Fic: Even Bullies Need a Little Love, Too for lovepickle
Title: Even Bullies Need a Little Love, Too
Author: dmitchell1985
Giftee: lovepickle
Rating: PG-14/Low-ish R - for the abuse.
Word Count: 3,887
Pairing: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood :: Oliver Wood/a lucky plate of pasteries :: mentioned Marcus Flint/It's a sekrit!
Disclaimer: I don't own any canon portions of the Harry Potter details included in my story. If I did, there'd be lots less angsting and much more Sirius Black involved. *wink*
Warnings: Slash Incest and sexual abuse of a child, which I do not condone in real life, just so you know. Swearing, a bit of fluffy-ish boykissing, and nothing else that I can think of.
Author's Notes: I honestly had no intention of writing this fic. This gift was supposed to be a nice fic about a standing Quidditch bet, but this is what happened instead. lovepickle, I sincerely hope that you like this, even if it wasn't what you were expecting. If it makes you feel better, I threw in a bonus pairing! = D A hearty thank you to my beta for looking over this for me, you know who you are.
Summary: Although Marcus Flint is famed for his readiness to hex anything that crosses his path, there is still the question of "Why?"
-
There were nights when Marcus felt himself slip to the darkest edges of his mind, when he gave up conscious thought for the uncomfortable lull of sleep. Nights when long-buried memories resurfaced to remind him why he would never be good enough. Why he would forever be considered repulsive and not worthy of true affection in his father's eyes. In nearly his entire family's eyes.
He knew that there were some mistakes he could never take back, like the time he nearly burnt Mrs. McKinley's house to the ground after he discovered the wonder that was Exploding Snaps and the strange liquids she kept stored away in her cleaning supply closet. He had apologized profusely and begged for forgiveness, but his efforts had not saved his backside from Father's favorite leather belt or the work he was required to do to help put the house back to rights.
Then, there were some mistakes that were never his to begin with, but he had taken their blame nevertheless. For how was he to know then at nine that speaking up meant claiming another's guilt?
In this twisted atmosphere of truth and "truth," part of him could not help but find something to be very wrong. There was never the same genuine laughter or hugs or declarations of love present at home that he witnessed at random intervals in the market place when Mother brought him with her on her robe and book shopping days. There had only been stiff formality and hushed family secrets that confused and humiliated him at every opportunity to do so.
Though Mother was ever the patroness of formal attire, dining, and interaction, there were moments when he knew she must have loved him. Mother aside, he had always found his relationship with Father to be curious, in the fact that he was never once bought even the simplest of toys or trinkets to treasure as his own. Nor was he encouraged to seek ties outside of the familial circle. It was forever a web of restrictions and impossibilities that kept him bound to the family, for they were to be everything to him.
Although the closeted secrets kept his silence and Father's strange touches held his fear, he felt the strings of control begin the fray from the very first morning he had set foot on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Errant children, some who appeared to be younger than him and others who appeared to be old enough to know better, ran about the station screaming both greetings at their friends whom they had missed over the summer and goodbyes to the families they would not see again for several months.
He had watched the cheerful smiles and shrieking laughter with a feeling of utmost detachment, as though he were simply viewing wild animals in their natural habitat or watching the various laboratory specimens Father brought home from work squirm about in their containers. He could still clearly recall the smell of fresh-cut grass and newly laundered clothes that floated upon the air, summoning him away from the confines of Father's unyielding grip on his right shoulder and Mother's mixed expression of evident disapproval at the way many of the students squealed loudly and an odd note of something Marcus had not been able to name at the time.
As he lay back in his four-poster bed staring up at its hangings, thinking over the last game of the Quidditch season, and his team's subsequent loss, he knew that he could now identify Mother's uneven grimace. It was at once neither complete sadness at seeing him leave home for the first time, nor was it complete disappointment in what he was leaving home as.
He wanted to tell her then, as he looked up at the smooth lines of her face, that if he could, he would take it all back. The accusations that exploded into violent arguments among the family, the night Father slapped them both across the face when Mother confronted him about the bruises that continued to bloom over the entire length of his body, and even the night when he had laid in Mother and Father's bed when Mother went to visit Cousin Rose.
He had been made to clean his own room top to bottom, house-elf be damned, the day Mother left for her visit. He had wanted to climb into his own bed and sleep more than anything in the world by the time the Moon overtook the Sun in its bid to create illumination. But Father had invited him to sleep with him that night, saying that it would be good for them to spend some time together.
He had tentatively asked if he could bring his bedspread from his own room with him, and Father, being in an uncommonly good mood, had agreed. He had shuffled his feet for as long as he could while he retrieved his only remaining security before crawling into bed beside Father. He remembered the way the soft mattress sank minutely under his weight, and how he had laid back to wait for whatever was to happen to begin.
