Solidarity (And Some Kind of Integrity) 5/8
Title: Solidarity (And Some Kind of Integrity) 5/8
Prompt: In which Marcus Aquila is an outcast and a Gryffindor and Esca MacCunoval is a muggleborn and a Ravenclaw. During their years at Hogwarts, they forge new friendships, make unbelievable amounts of mistakes, are reckless and generally childish, do inappropriate things in inappropriate places and will never, ever, regret any of it.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Art: bachaboska
Beta'd By: The never-endingly glorious and wonderful Anigram. Thank you so much for cheering me on and always making me write and generally being awesome and incredible. Without you, there would be no fic! <3
A/N: Also, HUUUUGE thanks go to poziomeczka for putting up with my constant messages and emails and for help with THAT scene. Without you and your astonishingly amazing work and dedication (not to mention the spectacular brainstorming at the very beginning), this fic would not be. <3
Spoilers/Warnings: Please bear in mind that because this fic is based in the UK and was written by someone based in the UK, the consenting age for that country was used (16 years). All characters participating in sexual acts are of consenting age. (: Strong language!
The Fifth Year
Marcus is pretty sure he’s about to die of boredom. Either that, or go completely insane. Whatever happens, it doesn’t look good for him. He’s sat, or rather slouched, in History of Magic, and has been for all of about twenty minutes, pretending to listen to whatever it is that Professor Binns is saying. Something about Horgar the Frightful, or Terrifying, or something. Whatever. Marcus lost interest almost as soon as he sat down.
Not long after Binns has finished the story of Horgar the Really Scary and his equally petrifying friends and moved on to Alrick the Hideous, Marcus can feel himself drifting, feel his eyelids being weighed down, his thoughts beginning to creep toward dreaming, his head drooping. He struggles, in a way that’s beyond futile, and he knows it, but, eventually, he gives up. He’s just about to nod off, blissful and peaceful, when there’s a knock at the door, and a soft, yet firm, call of,
“Professor Binns!” The professor stops talking, reluctant and a little affronted, and his pale, ghostly eyes fix onto Professor McGonagall, “Ever so sorry to interrupt,” She says, and Marcus struggles to find any hint of apology in her tone, “Could I borrow Aquila for a moment, please?”
Marcus is instantly awake. What? What’s happened? What on Earth has he done now? Then, almost instantly, and completely naturally, his thought process changes - Is it Esca? He looks up, desperately searching for answers in her face, but it looks passive, almost pleasant, as Binns waves a faint hand in dismissal, and returns to his teaching. However, when McGonagall turns her gaze on him, his blood runs cold. She’s angry, he can tell, but trying not to show it - her brows are creased, her jaw tight, her mouth a thin line. Oh shit.
Almost as soon as he stands and gathers his things, she’s sweeping out of the room and down the corridor, her shoes tapping out an infuriated rhythm on the stone floor. He has to hurry to keep up with her, and by the time they reach her office, he’s out of breath.
“Sit.” She orders, and he obeys instantly. He can feels nerves and tension and a little bit of shame curling in his stomach. He has no idea what he’s done, if anything, but he feels awful all the same. It’s her expression, he decides, as she takes a seat behind her desk; it’s enough to make anyone feel guilty. “I assume you know exactly why you’re here, Mr Aquila.”
“I don’t-“
“Don’t play ignorant with me.”
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I don’t.”
She looks furious for a moment, and she opens her mouth as if to snap a retort at him, but then she stops, and her expression slides into confusion. “You don’t know?”
“No. Honestly.”
“Well,” She clears her throat, “I have been informed,” She begins, serious and meaningful, “That you have not been attending the scheduled Quidditch practices.”
“What? I have-“
She holds up a calm hand to silence him. “If you are not showing commitment by attending the sessions, what other choice do I have but to remove you from the team?”
Marcus can feel his heart sink. “Professor, please, listen-“
“I’m sorry, Mr Aquila, but there is no other option.”
“Please, just listen. I think I can explain.” She raises her eyebrows slightly, gesturing for him to continue. “I have been going. Honestly. I go to the pitch every time to practice, but the rest of the team is never there.” She looks vaguely incredulous, and definitely disbelieving, and he can feel himself start to panic. “I do. I go every Wednesday evening and every Sunday morning, and they’re never there.” Marcus has been thinking about this for some time, actually, the strangeness of the whole thing. He’d double-checked with Placidus, the captain, when practices were, just in case he’d got the times wrong, but he’d been assured he was right. He’d started to suspect something was wrong when he’d asked some of his teammates, and they’d all looked shifty and uncomfortable, casting desperate looks at each other.
“Wednesday evening and Sunday morning?”
“Every week.”
“But, Mr Aquila, practice is held Tuesday evening and Saturday morning.”
“That can’t be right. Placidus said-“ He stops himself, suddenly and awfully, as McGonagall’s expression shifts again, this time to what he assumes is horrid realization, and more than a little bit of pity. “Right.” He says, “Right.”
He runs to the Great Hall, after McGonagall has finally let him go, angry and frustrated and so embarrassed. They’ve made such a fool of him, probably been laughing about him, at him, behind his back, at his misfortune, his stupidity. God, he feels like such an idiot. He’s out of breath by the time he gets there, his chest heaving, his heart racing, but he doesn’t notice it, doesn’t want to notice it, and his strides are sure and strong as he approaches the Gryffindor table, approaches Placidus and his group of friends. One of them nudges Placidus as they see him approach, grins widely and points at him, and Placidus turns, smug and proud to stare him in the face, the bastard.
“Ah, Aquila, how nice of you to join us! I’m ever so sorry about McGonagall’s judgment, you know, about removing you from the team. It’s such a shame.” He stands to greet him, and looks around briefly at his friends, smiling when he sees them sniggering at his words, and he moves to open his mouth, to say something else, something horrid and mean and downright nasty. But he doesn’t get the chance, because Marcus is suddenly lunging forward, and his fist is colliding with his face, hard and fast and strong, and Placidus doesn’t look quite so smug now that he’s sprawled across the floor.
“You bastard!” Placidus whines, pressing a shaking hand to his bleeding lip, “How dare you! God,” He spits, “You Aquilas are all the same! Filthy traitors!” Marcus lunges forward again, and Placidus flinches away, but before he can reach him, reach to kick him, punch him, hurt him, strong arms are wrapped around his chest, and he’s pulled back, suddenly, swiftly and there’s nothing he can do but be forced out of the Great Hall, away from a now sniveling Placidus.
“That’s enough, Marcus,” Someone says, and it takes Marcus a moment, through the haze of his burning anger and the shame that follows, for him to realize who it is. The arms are removed when Marcus stops fighting against them, and it’s merely the presence that guides him away from the Hall and toward an unfamiliar office. “Sit. Please.” Lupin’s face is calm, his expression neutral, but his tone is firm, and, reluctantly, Marcus sits. “Tea?”
Marcus frowns. Sorry? He watches as Lupin moves to boil a well-worn kettle of water over the roaring fire in the corner of his office, and he can feel his impatience mounting as he takes his time adding tea leaves to a pot and pouring the steaming water out of the kettle. When he finally pauses, to allow the tea time to brew, Marcus can barely sit still.
When Lupin perches on the edge of his desk, arms folded, watching Marcus with a searching gaze, for a whole minute without saying anything, Marcus snaps.
“Why am I here, Professor?” His tone is sharp, frustrated and entirely disrespectful and inappropriate for talking to a teacher, but he actually can’t bring himself to care. Lupin doesn’t react, instead, merely continues to watch him. “Seriously, why am I here? Placidus’ll be gone before I-“
Lupin smiles, sad and thoughtful, “And that, Mr Aquila, is why you are here.” Before Marcus can even process what he’s just said, let alone think of something to say, Lupin is moving to tend the tea. He says nothing else until he hands a reluctant Marcus a mug of tea. Even then, all he says is, “Careful - it’s hot.”
Marcus grips the handle, hard enough to leave angry dents in his palms, burning almost as hot as the tea. He grips it, mainly in an attempt to keep himself from having to hold the mug itself and scalding his hand, but also to keep him grounded enough not to fling the damn thing across the room. Lupin seems to notice his growing agitation, and smiles, that damn smile, leans back in his chair, and says,
“As a teacher, I know I shouldn’t take sides, but, I have to say - that was a nice shot. I have no idea what he said, but I’m sure he deserved it.” Marcus lets out a surprised splutter of ungainly laughter, and Lupin grins. “I’ve never liked him. Always whining about something or other.” He sighs heavily, suddenly, the mirth instantly draining from his face. “Just like his father. “ He takes his time sipping his tea, the steam curling around his face, before he speaks again. “Can I ask, Marcus, what was it he said to you that made you hit him?”
Marcus hesitates, avoiding Lupin’s searching gaze, instead focusing his attention on running his fingers around the rim of his mug, slowly, feeling the vapour condense on his hand. It drips, slow and unbearably loud in the sudden tension, back into the tea. “He said,” He begins, and coughs, a sudden lump rising in his throat. “He said I was a traitor, just like my father.” He looks up, desperate and defiant, and is momentarily taken aback by Lupin’s expression - he’s angry, and so, so sad.
“Your father,” He says, a little too loudly, punctuating each word with a jab of his finger into the battered wooden surface of the desk. “Your father was-“ He stops, his mouth a thin line. “Look. No one, no one, knows what made your parents do what they did. Not a soul. But I knew them, I knew them, and they never would have done it willingly.”
He ignores Marcus’ attempts at protesting, shaking his head. “Trust me, Marcus, they were good people, honest people, and there will have been a reason, a legitimate, serious reason for what they did. Believe me, or don’t, I’ve said my part, and now it’s up to you to decide what you believe.” And, at that, with an indignant sip of his tea, the conversation is over, and Lupin doesn’t say another word.
He mulls it over, as he quickly finishes his tea and is finally allowed out of Lupin’s office. He passes Placidus, on his way to the library to meet Esca, like he always does after History of Magic, but he’s not interested anymore. The older boy shouts something, something horrible no doubt, but Marcus barely hears him, too caught up in his thoughts to notice much of anything.
He’d never thought about it before, why his parents did what they did, why they’d betrayed everything they’d stood for, but rather, he’d just, and he’s ashamed to admit it, written it off as cowardice and fear. His Uncle refused to talk about it, shutting up like a clam whenever he asked, and so he’d had to make his judgments, however wrong they might be, on the reactions of those around him when they realized who he was. And really, who could blame him if that was all he had to go on? Only when he’d seen the way Lupin had reacted, the sheer anger and the unexpected sadness, had Marcus begun to wonder whether he was wrong; so, so wrong.
As he enters the library, feels the familiar hush and warmth welcome him in, and sees Esca at their usual table, sees him grin and raise a hand in greeting, Marcus reaches a decision - it’s about time he made his own judgments, his own decisions. Maybe, like Lupin had said, there was so much more to it than he thought. The sudden wave of relief and the swift unprecedented lifting of a weight from his shoulders surprised him, but he welcomed it, with open arms, and he felt at ease, truly at ease, and truly ready to work out what he believes in, for the first time in, well, as long as he can remember.
*****
“Oh God, I’m not stuck with you, am I?” Marcus looked up at the sound, momentarily confused. When he spotted the familiar face, grinning and joking as the owner sauntered down the corridor, he feigned hurt.
“You wound me, MacCunoval.” Esca laughed, looking more than a little smug. He ducked Marcus’ attempts to ruffle his hair, just moving out the way at the last moment. Marcus still towered over him, even though Esca was almost as tall as the other boys, and twice as fast. Marcus was big, much bigger than everyone else in their year, and quite a few of the older boys as well. Much to his secret amusement, and Esca’s less than subtle appreciation, he was as tall, if not slightly taller, than Professor Snape - it made standing up to him and staring him down in Potions that bit easier. Esca thought it was glorious.
Esca aimed a punch at his arm playfully. “I think it’d take more than a few words from me to hurt you, Bruce Banner.”
Marcus blinked. “Bruce who? I don’t get it.”
