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Chapter Text

It started, like most disasters did, with a Quidditch match.

Slytherin had just finished grinding Hufflepuff into the ground, and the corridors near the pitch were a riot of green and silver scarves, shouting, and the lingering smell of broom polish. Percy, who had been studiously trying to ignore the entire sport for the sake of studying, found himself pushed and jostled against the stone wall by the roving crowd.

He adjusted his glasses, scowled at a second-year who elbowed him, and tried to weave his way out of the chaos.
He had important things to do. Like rereading "Hogwarts: A History" for the fifth time.

And then, out of nowhere, a hand snagged his wrist.

Percy whirled around—
"Excuse me—!"

Before he could finish, he was yanked into a shadowed alcove near the broom shed, the heavy door slamming behind them with a bang.

The world went dark and dusty and very small.

Percy stumbled back, heart hammering, only to find himself pinned between a wall of ancient wood and a very large, very smug Marcus Flint.

"What is the meaning of this—" Percy spluttered, pushing his glasses up his nose.
He crossed his arms primly across his chest, trying to ignore how tall Flint was. How broad his shoulders looked in that green Quidditch robes. How his dark hair was still messy from the game, his cheeks flushed from cold and victory.

Marcus smirked.

"You were about to get trampled, Weasley," he said, voice a low rumble.

"I was not," Percy huffed, cheeks burning.
He was painfully aware of how close they were.
There wasn’t more than a few inches of air between them. He could smell grass and wind and a faint, sharp note of soap.

"You looked like a lost lamb," Marcus added, amusement thick in his tone. "All wide-eyed and helpless."

"I— I am perfectly capable of managing myself, thank you!"

"Uh huh." Marcus leaned one hand against the wall, effectively trapping Percy without even touching him. His grin widened, wicked. "You should be grateful, you know. I rescued you."

Percy inhaled sharply, indignant.
"I don't need rescuing!"

Marcus tilted his head, studying him.
The flickering torchlight from the hallway threw odd shadows across his sharp jaw, the lazy droop of his eyes.
He was staring at Percy with a sort of lazy curiosity, like he couldn't quite decide if he wanted to eat him or just keep him.

"You’re cute when you’re mad," Marcus said suddenly.

Percy choked.
"I beg your pardon?"

"Cute," Marcus repeated, louder, grinning wider. "With your little pouty mouth and your oversized glasses and your ears turning red—"

"They are not—!"
Percy reached up instinctively to touch his ears, realized they were scalding, and cursed under his breath.

Marcus laughed.

It wasn’t a mean laugh. It was warm, almost boyish, like he'd genuinely caught Percy off guard and was delighted by it.

Percy glared at him, cheeks burning.

"This is harassment," he muttered. "I could report you."

"You could," Marcus said easily. "But then you'd have to explain why you let me drag you in here without hexing me."

Percy opened his mouth—and realized he didn’t have a good answer.

Because somewhere between being yanked through the door and now, Percy had stopped wanting to escape.

His heart was pounding stupidly in his chest.
There was a strange, fizzy feeling in his stomach, like he’d drunk too much Butterbeer.

Marcus was looking at him now—really looking—his smirk softening just slightly around the edges.

For one breathless moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

And then Marcus leaned in.

Slow, deliberate.
Giving Percy every chance to move away.

Percy should have moved.
He should have given a rousing speech about rules and propriety and personal space.

Instead—
He tipped his chin up, just the tiniest bit.

And Marcus kissed him.

It was messy and warm and tasted faintly like grass and peppermint.

Percy made a startled noise against Marcus’ mouth—something between a squeak and a protest—and then he was kissing back before he even thought about it.

Their noses bumped.
Marcus’ hand found Percy’s hip, steadying him, and Percy’s fingers curled into the front of Marcus’ robes like an anchor.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was intense, clumsy, real—and it left Percy dizzy when Marcus finally drew back.

They hovered there for a moment, breathing heavily, the narrow world of the broom shed spinning around them.

