Chapter Text
Act I.
I.
Rain Soaked
It’s around breakfast on a Tuesday that realization hit him, clearly and inevitably, and the only effect it had on him was a settling feeling of weary acceptance in his stomach.
Slowly Harry continued chewing on his toast, his previous day-dreaming gaze still vaguely aligned with the Slytherin table. He took a deep breath through his nose before letting the air out again — his eyes catching the raven black hair that had him in a strange spell for around two weeks now.
Bugger. I’m gay.
And maybe he’d already known, deep down. With all the stolen glances towards blokes, with his wandering thoughts towards the male body when he was having a wank, with the tingling butterflies in his chest whenever he had the chance to talk to Cedric. Those certainly weren’t the usual signs of straightforward heterosexuality. Hell, his taste in men even had time to develop before he finally was being honest with himself about it.
It was obvious to him now that he’d had a monster crush on Cedric; the boy was assertive, brave, but also considerate and kind. Handsome, most certainly. Popular, too. Someone appropriate to have a crush on at least, if Harry had to confess that he was gay and someone was annoying enough to probe. ‘So, who do you have a crush on? There’s got to be someone!’
But Cedric was taken and besides the friendly exchanges they had after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, they never talked. Nor did Cedric seem to want to. And frankly, Harry had enough on his plate; all the darkness he’d experienced in the past years in addition to almost being burned alive by a dragon seemed to have caught up on him. Maybe this had soured his tastes because for days, whenever he sat down for a meal, his eyes found only one and the same student.
Marcus Flint.
He’d never stood out to Harry before. Well, of course he had in some way; he was the captain of the Slytherin quidditch team and even if Gryffindors would never say it out loud, Harry had to begrudgingly admit that he did a damn good job at it. Even if his strategies on the field were pretty straightforward and lacking finesse, they worked a little too well sometimes.
Harry remembered the first time Marcus Flint fell into his line of sight. Back in his first year, after the fiasco with Malfoy and the brooms. Then, he only thought of him as a bully and he certainly was. Still was now. So how and when did Harry's perception change?
Maybe he'd been beaten up one too many times by his cousin's friends and developed a weird taste for it, Harry thought wearily, thinking himself a little bit of a freak. And wouldn't that be old news? Harry Potter, a freak.
He vividly remembered an afternoon not too long ago in the seemingly endless summers he’d spent with the Dursley’s, when Blake Davies, some loose acquaintance of Dudley, had him in a chokehold in some back alley. Laughing, taunting and showing off to his friends by flexing against Harry's throat.
Harry had been almost too mortified by how turned on he was by Davies' taut muscle against his soft neck. Too turned on to properly fight against it in any case, only squirming weakly against the hold — hoping desperately that the large boy or any of his friends wouldn't notice the inappropriate tent in his trousers, because then he definitely would've received a proper beating.
That certainly was the first time he could recall where, in the aftermath of that humiliation, it took a good half hour in the filthy alley to will the boner down.
Harry swallowed a piece of toast, his brain now unhelpfully providing visuals on how muscular Marcus Flint’s arms were — he’d seen them sometimes in the changing rooms when the Gryffindors had quidditch practice right after the Slytherins; on days where it was particularly hot and the older boy refused to put on a shirt after leaving until a teacher would reprimand him.
Harry felt his cheeks warm and he ripped his gaze away.
Bugger. I’m gay.
“Harry? Are you alright?”
Hermione, sharp as ever, must’ve noticed his inner turmoil even if they now often spent breakfast in an awkward silence. Ron was absent and nowhere to be found.
“Fine.” Harry managed and cleared his throat, “The- the toast is just a little dry, is’ all.”
Hermoine frowned harder, her bushy brows now truly drawn together. She seemed to scrutinize him for a moment before lifting her head, chin up. “Then use more butter.” She said plainly, focusing back on her own meal.
Harry couldn’t tell if she believed his lame excuse or not. It was hard to get a read out of anyone these days, as seemingly everyone had turned against him as soon as his name had been spat out of that forsaken goblet. Not that Harry was to blame in any way, he knew the truth, but no one seemed to believe him no matter what he’d said, or how hard he’d pleaded.
What hurt the most was that not even Ron took his word for it. Years of friendship down the drain because Harry had rotten luck and his word apparently didn’t mean shit. Had it ever meant anything to Ron, then? Hermione kind of stood in between them, awkwardly trying to still be a friend to both of them, but Harry deep down knew who she liked better. It would only be a matter of time until he was all alone again.
