began to make his way inside again.
“Wood?” Goyle’s voice was gruff as if he didn’t use it very much and Oliver turned.
“Greg. It’s Greg.”
“Alright.” Oliver wondered why he didn’t like to use his surname and wondered if that had anything to do with his father, finding the idea of that oddly appealing. “See you around, Greg.”
With that he turned and went back into the warmth of the pub, leaving Goyle behind in the darkness.
Oliver decided to go to the pub alone the following Friday and found Greg sitting in his usual spot. From the speed with which he was drinking Oliver guessed he was still on his first ale of the evening. He sat down in the small space with his own lager, noticing an angry bruise on Goyle’s cheek, although his split lip appeared to have been tended to by someone.
“Yeah, evening.” Greg grunted his response and kept his eyes on his pint.
Oliver noticed that Greg was less hard looking close up. His face was strong and square, his jaw set firmly, but there was a slight plumpness to his cheeks and his eyes weren’t as cold as Oliver had thought when he had watched him from a distance. Close up, they were blue and wary. Oliver had the distinct impression that Greg didn’t much like it when someone met his gaze head on.
“Wasn’t Malfoy one of your buddies?” Oliver nodded to Draco who was sitting with Harry again. Malfoy glared at Oliver and then moved his stool a little closer to Harry, placing a possessive hand on the base of Harry’s spine. Oliver chuckled and took a sip of his pint. “Jealous, is he?”
Goyle shrugged and let out a gruff bark of laughter, looking almost surprised at the sound as a smile played over his lips. “Yeah, he’s spoilt rotten. Not one for sharing his things.”
“I see.” Oliver laughed and turned away from Harry and looked curiously at Greg. “Why don’t you ever sit with them?”
“Potter doesn’t like me much.” Goyle furrowed his brow and then glared at his pint. “Besides, Malfoy doesn’t give me much time nowadays. Arrogant little shit.”
“Why not?” Oliver glanced back at Malfoy but the two men were no longer looking in their direction, wrapped up in one another.
“Because I remind him of the mistakes he made, I suppose. I don’t really care.” Goyle shrugged and then nodded to Oliver. “You play Quidditch, don’t you? Puddlemere Reserves.”
“Yes, didn’t quite make the first team.” Oliver laughed it off and then focused on Goyle. “What do you do?”
“I’m a carpenter. I make things with wood,” Greg elaborated as if Oliver might have been confused by the concept of carpentry. “It’s all for a Muggle company, I’m not much of a wizard but I’m good enough with my hands.”
“It sounds creative.” Oliver wasn’t sure how to elaborate on that and Greg just shrugged again.
“It keeps me occupied. My dad doesn’t know what I do, though.”
“Nope. He reckons I work at the Ministry. He wouldn’t be too pleased if he knew I worked for a Muggle.”
“Right.” Oliver pulled a face and drank some more of his pint. “How do you keep it from him? It can’t be easy.”
“Easy enough when he’s in Azkaban and half-mad.” Greg laughed without humour and then gestured for his second drink, his first having sat empty for some time.
“Can’t be easy.” Oliver felt an uncomfortable conflict, sympathetic to the position Greg was in yet quite sure Goyle’s father had deserved everything that happened to him. He pushed the thought to one side and changed the subject. “Does that happen much to you? What happened with that group last night, I mean.”
“Not too often.” Greg pulled a face and sipped at his second drink, turning the glass in his hands in a familiar routine. “I don’t care.”
“Why don’t you fight back?” Oliver asked, watching Greg’s reaction carefully.
“Because I don’t want to fight on that side anymore.” Greg met Oliver’s gaze steadily and then nodded at the table Harry and Draco were at. “Does it piss you off?”
“What?” Oliver had been looking at Greg’s hands and wondering how they might feel gripping tightly onto his hips, amongst other things, and he almost missed the gesture. “Why would it?”
“You and Potter had a thing, didn’t you? It was in all of the papers.”
“Oh, that.” Oliver wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “We weren’t the right fit. No hard feelings on either side.”