Marcus grinned again, that lazy, self-satisfied curve of his mouth.

"Accident," he said, voice rough. "Total accident."

Percy blinked at him, dazed.

"Accidentally on purpose, you utter barbarian," he managed finally, glaring without much heat.

Marcus laughed—a real laugh this time, deep and pleased.

He leaned back enough to give Percy space, though his hand lingered at Percy’s waist for a second longer than necessary.

"You didn’t punch me," Marcus said, eyebrows raising.

"I could still report you," Percy said primly, adjusting his glasses.
His hands were trembling.

"You could," Marcus agreed, cocking his head. "But you won't."

Percy scowled, but Marcus wasn’t wrong—and they both knew it.

The tension between them crackled like a live wire.

After a beat, Marcus stepped away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his Quidditch robes.

"See you around, Weasley," he said, flashing a grin over his shoulder as he pushed the door open.

The torchlight from the hallway spilled into the shed, catching on the smirk still playing around Marcus’ mouth.

And then he was gone—leaving Percy standing alone, heart racing, mouth tingling.

Percy sagged back against the wall and buried his face in his hands.

"Merlin help me," he muttered.

He was doomed

Chapter Text

The library at Hogwarts was nearly deserted.

The clock had just struck eight, and the hush that blanketed the ancient stone walls only deepened , broken now and then by the faint scratch of a quill or the whisper of a turning page.

Far in the back, past the dusty shelves no one visited unless they were truly desperate to learn about Magical Runes or the finer details of obscure Goblin uprisings, two figures stood half-hidden in the shadows.

Percy Weasley adjusted his glasses and flipped another page of Advanced Prefect Duties , a book he wasn’t even pretending to read anymore.

Because behind him, pressed so close Percy could feel the heat of him through his robes, was Marcus Flint.

Marcus, who had no respect for libraries, for prefect rules, or for Percy’s rapidly unraveling self-control.

“Come on, Weasley,” Marcus murmured against his ear, voice low and maddening. “How long are you gonna make me wait?”

Percy flushed a furious red, clutching his book like a lifeline, even as the words swam uselessly before his eyes.

“I’m trying to study,” he hissed  though his heart clearly wasn’t in it. Especially not when Marcus’s hands slid, maddeningly casual, around his waist.

“You can study me instead,” Marcus said with a slow, infuriating grin, before leaning in to nip at Percy’s jaw.

Percy made a scandalized little noise — a squeak that echoed faintly off the shelves — but he didn’t move. Couldn’t, really.

Merlin help him, but he was pathetically weak when it came to Marcus Flint.

Marcus chuckled, deep and dark, clearly enjoying how Percy practically buzzed with tension. His fingers toyed with the hem of Percy’s robes, teasing and slow, until Percy finally snapped. He spun around, grabbing Marcus by the front of his robes in two tight fists.

“If you’re going to ruin my evening,” Percy muttered, cheeks burning, “then at least do it properly.”

That was all the invitation Marcus needed.

He hauled Percy in and kissed him — fierce, messy, and utterly unrepentant.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t tidy. It was Marcus Flint, all rough edges and shameless affection, and Percy melted against him like a dam breaking.

The kiss deepened, grew hotter. Percy moaned faintly when Marcus’s hand slid up to cradle the back of his neck, the other bracing them both against the shelf so hard it rattled.

Somewhere — through the haze of heat and adrenaline and the heady rush of doing something he definitely shouldn’t — Percy heard footsteps.

No, his brain whispered. Ignore it. A trick of the mind. Nothing to worry about.

He kissed Marcus harder.

Desperate. Dizzy.

“—Percy?!”

Everything froze.

Marcus stiffened. Percy turned slowly, every nerve in his body screaming in horror.

At the end of the row stood Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger — each clutching armfuls of books and wearing the identical expression of someone who had just witnessed a unicorn explode.

There was a long, terrible silence.

Ron made a noise like a dying cat.

Hermione gasped and slapped both hands over her eyes.

Harry blinked. Then blinked again, looking completely and utterly lost.

