a thrill of hope [ollie]

The evening snow had been light, but it still left Liam’s hair damp upon melting as he set foot into the cramped little pub at the end of Diagon Alley. He drew in a breath of the warm air. It managed to be cramped inside with only a few people there: a witch at the other end of the bar from where Liam sat, a young man on the little platform stage, and an old man at one table. Lots of people had better places to be the night before Christmas Eve. Lots of people didn’t, but most of those liked better venues.

Anyone who’d ever met Liam knew his love of decadence and expensive modernity. But he had a lot of love for the bottom of the barrel too—especially when he was in a mood and a couple beers deep already. It felt far more right to spend Christmas somewhere small and hot and mildly unpleasant with one string of fairy lights on the wall than someplace with an attentive waitstaff or space to breathe. Felt more like he thought having a family ought to, somehow, and around the holidays he got to aching for the discomfort of one. Not enough to show up at Uncle Dom and Aunt Madge’s, and absolutely not enough to go home. Just enough to want to make himself miserable.

He unclasped his blue tweed cloak and opened up his scarf around his neck, fanning his face with one hand and asking down the bar for a firewhiskey and soda. The elderly barmaid took her time. Liam took little in drinking it, and then remembered he’d meant to brood for a while. He took his second one slower. Didn’t look back at the musician in the corner until halfway through Joni Mitchell’s River.

Liam had known a fair few young men with guitars in his day, most of them while inebriated. He’d heard a lot of background music. But this voice was striking him differently now—thick and mournful around the delicate Muggle song. Might just have been a validation of his mood, but setting aside his glass, Liam slid around in his stool to watch.

He leaned his elbows back on the bar as he stared at the singer, feeling more trancelike by the second. Lord, how much were they paying this kid? Not enough. The kid knew it too—it was obvious in the velvet Nehru jacket and the tender vocal riffs and the vague look in his eyes as he lifted his head from his guitar. He’d been wasted on Jingle Bells and the refusal to act like he wasn’t made Liam smile. He’d been there once. He’d had other people to be there with, though.

The song ended and there wasn’t any applause. Neither of the other patrons had any interest in the entertainment. Seized with a sudden furious desire for justice, Liam drunkenly wolf-whistled across the six feet between them and put his hands together.

It was good to be home.

Well, close to home. He couldn't bring himself to begin to think that 'Ray's Tavern' could pass as home despite the fact that he was fairly certain that the mysterious Ray character lived in the basement. Though Oliver hated to admit, he was no stranger to the establishment. He had performed his share of live music at the hole-in-the-wall over the years when visiting for the holidays. In fact, it had been the first place he put on a show for a crowd if one could even call it that. It held a strange and sentimental place in his heart.

Christmas had always been conflicting for Oliver. On the one hand, he adored it. The lights, the cheer, the gifting; the spirit of it all was intoxicating. On the other hand, it left him with a pit in his stomach. It was the culmination of year's worth of waiting, only to be gone in the blink of an eye, revealing the sting of the real world like a slap in the face. He supposed, in part, those conflicting feelings had impacted his choice in artist to cover for what he had dubbed his encore.

Joni Mitchell and her ode to the season, River.

She was a goddess as far as Oliver was concerned, but the fleeting thought that his audience may not connect with her in the same way that he had crossed his mind. The room had a total of four people, all but one had their back to his makeshift stage, and the one that had been facing him may or may not have been asleep with his eyes open. Nonetheless, the wizard proceeded back to center stage with confidence. Somewhere along the way 'fake it till you make it' was engraved in his brain. He did wonder, though, when the second part of the equation would come into play.

Oliver sunk his teeth in the Goliath of the not-a-Christmas, Christmas song with an ease that surprised even him. He became so lost in the music that he forgot where he was for a moment. That is until a whistle brought him back to the present. At least someone liked it.

Green eyes flashed to Annette, who had allowed him to play a few songs on the condition that they had to be holiday-themed and noninvasive enough that people could still have conversations (not that they did that there, anyway). Something in her face confirmed that she didn't agree that Joni Mitchell fit the bill. Possibly the visible discomfort. With a flash of an apologetic smile, Oliver's eyes flicked back to the stranger, hand over his forehead to shield the light from the string of fairy lights from behind the bar. He was decidedly not a regular.