God, to fall off a cliff.
“I think I’m finished.” Harry said, standing.
“But you barely touched your toast.” Hermione pointed out.
Simply shrugging, Harry turned to leave. “I’m just not that hungry.”
The thing was, Harry would’ve been a lot more preoccupied with Ron simply abandoning him, turning nasty whenever their paths did cross, but he had a lot bigger fish to fry.
Mainly with the whole Triwizard Tournament, that he did not sign up for and had to do anyway; the one where he almost just up and died already because he was being chased around by an angry, protective dragon and only got away because he was decent at flying his broom. And with this task he’d had some help. If Hagrid hadn’t let him in on dragons being part of the first task, Harry would’ve been fucked.
And now he had this stupid egg and didn’t know what to do with it. It’s not like he hasn’t already tried many things, spells and physical methods alike, but all he ever got was the deafening, headache inducing screeching. It was keeping him awake at night and robbed him of any focus he may have had on the lessons.
Because Harry wasn’t stupid, not at all, but if he didn’t find the hints within the egg soon he was genuinely fearing for his life. If the second task was anything like the first, he wouldn’t be able to just shimmy his way through it without any preparation and hope for the best; with the Triwizard Tournament, Harry had found out soon enough, the margin of error was death.
His lessons ended and he wouldn’t have been able to recall a single thing that was said that day and this had now begun to be a regular thing. His thoughts were simply somewhere else, understandably, in Harry's book at least. There just had to be something! Frustrated, he made his way towards the library to once again pore over any book that had something to do with eggs in any shape or form — for the second time, as he’d done so already, with little success.
Harry ignored the jabs and laughter that followed him through the hallways, only quickly greeted Madam Pince who threw him a pinched glare and made his way towards the wall of books, gathering some after a quick search and seated himself.
Over time, the library filled itself with students and study groups. None of which sat at the same table as him. Harry only faintly noticed, taking notes out of the books that surrounded him, but still he thought that behavior was ridiculous. Hero one minute, pariah the next. He simply couldn’t win, could he? He snorted mutedly, continuing to leaf through a large magical fauna book, ignoring the faint twinge in his heart.
Just as he was deeply focused on another chapter of the book, his neck craned over the page and his left hand fingers absentmindedly twirling the locks that had grown down towards his neck, someone in his proximity cleared his throat.
Harry looked up. And cursed inwardly.
Just as luck willed it, Marcus Flint stood in front of him at the other side of the table, tall and imposing, with an unimpressed look on his face, his book bag slung loosely over one of his shoulders. Harry’s mouth dried out faster than he could’ve said “Slytherin” and his brain just wasn’t catching up.
Flint quirked a dark brow. “Are these seats taken?”
Harry opened his mouth and for just a moment or two must’ve looked like a fish out of water before his brain finally decided to function normally again. “Oh. Ah, no, they’re free. Just… seat yourself wherever I guess.”
“Thanks.”
Flint unceremoniously did that, dropping his book bag a seat down and at the other side on the table, the heavy books in the bag causing a low thud to ring through the library. Decidedly ignoring Madam Pince’s angry shushing, Flint shed his robe, sat down and began unpacking books, parchment and quills. Harry kind of couldn’t help but watch the older boy move, especially as he hadn’t seen Flint this close in a long time, always wistfully staring across the dining tables in the great hall, but when the other began rolling up his jumper’s sleeves, exposing his strong forearms, Harry quickly averted his gaze.
He couldn’t afford to be distracted right now, he scolded himself, not even when his super inappropriate, gay crush was seemingly unafraid to share a table with him. Harry had to tell himself that it didn’t say a lot. Hogwarts students in general seemed to care a lot about the school’s inner hierarchy, which was one of the reasons Harry had fallen from the top to the bottom of the food chain overnight.
And Flint, well, he didn’t seem to care at all. About anything, really, as far as Harry could tell. Flint did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, unapologetically, which seemingly included not only fouling at quidditch, but also practically sitting next to a cursed and shunned Harry Potter in the library because no other table was available.
Harry now committed to burying his hand fully in his hair, pulling slightly every time he felt the urge to look at Flint from the corner of his eye. He had to find out more about this damned egg; his time was slowly running out.