Percy’s brain gave out. Just—short-circuited entirely.

“I—I—this isn’t—!” he sputtered, shoving Marcus away so fast the other boy nearly fell into the shelf.

Marcus, of course, looked completely unbothered. He casually wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave the trio a smug little smirk.

“Evening, kiddos.”

Hermione shrieked. “We’re leaving!” she yelped, grabbing Harry and Ron by their sleeves and dragging them back down the aisle like the library was on fire.

Ron was still making sounds of betrayal as they went ("P-Percy?? With Flint?? In the LIBRARY?!?"), while Harry just stumbled along, dazed.

The second they were gone, Percy dropped his face into his hands.

“Oh God,” he groaned. “I’m ruined. I’m absolutely ruined. They’re going to tell everyone.”

Marcus slung an arm around his shoulders, still grinning. “If they do, guess we’ll just have to give ‘em something really worth gossiping about next time.”

“You are impossible,” Percy muttered  but he didn’t move away.

Instead, he leaned in, hiding his flaming face against Marcus’s chest.

And, despite everything, he let out a helpless, breathless laugh.

Bonus: Later That Night...

Fred and George kept grinning at Percy across the dinner table, making obnoxious kissy noises behind their goblets.

Ron refused to look at him at all, violently stabbing his potatoes.

Harry kept sneaking glances at him like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen.

And Marcus?

Marcus winked at him from the Slytherin table. Slow. Exaggerated. Wicked.

Percy briefly considered running away to Albania.

But somehow… the warm, weighty look Marcus gave him across the hall made it a little easier to bear.

Maybe, just maybe, getting caught wasn’t the worst thing in the world after all.

Chapter Text

1st Year – The First Glimpse

When Percy Ignatius Weasley boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time, he had two clear goals: earn top marks in every subject and avoid unnecessary trouble. The second was already proving difficult—especially since Fred and George had tried, with no remorse, to slip a Dungbomb into his trunk "for company."

He sat alone in an empty compartment, back straight, hands wrapped tight around Hogwarts, A History. His horn-rimmed glasses slid down his nose every few minutes, and he kept pushing them up with nervous fingers. Every shout or laugh from the corridor made him jump. He didn’t mind people, not really—but conversation was a minefield. What if someone asked about his summer? Or his family?

The train shuddered and lurched forward, and just as the countryside began to blur past the windows, the door slammed open.

A boy stood there, tall for eleven, with a scowl that seemed carved into his face. His nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken once and never quite healed right. There was a pale scar along one cheek, and he carried himself like someone who expected to be shoved.

“Everywhere’s full,” he said, voice gruff.

Percy blinked at him. The boy looked too old for first year. Too sure of himself. Like he’d already been through something Percy couldn’t name.

“I suppose,” Percy said cautiously, shifting his bag to make room. “Just don’t wrinkle the seat.”

The boy raised an eyebrow. Then, without comment, he dropped into the seat opposite him and kicked his feet up. Percy nearly had a stroke.

“I’m Marcus,” the boy added, glancing sideways. “Flint.”

“Percy Weasley,” he replied primly. “Likely to be in Gryffindor.”

Marcus snorted. “You planning to get Sorted like it’s a job interview?”

Percy flushed. “Preparation is important.”

But Marcus didn’t mock him. He didn’t even laugh—just leaned against the window, arms folded, and stared out at the passing hills like he was waiting for something to happen.

Percy pretended to read, though he found himself watching Marcus out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t used to boys like him—rough around the edges, with the kind of casual defiance Percy had only ever seen in Fred and George. He thought Marcus would be loud, or cruel, or reckless. But instead, he was… quiet.

Their knees bumped once. Marcus didn’t move.

When they reached the castle and stood in the queue for Sorting, Percy couldn’t stop thinking about how still Marcus had been the entire train ride. Not tense—just waiting. Like he was used to being told where to go next.

“Flint, Marcus,” Professor McGonagall called.

