A/N: I haven't written fanfiction in years, basically to the point where I've completely forgotten my old account on here. And have forgotten how annoying FF's formating system is. I have been writing though, just original stuff.

This story is Slash. I'm not sure how graphic it will really get, honestly, seeing as I haven't written sex in ages and am way too fond of weepingcock on livejournal. I've basically made my self self-concise about it.

This will probably be pretty long, but I'm not sure where I'm going with it entirely. If you find any mistakes, please feel free to point them out. Like all authors, I'm a review whore even when it's criticism. Also if the formatting looks wonky, just tell me how to fix it. As for all the legal stuff, I'm not sure how it would all work in Great Britain, so a lot of it's based off of American laws and procedures and a few of the wizarding ones are just me attempting to use logic (well, their logic).

Standard Disclaimers Apply

Living like a muggle, and a poor one at that, was starting to take a toll on Marcus Flint. He and his family were never really rich, but he certainly wouldn't have needed to work two jobs just to live before.

Marcus pulled on his coat, quickly checking for his wallet and keys before following the manager of the club out the door to lock it behind them. Night job accomplished, it was time to head home for some sleep. From ten pm to four am, he bounced this semi-trendy club in a more happening area of East London. He was well suited for physically removing and threatening the random drunk tosser; he never really was one to use spells during school fights. His face was enough to discourage most from messing with him, though he was careful not to show it often; the manager once joked that his trollish good looks scared away the ladies.

He dodged drunken bodies, all heading home as bars and clubs began closing up. The smells of alcohol and sweat were slightly burning his nose. The streets were packed on Saturdays; even at this late there were plenty of cars crowding the roads and causing him unease. Dark eyes watched the crowds carefully, crossing the streets when everyone else would. The flashing signs were simple enough for him to catch on as long as they had symbols. It took him longer to understand ones based off colors, but following the actions of others were how he managed this long and began to get the hand of muggle traffic. He split off away from most of the crowd, moving towards a seedier part of town without much concern.

'Because no one is suicidal enough,' Marcus thought, but even so he straightened up and tried to make his sleepy eyes look alert and ready. Even as reports of muggings and other crimes cropped up on the streets he used every day, a soul never tried to approach him. He saw them too, waiting in the alleys. A wizard would be less likely to hesitate; being burly meant little when magic was involved. A coppery scent always permeated the air near the deadliest alleys.

A siren pierced the air, making Marcus jerk and look around wildly. The muggle aurors drove by, quickly pulling over a swerving car and dragging out the drunk stupid enough to drive it. Traffic stopped, unable to get around and Marcus made a quick beeline across the street and down a darkened alley to his dingy apartment complex.

The building was slim, shoved almost haphazardly between two other ramshackle structures, one a bar and the other vacant. Marcus took the metal handle in his hand and gave one great pull, causing the sticky door to creak ominously before giving in and swinging open. Inside, a man glanced up at him from his protected booth. He was bald, gapped tooth and asked very little besides rent money from his tenants. He gave Marcus a good look before turning back to his telly. Marcus moved to the stairs which were treacherously tight, slanted and rotten. While Marcus was exhausted, he didn't have much choice but to start climbing. There was a lift on the opposite side of the lobby, but it wasn't really an option, it was an old cable pulled box that had a tendency to open the doors long before it stopped moving and made the most horrifying noises. Marcus had only ridden the death trap once before deciding never again.

He moved slowly, methodically checking each step as he put his weight down. His wand was tucked into his sleeve, ready to catch himself in any means possible. Three floors up, the last floor in this building, he pushed open the door and sleepily looked down the hall. His neighbors were unsurprisingly sleeping, doors shut and dead-bolted. Marcus pulled out his wand to perform a few counter-spells, before finally unlocking his door.