And so he spent what felt like hours like this, sifting through page after page, writing useless notes and not finding anything of substance. It slowly got dark outside and the library emptied itself. Harry sighed out loud and sat back, only to meet Flint’s gaze. He’d almost forgotten the other was even there and his heart did a little beat of shock in fear he might’ve disturbed him. But it seemed like Flint was done with whatever he’d been doing, presumably homework, as he was in the beginning of packing up.
“Trouble?” Flint simply asked.
Harry licked his lips, contemplating if he should indulge in this question or not. “Kinda,” he then said. “The next task is coming up. I don’t have an idea yet.”
Harry blamed his honesty on tiredness and exhaustion, and perhaps on the fact that he hadn’t properly talked to anyone who hadn’t been hostile in some shape or form in ages. Even Hermione seemed a bit brisk these days.
“Hm.” Flint only emitted, his voice a pleasant timbre. “Why not ask Diggory? He seemed pretty confident the last time I saw him.”
Harry has actually considered this in the past and not just once, but multiple times. Something was always holding him back, for one it had been that brief crush he’d had on Cedric and the subsequent awkwardness in conversations on his part, but also the simple fact that he was a fellow contender. Yes, Cedric had been cordial if not downright friendly towards him as one of few since the Tournament began, but that didn’t mean he was ready and willing to help Harry out with the next task. And it wasn’t like Harry was expecting the Hufflepuff to intentionally sabotage him with whatever answer he was giving him; Harry was more imagining Cedric to give him an apologetic, pitying smile and tell him to go figure it out by himself.
Somehow the picture of kind rejection hurt worse than whatever else his brain could conjure up as a reaction.
Harry swallowed. “I- I’m not sure he’s willing to help me out.”
Flint, in the midst of just shoving his belongings into the book bag without much care, shot him a glance and shrugged. “You’ll never know if you don’t ask, Potter.”
The sound of Flint saying his name sent a shiver down Harry's spine.
Flint slung the bag over one shoulder and turned, giving a dismissive wave with his hand as a means of goodbye. “See you around, Potter.” He said casually and, without looking back, left the library.
Leaving an admittedly stunned Harry behind.
Harry didn’t quite know how long he'd been sitting in this strange kind of stupor until Madam Pince primly cleared her throat. “The library is closing in ten minutes, Mr. Potter.” Her eyes, with an eyebrow disapprovingly raised, wandered over the tower of books he’d accumulated.
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
Harry straightened his back, standing up, only then noticing how long he must’ve sat in that hunched over position for hours and, trying to get his spine back into usual shape, made his way to sort the books back. He managed just in time and Madam Pince closed the door behind him.
Later that night he was lying in bed, wide awake, letting the conversation he’d had with Flint play over and over again in his head. He came to the conclusion that it must’ve meant nothing. Flint didn’t care about anything and the conversation had just been something in passing, something someone who didn’t pay any mind to school hierarchies would’ve made with him when sitting at the same table and noticing Harry’s obvious plight.
Nothing worth reading into. Flint was a Slytherin after all. Not a Slytherin associating with Malfoy and his goons, but a Slytherin nonetheless. And even if he didn’t give much of a damn about petty school power plays, housing rows were something else. Slytherin and Gryffindor just didn’t mix.
But his words gave Harry something to think about. You’ll never know if you don’t ask. It was the truth if nothing else.
At this point Harry knew the books would lead him nowhere and inspecting the egg for the thousand's time would only drive him mad. He also doubted Hermione would find anything else either; she’d not been particularly enthusiastic about the research, too tangled up in their trio falling apart and appeasing Ron’s anger.
So maybe Harry just had to suck it up and ask Cedric. Maybe, just maybe, the older boy would actually help him out. With newfound determination Harry fell into a dreamless sleep.
When Harry actually found Cedric the next day, asking him about the egg when none of his friends were there to listen and possibly ridicule him, the Hufflepuff had smiled, given him a cryptic answer and access to the prefect’s baths.
Harry had come out of that conversation confused and a little frustrated. What would a fancy bath be of use for his second task? But he was frankly out of options. It was the middle of December and the date of the next task was creeping closer and closer — and so he took the cursed egg into the baths with him.
And how was he ever supposed to find out on his own that the egg contained merpeople’s singing?!
Well, now Harry knew what his next obstacle probably entailed; something that involved the lake and merpeople. That should’ve calmed Harry’s nerves, after all he now kind of knew what was coming, right?
