Solidarity (And Some Kind of Integrity) 8/8
Title: Solidarity (And Some Kind of Integrity) 8/8
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!
Two years later - 12 Grimmauld Place
They’re already there when Harry arrives, sat in the kitchen with everyone else, and they both wave, grinning when he enters. Esca is wedged in between Lupin and Mr Weasley, nursing a steaming mug of tea between his hands, Marcus between the two twins. They can’t have been there long, he realises - Esca is still bundled up in multiple jumpers and his Ravenclaw scarf and a hoodie that is so big on him that it can only be Marcus’.
They’ve hardly changed in the two years since he last seen them, he notices; Esca’s hair is still as tawny and messy as it always was, his grins as mischievous as he remembers, still as small as he recalls; Marcus is still huge, if not more so, all toned muscled and broad shoulders. They must make an odd sight together, he thinks; where Marcus is tall and broad, Esca is small and slim, but they look happy, really happy.
“Marcus is a healer,” Esca tells him later, when everyone has been assigned different chores to do. He and Esca had been enlisted by Mrs Weasley to carry everyone’s cases upstairs to their rooms, while Marcus, inexplicably, had been employed to chop vegetables for dinner, which, considering Marcus’ size, and the frankly monstrous weight of the cases, makes no sense. They’re taking a break, a long break, perched on the top step of the staircase, trying to ignore the constant muttering of the infamous portrait in the hallway. “Head healer of Magical Maladies and Injuries,” He continues, smiling and so proud. “The youngest person to have that position, you know. God knows he deserves it.”
Harry wants to asks why, but stays quiet when he sees the way Esca’s face hardens, sees the way his jaw twitches, how his eyebrows knot together in barely constrained resentment. Harry’s heard the stories, he’s heard the names Marcus still gets called, even now, after all he’s done to prove his worth. It doesn’t seem fair, the way he’s still persecuted for something he didn’t even do.
When they’ve finally finished carting suitcases upon suitcases around the house, Mrs. Weasley decides they’ve worked hard enough to be let back in the kitchen for a cup of tea. They take their seats with the Weasley children, smiling gratefully when Mrs. Weasley pours their drinks. There’s childish outrage, however, when she lovingly attempts to flatten down Esca’s hair and hands him a “well-deserved” Honeyduke’s lollipop, which, really, he’s far too keen to unwrap. Ignorant of everyone’s grumbling, and their insistence that they’ve all worked hard too so where’s theirs, he sticks it in his mouth, contentedly quiet.
Until, when a particularly heated discussion starts about which Quidditch team is better - Chudley Cannons or the Yorkshire county team, and Esca can’t help himself, and has to say something, pulling the lollipop from his mouth with the intention of pointing it accusingly at Ron, who clearly knows nothing, only to have it suddenly and stealthily disappear from his hand.
Marcus holds it just out of reach as Esca lunges for it, cursing loudly and profanely, and Harry thanks his lucky stars that Mrs. Weasley is no longer in the room.
“Marcus!”
“Think of your health, Esca! What did we say about too much sugar?” Marcus asks, taking a seat next to him.
“I don’t care if it’ll rot my brain, Marcus, I want it. Give it back.”
“No.” Marcus says simply, grinning as he pops it into his own mouth. Esca huffs, sits heavily back into his seat.
“Hypocrite.”
“Child.”
“I hate you.”
“Whatever.”
*****
After dinner, and after everything had been cleared away, and everyone has moved off to do their own thing, Marcus and Hermione sit at the far end of the table, closest to the fire, huddled over a frankly monstrous book that Marcus had brought back to Grimmauld at Hermione’s request. He’s explaining something, something that Harry can’t quite hear, or even begin to understand, all gesturing hands, and wide, excited smiles, and Hermione is completely enchanted, nodding vigorously and practically hanging off of his every word. It’s nice, he briefly thinks, that she’s finally found someone with the same enthusiasm and endless passion for knowledge that she has.
Esca is at the other end of the table, leaning with his back against the wall, legs either side of the bench. He’s sprawled in such a way, eyes closed as if in sleep, that makes him look much bigger than he is. His wand is out on the table, his hand resting over it, ever the auror, ever ready to strike. His head is leant back, resting against the bare stone of the wall, which can’t be comfortable at all, but he looks so relaxed, so at peace, that Harry could almost believe he was actually asleep. Except, when Marcus says something, unendingly enthusiastic and possibly a little too loud, a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, fond and affectionate, instantly giving away his game.
His eyes flicker open for a second, just a second, as Marcus stands and leaves the room, assuring Hermione that he has a book about that somewhere, just to check what’s going on, to take stock of the room now that someone’s left. Then, as if it hadn’t even happened, they flicker closed again. But, Harry can tell, as he looks closer, Esca doesn’t seem quite so relaxed now that Marcus is gone, as if he can’t quite settle without knowing where he is, as if he’s worrying, protective.