Esca looked horrified for a second, and opened his mouth as if to chastise him, but after a moment’s deliberation, let it fall shut, waving his hand dismissively. “Forget it. I can’t be bothered to explain.”
“Is it a muggle thing?” Esca nodded. “Ah. Okay. Should I take it as an insult?” Esca smirked.
“Possibly.” Before Marcus had a chance to reply with something undoubtedly witty and wonderful (in his dreams), Professor Lupin poked his head around the corner of the door, and, with a broad, welcoming smile, beckoned them all in. They all filed in slowly, spreading out into the strangely empty classroom. At their confused muttering, Lupin grinned, a little wolfishly.
“We’re not doing theory today.” He proudly declared, to the unanimous appreciation of the class. He raised his hands calmly when the noise became too much, satisfied when everyone instantly became silent. “Instead, we’re going to be dueling, of a sort. Now, before you get too excited,” he said pointedly, eyes focusing on Esca, who was currently bouncing on the balls of his toes, repeatedly shoving at Marcus’ arm in barely controlled excitement. At Lupin’s glance, he smiled, innocently and a little sheepishly, but settled all the same. Marcus could almost feel the tension, the sheer excitement, the buzz, emanating from him. Apparently, Esca loved to duel. Knowing his skill with spells, and his ruthlessness on the Quidditch pitch, Marcus was more than a little nervous - no doubt Esca and he would be partners. Sure, Marcus was good, but Esca was far better. Marcus didn’t stand a chance.
“We’ll be doing it in pairs, with basic spells.” Lupin cast Esca another meaningful look, and Marcus briefly recalled that time in a previous lesson when Esca had tried to use a spell on his partner to disarm him (a fortunate migraine had saved Marcus that time), missed, and blown up the tank of a very grumpy Grindylow when the spell had been stronger than he’d expected. When asked what on Earth he thought he was doing, Esca had calmly replied that he’d read the spell in a book, an advanced book, and had wanted to try it out, and, besides, the tank needed cleaning anyway. “Now, I’ll need two people to demonstrate how this is going to work. As you seem so keen, Mr. MacCunoval, perhaps you would be so kind as to volunteer yourself? Yes? Excellent. Grab a partner, and come up here.”
Ruing the day that he ever met Esca, Marcus was ceremoniously dragged to the front.
“Ready?” Lupin’s voice was quiet, distant, a little apprehensive, as he made his way to the back of the classroom, well out of their way.
Esca grinned at him, wide and happy. His hair was tousled, definitely in need of a trim, his jumper discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loose and free. “Ready to lose, Aquila?”
Marcus snorted, with more confidence than he felt. “In your dreams.”
“Okay, on my count. One, two, three!”
With an almost lazy flick of his wand, Esca cried, “Expulso!”
Just as Marcus roared, “Bombarda!”
There was a huge flash of blinding light, a deafening crack, and both boys were forcefully thrown backwards. They both landed on their backs with a pained grunt. “And this,” Marcus could vaguely hear Lupin saying, voice muffled by the obnoxious ringing in his ears. “Is a perfect example of what you don’t want to happen! Both of their spells,“ He continued, moving to offer Marcus a hand up. He accepted, shaky and a little dizzy. He was slightly appeased when he saw Esca look just as fazed as he did, especially when Lupin had to place a steadying hand on his shoulder when he swayed dangerously. “Were of a similar strength, far too strong for the classroom, by the way, boys,” He cast them a withering look. “The spells collided, releasing an enormous amount of energy, which is why they were blown backward. Please try and avoid this.”
Marcus screwed his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head to try and clear his vision. He felt as though he’d just been dealt a monstrous blow to the back of the head, or as if he’d drunk far too much. The ringing in his ears was growing, to the point where he couldn’t even hear what Lupin was saying, instead just seeing his mouth moving. He stood still for a while, one hand supporting his forehead, to try and give his head a chance to sort itself out, and was relieved when it began to dissipate, just in time for him to hear Lupin tell the amused class,
“They may experience several side effects: headaches, dizziness, ringing ears or nosebleeds being the most common.” He cast a glance back at the pair, shaking his head. “I believe Mr. MacCunoval is feeling rather dizzy.” Marcus turned to look at his friend, only to be greeted by the sight of him sat on the floor, head between his knees, looking as if he was struggling not to throw up. “And, ah, Mr. Aquila seems to have acquired a rather serious nosebleed.”
Wait. What? Marcus dabbed his fingers against his nose, surprised when they came back coated in blood. Oh. Looking down, he noticed the extent of it - blood was dripping all down his shirt, a few drops having escaped to the scuffed wooden floor. He stared at it blankly for a second, before looking up at Lupin, confusion and a little fear clear on his face.
“Fear not, Mr. Aquila. It’s not as serious as it looks.” He smiled encouragingly. “Right. Class dismissed. I’ll escort these two to the Hospital Wing. Here,” he said to Marcus, offering him a clean handkerchief. “Hold that against your nose. Are you alright to walk there? No dizziness, headaches? Good. I don’t know about you, but I think Mr. MacCunoval may require a hand.”
Esca was now lay on the floor, spread-eagled on his back, both hands clutching at his hair. From what he could see, Esca was pale, frightfully so. When Lupin approached, asking after his health, Esca merely grunted, a pained and uncomfortable sound. Marcus snorted.
“Get up, you wuss. You don’t see me swooning on the floor and I’m bleeding.” In response, Esca merely removed one hand from his hair to allow him to give Marcus the finger.
At Marcus’ splutter of laughter, and Lupin’s amused huff, Esca groaned. “Shut it, Aquila. I’m dying.”
“I don’t think it’s quite that serious, Mr. MacCunoval.” Lupin’s tone was light, amused.
“It is, sir. I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
“Well, if you’re planning on dying, could you please wait until we get to the Hospital Wing? You wouldn’t believe the paperwork for deaths in a classroom.”
When Esca was eventually persuaded to allow Lupin to pull him to his feet, they made their way toward the Hospital Wing. Lupin was keeping a close eye on the smaller boy, a very close eye, as Esca refused to let him support him down the many staircases. He’d insisted he was fine, he could walk, honestly, he was fine, but every now and then, whenever they turned a corner, or the staircases moved beneath them, his face paled, and his hand instantly moved to his head, occasionally swaying ominously on his feet.
Marcus’ nose had bled right through the handkerchief, much to Lupin’s morbid interest and Esca’s sickly amusement, and, when they finally reached their destination, thick blood was still oozing out, persistent and relentless.
Madame Pomfrey had very little sympathy. She reluctantly ushered Esca to a free bed to lie down until his dizziness passed, muttering the entire time about the sheer stupidity of students these days, and how he was taking a bed from someone who may really need it. When Esca made no move to react, to talk back, to respond, Marcus frowned. He must feel really bad - that wasn’t like Esca at all. And, suddenly, like a switch being flicked, Marcus felt really guilty.
It weighed on his mind, heavy and oppressive, while Madame Pomfrey gave him a quick, sulky once-over, before declaring him completely fine. She watched him, clearly not pleased, when, as soon as she freed him, he moved to Esca’s bedside, perching awkwardly on the seat reserved for visitors. Esca was sprawled across the bed, possibly a little dramatically, one arm thrown extravagantly over his eyes.
“You’ve killed me, Aquila.” He stated, matter-of-factly, indifferent and very much alive.
“Clearly.” There was a pause, as Marcus bit nervously at his lip. “I’m sorry, you know, sincerely sorry, for, um, breaking you.”
Esca let out a huff of laughter. “I assure you, Marcus, it will take more than one of your half-arsed spells to break me.” Marcus huffed in indignation, drawing a smile from Esca’s weary face. “But honestly, it should be me apologizing to you - I made you bleed. How is that, by the way?”
Marcus shrugged. “Madame Pomfrey says I’ve just got to wait for it to stop. It’s not as bad as it was. Are you sure you’re alright? You know, not dying, and all.”
“Yeah. Quite sure. Oh, no, I take that back. You’ve broken me, Aquila! The whole world just shifted!” Esca groaned, screwing his eyes shut. “What the hell just happened?”
“That would be me putting my feet on the bed.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Bastard.”
Ignoring Madame Pomfrey’s furious glares, Marcus laughed, loud and free. Cursing his existence, his bones, his bloody cheek, his everything, Esca began to laugh too. And, just like that, they were good - the guilt was gone, the weight of it lifted from Marcus’ shoulders. They stayed there for a while, even after Esca had fully regained his balance and Marcus’ nose had finally stopped bleeding, just laughing and laughing, content in each other’s company.
*****
It’s Marcus’ fifth Christmas at Hogwarts, the fifth year of the lush, green trees straining under the sheer amount of decorations, the fifth year of carol-singing suits of armour, snowball fights, the fifth end of the term feast is looming, and it’ll be the same as last year, and all the years before it, but it never gets old. Marcus still loves every part of it, the happiness, the Christmas cheer, the growing excitement at the prospect of two week’s holiday, the sudden, wonderful, contagious joy at waking up to find the grounds buried in ridiculous quantities of snow. Marcus loves the snow the most. Esca had been horrified and unendingly pitying when Marcus had told him that they don’t get much, if any, snow in Silchester, compared to the reliable, substantial quantity they get in Durham every year.
The days go quickly, in the run up to the last day of term, in a blur of colour and excitement, and before he can really register it, it’s the day before they’re due to leave. Esca approaches him at breakfast, plonks himself down at the Gryffindor table, and, ignoring the affronted tuts and huffs from the other students, filches a slice of toast from the platter and proceeds to nibble at it, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Marcus barely bats an eyelid, so used is he now to Esca’s disregard for social expectations - this is mild for him.
“Mornin’, Marcus.” He says, scooping a glob of raspberry jam onto the bread with Marcus’ spoon. “Ready for the holidays?”
Marcus nods, polishing off his own toast, making a point of wiping his fingers on the supplied napkin. Esca merely grins wickedly, and makes an equal show of brushing crumbs from his hands by wiping his hands on his trousers. When Marcus pretends to be shocked, tutting loudly and shaking his head, Esca laughs, and grabs Marcus’ napkin and promptly lobs it in his face.
“Well,” Marcus says, throwing down the napkin dramatically. “If you’re going to be like that, I won’t give you your present.” He can’t help but smile when Esca instantly perks up. “Ah, so easily bought.”
“Shut it, you. Where is it?”
“In my bag. Which is in my dormitory.” Esca sighs long-sufferingly, “If you’ll be patient for once in your life, I’ll go and get it. Sheesh.”
“Alright - I’ll go get yours then. Meet in the library in ten?” And, with a last grin, and the quick pinching of another slice of toast, he’s gone. The girl he’d sat next to, some Sixth Year whose name Marcus can’t even begin to remember, suddenly rounds on him, eyes narrowed,
“That boy,” She sneers, “is a menace. You’d do well to tell him to remember his manners.”
“And you,” Marcus says, standing suddenly, startling her, he notices, a little smugly, “Would do well to mind your own bloody business.”
“And what did she say to that?” Esca sniggers behind his hand, wary of the librarian shooting him warning glances across the room.
“Something like, ‘Well, I never!’, and then flounced off.” Before he can stop himself, Esca lets out a bark of laughter at Marcus’ haughty impersonation, and can do little more than clap his hands over his mouth and try to control the shaking of his shoulders when Madame Pince slams a book down onto her desk and glares meaningfully in their direction.
“Shall we do this then, before you get us thrown out?” Esca nods, grinning widely, and reaches into his well-battered satchel to pull out an A4 sized envelope. It piques Marcus’ interest instantly, as he searches for Esca’s counterpart (a simple box); what on Earth could be in there? They exchanged gifts, and, while Marcus takes his time peeling open the envelope, taking care to be gentle, Esca has no such reservations, and, simply tears off the paper as quickly as possible. Before Marcus can even think about finding out what he’s got, Esca is opening the box, grinning, and he breathes,
“This is so cool.” It’s the Roman-era arrowhead that he’d discovered during the archaeological dig the previous summer. He’d been at a complete loss as to what to get him, and, when Esca began to profess an interest, going as far as to ask Marcus if he could borrow some of his Uncle’s books on Roman history, he’d thought it was perfectly fitting.
