After the whole picture on page six debacle, the only thing Marcus wanted to do was see his girl. However, he couldn't because her floo was blocked, and she wasn't returning his notes either. That sucked. As his Gram told him, every relationship has its arguments, smiles, tears, ups and downs, things said out of anger, attitudes, and jealousy. But at the end of the day, you talk through those things and work them out, especially if you love the person.
Right now, the athlete's head is currently a horrible place to be because Hermione's ignoring him. Marcus gets that, honestly. Sometimes he has to cool off instead of exploding on people. There are times when his most significant accomplishment is just keeping his mouth shut. Case in point, every time a reporter shoves their way to get a quote about something. The nosy so-called journalists aggravate him so much that he'd love to just deck them. But he can't. Instead, silence reigns supreme. So even though Marcus understands what she's doing, it still sucks.
And fate has cruel timing because his father is relentless in his pursuit of him. Knowing it's time to do something and actually doing it are two different things. The truth is he just doesn't want to speak with dear old dad. It seems like every other day, a letter arrives saying: Son, it's time we talked. You can't ignore me, or your mother, forever. And the guy is right. He's put this meeting off for long enough. Sooner or later, Maxwell won't take no for an answer, which would be twice as bad. Honestly, there's no perfect time to talk with his father, so it's best to get it over and done.
Sitting at the breakfast table, Marcus tried to psych himself up for the meeting. Except it's hard to be excited about something you dread, and he dreads it tenfold. Never has he ever left his father's presence feeling encouraged. Both the man's bark and bite hurt. The star Rookie of the Year learned early on that he'll never be the way his father wants him to be. He's not intelligent, handsome, or cruel enough (especially to those his father deems beneath him) to pass muster. It's challenging to be malicious when one of your natural abilities is the gift of healing. Maxwell often railed about that in particular.
In return, Marcus receives imprints from a backhand to the cheek or after-effects of a curse as a correction. Suffice it to say, his father doesn't take the word no very well. Even without Hermione for the past couple of days, he's been practicing his Patronus. The bear still looks as ferocious as it did the first time it sprung to life at the end of the wand. If need be, he can call for it and use it as a shield.
The other form of protection is the signet ring his Gryffindor charmed. That will protect him too. However, he's not sure to what extent since he's never had to use it. Although, the athlete suspects that will change tonight. Plus, Marcus is no longer afraid of his father's punishments. There's nothing outside of actually Avadaing him that would make the Golden Arrow cower in fear. Perhaps if he was younger and still in school, fear tactics might work. But he's not because he's grown now.
It's like Hermione has repeatedly reminded him, what can the man do that he hasn't done before? There's nothing, really. Marcus holds all the cards. He doesn't need the family money since he's got more than enough of it from quidditch and his grandmother. Nor does he need a place to live or a job, and he's not the heir to the Flint family.
No. It's hearing the vitriol and put-downs coming from the man's foul mouth that Marcus hates the most. After a million compliments or kind words, it only takes one insult to send the whole world crashing like a horrible broom accident. The thing is, words hurt and wound even more when they're from those who are supposed to love you and have your back. And at what point does Marcus say enough? What's the breaking point of no return with his parents? That's what he's been reflecting on lately.
If he chooses to walk that road, cutting himself off from the family, they'll burn him off the family tree like Sirius Black. He'd be the first sacred twenty-eight male in over a decade or so to break free from family chains. And that is hard stuff. For generations hence, he'd be used as a lesson, and no doubt have a price on his head by Voldemort.
Is he strong enough for that journey if it comes to it? Is he emotionally and mentally ready to be labeled a blood traitor? Marcus knows that if it does comes to it, then his father is the one who handed him the scissors to cut himself free from the ties that bind him. Every cruel word, mocking sneer, punishment cast, or ugly look cut the chains a little bit more and a little bit more. So, he'll wait and see what Maxwell has to say first.
After picking over the eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, fruit, and jam, Marcus called for Topsy. The elf popped into the room and said, "Topsy is being happy to help Master Marcus. Yes, Topsy is."
Marcus patted the elf's smooth head. "Thank you, Topsy. I'm going over to my parent's house today. Father wants to meet with me. I'm sure it's about taking the dark mark, which I won't do. But as a precaution, have potions ready for when I return. Who knows what he may try to pull. And I'm sure he'll take away my access to the family vaults."