He always took those times to make his mind as blank as possible, so that he would not remember any of it when the acts were done. So that he would not hear Father's grunts or the hitch of fabric being shoved out of the way. Marcus always thought of cool breezes and the make-believe forts he built in his room to fill the time he did not spend at school or at family gatherings.
It always worked, too, until that night that seemed to last for far too long, when he wished that Mother would suddenly appear from any crevice in the manor to stop the questioning fingertips that wandered further and further back.
He had lain awake curled into his own bedspread long after Father's breathing evened into slumber. Uncontrollable, half-formed thoughts of pressing his pillow over Father's mouth and nose to quiet his occasional snores raced through his head, chasing themselves around and around into nothingness. Eventually, he had given in to exhaustion and a fitful sleep filled with dreams that shot out of view as soon his gaze lingered upon them for too long.
Marcus threw a bare arm over his face at the surge of anger and pain the memory caused to crawl along his stomach and sides. He had gone to bed that night feeling like the smallest ten-year-old to ever to exist, but he had dragged himself away the next morning feeling as though he was utterly filthy and quickly approaching thirty.
He sighed and punched his pillow into a more comfortable lump of fluff. He would never get to sleep now.
-
Marcus clutched his bag's strap and made his way back to the Slytherin common room from his last class for the school year. He had endured numerous stares of disappointment from the Slytherins and gleefully taunts from the Gryffindors throughout the day. Even though the Slytherins had not dared to be as vocal about their disappointment in losing the Quidditch Cup to that damned Potter as the Gryffindors were about winning it, he was quite ready to retreat to the quiet of his dorm room. There were only so many comments he felt the desire to ward off with hexes and fists alike.
He pushed indiscriminately through the slow-moving crowd surrounding the marble staircase that led down into the entrance hall. Shouts of surprise and anger followed in his wake. He did not stop to consider a word of it or where the protests originated. He had only one goal in mind: pick up something from the kitchen elves before heading down to the dungeons.
He shoved two second years out of his way as he finally reached the top of the stairs. Marcus looked down over the heads of the people below him and he felt a spasm of irritation whirl inside of him. He wanted to push all of them down the stairs to the landing below. He smiled inwardly at the thought of a pile of broken necks and twisted ankles. A shadowy part of him swatted at his conscience, which was fervently insisting that he refrain from sending as many people as he felt like to the Hospital Wing.
He silently gritted his teeth for a moment before simply pushing through the crowd as quickly as he could manage without sending the people surrounding him tumbling down the stairs. He instinctively turned toward the doorway that led to the dungeons upon reaching the foot of the stairs. It took him a moment to remember that that was not his aim, and turned instead to the doorway that led off to the Hufflepuff common room and the castle's elaborate kitchens.
He elbowed his way past a group of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw girls that were giggling obnoxiously at something they seemed to have found ridiculously amusing. He curled his lip in their direction as he passed and they drew back out of his intended path. He held all of their eyes until they pressed themselves firmly against the wall behind them.
With one last glare, he moved past them to the second set of stairs. He could still hear the shouts of glee and squeals of excitement swirling above him, and he was certain that he could hear it coming from around the corner in front of him as well. He prepared himself to snarl at anyone who so much as glanced in his direction.
Upon turning the corner, he found the corridor to be quite empty of living occupants, but filled with the exuberant celebrations of the castle's paintings. One would think that centuries-old paintings would have the grace to remain dignified, no matter how much they were looking forward to the two months of quiet peace they would shortly receive.
Marcus glowered at the paintings' inhabitants when they shouted at him to cheer up and enjoy the last hours of the school year. What was there to be cheerful about? In his graduating year, he had not managed to lead his team to a successful Quidditch Cup victory; after everything that he had done, after all of the extra practices, and Malfoy's gambit with his arm.
He reached the painting of the bowl of fruit and was eternally grateful that it stayed silent, for the moment. He stretched out a finger and tickled the pear, which squirmed and burst into a fit of giggles in response. He watched as its motions stilled before forming the doorknob that would allow him entry into the expansive room he sought.
He turned the doorknob and pushed in, ignoring the audible squeak it made in protest. The house-elves would soon have to oil the rusting metal. There wasn't any need to worry, as he had found the elves were obsessively proficient at tending to the smallest of details, wherever they were.
His eyes swept over the immediate area around the door and he heard the slapping of tiny feet from somewhere deep within in the room. Ere he could take two steps more, he found himself virtually surrounded elves who barely reached his waist in height.
"What can we be getting for you, sir?" one elf asked, joy clearly written across his face at having someone to attend to.
