Chapter Text
Marcus Flint had never been a man of many words. If you'd ask the Gryffindor Quidditch team and his so-called biggest rivals he was more like a troll. His mouth grunting, his fist hitting. Not thinking just doing. And that not even good.
If you'd ask Marcus on the other hand, he wouldn't tell you, that he thought he was thinking too much. (I mean who does this? Thinking about thinking... Just him.) His head was full of conversations that were done a long time ago. Still so present that they stole him from the real world and dragged him into dark places. He wouldn't tell you, that on some days the thought of failing his N.E.W.T's again, startle him from sleep and keep him awake all night. It didn't help that his old roommates (who'd give him shit for waking them up) had finished school months ago without him and that he trusted his new ones just as far as Malfoy could go through a day without complaining about Potter.
The only time you'd get a word out of the youngest member of the Flint family now that Higgs had left the school (and a grumpy Marcus and a bundle of nerves called Adrian Pucey behind him) was on the pitch. He'd give shit to Malfoy for not being nearly as good in the position as a seeker as Higgs used to be. He'd give shit to his beaters because he still hasn't got used to the fact that Wood had the luck to get two identical masterminds, and he was stuck with two idiots who wouldn't understand that a bludger had to knock someone from the broom to make up for Malfoys incompetence. Sometimes he'd even give shit to Montague and Warrington. Even though they were the least annoying members of the team. And last but not least (definitely least nobody should lie about that) he'd give shit to Oliver Wood. Not just because he was a Gryffindor and everybody expected them to hate each other's guts, but also because of his pure existence. The Starboy, which everybody seemed to love. The wreck he was when something went out of track. Everything about Wood sent hate through his veins. The sight of his face alone called for a clenched fist. Flint couldn't remember how it started. The only thing he knew was that his hatred towards the keeper got worse over the last summer holidays.
~•~
one day before the last Quidditch game of the year
Eight months into the second try of Marcus’ final year at Hogwarts nothing had changed. Apart from the fact that he was now talking to the newest member of the common room. Mr. Murray, his kitten. Half of his team was seated on a couch across from him and send him confused looks but nobody was brave enough to raise their voice. Even though the situation was kinda strange, and Flint was forced to repeat his last year, he was still the captain and nobody doubted the captain. And after their fall out a year ago, the only thing Malfoy did was rolling his eyes.
"If you don't give your best tomorrow, you better not come back to the common room. I'll rip every one of you apart. So the only thing your parents will receive is an unidentified bundle of flesh and bones," to some the cruel threat lost a bit of its impact because he whispered it to the kitten while scratching it behind the ears, and fully ignoring his team. For some.
The only person snickering in the room was little Pucey, who was watching the spectacle from the distance while leaning on a wall. Hidden from everyone's eyes except Marcus'. He didn't mind him before Higgs had left the school. He had thought the boy had a crush on the former seeker, but at the beginning of the year, his full attention turned from Higgs to Flint. Marcus didn't know if the boy was hoping for some kind of information from him or if he had a complex. Maybe he even wanted in his team?
"Now go and make yourself useful. Don't stare at me like I'm going to tell you what you can do with your free time, Bletchley. I couldn't care less. I’m not your goddamn mother." Flint’s voice remained blank, but his eyebrows shot up. Within a few seconds, the team got up and left the common room in hurry. Still, the captain after all.
Flint addressed his next words at the person who stepped grinning out of the shadow. "Do I have to repeat myself? You should know better than that." As said, he didn’t mind Pucey but he wasn’t his friend either. Higgs was his friend…kinda.
The brunet waved at the kitten and made some strange noises to get it's attention. "Hello, Mr. Murray." Then he dropped onto the sofa across from Marcus.
"Fucking Hufflepuff," the chaser mocked in a low voice and went back to read the only important part of the daily prophet without wasting another glance at Pucey.
~•~
a few hours after the last game of the year
"You did what?" a sharp voice cut through the silence of the changing rooms and caused Flint to roll his eyes.