He walked forward like he owned the floorboards. Percy wasn’t surprised when the Sorting Hat shouted Slytherin the moment it touched his head.

What did surprise him was the brief glance Marcus gave him as he passed the Gryffindor table. Just a flick of the eyes. And then—a nod.

Barely there. But it made something flutter strangely in Percy’s chest.

He didn't know why it stuck with him. But it did.

------

Over the next few weeks, Percy devoted himself to his studies with the kind of tunnel vision only a Weasley under pressure could manage. Hogwarts was incredible—yes—but it was also chaos incarnate. Staircases moved, ghosts bickered, portraits eavesdropped, and nothing ever stayed where it was meant to.

Routine became a necessity.

He quickly earned a reputation as that student—the one whose tie was always straight, whose quill never ran dry, whose answers came rapid and correct, every time.

Marcus Flint, by contrast, developed a very different reputation. He was late often, didn’t bother with pleasantries, and had an uncanny knack for knocking over ink bottles. But despite the smudged essays and crooked robes, he never let anyone push him—or anyone smaller—around.

Once, a second-year shoved a tiny Ravenclaw outside the library. Before Percy could even react, Marcus had the kid pinned to the wall with one hand and a scowl that promised violence. Another time, he muttered something biting when a group of older Slytherins mocked a Hufflepuff’s stutter. That one earned him detention, but the teasing stopped.

Percy noticed. More than he wanted to admit.

He also noticed how Marcus brewed potions with strange precision—his handwriting might be an absolute disaster, but his tonic bubbled the correct shade while everyone else’s looked like swamp water.

When they were paired in Herbology one afternoon, Percy had braced for disaster. Instead, Marcus watched carefully as Percy explained how to cut Dittany stalks without bruising the leaves.

“I’m not stupid,” Marcus muttered when Percy hovered too long.

“I never said you were.”

Marcus studied him for a moment, then gave a single nod. That same subtle, quiet kind of gesture from the first night. Like he’d made a decision Percy wasn’t privy to.

------

It was a rainy Thursday in November when Percy found him, again, tucked in the back corner of the library. His spot. The one near the Restricted Section, warm and half-hidden behind a pillar.

Marcus had claimed it like it had always belonged to him. He had a Sugar Quill in his mouth and a Quidditch magazine sprawled across his lap.

“You’re in my spot,” Percy blurted before he could think.

Marcus looked up slowly. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

Percy hesitated. “I use it a lot.”

“Then sit down,” Marcus said, without moving, but he pulled his legs off the bench.

After a pause, Percy sat. His book felt heavier than usual. They were quiet for a long time, except for the scratch of pages turning and Marcus sucking on the end of his quill.

Eventually: “Do you like Quidditch?”

Percy blinked. “I prefer reading.”

Marcus sighed like someone had just told him there was no pudding left. “Figures.”

But there was no edge to it—just mild, resigned amusement.

Percy glanced at the magazine. Parts were circled. Notes scrawled in the margins: tight angle... keep left knee steady... watch wrist. It was unexpectedly methodical.

“You play?”

“Trying out next year.”

“You should work on your footwork,” Percy said, before he could stop himself. “You leaned too far right during flying class.”

Marcus turned to stare at him. “You were watching?”

Percy straightened. “I observe everyone. It’s important to be informed.”

Marcus let out a short laugh. “You’re bloody weird, Weasley.”

Percy ducked his head—smiling, where Marcus couldn’t see.

------

Spring came in slow stretches of sunlight and long hours in the library. Marcus started appearing more often—not with fanfare, but with quiet presence. He didn’t call Percy his friend. Didn’t sit with him at meals. But he showed up—in Herbology, at the back of queue for pudding, sometimes even outside the greenhouse, saying nothing at all.

One evening in the library, when a third-year jostled Percy’s chair hard enough to nearly spill his ink, Marcus—passing by with a stack of books—stopped, grabbed the older boy by the collar, and shoved him aside without a word. Percy hadn’t even seen him approach. He sat frozen for several seconds after the boy stumbled away, then turned a page in his book like nothing had happened. He didn’t say thank you. Marcus didn’t expect it.