Almost as soon as Marcus has left, Mundungus Fletcher slithers into the kitchen, most probably in search of a drink. Harry watches as the man looks around the room, noticing how Hermione instinctively moves away from him, nose wrinkled in quiet disgust. Harry doesn’t blame her.
Fletcher, now with a goblet of mead in hand, slides onto the bench next to Harry. He takes a heavy swig from it, leaning back against the wall with a loud sigh of relief. He reeks, of stale clothes and unwashed bodies and alcohol, and just out the corner of his eye, Harry catches Esca’s lip curl in distaste. Fletcher smiles at Harry, wide and full of rotting teeth, slapping a hand on his shoulder. They exchange pleasantries, and if he notices that Harry’s are more than a little forced, he says nothing. Not long after, Marcus returns, book in hand. Hermione perks up instantly, smile lighting up her face.
Marcus falters slightly as he catches sight of Fletcher, his smile quickly fading. He sits back down slowly, eyes flickering between Fletcher and Esca, absent-mindedly beginning to open the book. Confused, Harry wonders what it means, that look, the concerned and vaguely frantic stutter of a gaze, and, when Fletcher looks up to see who has entered, Harry understands.
Fletcher’s filthy face wrinkles in disgust, and he downs the rest of his drink in a manner that suggests he’s decided he needs it to face the man who has just returned. He leans in clothes to Harry, all stinking breath and sickening aromas, and whispers, loudly and in a tone that suggests he knows everything,
“Treachery runs in the family, you know. I wouldn’t want him in my house. You’d think you-know-who could’a done it proper and finished ‘im off too.”
Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Esca is up, leaping over the table to wrench Fletcher from his seat and pin him against the wall, wand jabbed against his throat, all snarls and shouts of “Shut your mouth, scum!”
Hermione shrieks, clapping her hands over her mouth, instantly sending everyone else in the house rushing into the kitchen. They’re greeted by the sight of Fletcher slumped against the wall, coughing and hacking and clutching his throat, and Marcus trying to hold back a struggling, fighting Esca. Harry can see how much effort Marcus has to put in to keep a hold of him, and he’s momentarily surprised - Esca’s so small.
Mr Weasley is the first to speak, with a simple cry of, “What on Earth is going on?”
“I’ll kill ‘im! I’ll fucking kill ‘im!” Esca spits, momentarily breaking free of Marcus’ hold, instantly lurching forward to the man still reeling on the floor. It takes all of Marcus’ strength, and the calm intervention of Remus, to rein him back in.
Fletcher slowly gets to his feet, pale and shaking. He points a grubby finger at Esca. “’E’s mad! Completely mad! ‘E could’a killed me!”
“I will do if you ent careful!”
“’E’s dangerous! A bloody nutter!”
“I’ll show you dangerous, you cocky shite!”
“Enough!” Finally having forced her way into the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley stares them all down. “Not in my bloody kitchen, you won’t! If you’ve all quite finished standing and doing nothing, would somebody please escort Mr Fletcher out of here before Esca tears him to pieces?”
Esca watches, seething, as Fletcher is led out of the kitchen, away from him, still struggling to break free of Marcus’ hold. It’s only when Fletcher is safely upstairs, safely out of Esca’s reach, that Marcus lets him go with a grunt of exertion. The smaller man instantly moves to follow, raging and angry, but Marcus moves in front of him, quicker than Harry thought possible for a man so big, and places a gentle hand on Esca’s chest. He moves to brush it away, his eyes fixed on the door, but Marcus, persists, murmuring, so quietly that Harry almost misses it,
“Please, Esca.”
And just like that, Esca stops trying to push past him, stops trying to follow. His shoulders are still tense, his wand still clenched in his fist so tight his knuckles have gone white, but he stops all the same.
“Look at me.” Marcus continues. “Esca, look at me.” It takes a moment, but to Harry’s, and everyone else’s surprise, he obeys, blue eyes locking onto green. Something inexplicable passes between them, fast and quick and silent, then suddenly, Esca is rushing forward into Marcus’ open arms, clinging and desperate and frantic, clutching at his jumper, as if searching for some kind of footing. Marcus pulls away, framing Esca’s face with his hands, brushing hair out of his eyes, off of his forehead, surveying his face with such intensity, searching and concerned. “Alright?”
Esca gives a quick nod. “Good.” Marcus smiles, pressing a kiss to Esca’s forehead. “You’re a nutter, you know that, right?”
Esca lets out a splutter of surprised laughter, pushing at Marcus’ shoulder. “I’m the nutter? What was it you were getting far too excited about a minute ago? Moss, or something?”
