i know that Marcus and Penelope's relationship was mentioned (to Percy) before, but people do forget. haven't you ever told someone something and then they act like it's the first time they've heard it the second time you mention it? that's what happened here. also, Percy has a lot of stuff happening at once. no wonder he can't keep track of everything that he's learned in such a small amount of time.
this fanfic will end at 59 chapters (i have it all done up.)
anyway, response to the comments on the last chapter:
FairyRave: i think i laughed at these sparkles of motivation. a lot. and i'm not sure if you'd be surprised or not that the angst has not ended yet. there is a particular chapter that is my favourite. probably 58. i love it. i love everything about it. i hope you enjoy this one! more Bill and Fred!
Phoenixx Rising: yes, he did let Audrey off too easy. and i loved writing Fred in these chapters, so i'm glad you're not hating him! and when it's my fanfic, i don't think Percy does catch breaks. *lets out little laugh*
Chapter Fifty
Percy was holding his ice-cream cone in one hand and Lucy's in the other as he followed a content Bill to their father's shed. Did Percy know why he was going to the shed? Absolutely not.
She chose butterscotch ice-cream with toffee and caramel bits because Percy did (a very wise move, Percy). However, Lucy took one bite of the butterscotch ice-cream and began to gag as if she'd tried Molly's abhorrent Christmas pudding. She insisted that they go to the nearest bathroom and Percy went in with her, despite the fact that it was the female's lavatory (indeed, he pushed his pride aside to walk into the female's lavatory. He wondered why women didn't consider him a dish and now, he didn't have to wonder why anymore). Percy watched in horror as eight-year-old Lucy washed her tongue with soap because apparently, the soap tasted better than his beloved butterscotch.
Percy had never been more ashamed to call someone his pseudo-daughter in his life. She didn't like butterscotch, which meant that she didn't like butterbeer. What an appalling thought!
Percy wanted to be a level-headed, sophisticated individual and just accept that some people were unfortunately born with distorted taste buds, like Marcus Flint, whom, according to Ares, refused to consume chocolate because it decayed his teeth but ate waffles studded with rocks. Apparently, a starving six-year-old Marcus actually ate his mum's wedding ring. Percy was not sure how Ares knew so much about Marcus and why he bothered telling Percy. All he did know was that at least Marcus was taking in all the minerals he needed to stay healthy with his diet.
However, Marcus liked butterscotch. Lucy did not. Thus, Percy was set off on a rant, filled with accurate statistical data and facts to prove his point to Lucy that normal people ate butterscotch.
A fourteen-year-old Percy had produced charts and statistics for how popular each Fortescue's flavour was—specifically because a misinformed Bill said that pineapple ice-cream was more popular than Percy's dearly loved butterscotch ice-cream. It had unnerved Percy all summer long, it did! He actually spent a week unearthing fifty years' worth of data to attempt to defraud Bill's statement. He barricaded himself in his room to draw up the pie charts (whilst ignoring Gemma's many owls about how awkward having sex with him was. It would be far less awkward if she didn't send three owls a day about it for Merlin's sake!) and his diet consisted entirely of food that he'd enlist Scabbers to steal from the kitchen downstairs. For a whole week, Percy ate only sticky toffee pudding cake and frozen pumpkin juice. Despite the fact that he had spent the last six years suffering in the ward of imminent death, he was somehow able to remember the exact numbers on his faux report... yet Percy had honestly completely forgotten how his father looked like.
Yes, he actually forgot how his father looked like. All Percy was sure of was that his hair was red. He was not even sure if his father had any freckles so to speak of. However, he was about fifty percent sure that his father, too, wore glasses so all was not lost.
Percy spent the next fifteen minutes pushing his oversized glasses up the bridge of his nose as he reminded her that butterscotch ice-cream was far better and far more popular than the foul sour apple flavour that she insisted on getting every time she'd gone to Fortescue's (now with apple rings... which was, needless to say, the most detesting candy in the universe). In fact, butterscotch was 72% more popular than sour apple ice-cream. At this point, Bill got cross and reminded Percy that he shouldn't complain because now, he had two butterscotch ice-creams for himself and Lucy had none.
