MollyWobbles

Spoons (xxv)

Loud whoops circled the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. A specky git hung upside down on his broom, leg hooked over the side of it, three hundred feet above ground.

Mad, that one.

Olive was going spare.

Playlist:
1. "I'm Born to Run" by American Authors

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Part IV: Spoons (xxv)

Fabian

October 14, 1973

Loud whoops circled the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. A specky git hung upside down on his broom, leg hooked over the side of it, three hundred feet above ground.

Mad, that one.

Olive was going spare.

"James Potter, if you don't get seated properly, I will ground you from the Slytherin match!" she screamed. "Get DOWN!"

Potter didn't comply.

"You can use your wand, y'know," Fabian drawled. Olive twisted in her spot, looking horrified. "With a Sonorous, I mean."

Her eyes tracked sideways, and then she began to laugh. "Sometimes I forget," she muttered.

A riptide of dark blur blasted past her, and Olive nearly dropped her clipboard. "Black!" she cried. "Those aren't proper warmups! Get back in the locker rooms and—"

Black did an honorable job of pretending not to hear her.

Fabian covered his grin with his hand. The boy, clad in what looked like a muggle leather jacket that had been dug out of a bin, zipped up alongside Potter and began to jostle the boy's broom.

"Would you like me to fetch them down, Miss Smith?"

There in the stands, a pale, drawn boy with scars over his face perched beside another young man with a round face and bright, smiling eyes.

Little Remus Lupin.

Built like a wisp of candle frame, and quiet as a mouse. Most wouldn't guess that Lupin's presence at the school facilitated an awful lot of planning and security measures.

Remus himself didn't know how far Minerva and Dumbledore had gone to provide for his protection.

Every full moon, Fabian waited outside that shack with Gideon. As a favor, but also because Lupin had some talent on the piano, and Fabian would hate to see it wasted if something bad happened to the kid.

It was no secret that Lupin adored Fabian. That he perhaps stood a bit taller when the other man with marks on his face came around.

That alone made that sodding accident in the old Weasley house worth it.

In some ways, Remus reminded him of Arthur at that age. Quiet, but principled. With a slight touch of wildness that might creep out and surprise anyone who dared underestimate him.

Ever the tactician, Olive used him for crowd control.

Smith nodded, rubbing her temples. "Yes, thanks Remus."

Lupin bound for the edge of the pitch. Fabian shielded his eyes with his hand and studied some of the other players.

There was McKinnon—her mum was a right good caster—zipping around the opposite goal hoops. And Margaret Johnson's ickle, baby sister. The arm on her—Merlin's beard. She could launch a Quaffle through the balustrades if she fancied it.

One of Arty's distant cousins up at the Keeper hoops—a quiet fellow by the name of Douglas. Septimus's great nephew? Fabian frowned. That family tree was a bit confusing.

Ravenclaw hadn't had a good seeker since Caradoc left, and this Potter bloke seemed decent enough when he could bring himself to focus for more than two minutes at a time.

As an officiant and instructor, Olive technically wasn't supposed to favor any team above the others. But he knew she secretly hoped Gryffindor might take the cup back.

She was there to supervise pitch usage, in case any less-than-friendly alumni should show up.

On the pitch, Remus waved an arm, and Potter and Black dove towards him at breakneck speed.

"What do you think?" Olive asked.

She had a sheen of creamsicle-coloured kneazle hair on her jumper, and the wind tore her hair from its tie.

"I think you've got your hands full with this lot," Fabian said, grinning.

Olive shifted her broom to swoop beside him, then landed on the stands. "Don't encourage them," she said. "They'll see you smiling and think it's alright."

Fabian grinned wider. "Nice flying, boys!" he called.

Olive scoffed and smacked at his arm. "You're making my job harder."

Fabian beamed.

Sirius was shaking his head on the pitch as Remus waved his hands at him. Potter's laughter bounced over the autumnal breeze.

"You going to the Tonks wedding?" Olive said suddenly.

Fabian froze.

He'd planned on it.

But Olive and him had a set of rules. Boundaries, really. Never spoken aloud, but there all the same. Fabian could bump into Olive at a party. He couldn't take her to one.

She was giving him that look—the look that might be simple curiosity, or could be more—begging, pleading—"please ask me."

She couldn't know.

"No, unfortunately," Fabian said. "I've got to work that day."

He had to force the words through his teeth.

Olive nodded.

"That's a shame," she said softly.

It really was.

Fabian ducked his head and stared at his boots.

Someday, they'd nab Lord Voldemort, and the death eaters would crumble in on themselves like a house of cards.

And then he would take Olive to as many weddings as she liked, if she'd still have him.

And if not—well, at least she'd be safe.