Chapter Text
“Oh, lighten up, Weasley. Come on, look at me!”
Percy spared an annoyed glance at Marcus, who only raised an equally-annoyed eyebrow at him. He rolled his eyes in response, returning to the newspaper set in his lap. If he had to be in Slytherin, then the least he could give himself were the crosswords. Those were fun.
“Eh… Why won’t you talk to us?” Marcus grumbled, waving his fingers in front of his newspaper. Percy didn’t flinch. “We can’t be that bad, really,” he grumbled, finally pulling his hand back.
It was his second year in Hogwarts, though at the very least, it was only the second worst year running. His first year certainly had to be the worst—being sorted into Slytherin, being avoided by the two people who used to call him family, never finding a home in the dumb house that he found himself in.
At the very least, he’d grown much more used to it now. At the very least, he had his crosswords. He hummed contentedly to himself, if only to annoy Marcus beside him. That was fun too.
After a disconcerting moment, he realized Marcus was looking over his shoulder, straight at the newspaper he was reading. Instinctively, Percy snapped it shut, throwing a dirty look at the brunet behind him.
“I’m not gonna copy your answers,” Marcus snorted, prying the newspaper back open forcibly. He peered carefully at the blank boxes again, referencing it with the words beside it. “Lotta Muggle references, isn’t there?”
“Something wrong with that?” Percy snapped, knowing quite well how the rest of the housemates seemed to be. His Slytherin experience had started going quite well when he learned how to avoid all of the snobbish purebloods, and though Flint never struck him as one of them, he wasn’t afraid to push him off a lot more forcibly if needed.
Despite this, Marcus only snorted. “No, of course not,” he replied as if this was the most simple thing in the world. He pointed again at the crosswords. “Twenty-seven downwards, Meg. Er… I think. I don’t know, I haven’t read Little Women in a while.”
Percy blinked. He was having too many revelations all at once. “You’ve read it?” he asked, dumbfounded. Marcus never really struck him as the type to read, less so the type to read Muggle texts. Perhaps there was a lot he’d gotten wrong after all.
In response, Marcus only stared at him. “What, surprised?” he said with a smirk, playing much more the character that Percy knew. “Come on, put it down. We need to fill it all up.”
And fill it up they did. Funnily enough, Percy found that Marcus answered plenty of the boxes referencing anything Muggle-related. Distantly, Percy wondered what he was doing at all. His position—Marcus reading over his shoulder, filling up a crossword with him, understanding every Muggle reference there was. It wasn’t the worst position in the world.
Blushing, he shook his head to clear himself of these thoughts. Marcus Flint wasn’t the worst person in the world, yes, but that didn’t mean he liked any part of this. He scribbled another answer and moved on.
In only ten minutes, they were done. A yawn escaped Marcus’s mouth as he stretched, his back sore after too long of a very uncomfortable position. Percy looked back at him, his lips pursed, much more inclined to worry about the other’s pain now.
“You ought to lay down,” Percy said nervously, fiddling with the newspaper. He’d planned for it to occupy a good chunk of his time, and with it done so early, he had no idea of what to do with himself. “It couldn’t have been comfortable. Perched up there, you know.”
Marcus only gave him a wicked grin, his shoulders flexing as he tried to get the tension out. Despite himself, Percy blushed. “If only someone gave me space,” he mocked, though there was no real bite in his tone. “Let me sit beside you next time, then.”
Percy, deciding to shock him for once, spoke simply: “Okay.”
Marcus looked up at him, evidently surprised. His back was arched midway, still trying to do some stretching. “Really?” His lips curled up with amusement, eyebrows slightly raised. “Months of me pestering you, and all I had to do for you to relent was a crossword?”
“Yeah, what else?” Percy said with a scoff, folding up his newspaper. There was no use of it now, but he knew he’d love to reference it for later. Marcus’s surprisingly elegant calligraphy was something he wanted to master himself. “An actual conversation? Don’t kid yourself, Flint. Everyone knows that the real way into my heart is the crossword.”
Marcus laughed at that, his lips lifting and his eyes going moon-shaped with a smile. At once, his rough features seemed to lighten, and the edge that he usually carried himself with seemed lost. At once, Percy knew he needed to see this smile again.
“Glad I finally got you to open up,” Marcus said, his smile still not leaving his eyes. “Guess I got the Daily Prophet to thank for that, eh?”
Percy spared him a smile—a real smile, not the tight-lipped curt ones he’d been giving to the Slytherins all year. “The one time they’ve ever been useful, of course,” he corrected, to which Marcus burst out laughing.
For the first time since he’d found himself in Hogwarts, he found himself truly content. Happy, even. Whatever this feeling was, bursting inside his chest, threading him at the seams, it was the best thing he’d ever gotten inside his godforsaken school.
Eventually, they made their way towards the Quidditch pitch— ‘I’m a Keeper, you know, it’s hard work,’— and, upon finding it was very much occupied, lazed about the stands for an hour more talking about nothing at all.