("Grand! She shouldn't have so many bloody sweets," Percy said when Bill finished his statement, only for Bill to remind him that taking Lucy to Fortescue's was, in fact, Percy's idea.)
Percy walked into the shed and nearly dropped his half-eaten butterscotch ice-creams.
"This shed is now my room?" Percy's head was pounding as he surveyed the room.
The shed once used to be Arthur's haven, absolutely filled to the brim with muggle toys and trinkets. All of which seemed to have vanished. The whole shed was painted into a bright yellow—an unclean yellow if Percy was being honest about it. It looked like the colour of the muddy raincoats that his mum used to buy them half-off at second hand shops. His bed had to have been dismantled and re-assembled, because he didn't remember it being this massive. A family of half-giants could probably take a kip on this bed! He also didn't recall owning all these books! There were so many books here that Percy's heart started to race. He looked over at the yellow wall and noticed that every single book was listed like it had been in his room before. He could vaguely how many books he had last time. The list was easily double what he had before—and if he recalled correctly, he was suffocating under a sea of books last he'd walked into his room!
Percy reached over and placed his hand down on the more recent books added to the list.
"You read in French?" Percy had his family's handwritings memorised since he was a child.
Yes, he remembered his family's handwriting (and his father's) in extremely vivid detail but he could not say for certain whether his father did or did not wear glasses.
"I like to pretend that I read in French," Bill explained, smiling weakly. "My wife, Fleur, is French."
Percy's stomach was churning, because he didn't want to hear about Bill's wife. Admitting that Bill had a wife would be like admitting that the war happened and if he admitted the war had happened then he'd have to admit that he wasn't there. He was busy frolicking about in that stupid ward whilst Bill got his face torn off and-and George lost an ear and Merlin, he could've lost any of his brothers or Ginny or his mum or... and what about Ron?! Percy didn't even want to think about him, because Ron was only eleven when Percy went missing and they had an awful relationship. Ginny! Ginny was ten. Now, she'd gone through puberty and did Godric knew what with—with boys. Fred and George were just tubby thirteen-year-olds in his head and now, look at them! There was more muscle in Fred's hand than there was in Percy's whole body! Percy shook his head, turning away from the list on the wall. He didn't know why he was so bloody shocked about the differences between Fred and George then and how they were now! He'd been with them for months and now, he was having an existential crisis because Fred and George could bench press him?
"Oh," was all that Percy said. Well, that summed up exactly what was going on in his head.
"You were quiet for ages," Bill noticed, frowning. Percy wasn't sure when Bill had decided to sit on the bed or why he wanted Percy to open up his soul.
Percy nodded his head. "I'm aware."
Bill nodded his head, staying silent.
"I don't... cope well with change," Percy bit down his lower lip as he sat down beside Bill. He knew it was idiotic for him to open up to Bill, whom literally just hours ago had nearly pounded his face in. However, he was running short of time. He did have to regain some of his mental sanity to fight off a Greek God and he couldn't take his time in finding what was comfortable for him. "You have to understand. I still act like I always did. In my head, Ginevra is ten. Ron is eleven. The twins are still thirteen. You are not married. Charlie's face is still somewhat intact. Your face is intact. George's ear isn't missing for some blasted reason that I don't even want to think about. Ron was, indeed, befriending the Boy Who Lived but was not getting into dangerous missions with him. Ginevra is not getting a deal cut with the Holyhead Harpies even though she hasn't finished school yet! Godric, you people are strangers to me."
"You act like you always do...?" Bill echoed incredulously. "Perce, you're joking."
Percy rolled his eyes. "Relatively speaking, I'm still the same as I always was!"
"And what are those?" Bill pointed towards the patch of mutilated skin from where his shirt had ridden up.
Percy wanted to pull his shirt down but he was too busy holding ice-cream cones. "That is not fair! I was in a ward that has a reputation for torturing its patients to remedy their ailments!"
"We went through another war," Bill was speaking calmly this time. "Perce, this is just as scary as it is for us as it is for you. You're unpredictable. Your behaviour is terrifying. You spit out the most unbelievable rubbish sometimes. The most confusing bloody things set you off and turn you into a blubbering mess. You are not the same as you always were—you act like you're the same, but you're not. It's like someone has you under the Imperius and is trying to blend in and act like you, but is failing rather dramatically."