"Are you to be joining Master Oliver, sir?" another asked, bowing low to the floor.
Marcus frowned at the mention of a 'Master Oliver'. He only knew one Oliver in the entire school, and he was one of the last people he wanted to see at the moment. He looked down into the elves' eyes that were virtually brimming with excitement at seeing him standing in their domain.
"Er," he began, "Master Oliver? No, I'm not joining him. I was wondering if you had any of those chicken legs and rolls left over from last night. I don't feel up to going into the Great Hall tonight."
"Yes, sir!" the first elf exclaimed proudly and disappeared to retrieve his request.
"Are you not feeling well, sir? Drixie can make tea for an upset stomach, I can." Yet another elf crowded closer, waiting for his reply.
"No. No, tea. Just the chicken and rolls, thanks." Marcus took a moment to look around the kitchen and down to the fire that blackened the stones that held it captive, as though lashing out at its own unbearable enclosure; much the same way he did when he returned home at the end of every school year. Even at eighteen, he knew that he would go home to sleep in his childhood room in his grown-up bed, and would awaken during the night to feel hands where he did not want them.
"Have the tea!" an unseen human voice shouted over his thoughts.
Marcus moved further into the room and spotted Oliver Wood digging into a plate laden with every pastry he could imagine. He knew then why with all of the Quidditch practices the other boy led, he was still on the husky side. Marcus snorted to himself at the revelation and opened his mouth to form a caustic reply informing the Gryffindor that he should mind his own business and to stick to scarfing sweets.
Before he got the chance to speak, Oliver went on, "Come on! Have a seat." He gestured to the space on the bench beside him.
Any sane person with eyes could see that Marcus did not want to be in the same room with Wood, let alone share a bench with him.
Marcus ignored the offer and remained standing. He shifted his weight and looked hopefully toward the end of the kitchen again, in hopes of spotting the first elf carrying his dinner.
Oliver noted the stiffness with which Marcus held himself. The boy was obviously uncomfortable in his presence, which made absolutely no sense at all. Oliver expected hatred or the standard House rivalry from the boy, but not the on-again and off-again fidget every couple of seconds with increasing glances in the direction the house-elves had disappeared.
Oliver dropped the custard-filled éclair he had just been about to bite into to turn and face Marcus. He cleared his throat before he opened his mouth to speak.
“You know, I wasn't kidding about you joining me. You're more than welcome to.” Oliver tried gesturing to a place on the bench beside him.
Marcus rolled his shoulders, but otherwise ignored the irritant speaking to him.
“I don't know what your problem is, but you could afford to be a bit more decent to a guy who's bothering to speak to you. It's no wonder you haven't got any real friends,” Oliver bit out sharply.
Marcus' eyes narrowed as he whipped his head in Oliver's direction. He considered a retort before settling for actions over words. Without further thought, he drew his wand and flicked his wrist in Oliver's direction, causing his face to erupt into a number of oozing warts. He smiled to himself as Oliver screeched first out of surprise and then rage. He watched as the boy jumped to his feet and moved to draw his own wand, but Marcus flicked his wrist once more. His spell sent Oliver sprawling toward the floor, bound in black ropes without any hope of a quick escape.
He suppressed a sigh of annoyance at the situation. Him, for being so ready to attack anything and anyone who dared to look in his direction. Oliver, for being so damn friendly, when he should have been respectfully returning his cool silence. The wretched elves, for taking so long to retrieve a few items. It had never taken them this long to fill an order before, and he was being to suspect that they had left the two of them alone on purpose.
Marcus shooed the thought away and flagged it as wholly impossible. House-elves were meant to serve, not to try their hand at clumsily matchmaking members of the student body. He looked down at the wiggling and cursing Gryffindor, and briefly considered using him to practice several of the nastier spells that he had acquired recently. He decided against it, for once, in favor of contenting himself with enjoying the damage he had already caused.
". . ., you bastard! Untie me!" Oliver sputtered helplessly.
Marcus examined the scene before him. He could either walk away, leaving the boy to whatever means of help eventually found him and write the leftovers off to suffer through the Leaving Feast; or, he could get matters over with by reversing the magic himself. Deciding to act upon the latter, he crouched down in front of a red-faced Oliver Wood to loosen his bonds.
Stunned into silence, Oliver stopped struggling momentarily to stare up at the face looming over him. He held still as thick fingers efficiently freed him before withdrawing. He sat up and rubbed his arms to coax blood to flow through the appendages freely once more.
"Why did you do that?" Oliver asked, softly prodding the warts still covering his face.
Marcus looked on as a string of pus stuck to Oliver's fingers as he pulled his hand away. "Because I can," he said simply. "What other reason do I need?"