“You like it?”
“Yeah!” Esca winced, lowering his voice. “Yeah, it’s awesome! Mine looks pathetic compared to this,” He looks glum for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by intrigue as he turns the arrowhead over in his hand, holds it up to the light, inspects it’s surface. “Well go on then,” He says, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from his gift to look at him. “Open yours.”
Marcus turns his attention back to the envelope and, careful and cautious, slips his thumb and forefinger into to pull out the contents. It’s paper, he can tell instantly, but the sort of shiny, almost waxed, paper that you get in magazines, crisp and new. When he finally pulls it, them, there’s three of them, out, he catches sight of a note pinned to the front, written in Esca’s familiar scrawl:
This is that Muggle thing I told you about.
Enjoy (or else).
- E
He takes his time reading the front of the one on top of the pile, comic books he notices, and smiles-
“The Incredible Hulk?” Esca grins wickedly at him, placing his gift carefully, almost lovingly, back in it’s box. “I think I understand now.”
“Well,” Esca says, “I thought it was about time you were educated.”
“Thank you, Esca,” Marcus says, and really, truly means it. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. This arrowhead? Coolest. Thing. Ever.” Marcus can feel himself flushing, proud of himself and unbelievably relieved that Esca liked, possibly even loved, his gift.
“Merry Christmas, Esca.”
“Merry Christmas, Marcus.”
*****
Marcus,
Merry Christmas! And a happy new year!
How’s your holiday so far? And your Uncle? Can you thank you for letting me borrow those books? They’re actually awesome. What did you get for Christmas?
Anyway. The point of this letter (other than showing you I care, like the wonderful friend I am), is this: This summer, do you wanna come to mine for a week or so? I spoke to Mam about it, and she thinks it’s a great idea (She’s desperate to meet you. It’s a bit weird, actually.), so yeah.
Don’t feel you have to though - I’d understand if you’re worried they’re all nutters. I’m not a very good poster boy for my family’s normality, am I?
So yeah, see you back at school!
Esca
*****
Marcus is feeling vaguely apprehensive as his train pulls into Durham station. The journey from Silchester had been smooth, with no complications (if you don’t count nearly leaving his suitcase at home, and having to go back for it, ending up with Marcus nearly missing his train. He tries not to.) He’d been anxious about making the journey by himself, having only travelled to school and back without his Uncle before. Sure he was old enough to travel on his own now, and really, being the size he was, he wasn’t likely to get any trouble from anyone, but still. It was odd, travelling into the muggle world, travelling away from everything that was familiar and everything he recognized, rushing forward into the unknown. Well, sort of unknown.
Marcus and his Uncle lived in the Muggle village of Silchester, seemingly perfectly integrated with the muggle society and way of life. Uncle Aquila read muggle newspapers, wore muggle clothes, and went to the muggle pub. He even went as far as having a job in the Muggle University that wasn’t too far away. Marcus couldn’t help by think it a little odd, the lengths he went to to blend in, the way he insisted that Marcus ate muggle food and played with muggle children and went to muggle preschool when he was a child. Uncle Aquila assured him it was necessary. But necessary for what, Marcus couldn’t tell.
He’d been thrilled, possibly overly so, when Marcus had asked him if he could go to Esca’s for a week. He’d been enthusiastic, agreeing almost before Marcus had even finished asking, bombarding him with questions about Esca, his family, where they lived, what they were planning on doing while he was there. His interest was vaguely endearing, and ceaselessly embarrassing. Ever since then, every time he sent Marcus a letter at school, he would ask after Esca, every single time. He always put it at the end of the letter, as if as an afterthought, but Marcus knew it was one of the first things he thought about.
The platform is crowded when Marcus finally piles off the train, having paused to help a rather desperate looking woman carry her bags and her screaming baby’s pushchair onto the platform. She’d been gushingly grateful, all tired smiles and weary thanks, and it had taken some time for him to escape her ministrations.
“Marcus!” He looks up sharply, scanning the crowd for the source of the sudden sound. He just catches a glimpse of a mop of unruly dirty blonde hair and a grinning face before Esca is upon him, flinging his arms around him in a tight hug, laughing and loud and happy, vaguely out of breath after having to force his way through the crowd against the tide. “You alright, mate?” He looks good, relaxed, dressed in scruffy jeans, a simple green t-shirt and sunglasses.
“I was gonna wait over there,” He waves toward the other end of the platform, toward the exit. “But I thought you might get lost.” It’s meant to be a jibe, a joke, Marcus knows, but it’s true. The station is big, not quite as big as King’s Cross, but big all the same, all open ceilings and bustling crowds. Knowing him, it would be a miracle if he didn’t get lost.
“Your concern is moving, Esca, thank you.” Esca laughs, clapping a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes it for a moment, warm and affectionate.
“You’re welcome. Now, shut up and follow me. Mam’s waiting with the car outside.” With that, Esca grabbed Marcus’ bag before he could protest, and rushed off into the depths of the crowd. Hurrying to keep up, trying to keep the tousled mop of hair in his view at all times, Marcus follows, and, eventually, they make it out of the crowd and out of the station. With a cursory glance to check if Marcus was still following and hadn’t been eaten by the crowd, Esca strides off toward the car park, nimbly dodging small groups of people, side-stepping small children excited to be going on a holiday, and the occasional abandoned luggage trolley, carrying Marcus’ bag as if it were nothing, as if it were his school bag or something equally as insignificant.
He stops suddenly; so sudden that Marcus almost collides with his back, with only his quick reflexes stopping him from bowling over the smaller boy. “Right,” He declares, “Here we go.” More than a little confused, Marcus peers around his shoulders to see what exactly they’ve reached. They’ve stopped at the back of a small, blue car, so small in fact, that Marcus is quite surprised that people can actually fit in it. A slim, dark-haired woman is climbing out of it, and from the startling similarities, Marcus assumes this is Esca’s mother.
“You must be Marcus!” She says, moving around the car to greet him, enveloping him in an unexpected hug. “I’m Esca’s mother, but please, call me Evelyn.”
It takes him a moment to regain some sort of control over himself, to put himself back on kilter after the indulgent, but wholly welcomed, show of compassion. “It’s um, a pleasure to meet you.”
She smiles widely, beckoning him toward the car. As Esca hefts his bag into the boot and Marcus attempts to fold himself into the ridiculously small back seat, he just catches,
“You never said he was that good-looking, Esca! And posh too!”
“Mam! Seriously? He’s right there!” Evelyn laughs, a soft, lovely sound, slipping into the driver’s seat. When Esca has finally moved into the passenger seat, and finally finished fiddling with the seat, the air conditioning, the radio, and whatever that dial in the corner does, they pull off.
“How was your journey, Marcus?” She’s watching him in the mirror, smiling faintly.
“Um. Good, thank you.”
“You didn’t end up next to a screaming baby or someone snoring, did you?” He sees Esca shudder, as if from experience, and smiles.
“No, thank God. I managed to get a seat in the Quiet Zone.”
“That’s good. Did you eat anything on the train?”
Marcus shakes his head, nose wrinkled in disgust. The food on trains was, at the best of times, only just edible, and on a hot day like this, Marcus hadn’t dared to see what sort of sorry state it was in. Evelyn grins, broad and amused, and in a way that looks so like Esca that it catches Marcus by surprise. “You must be hungry then? Silchester isn’t exactly close.”
“A little, yeah.” In truth, Marcus was starving. He’d eaten before he’d left, a small lunch to appease his Uncle, but one that Marcus hadn’t really wanted - he’d been nervous, to the point of losing his appetite, about meeting Esca’s family. But now that he was here, he realized how much of an idiot he’d been - he had nothing to be nervous about.
“If you can hang on a bit, we’re gonna order a takeaway for dinner, if that’s okay?” When Marcus nodded she continued. “The boys have voted for Chinese, I’m afraid, and Esca assured me you’d eat anything?”
Marcus flushed a deep scarlet, and from the front seat, Esca grinned wolfishly, shooting Marcus a playful wink over his shoulder. “Is there anything in particular you like?” Marcus shrugged, noncommittally, and she smiled. In truth, Marcus didn’t have a clue. He’d never actually eaten Chinese food before, having been brought up by his Uncle who preferred the more mundane palate of English food that contained things he could grow himself or buy locally. It had been nice, very healthy, if a little unadventurous. He’d spent his childhood yearning for the glorious spices of Indian food, or the subtle mixture of sweet and sour of Chinese that he’d caught short, wonderful smells of as he’d walked down the high street of Silchester, staring forlornly into the restaurants and the takeaways. He’d been slightly disappointed when, as he got to Hogwarts, he found that the House Elves seemed to have similar principles to his Uncle.
“Alright then, boys.” Evelyn said suddenly, dragging Marcus out of his reminiscing. “Home sweet home.” They’d pulled onto the driveway of a well-kept, red-bricked terraced house. Everything about it sung welcome, the red door, the well-tended garden, the warm, yellow light spilling out from the bay window of what looked to be a living room. It was mid-evening by the time they arrived, the sun well on it’s way to setting, almost disappearing below the horizon, and a cool summer breeze had just begun to blow, rippling through Marcus’ hair, cooling his skin.
The hallway was small, bordering on cramped, mainly due to the multitude of coats hung on the wall, and several well-used bikes leaning against the far wall. Evelyn tutted on seeing them, shooting Marcus an apologetic smile over her shoulder. “You’ll be sharing with Esca, Marcus,” She said, resolutely shoving past the large amount of debris that only several teenage boys could leave, kicking several pairs of shoes out the way as she went. The thought of sharing with Esca, being that close to him, sent shivers of an inexplicable nature down his spine, making his heart race. He quashed it instantly, confused and embarrassed. “Cup of tea? Esca’ll show you around, and then we’ll order, okay?”
Marcus nodded slowly, taking in the room - it was simply decorated, with white walls adorned with many family photos, and scuffed wooden flooring, and despite being very clean, it was still beautifully cozy, homely even. The staircase was narrow, dressed with a tasteful red runner.
“Come on, Marcus! We haven’t got all day, mate. I’m starving. “ He hurried after Esca’s voice, careful not to trip over the abandoned football on the landing. “Here,” He said, leading Marcus into the first room they came to, tossing his bag onto a bed. “You’ve got my bed. I normally share with Rickon, but he’s in with Eoin this week.” Esca sat down heavily on the other bed, sprawling back against the pillow. “Sorry about the mess.” He said, not in the least bit sorry.
Mess was an understatement. The floor was strewn with what looked like the entire contents of Esca’s schoolbag, along with half of the library, with piles of books and stacks of paper piled dangerously high. His school trunk was shoved, forgotten, in one corner, his freshly washed uniform hung from several hangers on the front of a very full wardrobe. A pile of washing that Marcus assumed Evelyn had lovingly ironed and placed there to be put away was hanging desperately to the edge of the desk chair on the opposite side of the room. The desk, well, the desk was difficult to describe - all Marcus could see was a pyramid of ink wells (possibly built whilst procrastinating over homework), rivers of parchment and the occasional mountain of even more books.
“The bathroom’s across the hall. Eoin’s room is next to this one; Mam’s is opposite his. Got it?”
“Um. Yeah.”
“Great!” With sudden enthusiasm that made Marcus take a step back in surprise, Esca leapt up from the bed, grinning broadly. “Follow me, and I’ll introduce you to the monsters.”
Marcus snorted. “I assume you mean your brothers?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry,” He said, just as he left the room. “They don’t bite too often. Although,” He called over his shoulder as he bounded down the stairs. “Look out for Rickon when he’s in a strop. He get s a bit violent.”
“I do not! And I never have a strop!” A voice suddenly called out from the living room. They sounded annoyed, and more than a little stroppy. “Stop spreadin’ lies, Esca!”
“Oh, shut it, Rickon.” Esca led Marcus into the living room, where two boys were slouched on the sofa, video game controllers in hand. “Marcus, this charming little sod here is Rickon, my younger brother.” Rickon scowled at Esca, shoving his hands away when he attempted ruffle his hair. He can’t have been more than eleven years old, the spitting image of Esca when he was that age, except for dark brown eyes in place of Esca’s steely blue. “And that one is Eoin, the eldest. Far too old to be living at home. Isn’t it about time you buggered off and got a real job or something?”