“Right.” Greg snorted as if he didn’t quite believe it. “Your parents don’t mind you being a pouf?”
Oliver startled at that and glared at Greg. “It’s not their business. But no, they don’t.”
“Lucky.” Greg didn’t elaborate and stood after a moment’s silence. “I reckon I should be off.”
“But you haven’t finished your drinks.”
“Haven’t I?” Greg looked at his empty pint glass and raised a curious eyebrow at Oliver.
Oliver felt himself flush because to point out that Goyle always had three drinks would give away the fact he had spent the better part of the last few months watching him.
“See you around, Wood.” With that, Greg left Oliver without a backwards glance.
They continued their routine for several weeks, with Oliver joining Greg in the small seat. Sometimes they would sit in comfortable silence and on other nights they would talk until the lights in the pub went up and they were ushered out of the door. Oliver found himself surprised by Greg on those occasions – he spoke with refreshing honesty, not one for choosing his words carefully. He told Oliver about his job and when he did, his face became animated and his eyes glinted with enthusiasm as he described the careful process of sanding, shaping and carving the wood in intricate patterns.
It was Friday again and Oliver arrived late to the pub, looking around and frowning when he didn’t see Greg in his usual spot. Goyle was never late and the fact he hadn’t thought to give word that he had a prior engagement struck Oliver as strange. He sat for a while, sipping his lager, until he could bear it no longer.
“Oliver.” Harry grinned up at Oliver, a light flush in his cheeks. “How are you?”
“Yeah, good.” Oliver looked at Malfoy who was giving him a haughty glare and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Wood.” Malfoy wrapped a possessive arm around Harry’s waist and Harry flushed more deeply, muttering something to Malfoy which seemed to mollify him a little as he relaxed his hold on Harry a little.
“Listen, do you know where Goyle lives?”
“Goyle?” Malfoy looked startled and then narrowed his eyes at Oliver. “Who wants to know?”
“I do – clearly.” This time Oliver did roll his eyes and cast Harry a pleading look. “He was supposed to be here – we’re…friends.” The word sounded flat and Oliver wondered why. He wondered if Greg would consider Oliver a friend and suspected he probably wouldn’t.
“You are?” A flicker of surprise passed across Malfoy’s face and then he shrugged. He pulled out a pen and wrote down an address on a beer mat in a careful, elegant script. “Here. Send him my best.”
“Sure.” Oliver took the address and tipped his fingers against his head in a quick salute. “See you, Harry.”
Harry nodded and Oliver left them to it, making his way outside to find a safe spot to Apparate. When he reached the address he had been given, he looked curiously around. The house wasn’t unplottable or situated in a wizarding area. It looked very Muggle, with a plain red-brick exterior. There was a large Muggle car on the drive which looked as if it had been driven a number of miles since it had been purchased. Oliver knew nothing about cars, but he knew enough to know that this wasn’t a sleek, sporty number. It was well-worn and practical and blended in with the area, in the same way the house was innocuous and plain. Sturdy, not flash, rather like Greg himself.
He knocked on the door and after a while he heard the clink and scrape of bolts being drawn. When the door opened, Oliver looked at Greg and swallowed.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
Greg’s eye was swollen and closed, a huge black and blue ball on one side of his face. His lips were split again and his cheek was streaked with bruising and blood. Oliver noticed he had hunched a little, his breathing laboured, as if something was causing him pain. He had probably broken a rib or something and was walking around trying to ignore it, hoping it would heal. With a growl, Oliver ushered Greg indoors and followed him, shutting the door behind them.
“What are you doing here?” Greg scowled at Oliver and winced when the expression seemed to hurt.
“Damned if I know.” Oliver followed Greg into the kitchen, which like the rest of the house was clean and tidy. The décor was plain and inoffensive with painted magnolia walls and plain oak kitchen units which looked almost untouched. The only sign Oliver saw which seemed to reflect any personality at all, was the small, beautifully carved table they had passed in the hallway, which stood alone in its exquisite design.
