QLFC- Season 10: Round 6
Team: Montrose Magpies
Position: Chaser 1
Prompt: The Bear and the Maiden Fair
Optional Prompts:
(character) Marcus Flint
(relationship type) friends with benefits
(pairing) Marcus Flint/Blaise Zabini
WC: 2,704
A/N: With permission of the mods, I have attempted(make note of this word) to write a story showing someone who has been rejected by society due to his position in it. After what feels like a million rewrites, I honestly don't even know what it is at this point.
Big thanks to Viladis and JilyTrash. And to all the Magpies in general. I really couldn't ask for a better team.
Ah, Irony, Thou Art A Heartless Bitch
No one can predict what the future may hold. They can speculate and they can make educated guesses, but they can never be sure they'll be right.
Even if he had bothered to take Divination, never in all his life would Marcus Flint have guessed that he'd end up living in Muggle London, cut off from the magical world; but after the war had ended, Marcus found himself on the wrong side of it. Not by choice of course; he had actively distanced himself from anything to do with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. It had been one thing to tease and look down on Mudbl- Muggleborns, it was something entirely different to hunt them down and kill them. But his self-imposed separation hadn't mattered; he was a Slytherin, a member of Voldemort's house, and that was enough.
The fallout had been a gradual process, starting with sideways looks. It had eventually devolved into the vandalizing of Slytherin homes and the boycott of their businesses. For Marcus, it meant the loss of his Quidditch contract and the inability to get another job. "Slytherins need not apply" met him at every turn and eventually vendors even refused to sell to him.
It was like the aftershocks of an earthquake; it had taken time to feel it, but it hadn't made its effects any less damaging.
Fearful of what the nationwide boycott of Slytherins would lead to, he'd finally escaped to Muggle London, where only the kindness and compassion of a soft-hearted Muggle had saved him.
The irony of it all was not lost on him.
It had taken a considerable amount of time for him to adjust to his new life, but what had been hardest for Marcus to adjust to was the loss of magic. Before he'd moved to Muggle London he never would have been able to identify the presence of raw magic; it had permeated his life since his birth and had been a constant presence that he'd taken for granted. Now that it was gone, he could feel its absence. There was a lack of energy in the air, the space around him feeling devoid of life.
He had desperately clung to any semblance of his past: a hidden closet full of old Quidditch trophies; a secret drawer of his favorite candies from Honeydukes; even a few of his old Hogwarts books, once relegated to a box in his family's attic, had found a place in the bottom cabinet of his nightstand.
But, soon, his Quidditch trophies became too painful to look at, he'd eaten all the candy in the drawer, and the books were once again relegated to a box, this time shoved onto the top shelf of a linen closet.
The only thing he now had left to connect him to who he'd once been was a thin piece of wood that he kept tucked away in the breast pocket of his sports coat.
Marcus held the wand in his hand now, his fingers slipping into the familiar grooves that had been formed by years of diligent training. He stroked it with his thumb, reveling in the smoothness of it, the warmth.
Letting out a deep sigh, he opened a small drawer in his entrance table and slid the wand inside, his hand lingering, reluctant to let go. The wand rattled against the bottom and he softly shut the drawer. He grabbed his umbrella from its stand, and before he could second guess himself, he opened his front door and quickly stepped out, pulling it closed behind him.
"Today is a new day," he muttered to himself as he stuck his key in the lock and turned it. No wand, no magic. Just a simple key, because that's how Muggles did it.
He bounced down the stairs, exiting his apartment building and thrusting open his umbrella against the deceptively light drizzle that would soak him through in less than a minute. He stepped into the throng of pedestrians, his black topped umbrella becoming just one among many as he allowed the crowd to carry him along. No Apparition. No Floo Powder. Just walking, because that's how Muggles did it.
The King's Horseman was located in Soso, London, where everything was so-so. The owner of the establishment was convinced that it was an up and coming neighborhood and so she'd made an investment to get in on the ground floor. Her reason for opening a pub had been:
"What better place to open a pub than a place where people are overworked, discouraged because they seem to be stuck in their current position, and desperate to feel like they've made it?"
So, she gave the place a swanky name and tried to make it look like an upscale place in upscale London.
Marcus Flint had been one of her first hires. He had been desperate for work and she had taken pity on him—the kind, compassionate, soft-hearted Muggle. She'd employed him as a bouncer on account of his large build and the fact that his face wouldn't allow for anything else.