He would recognize this accent everywhere. Even if he hadn't heard it in ages. It was burned in his brain and in a strange way bound to the best thing in his life: Quidditch. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he wouldn't want it any other. This voice was one of the reasons he was one of the best chasers Hogwarts had ever seen. Because he had to be better than him. But in this second he just wanted to be left alone and invisible for the rest of the world. It wasn't like he appreciated the tone of it or anything like that.
So there was no reason why he should have turned around. He did it anyway and send a bored look in Wood's direction. "I'm not in the mood for our..." He pointed between them. "This whole rivalry thing we've going on. So shove your smugness down your throat and piss off." He banged his locker door shut and prayed for Wood to just leave him alone. It had already cost him too much to not beat any of his teammates. Wood was the last one he'd be able to hold back from hitting.
They had lost. And not just for a few points. The scoring, in the end, had been 230 to 20. And Flint couldn't even blame it on his teammates. He wouldn't go that far to blame it on himself either. But maybe on the week. The month. This year. The circumstances. His family or life in general.
It had been his last time on this pitch, and he messed up.
Wood barely took his time to send Flint a strange look then did what he could the best. Holding one of his dumb speeches. "What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?" Or just babbling in general.
Nope, he wouldn't go through this disaster again. The Slytherin headed straight for the door. He was not in the mood to hear it out of Wood's mouth. Not yet and probably never in his whole life. But the Gryffindor thought otherwise and stepped in his way. Didn't even hesitate or stopped talking. The only give away about his emotion was his face, which was getting redder every second. "You...you can't just - You have to be on the pitch. You are- "
"You better go out of my way or otherwise I made you regret the day you stepped through this fucking door." Yep, definitely not in the mood to talk this through. It was bad enough that he had to go through this game over and over again in his own mind. In the end, the result was clear his father was right he was just a failure after all.
Wood doesn't even bat an eye but rambled further. "Rumor said you won't even think about trying out for a pro-team. So, you better tell me how wrong they're or... Fuck Flint, not even you can be that dumb."
For a short moment, Flint only could stare disbelievingly at the Gryffindor. Not even bothering to ask where he heard about it. The next second he slammed him into the next locker and pointed a warning finger at him. "Don't even think about telling me what I can and can not do. You're a nobody to me and you sure as fuck haven't any matter in this decision." It costs all of Flint's (kinda not even existing) self-control to keep his hands from trembling or even closing around the other boy's throat.
The only persons strong enough to decide which way his life was going to lead after graduation were his parents. First of all, he was their son. A Flint. One of the most respected families of the wizard worlds. Their only child. They didn't care what he did in his free time as long as he had good grades. (Yeah, his last summer had been goddamn awful.) They might be disappointed because he decided for a position as captain and therefore against one as a perfect but as long as his ass was ending up in the ministry they wouldn't bat an eye about it. A Flint had no other place in the world than the highest. So fucking Oliver Wood wasn't in a place to discuss Flint's job choice and give him his unwanted opinion about it.
"Oh, I'm shaking. Your threats really getting under my skin," Wood gave him a bored look and rolled his eyes. "We both know that they're nothing but hot air. So..."
For the matter of fact, here again: No self-control.
Flint heard enough. Hot air, sure as he wished. So he slammed his fist into Wood's face and send him to the ground. It was more due to the surprise on Marcus' side than actual force behind the punch itself. The shiver of anger which had made his way through his body, and had left his veins filled with hot rage, but his stomach as a bottomless hole of panic, took most of the strength from it. Anyway Wood pressed this thumb to a little cut at his lip then opened his mouth again. "Don't," was all Marcus managed to say and whatever the other boy saw at his face made him swallow his words and not even fight back. Flint stared at him only for another short moment then went back to his locker.
~•~
The next day a wet haired Gryffindor found his way to the Slytherin table and sat himself across from Flint. "What the fuck, Wood," Marcus cast a glance across the hall to make sure no one was watching them. But apart from Trelawney, nobody was in the great hall at such a strange time on a Sunday afternoon. To make it clear: The Divination Professor didn't count because she was looking into the distance since...maybe hours.