Pulling at his ears, Topsy whimpered. "Oh, Master Marcus! Master Maxwell is a bad man, bad, bad, bad. Don't be going alone, Sir. Master Maxwell be having nasty visitors. Topsy popped into the Flint Manor yesterday, and he sees them. So many nasty visitors. Topsy is being worried about Master Marcus." He tugged at his ears more.
The elf's words did nothing to calm Marcus's fear and worry. In fact, it only made his stomach drop. With an extensive exhale, the wizard remarked, "I don't want to go, but I have to. I've been putting it off for long enough. Just-"
His shaky voice trailed off, thinking about Hermione. "Just tell Hermione I love her. If something goes wrong, you know what to do. Make sure you and Kandy are ready for when I return." At his words, Topsy broke out into uncontrollable weeping. His personal elf hugged his leg, and Marcus understood the little guy's fear and concern. Most especially since he has his own apprehension.
The sobbing elf removed himself from his master's leg and stood back as the young wizard got up from the table. Then the duo ambled slowly and solemnly to the floo salon like they were walking in a funeral procession. Marcus gave a final glance to the elf and nodded. Standing up straight and tall with his broad shoulders held back, the uncommonly brave Slytherin threw a handful of powder into the floo and called out "Flint Manor."
Almost instantly, unease overtook him as he stepped into his childhood home. The cold, stiff room did not welcome him with open arms. Instead, it stood as a stark contrast to the warmth of the chateau, or Hermione's house, and his Gram's. The formal sofa covered in protective plastic, the velvet draperies that enfolded the windows didn't let much light in, and the shelves of porcelain and glass curios he was never allowed to touch made Marcus want to turn around and leave. But he didn't. Despite this, the youngest Flint gathered his inner bravery and started on his way to the Flint head of house's office on the second floor.
Although the chilled air seeped into his bones as fleeting shadows fell across walls, an unidentified high-pitched scream rang throughout the house. This was the last moment he could turn around before anyone would notice he'd left. Swallowing thickly and trying to not allow his mind to wander (too much), Marcus continued on the way. He passed by the room of statues. From decades past to present, each Flint husband and wife pairing has had a statue or bust of their head fashioned. However, there's one sculpture that always stands out above the rest. That's the headless figure of some unknown Flint male. The brass marker even reads Statue of the Unkown. It's rather creepy. At least, he always thought so because how did he lose his head, and where did it go to?
Upon reaching the grand wrought iron and wooden staircase, Maxwell Flint's house elf greeted him. Unlike Topsy, Flea had the personality of a flobberworm which suited the elder Flint perfectly. Sniffing a haughty sniff, Flea stared at the young man. With a voice like a pregnant frog, the gnarled elf reprimanded, "Young Master Marcus, Master Mawell is being expecting you. Tis being shameful not returning Master's owls. Oh, my poor Master! Very, very shameful son, Marcus is being unlike young Master Marshall."
Having heard enough, Marcus's frustration got the better of him. "Shut up, Flea!" his deep voice declared.
The old elf mocked and pointed a long spindly finger at the young man. "You not being Flea's Master. Won't, won't, won't." His peculiar beady eyes reproved as well. Then Flea bid Marcus follow. Rolling his eyes, the wizard trailed behind, listening to the gruff elf murmur things like "Disgraceful" or "Rotten young wizard" under his breath. Even the family portraits disapproved with their intolerable looks and mutterings of outrage thrown in Marcus's direction. Some even turned their backs completely, as ignoring one's parents is a sign of pure disrespect in pureblood circles. These actions only heightened the younger wizard's already overloaded senses.
Down the long, dim hallway, his feet carried him. He could swear the song from one of those "Classical Saturdays in the Park" Hermione dragged him to was playing. The one about the spider. It's by Lav... no... Lev... no... Litvinovsky. Litvinovsky's - Tales of the Magic Tree: The Spider Knows His Craft. When he first heard it, he thought it was a strange piece of music- eerie, grave, and discontent. But now... Well, now he thinks it's actually rather fitting. Like a spider luring its victim into its web of death, Marcus has to wonder if Maxwell is doing the same thing. Indeed this is the worst form of misery he could be in.