"Thank you," He addressed the room despite the fact that only one of them was looking back at him, his gaze lingering there. "I'm Rigby, it's been a pleasure," Oliver took a small bow before exiting what was considered the stage to begin packing up his things. Annette wasted no time to turn on the generic Christmas music, naturally, he hadn't even gotten halfway through his routine before the sound of Jingle Bells painfully met his ears.

Despite the woman's flaws, though, she was good for at least one thing, and that was the best Gin Fizz in Diagon Alley. Oliver sidled up to the bar, rapping his knuckles against the sticky wooden surface, arriving just in time for her throw the mug in his direction. "Madame," He sunk his head graciously before casting a furtive glance in the direction of the man who had spared his ego for the night.

The singer didn’t meet Liam’s eyes, which was disappointing for half a bitter second, but it made sense from the angle of someone performing for the job they wanted more than the one they had. Pretend they were all into it and someday they all would be. Been there, been there. He’d allow it.

It seemed he’d walked in at the end of the set, though, as the young man politely thanked them all and stepped down from the stage. Liam doubted he’d be able to track down a record of somebody who was singing covers at Ray’s grubby Tavern in Diagon Alley. Wasn’t that just the way of tonight, then, he thought, staring at the fairy lights through the bottom of his glass. He might have been disappointed, but there was something he’d always liked about feeling justified in brooding. Half the time it felt like every feeling he had was baseless and meaningless—Liam was sort of fond of the universe validating him if no one else would.

And then he set down his drink, and the singer was at the bar between him and the witch.

Well, fuck that. No point in sulking if the universe was going to put him within speaking distance. “I’ll cover that,” said Liam loudly to the barmaid, gesturing to the drink she’d just set down. “Don’t imagine she’s paying you as much as you deserve,” he added more quietly, with a small grin. “Least I can do.”

He inclined his drink toward the singer’s guitar. “Wish I’d seen more of that, mate,” he said. “You ever record anything?” If he hadn’t, then Liam would obviously have to put in a good word somewhere. Lots of sad drunks in the wizarding world these days. They all deserved some miserable music even if they had better taste in bars.

“Rigby, then?” he asked. “Not Eleanor, I hope?” He also hoped he’d gotten the surname right, or the joke would fall through.

Oliver's gaze that had once intended to be subtle became pointed the moment the wizard spoke, studying him now with purpose. Cover it? Green eyes flicked down to the mug resting on the bar that he'd only just realized that he had wrapped both hands around. Well, this was a first. Usually, at a place like Ray's Tavern, the only people buying him drinks were the women over fifty who were out for a girls night, attempting to recreate some unrecoverable memory.

He shifted to face the wizard, resting an elbow on the bar before casting a glance in Annette's direction, who appeared to be making herself unusually busy. "Ah, you don't need to do that," Oliver insisted. Growing up, accepting anything only came after denying it at a minimum of three times. In this case, though, he really couldn't. Half of his pay was the open bar tab which was presumably exactly why the maker of the rules was so quiet. More revenue for her, he supposed.

As a smile spread across the man's face, though, Ollie forgot the exact reason for his righteousness in the first place and instead mirrored the action with a grin of his own, his cheeks dimpling at either side. "Well, thank you," He replied, genuinely flattered that someone here, of all places, appreciated what he had done enough that they wanted to see more.

"I have -- " He stopped himself after so confidently confirming that he had recorded music. Providing the soundtrack to his flatmate's experiential film about reptiles could hardly be considered recording. Not really, anyway. " -- well, not professionally," He corrected, calibrating the tempo of his speech. Oliver naturally took his time with his words which oftentimes came across as softspoken.