Percy went scarlet. But not from the embarrassment.

It was the warmth in his chest that confused him.

------

On the last day before Easter break, Percy sat under the tree near the lake, alone with a book and a wool scarf around his neck. The sun was out, but the breeze had teeth.

Without a word, Marcus dropped beside him and tossed something into his lap.

A chocolate frog box.

Percy blinked down at it.

“I had an extra,” Marcus muttered, not quite looking at him.

“They’re not very nutritious,” Percy replied.

“They’re not poison, either.”

He peeled it open and took a bite. The chocolate stuck to his teeth, sweet and familiar. Marcus smiled—just a little.

And Percy smiled back.

That night, while organizing his schedule planner, Percy found a folded bit of parchment tucked inside.

That tree spot’s nice. Save it for next time.
—M

He stared at it for a long moment. Then he slid it into the back pocket of his Potions book.

------

It was May when it happened—the moment Percy realized, with a sick twist in his stomach, that Marcus Flint made him nervous.

Not exam-day nervous. Not disappointing-McGonagall nervous. No, this was worse.

This was the kind of nervous that made his voice crack and his palms sweat.

After flying class, Percy had landed last—wobbly, pale, trying not to be sick. His broom skidded sideways and nearly barreled into Marcus, who was already on the ground, adjusting his gloves.

Marcus reached out and caught him by the front of his robes before he could topple.

“You all right?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“I’m—yes—perfectly—thank you,” Percy stammered.

Marcus’s hand was warm. He didn’t let go right away.

They stood too close, too long.

Then Marcus stepped back and rolled his eyes. “You really hate flying, huh?”

Percy cleared his throat. “I’m fine,” he repeated, his ears burning.

He didn’t look fine. He looked like he was about to faint. Or worse—like he wanted to stay exactly where he was.

And that was the worst part of all.

Later that night, Percy sat at a far table in the library, pretending to write an Arithmancy essay he’d already finished two days ago. His quill scratched aimlessly at the parchment while his mind chased itself in circles.

Marcus Flint was not charming. He was not polite. He used “ain’t” in conversation. He slouched. He once ate an entire pumpkin pasty in one bite, like a snake unhinging its jaw.

And yet—and yet—Percy found himself replaying that moment.

The steady grip.
The concern in his voice.
The heat lingering on Percy’s chest where fingers had curled into his robes.

It was inconvenient.
It was illogical.
It was—well, it was annoying, because now Percy couldn’t focus on anything but the stupid sound of Marcus’s low chuckle, the way he called Percy “Weasley” like it was some kind of nickname rather than an insult, and the fact that Marcus had, somehow, snuck under his skin without even trying.

A week later, Percy found a folded parchment slipped between the pages of his Astronomy book in the library.

It read, in Marcus’s barely legible scrawl:
Flying again tomorrow. You’re sitting in front of me. Try not to fall off.

Percy didn’t know whether to laugh or throw the book across the table.

He settled for folding the note and tucking it under his pillow.

------

By the end of first year, Percy had a carefully organized set of notes, perfect scores, a newly acquired taste for ginger biscuits (Marcus’s fault), and a steadily growing collection of hidden smiles and fluttery stomach moments he refused to name.

He hadn’t told anyone, of course. Why would he?

Marcus Flint still made fun of his tie. Still called him “prefect-y” even though he wasn’t one yet. Still teased him for using three quills in a color-coded system.

But once—just once—when Percy fell asleep at his desk in the library, Marcus had nudged him awake and handed him a blanket he’d nicked from somewhere.

“Can’t have your brain freeze up,” he muttered. “It’s the only decent one in this bloody place.”

Percy didn’t thank him until three days later, when he awkwardly shoved a fresh sugar quill into Marcus’s hand after breakfast and mumbled something about “equal exchanges.”

Marcus just grinned.