But it didn’t at all. It only managed to worsen it. How was he even supposed to breathe underwater? What would the task entail? Was Harry prepared and ready to do it all?
The answer was decidedly no. No, he wasn’t prepared and ready in the slightest bit. And to make matters worse, the taunts, jabs and downright malicious attacks he experienced on a daily basis only got worse to the point where he couldn’t even walk down one hallway properly without a stinging hex or a snickered insult thrown at him. Harry didn’t want to admit it, not aloud, but it was getting to him.
More and more he pulled back, keeping to himself. He had to cope somehow, right? And one evening he decided that he’d had enough; and that he just had clear his head. The only thing that would do it effectively, the only thing he could think of, was flying his broom.
The quidditch season was done for the year and the pitch was closed, technically. But that certainly wouldn’t stop Harry as he grabbed his broom, practically fled the warm dormitory, throwing on a robe and a scarf and making his way to the field, the dark December evening already in full progression as he left the castle in his wake.
The wind was tearing at his clothing and his hair, darkness slowly descending over the Scottish landscape washing everything in a dark blue and gray, twirling and tearing limp brown leaves through the air as if they were little playthings. It looked a bit like a storm was brewing on the horizon, but Harry willingly ignored it — he just needed to do this, feel the cold air in his face. Needed to feel alive.
He’d outflown a dragon. Wasn’t he practically invincible on a broom?
The quidditch pitch was predictably deserted, the empty ranks craning like hollow trees over the field. The air was devoid of any human sound; only the eerie rush and murmur of the wind and trees underlining the dark scenery. Harry mounted the broom and simply flew.
The first ten minutes felt like heaven.
The ice cold wind drove through every corner and pocket of his clothes, brushed at his face like a sharp, cold caress of wild, natural love. Like he’d already known, a thunderstorm came rolling in, even darker clouds pushing into the sky, a low rumble rolling through the air. Little by little droplets of water came splashing down on Harry’s face as he maneuvered through the empty ranks and over the field until it developed into a full rain. Soon he thrust through the air in the thick curtain of rain, his clothes soaking through and cold seeping in, but he didn’t care; the wet pearls ran down his face and he could barely see, but he’d never felt more alive. And it was all perfect, just right.
Until it wasn’t.
His broom had felt a little weird from the start, not as instinctively familiar in his hands and its movements as it usually did, as it should’ve. But Harry didn’t think much of it, with flying, some days just were a little better than others. But when his broom didn’t react as he wanted it to, he started to get concerned; and when his Firebolt finally ,decidedly, did not do what it was supposed to and instead of turning left starting to wobble starkly, he knew there was something terribly wrong.
Yes, Harry was invincible on a broom. On a fully functioning broom. But now he was high up above in the sky, deafening storm and thunder rumbling in his ears, the merciless gusts of wind throwing him around at high speeds — the grip on his broom grew slippery, his hands felt stiff and frozen and the wobble got even worse. There was no doubt left, someone had messed with his broom!
That’s when Harry knew he was going down, that he was about to crash.
He had no control over his broom anymore, but he still tried to somehow land, land, land. Why didn’t it do what he wanted?! Why did it throw him around, why—
Harry was about to fall. From dangerous, impossible heights, his chance of surviving would be slim to nonexistent. He felt his center of weight shift, the one thing that kept him on the broom, towards the left and—
Something crashed into him, hard, throwing his weight back; so hard in fact his ribs hurt at the impact. Arms slung around his middle, strong and stabling despite the wild winds and the bucking broom.
"Potter!”
A yell pushed through the deafening forces of nature, through the disorientating hail of water. Harry was unable to recognize the voice right away, too terrified and panicked, not sure what to do.
“Potter, hold on to me!”
The direct command somehow got through to his brain and he slung the arms around the other person, holding on for dear life. Underneath his fingers he felt the soaking wet, cold fabric of another student’s robe, his cheek pressing a little awkwardly against the other's chest and out of the corner of his eyes and through the darkness he could see legs bracketing a broom. Harry was still terrified, but whatever his savior was doing worked, the pure strength and immaculate control over his own broom kept Harry’s bastardized one in check, descending them down as fast and careful as it was possible, until they were only a meter above ground tumbling and falling the rest of the way.
Harry hit the wet grass hard, sliding, the impact sending shockwaves through his body and pushing the air out of his lungs. He gasped, thinking he couldn’t breathe, gasping and wheezing for air; lying on the abandoned quidditch pitch and staring into the dark, dark sky, rain hitting his face in fat drops.