"You're a right wanker, you know that?"
"Maybe," was all that Marcus said in response before waving his wand once more, removing the warts in one fluid motion.
Oliver eyed him warily, as though Marcus' reversal was merely a prelude to something far worse. Ordinarily, it would have been, but Marcus knew that he was tired of the fighting and bullying and taking Father's "affections" out on everyone else.
He considered reaching out a hand to help the boy up, but that would have been too much, even for his resignation to allow himself a few hours of peace before his years at Hogwarts were finally completed. It didn't matter, really, because Oliver pushed himself up from the floor a moment later to return to his place at the table.
Marcus did not wait for the invitation, then. He sank down beside his unwanted companion to wait for his own order to be filled.
Oliver took up the éclair he had put down and slid the plate over to Marcus without comment. Marcus studied the food before him and settled on a simple, glazed doughnut. Biting into the rare sweet, he thought back over the years he had spent in the castle. All of the trouble he had caused. All of the trouble that had sought him out.
He had never regretted the majority of his actions before, but a small part of him wished that he had made more out of his time here. That perhaps he could have hexed one less person and found something better to do with his time. But what could one do about acts that were long past?
Oliver was the first to speak. "So, what are you going to do over the Summer hols?"
Marcus swallowed the last bite of his doughnut before he replied. "Nothing, I guess. Look for a place to become an apprentice, if I don't want to go work for the old man."
Oliver nodded sagely, understanding the pressure many students felt to pursue the family trade, whether they wanted to or not. "I'm going to play Quidditch professionally. It's not the only thing I'm good at, but it's the thing I like to do the most. You know?"
"Yeah." And Marcus did know. If he had the option of being allowed to play professionally, he might have taken it. He picked up another doughnut and brought it to his mouth to bite into it. Before he was able to do so, a hand that was not his own stopped the doughnut's progression.
"You know, there is something that I've always wanted to do," Oliver said in a tone that was little more than a whisper.
Marcus' gaze followed the hand holding on to his wrist, to the arm attached, to the body attached to it. He glanced up into the face of its owner and asked, "Yeah? What's that?"
Fully expecting Oliver to tell him some inane and sentimental story of a lost love or ridiculous and illegal Potions experiment he wanted to try, he found that he was taken off-guard by the single word that came next.
"This." Without doing something so well-bred as asking permission first, Oliver leaned forward and pressed his lips to Marcus'. He gently sucked Marcus' bottom lip into his mouth to goad any form of response from the youth. When he received none, Oliver swept the tip of his tongue along the lip and pressed in more intently than ever.
Marcus, who had yet to react more out of shock than anything else, opened his mouth slightly to encourage Oliver to continue. Oliver took the parted lips and low moan Marcus gave as the invitation that it was. He deepened the kiss immediately, delving into the welcoming heat of Marcus' mouth to explore tongue, teeth, and palette alike.
When Oliver pulled back, he noted the fact that they were both slightly breathless, wore matching, glazed expressions, and that Marcus had unknowingly dropped his doughnut. Although Oliver could not see his own face clearly, he had a pretty good idea of what he must have looked like, judging by the way Marcus' eyelids were drooping. He smiled conspiratorially and moved back in for another kiss. If the first had been that good, then the second, third, and fourth would be even better.
Marcus placed a hand on Oliver's chest to stop the movement. "Maybe, we should take this someplace else."
Oliver nodded in agreement and they both stood, preparing to leave. Oliver threw an arm companionably over Marcus' shoulder, but dropped the arm to his side when Marcus glared.
"What? I can kiss you, but I can't put my arm around your shoulder?"
Marcus glared again in response.
"Okay. So I know for next time." Oliver grinned cheerfully.
"Next time?" Marcus frowned and shifted his body away.
"Of course. Did you think that I was simply going to let you get away without there being a 'next time'?"
Marcus twisted his lips and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Whatever." Though he was no stranger to becoming more than a little friendly with another guy, which Percy Weasley could attest to, he had not expected the kiss to go further than this one moment. Oliver chuckled to himself and moved toward the door.
Behind them, the sound of many, small feet slapped the cold floor. "Sir! Your chicken and rolls, sir."
Marcus back glanced over his shoulder at the house-elves and his long overdue request. "Keep it," he said shortly.
Elbowing Oliver lightly in the side when the boy laughed again, Marcus pulled him to door. He turned the knob, noting that it did not once squeak as it had when he entered the room. He briefly hoped that it would not be the only thing to be fixed this Summer, before he stepped out into the hallway with his year-end distraction's fingers entwined with his own.
Yes, this was going to be an enjoyable Summer vacation after all.
