I have started writing this story and since it is a bit unconventional I would love to hear your opinion on it. For now, only the prologue is available and depending on the amount of reviews I get I might post some more. I would prefer to write most of the story before updating though. Reviews, criticism and support fuel my imagination and more importantly my motivation, so please, REVIEW.
A few things to know that are important for this story:
- The story will mainly be told in Marcus Flint's POV, which is to say that it will follow his life. Harry Potter (and others) will appear as important characters in the story, but it will be told by following Marcus Flint throughout it all.
- Pairings are put as romantic pairings, but will most likely be up to the reader's imagination. If you are not into gay romance you will be able to elect to see them only as very close partners. Such pairings would be: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood, Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom/Blaise Zabini. There will also be straight pairings.
- This fic is mainly about family bonds as well as the meaning and importance of living. If you're looking for intense action that is most likely not for you. While the story will not be slow-paced, it will not be filled with suspense. It will deal with the theme of war and violence, but I doubt it will be very graphic.
"On October the 31st of the year 1981, James Fleamont Potter and his wife Lily Ellen Potter, née Evans, lost their lives in their residence of Godric's Hollow at the Dark Lord Voldermort's wand. That night the Dark Lord Voldermort managed to counteract the Fidelius Charm which had been protecting the Potter home. James Potter was the first to succumb to the Avada Kedavra, soon followed by his wife, who died attempting to protect Harry James Potter, the couple's son, one year old at the time. It is unclear what happened in the moments following Lily Potter's death. Investigators believe that Lord Voldermort cast the Avada Kedavra on baby Harry Potter and that the spell was reflected by the child, leaving only a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead, thus killing the Dark Lord. Albus Perceval Wulfric Brian Dumbledore has backed up those claims which were hereby accepted as true. However, to this day, there is no definite proof and the events of that night are still mere conjectures. […]"
Marcus Ashton Flint III, "Conclusion of the Second Great Wizarding War" in The Second Great Wizarding War, Book CXCII of the Records of Wizarding History
A room dimly lit by candle light. The steady scratch of a quill inking parchment. The faint tap of the quill being placed on the wooden desk. A quick mutter: a spell to dry the ink. And then, the thump of a heavy tome being closed. The last line has been written. A moment in history has come to a close. A single page in the story of humanity recorded on hundreds of paper pages. A heavy sigh. Relief, satisfaction, weariness. The knowledge that when a book closes another opens. Time never comes to a stop. The screeching of a chair against the marble floor soon followed by assured footsteps. Long fingers covered in ink lift the book and carefully place it on a bookcase already half-filled by similar tomes. Behind him a harsh pop announces the arrival of another of the manor's occupants.
"Master Marcus has been calling?" enquires the house-elf in a squeaky voice.
The dark haired scribe turns slightly to look at the small creature, dressed in a simple black uniform with silver trimming. The colours of his family.
"Gomorrah, I will be leaving shortly. Make sure the wards are in place and that they do not need any fixing before my departure." the young male instructs in a deep voice that carries softly in the dark room. "Also, tell Sodom and Troy that there will be no need to sort through the Records. I will do that myself upon my return."
"Yes Master. May we be asking when Master Marcus is to be leaving?" the elf asks in his slightly broken English.
The wizard almost corrects the servant out of habit but catches himself. Though it is a long-lasting family tradition to educate the house elves, it has long since proven futile to try and explain the proper use of tenses to them.
"I will be on my way as soon as I have said my goodbyes to Capua." he says instead.
The elf bows before disappearing with a loud popping noise. Left alone, the young boy brushes his clothes of the dust and straightens his tie before leaving the dark study in search of the elderly house-elf. The sound of his footsteps walking along the black and white marble floor echoes in the empty corridor. He passes in front of the fixed gazes of the countless portraits of his ancestors hanging on the walls, all of them frozen into a pose of calm distinction. He does not spare them a glance as he marches towards the magnificent wooden staircase which will take him to the lower floors. The dark green carpet dulls the sounds made by his polished shoes as he walks down to the ground floor.
At the bottom of the stairs he turns left inside a well-lit sitting room but does not stop. He crosses the room in a few long strides and walks through the door to a lavish dining room. His eyes caress the immense oak table which takes up a major part of the room. As usual it is beautifully decorated with a white tablecloth and silver candelabras, even though it has seldom been used in recent years. Tearing his stormy grey eyes away from his silent contemplation, the boy advances towards the tapestry covering the wall on the door's left. He grabs an almost invisible handle and swings open a hidden door. He steps inside the bare stone corridor and walks until he arrives in the kitchens.
As soon as he steps inside the room, much simpler than the other rooms of the manor, a smallish house-elf storms out of the adjoining pantry.
"Master Marcus!" fumes the elderly elf. "How many times must we be telling you not to come in the kitchen?!"
The stern reprimand accompanied by a thoroughly annoyed wave of one of her long fingers brings a small smile to the boy's lips.
"If Master is wishing to see us, Master must be calling for us! Capua will be coming to where Master is."
"Yes Capua, I'm sorry. But I felt there was no need to disturb you as I was only coming to tell you I'm leaving." he explains, tone apologetic yet leaving no doubt that this is not the last time he will be visiting the kitchen.
The elf shakes her head making her long ears flap comically.
"We have not been raising Master Marcus this way!" she continues emphatically. "The late Master and Mistress would be scolding Capua if they were seeing how Master Marcus is being!"
A soft chuckle escapes him.
"Not at all. I'm sure Father and Mother are very grateful to you and the other house elves for having brought me up." he tells her. "And they would also say that you are the best nanny in the world, Capua."
The elderly house elf sniffs in a dubious manner and turns away to hide the watery sheen of her eyes.
"Pretty words will not be making Capua forget that Master Marcus is being a bad boy." she says, attempting to retain a semblance of authority.
He steps forward and lowers himself to his knees in order to give her a quick hug before getting back on his feet.
"Goodbye then Capua. I will be back at the end of summer." he says, making his way back to the entrance way.
"Master Marcus must be staying safe!" calls the old house elf after him and he turns around briefly to give her a reassuring smile.
"I will."
A moment later he emerges in the dining room, gaze looking past the perfectly cleaned windows to brush against the tall trees surrounding the manor.
It's time to go and see history unfold with his own eyes. He knows that upon his return he will be writing pages upon pages about strained alliances and an atmosphere of unrest amongst all of the magical kinds. They are living in peaceful times but it is a peace that is not meant to last. Signs of war have yet to appear and yet all those who gaze forward are waiting for them. The centaurs will be watching Mars attentively and the Merfolk will be talking about rising tides. The unicorns will be slowly but surely moving towards the innermost parts of their forest. They are all waiting.
He raises his left hand palm facing the windows. Running along his middle finger is the blade of a sword inked in black, the hilt of which occupies the back of his hand, the ends curving like fangs towards the blade. A simple design which has been appearing gradually upon his pale skin since early childhood. It is at its darkest now, and will remain that way until his body returns to the Earth. This is his sign. War is coming, and his time along with it. But until then, he must observe. Observe and record this stagnant peace that has washed over all things.