At the mention of Eleanor Rigby, Oliver nearly spat out his mouthful of the bottle of the barrel mystery gin. "Oliver, actually" He extended a hand to the man in an official greeting, the other hand flat against his chest as if to clear the almost-cough. "Though, my parents were hoping for a girl," He explained with a shrug. "A fan of Mitchell and The Beatles?" His eyes narrowed. "What's someone with good taste in music doing in a place like this?" Oliver leaned forward in an attempt at secrecy despite the fact that no one there had paid them any mind in the first place.

'“Don’t be stupid,” said Liam firmly, if a little teasingly. “I do indeed.” He grinned more easily as Mr. Rigby leaned on the bar and smiled. Thank goodness. Charlie was great, obviously, but Liam had always had little patience for introverts. He let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding in.

The singer—Oliver— asked him what he was doing here. “Not missing anything, seems like,” said Liam, cheerfully glossing over giving an actual answer, and also the fact that being referred to as a Joni Mitchell fan would have made him cringe if it were in front of any other human beings. Not that she wasn’t obviously a genius but his usual brand was slightly more aggressive, and if he were being honest, far less feminine. Liquor and moodiness and solitude all softened the boundaries of his musical repertoire somewhat. He’d accept a compliment on it now that he was a decent way to plastered.

Oliver Rigby, whose name Liam now could not restrain himself from thinking in the Beatles tune, had no recordings. “Well, I’d have bought one if you did,” Liam said. “Alright—maybe not your Christmas album.” He laughed, slightly more forced as he remembered that at this very moment he was on top of the charts making a number of inappropriate requests of Santa Claus. Good Lord, he’d have to make sure this kid never made that connection. “Just have to get you drinks instead, then,” he joked. “How many gin fizzes you think make the cost of a record?”

The thought of Banshee, however, made Liam remember there was actually something useful he could do. He slapped the bar with a gasp of sudden excitement. “I know people, though! At a label—I should have a word with someone. Really think I will.” He broke out a pair of jazz hands to accent his image. “Oliver Rigby, stunning star of the lousiest stage in Britain. It’d sell.” Not in short part due to his youth and handsomeness, but there was no need to let him know now how superficial the music industry could be.

Liam finished his own drink and watched Oliver over the rim of it. It was always a tossup whether whoever he spoke about industry connections to would be impressed or think he sounded like an absolute prick, but thankfully firewhiskey deadened that worry considerably.

Oliver, despite himself, acquiesced before the man could even get out the word indeed. Something in the way he spoke made it impossible to protest, or even question his motive. Hell, he had just told him to not be stupid, and there Ollie was, beaming, as though someone had just named their firstborn after him.

"It's just you don't exactly — " For a fraction of a second, Oliver's gaze flicked to his new friend's tweed jacket that he'd imagined was worth more than his entire wardrobe put together. He knew quality when it saw it, though his deduction may have been clouded by simply how the man was wearing it. " — you don't fit the mold of the 'Ray's Tavern clientele'," Ollie's voice had quieted even though they had become effectively invisible to those around them, stopping just short of putting air quotes around the newly coined phrase.

How many gin fizzes would it take to make the cost of a record? He wasn't certain. Quite a few here, given the price point. "Oh, at least a dozen," Ollie concluded incorrectly, though confidently, having done the backward math in his head. "For the special edition, though," He added with a grin. "Signed and all," He clicked his tongue, happily jumping into the rabbit hole that was his own daydream.

Bam! The slap of bare palms on the bar jolted Oliver back to reality. His eyes lit up as he watched this person who he had known for all of five minutes so passionately vouch for his future career. It was common that people touted their connections in the music industry upon meeting Ollie, but never quite with such fervor. Usually, it was the humble brag about their wife's twice-removed uncle who went to school with someone or other, who would definitely be able to get Ollie in with the right people. Whatever that meant.

Now though, even with historical evidence proving otherwise, he wanted to believe this person. Oliver raised his eyebrows, no hint of skepticism traceable, only his visible awe. "Maybe leave out the bit about the lousiest stage in Britain," He leaned forward on his elbow and shielded his mouth to avoid any further glares from Annette who had now set her sights on the man that Oliver had only just realized he didn't actually know at all.