“Potter! Fuck, are you alright?!”
Harry wanted to answer, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate at first.
“Y—” He gasped for air again. “Y-Yes.”
The other person let out a sigh of relief so forcefully, it almost sounded like a shout. “AH, thank fuck.”
Slowly calming down, Harry started finding his way back to reality, his lungs working properly again after a few seconds of utter embarrassment and he started to sit up, his shoulder and ribs aching. He lifted his gaze, only to stare at Marcus Flint.
The Slytherin looked a little rough. Wet to the bone with his dark, full brows set in a deep frown and his usually light, grayish eyes looking like bottomless, black pits in the onset of the December night, roaming over Harry’s face and body, seemingly looking for injuries.
“Flint?!” Harry couldn’t help but yelp.
Flint's face morphed into an angry snarl.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Potter?! Flying in a thunderstorm with a compromised broom! Are you actually trying to kill yourself, or what?!” The older boy spat, the rain running in thick droplets down his flattened raven hair and face, getting caught in his long, dark lashes, making him blink excessively.
Harry reeled back a bit by the forcefulness of it, trying to get up and his hand almost slipped on the wet grass before managing to stand straight, his body protesting and still aching from the crash landing.
“What?! No, of course not!” Harry immediately shot back, “I just wanted to go for a fly, I didn’t know there was a storm coming. And my broom— I—”
He looked back towards his Firebolt, who now lied innocently still on the quidditch pitch as if nothing had happened. “I don’t know what happened.” Harry admitted, now more quietly, his voice breaking a little, “It just started acting weird.”
Neither of them spoke for a few long moments after that, the storm speaking for itself. Flint's chest and shoulders rose and fell with the heavy breathing he was doing; his action of saving Harry must've been exhausting to him as well. Then he just shook his head.
“Whatever, Potter. We’ve gotta get out of this storm.” He said and grabbed his broom.
Flint had led Harry to the dormant changing rooms, casting a lumos towards the lamp to lighten the space. Harry, still a little rattled and embarrassed by what had happened, just stood there, sniffing a little; it had been a little stupid to go flying in a storm, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Hindsight was 20/20. And he couldn’t have possibly anticipated that his broom had been tampered with.
He shoved that shocking fact down for the moment, instead just focusing on the here and now. Mainly on Flint in front of him, who lifted his arms, looking down on himself before cursing sharply and grabbing the hem of his shirt.
The Slytherin wore some long-sleeve sports shirt, made for quidditch and flying, which was hexed to be a little water resistant, but it stood no chance against the downpour of the night. The steady, fast beat of the droplets sounded against the changing room’s roof, filling the silence with its rhythm.
Flint pulled the wet shirt over his head. Harry stared in surprise, a little taken aback that the older boy had absolutely no qualms in undressing in front of him. Sure, boys from the quidditch teams changed with each other all the time, but a Slytherin and a Gryffindor in one changing room somehow felt different.
And yeah, Harry was still rattled, confused, exhausted and very cold.
But Flint had abs. Not like the underwear models in the magazines aunt Petunia used to hide in her knitting basket underneath the wool, all crisp and clean and kind of strange looking, but the traces of abs were there, situated right beneath the ridiculously full pecs. Dark hair trailed over his chest, down his stomach and vanishing into the trousers. Harry could see the beginnings of a happy trail and felt his cheeks heat up. Flint, scowling, threw the wet shirt without much care on one of the benches where it landed with a loud squelch, the throw giving Harry an excellent view of his strong arms.
How old was Flint again? Sixteen or seventeen, allegedly, people said he was one of the oldest students in his year and Oliver Wood once scoffed about the fact that Flint used to be the Slytherin’s Chaser and still spent a lot of time doing weight exercises, before becoming captain in fourth year and switching to being a beater. ‘Chasers, just like Seekers, have to be light and fast.’ Wood had said dismissively.
Apparently Flint had never stopped doing those weight exercises, because at sixteen, seventeen he looked hot, downright obscenely so.
Harry quickly tore his gaze away when Flint turned towards him.
“Get your shirt off, Potter.” He demanded roughly.
“What?” Harry could only squawk.
“I said, get your shirt off. I want to dry them and it works better when you’re not wearing it.”