“I don’t need your pity.”
“Good – because I’m bloody angry.” Oliver tried to make sure his face didn’t show any of the concern he felt and gestured for Goyle to sit. When he was settled in a small chair by a dining room table big enough for two or three people to eat at, Oliver withdrew his wand. He wasn’t the most skilled Mediwizard, but Greg’s injuries were not dissimilar to those someone would get if they fell off their broom and those were injuries Oliver knew how to deal with.
With some muttered spells, Oliver gently healed the bruising as best he could, using diagnostics to establish where bones had been broken and finding Greg had two fractured ribs. Rolling in his eyes at the stupid oaf wandering around in excruciating pain, Oliver healed the fractured bones. When he was finished he stood, grabbing a cloth and dampening it with hot water. He crouched in front of Greg and carefully wiped the cloth over his cheek, gathering the blood which had dried there and cleaning up the marks.
As he did so, he noticed Greg had closed his eyes and appeared to be leaning into the warm heat and gentle touch. Oliver took the opportunity to look at Greg then, when his eyes were closed to Oliver. He took in the lightly furrowed brow and the strong jaw. He was always so quiet, speaking only when it seemed necessary to do so. Oliver wondered if Greg would ever tell him what happened. He expected not.
“Are you finished?” Greg’s voice was rough and startled Oliver from his thoughts. Clearing his throat he pulled back and nodded.
“Yeah. All done. Why didn’t you heal yourself?”
Greg didn’t say thank you, he just opened his eyes and looked at Oliver while their breathing sounded deep and heavy in the still room.
“Because I’m shit at magic. Why are you here?”
“I was concerned.” Oliver moved to stand. “I’ll leave if you’d rather.”
“No.” Greg reached for Oliver and pressed a large hand onto Oliver’s shoulder. “You can stay. There’s beer in the fridge.”
“Do you want one?” Oliver felt a flash of arousal as Greg placed his hand on his shoulder, despite the innocence of the touch and was quite sure his cheeks must look flushed.
“Oh yeah.” Greg gave Oliver a look which he wondered if he was misinterpreting, taking in the low, almost husky note to Greg’s response and seeing his eyes darken as he watched Oliver.
“Guess I should get them then.” Oliver made no move to go anywhere, instead moving up on his knees so he was close enough to Greg to feel hot breath on his skin.
“I suppose.” Greg’s hand slid from Oliver’s shoulder to the nape of his neck and then pulled him close. Even if Oliver had wanted to resist – which he didn’t – he wouldn’t have been able to pull back from the force of the kiss which sent heat through his body and made his cock harden.
It had been a long time since he had been kissed like this. Oliver was broad shouldered and tall enough that it was rare to find someone bigger than him, someone with more brute strength whose kiss was a silent command. With a groan, Oliver tried to get closer to Greg and was met with a chuckle against his lips.
“You like this?”
“Fuck, yes.” Oliver smiled back and pulled away to see Greg grinning at him. It was a broad, genuine expression which made Greg’s face look light and attractive.
“You’ll want to stay for a bit I expect?” Greg shifted in his seat and eyed Oliver.
“Probably,” Oliver shrugged like it didn’t matter, when he knew it mattered more than any Quidditch victory could. He stood and reached out a hand to Greg. He supposed he had intended to pull Greg to his feet somehow, but he needn’t have worried. Greg stood unaided and faced Oliver, walking him back until he connected with the wall and there was nowhere left to go.
Greg pressed Oliver into the wall and began to kiss him again, hard, demanding kisses. He dropped his hand between them both and pressed the heel of his palm flat against Oliver’s cock, roughly rubbing against it as Oliver found himself bucking towards the touch, grinding shamelessly into Greg’s hand.
“Turn around.” Greg’s voice was rough with arousal and Oliver obliged, spreading his hands against the wall as Greg worked open Oliver’s trousers and pushed them down. He heard Greg murmur a spell to lubricate his fingers and Oliver let out a breathless chuckle.