Bill made eye contact with Percy. "You know what? Fred is right. You are a lunatic—and you know it."
"I thought the saying goes is that if you're aware that you're insane, then it means that you are not, in fact, insane," Percy argued weakly, taking a lick of one of the cones. "Yes, I know."
Somehow, Bill had put it across in a way that made Percy accept it. Yes, he did know, deep down, that Fred was only telling him the truth. They were all thinking about Percy's brimming mentality (including Percy. Deep down, he knew it too but avoided it). George and Audrey had probably wanted to say something too, but refrained from fear that Percy would not only deny it but spiral deeper into his state of undoing.
It had to be exhausting for Audrey, Fred and George to make sure that he didn't just turn himself into a congealed mass of fleshy ribbons and fractured bones the minute that they took his eyes off him.
"Believe it or not," Percy mumbled, making eye contact with Bill. "I am trying."
Bill smiled. "I know," he noticed that Percy was maintaining eye contact with him.
"Now," Percy turned around, cutting their moment short in order to attend to more pressing matters than his unsolicited depression. "Does this mean, that whilst people were shifting things from my room into this shed, that they had a look at my... um... collection of inappropriate magazines?"
Bill only smirked. "I believe Dad had a flick through them."
Percy immediately flushed. He bet he matched his own hair. "Let me guess: I do not want to know what his brimming comments regarding my taste in women, but you'll tell me anyway."
"Yes, I will," Bill beamed. "He said that most of the women you seem to like happen to have mum's body."
Percy could actually feel his brain disintegrate. Percy's brain was... shattered! Smashed! Ruined! If only he could cut his eyes with the pieces because the most abhorrent images were assaulting his delicate cornea. This was worse than the time that he'd walked in on his parents at it again (as if they needed anymore bloody children!). "I suppose asking for you to Obliviate me is a bit of a tall order, isn't it?"
"Have you had a look at Audrey—?"
Percy squealed. Like a pig. Very refined. "Audrey does not look like mum! She only has her eyes... and—"
"She practically wears the same robe size as our mum! And she has the same body shape too; all her weight is around the hips—just like our mum!" Bill exclaimed and Percy looked like he was about to faint. He wished he would, because that would end this terrible conversation. "Come on, Perce—"
"Bill, I will murder you... I will actually murder you," Percy threatened.
Bill only tossed his head back and laughed.
Opening the door to the shed was a very quiet-looking Fred, whom had his hand stuck into his pockets. Percy had seen George quiet a dozen times, usually over the most menial thing in the universe but seeing Fred quiet and sombre actually made him feel ill. The last time Fred looked like this was when he was eleven and one of the Slytherin seventh years threw cloth-eating powder on his clothes. Percy would never forget how scared and vulnerable Fred looked like then, standing starkers in the middle of the corridor whilst attempting not to cry. The whole school had a laugh about it. George was sent into hysterics. He'd broken a seventh year's arm with his own bare hands—and then refused to apologise for it.
Percy could see that same visible vulnerability in those big dark eyes then as he did now.
The worst part of it was that Percy was certain that he was the reason for why Fred was so glum.
"Mum told Fleur who told Charlie who told me to tell you that supper's ready and if you aren't there in ten minutes, then you're going to have to make do with steamed celery and bread rolls," Fred said flatly.
"Bill, you may leave. I would like to talk to Fred as I do not mind having steamed celery and bread rolls for dinner," Percy said, watching Bill nod his head and leave the shed.
"I mind if I eat bread rolls for dinner," Fred didn't sound like himself. He walked inside the shed.
His eyes immediately fixated over to a pile of Slytherin coats, blankets, scarves and the legendary Weasley jumpers tossed in a corner of the room. Percy hadn't noticed its existence until then.
"You know, mum still made you jumpers and scarves every Christmas," Fred said, his voice soft. "She kept on knitting them bigger every year. It's like she expected a half-giant to come home. Last Christmas Eve, she spent the whole night making this massive blanket. Slytherin colours and all. She came to the shed. She took out all your clothes, put them into a pile, and then put the blanket over it. You know she spent a whole month asking Hermione how to use a permanent scent sticking charm? Perce, she tried to make that blanket smell like you. George and I found her huddled up here Christmas Day, after we've opened our presents, and she was holding that stupid ruddy blanket and she was crying, Perce... because she couldn't bloody tell if it actually did smell like you. She forgot how you were like and it terrified her."
