Work Text:
There were about nine million other places that Harry would have rather been than in the queue to get a beer in the Three Broomsticks, on a Friday night. And had this not been a work obligation, he’d have most certainly stayed home. He’d been part of the Department of Magical Games and Sports for over seven months now and while the Ministry certainly hadn’t been his first choice of employment he really hadn’t been in much of a position to decline the offer.
After all it’s not as though the money his parents had left him would last forever. It wasn’t a bad job, per se, it was just rather boring. As it turned out, basic maths wasn’t something that most wizards bothered with. So after Harry, who had a shoddy primary education at best, caught three errors on a monthly budget report, he ended up at the Head of the Budgeting Department.
It was more than a bit of a headache. Harry was in charge of people, he had responsibilities, and he had to occasionally turn up at stupid work events when he’d rather just be home in bed watching trash telly.
Of course it could have been worse, and it’s not as though he hated his job. Some bits were alright. Aberthany liked to bring in biscuits on Fridays, and that was always a treat. Really, Harry should be grateful, what with the way that Quidditch didn’t pan out, and it’s not as though he had any NEWTS. He wasn’t even technically qualified for the position, so he ought to make the best of it. And he did, or at least he tried to, but sometimes, mostly when he ended up at functions like this, it was hard to remember why he didn’t hate his job.
It never took long for the questions to start, and it’s not as though Harry wasn’t used to them. He got them all the time, everywhere, from just about everyone. But once the Ogden’s started flowing, people got honest; asking all kinds of personal things Harry couldn’t imagine asking anyone. And that would have been well and good had he had the ability to tell them to get fucked. But since he was in a position of power, that would be inappropriate. Yet somehow it was perfectly fine for Alexandra Burke from the Department of International Cooperation to ask him if he’d dated Ginny Weasley because she reminded him of his mum.
The answer was categorically no. But that wasn’t any of her business.
By the time Harry had retreated to the back corner of the pub and finished his pint it had been just over an hour, and he’d had about all he could stomach for the evening. He eyed the door to the back garden, it would make a decent escape route.
In the summer, it made for a nice patio. In the winter, it was nothing but a haven for the occasional smoker too lazy to go out the front. He’d have to hop the back fence, but that would be far less annoying than trying to sneak out of the front.
Harry left his empty glass on the table, and slipped out the back door. Immediately he was hit in the face with a gust of wind so bone-chilling, that he swore loudly and ducked his face into the collar of his coat. He hurried across the porch and just as he’d reached the top of the stairs he spotted someone at the far end of the porch. Harry froze, desperately hoping that whoever it was wasn’t going to be a pain in the arse. To his immense relief, it was just Marcus Flint.
That was fine then. Harry liked Marcus well enough. They worked together, and while Marcus was a little brusque and had a rather strange sense of humor, he always turned his receipts in on time and didn't argue when Harry told him that drinks at the Leaky weren't a business expense.
Marcus took a final drag on his cigarette, before crushing the butt under the toe of his heavy boots.
“Skiving are we?” he asked, and grinned full of sharp, uneven teeth. He reminded Harry of a shark, with his square jaw and his unfriendly smile. The girls in the office talked about him and while Harry tried not to listen, it was hard to ignore.
They liked his big hands — ‘Merlin, I swear he could wrap them all the way around my waist — and his attitude — ‘I swear a bloke like that could really throw you around, you know?’ — but none of them ever planned to do anything about it. — ‘he’s a bit feral, isn’t he? He’s not exactly boyfriend material.’’
Harry had always thought they were barmy, but he could sort of see it now.
“I’m thinking about skiving, yeah,” he replied. “Are you gonna snitch on me?”
“Nah, what good’d that do? Besides I can’t blame you, these things are bloody awful, and they’ve got to be twice as bad for you. I just don’t understand why you let people talk to you that way, you’re too fucking polite for your own good.”
Harry laughed, short and loud. “It’s not like I can tell them to get fucked can I?”
“Why not? What are they going to do, sack you? You’re Harry bloody Potter.”
“They might just. I’m management, aren't I? I’ve got to set an example.”
Marcus huffed and grinned, showing off his dimples. “You're a bit thick, yeah,” he said, nudging Harry’s shoulder.
“Oy, you fuck off,” Harry grumbled shoving back. Marcus slung an arm around his shoulders. He was about a head taller than Harry, and considerably bigger, and when he leaned heavily into Harry’s side, Harry sagged under his weight.
“So you going back in?”
“I was going to hop the fence and go home, but I wasn’t accounting for your ugly mug being back here.”
