Who Morag MacDougal & Oliver Rivers (Cameo by Salazar) What Reunion Where: RRC Library When:02 July, 2005 [Backdated] Rating: G for gross amounts of cute
Morag had had a rough couple weeks, but now she had a kind of idea for something she could do with her life instead of living as a charity case, things had improved somewhat. She was still upset over the silence from her parents, but she had Kyal and a place to go. So, she had decided to take advantage of the free time. Taking one of the books Theo had gifted her, she had headed towards what had been set up as a library or reading room.
She walked in and headed toward one of the chairs when she stopped still. There, sitting in one of the chairs was someone familiar. Oliver Rivers was older than the last time she had seen him, he looked leaner, his cheekbones even sharper, but it was him. She dropped the book she had been holding in shock. “Mo ridire?” She questioned, a bit disbelievingly. She hadn’t seen his writing in the journals, but she hadn’t asked after him either, imagining him married and happy as a healer somewhere. “Ollie?” Shite. She probably looked a mess in her charity clothes, and self-consciously fidgeted with her hair. It was ridiculous, of course, Oliver had never cared about what she had worn or how she looked. That was silly. She was his friend, well, mostly his Transfiguration tutor, then his friend. The muggleborn Hufflepuff had always been kind to her, and supported her no matter what, and even listened when she complained without judgement, but still, she wished she looked better.
Oliver wasn’t actually reading the booklet in his hands, hadn’t been able to make it past the same sentence he was on for at least the ninth time. There were a number of instances in his life that he never considered occurring prior to them coming about (case in point: being told he was a wizard), but coming back for some sort of second life? That didn’t happen as people who died were buried or cremated, and that was that. Yet here today - the second of July of two thousand bloody five - had apparently seen him startling awake at St Mungo’s half convinced he’d missed the start of his shift. Only everything was wrong and had a slightly off shade to it. And this had been before everything was explained to him. Before he was informed he’d died going on three years ago.
The surreality had only grown from there, having him half convinced this was some sort of fever dream induced by dragonpox and, okay, he should probably wake up and get that looked at. At the same time this didn’t explain why he’d encountered numerous people he’d once known-- Erm, people he knows looking quite older than the last time he’d seen them. Then all at once there was a loud noise that pulled him back to the here & now, his gaze zeroing in on one who looked more or less exactly the same. Oliver’s mind tried to put some sort of date or marker on when the last time they had actively interacted, but all he drew upon was the regret of never even telling her goodbye before he’d left the summer prior to Seventh.
His eyes nearly popping out of his skull as a million questions came to mind - on top of the thousands already there today - and he found himself standing suddenly as if now was the time for manners. Tricked you; every time is the right time for manners. “Morag, I-- Wh--” Oliver puffed out his cheeks and exhaled deeply as if this was some quidditch game he’d filled in for or a patient he had to meet with that was a pain in the arse. As if this was something he needed to prepare himself for, but really how would one even go about that? “Hey,” is what his mind decided on.
Morag blinked, as if him knowing her name confirmed what she already knew. She ran both her hands through her hair, trying to put her thoughts together. Unfortunately the translation part of her brain seemed to go haywire, and her hands fluttered in irritation as she didn’t know how to make the words come. This was not something he would be unfamiliar with, but she had gotten progressively better with translating as she had gotten older and less of the fluttering had happened over the years.
She took several steps forward, arms out to embrace him, but then faltered. She didn’t know what he knew about what she had done during seventh year, how she had gone along with the majority of what the Carrows had said, the disgusting essays she had written in their version of Muggle Studies. Maybe he wouldn’t welcome a hug? She faltered, throat tightening for a moment. “Hi.” She managed, somehow. “I...I missed you. I mean….I can...go? If...if I’m bothering you.”
Somehow, the idea of that hurt somewhere. But she had to give him the option. It would invariably hurt less this way, a foot away, than if she had gone forward for the hug, only to be pushed away. She didn’t know why it would hurt more, but it definitely would, and if her own parents didn’t want her, then why would Ollie, a muggleborn who purebloods had cut off from his last year of schooling, had forced him to run, welcome her with open arms. She was probably a reminder of everything bad about the wizarding world.. “I...I didn’t know you were here. I...I thought you’d be off...somewhere...happy...an award winning Healer with a pretty wife or a handsome boyfriend.” That thought stung a little too, but she ignored it. She took a deep breath to steady herself and attempted to smile.