-
The End
Please leave your feedback at the author's journal here.
Author: dmitchell1985
Giftee: lovepickle
Rating: PG-14/Low-ish R - for the abuse.
Word Count: 3,887
Pairing: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood :: Oliver Wood/a lucky plate of pasteries :: mentioned Marcus Flint/It's a sekrit!
Disclaimer: I don't own any canon portions of the Harry Potter details included in my story. If I did, there'd be lots less angsting and much more Sirius Black involved. *wink*
Warnings: Slash Incest and sexual abuse of a child, which I do not condone in real life, just so you know. Swearing, a bit of fluffy-ish boykissing, and nothing else that I can think of.
Author's Notes: I honestly had no intention of writing this fic. This gift was supposed to be a nice fic about a standing Quidditch bet, but this is what happened instead. lovepickle, I sincerely hope that you like this, even if it wasn't what you were expecting. If it makes you feel better, I threw in a bonus pairing! = D A hearty thank you to my beta for looking over this for me, you know who you are.
Summary: Although Marcus Flint is famed for his readiness to hex anything that crosses his path, there is still the question of "Why?"
-
There were nights when Marcus felt himself slip to the darkest edges of his mind, when he gave up conscious thought for the uncomfortable lull of sleep. Nights when long-buried memories resurfaced to remind him why he would never be good enough. Why he would forever be considered repulsive and not worthy of true affection in his father's eyes. In nearly his entire family's eyes.
He knew that there were some mistakes he could never take back, like the time he nearly burnt Mrs. McKinley's house to the ground after he discovered the wonder that was Exploding Snaps and the strange liquids she kept stored away in her cleaning supply closet. He had apologized profusely and begged for forgiveness, but his efforts had not saved his backside from Father's favorite leather belt or the work he was required to do to help put the house back to rights.
Then, there were some mistakes that were never his to begin with, but he had taken their blame nevertheless. For how was he to know then at nine that speaking up meant claiming another's guilt?
In this twisted atmosphere of truth and "truth," part of him could not help but find something to be very wrong. There was never the same genuine laughter or hugs or declarations of love present at home that he witnessed at random intervals in the market place when Mother brought him with her on her robe and book shopping days. There had only been stiff formality and hushed family secrets that confused and humiliated him at every opportunity to do so.
Though Mother was ever the patroness of formal attire, dining, and interaction, there were moments when he knew she must have loved him. Mother aside, he had always found his relationship with Father to be curious, in the fact that he was never once bought even the simplest of toys or trinkets to treasure as his own. Nor was he encouraged to seek ties outside of the familial circle. It was forever a web of restrictions and impossibilities that kept him bound to the family, for they were to be everything to him.
Although the closeted secrets kept his silence and Father's strange touches held his fear, he felt the strings of control begin the fray from the very first morning he had set foot on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Errant children, some who appeared to be younger than him and others who appeared to be old enough to know better, ran about the station screaming both greetings at their friends whom they had missed over the summer and goodbyes to the families they would not see again for several months.
He had watched the cheerful smiles and shrieking laughter with a feeling of utmost detachment, as though he were simply viewing wild animals in their natural habitat or watching the various laboratory specimens Father brought home from work squirm about in their containers. He could still clearly recall the smell of fresh-cut grass and newly laundered clothes that floated upon the air, summoning him away from the confines of Father's unyielding grip on his right shoulder and Mother's mixed expression of evident disapproval at the way many of the students squealed loudly and an odd note of something Marcus had not been able to name at the time.
As he lay back in his four-poster bed staring up at its hangings, thinking over the last game of the Quidditch season, and his team's subsequent loss, he knew that he could now identify Mother's uneven grimace. It was at once neither complete sadness at seeing him leave home for the first time, nor was it complete disappointment in what he was leaving home as.
He wanted to tell her then, as he looked up at the smooth lines of her face, that if he could, he would take it all back. The accusations that exploded into violent arguments among the family, the night Father slapped them both across the face when Mother confronted him about the bruises that continued to bloom over the entire length of his body, and even the night when he had laid in Mother and Father's bed when Mother went to visit Cousin Rose.
He had been made to clean his own room top to bottom, house-elf be damned, the day Mother left for her visit. He had wanted to climb into his own bed and sleep more than anything in the world by the time the Moon overtook the Sun in its bid to create illumination. But Father had invited him to sleep with him that night, saying that it would be good for them to spend some time together.
He had tentatively asked if he could bring his bedspread from his own room with him, and Father, being in an uncommonly good mood, had agreed. He had shuffled his feet for as long as he could while he retrieved his only remaining security before crawling into bed beside Father. He remembered the way the soft mattress sank minutely under his weight, and how he had laid back to wait for whatever was to happen to begin.