"I don't even know your name," He sat down his mug with purpose. "How will I know who to thank when I win my first WWN Goldie for Best New Solo Artist?" Oliver dropped his chin to the palm of his hand lazily, already feeling the effect of the one gin fizz and the intoxication of possibility. He doubted he would make it to twelve.

'“Do I not?” Liam laughed, leaning forward over the bar on one arm, mirroring the young man’s pose. “What do you mean, that I’ll have a conversation?” Jokes aside, Oliver had a point. Liam wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anyone speak in here aside from to order. When he’d come in he hadn’t planned on it either—but he hadn’t planned on there being anyone worth speaking to. “You don’t seem much like you belong here either, have to say,” he said. The sense of style, perhaps, or the youth, or the...je ne sais quois. But Liam didn’t mean to say any of that. Instead, he just chuckled. “Didn’t immediately tell me to mind my own business, see?”

He pushed his empty glass back toward the barmaid, who was studiously pretending that no one was talking. “A dozen?” he said to Oliver, brows raised. Obviously bullshit, but good-naturedly so. He knew he’d have said something similar if anyone had offered him free anything. “Reckon I can handle that.”

Mr. Rigby’s eyes were sparkling merrily. Liam couldn’t have stopped smiling if he wanted to. Had he been in a mood ten minutes ago? Intellectually he knew it, but the feeling was hard to remember now.

The grumpy barmaid slammed his third firewhiskey down as Oliver cautioned him against insulting the pub. “What? Come on.” Liam grinned at their server, who was openly glaring at him now. “O’course she knows! That’s a selling point too, Ol. “ He took a generous gulp of his drink. “No better place to be a saddo, is there? No better price, at least.” The barmaid’s face was very purple now. Liam fished out his wallet from his jacket pocket and shook out a few more galleons than necessary onto the bar before turning back to Oliver. “‘Course, don’t think I’ll be allowed back, once I steal the entertainment—you want to get out of here? I’ve got a studio in the back of my flat, want to see?” He realized, belatedly, how suspicious the offer sounded—in a couple of possible ways. “No, really,” said Liam, raising his hand like a Muggle in court. “Swear on Joni bleedin’ Mitchell.”

Thankfully Oliver didn’t seem put off, but he did remind Liam he hadn’t given his name. “Oh!” he laughed. “Sorry ‘bout that!” The thought of himself hadn’t even crossed Liam’s mind, he’d been too caught up in his enthusiasm. He lifted his chin and offered the hand it had been resting on to shake. “Liam Thompson. Pleasure.” With his other hand, he clapped Oliver on the back. “S’pose I’ll have to make time in my schedule for the awards next year, then,” he said. “You’d better thank me. Wouldn’t mind getting that in writing.

Oliver fought the urge to duck under the bar and hide. Any form of conflict, even in jest, had never really sat well with him. He much preferred everyone to just get along. Was that so hard? Despite that, though, he was amused, as evidenced by the ridiculous smile plastered across his stupid face. Some small part of him felt gratified in knowing that he was not the only one that felt the way that he did. In fairness, Annette was due this for a long time coming, after all of her years of treating people like an inconvenience.

The sense of urgency, though, kicked in as soon as her face had reached a color he had never seen on human flesh before. He began taking more generous mouthfuls of his drink to finish it off. It was common enough here that he knew when someone was about to be shown the door, and according to schedule, their time was just about up.

"You had better not disgrace her name," Oliver warned, now seriously, as he threw his guitar to his backpack that had previously slung over the back of his chair. Magically, the instrument shrunk to fit into the small opening and he wasted no time to pull it over his left shoulder. He wasn't sure why, but he trusted this person. Anyone who swore on Joni Mitchell had to be at least a fraction of reliable, after all.

At the last minute, he grabbed a bar mat from the counter and dropped it in his pocket before shoving the man, who he now knew as Liam Thompson, out the door of the establishment and into the night. The brisk winter air was harsh and confronting, though he relished in the change of pace. Had it gotten hot in Ray's? He couldn't be certain, but all he knew was that he was happy to be out of there.