“Aye, Potter, are you tall enough to hop that fence?”
Harry made an affronted noise and jammed his very pointy elbow into Marcus' ribs. “I’m tall enough, thank you very much,” he said primly. “Not everyone can be a giant like you.”
“Let's see you try then, go on, give it a go.”
“Sure, if you come with me.”
“Ah, making me an accomplice in your escape? That’s real Slytherin like Potter.”
Harry crossed the snowy garden in a few strides, pausing by the fence. He turned, grinning at Marcus. “I was almost in Slytherin, you know,” he said, and then he braced a foot against the fence post and vaulted over, landing in knee-deep snow drift on the other side.
Marcus followed not even a moment later, but he had the misfortune of landing on a bit of uneven ground and almost toppled over into a snowy bush.
He caught himself on the fence and swore loudly, turning to glare at Harry. “You were not almost a Slytherin. You’re too…”
“Too what?” asked Harry, a snowball hidden behind his back.
Marcus pulled a face, but before he could reply, Harry pegged him square in the face with his snowball. Marcus yelped in surprise, stumbled, and toppled over backward into a bush. Once he’d struggled to his feet, he lunged at Harry, who yelped and took off down the street.
“I’m too what, Marc?” he shouted, as they raced towards the edge of Hogsmeade.
“A fucking wanker is what you are!”
Marcus was gaining on him. Harry might be quick, but Marcus' legs were far longer. He caught up quick and unceremoniously tried to shove a handful of snow down the back of Harry’s jacket. But Harry danced out just out of his reach, laughing as he darted away.
“Is that all you’ve got? Come on, Marc, you can do better than that.”
Marcus had stopped in the middle of the street, bent double, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “You’re a real bastard, you know that,” he said between gasps for air. “I’m over here with my damn smokers' lungs dying, and you're laughing at me.”
Harry jogged closer, but stopped just out of reach. “Do you need me to carry you?”
“Carry me? I’d crush you — Salazar's shorts, you’ve got everyone at work convinced you're some docile little thing, but you’ve got a mouth on you — Merlin if they knew maybe they’d stop asking why you're single.”
“Nothing wrong with being single.”
Marcus scoffed. “Try telling that to my mum, I swear she’d marry me off to a troll if she could.”
He stretched, rolling his shoulders, and tilted his head up towards the sky. It had started to snow; fat flakes caught on his lashes. It was unfair, really, that he was so handsome.
“I can’t imagine you have trouble getting a date.”
“What? Who in the fuck would want to date me?”
Harry, caught off guard by Marcus' response, spoke without thinking. “I would,” he blurted, and instantly went entirely red, because in no world had he meant to say that out loud.
Marcus snorted and started laughing so hard that he sat down in the snow. Harry shuffled his feet, his face burning. “But I don't know why, since all you do is laugh at me.”
“Now you’re just taking the piss.”
“I could be serious,” replied Harry. He was serious, certainly more serious than he’d blurted it out a moment ago. It’s not as though he had a whole lot of experience dating — and the experience he had wasn’t particularly good, but dating Marcus would be fun, at the very least, he’d be happy to go to a Quidditch match, and it didn’t hurt that Harry really did like looking at him.
“You're not serious,” muttered Marcus, he’d shoved his hands into his pocket, his wide shoulders hunching in.
“I am too,” said Harry.
Marcus stopped in the middle of the path leading out of town and squinted at him.
“I can prove it if you’d like.”
“Oh yeah, how's that, then?”
Harry grabbed tight to Marcus' shoulder and went up on his toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “See?”
“That’s not even a proper kiss,” said Marcus, the back of his neck burning a deep crimson.
Harry burst out laughing, “So kiss me properly then.”
“Fine,” said Marcus, “I will.” He crowded in close, and he dipped his head, pressing a soft kiss on Harry's lips, his hands buried in Harry’s messy, windswept hair. It was a good kiss. The kind of kiss that Harry could have sunk into forever. It was intoxicating, a feeling worth drowning in, and it was certainly the best kiss Harry’d ever had. Although that wasn’t saying much.
Marcus sighed, tucking his face into Harry’s neck. “See,” said Harry, “I told you I was serious.”
“What you are is trouble.”
“You like it.”
Marcus chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “I do.”
“Good. Because I like you too. I’m thinking about getting a curry on the way home. Come with?”
It might have been cold, and Harry might have preferred to have stayed home in his jimjams, but waking up the next morning with Marcus Flint in his bed wasn’t so bad either.