She looked as flustered as he felt. Not so much seeing her - as impossibly bonkers as that was - but this on top of everything else had a dull throb starting at Oliver’s temple. He was the type of person who could readily accept just about any reality or last minute change of plans while bounding forward enthusiastically, and yet here he was struggling to grasp at basic concepts without getting a tension headache. Bringing a hand up to knead at where his neck met his shoulders absently, there was a tiny genuine smile at her equally eloquent greeting. Or there had been before Morag’s expression fell and Oliver’s mind couldn’t help but groan, wondering what else had happened to have her suggesting she was somehow bothering him?
“You’re not,” it was nearly an interjection, but not quite. Had she not stalled just out of arm’s reach, Oliver probably would have followed through on his end instinctively before even considering it. As it were he'd given another half-arsed chance at releasing the tension from his neck for lack of anything better to do; he’d only stood up and figured he didn’t need to up the awkwardness even more by playing musical chairs with himself. Brows furrowed, he watched her in amazement as, aside from that dress that looked a bit too blousy for her tastes, Morag MacDougal was standing well and alive in front of him exactly as he’d always known her. Unless this was a fever dream, of course. “You missed me?” There was obviously so much more to that thought, Oliver only finding himself capable of a feeble chuckle.
He’d broken away to look down at those clothes that were not his own, though there was no way to deny the somewhat bashful smirk that came about at her predictions of what he’d been doing in life. “I had an aloe plant and my things spread across numerous lockers at Mungo’s, if that counts?” It was easy to make a joke about the situation-- It was always easier to make a joke about the very few things that made Oliver uncomfortable and, yeah, discussing your death while catching up with a friend counted. “I, uh…” He trailed off, then made another attempt. “I only… came back earlier?” That sounded ridiculous to state out loud, but he hadn’t the foggiest of ideas how else to word what his day had entailed so far.
Cautiously, still a little afraid of rejection, Morag moved forward again, and this time, managed to wrap her arms around him. It was embarrassing that she was trembling. They were friends. Why was she such a mess? “I missed you.” She repeated, having a hard time believing he was with her. Her arms tightened slightly. “I looked for you so many times in the Great Hall on instinct, or went to our spot in the library, or by our tree, expecting to see your face…” She trailed off. That probably sounded pathetic. “I didn’t know whether you were in Azkaban or if you were somewhere safe…” She swallowed hard, pressing her face into his shoulder, and taking a deep breath, both to center herself and surround herself with the familiar scent of him, and hide the fact tears had started to fall. “I was scared to write, in case it put you in danger...and I was an idiot and left my last bracelet at home, because you always made me a new one, so I didn’t even have anything to really remember you by. Somehow I didn’t realise I might…” Her voice broke. “I might never see you again until you weren’t on the train with a new bracelet for me.”
“I missed you too,” she may not have heard it if there had been any more space between them, his voice sounding small and not his own for reasons he couldn’t fully extrapolate. A few ideas were there, but this was a lot to process, okay? There wasn’t the slightest bit of hesitation to return the action in suit, Oliver’s long arms coming to wrap around Morag and pulling her into that embrace the slightest bit more. What was an attempt at words again saw him flubbing them, spurning that long-suffering sigh as his expression only fell further at her own.
Oliver knew the exact feeling of sadness & longing she described, having spent his ‘real’ Seventh year attempting to avoid the castle at large aside from his common room and classes. Some areas of the citadel seemed to be nearly memorialised to those that had died there, even more upsetting a thought was what had gone down here that night which no one knew the specifics of. The untold stories that were going to stay that way because a bunch of bloody teenagers were the ones to see an end to this all; his overactive imagination never having been so annoying as insisting on trying to fill in the details surrounding all of those casualties. Infinitely grateful for what he realised was the first true human touch since coming about earlier, Oliver’s eyes shut as he canted his neck to rest his chin on the crown of her head.
The mention of the impossible braided leather bracelets brought a watery chuckle out of him; it would have happened even if Morag hadn’t been not-so-covertly crying in his arms. “I’m sure I could find the supplies for a new one,” he joshed, knowing well enough the sentiment she’d been getting across. Another sigh and, “I was safe enough, just so you know. Had a few close calls, but managed to keep my head down and out of trouble.” Sharing the precise details of that near year might be a bit too much right now. “I always wondered if the wards I’d start to write you ever showed up as big, inky blotches when I realised I didn’t want to potentially put either of us in danger and scratched them out…”
She gave a little laugh, hugging him tighter, fighting to keep the tears at bay. Really, why was she being so ridiculous? “I’m glad you were okay.” She said, voice scratchy with tears. “And I’d like that...but you may not want to bother. I...I did things, Ollie. I wrote things. I played along, I didn’t stand up for you like you always did for me.” Her voice broke again. “Neville told me I fought with them in the end, that I did the right thing...but I cast unforgiveables, Ollie.” She swallowed. “I’m not sure dying absolves me of enough to deserve your friendship again.”