“Algae.” Marcus insists, exasperated and long-suffering, but he’s smiling, broad and happy, and that’s all it takes. The tension in the room is gone, swept away as if it never happened. He wraps Esca in a tight hug, and whispers, close to his ear,
“I love you, you know that, right?”
Esca smiles. “I love you too, you great oaf.”
For a moment, Harry watches them, so comfortable, so at ease, in each other’s embrace, before, like the rest of the group, leaving the kitchen. His foot catches on something as he reaches the door, and he looks down, briefly catching a glimpse of the shining silver of Fletcher’s abandoned goblet before it rolls away underneath the table. It’ll stay there, until morning, and Mrs. Weasley will complain about the stains that will be a terror to scrub off, but Harry leaves it. He takes one last glance at the two men, and smiles, taking in the sense of solidarity and some kind of integrity that he doesn’t quite understand.
He leaves them there in each other’s company, and thinks about what Fletcher had called them earlier, before they arrived, when he’d heard they were staying - the Mudblood and the Traitor. It didn’t seem to fit them, not at all, he thought, not even in the slightest. They were too loyal, too noble, too good for that. He thought about it all the way up the stairs, while he sat with Ron and Hermione, and while he listened to them talk until the early hours of the morning, until he thought of something better.
The lion and the eagle, he decided, was much more fitting.
*****
One year later - The Battle of Hogwarts
Esca stumbles, bleary and confused, through the rubble. He trips, unsteady, on something, and looks down to see what it is, and wants to retch - it’s a body. A Death Eater, angry and snarling and hideous, even in death. He moves on quickly, stepping around them, resolutely looking ahead of him. His vision is blurred, by dust and ash, and he can just about make out what’s in front of him. Just about.
He’s filthy, he can tell, smeared with ash and dirt and sweat and so much blood, that he can’t tell what’s his and what isn’t anymore. There’s blood on his knuckles, his hands, his arms, his face and his head is pounding, screaming and protesting at being moved. His hearing his muffled, as if he’s got cotton wool jammed in his ears, as someone tries to talk to him, to get his attention. They’re screaming in his face, crying and desperate, but it sounds like whispering, he can’t make it out. And then, just as suddenly as they appeared, they’re gone again. He must look dazed, stumbling around, and, in truth, he is. He’s struggling to remember where he is, what just happened.
He can just about remember a deafening crack, the creaking and moaning of breaking stone, and he can just about remember trying to move people, students, himself out of the way before something, something, fell. It all goes blurry after that.
His wand is still clutched in his hand as he moves, slowly and carefully, through what he thinks is what’s left of the main entrance hall. There’s not much around him, in terms of movement, of life, only the shattered remains of the statues, the prone form of another Death Eater, beautifully living up to their name. And then, suddenly, someone shoves him aside, rough, uncaring, and he falls, lands hard on the crumbled stone. He feels something crack, a rib perhaps, and pain blossoms, sharp and relentless. He may have gasped, it feels like he did, but he can’t hear it, and he struggles to pull himself up, struggles to get his breath, to raise his wand, to protect himself, but he stops, a spell half formed in his mouth.
It was a student, the person who shoved him, rushing forward to meet someone he didn’t notice before, a sibling, a friend, a lover, maybe, he’s not sure. But they’re crying, both of them, clinging and desperate and so, so relieved. He briefly notices, with a twinge of nostalgia and of love for times gone by, that they’re wearing uniforms, one in blue, one in red. And then, suddenly, almost as sudden as the cracking of the rock, the falling of the ceiling, Esca remembers.
Marcus.
Automatically, instantly, he’s moving forward, stumbling, running, desperate, so desperate, toward, well, he’s not sure, Marcus could be anywhere, but toward something, the way he can see people moving. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, hammering and constant, his head is screaming with pain, agony, his ribs protesting and stabbing, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t notice. He moves through it, through the corridor, past the wandering people, until he reaches the doors of the Great Hall, and his heart begins to break.
Rows and rows of bodies, of good, honest, wonderful people are lain out on the floor, at peace now in death, their loved ones crowding around, crying and sobbing and grieving. He looks around, slowly, as he walks in, slow and unsteady and panicking, eyes flickering from person to person, both living and dead, unseeing, looking for one, just one, face, a head of dark hair, broad shoulders, tall, taller than the others. Surely he should be easy to see? Easy to notice? His breath catches, a lump rises in his throat, his eyes sting, because he can’t see him, he can’t see him stood up, moving, like the others, healing, like he should be, and that can only mean one thing.
His heart splitting, breaking, he rushes forward, blinking through a sudden onslaught of tears, dragging trails of grief down his filthy face, looking at each of the bodies in turn, looking for one he doesn’t want to see. And then, and then, he sees him.