It was easily the cleanest room in the whole building, also one of the smallest. In the early days when Marcus couldn't find any work he spent hours and hours just scouring the room until all but the most permanent of stains were gone. It used to be that he'd nearly vomit upon entering; the rotten stench of garbage and blood coated everything.

The kitchen was nonexistent really; it consisted of a tiny electric powered stove, a mini fridge, and a sink. It took up about four feet of the main room, while the bed took up almost the rest. A tiny strip of floor was left bare to reach the bathroom.

Tired and worn, Marcus still opted to shower before sleeping knowing he wouldn't be up to it in the morning if it meant he could sleep in for five more minutes. There wasn't any room left for modesty, so after setting up his three different muggle door locks and putting an alarm and a hex up, he stripped on the spot and tossed his t-shirt and jeans to a cardboard box in the corner with all his other dirty clothes. He had removed the bathroom door, as it took up a few precious inches that were desperately needed to move. Elbows carefully tucked in, he showered in the tiny cubicle. If it wasn't for a few spells here and there, his muggle living would be even more unbearable as the water normally only came out cold. There was no sink and thus no mirror or cabinet, so he kept the mirror under the shower head and made it unfoggable.

Carefully maneuvering in the tight space, he sleepily shaved. He glanced at his brow line and grunted at the few dark hairs connecting the two eyebrows, quickly shaving those off as well. His bouncing job may have benefited from his scary appearance, but his morning job did not. After pesky hairs were removed, it was a simple matter of soaping up, rinsing off, and a drying charm.

Carefully tucked in bed beneath his thin but warmed covers, Marcus turned to the only thing in the muggle world he was starting to like: an old telly. It sat directly on the floor next to the mattress. Only a few stations came in, but that was fine. Right now Marcus was just interested in covering up the noise of the streets and the neighbors.

Pushing buttons, Marcus got it to a blank station of static. Lowering the volume to a gently hum and turning his back to it, he quickly fell asleep for those few precious hours.

Not too far from his club job, Marcus was stationed behind a counter at a little convenience store. At 9:30 in the morning, he got up, threw on his last clean t-shirt and denim before slowly trudging several blocks down to the convenience store. There, he donned his name tag and an apron and proceeded to stand there, register beneath his fingers.

He hated this job, a lot. He already didn't like to interact with people much and he had to be nice and serve them. Bouncing meant interacting, but it was different. He never envied the bartenders.

And then of course, there were his co-workers. Marcus wasn't smart, not by a long shot, but he wasn't stupid, failing a grade or not. In school it was a lot easier to deal with people. He didn't have to pretend to like anyone. 'Dealing with these guys, was a lot like dealing with Malfoy in school,' he thought. 'They suck up, pull stupid stunts, and annoy the hell out of me.'

Today it was only him and Peter, a younger man with reddish hair and huge glasses, and who happened to be Marcus' main supervisor. While Peter was in the back taking inventory and generally being a suck up, Marcus was stuck cashiering. It was probably the most ridiculously difficult thing Marcus had to do. In the magical world, adding a few things in your head or using magical abacus' was all you needed to do, but in the muggle world there was all these electronic gadgets that did the 'work' for you, but you needed to fight just to figure them out.

"That'll be 11 pounds and 54 pee," Marcus drawled, he hated this foreign money system, hated the way the words came off his tongue. The little old lady popped open her change purse before slowly counting out 54 pence, a pound and then two notes. As there was no one else in line to hurry him, Marcus happily took her exact change as it made things simpler. He only had to push the same button twice and deposit the money. She toddled off with her cigarettes and other items, receipt forgotten. Except when Marcus looked down, he realized he had missed a button and had not printed one in the first place. 'Damn, thought I was getting the hang of this thing.'

A loud noise rattled from the front windows, making the little old lady shriek before she escaped under a bus stop. A few feathers floated to the ground and Marcus stared confused at them until a little barn owl flew back into view and began scratching at the plexi-glass. Marcus looked over the store to make sure Peter was still gone and no customers were around before he jumped the counter. He opened the front door and motioned the bird in. A few by-standers stared curiously at Marcus and he sneered at them before letting the door slam shut.

