Shades of Grey

Dusk had begun to stretch its purply-blue fingers across the sky when Oliver Wood arrived at the graveyard on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, still wearing his blue-and-gold Quidditch robes. As usual, practice had run late--due solely to his own efforts, also as usual. He may've only been Puddlemere's reserve Keeper for the moment, but he was determined to be Captain by no later than next season.

All thoughts of Quidditch, however, left Oliver's mind when he took in the somber environment he'd just apparated into. It was a relatively small site, and likely unknown to the general populace of the nearby town. The skeleton of a long-dead tree was the solitary companion to the scattered handful of weather-beaten headstones. Only one of the solemn markers looked relatively new, and it was toward this particular one that he moved, his slow footsteps crunching along the gravel path.

At the sound of the newcomer, the dark-haired man previously crouched at the foot of the youngest gravesite rose to his feet. Oliver froze in his steps as their gazes met, and it was a long moment before he gave the other man an acknowledging nod.

"Flint."

"Wood."

A moment of silence, before Oliver finally crossed the gap between them, drawing even with the other as they stood before the white marble tombstone. His eyes traced the name etched elegantly across the top.

"Didn't expect anyone else to be here."

Marcus grunted. "Been meaning to come for a while, since I heard. Just haven't managed to find the time till now."

"Yeah," Oliver nodded. "Likewise."

Studying the Keeper from the corner of his eye, Marcus asked, "Who told you?"

"Angelina Johnson wrote me, not long after it happened. She thought I should know about it before I started seeing it in the papers, since he was, y'know..." He shot Flint a sidelong glance. "One of us."

"Right."

"Right." Another pause, then Oliver asked, "What about you?"

"Malfoy wrote me."

Wood's brow wrinkled into a frown. "Malfoy?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Unable to completely hide the sarcasm in his tone, he shot back, "Didn't know the little bastard cared."

Flint's lips curled into a smirk. "He doesn't. He wanted to brag, actually." He shook his head. "Always was a sick, conceited little prick, that one."

Oliver managed a small grin of his own. "Was?"

A small chuckle from Marcus. "Some things never do change..." At last he glanced up from the tombstone, just long enough to take in Wood's uniform. "Puddlemere, huh?"

"Heard you went to the Falcons. Named dirtiest players in the League last year, weren't they?" Oliver replied evenly.

"Something like that." Amusement had found Marcus's voice.

"What about him?" Casting a small nod at the tombstone, Oliver queried, "Where do you think he would've gone?"

Marcus snorted. "Him? He wouldn't have stayed in Quidditch. He would've shacked up with that Chang girl, knocked her up with a couple of kids. Settled down in the country, working as a farmer or something." He shrugged. "He was that kind of guy."

Slowly Oliver nodded his agreement. "Yeah, he was." He glanced over at Flint. "Was a damn fine Quidditch player, though."

Marcus couldn't help his smile. "That he was."

The last traces of sunlight faded away as an icy blast of air streamed in from the north, provoking Wood to pull his robes tighter around him, Flint to hunch his shoulders under his light jacket. Oliver glanced down at his watch.

"It's getting late; I'd better be off. We scrimmage against Caerphilly in the morning."

"Right." Marcus gave him a light nod.

"Right. So... I guess I'll see you sometime then. Whenever we play Falmouth, at least."

To Oliver's surprise, Flint offered up a full smile. Wood noted idly that the former Slytherin had at last gotten fixed the wretchedly crooked teeth that had long been his trademark. "I look forward to it," Marcus told him.

Their gazes met, and a silent understanding passed briefly between the two men, until Marcus broke away and sent a final glance down at the gravesite.

"He was a good man."

Oliver followed his gaze and found himself softly murmuring, "To Cedric."

"To Cedric," Marcus echoed.

When a gunshot-like pop sounded next to him seconds later, Oliver didn't flinch, but knelt in front of the headstone, in the same position he'd first found Marcus. Alone now, he traced the engraved letters of Cedric's name. "For what it's worth," he whispered.

Oliver rose, and with his back against the wind, he paced back down the way he'd come.