------

As the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station that summer, Percy glanced across the platform and caught sight of Marcus in the crowd. His mother was tugging at his sleeve, clearly trying to brush his hair flat. Marcus batted her away like a sleepy kneazle, glaring but not moving.

Then—just for a second—he looked up and caught Percy’s eye.

He didn’t wave.
But he nodded.

And Percy, standing perfectly straight between his younger siblings and parent, allowed himself the smallest, most imperceptible nod back.

Chapter Text

It was pretty rare for The Burrow to be silent.

Usually, the creaky old house thrummed with the chaos of seven children and two exhausted parents—not to mention the wild magic that sometimes made the clock spin backwards or the dishes hum lullabies at night.

But tonight, it was still. Empty.

Everyone was off at a wedding in Somerset. Percy had claimed he was too busy prepping for his NEWTs. In truth, he had other plans.

Plans that currently involved Marcus Flint ducking under the crooked kitchen doorway, wind-tossled and grinning like some thief in the night.

“This place is a dump,” Marcus muttered, eyeing the mismatched furniture and low-hanging beams.

“Don’t be rude,” Percy snapped, tugging him toward the narrow staircase by the sleeve. “This dump raised me.”

“Yeah, and you ran screaming outta it.”

“Yes, well,” Percy murmured, cheeks pink. “I’m not exactly the favored son.”

Marcus gave him a look—dry, unreadable—but followed him up the stairs anyway.

They ended up in Percy’s old bedroom, which was painfully neat. The kind of tidy that looked like someone had tried very hard not to leave a trace.

The second the door shut behind them, Percy turned—and Marcus was already there.

It started fast, hard.

Their mouths crashed together like magnets, tension crackling through every touch. Percy shoved Marcus against the door, fingers fisting in his jacket like he couldn’t stand another second of space between them.

“Thanks Merlin my family’s not here right now,” he muttered between frantic kisses. “Because you’ll get us caught.”

Marcus chuckled, deep and low. “Isn’t that half the thrill?”

Percy rolled his eyes, but kissed him again, more desperate now. His hands slid up Marcus’s chest, into his hair. They stumbled toward the bed, bumping into an old trunk. Percy cursed under his breath, but Marcus caught him around the waist before he could fall.

The mattress groaned under their weight. Percy straddled him, breathless, glasses askew, hair tossled.

“You’re so bloody bossy,” Marcus said, grinning up at him.

“And you like it.”

“Maybe.”

The kiss that followed was slower, hungrier. Marcus’s hands slipped beneath Percy’s jumper, palms warm against his back. Percy arched into the touch, heat flaring sharp and fast between them. They moved together, limbs tangled, the old quilt bunching beneath them.

Marcus’s fingers found Percy’s waistband, slipping just under—and Percy gasped, catching his wrist.

“Not yet,” he wispered, eyes dark. “Just... this. For now.”

Marcus didn’t argue. He leaned up, brushing his nose against Percy’s cheek.

“You’re the worst tease.”

“You broke into my family’s house. Be grateful I’m letting you kiss me on my childhood bed.”

That earned a real laugh.

They kept kissing. Slow. Hot. Percy’s mouth against Marcus’s jaw, his throat, the curve of his shoulder. Marcus’s voice went hoarse from the way Percy whispered his name like it meant something.

Outside, the Burrow creaked. Wind stirred the trees.

But the world stayed silent.

For once, Percy wasn’t a prefect. Or a brother. Or a disappointment.

He was just himself.

And Marcus—Marcus saw him.

------

There was nothing in the world but Marcus’s mouth on his neck. Nothing but Percy’s fingers caught in too many layers and the groaning bed beneath them.

He was flushed, pupils blown, one leg hooked around Marcus’s hip like gravity didn’t apply.

And then—

“Percy, did I leave my—”

The door creaked open.

Arthur Weasley’s voice broke through the haze—and then stopped dead.

Percy froze. Blood turning to ice.

In one wild motion, he scrambled off Marcus like he’d touched a cursed object, yanking his shirt down and shoving Marcus halfway under the quilt.