Marcus didn't consider himself a vain man, mainly because there was really nothing to be vain about. He didn't possess the kind of looks that attracted the admiring eye of a woman. The only time he was afforded a second glance was when people saw him and had to do a double take because they weren't sure what it was they had seen. But he knew he was an intimidating figure. His large, muscle-bound frame paired with his brutish looks, made people second guess crossing him.
It was these very characteristics that had brought him to the attention of the Tornados Quidditch team in his final year at Hogwarts and the main reason they had been quick to sign him on as a Beater after he graduated.
And it was these very same characteristics that had landed him his first menial job—this job—after he'd been unceremoniously kicked out of the Quidditch League.
Chelsea soon found out, though, that he wasn't just a bearish man; he was a hard and diligent worker. Marcus wasn't content with just being a juggernaut, so he'd showcased his Slytherin ambition by coming in early, staying late, stocking the bar, and handling inventory. After months of consistent work, Chelsea had finally given him the opportunity to tend the bar. It was the next step in his goal to become co-owner.
"Today is a new day," he said to himself, as he pushed through the front door of the bar, sending the little bell above him ringing with gusto.
On the other side of the room a woman shouldered her way backwards through a swinging door, loaded down with a large, ungainly box that was in danger of tipping her over.
"Here, let me help you with that," Marcus said, setting his umbrella down and quickly weaving his way through the tables and chairs to meet her. He slid his arms under the box and transferred the weight to himself. "I thought I said I'd bring these out when I got here, Chels? What are you doing?"
Chelsea rested her hands on her hips, blowing air out through pursed lips, her cheeks swelling into cute little bubbles. "I don't know. I just feel bad that you do so much around here."
Marcus' cheeks flushed as he realized he was staring at her. He dropped his gaze and walked behind the bar, setting the box down on the counter. "I don't mind."
Chelsea slid onto a stool across from him. "Well, I want you to know that I really appreciate it."
Marcus opened up the box and started pulling bottles of whiskey out, trying not to let her praise go to his head.
"Are you nervous?"
His eyes flicked up to meet hers. "I'd be lying if I said I'm not."
Chelsea smiled at him. "You'll do great."
Marcus turned away to hide the rising color in his cheeks. "Yeah, I hope so," he murmured as he shelved the bottles he'd emptied from the box.
And he did do great. Many of the regulars congratulated him on his new position and stuffed extra bills in the tip jar. His Slytherin ambition and kind hearted, encouraging Muggles had opened up new doors for him.
The irony was still not lost on him.
There was a lull in the bar before the after work crowd arrived. Marcus took the opportunity to wipe down the counter and restock the peanuts and napkins.
He heard the chime of the bell as it called out to him. His eyes darted up to catch a glimpse of the new patron. It took his mind a moment to register what he was seeing.
A tall man with a dark complexion, dressed in an overcoat, was walking toward him. His stride was confident, equal parts determined and relaxed as he strode through the pub.
"Hey, Flint," Blaise said, a corner of his mouth turning up in a smile as he rested an arm on the bar.
Marcus was not prepared for the onslaught of emotions; they hit him like a bat to the chest making it feel as though his lungs had collapsed.
He scrunched his brow, "What are- how did you-," he tried to ask.
Blaise reached across the bar, clapping Marcus softly on the shoulder. "I missed you too, mate."
Marcus ducked his head as he felt tears sting his eyes. He cleared his throat. "Hey, Tony, I'm going to take my break, alright?"
On the other end of the bar Tony raised a hand in acknowledgment. "I got ya!"
"So, how did you find me?" Marcus finally asked as he slipped into a booth, Blaise laying his coat on the seat and sitting down across from him.
Blaise lifted a shoulder, casually dropping it. "You know, the usual way. I heard people screaming for their lives and worked my way back to the source," he said, a grin breaking out as he talked.
Marcus chuckled in his throat, reaching across the table to throw a soft punch. "You fucking wanker!"
Blaise dodged the blow, laughing.
Marcus let the laughter and joy fill his soul, feeling lighter than he had since…well, he couldn't really remember when.
Their laughter died down into silent mirth, both of them leaning back and releasing sighs of contentment.
"But seriously," Marcus said, bringing the conversation back around, "how did you find me?"
Blaise laid an arm across the table, rubbing mindless circles into the surface with his thumb. He pursed his lips and shrugged. "I, erm, might have…diversified a little. You know, after the whole "Slytherins are bad" thing started, I had to find another avenue to grow my fortune."