"So where are we going? Oliver walked in no particular direction, reaching an arm around the small pocket of his bag to grab his wand. Not the safest of homes, but it hadn't served him wrong yet. Absently he took the bar mat from his pocket and touched the tip of his wand to the damp cardboard-like material. In a flash of gold, words appeared across the otherwise generic item that he handed over without much thought.

For discovering me.
'Best New Solo Artist', Rigby.

Do I look like a liar to you?” replied Liam, hand still in the air. He said it earnestly despite the irony. To anyone who knew him he sure knew he’d look untrustworthy, and probably to most people who didn’t know him too on account of being a kind of rodenty-looking man—but he wasn’t sure which side Oliver Rigby would fall on. Was funny either way, though. Either he’d sound dedicated enough not to dishonor Ms. Mitchell’s holy name, or he’d give Ollie a good laugh about it. Liam had a suspicion, judging by the young man’s wide smile, that either way he’d still come with.

His cloak flapped off of one shoulder as they hurried, laughing, out of Ray’s shithole Tavern. “Good lord,” moaned Liam. He bent double for a second to stretch his back, sore from leaning all casually against the edge of bar. “Well, I’ve got liquor at home, mate—reckon I owe you now.” He readjusted his outerwear, checked to make sure he hadn’t lost his wand, and then he looked up and Oliver was holding something out to him.

The grubby bar mat, now engraved. For discovering me. Liam blinked and blankly took it. “Oh, mate...” he said after a second. He saved himself from sounding as genuine as he felt, pounding his heart with a hint of a smug grin to play it up, but kept his words the same. “I’m touched.”

He forgot they were going anywhere for a second, standing in the snow under the Diagon Alley streetlamp, until he was asked to lead the way. He quickly shook his head. “Don’ worry,” said Liam, firmly gripping Oliver’s velvet-sleeved forearm. “I’ve never splinched myself, never, and I’ve been loads drunker than this.” He didn’t give Ollie time to react to that, and turned them sharply around into the squeeze and pull of apparition.

They came out in a wide, open loft in between the bed and the kitchen. He lived high enough to see snowy rooftops out the obnoxious wall-sized window, but he rarely wasted time going up and down the lifts. Probably hadn’t opened his front door in months. “Voila,” sung Liam, throwing out his arms—partially to flick his wand at the lamps, mostly for dramatic effect. “C’mon, back here.”

He led Oliver to the one single room, probably intended for sleeping, but where he did that hardly mattered being that he lived alone. It was more important he have a music room. That was the only room in the place with any sense of clutter: things pinned on the walls, chairs and paper everywhere. A grand piano, the same model he’d played as a child. Three guitars, two bass guitars and one upright, a violin in its case, a banjo he’d once been given as a joke. The booth had been set up along the far wall, magically soundproofed. Charlie’s studio was more modern, which was novel of course, but Liam still personally preferred his records and gramophone. Felt more comfortable, and somehow more real. Oliver seemed like an analog person too.

“Right, then,” said Liam, dropping his cloak on the piano bench and unwinding his scarf, turning curious eyes on Oliver. “Do you ever sing anything fun?”'

Actually, no.

Oliver didn't say it, but he was thinking it. Liam could have told him the sky was purple and he would have looked, just a glance, despite knowing full well that it was pitch black save a cover of snow-filled clouds overhead. How someone could be so unabashedly confident, he assumed he would spend his whole life trying to figure out.

Those around him had always warned Oliver to act more on his own volition, though he would argue that he was doing just that. Choosing to believe and to be inspired by people was not something that he saw as some fatal flaw in his personality. Not even as he was pulled through time itself to the mystery location of his new friends' choosing.

Really, he was gracious for the change of pace. His little act of sentimentality that had been, both literally and figuratively, soaked in gin and lead very much by own fantasies, hadn't exactly translated. One day, he imagined, whilst accepting the award for something or other, a figure would stand up in the middle of the crowd, interrupting his speech to hold up the tattered old cardboard with a visible tear in the eye.

Then shortly thereafter, leaving time for a monologue, the audience would break into a choreographed dance number. Simple, really.