Marcus groaned from beneath the covers. “Oh, bollocks.”

Arthur stood frozen in the doorway, holding a rusted Muggle screwdriver like it had personally betrayed him.

Silence.

Then, blinking rapidly, Arthur said in a voice two octaves too high, “I—ah—I see you’ve got...company.”

“Father—!” Percy choked. “What are you— You were supposed to be in Somerset!”

“Yes, well,” Arthur said faintly, looking anywhere but the bed. “I forgot my... screwdriver. For the radio. I—er—I didn’t think anyone would be home.”

Marcus poked one eye out from under the blanket. “Afternoon, Mr. Weasley.”

Arthur made a strangled noise and backed out of the room, shutting the door like he feared it might explode.

Another silence.

Percy fell face-first onto the pillow and screamed.

Marcus laughed. Loud and unrepentant. “Well. That’s one way to meet the parents.”

Percy hurled a pillow at his head.

------

Percy didn’t sleep a wink.

He spent the night pacing the floor, muttering things like “I’m never showing my face again” and “maybe I’ll transfer to Durmstrang”, while Marcus lounged shirtless on the bed, utterly unbothered.

“You’re overreacting,” Marcus yawned. “It’s not like he caught me starkers.”

“He caught us grinding on each other, Marcus. In my childhood bed.”

“Yeah, and he lived.” A beat. “Though I did think he might faint.”

Now, with dread coiling in his stomach, Percy trudged into the kitchen. Marcus followed behind, whistling like it was any other morning. Percy wanted to hex him.

Arthur sat at the kitchen table, cradling a mug of tea like it might offer him divine guidance. The Daily Prophet was spread in front of him, untouched, as if he’d opened it just to have something to look at.

Molly and the rest of the family were still in Somerset for the wedding—thank every merciful deity Percy could name—but Arthur had apparently come back early. Why, Percy didn’t know. A forgotten tool, maybe? Something to do with the blasted radio he’d been tinkering with all week?

Whatever the reason, Percy was now living his worst nightmare.

The kitchen felt too quiet. Not peacefully so—more like it was holding its breath, waiting for the tension to snap.

“Morning,” Arthur said stiffly, after a long pause.

“Good morning, sir,” Marcus said brightly, sitting down as if he lived there.

Percy nearly choked. “Marcus—”

“Want me to help with brekfast?” Marcus offered, already rising. “I cook.”

“You cook?” Arthur echoed, blinking.

“Learned in sixth year. Mum said I’d starve otherwise. My dad once burned soup.”

Arthur gave a startled little chuckle. “Soup is tricky sometimes.”

Percy sat down very slowly, watching this exchange like a Niffler had just offered tax advice.

Marcus took control of the stove with alarming ease—sleeves rolled up, wand in hand. In no time, scrambled eggs, toast, and sausages were sizzling on the table. Arthur looked faintly impressed, despite himself.

They ate in awkward silence.

Then: “So,” Arthur said at last, “how long have you two been...erm...?”

Marcus looked up. “Shagging?”

Percy inhaled an entire piece of toast.

Arthur turned beet red.

“I—he—what Marcus meant was—” Percy wheezed, coughing into a napkin.

“—Seeing each other,” Marcus corrected, smirking. “Since last spring.”

Arthur took a long, deliberate sip of tea. “I see.”

A beat passed.

Marcus asked, perfectly casual: “So...how was the screw driver?”

Arthur blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The one you came home for.”

“Oh. Right. Er. Quite...screwy.”

Percy wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

But strangely enough, by the end of breakfast, Arthur wasn’t glowering. He even asked Marcus if he liked Quidditch—which, of course he did; he was the bloody Quidditch captain, after all. Then Marcus launched into a story about accidentally setting his school robes on fire in fifth year, and Arthur actually laughed.

And Percy—still red to the tips of his ears—realized something mildly terrifying:

He might survive this.
Just barely

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley prided himself on three things: his ability to compartmentalize, his flawless professionalism, and his utter lack of patience for idiocy.