He’s placed at the end, in the weak, sorrowful light of the rising sun, next to Lupin and Tonks. And it’s fitting, he thinks, through his agony, that he should be laid there. Someone tries to stop him, tries to hold him back, tells him, you don’t want to see, but he pushes them out the way, hears them land, loud and painful, too loud to his recovering ears, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not now.
The stone floor is cold as he falls to his knees; the sun’s mourning warmth hasn’t reached it yet. Marcus’ face looks calm, so calm, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly parted as if in sleep. His skin is marred though, with ash and dust and blood, oh God his blood, like Esca’s, but beautiful all the same. It takes Esca a moment, a horrid, heart-wrenching moment, to reach out to him, hands shaking, body shaking, chest heaving with sobs, to brush the hair away from his eyes, from his face. It had grown longer, recently, so that it curled around his ears, endearing and adorable, and he’d meant to get it cut before, before. He’d hated it long, said it made him look like a kid, and Esca had said that at his size, he’d never looked like a kid, and they’d laughed, and laughed and it had been wonderful.
This is it, he thinks, this is the end. The end of him, of me, of us. The victory, the defeat of Voldemort, the restoration of peace, means nothing, nothing, now that he’s gone. It means nothing, and it’s worth nothing and he’s so angry, furious, and so, so sad. He can’t even bear the thought of living without him.
He tells him so, leaning his forehead against Marcus’, hands gripping his hair, for support, for security, for reassurance. He can’t live without him, he won’t. He stays like that for some time, just being with him, in his presence, close to his side. It’s a small comfort, having him present in the beginnings of his grief, but it’s just a drop in the ocean compared against how he’s feeling, the tearing, wrenching pain of loss and despair and loneliness. Marcus was his lover, yes, his boyfriend, his other half, but he was also, more importantly, his best friend. And he’s not sure what he’s going to do without him.
The sun rises fully in the sky, and Esca watches as the rays of watery sunshine move across the floor, slow and steady, casting a weak, wistful light on each of the bodies, the people, in turn. It reaches Marcus, full and bright and hopeful, and it lights up his face, banishes the shadows from his features and he’s so beautiful, so perfect, that it’s almost too much to bear. Esca leans in, over, and presses one last heartfelt, tear-stained kiss to his lips, shaking with the effort of holding back sobs, and suddenly jerks back, shocked and startled and wide-eyed.
His eyes are open.
For a moment, Esca is horrified. His first thought is that it’s some grotesque reflex after death, some contraction of muscle or something, but then he watches as they flicker closed, and then open once more, and his lips part slowly and he breathes. It’s a stuttering, pained, quiet breath, not nearly enough to fill his lungs, to keep him conscious for long, but he breathed.
“Marcus?” He’s tentative, cautious, more than a little wary, but hopeful, so hopeful, and so relieved. “Marcus!” His heart is pounding, a lump rises in his throat, and he lurches to Marcus’ side, framing his face with panicked hands, pushing back hair, trying to make eye contact. When Marcus’ eyes blearily lock with his, and suddenly become clear, his pupils dilating, a desperate, painful sob is wrenched from Esca’s throat. “Can you hear me?” There’s a small groan in response, so quiet that Esca almost misses it. “You’re alive,” He breathes, and his heart soars.
“Help! Please, somebody! He’s alive! He’s alive!” Someone is instantly at Esca’s elbow, checking Marcus’ heart rate, his breathing, his wounds. He’s still bleeding, quite heavily, but nothing they can’t handle, nothing that matters, not now. All he can think, as more people, healers, flock to them, administering medicine and helping, is that it’s a miracle. He always knew Marcus was tough, never one to give up, but coming back from the dead? He can’t help but be a bit impressed. It’s chaotic, almost as soon as he shouts, and he’s pushed away as they try to move Marcus to a stretcher, to get him to the Hospital Wing, and someone’s shouting for Madame Pomfrey, and it’s loud, so loud.
But, through it all, through the chaos, the desperate move to save him, Esca hears, and he’ll never know how he did, just hears, Marcus’ hoarse whisper of,
“Esca.”
There are complaints as he shoves his way through the people, elbowing them out the way, to take Marcus’ hand, to grasp it between his own, intertwining their fingers, but he doesn’t care. Marcus needs him, and that’s all that matters. “I’m here, Marcus.” He murmurs.
“Please,” Marcus’ voice is dry, cracked and painful, and he swallows heavily, screwing his eyes shut in discomfort, “Please, Esca. Don’t leave me.”
Esca smiles, wide and free and happy, and he catches Marcus’ eye, tries to convey all that he feels in one solitary gaze, and says, more wholehearted and honest and sincere than he’s ever said anything in his entire life,
“I’m not going anywhere.”
