Marcus sensed there was something amiss with his daughter the second she'd stepped off the train, heading toward him with a strained smile and an emotion akin to fear flickering in her eyes. Instanciously, concern pooled in the pit of his stomach, a frown came onto his lips and he fought to keep those protective parental instincts at bay.
She was returning from her first year of Hogwarts and, already a nonstop chatterbox-the likes of which she most definitely did not inherit from him-he'd expected her to lunge toward him, erupting with happiness as she would inform him in very fine detail, the events that took place during the months she'd been away.
But that hadn't happened at all. She came over as if her legs were moving despite her wishing they would not, struggling to plaster on a lovely facial expression and gave a half-hearted hug, pulling back quicker than to be considered normal for her.
He'd frowned, opened his mouth to ask her if she was okay but decided against it, incase it was a matter she'd rather discuss in private instead of a busy train station.
Now, that he thought about it, she hadn't been fairly talkative during the school year and those excruciatingly long letters he'd assumed would come-didn't. They were always short, with a hello, minimal talk about classes, and an I love you at the end.
He wondered if she made any friends, dreading to think that-because of him-that some of the children had been warned not to associate with her. Amelia was the slightest bit sensitive, and while she wouldn't make it known to many that she was upset, Marcus saw it. He could see the change in her eyes, they were always so expressive.
Merlin, he didn't know how to approach the subject. Comforting had never been a skill of his and had not gotten much better, admittedly, since the birth of his daughter. That was Adrian's area of expertise; bloody Puff, if Marcus ever saw one.
He was hoping, for both of their sake's, that Amelia would have enough of whatever was bothering her and spill it as soon as they got home. It would be far easier than to wonder what was going on amidst the awfully thick silence, with her glancing at him every so often, then quickly lowering her gaze.
However, even when they apparated inside, she refused to divulge anything. She'd barely said anything, only responding with one or two words if she was asked a question directly. It absolutely baffled Marcus and he really wasn't sure what to do, having not encountered this sort of situation before.
He invited her to the living room to sit with him. That was their thing, of which he'd missed while she was away. He would be busy looking at files-sometimes speaking to Adrian if he came over-and she would be there, silently reading a book or playing with her dolls when she'd been younger. It was a special time where they could be together; he'd thought, if anything, that would get her to spill.
But she'd declined.
She declined and that really made him confused. She never said no to that. It didn't make sense, first the ice cream and now this?
She wanted to go upstairs to her room, to lay down for a bit. Marcus reasoned with himself that she must not have gotten much sleep the night before and that after a nap, she would feel better. So, he let her, watching as she trailed up the stairs glumly.
It was about four hours later when Marcus had enough. If she wasn't going to say anything, he would have to get it out of her, himself.
Her door was halfway open, he knocked on it anyway. "Can I come in?" he asked, softly.
She was sitting on her bed, leaning back against the headboard, hugging a pillow to her chest. It was when she met his eyes, that he noticed hers were red and puffy. She'd been crying and was now hurriedly trying to wipe away the evidence. "Sure," she sniffled.
He sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. Besides absolutely mucking at comforting, he was never particularly good at handling crying girls, but this was his daughter so he'd manage. "Is something wrong?"
She bit down on her bottom lip. "I'm fine," she denied, voice hoarse.
"Princess, you know you can tell me anything."
"I know." But he wasn't convinced. She didn't look convinced. It was, quite frankly, a bit unsettling. "But I'm fine, really."
"You don't look fine," he reached over to brush away a stray tear with his thumb. Her lips trembled, looking as though she were going to burst into a fresh wave of tears. "You're sure?' he probed.
She nodded, grasping the pillow tighter until her knuckles turned a sickly white. "Yeah."
"Alright," he felt a bit blindsided, truth be told. Amelia didn't have her overly cheerful mood dampened often and he idly wondered if something or someone had been the cause of it; or if it was just hormones-Merlin help him. Adrian had taken to teasing him on account of the fact that he was going to be raising a teenager soon, which meant plenty of hormones and boys.