He had not, in all his plans, accounted for Marcus bloody Flint crashing into his office and shattering all three pillars in under five minutes.

The door slammed open, that made Percy’s inkwell rattle. A lesser man might have flinched. Percy only sighed, and without looking up from the parchment, he said flatly, “If you insist on dramatics, Mr. Flint, I must ask you to foot the repair costs.”

"You're my what?" Marcus barked. He stood in the doorway like a storm cloud, broad shoulders tensed, arms crossed tight over his chest. His eyes were sharp and wild, flicking back and froth between Percy and the Ministry contract clenched in his hand like he meant to strangle it.

Percy finally looked up, expression smooth as polished glass. "Your provisional Guide match," he said. "Temporary. Mandated trial pairing. It’ll be over within the week, assuming you don't maul someone before then."

"You think this is funny?"

"No," Percy replied, setting his quill down with exagerrated care. "I think it's an unfortunate administrative oversight that will resolve itself after seventy-two hours and a signed form of mutual incompatibility. Standard procedure."

Marcus paced like a caged animal, tension rolling off him in waves heat, frustration, scent, sound, everything dialed up too high. Percy felt it through the unsealed bond between them, a crackling thread of psychic noise zinging in his skull every time Flint drew too near.

Unbonded Sentinels, he had learned, were about as subtle as bombarda spells in a library.

"You don’t get it," Marcus snapped. "I don’t want a bloody Guide. Especially not a Ministry bootlicker with a superiority complex."

Percy tilted his head. "Excellent. The feeling is mutual."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut glass.

Then unexpectedly Marcus barked a laugh. Short, surprised, and edged with disbelief. He ran a hand through his already wild hair, leaving it worse off than before.

"You really don’t like me, do you?"

Percy leaned back in his chair, hands steppled. " We were in rival Houses for seven years, Flint. I remember your idea of teamwork involved breaking noses and yelling louder than anyone else on the pitch. Frankly, I disliked you before I even knew your name.."

“They had it coming."

Percy arched a brow. “Still irrelevant to your inability to regulate your senses without snapping at everyone within a twenty-foot radius.”

“I don’t snap.”

"You do. Constantly. It’s the auditory bleed. Frankly, it's appalling."

Marcus took a step forward before catching himself, his body taut like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words—or worse, had too many of them and none he wanted to share. Percy could feel the charge through the unbonded line again: temper, heat, confusion, something darker buried under instinct.

“And you think sitting behind that desk with your quill and your little checklists makes you an expert?”

“I think," Percy said, his voice cool and precise, "that I passed my Guide clearance at the top of my class, that I know the symptoms of sensory collapse when I see them, and that I would very much like you to stop broadcasting your emotions across departmental lines before I’m forced to file a formal complaint.”

He rose, smooth and deliberate, to his full height, taller than average, though Marcus still loomed over him by inches and mass. Not that Percy cared. He’d worked under Umbridge. Intimidation didn’t land.

Marcus stared at him. Not with the usual aggressive bravado Percy remembered from the Quidditch pitch, but with something warier now. Conflicted. Almost—almost—curious.

"You’re not scared of me.”

"No," Percy said. "You’re not nearly important enough for that."

Another bark of laughter, more real this time. Marcus scrubbed a hand over his jaw, then dropped into the chair opposite Percy’s desk without being invited. It creaked under his weight.

"Merlin, you’re an insufferable bastard."

"Ministry-trained," Percy said crisply, returning to his notes. “We come that way.”

They sat like that for a minute—Marcus radiating heat and static from his side of the desk, Percy composing a calm note to HR about the poor ventilation in the Auror Annex.

The bond thread between them thrummed faintly. Unformed. Unwanted. And still... there.

“You know this isn’t going to work,” Marcus said eventually, quieter now.

“Yes,” Percy replied, not looking up. “But that’s what trial pairings are for. Prove it doesn’t. Then move on.”

Marcus grunted. "And if it do work?"

Percy paused, just for a beat, before responding.

"Then Merlin helb us both."