Chapter Text
Magic had always seemed like something out of a fairytale to Marc - something impossible.
Until he was eleven, he didn't even suspect he was a wizard. A boy from an ordinary Muggle family, he was simply faster than the others, his reflexes terrified his PE teachers, and broken toys would sometimes fix themselves if he wished for it hard enough. But then came the letter made of heavy, yellowish parchment, written in emerald ink. And Marc Marquez’s world turned upside down.
His first year at Hogwarts was forever burned into his memory as a kaleidoscope of incredible colors and sounds. The bustling Diagon Alley, soaked in the scents of owls and fresh pastries, the weight of his dragon heartstring-core vine wand, which suddenly responded in his hand with a shower of golden sparks, the Hogwarts Express whisking him away to Scotland, far from his familiar life. And, of course, the Sorting Hat.
- Plenty of ambition, - a dry voice had whispered in his head back then, - and a burning thirst to win from within. Slytherin could guide you... But I see a reckless bravery. A readiness to leap into the abyss without checking for a safety net below. Well then, let it be... GRYFFINDOR!
It was that very evening, sitting at his new house table beneath the floating candles of the Great Hall, that Marc first saw him.
Valentino Rossi.
He didn't look like a typical professor. No strict floor-length robes or prim manners. Rossi wore a dark blue robe with a carelessly unbuttoned collar, revealing a bright yellow shirt underneath. His curls were in a state of eternal creative chaos, and sly wrinkles hidden in the corners of his eyes crinkled as he laughed at a joke made by another professor.
- That’s Professor Rossi, - the Gryffindor prefect explained to Marc in a reverent whisper. - Defense Against the Dark Arts. He’s a legend, Marquez. A former Slytherin, but who cares. He was the Head of the Auror Office about ten years ago. In the last Wizarding War, Rossi and his squad crushed everyone. They say he’s unmatched in dueling. He retired at the peak of his glory and came here to teach.
Back then, Marc couldn’t take his eyes off him. Valentino radiated confidence and a charisma that filled the entire space around him.
And at first, everything was simply wonderful. Rossi turned out to be a brilliant teacher. His lessons were never boring, instead of cramming theory from textbooks, they practiced. Valentino smiled at everyone, his charm working flawlessly on the students. He could joke about a Hufflepuff's failed spell or encourage a hesitant Ravenclaw.
He treated Marc with special warmth. Rossi was quick to notice the Muggle-born first-year’s boundless potential and wild, untamed magical power.
- Great reaction, Marc, - Valentino praised him during his second year, after Marquez dodged a Stinging Jinx and disarmed his opponent mid-fall. Rossi had walked over, helped him up, and tousled his already messy hair. - You have the instincts of a fighter. But remember, power without control is just an explosion. Learn to direct it.
Marc idolized him. He stayed after class, read extra books on combat magic, just to hear that approving «Bravo, Marc» again in the next lesson.
But time went by, and something subtly began to change.
By his third year, Marc had become the top student in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but his dueling style grew increasingly aggressive. Where others carefully set up shield charms, Marc preferred to counterattack, risking taking a hit just to knock the opponent’s wand out of their hand. He broke unspoken safety rules, improvised on the fly, and ignored warnings.
Valentino didn't like it. His smiles directed at Marc grew rarer and more forced. In the professor’s eyes, whenever he looked at the Gryffindor, anxiety increasingly flickered, mixed with something resembling irritation.
As a former Auror, Rossi knew the price of recklessness all too well. He tried to rein Marc in, to force him within the boundaries of the rules, but Marquez took it as a challenge. Why did Rossi praise Francesco Bagnaia—a pure-blood Slytherin who acted strictly by the book, methodically and coldly - yet scold Marc for a spell that worked faster and more effectively, even if it wasn't by the protocol?
The rift happened in their fourth year.
It was a practice duel. Marc was matched against Jorge Martin - a Slytherin student, arrogant and powerful. Jorge played dirty, using spells outside the school curriculum in an effort to humiliate the Gryffindor. At one point, Marc lost control. The magic inside him boiled over, obeying fury rather than reason.
Instead of a standard Expelliarmus, a powerful, uncontrollable shockwave burst from Marc’s wand. Martin was hurled across the room, crashing into the stone wall and sliding to the floor unconscious.
A dead silence fell over the classroom.
Valentino was at Jorge’s side in the blink of an eye, checking his pulse. Then he slowly stood up and turned to Marc. His piercing blue eyes held not a drop of their former warmth. Only the cold, hard steel of a former Head Auror.
- Fifty points from Gryffindor, - Rossi’s voice was quiet, but the tone sent shivers down Marc’s spine. - And a month of detention, Mr. Marquez.
- But Professor, he attacked first with, - Marc tried to justify himself, feeling everything inside him tighten with the injustice of it.
- Enough! - Valentino snapped so fiercely that the entire class flinched. - You are not in a gladiatorial arena, Marquez. You are turning magic into a weapon of mass destruction out of your own ego. If you cannot control your emotions, you have no place in my classroom.
From that very day, a wall of ice rose between them. Rossi never called him by his first name again. Only «Mr. Marquez». He stopped noticing his achievements, while the slightest slip-up, the smallest deviation from the rules, was punished with losing points or icy reprimands that made Marc want to sink into the ground.