It was good, it was the best that Percy had felt for a while. But all good things had to come to an end, it seemed, because his momentary happiness gave clear way to forgetting who was on the pitch itself.
“Percy? What are you doing down there?” a tinny voice yelled out to him, unfamiliar at first but the identity of the voice slowly dawned on him with dread. One of the players in the air descended slowly, unaccompanied but clearly garnering attention from their teammates.
“Charlie?” Percy blubbered out, the name sounding unfamiliar on his tongue. He blushed as he realized what he might’ve looked like—enjoying his time with Marcus Flint, Charlie’s enemy on the pitch. Subconsciously, he scooted away. “What do you want?”
Charlie’s eyes trailed over the scene, and though Percy had moved away, he seemed to understand. “Just training,” he said in an even voice, his face betraying none of his thoughts. “You’ve gotten yourself a friend?"
“If it helps, he doesn’t like me at all,” Marcus chirped beside him, which helped nothing at all. Percy reckoned he knew what he was doing. “Very funny of you to care, by the way. Didn’t think you did very much.”
Charlie’s eyes narrowed at Marcus, which Percy was almost thankful for. His brother seemed to have forgotten him already. “Who do you think you are?”
Percy looked between the two nervously, wondering which one of the two would really strike first. He didn’t want to be there to watch, but given that this seemed to be his first ever friend and his older brother he felt very much obligated to see them out.
Marcus shrugged indifferently. “Not important. I just know I’ve been a lot more around than you’ve been.”
Before the two could say anything more, Percy finally spoke up: “Thanks, Charlie! Yes, he’s my friend!” he squeaked out, blushing furiously under their confused stares. He knew they had all the reason to be confused, but he couldn’t care for that. Bewilderment rather than anger, he would settle for that any day.
Without another moment to think, he stood up, sweeping his bag up in the process. Tugging almost violently on Marcus’s robes, he hissed one ‘we’re getting out of here’ into the Slytherin’s ear before turning heel and running away.
Marcus jogged after him, face screwed up with the exhaustion of trying to catch up with the surprisingly-speedy Percy Weasley. Of all talents, this wasn’t one that he expected the redhead to have. Soon enough, they met up near an entrance to Hogwarts, Marcus panting and trying to regain lost breath while Percy paced the three steps of land there.
“Oh Merlin, Merlin,” Percy whispered feverishly to himself, face growing redder by the second. “Oh, why did he have to be there? Why did—”
“Because he’s the Gryffindor Quidditch captain,” Marcus supplied.
Percy cast him a scathing look before carrying on with his restless muttering. “Can’t believe he saw me… hasn’t even bothered to talk to me before this… and he saw me like that… with…”
“Me?” Marcus supplied again, now looking much more unimpressed with him.
“No!” Percy burst, then went silent for a few seconds more. “Okay, yes,” he sighed out, bringing his fingers to his temple. “No offense to you, however. Charlie’s just… strange about me being in Slytherin.”
The edge of Marcus’s lips quirked up without warning. “Strange, hmm?” he hummed, thumbing his fingernails. “You could say much worse about him.”
Percy glared at him. “What do you know?”
“More than you might think.”
This made Percy stop his pacing to stare at him. He thought back to how strange Marcus seemed to be—or, he didn’t know if this was how he usually was, having talked to him for a grand three hours—but it definitely was strange. How he made those snide remarks about Charlie’s absence in his life, how he kept appearing despite his best efforts to shake him off.
Percy shuddered with disgust. “Oh, Merlin. You’re such a stalker.”
“Excuse me?” Marcus spluttered, evidently shocked by his words. He coughed into his fist a few times to clear his throat, though no matter how unbothered he tried to act, his pink cheeks gave him away. “It doesn’t take a genius— or a stalker—to see how your brothers are being, you know.”
Percy raised an eyebrow. “What do you even know about them?”
Marcus waved vaguely to the west, towards the Quidditch pitch, which seemed to say all that he needed to say. “And just because you’re a Slytherin, too,” he ranted, his cheeks heating up with anger. “House rivalry is stupid. It’s just a school and you’re their brother. Really, why do they care?”
Percy stood there for a few moments, seemingly rooted in place. He hadn’t given it much thought, but someone doing the thinking for him seemed much worse than any conclusions he could’ve reached by himself. Wordlessly, he hitched up his robes and started to gain a distant look in the eye.
“Weasley?” Marcus said nervously, observing his strange behavior.
“Mmm,” he hummed back, not paying much attention. He turned towards the entrance stiffly, as if being controlled by some outer force. “Gonna go now, Flint. Thanks for the chat.”
“Eh?” Marcus exclaimed, staring at him strangely. He found that a lot of people had been looking at him like that lately. “You’re going? Just like that?”
Just like that, his voice echoed in his head. Just like that, just like that. This is why you’re not a Gryffindor. His inner monologue seemed to like morphing into the Sorting Hat’s eerie rumble nowadays.
That’s why you’ll never be a Gryffindor.
That’s why you’ll never belong.