FINIS.
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!
Two years later - 12 Grimmauld Place
They’re already there when Harry arrives, sat in the kitchen with everyone else, and they both wave, grinning when he enters. Esca is wedged in between Lupin and Mr Weasley, nursing a steaming mug of tea between his hands, Marcus between the two twins. They can’t have been there long, he realises - Esca is still bundled up in multiple jumpers and his Ravenclaw scarf and a hoodie that is so big on him that it can only be Marcus’.
They’ve hardly changed in the two years since he last seen them, he notices; Esca’s hair is still as tawny and messy as it always was, his grins as mischievous as he remembers, still as small as he recalls; Marcus is still huge, if not more so, all toned muscled and broad shoulders. They must make an odd sight together, he thinks; where Marcus is tall and broad, Esca is small and slim, but they look happy, really happy.
“Marcus is a healer,” Esca tells him later, when everyone has been assigned different chores to do. He and Esca had been enlisted by Mrs Weasley to carry everyone’s cases upstairs to their rooms, while Marcus, inexplicably, had been employed to chop vegetables for dinner, which, considering Marcus’ size, and the frankly monstrous weight of the cases, makes no sense. They’re taking a break, a long break, perched on the top step of the staircase, trying to ignore the constant muttering of the infamous portrait in the hallway. “Head healer of Magical Maladies and Injuries,” He continues, smiling and so proud. “The youngest person to have that position, you know. God knows he deserves it.”
Harry wants to asks why, but stays quiet when he sees the way Esca’s face hardens, sees the way his jaw twitches, how his eyebrows knot together in barely constrained resentment. Harry’s heard the stories, he’s heard the names Marcus still gets called, even now, after all he’s done to prove his worth. It doesn’t seem fair, the way he’s still persecuted for something he didn’t even do.
When they’ve finally finished carting suitcases upon suitcases around the house, Mrs. Weasley decides they’ve worked hard enough to be let back in the kitchen for a cup of tea. They take their seats with the Weasley children, smiling gratefully when Mrs. Weasley pours their drinks. There’s childish outrage, however, when she lovingly attempts to flatten down Esca’s hair and hands him a “well-deserved” Honeyduke’s lollipop, which, really, he’s far too keen to unwrap. Ignorant of everyone’s grumbling, and their insistence that they’ve all worked hard too so where’s theirs, he sticks it in his mouth, contentedly quiet.
Until, when a particularly heated discussion starts about which Quidditch team is better - Chudley Cannons or the Yorkshire county team, and Esca can’t help himself, and has to say something, pulling the lollipop from his mouth with the intention of pointing it accusingly at Ron, who clearly knows nothing, only to have it suddenly and stealthily disappear from his hand.
Marcus holds it just out of reach as Esca lunges for it, cursing loudly and profanely, and Harry thanks his lucky stars that Mrs. Weasley is no longer in the room.
“Marcus!”
“Think of your health, Esca! What did we say about too much sugar?” Marcus asks, taking a seat next to him.
“I don’t care if it’ll rot my brain, Marcus, I want it. Give it back.”
“No.” Marcus says simply, grinning as he pops it into his own mouth. Esca huffs, sits heavily back into his seat.
“Hypocrite.”
“Child.”
“I hate you.”
“Whatever.”
*****
After dinner, and after everything had been cleared away, and everyone has moved off to do their own thing, Marcus and Hermione sit at the far end of the table, closest to the fire, huddled over a frankly monstrous book that Marcus had brought back to Grimmauld at Hermione’s request. He’s explaining something, something that Harry can’t quite hear, or even begin to understand, all gesturing hands, and wide, excited smiles, and Hermione is completely enchanted, nodding vigorously and practically hanging off of his every word. It’s nice, he briefly thinks, that she’s finally found someone with the same enthusiasm and endless passion for knowledge that she has.
Esca is at the other end of the table, leaning with his back against the wall, legs either side of the bench. He’s sprawled in such a way, eyes closed as if in sleep, that makes him look much bigger than he is. His wand is out on the table, his hand resting over it, ever the auror, ever ready to strike. His head is leant back, resting against the bare stone of the wall, which can’t be comfortable at all, but he looks so relaxed, so at peace, that Harry could almost believe he was actually asleep. Except, when Marcus says something, unendingly enthusiastic and possibly a little too loud, a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, fond and affectionate, instantly giving away his game.
His eyes flicker open for a second, just a second, as Marcus stands and leaves the room, assuring Hermione that he has a book about that somewhere, just to check what’s going on, to take stock of the room now that someone’s left. Then, as if it hadn’t even happened, they flicker closed again. But, Harry can tell, as he looks closer, Esca doesn’t seem quite so relaxed now that Marcus is gone, as if he can’t quite settle without knowing where he is, as if he’s worrying, protective.