Percy inched closer to the pile, gawking at it. He recalled the days where his mum refused to let him go out of the house without wearing the whole closet's contents' worth of scarves and gloves.
Fred placed his hand on Percy's arm. "I thought about it, Perce and I'm not taking it back. What I said about you being a lunatic that only wants to snuff himself in. You are," he offered a weak smile. "But I am sorry about telling the whole of Twilfitt and Tatting's that you've shagged a nurse—"
"Did you really have to word the situation in this manner?" Percy sighed deeply. "I understand. Thank you for telling me that I've a broom shoved so far along my arse that it managed to do my head in."
Fred beamed at Percy's choice of words and then attacked Percy into a tight embrace. Percy nearly dropped his ice-creams. Percy's eyes wondered to the window, and he caught sight of two figures outside the Burrow.
"Fred? What are these two heathens doing in our childhood home? Besides stealing my room that is!" Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint were standing beside each other, chattering on—probably about nothing in particular. "And why is it that Marcus Flint still looks exactly the way he did when he was eleven?"
Fred pulled away and took a look over at them. "Mum unofficially adopted Oliver because he was an orphan that had nowhere to go—and he was part of the Order of the Phoenix. Flint is staying here because Penelope threw him out of their flat. Oh! I forgot to mention this to you ages ago. I was going to tell you about it when I was talking to you about what changed in the last six years—remember? When I said that Ron was training to be an Auror, Dad got a promotion—yada, yada... I forgot to mention that Penelope Clearwater and Flint tied the knot a year ago and had a baby four months ago. It turned out that Penelope was under the Greek variant of the Imperius and Aphrodite was just trying to weed information from Flint so their marriage is null. Mum nearly cried when she heard about it. You know how she's like with these things. Athena is bloody livid about the fact that someone dropped in a note for you in the ward and she wants your complete destruction and she recruited Higgs to torture who she suspects sent you that note... I think Wood knows but he's not letting me on. He's the one that updated me on this bollocks."
Percy was staring at Fred as if he was speaking in Parseltongue. He recalled the note that clarified what his epilepsy actually was. He didn't know who sent it to him. He had just about everyone's handwritings memorised and he didn't recognise it at all.
"You arseholes should've told me about this!" Percy was irritated to say the least. Fred's statements and implications suddenly sunk into his big, fat head. "Wait, Penelope and Marcus?"
He paled dramatically. A sudden, deep-seated contempt of Marcus Flint started to form into his stomach. He would not have accepted that that stupid, foolish part-troll had-had fertilised one of the sweetest, smartest girls he'd ever known! Sure, Marcus was harmless and all around a decent character if one were to disregard the amount of times he'd get into detention or the times that he'd clipped Penelope's knickers to a cauldron. Percy was sure that he once threw a rock at her during Divination. The thought that he had touched Penelope in that way made his blood boil. He could recall how Penelope looked like after what happened with Roger. He clenched his jaw and formed fists with his hands. From that moment on, Percy Weasley had decided that he loathed Marcus Flint.
"Percy, I don't think you're supposed to be that red for longer than five minutes," Fred's voice brought him back to reality and Percy was thinking of smashing Marcus' head in until tea stated to seep from his ears.
"I am going to see Penelope," Percy decided in an eerily calm voice, "Then I am going to figure out what to do with this Greek God calamity. I am going to owl Ares. I am going to exchange a few words with him regarding our arrangement because thus far, all I've done is pity myself for having have been stuck in the ward for the last few years. I am going to come back home and cry myself to sleep in my room... which was once my father's shed... and when I wake up in the morning, I will tear off Marcus Flint's face."
MILES Bletchley's mum did not find him funny.
Apparently, having patches of thick, seeping burns lying atop thirty-five percent of his body was nothing to laugh about. Well, the healer had said thirty-five percent, but his mum insisted that it was a zillion percent.
Miles didn't waste his time in explaining to her that that would require him to look like a cauldron bottom.