He always took those times to make his mind as blank as possible, so that he would not remember any of it when the acts were done. So that he would not hear Father's grunts or the hitch of fabric being shoved out of the way. Marcus always thought of cool breezes and the make-believe forts he built in his room to fill the time he did not spend at school or at family gatherings.
It always worked, too, until that night that seemed to last for far too long, when he wished that Mother would suddenly appear from any crevice in the manor to stop the questioning fingertips that wandered further and further back.
He had lain awake curled into his own bedspread long after Father's breathing evened into slumber. Uncontrollable, half-formed thoughts of pressing his pillow over Father's mouth and nose to quiet his occasional snores raced through his head, chasing themselves around and around into nothingness. Eventually, he had given in to exhaustion and a fitful sleep filled with dreams that shot out of view as soon his gaze lingered upon them for too long.
Marcus threw a bare arm over his face at the surge of anger and pain the memory caused to crawl along his stomach and sides. He had gone to bed that night feeling like the smallest ten-year-old to ever to exist, but he had dragged himself away the next morning feeling as though he was utterly filthy and quickly approaching thirty.
He sighed and punched his pillow into a more comfortable lump of fluff. He would never get to sleep now.
-
Marcus clutched his bag's strap and made his way back to the Slytherin common room from his last class for the school year. He had endured numerous stares of disappointment from the Slytherins and gleefully taunts from the Gryffindors throughout the day. Even though the Slytherins had not dared to be as vocal about their disappointment in losing the Quidditch Cup to that damned Potter as the Gryffindors were about winning it, he was quite ready to retreat to the quiet of his dorm room. There were only so many comments he felt the desire to ward off with hexes and fists alike.
He pushed indiscriminately through the slow-moving crowd surrounding the marble staircase that led down into the entrance hall. Shouts of surprise and anger followed in his wake. He did not stop to consider a word of it or where the protests originated. He had only one goal in mind: pick up something from the kitchen elves before heading down to the dungeons.
He shoved two second years out of his way as he finally reached the top of the stairs. Marcus looked down over the heads of the people below him and he felt a spasm of irritation whirl inside of him. He wanted to push all of them down the stairs to the landing below. He smiled inwardly at the thought of a pile of broken necks and twisted ankles. A shadowy part of him swatted at his conscience, which was fervently insisting that he refrain from sending as many people as he felt like to the Hospital Wing.
He silently gritted his teeth for a moment before simply pushing through the crowd as quickly as he could manage without sending the people surrounding him tumbling down the stairs. He instinctively turned toward the doorway that led to the dungeons upon reaching the foot of the stairs. It took him a moment to remember that that was not his aim, and turned instead to the doorway that led off to the Hufflepuff common room and the castle's elaborate kitchens.
He elbowed his way past a group of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw girls that were giggling obnoxiously at something they seemed to have found ridiculously amusing. He curled his lip in their direction as he passed and they drew back out of his intended path. He held all of their eyes until they pressed themselves firmly against the wall behind them.
With one last glare, he moved past them to the second set of stairs. He could still hear the shouts of glee and squeals of excitement swirling above him, and he was certain that he could hear it coming from around the corner in front of him as well. He prepared himself to snarl at anyone who so much as glanced in his direction.
Upon turning the corner, he found the corridor to be quite empty of living occupants, but filled with the exuberant celebrations of the castle's paintings. One would think that centuries-old paintings would have the grace to remain dignified, no matter how much they were looking forward to the two months of quiet peace they would shortly receive.
Marcus glowered at the paintings' inhabitants when they shouted at him to cheer up and enjoy the last hours of the school year. What was there to be cheerful about? In his graduating year, he had not managed to lead his team to a successful Quidditch Cup victory; after everything that he had done, after all of the extra practices, and Malfoy's gambit with his arm.
He reached the painting of the bowl of fruit and was eternally grateful that it stayed silent, for the moment. He stretched out a finger and tickled the pear, which squirmed and burst into a fit of giggles in response. He watched as its motions stilled before forming the doorknob that would allow him entry into the expansive room he sought.
He turned the doorknob and pushed in, ignoring the audible squeak it made in protest. The house-elves would soon have to oil the rusting metal. There wasn't any need to worry, as he had found the elves were obsessively proficient at tending to the smallest of details, wherever they were.
His eyes swept over the immediate area around the door and he heard the slapping of tiny feet from somewhere deep within in the room. Ere he could take two steps more, he found himself virtually surrounded elves who barely reached his waist in height.
"What can we be getting for you, sir?" one elf asked, joy clearly written across his face at having someone to attend to.