By the end of their fourth year, they had stopped talking altogether, limiting themselves to terse, routine remarks strictly within the boundaries of the curriculum. Marc withdrew into himself, meeting the professor’s coldness with defiance and stubbornness. To spite Rossi, he studied even harder, honing his skills to absolute perfection, but every single success was met with nothing more than an indifferent nod.
- Earth to Marc! Come in!
A snap of fingers right in front of his nose made Marc flinch and snap out of his memories.
He blinked, bringing his vision into focus. The warmth of the Gryffindor common room enveloped him, chasing away the ghostly chill of the past. Logs crackled cosily in the massive stone fireplace, casting golden glimmers over worn red armchairs and tapestries. Outside the tower windows, the autumn Scottish wind howled, hurling handfuls of stinging rain against the glass.
Sitting directly in front of Marc was Alex. The blue-and-bronze Ravenclaw tie around his neck was loosely undone. Strictly speaking, students from other houses were forbidden in foreign tower common rooms, but Marc - being a seventh-year and one of the best Seekers in school history - knew all the secret passages and passwords. The Fat Lady in the portrait had been feeling generous today and let his younger brother through.
Alex, a fourth-year student, was looking at Marc with a mixture of concern and condescension typical of all Ravenclaws.
- You’ve been staring at that form for five minutes as if it were the Dark Marc, - Alex noted, nodding at the parchment resting on his brother’s lap.
Marc sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. In front of him lay the official subject selection form for NEWTs (Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests) for his seventh and final year.
- It’s worse, Alex. Much worse, - Marc replied gloomily.
The younger brother leaned closer, scanning his eyes down the list.
- Transfiguration, Potions, Charms... all at the advanced level. Makes total sense. You want to get into the Auror Academy, so you need top marks in these subjects. What’s the problem?
Marc silently jabbed a finger at the last line, which he had left blank.
«Advanced Combat Magic and Countermeasures Against the Dark Arts. Professor: V. Rossi.»
- Ah. I see, - Alex drawled, leaning back against the sofa cushions. - You still haven't signed up. Marc, today is the deadline to hand in the forms to the Head of House.
- I know! - Marc ruffled up his short hair in frustration. - But you don't understand, Alex. This is voluntary torture. I won't survive another year in a class with him where there are only ten of us, and I’ll be right under his nose.
- You don't have a choice if you want to become an Auror, - Alex countered calmly and rationally. - As far as I know, the Academy won't even consider candidates without a recommendation from the Defense teacher. Especially when that teacher is Valentino Rossi himself. His word is law to the Auror Office. You need this subject.
- I need a miracle to survive this course without ending up in Azkaban for murdering the professor, - Marc muttered, crumpling the edge of the parchment. - You should have seen him in our final lessons last year. He praises Morbidelli just for holding his wand correctly, but takes points from me because my Patronus Charm was 'too blinding'. Seriously? Too blinding?!
Alex chuckled, shaking his head.
- Marc, listen to me. Just keep your cool.
- Keep my cool? - Marc lunged forward, his brown eyes flashing. - How can I keep my cool, Alex? He nitpicks every single detail! If I take a step to the left - that's poor stance. If I cast non-verbally - that's 'unnecessary showmanship'. If verbal - 'insufficient focus of thought'. He simply doesn't want me in his class. He doesn't want me in the Auror Office!
- You're exaggerating, - Alex argued, though there was no full conviction in his voice. Everyone in school knew about the famous rivalry between Gryffindor’s best student and the legendary professor. - Rossi is a professional. Yes, he's strict with you - maybe stricter than with others...
- Stricter? He spends weekends discussing dueling tactics over tea with Bagnaia! While with me, he speaks exclusively in orders and fines, - Marc clenched his jaw. - Sometimes I feel like he's just waiting for the moment I snap and give up.
- Exactly, - Alex pointed a finger at his brother. - He's waiting for you to lose your temper. And you shouldn't. You are Marc Marquez. You don't give up. You just pick up your quill, write that damn subject on the form, and prove to him in every single lesson that you are the best. Be flawless. Force him to admit that you're worthy.
Marc stared at his brother for a long moment. There was logic in Alex’s words - that very cold, Ravenclaw logic that Marc himself so often lacked. The anger inside slowly gave way to stubbornness. The exact same stubbornness that had once forced the Sorting Hat to yell: «Gryffindor!»
He wouldn't let Valentino Rossi destroy his dream. If the professor wanted a war, he would get one. But it would be a war fought by the rules. Marc would become the ideal student, the ideal fighter. He wouldn't give Rossi a single excuse to find fault.
Marc snatched an auto-inking quill from his robe pocket.
- Fine, - he spat through gritted teeth, checking off the box next to Rossi’s subject with a swift, sharp flick of his handwriting. - I’ll be cold-blooded. I’ll be a block of ice, Alex. He's going to choke on his nitpicking.
Alex nodded with satisfaction.
- That’s the spirit. Now let’s head to the Great Hall.
Marc rolled the parchment into a tight scroll. A gut feeling told him that this seventh year was going to be the hardest trial of his life. And it wasn't just about the difficult exams. He was about to come face-to-face with the man who had been his biggest idol - and had become his worst nightmare.
He looked at the smoldering embers in the fireplace. And somewhere deep down, beneath layers of resentment and anger, Marc knew a terrifying truth, more than anything in the world, he didn't just want to defeat Valentino Rossi in this unspoken war.
He wanted to bring back the time when the professor looked at him with admiration.