A little stumped, Harry hesitated a little before chucking his scarf and robe, quickly tearing his sweater over his head and awkwardly laying it next to Flint’s. Acutely aware that his naked upper body was certainly not worthy in comparison to Flint’s, he crossed his arms. The years with the Dursley's haven't been kind to his physique. With the wet clothes off, he got even colder, shivering.
Flint, about to perform the spell, glanced towards him, before rolling his eyes and lowering his wand. Harry, confused, watched the boy walk towards a duffle bag at the very other end of the bench and pull out a dark green jumper. As Flint came closer again, he nodded once towards Harry — “Think quick!” — and threw it.
Harry caught it. “Uhm?”
“Well, put it on. You’re standing there like all dressed up with nowhere to go. Or, more like not dressed up at all.” He commented drily.
“Okay? Er, right.”
Harry wasn’t about to complain. That jumper looked cozy as all hell. He quickly put it on and predictably, it was way too big for him, the sleeves reaching over his fingers and the bottom almost reaching to the middle of his thighs, but it was just as comfortable and cozy as Harry thought it would be. Instantly, he felt how he was warming up. There was a hint of Flint’s scent in there, but Harry resisted the urge to push his nose into the fabric. “I— thank you, Flint.” He said quietly.
Everything Flint had done so far, even if a little roughly, had been nothing but kindness at the core. A lot of people had been treating Harry badly for years, but in recent weeks even people whom he’d considered friends were turning their backs on him or gone as far as to grow resentful and mean, like Ron. Marcus Flint, a Slytherin that was, like, three years older than him that only knew him from quidditch matches was the kindest person he’d interacted with in weeks.
“Yeah, whatever, Potter.” Flint grunted, moving his wand. What seemed to be a hot air stream shot out of the tip of the wand and Flint's shirt dried immediately.
“Are you even seventeen?” Harry thought to ask.
Flint raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah?”
It sounded like Flint wouldn’t have cared either way. Wealth and a family name really must do wonders, though Harry mused that Flint would’ve performed underage magic even if he wasn’t from an influential pureblood family. He seemed like the type.
Flint now waved his wand at Harry’s sweater. The hot air stream came, but unlike before, Harry’s sweater stayed soaking wet, little droplets collecting into a small puddle underneath the bench. Flint cursed, throwing his hands in the air.
“Merlin’s ballsack, Potter! Have you been hit with every hex on this forsaken planet?!”
Harry sighed wearily. “Well, they’ve been coming at me pretty regularly for me this year. So, I might as well have been.”
“Clothes staying wet is one thing,” Flint hissed, “But a poorly performed, faulty wobble hex on a broom that’s regularly used and apparently happens to react very badly in a thunderstorm is another thing entirely. If I hadn’t been there, you would’ve lain on that quidditch pitch with a broken neck, Potter!”
Harry instinctively glanced towards his Firebolt that he’d leaned against the wall, then shot back at Flint. “You say that as if that’s my fault! I can’t help people wishing me ill, I didn’t put my name in that bloody goblet and yet everyone still treats me like I did, like I'm just some fame seeking cheat! I don’t think that many people would’ve been sad about my broken neck!”
Flint shifted back a little, his shoulders slumping. The frown stayed. “I believe you.”
Harry’s angry train of thoughts came to an abrupt halt. “What?”
“I said I believe you. I don’t think you put your name in either.” Flint said, casually.
Harry blinked, words failing him for a moment. He’d expected to have to fight tooth and nail to proclaim his innocence again, instead Flint to the wind out of his sails. “You do?”
Flint rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I’m not sure how proficient you are, Potter, but I hardly think you’re some prodigy that’s able to bypass the magical rules of some ancient artifact like the goblet.”
Silence spread after that as the words slowly sunk in with Harry until they registered fully. “ THANK YOU! Wow!” Harry exclaimed, letting himself fall onto the bench, shaking his head. “You really are the first one to say that. I think even the friends that told me they believe me doubt me to some degree.”
Flint shrugged. “It’s really not that complicated.”
Harry looked up and watched as Flint performed the drying spell on his trousers. “No,” he said, now more mutedly, “It really isn’t.”
After that, Harry continued to silently watch Flint pack up his stuff. It seemed like the older boy had come down to the quidditch pitch for some training; quidditch captains over the age of seventeen were allowed to do that, were even allowed to supervise others flying when it was off-season. Though Harry highly doubted that training this late was part of the rules.