Marcus' eyes narrowed in confusion and then widened in recognition. A soft chuckled bubbled up in his chest, his shoulders shaking until it finally burst out. "The great Zabini," he choked out between fits of laughter, "investing in a Muggle business?"
Blaise blinked slowly as they began to draw glances from across the room. "Are you quite finished?" he drawled. "Because you're making a scene."
Marcus reeled in his incredulity, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "I haven't laughed that much since-," the last of his laughter died in his throat. He swallowed past a lump that had appeared unbidden. "Well, since before."
Blaise nodded his understanding, the silence creeping in and filling the space between them.
"Look," Blaise said at last, "I didn't come here just to catch up on old times. I've been looking for you, Flint."
"Oh, yeah? What for?"
"I'm starting up a new Quidditch club."
Marcus felt his heart skip a beat at the mention of Quidditch, as it tried to move faster than it had in a long time, sending the blood rushing to his head. His lips grew dry as he took in shallow sips of air.
"Well, relatively new," Blaise continued. "It's actually a team that was disbanded over a century ago. The Banchory-"
"Bangers," Marcus finished breathlessly.
Blaise nodded. "I want to fill the roster out with former Slytherin players. They— we need a rallying point, something we can be proud of; something we can believe in. I think this is it."
Marcus felt like he couldn't breathe.
"You know what I'm going to ask you," said Blaise.
The blood was pounding in Marcus' ears now, his face cold and clammy as all the heat rushed to his chest. "Just bloody ask it already, and stop playing games with me!" he hissed in frustration.
"I want you to Captain the team, Flint."
There it was. What he'd longed for for almost a year now, laid out in front of him; his for the taking. He hadn't even dared dream of this moment, but here it was, exactly how he'd tried not to imagine it.
This was it.
"I can't." Marcus couldn't believe the words coming out of his own mouth.
"What?" Blaise asked in disbelief.
"I can't," Marcus repeated.
"Flint…Marcus," Blaise coaxed, leaning in, "I'm offering you a way back in. A way back to who you are."
"This is who I am now," Marcus said with finality, a lump forming in his throat.
This is who he was now, he thought. It was who he'd been for a while, he just hadn't been willing to admit it to himself. This morning, leaving his wand behind…that had been the final step in letting go. As he voiced the words aloud, the truth of them hit him like a ton of bricks.
"You can't be serious," Blaise said, with a desperate laugh, hoping this was a joke.
"I've made a new life for myself, and now you're asking me to give it up—to risk it all."
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm asking, because it's not just about you!" Blaise shouted, slamming his hand down in frustration.
All eyes turned to them.
The younger man massaged his forehead, bringing his voice back down. "It's not just about you, Flint. This is for all the Slytherins who have had their lives completely derailed. For all of the future Slytherins who will hate who they are just because of some random decision made by a stupid hat. It's about giving them hope…giving them a future."
Marcus scratched at the table, weighing Blaise's words.
"Hey, Marcus, everything all right?"
Marcus looked over to where Chelsea was leaning against the bar, her brows pinched in concern as she looked back and forth between the two men.
Marcus cast her a reassuring smile. "Yeah, everything's good!"
She nodded, her pursed lips and narrowed eyes telling him that he was going to be hearing about it later.
He turned back to Blaise who was looking at him with a disappointed resignation, a soft smile of understanding on his lips as he glanced at Chelsea.
"I'm sorry, Blaise, I can't."
Blaise nodded as if he'd already known his impassioned speech had failed. He slid out of the booth, snatching his coat and fishing through the pockets. He pulled out a small card and tossed it onto the table. "For when you come to your senses," he said, pulling his coat on and shrugging it onto his shoulders. "Because no matter what you've built for yourself here…" he glanced over to where Chelsea was trying to unobtrusively watch them, "this isn't where you belong. And deep down, you know it."
Marcus watched as Blaise stalked away, disappearing through the door with a tinkle of the bell. And he just watched him go.
"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?"
He tore his eyes away from the empty doorway, as Chelsea slid into the recently vacated half of the booth. She picked up the card that Blaise had left.
"Zabini…why does that sound familiar?" she mused, tapping her fingers against the edge of the card.
Marcus softly plucked the card from her hand, his fingers gently brushing hers. "He's just an old friend."
"He wasn't here to poach you, was he?" she asked suspiciously.
Marcus rubbed the card between his thumb and finger before tucking it away in his pocket. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."