He swore in his mind. If it was a boy that Amelia had taken a fancy to, only for him to end up breaking her heart, he might have to find out where he lived so they could have a little chat.
"What about school?" He tried again. "Hmm? Tell me, how's that going?"
And there it was.
It most definitely had something to do with school. That look, it flashed over her face again and it made him want to gather her into his arms. And it stung, to know that she believed for some odd reason that she couldn't speak to him about the matter. They'd been close for as long as he could remember, she just clung to him more than anyone else and he loathed to think of it being different, especially because of a reason that he couldn't figure out.
"Amelia," he made sure he had her attention, placing his hands on the side of her face so she would meet his eyes, so he could reiterate it to her, "you don't have to tell me now, but remember that you can talk to me about anything. You know that."
It was nearly three minutes before she responded, shaking her head vigorously, a wrenching sob escaping her. "That's not true," she kept shaking her head, sniffling again, "you're wrong."
"What?" he was genuinely confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She picked at a loose strand from her pillow as he wiped away a tear that rolled down her cheek. "You're going to be mad," she whispered.
"No, I won't," he promised, though he did wonder, warily, what she'd done-if anything.
"You mean it?" And oh Merlin she sounded so upset, so childlike.
"Have I ever broken a promise to you, before?" he raised his eyebrows.
"No," she eventually conceded.
"Alright, then. Now what is it that's got you so worked up?"
She glanced over at him, her eyes darting back down.
"Remember what grandfather said about Flints being in Slytherin for generations?"
"Yes," he nodded.
"And that it was really important because you'd be a disgrace if you weren't?"
"Yes," he said, slowly. "But I don't understand what-"
Oh.
Oh.
He trailed off, observing how she visibly stiffened, as if terrified of his reaction.
"You didn't get into Slytherin...did you?"
Her breathing quickened and the tears were brimming in the corner of her eyes. "No," she admitted, shame-faced. "I'm sorry, Daddy."
Marcus pulled his daughter into his arms, resting his cheek on the top of her head. She had her face buried in his chest, weeping. He closed his eyes, cursing his dad to hell and back for the damage he'd done.
It all made sense now; the lack of letters, her desolate demeanor and avoidance of talking about her house and friends. He'd been thinking along the lines of a bully or becoming distracted by a boy or even just her growing up and not wanting to be as close anymore. But that wasn't it at all.
She'd been afraid.
Scared out of her wits that he would become angry with her, perhaps even disherit her like his Father said they would have done to him if he hadn't gone to Slytherin. But he never thought she would take any of that to heart, otherwise he would have put a stop to all that nonsense. He'd let it go on, rolling his eyes when his Father's head was turned, and thinking no more of it.
He hadn't known that his daughter was absorbing all that, filling into her head and taking that as a warning that, he, too, would react that way.
And bloody hell he didn't want to let her go now, not when she'd been terrified for the whole bloody year!
"I'm sorry," her voice was muffled, her face not yet lifted. "I'm so sorry, Daddy. I'm sorry!"
She was slowly becoming more and more frantic, he reckoned, by him not saying anything. He only squeezed her gently, kissing the top of her head. "Shh," he murmured. "It's alright, Princess. No need to get so upset."
She didn't loosen her grip any, her hands had grabbed a fistful of his shirt and trying to pry it out from her was surprisingly difficult.
Where was Adrian when he needed him? He sighed. He would only muck this up, it would be better if-
He paused. That sort of excuse making might have worked for his father, albeit a different kind of excuse making-his father wouldn't have cared if he hurt his son's feelings, not even if his life depended on it-but he'd told himself he would be different. He wouldn't put his daughter through what his father had done to him.
Once the war was over, he'd decided he wasn't going to follow in his father's footsteps and that also meant the blood purity nonsense that had been instilled into him from as far back as he could remember.
He wouldn't be the same father that Anthony Flint had been to him.