He did, however, show his utmost irritation over the fact that none of his burns covered that awful birthmark that he had around his ear, the one that made him look like he was suffering from a chronic ear infection. Miles could remember that when he was fourteen, Terence used to go around to all the other houses and convinced them that Miles had an STD... in his ear. Because really, when you shagged someone, you put your ear into their... never mind.
Fortunately, the thirty-two year-old triplets Aubrey, Anna and Anthony Bletchley seemed to think that all that Miles needed was the whole of Madame Primpernelle's selection of skin-changing creams to attempt to blend the burns into Miles' skin (it worked for all of three minutes until Miles started to scratch his burned skin raw... and then he went into septic shock and nearly died because all that scratching allowed all those nasty little bugs to get into his bloodstream. But it was a valiant effort!)
Thirteen-year-old half-vampire Hans and Hannah Bletchley had decided that they would rather take pictures of Miles looking half dead for a Halloween party. Miles thought that this was not hard to do, especially considering that he'd approached near death nine times in the past month alone.
Miles felt like St Mungo's had to brush up on their definition of 'near death'. Nobody could be in 'near death' nine times in one month. That's two and a quarter 'near death' experience per week! How could one have a quarter of a 'near death' experience? Was that what they called it when you accidentally forgot to zip up your trousers when you were done taking a piss?
Miles didn't have to worry about that. He had a charmed catheter—cleaned itself on the clock!
When Aubrey, Anna and Anthony's 'treatment' fell short, Miles' twenty-nine year old triplet siblings Louis, Loki and Lucas decided that the best way to cheer Miles up was to attempt to 'make him colder' since he was a burn patient. Miles would not go into detail but apparently, their treatment had turned his vomit could be cold and gelatinous. He had also discovered that his blood could clump up into thick clots.
He supposed that this might have attributed to the nine 'near death' experiences he had within the month but he really thought that the main culprit behind it was the devastating moulded salmon mousse his mum had insisted on bringing over for lunch because he was 'looking poorly.'
Miles had never seen healers bolt out of a room so fast before.
They found his burns fetching and the smell of the noxious fumes coming out of them tolerable, but just one look over at the moulded salmon mousse...
As for the two-year-old half-vampire twins, Gabe and Gina—they bloody well enjoyed sinking their teeth into Miles' neck ... literally. Miles was sure this did not help the fact that he was 'severely' anaemic. According to his mum, Miles blended right into his hospital cot from how pale he'd gotten.
Miles still didn't know how he could look severely pale and also have burns on his skin.
Thus, Miles had coined himself as the Zebra Man. Miles' mum, Stephanie, coined Miles as 'dead if he did not take this seriously I swear to Merlin and King bloody Arthur and all the Knights of the Godric forsaken round table...'
At the current moment, Miles was glad to say that he was not dead, which was always good news. His mum was sitting down beside him carrying one of his many children.
It was important to mention that Miles' wife, Mallory Bletchley (née Flint), had only gotten knocked up twice, and now, Miles had five children. Yes, that was right. He had five bloody children... and he was only twenty-bloody-two. Perhaps, it was not a good idea to marry one massive family into another massive family, especially when both families bred faster than Pygmy Puffs. Soon enough, Miles supposed that his children would overrule the wizarding world—a good back-up plan if Weasley mucked up his plan to attempt to rescue humanity from a temperamental, prissy Greek God that had Daddy issues; not unlike Weasley himself. Until then though, he would keep on attempting to use small words to explain to his incredibly beautiful and loving Mallory the concept of protection ("Mal, darling, I love you to bloody bits but when I say protection, I mean taking birth control potions. I mean me wearing a never-pop-condom. I do not mean that you should put protection wards all over our bedroom... especially if I can't get in them!")
Bless Mal's heart. She still believed in Father Christmas and bought up biscuits for him every year—but this year, she was abandoning the luxury of her home to come spend the day with him! He thought this was an extremely sweet gesture... and a life-saving one, because his mum was going to make him a wobbly Christmas pudding comprised primarily out of cottage cheese and artificial sweeteners.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing, Bletchley?" Marcus walked inside, carrying Miles' baby in his arms.