Wood opened his mouth, his eyes landed on the black fluffball in Marcus arms, and he closed it again. "Uhm... I thought maybe you've stomached your loss, and we could talk about your awful life decision." Flint was a heartbeat from snapping at Wood when he saw his Rival was shaking his head at himself. "You've a kitten..." Maybe he could set Mr. Murray on the table and distract Wood long enough to get away from him. But Marcus was no coward. Maybe he was a coward in some points but not when it came to Oliver Wood and this stupid obsession with long unnecessary speeches.
"Go away, Wood. We're not talking about this. Let's make an actual deal to not ever talk about it again. " He made his point clear and hoped Wood was bright enough to take the big hint. "Unless you get off to such kind of things." Even before Marcus saw the slight frown on Wood's face he regretted his words. Maybe he was really that dumb. "And in that case, fuck off." He cringed. Really? Was that necessary?
Flint started to return to his essay for Flitwick. "Jesus Wood can you stop looking at my - the cat."
"Did you steal it?," the Gryffindor gave him a serious look then rolled his eyes at Flint's death glare.
What was the most annoying thing about Wood? His ongoing speeches? His stupid face? His obsession with Quidditch? Even if he himself wasn't any better? The fact that he had nowadays the strange desire to get involved in Flint's life? Maybe his existence in general?
"Don't you have friends to bother? Or maybe even an own business to mind? Even if it seems like a strange concept to you." Marcus' gaze wandered from Trelawny, who was getting up to leave the great hall to Wood's hands. Did this idiot really draw Quidditch strategies on his hands? Goddammit, he was such a junkie.
Wood tore his eyes from Mr. Murray and raised his gaze until he met Marcus' several inches above. "I've friends. Kinda... Which is more than I can say for you. But they're distracting- Which isn't the point why I came here to speak to you!" He sighed and ran an unsteady hand through his hair.
Was Marcus in the front row of Oliver Wood's mental breakdown? A low voice in his head noted that he should enjoy this. Every other part of him wanted to run away from this conversation and the Gryffindor. Coward! He was no one to hold hands when someone was down. (Also this was Oliver Wood so it wouldn't even happen if he were some kind of empathetic...) Goddammit, Flint even kicked Higgs when he was down and told him to get his ugly ass up and come with him to the pitch. Later he dumped this idiot for better brooms. So...it wouldn'd happen. Ever. Also, Marcus had definitely no desire in seeing Oliver Wood cry. There was only a certain amount of damage, which their strange relationship could stomach, and he had the feeling that they were on their way to cross a line. He glanced down at the kitten. Maybe...?
Wood clenched his fists as if to prepare himself for his next words. "I know what I'll say now is against everything we are." No...no. What now? "But this is Quidditch and it doesn't care about such things."
Marcus was about to open his mouth and tell him to shut the fuck up, but his tongue didn't work. Even his fist laid useless on top of Mr. Murray's fur and wouldn't let him punch Wood in the face.
Flint caught the Gryffindor briefly glancing to one side then met his eyes again. "You've a gift. A big one. Not many are as good at Quidditch as the two of us. You won't do anyone a favor in neglecting it. It would just be an extreme waste of talent. The pro teams don't fight for everyone. But they would for you. I'm sure of it. So, come to terms with whatever is going on in your head and...go pro. Take it to the championships and meet me on the pitch again."
"Hell Flint, you know how hard it is for me to admit this. Could you at least don't look at me like I'm completely mental?"
How did they get from "beating the shit out of another" to such kinds of conversations? Did he miss something? This wasn't Wood's place to be. Flint didn't even talk to Higgs about "his" job choice.
"I'm not the one making a complete fool out of himself," Flint pressed his words against the lump in his throat, but never took his eyes of Wood for a second. He hit the sore spot, but Flint wouldn't give him the pleasure of showing that. No matter what game the Gryffindor was up playing. "Mind your own business, Wood. The world isn't only just black and white and it's definitely not just about Quidditch."
