Part II

...

"Flint," Percy scowled, absently rubbing his arm and straightening his glasses before turning to face Flint and his two faithful minions, who he assumed were nearby as they were never out of the company of the Quidditch Captain for too long.

Percy was correct about the scene he was witness to. Marcus Flint was stood in front of him, arms crossed, broad shoulders slumped backwards and his face contorted into a grotesque sneer that showed half a row of crooked teeth. As expected, Percy noted that both Bole and Derrick, two Slytherin Beaters, were stood at Flint's side and looked as if they barely had a brain cell between them. Why was it that Slytherins travelled in packs of three most of the time? He was perfectly aware that his youngest brother had encountered several confrontations between the Malfoy boy and two Slytherins that followed him around. Not that Ron had told him any of this. No, when one was a Prefect at Hogwarts, and on such close terms with several teachers as Percy was, he was frequently privy to such information. Being a Prefect had its advantages besides the obvious.

"Looks like a little weasel out for a stroll," Flint said, smiling even wider than before. Bole and Derrick laughed next to him, always eager to please and encourage rousing behaviour.

"What's up – lose your friends?" Bole sniggered.

"Need to have mates in order to lose 'em," Derrick answered back, a bellowing laugh erupting from his mouth.

For a brief second, Percy's perfectly practiced façade faltered. Ears tipped red, jaw locked tight, mouth drawn into a thin line and his brows furrowed as his glasses shadowed his fixed expression. Usually, he would not yield, preferring to ignore Marcus Flint altogether or react with words, either polite replies or carefully structured retorts that would go over Flint's head. Never had he responded with physical violence or magic though. He refused to lower himself to that level – it was exactly what Flint wanted.

"Rumours spread, Weasley, and secrets are always discovered."

Percy was taken back. "What are you talking about, Flint?" he asked, a little harsher than he intended. He was having a bad day, after all.

Bole and Derricked laughed as Flint pulled a scrap of parchment from his robes, holding it up. "Wood's little secret."

Percy scanned his eyes over the note with an unreadable expression. He knew that almost illegible chicken scrawl anywhere, there was no denying it.

"All this time we assumed the great Gryffindor Captain, Oliver Wood, got onto the team through pure talent when all this time, all he had to do was befriend Charlie Weasley's little brother – you."

Thoughts circulated at a frantic pace around Percy's head, thoughts so shuffled and jumbled that they all collided together and became a gigantic mass of irregular emotions that formed one word: damn. He knew exactly what Flint was planning on doing. The boy was ridiculously transparent that the blatant obviousness sometimes caused Percy's head to hurt.

He had to divert his attention.

"This is rather ridiculous, even for you, Flint," Percy commented, a smile gracing his features as he lazily leaned against the stone wall. "Are you truly that threatened by Oliver on the Quidditch pitch that you feel the need to fabricate speculations that will not only sully his name, but also that of my brother's?"

Before he had time to react, Flint grabbed Percy by lapels of his robes, pulling him sharply so he was only a couple of centre-metres away from his face. "You calling me a liar, Weasley?" he snarled, eyes ablaze with pure loathing.

Bole and Derrick said nothing, merely looking towards each other with an air of caution.

"Not a liar, per say," Percy replied tersely. He was out of his comfort zone here. He was losing control of the situation. He needed to do something fast. "However, considering how you managed to pitch a place on your own team, this is relatively normal behaviour for you, isn't it?"

"I'd hold my tongue if I were you, Weasley," Flint spat, eyes growing darker than ever before.

Don't antagonise him furthermore, he mentally scolded. "Blackmail, wasn't it?"

Percy groaned as he felt himself being forced against the wall, a slight pain coursing down his back. He shouldn't have expected anything less really. He was, after all, essentially provoking Marcus Flint, an ill-tempered Slytherin who had size and strength on his side, something Percy lacked tremendously in comparison. He would need to use his own strengths and wits.

Within the blink of an eye, he removed his wand and pointed it directly at Flint. "You can go at Oliver all you like, because he doesn't need me to defend him, however, don't you ever dare bring my family into your pretty squabbles," he warned in a dangerously low voice.

Flint reluctantly released him and Percy took that opportunity to seize the parchment from his hand, wand still held in defence. "Do you not think I would not recognise my own brother's handwriting? If you did not write this, then it looks like you have fallen for an obvious prank, probably courtesy of my younger brothers. If that is the case, then more fool you."

Flint smiled, which sent a shiver down Percy's spine. A smiling Marcus Flint was never a good omen. "Watch your back, Weasley. I mean it," he said, turning on his heel and striding down the corridor, loudly beckoning Bole and Derrick to follow.

Percy watched until all three Slytherins were out of sight before relaxing slightly. What he said had not been a complete lie but he knew that it needed to be done. He could not risk the chance of anyone finding out. To think, the twins thought that he was merely a pompous know-it-all who wouldn't know a joke if it came up to him, flicked him on the nose and announced itself. Hadn't he technically pulled the largest joke of his life by belittling Marcus Flint in front of his minions and doing so in such a way that even they had their doubts?

He then remembered Flint's final words:

"Watch your back, Weasley. I mean it."

Or he had just signed his own death warrant?

Only time would tell. However, it did little to change the facts though.

Looking at the parchment, fully absorbing the words, Percy grimaced. Charlie had written this. Why though? He knew that Charlie would never allow anyone onto the team who was less than perfect – he was too good of a captain to pull a dirty stunt like this. He also knew that Oliver immensely prided himself on his skill for the game – he would never allow himself to be bought like that.

So why did this leave a sinking feeling inside the pit of his stomach?

To be continued...

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