Miles only offered a warm smile. He had no doubt that he had dark circles under his eyes because he was Zebra Man, he whose face was paler than snow, but still looked like he'd been socked twice. "Me? Why, I'm just wondering how lucky I am to marry one of your beautiful sisters."
"Bletchley, you're not fooling anyone," Marcus said, offering the baby to Miles. He took his son graciously and stared down at him with big warm dark eyes.
Miles frowned as he took in Marcus' look. It was either a long day or just a bloody awful month.
Miles wouldn't lie. He felt awful around Marcus pretty much all the time. Seeing his ex-mate reminded him of all the bollocks he used to do to him in Hogwarts. Adrian hated him, so it meant that Miles and Terence had to at least pretend to hate him. They pretended very well because he had no idea how in Merlin's good given name that Marcus even allowed him to marry one of his sisters.
If the situation was swapped, Miles would've burned Marcus' crotch. Speaking of which, Miles thankfully had averted having much done to the area. Much being the keyword. He could still feel some kind of sensation down there, not all but enough that he didn't whine about it... much.
"I heard about Penelope," Miles said in a very soft voice. "I'm so sorry, mate."
"I'm bloody sick of people telling me that they're sorry," Marcus said. He didn't sound like himself. He was shivering. Come to think of it, Marcus was wearing a thick scarf and what looked like three jumpers underneath. Godric. It was only September, and this bloke was acting like it was smack in the middle of winter. Come to think of it, he'd never seen Marcus this cold before. "I'm bloody sick of people in general."
Miles shook his head. "Merlin, who's been grinding you up lately?"
"Lately?" Marcus echoed. "I'm not even going to bother telling you what's wrong with that sentence."
"Mum?" Miles looked over at Stephanie, whom immediately took the bubbly baby from Miles' arms and then left the room.
When the door was shut after, Miles took the time to really look at Marcus. He had wrinkles around his eyes and his cheekbones seemed more prominent than usual. He looked like he belonged in a coffin somewhere. "Godric, what has been going on with you?" Miles said in a soft voice. "Come over here."
Marcus shook his head, but his shoulders shook even more violently. He wrapped his arms around his chest.
Miles frowned deeply. "Marcus, what is going on?"
The part-troll only cocked his head to one side and then offered a weak smile. "I'm not sure. I think my parts are frozen off," he said, placing his hand on his own arm and rubbing it softly. "I'm just tired. I feel so lethargic and... Oliver said that we could leave the country together and..."
Marcus' voice drifted off. He looked like he was about to plummet into his own death any waking moment.
"Adrian Pucey is in a coma," Marcus finally decided to mention and turned to adjust the wires around Miles' arm. Miles felt his heart sink into his chest because he didn't even know that Adrian was sick.
Last Miles had heard of him, he was playing on the Reserve team for an awful Quidditch team. He spent the whole night taking the mickey out of him as he drank with his elder siblings whilst the younger ones slept. He didn't think it was possible—that someone that he knew, someone that he shared a chocolate frog with on many occasions, someone that used to wake him up in the morning to kill spiders in the common room showers, someone that used to be one of his best mates was comatose... and Miles didn't even know about it.
Miles swallowed the lump in his throat. "What did that bastard do?"
Marcus smiled weakly. "He got tortured by the Cruciatus, by his own bloody father. The arsehole was a Death Eater that went into hiding after the first war was done with to help bring You-Know-Who back. That's where he was all that time. Pucey was under the Cruciatus for so long that...he couldn't feel anything after," he cocked his head to one side and swallowed. Miles felt nauseous. "Spent a month with him after the war. He kept on leaving the hospital and getting admitted within days. The clumsy tosser came in with internal bleeding about three times a week once. Every time he came in, he hugged me and we talked like we were old mates. Like he didn't used to put lice in bed or tear my homework moments before it was due. He ended up getting a bad bloodstream infection. Had a big slash on his back that he didn't know existed. His mum noticed it. She took him here, and everyone thought that they had it under control. She left to go home because she thought he was okay. We all thought that he was fucking—
"Bloody hell, he was smiling. He looked bloody comfortable, but his skin was all rubber like he was dead. I thought he was taking the piss out of me." Marcus angrily wiped away the tears at the corner of his eyes. "He didn't bloody apologise for all the bollocks he did to me in Hogwarts... over his bloody Divination debacle in fifth year. Merlin, it didn't matter to me that he didn't but—maybe it did to the bastard. Maybe he wanted to say something, and he bloody lost the courage. He isn't in bleeding Gryffindor for a reason; you know... and I know that he wanted to say something. He wanted to say something every bloody day but he didn't. I'm scared that he's fucking cursing himself in his head and I should've told him when he was alive that I don't give a rat's arse about what he did then because I know that he needed to hear that. Maybe even if I said it, he'd still blame himself because Pucey forgets that he's not sculpted out of ice."