Almost as soon as Marcus has left, Mundungus Fletcher slithers into the kitchen, most probably in search of a drink. Harry watches as the man looks around the room, noticing how Hermione instinctively moves away from him, nose wrinkled in quiet disgust. Harry doesn’t blame her.
Fletcher, now with a goblet of mead in hand, slides onto the bench next to Harry. He takes a heavy swig from it, leaning back against the wall with a loud sigh of relief. He reeks, of stale clothes and unwashed bodies and alcohol, and just out the corner of his eye, Harry catches Esca’s lip curl in distaste. Fletcher smiles at Harry, wide and full of rotting teeth, slapping a hand on his shoulder. They exchange pleasantries, and if he notices that Harry’s are more than a little forced, he says nothing. Not long after, Marcus returns, book in hand. Hermione perks up instantly, smile lighting up her face.
Marcus falters slightly as he catches sight of Fletcher, his smile quickly fading. He sits back down slowly, eyes flickering between Fletcher and Esca, absent-mindedly beginning to open the book. Confused, Harry wonders what it means, that look, the concerned and vaguely frantic stutter of a gaze, and, when Fletcher looks up to see who has entered, Harry understands.
Fletcher’s filthy face wrinkles in disgust, and he downs the rest of his drink in a manner that suggests he’s decided he needs it to face the man who has just returned. He leans in clothes to Harry, all stinking breath and sickening aromas, and whispers, loudly and in a tone that suggests he knows everything,
“Treachery runs in the family, you know. I wouldn’t want him in my house. You’d think you-know-who could’a done it proper and finished ‘im off too.”
Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Esca is up, leaping over the table to wrench Fletcher from his seat and pin him against the wall, wand jabbed against his throat, all snarls and shouts of “Shut your mouth, scum!”
Hermione shrieks, clapping her hands over her mouth, instantly sending everyone else in the house rushing into the kitchen. They’re greeted by the sight of Fletcher slumped against the wall, coughing and hacking and clutching his throat, and Marcus trying to hold back a struggling, fighting Esca. Harry can see how much effort Marcus has to put in to keep a hold of him, and he’s momentarily surprised - Esca’s so small.
Mr Weasley is the first to speak, with a simple cry of, “What on Earth is going on?”
“I’ll kill ‘im! I’ll fucking kill ‘im!” Esca spits, momentarily breaking free of Marcus’ hold, instantly lurching forward to the man still reeling on the floor. It takes all of Marcus’ strength, and the calm intervention of Remus, to rein him back in.
Fletcher slowly gets to his feet, pale and shaking. He points a grubby finger at Esca. “’E’s mad! Completely mad! ‘E could’a killed me!”
“I will do if you ent careful!”
“’E’s dangerous! A bloody nutter!”
“I’ll show you dangerous, you cocky shite!”
“Enough!” Finally having forced her way into the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley stares them all down. “Not in my bloody kitchen, you won’t! If you’ve all quite finished standing and doing nothing, would somebody please escort Mr Fletcher out of here before Esca tears him to pieces?”
Esca watches, seething, as Fletcher is led out of the kitchen, away from him, still struggling to break free of Marcus’ hold. It’s only when Fletcher is safely upstairs, safely out of Esca’s reach, that Marcus lets him go with a grunt of exertion. The smaller man instantly moves to follow, raging and angry, but Marcus moves in front of him, quicker than Harry thought possible for a man so big, and places a gentle hand on Esca’s chest. He moves to brush it away, his eyes fixed on the door, but Marcus, persists, murmuring, so quietly that Harry almost misses it,
“Please, Esca.”
And just like that, Esca stops trying to push past him, stops trying to follow. His shoulders are still tense, his wand still clenched in his fist so tight his knuckles have gone white, but he stops all the same.
“Look at me.” Marcus continues. “Esca, look at me.” It takes a moment, but to Harry’s, and everyone else’s surprise, he obeys, blue eyes locking onto green. Something inexplicable passes between them, fast and quick and silent, then suddenly, Esca is rushing forward into Marcus’ open arms, clinging and desperate and frantic, clutching at his jumper, as if searching for some kind of footing. Marcus pulls away, framing Esca’s face with his hands, brushing hair out of his eyes, off of his forehead, surveying his face with such intensity, searching and concerned. “Alright?”
Esca gives a quick nod. “Good.” Marcus smiles, pressing a kiss to Esca’s forehead. “You’re a nutter, you know that, right?”
Esca lets out a splutter of surprised laughter, pushing at Marcus’ shoulder. “I’m the nutter? What was it you were getting far too excited about a minute ago? Moss, or something?”