She really should let go of him, once the disgust settled in, he was sure to push her away, but her hands didn’t seem to work the way she wanted them to, clinging closer as if she could anchor herself to him and be sure he would stay. When had she become so pathetic?
He tensed some at her words, as Morag revealed some about what she’d done in the last year of her life. This wasn’t the first time Oliver had heard about things students had been made to do under the rule of the Carrows and Snape. If stories were to be believed, there were quite a few snakes that had taken joy or gotten amusement out of it all. That he could guess at a number of people who played key parts in gladly helping with the corruption of Hogwarts only served to anger him if he thought about it too long. Especially knowing that Morag, through expectations from her parents and their idiotic beliefs, had more than likely been associated with any number of them. He’d asked her before why she chose to hang out with the people she did at school; point blank and without any jokes; accepting her answers grimly as she’d explained the fine line she’d managed to walk for years; knowing without a doubt the exact same question had been asked in regards to him more than likely through a sneer. “Morag…”
Words weren’t working, Oliver pulling back only far enough to take her head in his hands. “It sounds like you were doing what you had to survive. If--” his voice felt thick and sandy and he really didn’t want to finish that thought. “If this is you telling me you’ve decided being a purist bint is what you’ve chosen as your lot in life, then… okay maybe there’s a small problem. Otherwise…” He trailed off again, screwing up his expression for a moment to figure out what he wanted to say. “You’re not the only one who did things that year they might not be proud of, so who am I to judge what you did to make it through?” There wasn’t really a smile or anything, but the look he gave her was aimed at some small reassurance if nothing else.
“Survival doesn’t sound like a good excuse when I didn’t exactly survive.” Morag replied, a bit dryly. She took a deep breath. “I played the middle like I always did. I got through with only a few Cruciatus curses, I guess.” She shook her head, pushing those memories from her mind. “And even if I wanted to be a purist bint, I think coming back disqualifies me, if my parents refusing to write or see me means anything.” She stopped, biting her lip. “Or maybe they’re still cross at me for dying for the people instead of fighting for the so-called pure side.”
She took a deep breath, ignoring the stab of pain that most of her family had thus far ignored her. “You're one of the few people whose opinion that I actually care about.” She admitted. “If anyone gets to judge me, it’s probably you. Ky will never be unbiased, and Pansy and Theo will always think I should have run with them. You’ll always tell me the truth.”
Oliver frowned deeply at that shite joke, usually able to play along with at least a small smirk, though now finding himself taking a deep breath as Morag went on. Only seeming to get herself more worked up in doing so, switching between deep breaths and shaking her head as if it might clear away like an etch-a-sketch; too bad he knew far too well that didn’t really work. “Hey,” he started softly as if trying to approach some skittish animal, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders as he took in those watery eyes.
“That’s the thing. I don’t judge you. I--” There was a spike at his temple, causing him to pause before trying again. “I accept you for you, Morag. And I know that regardless of what they say that when it comes down to it? It can’t be easy to navigate that all,” Oliver let out a sigh that sounded like his soul itself may have just left. “I’m just really glad I have my friend back.”
There was a long pause and this was where he found himself unable to keep eye contact as he finished. “And I’m sorry. That your parents are… being your parents.” That sounded so horrible and Oliver knew it, but at this point his main concern was calming Morag down at least a mite.
Morag smiled at him. She didn’t really think he understood just how rare that was, especially for her, someone who accepted her without judgement. She didn’t know how it was possible, but she also couldn’t help believe him. She pressed closer again to hug him. “I’m glad to have you back too.” Friends? Were they friends? I mean, that’s what she always assumed they were, but...this felt different and she didn’t know why. Impulsively, still holding him, she went up onto her toes, stretching as far as she could to press her lips to his temple in a gentle and very chaste kiss. “You are among the very best of men and wizards.”
Whatever words had been on the tip of his tongue-- Gone. Any thoughts towards what he might potentially reply with-- Nowhere to be seen. Oliver may have even momentarily forgotten how to spell his name there - currently lacking confirmation, because the only thing he could focus on was the innocent (wait, was it?) kiss she pressed to his temple. All at once he took on a flush far more prominent than Morag would have ever seen him wear, and he found he couldn’t really grasp at words then, apparently preferring to temporarily gape like a fish out of water. “Uh,” then a chuckle that sounded so nervous it had Oliver wanting to take it back immediately. “Thanks. I, uh--”
Were this some muggle sitcom the look on his face would have been comical, as it were spending so much effort trying not to grimace at his own actions that the Hufflepuff was legitimately speechless for once.