"It is for us. You can't tell me that it's not the best time of the day for you when you're finally out there on the pitch. You can't tell me that most of the time your thoughts aren't all about strategies and the most recent games." All these words for nothing. His face grew slightly redder with each of them.
"Let me stop you there. No matter what kind of strange connection you think we have, it doesn't exist. The only thing we've in common is a few years on the same pitch. That's all." Flint made a short gesture with his hands to show that he was done talking about this. He had enough. Yet again. Still. Always.
Quidditch wasn't the only point in his life that made his relationship with his parents problematic. And in the end, the blood bounds were all that matters. 'True friendship' or not. If it's getting hard on hard the only persons he could trust were his parents. No matter how strict they were.
"You're lying to yourself Flint," for a short second, Marcus thought to hear a strange undertone in Wood's voice then the Gryffindor got up and left the hall without looking back again. Besides the Slytherin the great hall was empty now and yet again he felt lost. Apparently this was the mood of the year.
He tried to return to his essay but stared blankly at the paper. Wood didn't know anything about him. Maybe he did know a bit about the person Marcus wanted to be. The person deep in the inside with it's sad little wishes and desires. But he didn't know anything about the person the world wanted Marcus to be. Maybe it was better this way. It was kinda consoling to know that at least in the mind of some he would remain as his actual self and not as the upcoming facade.
"Dare you to leave my side, Murray. Mrs. Norris will skin you alive. And I'm not the one coming after you and holding your paw afterwards." He totally would. Some relationships weren't just blood after all.
~•~
on the train back "home"
A groaning scrawny something dropped into the seat across from Marcus. Face smashed in the smooth pillow of the bench, legs kicking some of Warrington’s stuff to the ground.
Flint couldn't quite make out what annoyed him the most. Pucey pretending to be his long-lost adopted dog. Warrington's ability to claim every place as his own within a few seconds. Or maybe Bole who couldn’t sit like a normal human being on a bench and rather dropped himself in front of the door.
“Don't pretend you had to do anything hard this year,” Marcus growled at Pucey and earned a low, “Yeah man, let’s not pretend,” from Bole who was now partially laying in the hallway, because Warrington had opened the door and stepped over him without commenting on his actions.
“Love letter for the captain or maybe it's already your result, and we can keep your ass as a captain for another year,” Warrington said in an amused voice and waved a letter in front of Flint's nose.
Pucey bolted upright. Flint smacked the paper out of his former teammate's hand. "It isn't. You need to find a new Daddy, Pucey. Or finally, grow some balls and live your own life," Marcus insisted before giving his attention to the letter.
The compartment went quiet, but only 'til Warrington found his voice again. “Maybe it isn't a love letter after all. Guys, the captain doesn't look right,” he kicked his foot against Marcus’ knee.
“Leave it, Cassius,” Flint got up from his seat and went towards the door.
“Damn you got a "Cassius". Boss is not amused,” Bole snickered while getting pushed back to the ground.
Idiot.
~•~
Green fields shot past the window, sweat ran down his spine, and for a short moment, he gasped desperately for air.
You got this, you got this, he told himself over and over again until a shoe carefully tipped against his boot, and he had to look up.
“You’d like to trade?,” Pucey pointed from the cat in his hand to the letter Marcus clutched in his own. He nodded and a few seconds later he pressed a purring fluffball against his chest and gazed out of the window again. The only thing he could see was the sky, because they were sitting slumped on the floor.
Out of the corner of his eye Marcus could see Pucey looking at him and he could hear how he shoved the letter and his future back in the envelope again. "Wow...this is a big deal you've tryouts for... But you can't..." It wasn't really a question more a statement. "Higgs told me... Well actually, Higgs tells me everything."
"I know this by now," he grumbled and let Murray climb on his shoulder.