"Are you to be joining Master Oliver, sir?" another asked, bowing low to the floor.
Marcus frowned at the mention of a 'Master Oliver'. He only knew one Oliver in the entire school, and he was one of the last people he wanted to see at the moment. He looked down into the elves' eyes that were virtually brimming with excitement at seeing him standing in their domain.
"Er," he began, "Master Oliver? No, I'm not joining him. I was wondering if you had any of those chicken legs and rolls left over from last night. I don't feel up to going into the Great Hall tonight."
"Yes, sir!" the first elf exclaimed proudly and disappeared to retrieve his request.
"Are you not feeling well, sir? Drixie can make tea for an upset stomach, I can." Yet another elf crowded closer, waiting for his reply.
"No. No, tea. Just the chicken and rolls, thanks." Marcus took a moment to look around the kitchen and down to the fire that blackened the stones that held it captive, as though lashing out at its own unbearable enclosure; much the same way he did when he returned home at the end of every school year. Even at eighteen, he knew that he would go home to sleep in his childhood room in his grown-up bed, and would awaken during the night to feel hands where he did not want them.
"Have the tea!" an unseen human voice shouted over his thoughts.
Marcus moved further into the room and spotted Oliver Wood digging into a plate laden with every pastry he could imagine. He knew then why with all of the Quidditch practices the other boy led, he was still on the husky side. Marcus snorted to himself at the revelation and opened his mouth to form a caustic reply informing the Gryffindor that he should mind his own business and to stick to scarfing sweets.
Before he got the chance to speak, Oliver went on, "Come on! Have a seat." He gestured to the space on the bench beside him.
Any sane person with eyes could see that Marcus did not want to be in the same room with Wood, let alone share a bench with him.
Marcus ignored the offer and remained standing. He shifted his weight and looked hopefully toward the end of the kitchen again, in hopes of spotting the first elf carrying his dinner.
Oliver noted the stiffness with which Marcus held himself. The boy was obviously uncomfortable in his presence, which made absolutely no sense at all. Oliver expected hatred or the standard House rivalry from the boy, but not the on-again and off-again fidget every couple of seconds with increasing glances in the direction the house-elves had disappeared.
Oliver dropped the custard-filled éclair he had just been about to bite into to turn and face Marcus. He cleared his throat before he opened his mouth to speak.
“You know, I wasn't kidding about you joining me. You're more than welcome to.” Oliver tried gesturing to a place on the bench beside him.
Marcus rolled his shoulders, but otherwise ignored the irritant speaking to him.
“I don't know what your problem is, but you could afford to be a bit more decent to a guy who's bothering to speak to you. It's no wonder you haven't got any real friends,” Oliver bit out sharply.
Marcus' eyes narrowed as he whipped his head in Oliver's direction. He considered a retort before settling for actions over words. Without further thought, he drew his wand and flicked his wrist in Oliver's direction, causing his face to erupt into a number of oozing warts. He smiled to himself as Oliver screeched first out of surprise and then rage. He watched as the boy jumped to his feet and moved to draw his own wand, but Marcus flicked his wrist once more. His spell sent Oliver sprawling toward the floor, bound in black ropes without any hope of a quick escape.
He suppressed a sigh of annoyance at the situation. Him, for being so ready to attack anything and anyone who dared to look in his direction. Oliver, for being so damn friendly, when he should have been respectfully returning his cool silence. The wretched elves, for taking so long to retrieve a few items. It had never taken them this long to fill an order before, and he was being to suspect that they had left the two of them alone on purpose.
Marcus shooed the thought away and flagged it as wholly impossible. House-elves were meant to serve, not to try their hand at clumsily matchmaking members of the student body. He looked down at the wiggling and cursing Gryffindor, and briefly considered using him to practice several of the nastier spells that he had acquired recently. He decided against it, for once, in favor of contenting himself with enjoying the damage he had already caused.
". . ., you bastard! Untie me!" Oliver sputtered helplessly.
Marcus examined the scene before him. He could either walk away, leaving the boy to whatever means of help eventually found him and write the leftovers off to suffer through the Leaving Feast; or, he could get matters over with by reversing the magic himself. Deciding to act upon the latter, he crouched down in front of a red-faced Oliver Wood to loosen his bonds.
Stunned into silence, Oliver stopped struggling momentarily to stare up at the face looming over him. He held still as thick fingers efficiently freed him before withdrawing. He sat up and rubbed his arms to coax blood to flow through the appendages freely once more.
"Why did you do that?" Oliver asked, softly prodding the warts still covering his face.
Marcus looked on as a string of pus stuck to Oliver's fingers as he pulled his hand away. "Because I can," he said simply. "What other reason do I need?"