“Fuck off, Esca, you’re never here anyway.” Eoin grinned across the room. He was tall, much taller than Esca, even taller than Marcus, and where Esca was slight and fair, Eoin was broad and dark, all thick muscles and jet-black hair. “Nice to meet you, mate. You’re just in time to watch me beat Rickon. Again.”
“No he ent! We ent finished yet!” Esca beckoned Marcus into the room, patting the space on the sofa next to him.
“Eoin always wins.” Esca informed him, sinking into the depths of the sofa. Marcus nodded, smiling, when Rickon shouted something unintelligible in despair, throwing the controller in Esca’s direction when he, as Esca and Eoin predicted, loses spectacularly. Marcus has no idea what’s going - video games are a mystery to him, as is TV, and most things muggles consider normal (his Uncle wasn’t that dedicated to fitting in - he’d declared TV monstrous and incomprehensible when he’d purchased one a few years back, and couldn’t work out how to turn it on) - but it’s nice, the good-natured teasing, the laughing and joking, the happiness. By the time Esca’s mother returns with several mugs of steaming tea, they’re all engrossed in the game, Marcus more so than the others, watching Esca and Eoin playing against each other, Rickon having given up in a sulk. From what he can tell, Esca is winning.
“Tea, boys.” Esca merely grunts in acknowledgement, earning himself a sharp flick on the back of his head. His grumbles of feigned pain and disapproval are quickly replaced by loud shouts of joy, of success, as the level finishes and he ends up the winner.
“Take that, Eoin!” He cries, grinning widely. “Did you see that, Marcus?” His enthusiastic search for Marcus’ approval, his praise, takes him slightly by surprise, but he doesn’t have long to linger on it, as, just then, Evelyn hands him a mug of tea and a takeaway menu, smiling when he thanks her.
“Esca said you didn’t take sugar?” Marcus nods. He didn’t know Esca had noticed, let alone remembered his drinking habits. He’d been surprising him quite a bit today - the heart-felt, enthusiastic greeting at the train station, the need for Marcus’ approval, the remembrance of small details. It’s a little odd; Esca’s never seemed to be one for noticing such things, but it’s nice. He’s not complaining. Especially when Esca turns to give him a triumphant grin, laughter sparkling in his eyes, eager to share this small moment of glory with him. No, he’s not complaining at all.
*****
“Marcus. Marcus! Oh fer God’s sake - Marcus!”
Marcus wakes suddenly, painfully, as something slams down onto his face. He sits up sharply, spluttering and confused and desperately looking around for the source of the attack. His eyes quickly lock on Esca, sat innocently on the other bed, grinning widely. “… the hell?” He looks around himself, and quickly finds a pillow on his bed that he swore wasn’t there before. A quick glance to Esca’s bed confirmed it - it was his. “Seriously? You couldn’t think of a better way to wake me up?”
Esca shrugs, running a hand through his hair, and Marcus’ breath suddenly catches in his throat - his hair is tousled, obscenely so, and he’s wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, exposing far too much skin. “I called, but you wouldn’t wake up. Desperate times, yeah?” He grins wickedly as Marcus scowls at him, and easily catches the pillow that Marcus throws back at him. “’Kay then, time to get up, sleepin’ beauty - come on, up. Up.” He says, grabbing at Marcus’ arm to drag him out of bed. He pauses for a moment when Marcus stands, and he swears he sees Esca swallow heavily, eyes flickering over his bare chest, lingering on the sharp jut of his hipbones not quite covered by the low waist of his pyjama trousers. Esca clears his throat awkwardly, dropping Marcus’ arm suddenly, “Go on. Quick shower. Breakfast’s waiting, then we’re going out.” He shoves Marcus’ bag into his arm, ushering him out of the room.
“Where’re we going?”
“Somewhere.” At the look Marcus shoots him over his shoulder, Esca tuts. “Somewhere. It’s a surprise. Now go on. We ent got all day.”
Almost as soon as Marcus is finished in the shower, before he’s even had the chance to finish pulling on a shirt, Esca is barreling him down the stairs and into the kitchen. He just about has time to pull the damn thing over his head before Esca is pushing him down into a chair.
“Eat.” He’s ordered, and is offered a mountain of toast. Rickon is already at the table, sleepily spooning cereal into his mouth. He looks up briefly when Marcus sits down, offering him a weak smile. “Come on, Marcus!”
“Leave the poor boy alone, Esca.” Marcus smiles gratefully as Evelyn places a mug of tea in front of him, but he doesn’t dare stop eating - Esca is watching him pointedly over his own toast, and he reckons that if he stops, or even slows, Esca might explode. “He’s convinced we’re going to be late,” Evelyn explains, moving to wipe a small smudge of butter from the corner of Esca’s mouth with her thumb. Esca squirms away with a fierce, ‘Mam! Leave it alone!’, but she insists, and Esca flushes a deep shade of scarlet.
“What are we being late for, exactly?” Marcus asks, deeming it safe to speak now that Esca’s distracted.
“Did Esca not tell you?” Marcus shakes his head and Evelyn tuts, shooting Esca an exasperated look. “Why not? Now he won’t have a shirt to wear.”
Esca grins wickedly. “That was the point.” Evelyn lets out a huff of laughter, swatting the back of Esca’s head with her tea towel. Marcus is beyond confused - shirt? Why does he need a shirt? What’s wrong with the one he’s got on? It’s then that he notices that everyone else, including Evelyn, is wearing Rugby shirts - yellow and blue striped Rugby shirts, to be specific. Right. He gets it now.
“City or County?” He asks, and Esca grins, triumphant.
“Told you he’d work it out eventually!”
“Durham City,” Evelyn supplies, “Eoin’s playing today; his first match as scrum-half.” She’s clearly proud, smiling broadly, and Marcus can’t help but smile back. “Esca, make sure Marcus gets a shirt - one of Eoin’s should fit. He can’t go to a game without one.” Esca nods and instantly shoots off to find one. It fits almost perfectly when he gets it, and clearly well worn and well loved. As soon as he’s switched shirts, Evelyn grins, tells him it suits him, and then ushers everyone back upstairs to brush their teeth with a call of, “Be down in five minutes, or I’m going without you!”
The car ride to the game is short, but quite uncomfortable - he’s piled in the back with Esca, whose all excited energy and elbows, grinning like a loon, eyes shining with excitement as he tells Marcus again, how awesome this is gonna be, and how amazing Durham City are and how the other team don’t stand a chance.
It’s only when they finally pile out of the car, and Marcus starts to look around, that he realises that something’s not quite right. “Who are they playing?” He asks, with mounting horror, as a man walks past them, wearing the all too familiar dark green and white shirt, and he really hopes Esca doesn’t say-
“London Irish.”
“Oh my god, I hate you so much.”
*****
Marcus has actually eaten more food that evening than he has in any of the other fifteen years of his life, put together. He’s also very drunk. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration - he’s only kind of drunk, but he has eaten a monstrous amount of food though. It’s not his fault - Evelyn made him. Although, all the food was amazing, so it hadn’t taken that much persuading.
After the Rugby match, and the crushing, humiliating defeat that Marcus had had to sit though, an impromptu celebratory party had been staged at Esca’s, and, within about half an hour of them returning home and an exultant Eoin digging out a barbeque from somewhere, the house was buzzing with what appeared to be the entire Rugby team, their families and pretty much everyone from Esca’s street. They’d begun to spill out into the garden almost instantly, milling and laughing and drinking.
People had brought huge amounts of food, and even more drink, and by the time the sun had begun to set, almost everyone was outside in the garden to enjoy the lingering sunshine. Marcus couldn’t remember how much he’d had to drink, he only knew that every time he finished one beer, someone always seemed to be pressing another one into his hand, ignorant of his protests. He was starting to feel the effects of them, starting to notice his head going a little fuzzy, his movements a little sluggish, his words a little difficult to produce.
It’d been a while since he’d seen Esca; he’d gotten dragged into a very animated conversation with Eoin and another player from the Rugby team (Lucius? Lutorius? Something like that.) about the proper scrum formation, when he’d last spotted the other boy, but by the time he’d managed to escape (a little desperately after Eoin had wanted to demonstrate to Marcus what a proper scrum was like), Esca had disappeared. He’d wandered for a while, strolling around house in search of him, but after twenty minutes, he’d given up - he was feeling a little woozy anyway.
Deciding what he really needed was a moment of relative peace (the people were lovely, but God, they were loud), Marcus had drifted upstairs to his and Esca’s room, and had only narrowly missed sitting on the very person he had been looking for.
“Esca!” The boy in question was, for reasons entirely unknown, sprawled across Marcus’ (Well, Esca’s) bed, one arm slung over his face. “I’ve been looking for you. You alright?”
Esca made a small hum of acknowledgement, “One of Eoin’s mates challenged me to a drinking contest.” He said, by way of explanation.
“I see.” Marcus said, sitting heavily on the other bed. “And you couldn’t say no?” Esca snorted. “Of course not. Did you win?”
“Of course I won! What d’you take me for?” As Esca slowly sat up, carefully, scrubbing his hands through his hair, Marcus grinned.
“You look like shit.”
“Wow. Thanks, Marcus.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You hardly look great yerself. How much have you had to drink?”
Marcus frowned, trying desperately to remember. There was that one he’d just had, and that one before that Eoin had made him drink, and one, or was it two before that and two- “Um. A lot?”
“Yeah. Me too.” Esca swung his legs around so he was facing Marcus, planting his feet on the floor. He leant forward with his elbows on his knees, presumably for balance, and suddenly, all Marcus could think about how close they were, how he could pick out each individual eyelash, see every freckle, even catch the lingering scent of his shampoo, and if Marcus were to just lean forward ever so slightly, they’d practically be kissing. When Esca’s lips parted slightly, Marcus started, and he realised, suddenly and awfully, that he actually had been moving toward him. He’d gone to move away, prepared to laugh it off, blame the alcohol, but before he could, Esca was rushing forward, pressing his lips to Marcus’.
Oh. Esca pulled away almost instantly, blushing deeply, trying not to meet his eye. Before he could fully pull away though, Marcus was moving again, closing the distance between them, one had in Esca’s hair for leverage. It was awkward and stilted and the angle was uncomfortable, but the sudden rush of emotion, the small sound of surprise, the feel of Esca underneath his hands was perfect.
Esca tastes like beer and something sweet and he smells vaguely like cigarette smoke (that’s why Marcus couldn’t find him then - he was outside), and something so familiar, something so Esca.
Marcus doesn’t notice the sound of people walking up the stairs, doesn’t hear the voices, the laughing; he’s too engrossed in Esca, too focused on the way he feels under his hands, the taste of him, the way his mouth feels on his. He’s too taken in by the way Esca is pulling him in, one hand scrunched in his t-shirt, the other gripping at his hip, to notice the knock on the door, the handle turning. It’s only when someone enters, calls their name and says,
“Quit being pathe’ic and - Oh.” And then Marcus is pulling away, desperate and frantic and horrified, eyes wide, face scarlet as Eoin takes in what he’s just seen. He’s taken aback, so confused, when Eoin merely snorts, and says, “Really, Esca? You have to do it here?”, before shaking his head and telling them to get downstairs, they’re missing dessert and Jane from down the road made sticky toffee pudding. And then, just like that, he’s gone.
“Um,” Marcus begins, articulately. “What the hell just happened?”
Esca sits up slowly, runs his fingers through Marcus’ hair to flatten it, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Not sure. You alright?” It’s a simple enough question, everyday even, could be meaningless, but when Marcus turns to look at him, sees the worry in his eyes, the panic, he realises it’s much more than that. He grins, nods, and is relieved to see Esca’s face relax, a smile break out on his face. Marcus presses a quick kiss to his lips, stands, pulling Esca after him.
“Now, Eoin said something about sticky toffee pudding? I love sticky toffee pudding.”
Esca snorts, shaking his head and ushering him toward the door. “You’re a bloody nutter, you know that, right?”