"Okay...maybe the two of us ain't friends but...I know you by now...kinda." Who would've thought? "And this is...this is your dream..." Marcus watched Pucey curiously from the side. Could it really make such a difference whether you grew up with pure-bloods or not? Pucey's parents had died in the war, and he'd get adopted by a couple. Marcus didn't know anything about them. If he'd guess they would be Hufflepuff's or naive Muggles. So maybe it did make a big difference. Most orphans were taken in by their next relatives or, in the case of a pure-blood without further family, passed on to another pure-blood family. Not so in Pucey's case. Really everything about this boy was weird.
"You and Higgs are kinda like long-lost brothers, I get. But I'm not. So, cut it." Pucey cringed, Marcus offered him a small smile. "He's Higgs and you're a little boy. What did you think would come from it?"
Flush crept up his cheeks, and he stared into the distance. "Dunno... He'd let you live with him you know? If your parents aren't okay with you letting your dream come true. You could just try. Maybe nothing will come from it, but it's worth a shot. Don't you think?"
"Was this a Quidditch reference?" Mr. Murray jumped gracile from his shoulder unto the floor and pawed the envelope. "Maybe you're worth my time after all."
~•~
a few weeks later, at the court of the Montrose Magpies
Once Marcus apparated to the street in front of the monstrosity called the Montrose Magpies stadium he finally allowed his heart to beat like it tried to jump out of his chest.
Years ago after his first night in the dungeons of Slytherin, the first thing he did in the morning was to run for the pitch. It was gigantic. No comparison to the small thing he used to play on as a child. But this…this was a completely new state of gigantic. Marcus had been here several times before. As a spectator to see the best players in the country in action. Being here as a "might be something in foreseeable future" was a completely different feeling.
Might be.
Marcus soaked up the excitement. The white walls of the stadium, the black magpies on each side of it. The high walls and massive doors that led to the field. He didn't allow himself to feel much in general but in this second he was a loaded bomb of emotions. Not just positive. Mostly anxious. Anxious about this whole thing could stay a "could be" and he would never make it to an actual "is". Anxious about the consequences if he'd nevertheless made it. Flint never had any kind of luck. The only thing he had was actual skill. And the only thing he actually could and loved to do was now within reach.
He took a deep breath. He didn’t allow himself to feel much. So he wouldn't allow himself to break now. Not in this moment. Maybe later, when he had to move into Higgs small flat, or do what his parents wanted him to do and move back into his old room. But this was later. Not now. Not in this moment. It was a shot, and he was the one who’d manage to catapult the Quaffle into the goal. Maybe he wouldn't see the shock and anger in Wood's face but landing a score against Byrne was the next best thing to do. And he could manage it. Even if Byrne was an actual pro, and Marcus just a no one who just finished school he had had the best keeper to "practice" with.
Marcus never had played with a woman on his team. That was just a Slytherin thing. The real world was nothing like that. And Flint himself doesn't care much about the gender as long as they were good in the position they played at.
A tall man with dark hair came into view as Flint stepped in front of the huge walls. Maddock. Chaser of the Montrose Magpies. He was indeed crazy but an incredibly good player after all. And if someone were off by a little craziness, they definitely hadn't spent eight years in the Slytherin common room. Crazy was okay. Marcus could handle that. As long as he didn't need to handle another Malfoy-type of situation.
"Flint right?," he guessed. "Bit risky looking for a new chaser this early before the season starts, don't you think? But what can you do. The boss didn't like the last twenty guys at the tryouts, but he liked your last game and your application. So, come on in."
Marcus bit his lip to prevent himself from saying something stupid like "what application?" or "last game?" Why would they watch his last game? And who had sent them an - his application? Wood might've insisted that he keep playing and went pro, but he wasn't that desperate. Instead, Flint uttered a faint "okay" and stepped through the door behind Maddock.
~•~
Maddock led him into the locker room, where Marcus was peeling off the clothes he had been wearing to his interview at the Ministry a few minutes ago and threw on his practice uniform. In the meantime, Maddock never left his side or stopped talking. He rambled about some sort of muggle sport on the ground Marcus never had heard about.