Marcus exhaled. "We did worse things when we were mates for Salazar's sake. Of course I bloody..."
Miles stared at Marcus with big, glossy eyes. "Do you think that we could be mates?" he had wanted to say that for so long himself. He had wanted to rekindle something that had happened so long
"You can't be my mate," Marcus snorted. His smile was small. "You're too busy being my brother-in-law."
"Your very hot brother-in-law," Miles said with a similar small sad curl of his lips.
I wonder... Miles thought with a heavy heart. He felt an ache in his limbs that wouldn't go away no matter how much he slept, I wonder if they're doing the right thing and still massaging his hair with flobberworm mush.
PENELOPE Clearwater saw Marcus Flint walk down the hallway and immediately ran up to him, not caring if she would ruin her black strappy heels or her most favourite pink floral frock. Ever since their separation months ago, Penelope had been looking for this bastard.
She thought it would be easy to find a five-foot-nine troll that came into work every day—a five-foot-nine troll with the very distinctive smell of dusty windows and manky socks!
Penelope immediately slammed him into the wall and pressed her lips against his. His hand instantly slipped into her thigh. She felt suddenly alive and reawakened. Penelope tried to owl him a dozen times over the past few weeks, but Oliver Wood normally sent her letters back and insisted that she not communicate with him if she knew what was best for her! What a bastard. If she had time (Avis was a handful. Penelope literally showered only three times a week since she'd had her), she would've made a Floo call to the Burrow—mostly to kill Wood, and then reclaim her bloody husband back for Merlin's sake.
In the beginning, Ayden was over the moon that she'd left him but he noticed the change. She had become a shell of who she was in a matter of days. Whenever Avis did anything adorable, she looked over her shoulder as if she bloody expected Marcus to materialise in front of her and share the moment. She needed him. She hated that she needed him. She hated that she'd somehow fallen in love with him. With him gone, there was nothing but an empty solid feeling in her chest. Like something was missing. Sleep was impossible.
Penelope's hands were on Marcus' shoulders. "Come. Back. Home. Right now."
"What if I don't want to go back, Clearwater?" Marcus asked with a smirk. With the way that he was gripping onto her as if he would die if he let go, she could guess that he was in no way serious.
"Flint," Penelope corrected—it felt good to correct him—realising she probably looked like a mess. She'd snogged him so hard that she left a red smack from her lipstick on his mouth. "Marcus, you're freezing."
"Yes, I'm aware," Marcus rolled his eyes and she let out a deep sigh.
"Marcus, I'm serious. There is ice in your hair," Penelope had just noticed, placing her hand against his locks—her husband's hair. She remembered how repulsed she felt like, how that all suddenly disappeared when she went to sleep and he wasn't there. She couldn't take a potion either just in case baby Avis woke up... who, at four months, already started to understand. "Marcus, forget the flat. You need to be looked at."
"I'm cold," Marcus grumbled, complaining. "I don't have a cold... I'm fine."
"No, you are not." Penelope grabbed his arm. Godric, he was bonier than usual too. This was not boding well. What had he done to himself in the past few months? She was feeling incredibly guilty. She should feel incredibly guilty because this probably wouldn't have happened if she hadn't kicked him out of their flat.
"How much is your normal body temperature?" she asked, walking into the room she'd been in moments ago and having him lie down. Holly was standing by the counter. Obviously, she hadn't noticed that Penelope had left at all within the last few moments because she was still chattering about the broomsticks.
"Forty," Marcus replied as she stuck the thermometer in his mouth. Penelope's face went white when she pulled out that thermometer minutes after. She wondered how on earth he wasn't unconscious... or dead.