“Shut up, you love it.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Prompt: In which Marcus Aquila is an outcast and a Gryffindor and Esca MacCunoval is a muggleborn and a Ravenclaw. During their years at Hogwarts, they forge new friendships, make unbelievable amounts of mistakes, are reckless and generally childish, do inappropriate things in inappropriate places and will never, ever, regret any of it.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Art: bachaboska
Beta'd By: The never-endingly glorious and wonderful Anigram. Thank you so much for cheering me on and always making me write and generally being awesome and incredible. Without you, there would be no fic! <3
A/N: Also, HUUUUGE thanks go to poziomeczka for putting up with my constant messages and emails and for help with THAT scene. Without you and your astonishingly amazing work and dedication (not to mention the spectacular brainstorming at the very beginning), this fic would not be. <3
Spoilers/Warnings: Please bear in mind that because this fic is based in the UK and was written by someone based in the UK, the consenting age for that country was used (16 years). All characters participating in sexual acts are of consenting age. (: Strong language!
The Fifth Year
Marcus is pretty sure he’s about to die of boredom. Either that, or go completely insane. Whatever happens, it doesn’t look good for him. He’s sat, or rather slouched, in History of Magic, and has been for all of about twenty minutes, pretending to listen to whatever it is that Professor Binns is saying. Something about Horgar the Frightful, or Terrifying, or something. Whatever. Marcus lost interest almost as soon as he sat down.
Not long after Binns has finished the story of Horgar the Really Scary and his equally petrifying friends and moved on to Alrick the Hideous, Marcus can feel himself drifting, feel his eyelids being weighed down, his thoughts beginning to creep toward dreaming, his head drooping. He struggles, in a way that’s beyond futile, and he knows it, but, eventually, he gives up. He’s just about to nod off, blissful and peaceful, when there’s a knock at the door, and a soft, yet firm, call of,
“Professor Binns!” The professor stops talking, reluctant and a little affronted, and his pale, ghostly eyes fix onto Professor McGonagall, “Ever so sorry to interrupt,” She says, and Marcus struggles to find any hint of apology in her tone, “Could I borrow Aquila for a moment, please?”
Marcus is instantly awake. What? What’s happened? What on Earth has he done now? Then, almost instantly, and completely naturally, his thought process changes - Is it Esca? He looks up, desperately searching for answers in her face, but it looks passive, almost pleasant, as Binns waves a faint hand in dismissal, and returns to his teaching. However, when McGonagall turns her gaze on him, his blood runs cold. She’s angry, he can tell, but trying not to show it - her brows are creased, her jaw tight, her mouth a thin line. Oh shit.
Almost as soon as he stands and gathers his things, she’s sweeping out of the room and down the corridor, her shoes tapping out an infuriated rhythm on the stone floor. He has to hurry to keep up with her, and by the time they reach her office, he’s out of breath.
“Sit.” She orders, and he obeys instantly. He can feels nerves and tension and a little bit of shame curling in his stomach. He has no idea what he’s done, if anything, but he feels awful all the same. It’s her expression, he decides, as she takes a seat behind her desk; it’s enough to make anyone feel guilty. “I assume you know exactly why you’re here, Mr Aquila.”
“I don’t-“
“Don’t play ignorant with me.”
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I don’t.”
She looks furious for a moment, and she opens her mouth as if to snap a retort at him, but then she stops, and her expression slides into confusion. “You don’t know?”
“No. Honestly.”
“Well,” She clears her throat, “I have been informed,” She begins, serious and meaningful, “That you have not been attending the scheduled Quidditch practices.”
“What? I have-“
She holds up a calm hand to silence him. “If you are not showing commitment by attending the sessions, what other choice do I have but to remove you from the team?”
Marcus can feel his heart sink. “Professor, please, listen-“
“I’m sorry, Mr Aquila, but there is no other option.”
“Please, just listen. I think I can explain.” She raises her eyebrows slightly, gesturing for him to continue. “I have been going. Honestly. I go to the pitch every time to practice, but the rest of the team is never there.” She looks vaguely incredulous, and definitely disbelieving, and he can feel himself start to panic. “I do. I go every Wednesday evening and every Sunday morning, and they’re never there.” Marcus has been thinking about this for some time, actually, the strangeness of the whole thing. He’d double-checked with Placidus, the captain, when practices were, just in case he’d got the times wrong, but he’d been assured he was right. He’d started to suspect something was wrong when he’d asked some of his teammates, and they’d all looked shifty and uncomfortable, casting desperate looks at each other.
“Wednesday evening and Sunday morning?”
“Every week.”
“But, Mr Aquila, practice is held Tuesday evening and Saturday morning.”
“That can’t be right. Placidus said-“ He stops himself, suddenly and awfully, as McGonagall’s expression shifts again, this time to what he assumes is horrid realization, and more than a little bit of pity. “Right.” He says, “Right.”
He runs to the Great Hall, after McGonagall has finally let him go, angry and frustrated and so embarrassed. They’ve made such a fool of him, probably been laughing about him, at him, behind his back, at his misfortune, his stupidity. God, he feels like such an idiot. He’s out of breath by the time he gets there, his chest heaving, his heart racing, but he doesn’t notice it, doesn’t want to notice it, and his strides are sure and strong as he approaches the Gryffindor table, approaches Placidus and his group of friends. One of them nudges Placidus as they see him approach, grins widely and points at him, and Placidus turns, smug and proud to stare him in the face, the bastard.
“Ah, Aquila, how nice of you to join us! I’m ever so sorry about McGonagall’s judgment, you know, about removing you from the team. It’s such a shame.” He stands to greet him, and looks around briefly at his friends, smiling when he sees them sniggering at his words, and he moves to open his mouth, to say something else, something horrid and mean and downright nasty. But he doesn’t get the chance, because Marcus is suddenly lunging forward, and his fist is colliding with his face, hard and fast and strong, and Placidus doesn’t look quite so smug now that he’s sprawled across the floor.
“You bastard!” Placidus whines, pressing a shaking hand to his bleeding lip, “How dare you! God,” He spits, “You Aquilas are all the same! Filthy traitors!” Marcus lunges forward again, and Placidus flinches away, but before he can reach him, reach to kick him, punch him, hurt him, strong arms are wrapped around his chest, and he’s pulled back, suddenly, swiftly and there’s nothing he can do but be forced out of the Great Hall, away from a now sniveling Placidus.
“That’s enough, Marcus,” Someone says, and it takes Marcus a moment, through the haze of his burning anger and the shame that follows, for him to realize who it is. The arms are removed when Marcus stops fighting against them, and it’s merely the presence that guides him away from the Hall and toward an unfamiliar office. “Sit. Please.” Lupin’s face is calm, his expression neutral, but his tone is firm, and, reluctantly, Marcus sits. “Tea?”
Marcus frowns. Sorry? He watches as Lupin moves to boil a well-worn kettle of water over the roaring fire in the corner of his office, and he can feel his impatience mounting as he takes his time adding tea leaves to a pot and pouring the steaming water out of the kettle. When he finally pauses, to allow the tea time to brew, Marcus can barely sit still.
When Lupin perches on the edge of his desk, arms folded, watching Marcus with a searching gaze, for a whole minute without saying anything, Marcus snaps.
“Why am I here, Professor?” His tone is sharp, frustrated and entirely disrespectful and inappropriate for talking to a teacher, but he actually can’t bring himself to care. Lupin doesn’t react, instead, merely continues to watch him. “Seriously, why am I here? Placidus’ll be gone before I-“
Lupin smiles, sad and thoughtful, “And that, Mr Aquila, is why you are here.” Before Marcus can even process what he’s just said, let alone think of something to say, Lupin is moving to tend the tea. He says nothing else until he hands a reluctant Marcus a mug of tea. Even then, all he says is, “Careful - it’s hot.”
Marcus grips the handle, hard enough to leave angry dents in his palms, burning almost as hot as the tea. He grips it, mainly in an attempt to keep himself from having to hold the mug itself and scalding his hand, but also to keep him grounded enough not to fling the damn thing across the room. Lupin seems to notice his growing agitation, and smiles, that damn smile, leans back in his chair, and says,
“As a teacher, I know I shouldn’t take sides, but, I have to say - that was a nice shot. I have no idea what he said, but I’m sure he deserved it.” Marcus lets out a surprised splutter of ungainly laughter, and Lupin grins. “I’ve never liked him. Always whining about something or other.” He sighs heavily, suddenly, the mirth instantly draining from his face. “Just like his father. “ He takes his time sipping his tea, the steam curling around his face, before he speaks again. “Can I ask, Marcus, what was it he said to you that made you hit him?”
Marcus hesitates, avoiding Lupin’s searching gaze, instead focusing his attention on running his fingers around the rim of his mug, slowly, feeling the vapour condense on his hand. It drips, slow and unbearably loud in the sudden tension, back into the tea. “He said,” He begins, and coughs, a sudden lump rising in his throat. “He said I was a traitor, just like my father.” He looks up, desperate and defiant, and is momentarily taken aback by Lupin’s expression - he’s angry, and so, so sad.
“Your father,” He says, a little too loudly, punctuating each word with a jab of his finger into the battered wooden surface of the desk. “Your father was-“ He stops, his mouth a thin line. “Look. No one, no one, knows what made your parents do what they did. Not a soul. But I knew them, I knew them, and they never would have done it willingly.”
He ignores Marcus’ attempts at protesting, shaking his head. “Trust me, Marcus, they were good people, honest people, and there will have been a reason, a legitimate, serious reason for what they did. Believe me, or don’t, I’ve said my part, and now it’s up to you to decide what you believe.” And, at that, with an indignant sip of his tea, the conversation is over, and Lupin doesn’t say another word.
He mulls it over, as he quickly finishes his tea and is finally allowed out of Lupin’s office. He passes Placidus, on his way to the library to meet Esca, like he always does after History of Magic, but he’s not interested anymore. The older boy shouts something, something horrible no doubt, but Marcus barely hears him, too caught up in his thoughts to notice much of anything.
He’d never thought about it before, why his parents did what they did, why they’d betrayed everything they’d stood for, but rather, he’d just, and he’s ashamed to admit it, written it off as cowardice and fear. His Uncle refused to talk about it, shutting up like a clam whenever he asked, and so he’d had to make his judgments, however wrong they might be, on the reactions of those around him when they realized who he was. And really, who could blame him if that was all he had to go on? Only when he’d seen the way Lupin had reacted, the sheer anger and the unexpected sadness, had Marcus begun to wonder whether he was wrong; so, so wrong.
As he enters the library, feels the familiar hush and warmth welcome him in, and sees Esca at their usual table, sees him grin and raise a hand in greeting, Marcus reaches a decision - it’s about time he made his own judgments, his own decisions. Maybe, like Lupin had said, there was so much more to it than he thought. The sudden wave of relief and the swift unprecedented lifting of a weight from his shoulders surprised him, but he welcomed it, with open arms, and he felt at ease, truly at ease, and truly ready to work out what he believes in, for the first time in, well, as long as he can remember.
*****
“Oh God, I’m not stuck with you, am I?” Marcus looked up at the sound, momentarily confused. When he spotted the familiar face, grinning and joking as the owner sauntered down the corridor, he feigned hurt.
“You wound me, MacCunoval.” Esca laughed, looking more than a little smug. He ducked Marcus’ attempts to ruffle his hair, just moving out the way at the last moment. Marcus still towered over him, even though Esca was almost as tall as the other boys, and twice as fast. Marcus was big, much bigger than everyone else in their year, and quite a few of the older boys as well. Much to his secret amusement, and Esca’s less than subtle appreciation, he was as tall, if not slightly taller, than Professor Snape - it made standing up to him and staring him down in Potions that bit easier. Esca thought it was glorious.
Esca aimed a punch at his arm playfully. “I think it’d take more than a few words from me to hurt you, Bruce Banner.”
Marcus blinked. “Bruce who? I don’t get it.”
Esca looked horrified for a second, and opened his mouth as if to chastise him, but after a moment’s deliberation, let it fall shut, waving his hand dismissively. “Forget it. I can’t be bothered to explain.”
