THC Year 8, Round 3
House: Slytherin
Class: Potions
Category: Drabble
Prompt: (character) Marcus Flint
WC: 770
Beta: Ash Juillet, The Majestic Dophin, Aya Diefair, DeepShadows2, DaughteroftheOneTrueKing,
A/N and Warnings: None
Marcus isn't sure what possessed him to work in hospitality. The hours are long, the people make him want to be around people less, and sometimes, on very shitty days, he just wants to quit.
By now he knows the drill. He has to be seen not heard, his nails need to be trimmed, and he never makes meaningful eye contact with anyone while simultaneously making them feel like they are the only ones that matter.
There is an art form to hospitality, and it is a far cry from everything that Marcus ever wanted for himself and his life. Most of his young life after all was spent between jobs and trying to get a Quidditch career off the ground. Not that any of his ambitions matter much anymore. He is too old to play at that level.
His bones and muscles are no longer strong enough to withstand the constant barrage of the air against them. He pops a painkiller and, with the other waiters, gets the restaurant ready for dinner service. Marcus wants a minute to himself, a moment behind the dumpster where he can smoke in peace.
The restaurant he works at is a tiny upscale joint with a small, rotating seasonal menu focusing on plant-based food and game meats. It is the kind of farm-to-table experience that reminds Marcus of the poverty he used to hold against the Weasleys. But Marcus' job pays well enough so he closes his mouth when asked his opinion about pieces of artistically placed, hyper-processed vegetables and wild meats.
Tracey, a fellow Slytherin, barely acknowledges him as she adjusts and cleans wine glasses, her sommelier badge pinned neatly on her jacket collar. It's still an hour before service begins, before he has to pull himself together and construct a fantasy for people to hum and haw at.
All too soon the hour flies by and before Marcus realises it, he is greeting guests and serving tiny portions of food, while explaining the thought process behind the tasting menu on offer. The work itself is always automatic. In a way he is muzzled and required to dance at the pleasure of the people who have enough money to blow over fifteen dishes that he is sure leaves them hungrier than when they came in.
It is not in his place to judge, but the Slytherin part of him judges anyway. The second wave starts coming in and he sees a curve in a spine that he has not seen in years. Their skin glitters under the low, atmospheric lights of the restaurant and, most importantly, they are not alone.
"Marcus," she says when he moves to greet their table. "You are a difficult man to get a hold of."
Oliver Wood and Angelina look the same. They both wear Gryffindor red, and Tracey touches his shoulder in warning. Marcus grits his teeth. He is not a child, but his need to keep this job outweighs the tantrum building in his chest.
"Not here," Marcus whispers. He clears his throat and then asks whether they would like Tracey to explain the wine pairings of the night.
Marcus works his shift, keeping his eyes glued on Oliver and Angelina. When he clocks off in the wee hours of the morning, all he can think about is his bed. But, as promised, Angelina and Oliver corner him at his bus stop.
"What do you want?" Marcus asks, tired and weary.
Angelina is the one who speaks, her voice clear, passionate and urgent. "We're starting the Quidditch League again. Will you come to open try-outs?"
Marcus looks at Oliver, who only nods along with Angelina's request.
"I thought the League didn't have any money after the war. Besides, they treat Slytherins like Death Eater scum. Even Tracey couldn't find a job- Dark Arts avoiding, innocent Tracey," Marcus spits, because if there is an innocent Slytherin, it is Tracey.
Oliver winces at this. "Just promise me you'll come to tryouts. We're trying to build a society, one that includes all of us and sport is the only way we can do that."
Marcus doesn't want to hear Oliver beg. He just wants to be left alone in his bitterness. But a part of him yearns for a team and the sky- the feeling of the wind in his hair. "No promises," Marcus says, weak from trying to deny himself any form of happiness.
Angelina hands him a slip of parchment. "All I ask is that you think about it."
His bus arrives, and Marcus doesn't say goodbye. He steps on it, parchment burning in his hands.