It was hard to tell what Flint's motives were. Sure, he really could’ve just come down to the pitch for some practice flying, which wasn’t unusual for the Slytherin captain; Harry had heard that he trained and worked out a lot. But a big question remained, the elephant in the room.
“Why’d you catch me?”
Flint, hunched over his bag, looked over his broad shoulder. “Hm?”
“Why’d you catch me, out there on the pitch?” Harry said again.
Flint scoffed in response. “Opposed to what, letting you fall to your death?”
“Yes.” Harry said seriously, his gaze not straying from Flint’s face, looking for truth, honesty. “For a lot of people that would’ve solved a lot of problems. You're from a pureblood family that’s traditionally considered Dark, aren’t you, Flint?”
Admittedly, Harry didn’t know a lot about the Flint family, but the core key points he knew; Dark, pureblood family that had a lineage in the Slytherin house. Rumors of them being Death Eaters, like so many other dark pureblood families.
Something in Flint's face shifted, his previous sarcastic amusement slipping out of his features. The boy turned around, growing seemingly taller than he already was and he slowly approached Harry, the air around him feeling loaded, grave. For a brief moment Harry wondered if his silent suspicions had been correct and if it had been a terrible mistake to confront Flint like this, in the abandoned changing rooms, far away from the castle.
“Listen here, Potter.” Flint said lowly and there was a deep seated anger lacing his tone, “If you’re insinuating that my family has been involved with the so-called ‘Dark Lord’, then I advise you to rethink that quickly. Despite the slander of the Light media towards us, we Flints have never worked, nor associated, nor agreed with Voldemort and whatever his demented teachings were.”
Harry, pushing back against the wall a little, swallowed heavily as he heard Flint say Voldemorts name without even flinching.
“My father, Aulus Flint, denied Voldemort back in the day and paid bitterly for it. Was that ever reported? No. We are traditionally Runes Masters; Runes are free from the judgment of Light and Dark. So we do not care if we’re considered ‘Dark’. It is not our responsibility to educate ignorant people that like to equate Dark Magic with Voldemort. Not every Slytherin is a slimy bastard like Malfoy.”
With that Flint backed away, turning back to his bag, now shoving his clothes in more forcefully. Harry just sat there, a knot sitting in his chest. Hadn’t he been the one who once said ‘I think I can tell for myself who the wrong sort are’? Flint, rough around the edges as he may have been, had never given him a reason to think badly of him.
“Sorry,” Harry said, silently, then a little louder, lifting his head. “I’m sorry, Flint. Really. I’ve… I never knew that.”
Flint, who slung the duffle bag over his shoulders, raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Yeah, how could you? I told you people like to portray it differently. And I’m certainly not letting a fourth year fall to his death.”
Harry felt a little relieved when Flint's anger seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had come. Apparently, there were a lot of unflattering rumors about Marcus Flint that vanished into thin air the more Harry got to know him. Son of a Death Eater; with the conviction Flint had said it? Highly unlikely. Stupid? No, not really. Troll blooded? Harry glanced at Flint's naked chest that peaked out underneath the robe he had thrown on. The verdict on that was still pending until Harry found out why the older boy was so damn beefy. Though Harry doubted it; Trolls could never be this handsome, Harry would know, seeing as he’d come face to face with one in his first year.
“Let’s go, Potter. The storm is almost over and we’ve got to get back. And you have to get out of those wet trousers.”
Wholeheartedly agreeing, Harry got up and followed Flint.
They parted ways in the dimly lit castle, the candlelight dancing on Flint's sharp, masculine face. “If you ever run into trouble again, just tell me.” Flint finally said, which got Harry to frown.
“I— Are you sure, Flint?”
Flint shrugged with his large shoulders. “Seems like you need someone to throw the punches for you.” With that said, he turned away, ignoring the indignant squawk Harry made and walked towards the dungeon’s stairways.
“Hey! Flint, what about your jumper?!” Harry yelled.
The Slytherin waved his hand dismissively, like he’d had in the library and, without looking back, yelled: “Just give it back whenever.”
Harry climbed into bed that night with the jumper still on, burying his nose in the fabric like he’d wanted to once he’d put it on. It smelled pleasantly rough and earthy, a bit like winter spices; cinnamon, nutmeg, clove. Somehow really fitting its owner.
And if Harry fell asleep like that, all cozy and warm, with an exciting, tingling feeling in his belly, no one had to know, especially not Marcus Flint.