Morag smiled slyly in response, brown eyes sparkling, not even sure why, running on instinct. She dropped back down from her toes, sliding back into her original position. She echoed his flush with one of her own, wondering what she was doing, and why. “You’re welcome,” she replied, notching her head back under his chin as if she belonged there. Which was terribly presumptuous, but it had felt comfortable and safe, and she wanted that back, with strange new nerves and feelings she didn’t quite understand.
Her stomach was knotted, and her pulse was fluttery. She didn’t know why she liked the flush on his cheeks. He took her by surprise so often it was nice to see him surprised. It was almost like flirting, but it was also so far removed from the poised, polished, teasing older men who kissed her hand or looked at Kitty and Izzy with proprietary eyes when invited over to dinner parties, or the structured ‘flirting’ of balls and dancing under her parents’ eyes that the word didn’t seem right.
It felt more like that moment when you were playing chicken with a keeper, your entire body tense, holding the quaffle as you raced towards what could be a horrific crash that could put you in hospital, or a score so fabulous that everyone would talk about it for days. She could practically hear the rush of wind in her ears, the drop in her stomach when you steadied yourself impact.
Morag wasn’t the only one making movements without fully (or at all) thinking them through, Oliver’s arms coming to wrap around her shoulders again as he pulled her into an even tighter hug than before. His cheeks were still reddened and that was something to think about later. To replay in his head and wonder what the heck that had been. Obviously he knew what occurred as he was there living it, but there was some tiny voice pointing out that had to have been the most chaste thing Oliver had ever been a part of and yet this was the one that caused such a reaction. It really wasn’t the time for details, though safe to say trips to bars back when he was in healer training hadn’t been to see if anyone wanted to hold hands. There had already been a million and two questions shoved into his head surrounding what was now his reality, there barely being any room for the potential dozens more that came flooding in. So instead of trying to pick them apart then, he merely dipped his head some to lean his cheek against her crown to let out an exhausted, yet content enough, sigh.
Not realising how much tension he was truly holding until then, a minute or two of silence had passed when he went to speak. The words barely left his lips before a much louder voice than either of their own rang out. He pulled away from Morag the slightest bit - more so in surprise than anything - and furrowed his brow over at the older gentleman. “I’m sorry. I-- I didn’t catch that, mate. Come again?” The thought crossed Oliver’s mind that this was hilarious on some level (not this one, but some level) as the man repeated himself in a much slower manner; wanting to know if a certain person had come through here recently. “No, sorry, we haven’t seen anyone.” The man didn’t even offer any response at that, waving a hand at them in dismission before turning around to stalk away.
“You’re welcome?” The manners police had to address this federal violation before he looked down to Morag with a silly grin on his face, now no longer wrapped up but close enough to brush back the piece of her hair that decided to stick out wonky after leaning against him. “Friendly bunch here, yeah?”
Morag had had a dozen things she had wanted to say, but none of them seemed particularly right. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ carried a certain connotation of ‘I’m glad you died.’ Which was far from accurate. She had already said ‘I missed you,’ and everything else she could seem to come up with seemed either trite, or equally repetitive. Or rude. ‘You smell good,’ was true enough, since the familiar scent of pine, fresh green things, and warm earth had not really changed since she had seen him last, but it was dreadfully rude.
Luckily, she was saved from rudeness by an interloper. She had to laugh at Oliver’s face, after he had corrected the rudeness. She blushed again as he fixed her hair. She really should pull it back more, bloody stuff was always flying about, but she actually didn’t mind him fixing it. “Well, I think that manners have changed since the eleventh century...that was Salazar Slytherin, looking for his wife. Who happens to be Gryffindor’s sister.”
Oliver looked back towards the door the person in question had come in, nodding his head with a muttered ‘huh’ as if everything made absolute perfect sense. “One of the other Hogwarts founders that has been dead for hundreds of years. I’ll have to tell my roommate I met his brother-in-law then, I suppose.” He shook his head, obviously amused as opposed to letting himself become overwhelmed. Not in a bad way, but knew he’d have quite a few things to process and attempt to make sense of later when he had time to himself.
“These chairs are absolutely horrid, but was going to ask if you wanted to join me before we were so… founderly disrupted,” pausing long enough to lean over and pick up that book she dropped upon first entering the room, “But you have to promise to stop disrespecting the books like this.” His tone was deadpan as he held Morag’s book out to her.
Morag laughed, smiling her biggest smile at him. “Thanks,” She said, dimpling slightly. “I’d like to join you.” There was a kind of pressure that had dissipated with the playfulness. The moment had broken, and they could go back to normal. She felt her fingers tingle as she took it back from him. Well. Almost normal.