“Is it a muggle thing?” Esca nodded. “Ah. Okay. Should I take it as an insult?” Esca smirked.
“Possibly.” Before Marcus had a chance to reply with something undoubtedly witty and wonderful (in his dreams), Professor Lupin poked his head around the corner of the door, and, with a broad, welcoming smile, beckoned them all in. They all filed in slowly, spreading out into the strangely empty classroom. At their confused muttering, Lupin grinned, a little wolfishly.
“We’re not doing theory today.” He proudly declared, to the unanimous appreciation of the class. He raised his hands calmly when the noise became too much, satisfied when everyone instantly became silent. “Instead, we’re going to be dueling, of a sort. Now, before you get too excited,” he said pointedly, eyes focusing on Esca, who was currently bouncing on the balls of his toes, repeatedly shoving at Marcus’ arm in barely controlled excitement. At Lupin’s glance, he smiled, innocently and a little sheepishly, but settled all the same. Marcus could almost feel the tension, the sheer excitement, the buzz, emanating from him. Apparently, Esca loved to duel. Knowing his skill with spells, and his ruthlessness on the Quidditch pitch, Marcus was more than a little nervous - no doubt Esca and he would be partners. Sure, Marcus was good, but Esca was far better. Marcus didn’t stand a chance.
“We’ll be doing it in pairs, with basic spells.” Lupin cast Esca another meaningful look, and Marcus briefly recalled that time in a previous lesson when Esca had tried to use a spell on his partner to disarm him (a fortunate migraine had saved Marcus that time), missed, and blown up the tank of a very grumpy Grindylow when the spell had been stronger than he’d expected. When asked what on Earth he thought he was doing, Esca had calmly replied that he’d read the spell in a book, an advanced book, and had wanted to try it out, and, besides, the tank needed cleaning anyway. “Now, I’ll need two people to demonstrate how this is going to work. As you seem so keen, Mr. MacCunoval, perhaps you would be so kind as to volunteer yourself? Yes? Excellent. Grab a partner, and come up here.”
Ruing the day that he ever met Esca, Marcus was ceremoniously dragged to the front.
“Ready?” Lupin’s voice was quiet, distant, a little apprehensive, as he made his way to the back of the classroom, well out of their way.
Esca grinned at him, wide and happy. His hair was tousled, definitely in need of a trim, his jumper discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loose and free. “Ready to lose, Aquila?”
Marcus snorted, with more confidence than he felt. “In your dreams.”
“Okay, on my count. One, two, three!”
With an almost lazy flick of his wand, Esca cried, “Expulso!”
Just as Marcus roared, “Bombarda!”
There was a huge flash of blinding light, a deafening crack, and both boys were forcefully thrown backwards. They both landed on their backs with a pained grunt. “And this,” Marcus could vaguely hear Lupin saying, voice muffled by the obnoxious ringing in his ears. “Is a perfect example of what you don’t want to happen! Both of their spells,“ He continued, moving to offer Marcus a hand up. He accepted, shaky and a little dizzy. He was slightly appeased when he saw Esca look just as fazed as he did, especially when Lupin had to place a steadying hand on his shoulder when he swayed dangerously. “Were of a similar strength, far too strong for the classroom, by the way, boys,” He cast them a withering look. “The spells collided, releasing an enormous amount of energy, which is why they were blown backward. Please try and avoid this.”
Marcus screwed his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head to try and clear his vision. He felt as though he’d just been dealt a monstrous blow to the back of the head, or as if he’d drunk far too much. The ringing in his ears was growing, to the point where he couldn’t even hear what Lupin was saying, instead just seeing his mouth moving. He stood still for a while, one hand supporting his forehead, to try and give his head a chance to sort itself out, and was relieved when it began to dissipate, just in time for him to hear Lupin tell the amused class,
“They may experience several side effects: headaches, dizziness, ringing ears or nosebleeds being the most common.” He cast a glance back at the pair, shaking his head. “I believe Mr. MacCunoval is feeling rather dizzy.” Marcus turned to look at his friend, only to be greeted by the sight of him sat on the floor, head between his knees, looking as if he was struggling not to throw up. “And, ah, Mr. Aquila seems to have acquired a rather serious nosebleed.”
Wait. What? Marcus dabbed his fingers against his nose, surprised when they came back coated in blood. Oh. Looking down, he noticed the extent of it - blood was dripping all down his shirt, a few drops having escaped to the scuffed wooden floor. He stared at it blankly for a second, before looking up at Lupin, confusion and a little fear clear on his face.
“Fear not, Mr. Aquila. It’s not as serious as it looks.” He smiled encouragingly. “Right. Class dismissed. I’ll escort these two to the Hospital Wing. Here,” he said to Marcus, offering him a clean handkerchief. “Hold that against your nose. Are you alright to walk there? No dizziness, headaches? Good. I don’t know about you, but I think Mr. MacCunoval may require a hand.”
Esca was now lay on the floor, spread-eagled on his back, both hands clutching at his hair. From what he could see, Esca was pale, frightfully so. When Lupin approached, asking after his health, Esca merely grunted, a pained and uncomfortable sound. Marcus snorted.
“Get up, you wuss. You don’t see me swooning on the floor and I’m bleeding.” In response, Esca merely removed one hand from his hair to allow him to give Marcus the finger.
At Marcus’ splutter of laughter, and Lupin’s amused huff, Esca groaned. “Shut it, Aquila. I’m dying.”
“I don’t think it’s quite that serious, Mr. MacCunoval.” Lupin’s tone was light, amused.
“It is, sir. I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
“Well, if you’re planning on dying, could you please wait until we get to the Hospital Wing? You wouldn’t believe the paperwork for deaths in a classroom.”
When Esca was eventually persuaded to allow Lupin to pull him to his feet, they made their way toward the Hospital Wing. Lupin was keeping a close eye on the smaller boy, a very close eye, as Esca refused to let him support him down the many staircases. He’d insisted he was fine, he could walk, honestly, he was fine, but every now and then, whenever they turned a corner, or the staircases moved beneath them, his face paled, and his hand instantly moved to his head, occasionally swaying ominously on his feet.
Marcus’ nose had bled right through the handkerchief, much to Lupin’s morbid interest and Esca’s sickly amusement, and, when they finally reached their destination, thick blood was still oozing out, persistent and relentless.
Madame Pomfrey had very little sympathy. She reluctantly ushered Esca to a free bed to lie down until his dizziness passed, muttering the entire time about the sheer stupidity of students these days, and how he was taking a bed from someone who may really need it. When Esca made no move to react, to talk back, to respond, Marcus frowned. He must feel really bad - that wasn’t like Esca at all. And, suddenly, like a switch being flicked, Marcus felt really guilty.
It weighed on his mind, heavy and oppressive, while Madame Pomfrey gave him a quick, sulky once-over, before declaring him completely fine. She watched him, clearly not pleased, when, as soon as she freed him, he moved to Esca’s bedside, perching awkwardly on the seat reserved for visitors. Esca was sprawled across the bed, possibly a little dramatically, one arm thrown extravagantly over his eyes.
“You’ve killed me, Aquila.” He stated, matter-of-factly, indifferent and very much alive.
“Clearly.” There was a pause, as Marcus bit nervously at his lip. “I’m sorry, you know, sincerely sorry, for, um, breaking you.”
Esca let out a huff of laughter. “I assure you, Marcus, it will take more than one of your half-arsed spells to break me.” Marcus huffed in indignation, drawing a smile from Esca’s weary face. “But honestly, it should be me apologizing to you - I made you bleed. How is that, by the way?”
Marcus shrugged. “Madame Pomfrey says I’ve just got to wait for it to stop. It’s not as bad as it was. Are you sure you’re alright? You know, not dying, and all.”
“Yeah. Quite sure. Oh, no, I take that back. You’ve broken me, Aquila! The whole world just shifted!” Esca groaned, screwing his eyes shut. “What the hell just happened?”
“That would be me putting my feet on the bed.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Bastard.”
Ignoring Madame Pomfrey’s furious glares, Marcus laughed, loud and free. Cursing his existence, his bones, his bloody cheek, his everything, Esca began to laugh too. And, just like that, they were good - the guilt was gone, the weight of it lifted from Marcus’ shoulders. They stayed there for a while, even after Esca had fully regained his balance and Marcus’ nose had finally stopped bleeding, just laughing and laughing, content in each other’s company.
*****
It’s Marcus’ fifth Christmas at Hogwarts, the fifth year of the lush, green trees straining under the sheer amount of decorations, the fifth year of carol-singing suits of armour, snowball fights, the fifth end of the term feast is looming, and it’ll be the same as last year, and all the years before it, but it never gets old. Marcus still loves every part of it, the happiness, the Christmas cheer, the growing excitement at the prospect of two week’s holiday, the sudden, wonderful, contagious joy at waking up to find the grounds buried in ridiculous quantities of snow. Marcus loves the snow the most. Esca had been horrified and unendingly pitying when Marcus had told him that they don’t get much, if any, snow in Silchester, compared to the reliable, substantial quantity they get in Durham every year.
The days go quickly, in the run up to the last day of term, in a blur of colour and excitement, and before he can really register it, it’s the day before they’re due to leave. Esca approaches him at breakfast, plonks himself down at the Gryffindor table, and, ignoring the affronted tuts and huffs from the other students, filches a slice of toast from the platter and proceeds to nibble at it, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Marcus barely bats an eyelid, so used is he now to Esca’s disregard for social expectations - this is mild for him.
“Mornin’, Marcus.” He says, scooping a glob of raspberry jam onto the bread with Marcus’ spoon. “Ready for the holidays?”
Marcus nods, polishing off his own toast, making a point of wiping his fingers on the supplied napkin. Esca merely grins wickedly, and makes an equal show of brushing crumbs from his hands by wiping his hands on his trousers. When Marcus pretends to be shocked, tutting loudly and shaking his head, Esca laughs, and grabs Marcus’ napkin and promptly lobs it in his face.
“Well,” Marcus says, throwing down the napkin dramatically. “If you’re going to be like that, I won’t give you your present.” He can’t help but smile when Esca instantly perks up. “Ah, so easily bought.”
“Shut it, you. Where is it?”
“In my bag. Which is in my dormitory.” Esca sighs long-sufferingly, “If you’ll be patient for once in your life, I’ll go and get it. Sheesh.”
“Alright - I’ll go get yours then. Meet in the library in ten?” And, with a last grin, and the quick pinching of another slice of toast, he’s gone. The girl he’d sat next to, some Sixth Year whose name Marcus can’t even begin to remember, suddenly rounds on him, eyes narrowed,
“That boy,” She sneers, “is a menace. You’d do well to tell him to remember his manners.”
“And you,” Marcus says, standing suddenly, startling her, he notices, a little smugly, “Would do well to mind your own bloody business.”
“And what did she say to that?” Esca sniggers behind his hand, wary of the librarian shooting him warning glances across the room.
“Something like, ‘Well, I never!’, and then flounced off.” Before he can stop himself, Esca lets out a bark of laughter at Marcus’ haughty impersonation, and can do little more than clap his hands over his mouth and try to control the shaking of his shoulders when Madame Pince slams a book down onto her desk and glares meaningfully in their direction.
“Shall we do this then, before you get us thrown out?” Esca nods, grinning widely, and reaches into his well-battered satchel to pull out an A4 sized envelope. It piques Marcus’ interest instantly, as he searches for Esca’s counterpart (a simple box); what on Earth could be in there? They exchanged gifts, and, while Marcus takes his time peeling open the envelope, taking care to be gentle, Esca has no such reservations, and, simply tears off the paper as quickly as possible. Before Marcus can even think about finding out what he’s got, Esca is opening the box, grinning, and he breathes,
“This is so cool.” It’s the Roman-era arrowhead that he’d discovered during the archaeological dig the previous summer. He’d been at a complete loss as to what to get him, and, when Esca began to profess an interest, going as far as to ask Marcus if he could borrow some of his Uncle’s books on Roman history, he’d thought it was perfectly fitting.
“You like it?”