So he just kept going on. Feeling like his legs could lose their ability to walk every minute. Until they were in front of some sort of committee. Marcus knew their faces and was sure he had said something to them, but his blood rushed so damn loud in his ears that he couldn't be quite sure. At least they didn't seem to mind, because they just pushed a broom in his hand and sent him into the air.
It’s worth a shot, right?
Marcus took a deep breath and in the next second, he found himself in front of the three goals and the keeper. “You're going to puke, dude?” Byrne shouted across the field and eyed him suspiciously out of the distance.
“He'll better not,” sounded a loud voice next to him and a moment later, someone appeared beside him on a firebolt. If he'd concentrate, he would've been able to assign a name to this face. After all, he had been a fan of the Magpies longer than he could stand on his own. But the idea of thinking even more than he already did make him feel sick, so he just stared at her. “Boss will kick him out immediately if he realizes he's chickening. But you're a big, fearless Slytherin, huh? Exactly the right one for this job. We play rough. You need to keep up with us, baby boy."
Walsh and Moore were agile like no chaser Marcus had ever seen before. When there was a lack of strategy they made it up with kicks to his side or blows with their elbows. By the time he came to a stop in front of the committee again, he had several bruises and was not quite sure if he could still feel all the fingers on his left hand. But he had scored several times and that was all that mattered. The first one he had admit to himself was a lucky shot and until he got used to the new set-up, it was mostly due to the team play. A few minutes later he finally got back to his old self-confident Quidditch - asshole self and scored with full force. The only reason for it being difficult or even scary, to begin with, was because he had buried this dream a long time ago. Quidditch had been a beautiful chapter in his life, but a closed one.
~•~
“I hate this woman,” Higgs set a cup of tea on the table in front of Marcus and sat on an armchair across his best friend. His face was full of hatred and disgust. He had never been a big fan of the Flint family and the first thing he did after graduating from Hogwarts was leaving the house of his own parents, cause he wasn't a big fan of them either.
Marcus let himself sack back into the cushions of the sofa. Somewhere in the background, Pucey was walking around like someone was after him. “Hell, put your child to bed, Higgs,” Flint said in a low voice and closed his eyes against the bright light in the living room.
“He isn’t my child,” the 'from now on player of the Montrose Magpies' didn’t open his eyes to see the same cringe creeping across Higg’s face he had seen on Pucey’s just a few weeks ago. It wasn’t his place to be. They should do what they wanted as long as they didn't destroy their "not quite friendship" - thing. “Adrian.”
“They’re monster!,” the younger boy shouted angrily but nevertheless Marcus heard his steps getting closer. “They can’t just use this curse on you. Just…because… Because what? You aren’t like they wanted you to run out? No Terence, don’t look at me like that. This is horrible and you know that. Shouldn’t we at least tell the ministry about it?”
Marcus let out a low but forceful “no” and managed to shake his head still not opening his eyes. He had got the position as a substitute chaser and had thought his parents wouldn't be home by the time he went there to get his things, but he was wrong. Both were waiting for him in the kitchen. Of course, they were. After all, he had had the interview at the ministry just a few hours ago. They didn't care much, but they did about such kind of things. It would've been a thousand times easier if he could've just written them a letter, but no he had to explain to them in person that he wasn't going to work in any pointless department of the ministry and would play from now on for the Magpies. Like Marcus, his mother had never been a woman of many words, so she just took her wand and mumbled a short "crucio". It wasn't particularly abnormal for their family, but somehow Marcus hadn't expected it, now that he'd finished school.
For Pucey this situation was new, for Higgs it wasn't.
"It doesn't matter, Adrian. He is staying here with me. And hopefully, there won't be any reason for either of us to contact our parents ever again." The armchair creaked, someone tapped on a switch. Suddenly it got even darker behind his eyelids and Marcus was finally able to open his eyes again.
Pucey was sitting in front of him on the coffee table, with Higgs right next to him. "Hi mom, hi dad," Marcus aped and immediately groaned in pain as he tried to sit up. Not only bruises but the reverberation of the curse made its way through his body. It wasn't going to be a nice night. "Apparently I'll never get rid of the two of you."