“Algae.” Marcus insists, exasperated and long-suffering, but he’s smiling, broad and happy, and that’s all it takes. The tension in the room is gone, swept away as if it never happened. He wraps Esca in a tight hug, and whispers, close to his ear,
“I love you, you know that, right?”
Esca smiles. “I love you too, you great oaf.”
For a moment, Harry watches them, so comfortable, so at ease, in each other’s embrace, before, like the rest of the group, leaving the kitchen. His foot catches on something as he reaches the door, and he looks down, briefly catching a glimpse of the shining silver of Fletcher’s abandoned goblet before it rolls away underneath the table. It’ll stay there, until morning, and Mrs. Weasley will complain about the stains that will be a terror to scrub off, but Harry leaves it. He takes one last glance at the two men, and smiles, taking in the sense of solidarity and some kind of integrity that he doesn’t quite understand.
He leaves them there in each other’s company, and thinks about what Fletcher had called them earlier, before they arrived, when he’d heard they were staying - the Mudblood and the Traitor. It didn’t seem to fit them, not at all, he thought, not even in the slightest. They were too loyal, too noble, too good for that. He thought about it all the way up the stairs, while he sat with Ron and Hermione, and while he listened to them talk until the early hours of the morning, until he thought of something better.
The lion and the eagle, he decided, was much more fitting.
*****
One year later - The Battle of Hogwarts
Esca stumbles, bleary and confused, through the rubble. He trips, unsteady, on something, and looks down to see what it is, and wants to retch - it’s a body. A Death Eater, angry and snarling and hideous, even in death. He moves on quickly, stepping around them, resolutely looking ahead of him. His vision is blurred, by dust and ash, and he can just about make out what’s in front of him. Just about.
He’s filthy, he can tell, smeared with ash and dirt and sweat and so much blood, that he can’t tell what’s his and what isn’t anymore. There’s blood on his knuckles, his hands, his arms, his face and his head is pounding, screaming and protesting at being moved. His hearing his muffled, as if he’s got cotton wool jammed in his ears, as someone tries to talk to him, to get his attention. They’re screaming in his face, crying and desperate, but it sounds like whispering, he can’t make it out. And then, just as suddenly as they appeared, they’re gone again. He must look dazed, stumbling around, and, in truth, he is. He’s struggling to remember where he is, what just happened.
He can just about remember a deafening crack, the creaking and moaning of breaking stone, and he can just about remember trying to move people, students, himself out of the way before something, something, fell. It all goes blurry after that.
His wand is still clutched in his hand as he moves, slowly and carefully, through what he thinks is what’s left of the main entrance hall. There’s not much around him, in terms of movement, of life, only the shattered remains of the statues, the prone form of another Death Eater, beautifully living up to their name. And then, suddenly, someone shoves him aside, rough, uncaring, and he falls, lands hard on the crumbled stone. He feels something crack, a rib perhaps, and pain blossoms, sharp and relentless. He may have gasped, it feels like he did, but he can’t hear it, and he struggles to pull himself up, struggles to get his breath, to raise his wand, to protect himself, but he stops, a spell half formed in his mouth.
It was a student, the person who shoved him, rushing forward to meet someone he didn’t notice before, a sibling, a friend, a lover, maybe, he’s not sure. But they’re crying, both of them, clinging and desperate and so, so relieved. He briefly notices, with a twinge of nostalgia and of love for times gone by, that they’re wearing uniforms, one in blue, one in red. And then, suddenly, almost as sudden as the cracking of the rock, the falling of the ceiling, Esca remembers.
Marcus.
Automatically, instantly, he’s moving forward, stumbling, running, desperate, so desperate, toward, well, he’s not sure, Marcus could be anywhere, but toward something, the way he can see people moving. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, hammering and constant, his head is screaming with pain, agony, his ribs protesting and stabbing, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t notice. He moves through it, through the corridor, past the wandering people, until he reaches the doors of the Great Hall, and his heart begins to break.
Rows and rows of bodies, of good, honest, wonderful people are lain out on the floor, at peace now in death, their loved ones crowding around, crying and sobbing and grieving. He looks around, slowly, as he walks in, slow and unsteady and panicking, eyes flickering from person to person, both living and dead, unseeing, looking for one, just one, face, a head of dark hair, broad shoulders, tall, taller than the others. Surely he should be easy to see? Easy to notice? His breath catches, a lump rises in his throat, his eyes sting, because he can’t see him, he can’t see him stood up, moving, like the others, healing, like he should be, and that can only mean one thing.
His heart splitting, breaking, he rushes forward, blinking through a sudden onslaught of tears, dragging trails of grief down his filthy face, looking at each of the bodies in turn, looking for one he doesn’t want to see. And then, and then, he sees him.