The jarring sensation of landing in a foreign place ironically brought Ollie back to real life. He adjusted on-the-go, not really having the option otherwise with Liam quickly shuffling him to another room. Through prolonged blinks, he took in his surroundings. This was a real studio. Green eyes flicked from instrument to instrument in disbelief before darting back to Liam, vaguely accusatory. How dare he?

Oliver couldn't stop himself from venturing forward. He paused at the line of guitars as if to ask permission to touch even the tips of fingers to the clearly custom, glossy finished, pelham blue Gibson in the middle. "Who are you?!" He turned back to Liam who had now sat down to the piano though he could have just ask easily been talking to the guitar.

Folding his arms over his chest in mock offense, having slid off his backpack somewhere in the midst of his disbelief, Oliver stepped to the side of the piano and keyed two notes with his thumb and pinky. It had never been his instrument but he enjoyed it nonetheless. "Don't you think Joni Mitchell is fun?" He stopped playing at his last syllable for emphasis, now trying to hide his grin but his dimples betrayed him.

"I take requests," He sat on the edge of the bench facing opposite the body of the instrument and pulled one leg over the other languidly. "Though, I believe you may be up," Oliver raised an eyebrow. Not only had he been the one on pseudo-stage all night, but Liam had also just unveiled his own at-home studio. The least he could do was show it off.

Liam watched Oliver wander dazedly past him, and found himself grinning again despite how much his cheeks already ached. This kid wasn’t the first person he’d brought here to impress. Every time he hoped for this kind of reverent awe. At this point he gauged his taste in women by it, how interested they seemed to be in this teenage dream he’d made himself. The studio was the most impressive thing in this flat, after all—his body and charisma included. Liam liked a woman who could tell.

Who are you, Ollie demanded of him. One side of Liam’s grin quirked up into a smug smirk. He liked this part too.

“I’m in a band,” he said with a mocking shrug, reveling in the douchey false modesty. “Might have had some moderate success.” Usually he didn’t get to drag it out this long. Banshee shit was all over everything in here, and to many visitors that was the first thing they noticed. Vaguely, drunkenly, Liam hoped Ollie didn’t hate them. Hell of an anticlimax that would be.

“Oh, bless her heart, Merlin, no.” Liam wasn’t sure how exactly to explain what he thought was fun, now that he’d been challenged on it. Nothing so outright beautiful as a woman and an acoustic guitar, that was for certain. Beautiful music made Liam sad. No matter how tragic rock and roll got, though, something about it energized him. That was fun. But it was a fun he didn’t think he fully understood, or could defend to someone whose music taste was almost entirely unknown to him. And now that he’d gotten this deep he definitely didn’t want to get into the fact that all he knew of Joni Mitchell was the greatest hits album he’d picked up in a Muggle LA thriftshop. So he decided quickly to skip all that and launched into a spirited intro to Jingle Bells, making it a few seconds with a deadpan seriousness before his face crumpled again in laughter.

As the joke faded out, Liam stared at his fingers on the keys instead of the boy now beside him on the piano bench. But once Oliver spoke he had an excuse. “You take requests, hm?” Liam replied, arching his eyebrows. “Then if it’s my turn I think I’d like to request a touch of backup. Seeing as I can’t sing worth a fuck.” Didn’t stop him, most of the time, but he found himself a little less eager to show off than he might have been with anyone else he’d met in any other way.

He spun over the bench and got up to lift the blue guitar that Ollie had been eyeing. “You ever do anything a bit more electric?” he asked, slinging the strap lazily over his shoulder. The guitar was magically modified, obviously—no true electric guitar would be useful here with the amount of magic that went into maintaining the booth, but there wasn’t any other word to describe that sound.

In the moments of Liam's rendition of the Christmas classic, Oliver studied his profile from next to him on the piano bench, only vaguely aware of the feverish movement of his hands as fingers danced along the keys with the ease of a practiced professional.