“Yeah!” Esca winced, lowering his voice. “Yeah, it’s awesome! Mine looks pathetic compared to this,” He looks glum for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by intrigue as he turns the arrowhead over in his hand, holds it up to the light, inspects it’s surface. “Well go on then,” He says, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from his gift to look at him. “Open yours.”
Marcus turns his attention back to the envelope and, careful and cautious, slips his thumb and forefinger into to pull out the contents. It’s paper, he can tell instantly, but the sort of shiny, almost waxed, paper that you get in magazines, crisp and new. When he finally pulls it, them, there’s three of them, out, he catches sight of a note pinned to the front, written in Esca’s familiar scrawl:
This is that Muggle thing I told you about.
Enjoy (or else).
- E
He takes his time reading the front of the one on top of the pile, comic books he notices, and smiles-
“The Incredible Hulk?” Esca grins wickedly at him, placing his gift carefully, almost lovingly, back in it’s box. “I think I understand now.”
“Well,” Esca says, “I thought it was about time you were educated.”
“Thank you, Esca,” Marcus says, and really, truly means it. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. This arrowhead? Coolest. Thing. Ever.” Marcus can feel himself flushing, proud of himself and unbelievably relieved that Esca liked, possibly even loved, his gift.
“Merry Christmas, Esca.”
“Merry Christmas, Marcus.”
*****
Marcus,
Merry Christmas! And a happy new year!
How’s your holiday so far? And your Uncle? Can you thank you for letting me borrow those books? They’re actually awesome. What did you get for Christmas?
Anyway. The point of this letter (other than showing you I care, like the wonderful friend I am), is this: This summer, do you wanna come to mine for a week or so? I spoke to Mam about it, and she thinks it’s a great idea (She’s desperate to meet you. It’s a bit weird, actually.), so yeah.
Don’t feel you have to though - I’d understand if you’re worried they’re all nutters. I’m not a very good poster boy for my family’s normality, am I?
So yeah, see you back at school!
Esca
*****
Marcus is feeling vaguely apprehensive as his train pulls into Durham station. The journey from Silchester had been smooth, with no complications (if you don’t count nearly leaving his suitcase at home, and having to go back for it, ending up with Marcus nearly missing his train. He tries not to.) He’d been anxious about making the journey by himself, having only travelled to school and back without his Uncle before. Sure he was old enough to travel on his own now, and really, being the size he was, he wasn’t likely to get any trouble from anyone, but still. It was odd, travelling into the muggle world, travelling away from everything that was familiar and everything he recognized, rushing forward into the unknown. Well, sort of unknown.
Marcus and his Uncle lived in the Muggle village of Silchester, seemingly perfectly integrated with the muggle society and way of life. Uncle Aquila read muggle newspapers, wore muggle clothes, and went to the muggle pub. He even went as far as having a job in the Muggle University that wasn’t too far away. Marcus couldn’t help by think it a little odd, the lengths he went to to blend in, the way he insisted that Marcus ate muggle food and played with muggle children and went to muggle preschool when he was a child. Uncle Aquila assured him it was necessary. But necessary for what, Marcus couldn’t tell.
He’d been thrilled, possibly overly so, when Marcus had asked him if he could go to Esca’s for a week. He’d been enthusiastic, agreeing almost before Marcus had even finished asking, bombarding him with questions about Esca, his family, where they lived, what they were planning on doing while he was there. His interest was vaguely endearing, and ceaselessly embarrassing. Ever since then, every time he sent Marcus a letter at school, he would ask after Esca, every single time. He always put it at the end of the letter, as if as an afterthought, but Marcus knew it was one of the first things he thought about.
The platform is crowded when Marcus finally piles off the train, having paused to help a rather desperate looking woman carry her bags and her screaming baby’s pushchair onto the platform. She’d been gushingly grateful, all tired smiles and weary thanks, and it had taken some time for him to escape her ministrations.
“Marcus!” He looks up sharply, scanning the crowd for the source of the sudden sound. He just catches a glimpse of a mop of unruly dirty blonde hair and a grinning face before Esca is upon him, flinging his arms around him in a tight hug, laughing and loud and happy, vaguely out of breath after having to force his way through the crowd against the tide. “You alright, mate?” He looks good, relaxed, dressed in scruffy jeans, a simple green t-shirt and sunglasses.
“I was gonna wait over there,” He waves toward the other end of the platform, toward the exit. “But I thought you might get lost.” It’s meant to be a jibe, a joke, Marcus knows, but it’s true. The station is big, not quite as big as King’s Cross, but big all the same, all open ceilings and bustling crowds. Knowing him, it would be a miracle if he didn’t get lost.
“Your concern is moving, Esca, thank you.” Esca laughs, clapping a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes it for a moment, warm and affectionate.
“You’re welcome. Now, shut up and follow me. Mam’s waiting with the car outside.” With that, Esca grabbed Marcus’ bag before he could protest, and rushed off into the depths of the crowd. Hurrying to keep up, trying to keep the tousled mop of hair in his view at all times, Marcus follows, and, eventually, they make it out of the crowd and out of the station. With a cursory glance to check if Marcus was still following and hadn’t been eaten by the crowd, Esca strides off toward the car park, nimbly dodging small groups of people, side-stepping small children excited to be going on a holiday, and the occasional abandoned luggage trolley, carrying Marcus’ bag as if it were nothing, as if it were his school bag or something equally as insignificant.
He stops suddenly; so sudden that Marcus almost collides with his back, with only his quick reflexes stopping him from bowling over the smaller boy. “Right,” He declares, “Here we go.” More than a little confused, Marcus peers around his shoulders to see what exactly they’ve reached. They’ve stopped at the back of a small, blue car, so small in fact, that Marcus is quite surprised that people can actually fit in it. A slim, dark-haired woman is climbing out of it, and from the startling similarities, Marcus assumes this is Esca’s mother.
“You must be Marcus!” She says, moving around the car to greet him, enveloping him in an unexpected hug. “I’m Esca’s mother, but please, call me Evelyn.”
It takes him a moment to regain some sort of control over himself, to put himself back on kilter after the indulgent, but wholly welcomed, show of compassion. “It’s um, a pleasure to meet you.”
She smiles widely, beckoning him toward the car. As Esca hefts his bag into the boot and Marcus attempts to fold himself into the ridiculously small back seat, he just catches,
“You never said he was that good-looking, Esca! And posh too!”
“Mam! Seriously? He’s right there!” Evelyn laughs, a soft, lovely sound, slipping into the driver’s seat. When Esca has finally moved into the passenger seat, and finally finished fiddling with the seat, the air conditioning, the radio, and whatever that dial in the corner does, they pull off.
“How was your journey, Marcus?” She’s watching him in the mirror, smiling faintly.
“Um. Good, thank you.”
“You didn’t end up next to a screaming baby or someone snoring, did you?” He sees Esca shudder, as if from experience, and smiles.
“No, thank God. I managed to get a seat in the Quiet Zone.”
“That’s good. Did you eat anything on the train?”
Marcus shakes his head, nose wrinkled in disgust. The food on trains was, at the best of times, only just edible, and on a hot day like this, Marcus hadn’t dared to see what sort of sorry state it was in. Evelyn grins, broad and amused, and in a way that looks so like Esca that it catches Marcus by surprise. “You must be hungry then? Silchester isn’t exactly close.”
“A little, yeah.” In truth, Marcus was starving. He’d eaten before he’d left, a small lunch to appease his Uncle, but one that Marcus hadn’t really wanted - he’d been nervous, to the point of losing his appetite, about meeting Esca’s family. But now that he was here, he realized how much of an idiot he’d been - he had nothing to be nervous about.
“If you can hang on a bit, we’re gonna order a takeaway for dinner, if that’s okay?” When Marcus nodded she continued. “The boys have voted for Chinese, I’m afraid, and Esca assured me you’d eat anything?”
Marcus flushed a deep scarlet, and from the front seat, Esca grinned wolfishly, shooting Marcus a playful wink over his shoulder. “Is there anything in particular you like?” Marcus shrugged, noncommittally, and she smiled. In truth, Marcus didn’t have a clue. He’d never actually eaten Chinese food before, having been brought up by his Uncle who preferred the more mundane palate of English food that contained things he could grow himself or buy locally. It had been nice, very healthy, if a little unadventurous. He’d spent his childhood yearning for the glorious spices of Indian food, or the subtle mixture of sweet and sour of Chinese that he’d caught short, wonderful smells of as he’d walked down the high street of Silchester, staring forlornly into the restaurants and the takeaways. He’d been slightly disappointed when, as he got to Hogwarts, he found that the House Elves seemed to have similar principles to his Uncle.
“Alright then, boys.” Evelyn said suddenly, dragging Marcus out of his reminiscing. “Home sweet home.” They’d pulled onto the driveway of a well-kept, red-bricked terraced house. Everything about it sung welcome, the red door, the well-tended garden, the warm, yellow light spilling out from the bay window of what looked to be a living room. It was mid-evening by the time they arrived, the sun well on it’s way to setting, almost disappearing below the horizon, and a cool summer breeze had just begun to blow, rippling through Marcus’ hair, cooling his skin.
The hallway was small, bordering on cramped, mainly due to the multitude of coats hung on the wall, and several well-used bikes leaning against the far wall. Evelyn tutted on seeing them, shooting Marcus an apologetic smile over her shoulder. “You’ll be sharing with Esca, Marcus,” She said, resolutely shoving past the large amount of debris that only several teenage boys could leave, kicking several pairs of shoes out the way as she went. The thought of sharing with Esca, being that close to him, sent shivers of an inexplicable nature down his spine, making his heart race. He quashed it instantly, confused and embarrassed. “Cup of tea? Esca’ll show you around, and then we’ll order, okay?”
Marcus nodded slowly, taking in the room - it was simply decorated, with white walls adorned with many family photos, and scuffed wooden flooring, and despite being very clean, it was still beautifully cozy, homely even. The staircase was narrow, dressed with a tasteful red runner.
“Come on, Marcus! We haven’t got all day, mate. I’m starving. “ He hurried after Esca’s voice, careful not to trip over the abandoned football on the landing. “Here,” He said, leading Marcus into the first room they came to, tossing his bag onto a bed. “You’ve got my bed. I normally share with Rickon, but he’s in with Eoin this week.” Esca sat down heavily on the other bed, sprawling back against the pillow. “Sorry about the mess.” He said, not in the least bit sorry.
Mess was an understatement. The floor was strewn with what looked like the entire contents of Esca’s schoolbag, along with half of the library, with piles of books and stacks of paper piled dangerously high. His school trunk was shoved, forgotten, in one corner, his freshly washed uniform hung from several hangers on the front of a very full wardrobe. A pile of washing that Marcus assumed Evelyn had lovingly ironed and placed there to be put away was hanging desperately to the edge of the desk chair on the opposite side of the room. The desk, well, the desk was difficult to describe - all Marcus could see was a pyramid of ink wells (possibly built whilst procrastinating over homework), rivers of parchment and the occasional mountain of even more books.
“The bathroom’s across the hall. Eoin’s room is next to this one; Mam’s is opposite his. Got it?”
“Um. Yeah.”
“Great!” With sudden enthusiasm that made Marcus take a step back in surprise, Esca leapt up from the bed, grinning broadly. “Follow me, and I’ll introduce you to the monsters.”
Marcus snorted. “I assume you mean your brothers?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry,” He said, just as he left the room. “They don’t bite too often. Although,” He called over his shoulder as he bounded down the stairs. “Look out for Rickon when he’s in a strop. He get s a bit violent.”
“I do not! And I never have a strop!” A voice suddenly called out from the living room. They sounded annoyed, and more than a little stroppy. “Stop spreadin’ lies, Esca!”
“Oh, shut it, Rickon.” Esca led Marcus into the living room, where two boys were slouched on the sofa, video game controllers in hand. “Marcus, this charming little sod here is Rickon, my younger brother.” Rickon scowled at Esca, shoving his hands away when he attempted ruffle his hair. He can’t have been more than eleven years old, the spitting image of Esca when he was that age, except for dark brown eyes in place of Esca’s steely blue. “And that one is Eoin, the eldest. Far too old to be living at home. Isn’t it about time you buggered off and got a real job or something?”