The owl had deposited the letter on the counter and was busily pecking at the open bag of hot dog buns by the rotisserie. Marcus took a glance at the letter, seeing only his name and his lawyer's seal on the back. He stuck the letter in his apron pocket. No reason to worry about it at work. The owl was still struggling with the plastic bag covering his goal and Marcus snatched it by the legs. It hooted indignantly, but didn't otherwise struggle. Holding the bird out, he plucked out a bun and opened the door, tossing both bun and bird out. The owl didn't even hesitate to grab the bread mid-air and flew off.

It was almost noon; four more hours until he could go home, pay in hand. Both jobs he had paid him 'under the table' because according to muggle law he needed identification to be hired. His bosses paid him a little less than his fellow employees because of how the taxes worked or something, but he needed whatever money he could get. His landlord was a different story, apparently his neighbors either lacked most id or were wanted criminals; as long as he got the rent money he didn't care who lived in his building.

A few people came and went, and Marcus would carefully ring up their purchases and took a moment to remember to print the receipts. Through the large windows he could see a trio of teenaged boys loitering a bit, talking with their heads close together. By the time they came in with their ridiculously baggy clothing Marcus was already glowering at them. The tallest one, dressed in camo patterns, went straight to the alcohol; he was the only one who looked like he could be legal. The other two, wearing black hoodies and near indistinguishable, went behind a rack and out of direct view. He glanced at the curved mirror up top, but was quickly distracted when a man began loading up the table with groceries. Marcus couldn't run on autopilot and had to abandon all his attention to the computer.

The little scanner gun was Marcus' friend; it was easy to use, though sometimes the bar codes were hard to find. Totals quickly added up on the screen and he finally bagged the last item. The man handed him the little plastic card and Marcus swallowed uneasily. He couldn't wrap his mind around how a tiny plastic card could be considered payment, especially when he had to give it back. They were so common in the muggle world that he felt stupid asking how they worked and kept his mouth shut.

One button, then two, slide the card through, type in the payment amount, select the card type, and then he waited. One receipt started printing out and when it wasn't immediately rejected he printed the second receipt. As the man started signing the piece of paper, he could see the black hooded teens slip around to the tall one, now laden with beer. Their baggy clothes were now much more swollen and Marcus narrowed his eyes. He separated the receipts and stapled them without even looking at the man. Sneakily, he slid his wand out of his sleeve and locked the doors behind the last customer.

Peter came out of the back rolling a light but cumbersome stack of items. As he passed by the hoodlums, he already seemed suspicious and sped up to reach the counter. Peter slipped next to Marcus and started to slowly put things away, "Have you been watching those kids?" The thick glasses made his eyes look huge and Marcus always thought he looked like a scared, wide-eyed little kid.

Marcus grunted, not even trying to hide that he was staring at them, "Pretty sure they're stealin' something." It felt like they were mocking his intelligence to think they could steal right in his view.

"Are you sure?" Peter asked in a harsh whisper, ducking under the counter to make sure the safe was locked. He peeked over the edge, "Did you actually see them take something?"

Marcus gestured a bit towards them. "Well, no. I didn't see them, but their clothes were loose and now they're not." His hands felt under the table for a button they were supposed to push if someone was caught stealing, but Peter grabbed his wrist and Marcus looked sharply towards the younger man. He had to bite back the urge to growl at his supervisor.

"We can't call the police unless we know for sure!" His voice grated on Marcus' nerves. "The manager says the store can get sued for false accusations…" Peter was already in panic mode and Marcus rolled his eyes. This was the man that was supposed to be in charge right now.