“You’re not so shit at all magic.”
“Some spells seemed to be worth learning.” Greg chuckled back and Oliver felt his large, rough hands, kneading his arse and he pressed back towards them. He moaned as Greg kicked his legs apart a little and spread his cheeks open. Greg did not do things slowly, pressing slick fingers to Oliver’s crease and then pressing in with one at first, as hard and quickly as he could manage with Oliver clenching around him at the unexpected but much wanted intrusion.
“Fuck.” Oliver rocked back towards Greg’s hand, as Greg fucked him and worked in a second finger, the thickness of his hands making Oliver tremble with need as he pressed his backside up to Greg, wanting more.
“You’re tight.” Greg spoke gruffly as he withdrew his fingers when he clearly felt he had prepared Oliver enough. Oliver heard a belt being unbuckled, a zip opening and the same spell muttered behind him. He felt the slow movement of Greg stroking himself and heard the familiar sound of an open palm wrapped around a slick cock.
“Don’t have much opportunity to be fucked like this.” Oliver pressed back again and moaned in disappointment when Greg stilled his movements.
“Do you prefer the other way?” Greg’s breath was hot against Oliver’s ear, his voice low and rough.
“No - people expect me to. Fuck, please.” Oliver reached behind him and gripped Greg’s hip. “Stop bloody talking and get on with it.”
“Eager.” With a chuckle, Greg swatted Oliver’s arse hard, making Oliver jump and scratch his blunt nails against the wall. Without saying anything more, Greg complied with Oliver’s plea and pressed his cock against Oliver’s hole, pressing in slowly, then withdrawing almost completely and thrusting in hard, reaching for Oliver’s hands and pinning them above his head against the wall.
As he was with everything else, Greg was silent when it came to sex. He didn’t make unnecessary comments about the way Oliver felt around his cock, as he grunted and pressed hot lips to Oliver’s ear, fucking him hard into the wall. As Greg’s breathing became more laboured and his movements more erratic, Oliver felt Greg’s large hand wrap around his cock and bucked into it, torn between writhing back and fucking himself in Greg’s hand, his body filling with pleasure as he felt heat coil in his stomach.
Greg shifted and moved harder, deeper and the change in angle made Oliver groan and clench down as he came hard over Greg’s hand, shuddering into his orgasm.
“Fuck.” With a growl, Greg came deep inside Oliver and pressed him into the wall as he collapsed against him. They stood like that for a while, panting and catching their breath. Greg pulled slowly out of Oliver and kneaded his arse again. “Clean up if you want. There’s a shower upstairs.”
“Right.” Oliver felt his cheeks heat and kicked his trousers off completely, walking a little awkwardly upstairs. He found the small shower and stepped under the hot water, his nerves still tingling after the thorough fucking he had just received.
When he stepped out of the shower and dried off he found Greg lounging on the bed, naked and looking at Oliver almost curiously. Oliver couldn’t help but rake his eyes over Greg, taking in his thick, blunt cock hanging between his legs, the curve of his stomach and his muscled chest and arms. Oliver had shagged some of the fittest blokes in Wizarding Britain during his time as a Quidditch player, but no one had made his mouth water and his cock harden the way Greg did at this moment.
He collapsed down onto the bed and found himself rolled onto his back as Greg covered him, kissing him fiercely.
“It was alright, wasn’t it?” Eventually Greg pulled back, a look of surprise on his face which made Oliver laugh.
“More than. You’ve done that before.”
“Once or twice,” Greg conceded. He shrugged and tipped his head towards Oliver. “You’re not the only pouf around here.”
“Why do you say that?” Oliver furrowed his brow and shook his head. “You’re ashamed of it?”
“Not particularly.” Greg looked up at the ceiling and seemed lost in thought. “Hid it from my dad of course – he used to talk about poufs, faggots and queers – I don’t think he would be too pleased to know his son can only get hard fucking men.”
“Right.” Oliver grimaced because the news although not unexpected was not entirely welcome. He had no desire to be closeted again, having gone through the rigmarole of making his inclinations public. “Don’t you mind hiding?”