He’s placed at the end, in the weak, sorrowful light of the rising sun, next to Lupin and Tonks. And it’s fitting, he thinks, through his agony, that he should be laid there. Someone tries to stop him, tries to hold him back, tells him, you don’t want to see, but he pushes them out the way, hears them land, loud and painful, too loud to his recovering ears, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not now.
The stone floor is cold as he falls to his knees; the sun’s mourning warmth hasn’t reached it yet. Marcus’ face looks calm, so calm, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly parted as if in sleep. His skin is marred though, with ash and dust and blood, oh God his blood, like Esca’s, but beautiful all the same. It takes Esca a moment, a horrid, heart-wrenching moment, to reach out to him, hands shaking, body shaking, chest heaving with sobs, to brush the hair away from his eyes, from his face. It had grown longer, recently, so that it curled around his ears, endearing and adorable, and he’d meant to get it cut before, before. He’d hated it long, said it made him look like a kid, and Esca had said that at his size, he’d never looked like a kid, and they’d laughed, and laughed and it had been wonderful.
This is it, he thinks, this is the end. The end of him, of me, of us. The victory, the defeat of Voldemort, the restoration of peace, means nothing, nothing, now that he’s gone. It means nothing, and it’s worth nothing and he’s so angry, furious, and so, so sad. He can’t even bear the thought of living without him.
He tells him so, leaning his forehead against Marcus’, hands gripping his hair, for support, for security, for reassurance. He can’t live without him, he won’t. He stays like that for some time, just being with him, in his presence, close to his side. It’s a small comfort, having him present in the beginnings of his grief, but it’s just a drop in the ocean compared against how he’s feeling, the tearing, wrenching pain of loss and despair and loneliness. Marcus was his lover, yes, his boyfriend, his other half, but he was also, more importantly, his best friend. And he’s not sure what he’s going to do without him.
The sun rises fully in the sky, and Esca watches as the rays of watery sunshine move across the floor, slow and steady, casting a weak, wistful light on each of the bodies, the people, in turn. It reaches Marcus, full and bright and hopeful, and it lights up his face, banishes the shadows from his features and he’s so beautiful, so perfect, that it’s almost too much to bear. Esca leans in, over, and presses one last heartfelt, tear-stained kiss to his lips, shaking with the effort of holding back sobs, and suddenly jerks back, shocked and startled and wide-eyed.
His eyes are open.
For a moment, Esca is horrified. His first thought is that it’s some grotesque reflex after death, some contraction of muscle or something, but then he watches as they flicker closed, and then open once more, and his lips part slowly and he breathes. It’s a stuttering, pained, quiet breath, not nearly enough to fill his lungs, to keep him conscious for long, but he breathed.
“Marcus?” He’s tentative, cautious, more than a little wary, but hopeful, so hopeful, and so relieved. “Marcus!” His heart is pounding, a lump rises in his throat, and he lurches to Marcus’ side, framing his face with panicked hands, pushing back hair, trying to make eye contact. When Marcus’ eyes blearily lock with his, and suddenly become clear, his pupils dilating, a desperate, painful sob is wrenched from Esca’s throat. “Can you hear me?” There’s a small groan in response, so quiet that Esca almost misses it. “You’re alive,” He breathes, and his heart soars.
“Help! Please, somebody! He’s alive! He’s alive!” Someone is instantly at Esca’s elbow, checking Marcus’ heart rate, his breathing, his wounds. He’s still bleeding, quite heavily, but nothing they can’t handle, nothing that matters, not now. All he can think, as more people, healers, flock to them, administering medicine and helping, is that it’s a miracle. He always knew Marcus was tough, never one to give up, but coming back from the dead? He can’t help but be a bit impressed. It’s chaotic, almost as soon as he shouts, and he’s pushed away as they try to move Marcus to a stretcher, to get him to the Hospital Wing, and someone’s shouting for Madame Pomfrey, and it’s loud, so loud.
But, through it all, through the chaos, the desperate move to save him, Esca hears, and he’ll never know how he did, just hears, Marcus’ hoarse whisper of,
“Esca.”
There are complaints as he shoves his way through the people, elbowing them out the way, to take Marcus’ hand, to grasp it between his own, intertwining their fingers, but he doesn’t care. Marcus needs him, and that’s all that matters. “I’m here, Marcus.” He murmurs.
“Please,” Marcus’ voice is dry, cracked and painful, and he swallows heavily, screwing his eyes shut in discomfort, “Please, Esca. Don’t leave me.”
Esca smiles, wide and free and happy, and he catches Marcus’ eye, tries to convey all that he feels in one solitary gaze, and says, more wholehearted and honest and sincere than he’s ever said anything in his entire life,
“I’m not going anywhere.”
FINIS.