Marcus glanced at the aisle the teens had started in. His wand was still in his hand and with a quick out-of-sight flick a pack of condoms flew towards counter from under a black hoodie. With a smirk, Marcus looked down at Peter and tried to keep from sounding too smug, "Well look at that, I think we know for sure." With Peter's hand still attached to his wrist, Marcus pushed the button.

The three teens had been standing there, staring in shock at the flying pack of rubbers. There was a distinct noise as an electronic lock slid into the door and the kids panicked. The one dropped his beer, causing some cans to burst and soak the floor. All three of them rushed to the door and starting trying to pry the doors open. The tallest one kicked at the door before turning to the counter and rushing towards them. Peter hit the deck with a squeak while Marcus just there, still smirking.

"Open the door!" The teen screamed at Marcus. The other two teens stopped their desperate pounding and looked like they were going to join their friend. The tall one growled before launching himself at Marcus' chest and grabbing his shirt and apron, "Open the bloody door right now!"

Marcus quickly used his empty left hand to grab one of the teen's hands. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh at the base of the thumb and squeezed with sickening strength. The kid squeaked out in pain as Marcus slowly and painfully pried his hand off and twisted his arm slightly to the side. He bared his teeth in a crooked smile as the kid let go of his apron and started struggling to get his hand free. Marcus simply kept twisting his arm until the teen was forced to turn around to alleviate some of the pain.

The two black hooded teens stopped in their tracks before resuming their desperate attempts at opening the doors. Finally one of them thought enough to grab a metal rack covered in crisps and began bashing through the plexi-glass.

Commotion erupted as sirens were finally within hearing distance. The plexi-glass broke but stayed mostly intact, leaving an oddly angled gap in the door. One kid struggled out, scratching himself on the broken plastic and started running down the street, the scent of blood trailing behind him. The police pulled in front of the door right before the second one slipped out and driver managed to wrestle him down and cuff him.

A second cop peered into the broken door and shouted, "Can you open the door?" He poked at the gap in the door with his nightstick, looking at the small droplets of red before talking to his partner.

Peter was already rushing to turn off the electronic lock, but as they struggled to get the door open, Marcus raised his wand a little bit. He whispered the charm confidently even at the struggles of the teen slowed to stare at Marcus wide-eyed. With the combined force of the two cops, they managed to push through the unlocked door with more force than needed and Marcus quickly slid his wand up his sleeve and notched it in his watch strap.

The rest was a bit of an anticlimactic whirlwind as the police stuffed the two teens into their car. Peter had rushed the cop first, talking quickly, with his high and nasally voice. The cop sighed as he started writing everything down before he forgot it, his hand look as if it burned with the effort. "And your name and id?" asked the cop, rather stiffly.

"Oh, um, one second." Peter's pulled out his wallet and more flimsy plastic cards, "It's Pierce Brown, officer."

Marcus snorted, no wonder he had never responded to Peter. 'Had his name tag said that the whole time?' He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and idly wondered how many names he had wrong.

The other cop approached Marcus then. "Please give your name and statement." When Marcus just stared at him and the cop shook his head, "What happened here? Please be detailed."

Marcus shrugged and pulled out his hand long enough to gesture at the dropped good in the aisles,"Kids walked in wearing loose clothing. I noticed they had become distinctly fatter as they were bags fell from one of the kids shirts, I pushed the alarm button. They scrambled to the door and started breaking it. One of the blokes grabbed me, so I held his hand until you showed up." Marcus took a glance out the window and could see the tall teen still staring at him.

"And the beer?" The officer gestured with his pen towards the mess in the back.

"Tall one dropped it."

The officer finished his write up and then looked expectantly at Marcus, "Now I just need your name and id and we can wrap this up."

"Uh…" Marcus he started off, unintelligently, "My name's Marcus Flint." He didn't need to hide his identity in the muggle world, and he was sure the Ministry would have issue if he tried to hide. "I don't have identification on me right now…" At the officer's sharp look he quickly tacked on, "Sir."