A moderately successful band, he'd said? Green eyes took in every visible detail of the man's face, trying to work out if he had seen him before, and if so from where. He didn't exactly strike him as one of the glossy, sugary-sweet pop stars that he could only imagine were currently topping the charts. With that said, he was admittedly behind the times when it came to trends, ironically so. He concluded the moment that Liam turned to face him that he would have had to remember a thing so charismatic.

Grinning in return, Oliver nodded firmly with assurance. Requests were kind of his bread and butter these days. He would sing anything if given the opportunity for an audience. His eyes lit up when he realized that Liam was gliding directly toward the instrument that had been radiating stardust from the moment they'd opened the door. Just when he thought that he couldn't possibly get any more cool, he threw the strap over his shoulder, leaving the guitar to sit effortlessly and casually against him.

Oh, he was in trouble. The wizard stayed seated at the piano in some attempt to keep his composure. Having forgotten just where he was sitting, though, he leaned back on his elbows, an eruption of various keys bouncing off the walls. "Shite," He sat up suddenly straight, laughter erupting despite how hot his face felt.

"One in a blue moon," Oliver replied earnestly, once he was able to stop his laughing. He loved the theatrics of electric instruments, though his usual 'venues' didn't quite support such power. "Bowie?" He leaned forward with a quirked brow, both of his palms flat against the bench on either side of him. This would be the ultimate test of his taste. It was impossible to doubt him now, though, standing there like he was. He was going to know Bowie. He had to.

Liam laughed heartily at the shock on Oliver’s face as the chords struck by his errant elbows echoed between the walls. “Don’t worry,” he said over the noise. “That piano’s been through rougher things.” It had been a sex joke, but as soon as he said it he hoped Oliver wouldn’t get his drift. That was the last thing he wanted to put in this kid’s head—or, more importantly, his own. He wasn’t going to allow himself that. Maybe later, once he’d gone, Liam would let himself imagine sliding a hand over the piano bench between Oliver’s thighs. But not now, absolutely not now.

He kept having that thought, but only in between things like bringing a handsome stranger home and rolling his head back with an appreciative groan when the handsome stranger requested David Bowie.

“Alright, tell me,” said Liam narrowing his eyes curiously as he studied Ollie. “Are you Muggle-born, or just an enthusiast?” He shook his head, snow-frizzed curls flopping. “Not to judge the latter, I mean—that’s what I am.” Liam tapped his guitar delicately with his wand, activating the magical amplification, and grinned. “More wizards should be, I think. At least when it comes to art.” He tucked his wand away. “We need someone over here who can give Bowie a run for his money.” Nodding toward Oliver, he lifted his guitar. “Gimme your best, kid.”

For a moment he fingered the neck of the guitar, considering his options. Best go with something well-known, he figured. Much as he would have liked to show off his encyclopedic knowledge, he wanted to hear Ollie sing confidently even more. And it had to be something he could dance to. Merlin, Liam wanted to dance. He could feel the energy bubbling under his skin, aching for a reason to bob and sway.

Oh, obviously.

The second he started strumming the rhythmic chords of Let’s Dance, he was gone. It was just too easy to move to this—languorous and unhurried, horridly sexy. As the vocal cue passed, though, he opened his eyes and looked up at Oliver, still sitting there motionless on the piano bench. Liam took his hand off the strings to point toward him. “C’mon, Ol.” Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.

Once he had regained composure after his little mishap, Oliver cast a furtive glance down to the piano bench, drifting up, willing the keys to disclose the things that they'd seen. Something in the way that Liam said it made his heart feel like it was going to jump out of his throat. The comment had been thrown out so matter-of-factly that there was no way that he could be lying. The man was a rockstar, after all. Oliver didn't linger for too long though. That would only give away that he was completely out of his league here.

"Ah, only an enthusiast," He hummed through a response, though the answer sounded more like a question as it floated through the air. It had been a common mistake, given his interests, to think that he was muggle, one that still left him feeling trepidatious in the aftermath of the war. Everyone told him these things took time to get over, but he wasn't certain that day would ever come. Not in his lifetime, anyway.

"I agree! Oliver chirped up, having had his moment of reflection. This was neither the time nor the place for that sort of thing. And then came his distraction, welcomed and right on time. The man in front of him effortlessly made his way through the Bowie classic as though he had created it himself. Talk about someone giving him a run for his money.