Another scream pierced the air. Unconsciously the young man reached up and held onto his throat. When they finally reached the study's heavy oak double doors, the elf announced, "The dishonorable young Master Marcus is being here, Sir."
In the shadowy room, Maxwell's flat, authoritative voice stated, "Is that so? Show him to the sofa."
Flea tugged on the boy's hand and prodded him to the sitting spot. Looking around the room, Marcus noted nothing much had changed. It's still oppressive as ever, with its wooden bookshelves filled with texts about the dark arts. Pictures of his grandfather and great-grandfather hung above the fireplace, showing disgusted expressions on their stern, mustached faces. The wretched discipline chair still sat directly in front of Maxwell's oversized wooden desk. Just looking at it made Marcus's throat close up and caused him to shiver.
The only difference was the happy picture of a forest had swung open, revealing a safe behind it. That jogged the young man's memory of what was inside the safe- everything evil. It's ironic, really, that a joyful picture of a fairy forest is concealing unknown wickedness. If a person were to rummage in the safe, they would find terrible Trick Tea. One taste will reawaken anything evil and malicious inside a person. The death eaters have used this tea on muggles and any captured magical being that shows signs of goodness. It's a sick game to turn them into workers of grotesque means.
Then there's Creation Powder that animates anything it's sprinkled on. For instance, if sprinkled on the head of a mounted reindeer, though dead, it will come to life. It will still stay a head, only alive with no body or legs. As a child, Marcus often wondered how it worked. Seeing an inanimate object speak or move would be rather humorous or downright awful.
Of course, no fiendish object collection would be complete without a magical hourglass. Except this particular one counts the death of anyone, it's set for. Marcus remembers that one time he snuck into the downstairs interrogation room. He spied on his father and friends, questioning a wizard named Stephan Brightroar. The death eaters had gotten the information out of the beaten man they needed. Instead of kindly killing him, Maxwell turned the hourglass over and spoke, "Once the hourglass runs out, so does your life." The time ran out two days later, and in the Daily Prophet, a death notice had been posted on Mr. Brightroar.
But that's not all because there's another curious object inside the safe called the inspectacles. Those vicious glasses allow the viewer to examine their intended victim for signs of shortcomings, faults, flaws, or intent (good or bad). The inspectacles are used to suss out the truth in a devious way. They see into another's thoughts and feelings, which no person should ever know unless freely stated. It's like robbing and stealing someone's inner secrets, which is vile. They're rumored to be part of a twin pair, with the other called expectacles. Those are said to be able to show the immediate future. In other words, what to expect. The last Marcus heard was Lucious Malfoy owned the expectacles. At least that's what his measly son bragged.
Lastly is the fearsome bottle of liquid oblivion. To Marcus, this elixir is the worst item inside the safe. Sure, you can cast an obliviate with a wand, and the person's memory will disappear, but the liquid oblivion is more menacing. For whoever drinks the colorless fluid will be locked inside their mind forever. They'll see and hear and remember everything. However, the person is just stuck and can't get out of their head. They are conscious but paralyzed and voiceless. With no means of producing speech, limb, or facial movements, it's a terrible fate more destructive than death or a normal obliviate. And he's seen his father use it once before on a muggle.
Marcus can only wonder what the man is putting away in the safe now. Obviously, something that's good for nothing which should be destroyed or sent to a team of Aurors. Before sitting, his interest got the better of him. The young Flint wanted to know what else was inside the sinister safe. Moving to the open picture, it slammed closed, giving Marcus a jump.
Maxwell's sharp voice sounded. "Don't be nosy, or you just might find your nose up the wrong side of a wand. Have a seat."
Before Marcus could say expelliarmus, an armchair rushed behind him and made him sit. Then the chair slid across the room to the sitting area in the study. Ropes came out and secured him to it. This was not how the athlete pictured this conversation going. For once, he'd like to have the upper hand on his father. But he has to remember what Hermione said. It's not about the upper hand. It's about winning the match itself. That's what she said when he asked about muggle golf and tennis. So if he has to take a few uppercuts to get there, then so be it.