The officer stared him down before writing on a fresh piece of paper, "Bring your id to the station before the end of the week." He ripped off the sheet of paper and handed it to Marcus. "We can't be having unidentified witnesses."

With that the two officers left through the remains of the door, one tossing a small roll of yellow to Pierce. They drove off with their sirens on until they passed the first intersection.

Pierce stared at Marcus curiously, "Why don't you keep your card in your wallet?" When Marcus just stared at him he quickly coughed and moved outside. He started putting the yellow tape up. "Mop up the back. I'll bell the manager." Danger passed, Pierce was back to his general superiority.

With a grunt, Marcus walked to the mess. He aligned himself with the racks and made sure Pierce couldn't see him. A quick "Scourgify," and the liquid was gone. He ripped open the box and pulled out damaged cans then vanished them. The good cans he started putting into the singles cooler and Pierce was only just coming in from around the back entrance, a mobile attached to his ear, when Marcus finished up.

Pierce was animatedly sucking up and pleading over the phone before looking at Marcus suspiciously. The floor was sparkling, no mop to be found and all the garbage picked up. He quickly was pulled back into conversation and Marcus moved into the back to start hanging his apron.

Pierce pushed open the swinging doors, "The stores closed, obviously. Once everything is cleaned up, you can leave. I'll stay to talk to the manager." The doors swung shut again before Pierce stuck his head in again to add, "You might want to get some gloves, there's glass on the floor and it needs to be cleared quickly." His head disappeared and the doors swung back into place.

Marcus growled, pulling on thick gloves from the clothing racks. Pierce would probably too close risk magic just to make sure Marcus did it properly, much like some other prat he knew.

Thoughts of a certain prefect brought him back to his Ministry affairs. He wondered what his lawyer was mailing him about. Well, he could kill two birds with one stone by visiting today, now that he had time. He'd have to get that identification problem sorted up before he was sent to whatever the muggle equivalent of Azkaban was.

He had read the letter the moment he had gotten home, changing into more appropriate clothing before setting off again.

Diagon Alley bustled with activity. It was only a few weeks until the semester started and parents were milling about with their children, dragging each other around in an attempt to obtain supplies and sweets.

For Marcus, it brought up bittersweet memories of his own shopping trips. Rarely was there anything special that he could buy and he couldn't claim to have any of those heated arguments with school rivals in the shops, but it brought up the familiar nostalgia of getting ready for school. Quidditch, he missed Quidditch a lot. Seeing the brooms through Quality Quidditch Supplies windows made him yearn for his school days. Back then he thought for sure he was going to play professionally; it wasn't like he was particularly good at anything else.

A small stair case was squished between two open stalls. Marcus climbed the stairs and reached a door with "Gelson, Denial, and Bursnell" scripted across. He walked in, shutting the door quietly behind him before stepping up the receptionist's desk. The inside of the building couldn't have fit in the tiny space above the stalls, a normal thing for a magical building; Marcus was disturbed by how much it dizzied him now. There were a few people scattered around in chairs, waiting and they all gave him a glance before settling back into their own heads.

The receptionist didn't look up at Marcus until he dropped the open envelope onto her desk. She glanced at the seal before dipping her quill, "Name?"

"Flint," he replied quietly. His might not have been a big name in the war, but there were a few wizards and witches that would love to punish Garcius Flint, even if it was just through his son.

The receptionist quickly brought out one of many lists and scanned through it. She found his name and put a small mark on it. The mark soaked into the paper, vanishing quickly. Putting away and straightening out her items, she gestured to the chairs with her quill, "Please take a seat. Mr. Denial will be with you in due time."

Considering the letter, he was sure the wait wouldn't be too long. He was expected within the next day or so really, and Lewis Denial had been surprisingly helpful for a wizard lawyer. There were few enough of them as it was, and most of them worked directly for and towards the Ministry.

Minutes passed. One of several doors opened and a man stepped out, looking ill. He silently trudged outside while a waiting woman was waved in.