He was gawking. Oliver knew it but he couldn't stop himself. It wasn't until he heard his name, a variation of it that until now he didn't know he needed, that he snapped out of the trancelike state.  For someone who had absolutely no problem parading around in front of a room full strangers with zero interest in him, standing up now and putting on a show felt like a real task.

With one last deep breath, he shot up from the safety of his seat. One hand pushed his wayward waves of hair off of his forehead while the other held his wand up to his mouth. In an instant, his entire energy had shifted as the first words of the song slowly escaped from his mouth in the creaky Bowie fashion he'd tried his whole like to perfect.

When it came to the bridge, Oliver directed his attention to Liam. He sang to him more pointedly now, not daring to break eye contact. The nerves he felt only moments before were gone and replaced with the high of putting on a show. And if ever he wanted to put on a show, it was now. Reaching the end of the song, Oliver jumped atop the piano bench and fell to his knees at the final few notes.

His chest heaving, Oliver's ears rang as the sound of the guitar faded out. He laughed out loud, slapping a hand over his chest. "That was," He caught his breath. "Beautiful," He threw himself from the bench to channel the adrenaline that was coursing through his veins. It was then that he noticed the wall full of photos to his left. "Is that...Spellbound..?" Oliver took a step forward to get a closer look at the laughing faces staring back at him, a familiar one right in the middle with arms casually across them. He turned back to real-life Liam. This was no joke.

“Hey, nothin’ wrong with that, I said,” repeated Liam as Oliver’s face went a bit distant at his question. Charlie definitely made him feel inadequate in his interest in Muggle music sometimes—even Ioan had had his moments early on. Discovering the Stones isn’t really an achievement, mate. And a dismissive little laugh, like it was all something he could never understand. Well, fuck that. Given the wizards he’d grown up around, Liam was proud of his enthusiasm for Muggle culture nonetheless. He smiled fondly as Ollie piped up his agreement. And he broke into a wide smile as he stood up, began to move, lifted his wand to his mouth like a teenager putting on a concert in their bedroom.

The first few seconds were good, undoubtedly. Made Liam nod in approval as he kept on strumming. But...imitative, almost. A sudden, awkward rush of doubt squeezed his throat and he looked down at his guitar. Bowie had been what he’d asked for, as he thought back on his words. But not what he’d meant. He’d wanted to hear a new take—Ollie’s take. How old was Ollie, come to think of it? Liam knew he himself had spent years perfecting his impressions of the greats, he knew how essential it was. But could he promise Ollie a career before the kid found his own voice? What had he been thinking? He’d been lonely and drunk and Oliver Rigby had been handsome and stylish and sung one good cover. Liam’d said more for less.

But he kept playing, obviously, and he was glad he did.

As the song loosened up Ollie seemed to as well, his voice slipping into a sweeter tone, fuller and more melodic. His body moving with less calculation, his energy shifting from bravado to earnest boldness. It sunk in somewhere between the serious moonlight and Liam looking up from an improvised riff to find his gaze held, magnetically. He widened his eyes incredulously in reply. Merlin alive, the confidence. Even as the song ended, he couldn’t break it. He stepped over to Oliver on his knees on the piano bench, grabbed his face with both hands, holding it firmly for a second, meeting his eyes with a manic grin. “Born showman, you are.”

He swung his guitar round his back and stepped aside as Ollie drifted finally to the walls. Not to the gold plaques or the album covers, though—it was the photo of five beautiful women that drew his eye first. Liam bit back a laugh. “Oh, yeah,” he said, folding his arms and leaning his elbows over Oliver’s shoulders to look too. “Which’s your favorite?” Another test of taste, possibly, but he didn’t know what it would mean. “I’m a Hilary man, myself,” said Liam, indicating the dark-haired girl perched on his photographic knee. “But that Linda’s got the filthiest sense of humor, you’d never guess.”

It occurred to him suddenly that he’d forgotten the drinks. Didn’t seem to matter.