"You're a right wanker, you know that?"
"Maybe," was all that Marcus said in response before waving his wand once more, removing the warts in one fluid motion.
Oliver eyed him warily, as though Marcus' reversal was merely a prelude to something far worse. Ordinarily, it would have been, but Marcus knew that he was tired of the fighting and bullying and taking Father's "affections" out on everyone else.
He considered reaching out a hand to help the boy up, but that would have been too much, even for his resignation to allow himself a few hours of peace before his years at Hogwarts were finally completed. It didn't matter, really, because Oliver pushed himself up from the floor a moment later to return to his place at the table.
Marcus did not wait for the invitation, then. He sank down beside his unwanted companion to wait for his own order to be filled.
Oliver took up the éclair he had put down and slid the plate over to Marcus without comment. Marcus studied the food before him and settled on a simple, glazed doughnut. Biting into the rare sweet, he thought back over the years he had spent in the castle. All of the trouble he had caused. All of the trouble that had sought him out.
He had never regretted the majority of his actions before, but a small part of him wished that he had made more out of his time here. That perhaps he could have hexed one less person and found something better to do with his time. But what could one do about acts that were long past?
Oliver was the first to speak. "So, what are you going to do over the Summer hols?"
Marcus swallowed the last bite of his doughnut before he replied. "Nothing, I guess. Look for a place to become an apprentice, if I don't want to go work for the old man."
Oliver nodded sagely, understanding the pressure many students felt to pursue the family trade, whether they wanted to or not. "I'm going to play Quidditch professionally. It's not the only thing I'm good at, but it's the thing I like to do the most. You know?"
"Yeah." And Marcus did know. If he had the option of being allowed to play professionally, he might have taken it. He picked up another doughnut and brought it to his mouth to bite into it. Before he was able to do so, a hand that was not his own stopped the doughnut's progression.
"You know, there is something that I've always wanted to do," Oliver said in a tone that was little more than a whisper.
Marcus' gaze followed the hand holding on to his wrist, to the arm attached, to the body attached to it. He glanced up into the face of its owner and asked, "Yeah? What's that?"
Fully expecting Oliver to tell him some inane and sentimental story of a lost love or ridiculous and illegal Potions experiment he wanted to try, he found that he was taken off-guard by the single word that came next.
"This." Without doing something so well-bred as asking permission first, Oliver leaned forward and pressed his lips to Marcus'. He gently sucked Marcus' bottom lip into his mouth to goad any form of response from the youth. When he received none, Oliver swept the tip of his tongue along the lip and pressed in more intently than ever.
Marcus, who had yet to react more out of shock than anything else, opened his mouth slightly to encourage Oliver to continue. Oliver took the parted lips and low moan Marcus gave as the invitation that it was. He deepened the kiss immediately, delving into the welcoming heat of Marcus' mouth to explore tongue, teeth, and palette alike.
When Oliver pulled back, he noted the fact that they were both slightly breathless, wore matching, glazed expressions, and that Marcus had unknowingly dropped his doughnut. Although Oliver could not see his own face clearly, he had a pretty good idea of what he must have looked like, judging by the way Marcus' eyelids were drooping. He smiled conspiratorially and moved back in for another kiss. If the first had been that good, then the second, third, and fourth would be even better.
Marcus placed a hand on Oliver's chest to stop the movement. "Maybe, we should take this someplace else."
Oliver nodded in agreement and they both stood, preparing to leave. Oliver threw an arm companionably over Marcus' shoulder, but dropped the arm to his side when Marcus glared.
"What? I can kiss you, but I can't put my arm around your shoulder?"
Marcus glared again in response.
"Okay. So I know for next time." Oliver grinned cheerfully.
"Next time?" Marcus frowned and shifted his body away.
"Of course. Did you think that I was simply going to let you get away without there being a 'next time'?"
Marcus twisted his lips and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Whatever." Though he was no stranger to becoming more than a little friendly with another guy, which Percy Weasley could attest to, he had not expected the kiss to go further than this one moment. Oliver chuckled to himself and moved toward the door.
Behind them, the sound of many, small feet slapped the cold floor. "Sir! Your chicken and rolls, sir."
Marcus back glanced over his shoulder at the house-elves and his long overdue request. "Keep it," he said shortly.
Elbowing Oliver lightly in the side when the boy laughed again, Marcus pulled him to door. He turned the knob, noting that it did not once squeak as it had when he entered the room. He briefly hoped that it would not be the only thing to be fixed this Summer, before he stepped out into the hallway with his year-end distraction's fingers entwined with his own.
Yes, this was going to be an enjoyable Summer vacation after all.
-
The End
Please leave your feedback at the author's journal here.