Marcus fiddled with his clothes, trying to keep from outright fidgeting as he sat. The only cloak he had left was rather old and worn. He attempted to look presentable by wearing a clean button up shirt and the only pair of pressed slacks he owned. His lawyer was a little more forgiving, but out of habit he pulled them out before he went into wizarding world. The Ministry did not like to give slobs the time of day.

He busied himself by studying the other characters in the room, most rather unassuming but a few caught his attention. One woman near Gelson's door was sitting very primly, her garishly pink and orange ensemble almost blinding. She seemed completely unworried about anything. Pureblood probably, she certainly looked like she had the money for it. She could have been the wife of a Death Eater, possibly working the Ministry herself during the prewar years and covering up for her husband. A few chairs down, near one of the lesser lawyer's doors, sat a fat balding man with a suit beneath his cloak. He looked almost like he should be working for the Ministry instead of sneaking to outside lawyers. He looked nervous, sweating and rubbing his palms together. He glanced warily around the room and caught Marcus' stare. Both gazes hardened, but the man's attention was drawn away as the door beside him opened.

"Mr. Flint, you can go in now." Marcus was snapped out of his thoughts by the secretary's voice. The garish woman was looking at him now and sniffed before turning away. He went in without a word.

Another large room containing another large desk was the essence of Mr. Denial's office. All the walls, except for the windows in the back, contained towering bookcases neatly lined with files and scrolls. The whole room smelt of stale coffee. Lewis Denial sat at his desk, large mug of coffee in his hands. He had his cloak hung behind him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and long blond hair tied into a messy ponytail. The rather young lawyer had always been the picture of professionalism and Marcus was mildly surprised by his state.

"Take a seat." He gestured hurriedly and Marcus obeyed. Quickly the blond man began pulling up several papers. "I wasn't expecting you this quickly, but I suppose we should just get this over with." He pulled out a sheet and presented it to Marcus, "The Ministry tried its best, but your mother's will is solid. Everything officially written down in the will and not already taken by the Ministry is yours." Denial set the quill next to it and Marcus quickly signed it. "Congratulations. You're officially 100 Galleons richer, and the proud owner of a few minor items."

Marcus took the bank slip and pocketed it. "There was something else I needed to ask you, about muggle ID's," Marcus quickly said before Denial could shuffle him out.

Denial drew out a small pad of paper, "If you need paperwork, I'm afraid the Ministry has started regulating the system. You can no longer get forged documents for it."

Marcus snorted, 'Typical', he thought. 'Ministry is always the problem'. He nodded and spoke exasperated, "I've had a situation with the muggle auror, police blokes. And I need some sort of formal… stuff." At
the delicate raise of a blond eyebrow Marcus gruffly said, "Nothing illegal. I'm a witness, and apparently I need to prove who I am or be arrested."

After a few moments of pondering, Denial wrote something quickly and tore of a corner of paper, which instantly repaired itself. "This is the department you should go to. It's on Level 3. Be specific and be firm.
When do you need the documents by?"

"End of the week is what-," Marcus pulled another scrap of paper out; he seemed to be getting a lot of these. "Officer Michael Cooper told me." He took the other sheet and tucked them safely in his back
pants pocket. He didn't want to pull out his note to the bank and have everything be lost. "As if the Ministry ever does anything quickly enough; I'll have to quit both my jobs and move town."

Denial tapped his quill to his mouth and very carefully said, "Make sure to tell the Ministry that. If they don't follow through… Well never mind. We might not have to pull anything on them. Just make sure they know if it isn't done properly and quickly enough your lively hood is essentially destroyed." He stood, walking Marcus to the door and shaking his hand firmly. "I'd go today, call in sick if you have any other priorities, but the sooner you send it in the more time they have to mess about."

Marcus quickly apparated to a dark alley near Whitehall road, more than eager to get it all over with.