Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup that year. "Because we're better than you," Marcus said.
Oliver pushed him against the wall and proved him wrong.
In Quidditch, his purpose was to defend the goal. When Marcus first kissed him, he pushed him away and punched him in the ribs. He liked playing defense.
The next time, Marcus cornered him the empty locker room after the match. Gryffindor had won 170 to 30. The wooden lockers pressed into his face as Marcus bit and licked the back of his neck, and he pushed back against him until Marcus moaned. Sometimes offense was the best defense.
When Oliver fucked him, Marcus's eyes went glassy. He talked during sex, muttering words that Oliver couldn't understand. He didn't care. Afterward, Oliver told him: "I won."
"Fuck you," said Marcus. He rolled over and went to sleep.
Oliver found him in a dusty inn in Knockturn Alley. He hadn't shaved, and he smelled like wine.
The Catapults had released him two months ago.
"My fucking knee," Marcus muttered.
Oliver said, "You look disgusting." He cleaned him up and made him a pot of kona expresso, guaranteed to sober one up in ten minutes or less. Then he took Marcus out to dinner.
"My fucking knee," Marcus said in the restaurant. No one wanted his autograph.
"You're pathetic," said Oliver. He took him back to the inn and kissed him.