Maxwell Flint came out of the darkness to pace in front of his son. The man cuts an imposing figure in all-black robes and sternness. He stopped walking to stare the burly young man hard in the face. "I have been expecting you for quite some time. Yet you defy me," he exclaimed. The vein on his forehead became pronounced in growing tension.
Perhaps it was stupidity that made the young Flint say, "Yes, Father, I have." A bit of wandless magic was turned on him to make pain radiate throughout his body.
When Maxwell released his hands, he realized something. "You've grown stronger, as the Dark Lord sensed. It's why he wants you to join us- to take the mark."
The discomfort wasn't as bad as Marcus recalled. In fact, it only felt like mild heat, and he knew it must have been the signet ring's protection. But there are other things to confront. Sometimes you have to face your demons; for him, that's his father. This is his moment of truth- the moment that will mark his life forever. Nothing will be the same after. Boldly staring the beast in the face, Marcus declared, "As you can see, I have survived without you and the family's money. I will not be turned or marked, not now, not ever."
A sick laugh erupted from the despicable man's mouth. "You think you can stop the Dark Lord and what he wants? Think again. I always knew you were weak. You care too much for others and creatures beneath you."
Dark magic began to wrap around Marcus's throat and squeeze. At every word Maxwell spoke, more pressure was applied. "You think the light is right. They will fail. No matter how fast they run or where they hide, the Dark Lord will find them. In every nightmare you've ever had, he's your worst dream come true. You poor, stupid fool. To deny the mark will put you at odds with your family and your heritage. It will put you directly in the path of the Dark Lord's disfavor. Choose wisely."
For all of that, Marcus did not yield. It's useless to meet anger for anger or revenge for revenge, especially when the darkness is thick and heavy, like chains around the eldest Flint in the room. The strong Slytherin persisted on the path. "I would rather be nothing and have nothing than take the dark mark and lose my soul. That's my final answer."
The enraged death eater pulled back his wand and released his son from the choking grip. Seeing this man who had a part in giving him life look at him like he does a muggle just before torture turned Marcus's stomach sour. It made him realize that every kindness (which wasn't much), pat on the back (which was even less), or money freely given was all an act. At the end of the day, this is who he's always been. And that's a bone-chilling thought because the youngest Flint had been blind to it before, wanting to believe the best. It sickens him to say he ever desired to be like his father.
Tapping his wand onto the palm of his hand, Maxwell Flint acknowledged, "You always were slow on the uptake, weren't you, Boy? Never one for academics like your brother or one for beauty like your sister. No. You're the dim bulb of the family, an actual dummy. Since you've no interest in following the Dark Lord, it falls to me to renounce your status in the family vaults."
That's nothing new. The young man figured the evil, old ogre would go that route. But it's okay because he's amassed an agreeable fortune. It comes from the quidditch season, savings from past weekly allowances, transfers from his family vault, and the inheritance from Gram (in the future). Though dear dad calls him stupid, Marcus knows enough to not rile the beast. What Pops doesn't know won't hurt him. So instead, he sat in the chair quietly and calmly, except for the queasy feeling in his stomach.
The ropes on the chair released Marcus. Weary, his hand flew to his wand. The elder Flint told him, "You may go." Clutching the magical piece of holly wood in his hand, the younger Flint began to walk backward to the doors. One lesson the evil man taught all three of his children was to never turn your back on the enemy. And that's a lesson he's thankful for because the following words came out of his father's mouth, "But not before your punishment. Crucio!"
The curse flew out of the end of the death eater's wand and straight for Marcus. Except it didn't have the effect the old man wanted because it rebounded. This served as a testament to Hermione's abilities. As the man writhed in the pain intended for his son, Marcus came close to him and declared, "Life has kicked me around many times. It scared me and beat me up, but I realized something. I'm tougher than anything life, you, or that dreadful maniac whom you serve throw at me. And if you try to curse me again, I will defend myself, and you won't like the results because you and I are at odds as of this day. For better or worse, the line has been drawn."
He saw the hostility in his father's eyes stare him down. With that, Marcus Flint turned and left the room. He also left the old man spasming on the floor in distress and anger. Sometimes it's not about being mad or upset at a person or situation. No. It's about being done. That's what Marcus was... done. The time for playing nice is over.