"I don't care what house you got into, Love. I really don't," he spoke earnestly. "I know your grandfather put all kinds of nonsense into your head but I want you to listen to me: I never cared about you being in Slytherin or not and I'm not about to make a fuss because you didn't get in. It's not important to me and I'm so sorry that you thought it was."
She shifted, moving her face out of his chest but her head was laying on it, still grasping his shirt as if holding for dear life. "Really?" There was a tinge of hopefulness in her voice.
"Really," he confirmed. "Lots of us had to go into Slytherin-me, your Uncle Adrian and Uncle Terrence. We didn't have a choice. Your grandfather was right about one thing; he would have disowned me if I went anywhere else."
He hid back a snort at imagining his father getting a letter, stating that his son-his only heir-had been put somewhere else. The man would have had early heart failure.
Which, Marcus, unabashedly, would have loved to hear.
"I thought you wouldn't love me anymore," Amelia said, shakily. "Prunella Parkinson said I shouldn't bother going home because you wouldn't let once you found out."
"That isn't true," Marcus kept his anger in check, when all he really wanted to do was send a rather unpleasant letter to Parkinson to keep her devil spawn away from his daughter. "She's just trying to get a rise out of you, don't let her. Tell a teacher, if you must."
She nodded against him.
"And Amelia." She peered up at him. "Don't ever think I won't love you," he kissed her forehead. "There's nothing that you could ever do to make that happen."
"I love you, too, Daddy," she said with a watery smile.
The tension had slowly left her shoulders, but he still didn't let her go. He maneuvered them around so he was leaning against the headboard with her snuggled up against him. He wasn't sure how many more years of this he would get, so he'd treasure all these sweet little moments for now.
"So," he said after a couple minutes of silence. "What house did you get into?"
She bit her lip. "Gryffindor."
Even after that, she was still anticipating on him overreacting, creating some sort of scene and storming out of the room, leaving her to cry. He continued to run his fingers with his free hand through her hair. "And have you made any friends in your house?"
"Yes," she said with a bit of caution. "Lydia Wood and Lucy Weasley. They're in my dorm."
Oh, the bloody irony.
"Really?" he said, interestedly.
"Yes," she repeated. "Lydia's dad likes quidditch like you do. But Lydia says he's kind of obsessed."
That was a severe understatement but Marcus didn't interrupt.
"Mr. Weasley is really nice. He said I could come over anytime. So did Mr. Wood."
That Marcus wasn't so sure about. He was thoroughly glad that, despite the lingering issues that came from having his name, she was able to make friends; but he didn't know if allowing her to be within the presence of Wood and whichever Weasley Lucy belonged to, was worth it.
"That's great, Princess," he managed to say. "Do you know who Lucy's dad is?"
She thought for a second. "I dunno, but he works at the Ministry."
That would be Percy Weasley; the stuck up Head-Boy that had a permanent stick up his bum. Back in his school days, Marcus had an equally distributed dislike for both Wood and Weasley.
"Ah," was all he said.
"Can I go, Daddy? Please?"
He wanted to groan. Parenthood had made him so bloody soft.
"I...I don't see why not."
It wasn't exactly the circumstances that he ever thought he'd find himself in but if it would make his daughter happy, he'd deal with Wood and Weasley as much as he needed to.
Amelia beamed. She sat up somewhat, throwing her arms around his neck.
His parents wouldn't take the news well; his father especially. And he knew now that he would be interacting with more Gryffindor's than ever before and surely along the line, someone would say something because it wasn't everyday that a Flint went to a different house-let alone Gryffindor.
But Marcus would be ready to tackle them all.
And the people of Diagon Alley would be thrown into a state of shock when they noticed that Marcus Flint was wearing a red and gold striped scarf in support of his daughter.
Should I post one more chapter where Amelia and Marcus visit with either Oliver or Percy or both and they came to an understanding? Or just leave it as is? Also if you have any oneshot requests, comment!