“Fuck off, Esca, you’re never here anyway.” Eoin grinned across the room. He was tall, much taller than Esca, even taller than Marcus, and where Esca was slight and fair, Eoin was broad and dark, all thick muscles and jet-black hair. “Nice to meet you, mate. You’re just in time to watch me beat Rickon. Again.”
“No he ent! We ent finished yet!” Esca beckoned Marcus into the room, patting the space on the sofa next to him.
“Eoin always wins.” Esca informed him, sinking into the depths of the sofa. Marcus nodded, smiling, when Rickon shouted something unintelligible in despair, throwing the controller in Esca’s direction when he, as Esca and Eoin predicted, loses spectacularly. Marcus has no idea what’s going - video games are a mystery to him, as is TV, and most things muggles consider normal (his Uncle wasn’t that dedicated to fitting in - he’d declared TV monstrous and incomprehensible when he’d purchased one a few years back, and couldn’t work out how to turn it on) - but it’s nice, the good-natured teasing, the laughing and joking, the happiness. By the time Esca’s mother returns with several mugs of steaming tea, they’re all engrossed in the game, Marcus more so than the others, watching Esca and Eoin playing against each other, Rickon having given up in a sulk. From what he can tell, Esca is winning.
“Tea, boys.” Esca merely grunts in acknowledgement, earning himself a sharp flick on the back of his head. His grumbles of feigned pain and disapproval are quickly replaced by loud shouts of joy, of success, as the level finishes and he ends up the winner.
“Take that, Eoin!” He cries, grinning widely. “Did you see that, Marcus?” His enthusiastic search for Marcus’ approval, his praise, takes him slightly by surprise, but he doesn’t have long to linger on it, as, just then, Evelyn hands him a mug of tea and a takeaway menu, smiling when he thanks her.
“Esca said you didn’t take sugar?” Marcus nods. He didn’t know Esca had noticed, let alone remembered his drinking habits. He’d been surprising him quite a bit today - the heart-felt, enthusiastic greeting at the train station, the need for Marcus’ approval, the remembrance of small details. It’s a little odd; Esca’s never seemed to be one for noticing such things, but it’s nice. He’s not complaining. Especially when Esca turns to give him a triumphant grin, laughter sparkling in his eyes, eager to share this small moment of glory with him. No, he’s not complaining at all.
*****
“Marcus. Marcus! Oh fer God’s sake - Marcus!”
Marcus wakes suddenly, painfully, as something slams down onto his face. He sits up sharply, spluttering and confused and desperately looking around for the source of the attack. His eyes quickly lock on Esca, sat innocently on the other bed, grinning widely. “… the hell?” He looks around himself, and quickly finds a pillow on his bed that he swore wasn’t there before. A quick glance to Esca’s bed confirmed it - it was his. “Seriously? You couldn’t think of a better way to wake me up?”
Esca shrugs, running a hand through his hair, and Marcus’ breath suddenly catches in his throat - his hair is tousled, obscenely so, and he’s wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, exposing far too much skin. “I called, but you wouldn’t wake up. Desperate times, yeah?” He grins wickedly as Marcus scowls at him, and easily catches the pillow that Marcus throws back at him. “’Kay then, time to get up, sleepin’ beauty - come on, up. Up.” He says, grabbing at Marcus’ arm to drag him out of bed. He pauses for a moment when Marcus stands, and he swears he sees Esca swallow heavily, eyes flickering over his bare chest, lingering on the sharp jut of his hipbones not quite covered by the low waist of his pyjama trousers. Esca clears his throat awkwardly, dropping Marcus’ arm suddenly, “Go on. Quick shower. Breakfast’s waiting, then we’re going out.” He shoves Marcus’ bag into his arm, ushering him out of the room.
“Where’re we going?”
“Somewhere.” At the look Marcus shoots him over his shoulder, Esca tuts. “Somewhere. It’s a surprise. Now go on. We ent got all day.”
Almost as soon as Marcus is finished in the shower, before he’s even had the chance to finish pulling on a shirt, Esca is barreling him down the stairs and into the kitchen. He just about has time to pull the damn thing over his head before Esca is pushing him down into a chair.
“Eat.” He’s ordered, and is offered a mountain of toast. Rickon is already at the table, sleepily spooning cereal into his mouth. He looks up briefly when Marcus sits down, offering him a weak smile. “Come on, Marcus!”
“Leave the poor boy alone, Esca.” Marcus smiles gratefully as Evelyn places a mug of tea in front of him, but he doesn’t dare stop eating - Esca is watching him pointedly over his own toast, and he reckons that if he stops, or even slows, Esca might explode. “He’s convinced we’re going to be late,” Evelyn explains, moving to wipe a small smudge of butter from the corner of Esca’s mouth with her thumb. Esca squirms away with a fierce, ‘Mam! Leave it alone!’, but she insists, and Esca flushes a deep shade of scarlet.
“What are we being late for, exactly?” Marcus asks, deeming it safe to speak now that Esca’s distracted.
“Did Esca not tell you?” Marcus shakes his head and Evelyn tuts, shooting Esca an exasperated look. “Why not? Now he won’t have a shirt to wear.”
Esca grins wickedly. “That was the point.” Evelyn lets out a huff of laughter, swatting the back of Esca’s head with her tea towel. Marcus is beyond confused - shirt? Why does he need a shirt? What’s wrong with the one he’s got on? It’s then that he notices that everyone else, including Evelyn, is wearing Rugby shirts - yellow and blue striped Rugby shirts, to be specific. Right. He gets it now.
“City or County?” He asks, and Esca grins, triumphant.
“Told you he’d work it out eventually!”
“Durham City,” Evelyn supplies, “Eoin’s playing today; his first match as scrum-half.” She’s clearly proud, smiling broadly, and Marcus can’t help but smile back. “Esca, make sure Marcus gets a shirt - one of Eoin’s should fit. He can’t go to a game without one.” Esca nods and instantly shoots off to find one. It fits almost perfectly when he gets it, and clearly well worn and well loved. As soon as he’s switched shirts, Evelyn grins, tells him it suits him, and then ushers everyone back upstairs to brush their teeth with a call of, “Be down in five minutes, or I’m going without you!”
The car ride to the game is short, but quite uncomfortable - he’s piled in the back with Esca, whose all excited energy and elbows, grinning like a loon, eyes shining with excitement as he tells Marcus again, how awesome this is gonna be, and how amazing Durham City are and how the other team don’t stand a chance.
It’s only when they finally pile out of the car, and Marcus starts to look around, that he realises that something’s not quite right. “Who are they playing?” He asks, with mounting horror, as a man walks past them, wearing the all too familiar dark green and white shirt, and he really hopes Esca doesn’t say-
“London Irish.”
“Oh my god, I hate you so much.”
*****
Marcus has actually eaten more food that evening than he has in any of the other fifteen years of his life, put together. He’s also very drunk. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration - he’s only kind of drunk, but he has eaten a monstrous amount of food though. It’s not his fault - Evelyn made him. Although, all the food was amazing, so it hadn’t taken that much persuading.
After the Rugby match, and the crushing, humiliating defeat that Marcus had had to sit though, an impromptu celebratory party had been staged at Esca’s, and, within about half an hour of them returning home and an exultant Eoin digging out a barbeque from somewhere, the house was buzzing with what appeared to be the entire Rugby team, their families and pretty much everyone from Esca’s street. They’d begun to spill out into the garden almost instantly, milling and laughing and drinking.
People had brought huge amounts of food, and even more drink, and by the time the sun had begun to set, almost everyone was outside in the garden to enjoy the lingering sunshine. Marcus couldn’t remember how much he’d had to drink, he only knew that every time he finished one beer, someone always seemed to be pressing another one into his hand, ignorant of his protests. He was starting to feel the effects of them, starting to notice his head going a little fuzzy, his movements a little sluggish, his words a little difficult to produce.
It’d been a while since he’d seen Esca; he’d gotten dragged into a very animated conversation with Eoin and another player from the Rugby team (Lucius? Lutorius? Something like that.) about the proper scrum formation, when he’d last spotted the other boy, but by the time he’d managed to escape (a little desperately after Eoin had wanted to demonstrate to Marcus what a proper scrum was like), Esca had disappeared. He’d wandered for a while, strolling around house in search of him, but after twenty minutes, he’d given up - he was feeling a little woozy anyway.
Deciding what he really needed was a moment of relative peace (the people were lovely, but God, they were loud), Marcus had drifted upstairs to his and Esca’s room, and had only narrowly missed sitting on the very person he had been looking for.
“Esca!” The boy in question was, for reasons entirely unknown, sprawled across Marcus’ (Well, Esca’s) bed, one arm slung over his face. “I’ve been looking for you. You alright?”
Esca made a small hum of acknowledgement, “One of Eoin’s mates challenged me to a drinking contest.” He said, by way of explanation.
“I see.” Marcus said, sitting heavily on the other bed. “And you couldn’t say no?” Esca snorted. “Of course not. Did you win?”
“Of course I won! What d’you take me for?” As Esca slowly sat up, carefully, scrubbing his hands through his hair, Marcus grinned.
“You look like shit.”
“Wow. Thanks, Marcus.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You hardly look great yerself. How much have you had to drink?”
Marcus frowned, trying desperately to remember. There was that one he’d just had, and that one before that Eoin had made him drink, and one, or was it two before that and two- “Um. A lot?”
“Yeah. Me too.” Esca swung his legs around so he was facing Marcus, planting his feet on the floor. He leant forward with his elbows on his knees, presumably for balance, and suddenly, all Marcus could think about how close they were, how he could pick out each individual eyelash, see every freckle, even catch the lingering scent of his shampoo, and if Marcus were to just lean forward ever so slightly, they’d practically be kissing. When Esca’s lips parted slightly, Marcus started, and he realised, suddenly and awfully, that he actually had been moving toward him. He’d gone to move away, prepared to laugh it off, blame the alcohol, but before he could, Esca was rushing forward, pressing his lips to Marcus’.
Oh. Esca pulled away almost instantly, blushing deeply, trying not to meet his eye. Before he could fully pull away though, Marcus was moving again, closing the distance between them, one had in Esca’s hair for leverage. It was awkward and stilted and the angle was uncomfortable, but the sudden rush of emotion, the small sound of surprise, the feel of Esca underneath his hands was perfect.
Esca tastes like beer and something sweet and he smells vaguely like cigarette smoke (that’s why Marcus couldn’t find him then - he was outside), and something so familiar, something so Esca.
Marcus doesn’t notice the sound of people walking up the stairs, doesn’t hear the voices, the laughing; he’s too engrossed in Esca, too focused on the way he feels under his hands, the taste of him, the way his mouth feels on his. He’s too taken in by the way Esca is pulling him in, one hand scrunched in his t-shirt, the other gripping at his hip, to notice the knock on the door, the handle turning. It’s only when someone enters, calls their name and says,
“Quit being pathe’ic and - Oh.” And then Marcus is pulling away, desperate and frantic and horrified, eyes wide, face scarlet as Eoin takes in what he’s just seen. He’s taken aback, so confused, when Eoin merely snorts, and says, “Really, Esca? You have to do it here?”, before shaking his head and telling them to get downstairs, they’re missing dessert and Jane from down the road made sticky toffee pudding. And then, just like that, he’s gone.
“Um,” Marcus begins, articulately. “What the hell just happened?”
Esca sits up slowly, runs his fingers through Marcus’ hair to flatten it, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Not sure. You alright?” It’s a simple enough question, everyday even, could be meaningless, but when Marcus turns to look at him, sees the worry in his eyes, the panic, he realises it’s much more than that. He grins, nods, and is relieved to see Esca’s face relax, a smile break out on his face. Marcus presses a quick kiss to his lips, stands, pulling Esca after him.
“Now, Eoin said something about sticky toffee pudding? I love sticky toffee pudding.”
Esca snorts, shaking his head and ushering him toward the door. “You’re a bloody nutter, you know that, right?”
“Shut up, you love it.”
“Yeah, sure.”