Greg shrugged again. “Won’t have to for long.”
“Oh.” Oliver wasn’t sure what to say to that and pressed closer to Greg. “What does he think you do at the Ministry?”
“I didn’t just tell dad I work at the Ministry. I told him I am the Ministry.” Greg flushed a hot red and cleared his throat. “He thinks I’m Minister for Magic.”
“He does?” Oliver stared at Greg and shook his head. “Why on earth would you tell him that?”
“Because he’s not got long left and I want him to die being proud of his son.” Greg looked at his hands. “Not much is real in that place, anyway – it’s full of madness and screaming. Fucking horrible sort of way to keep someone, no matter what they did. They reckon he’ll be Kissed within the week.”
“Why didn’t you say?” Oliver pressed closer to Greg, feeling a lump rising in his throat.
“Because it’s not important to anyone but me. Mum isn’t around anymore and I don’t reckon anyone else will even notice. He’s just another Death Eater to everyone else. But to me he’s my dad.”
“Yeah.” Oliver closed his eyes and thought about that, pressing his lips to the curve of Greg’s neck. “I’ll come with you if you want. When it happens. You can tell him I’m your secretary or something.”
“I could.” Greg looked at Oliver and shrugged. “Don’t know that I want you to meet him. It might make everything different.”
“Might it?” Oliver shook his head and furrowed his brow. “I know what they did during the war – blimey, I know what you did during the war.”
“I was an evil bastard.” Greg frowned and rubbed his cheek as he thought about it. “Used to enjoy Cruciatus, you know. Gives you a strange sort of power, Dark magic. It’s why I don’t use magic so much anymore. The only stuff I was good at I don’t want to do, so now I don’t bother at all. I’m good at making things. I’m happy and my dad thinks I’ve done everything he wanted.”
“You’re not just good at Unforgivables.” Oliver grinned at the memory of the roughly muttered spell and brushed his lips along Greg’s jaw. “I reckon a bit of magic is alright.”
“Perhaps,” Greg agreed.
“I should go.” Oliver made no move to leave and Greg nodded.
“If you like.”
“And if I don’t?” Oliver held his breath and Greg looked at him as if he was stupid.
“Then stay. I’m not one for games.”
“Neither am I.” Oliver laughed at that and turned onto his back. “Apart from Quidditch of course.”
“I was always pretty crap at Quidditch. They only chose me because I was Malfoy’s friend and I was strong enough to hit a Bludger out of the field.” Greg grinned and ran his hand along Oliver’s stomach, propping himself up on his elbow and watching Oliver. “Or a Gryffindor.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Oliver laughed despite himself.
“At least I support Puddlemere.”
“At least,” Oliver agreed and grinned at Greg.
“We have that in common.” Greg smiled a tentative, awkward smile and Oliver met it with one of his own, feeling an ache in his jaw from the grin which seemed to be fixed on his face at the moment.
“It’s good enough for me.”
“For now,” Greg agreed.
“Maybe one day we can go flying?” Oliver held his breath and Greg nodded, slowly.
“I reckon I’d like that. After the stuff with my dad. It’s freeing, isn’t it? Being in the air, I mean.”
“Very.” Oliver closed his eyes and thought about flying, dipping and twisting through the clouds as the sun set on the day. “I like it best when there’s rain.”
“Bloody cold.” Greg dipped his head and kissed Oliver. The kiss was strangely soft and tender and Oliver found himself responding eagerly.
“There are ways to keep warm.”
“Is that so?” Greg laughed and the sound was rough around the edges.
“Yes.” Oliver grinned and closed his eyes. “Fancy a beer on Friday?”
“Might as well.”
Oliver felt Greg’s hand trail further down his stomach and let out a sleepy moan at the touch, arching a little into it.
“Are you complaining?”
“Nope.” Oliver opened his eyes to see Greg looking down at him and pulled him down into another kiss. “Not complaining at all.”