Chapter Text
Marcus turns seventeen on a Monday.
He turns seventeen and he wakes up and he doesn’t think much of it, until he trudges down to breakfast and his mother has a look of disappointment in her eyes when he doesn’t mention any change as she hands him a scattered array of letters.
There’s no thread wound around his wrist yet.
So his soulmate isn’t close.
He’s not sure why his mother is so surprised. All there is outside is a long, large, plain of white snow, with a couple bare trees dotting the perimeter of their grounds. It’d probably be more worrying if his soulmate was within the fifteen kilometer perimeter.
All he does that day is play Quidditch in the snowdrift until he can’t feel his face, and sit through the same stifling dinner that he’s been subjected to all break.
Marcus shoves aside the books he’s supposed to read when he’s in his room, and blinks up at the dark ceiling. He wonders whether his soulmate is already seventeen, if she’s going to even make it up to his shoulder, wonders if he already thinks Marcus is shit at magic. He wonders whether he’s going to be one of those folks who never gets a soulmate. He’s not quite sure he’ll be happy with that.
He wonders whether his soulmate likes quidditch.
***
He arrives back to Hogwarts with game plans to finish out his final year and his broomstick in tow, and statistically , his soulmate should be at Hogwarts. The chances are high, right? Given how small the Wizarding population is, it’d make sense for him to finally find his other half.
Marcus isn’t wrong. The moment people start streaming into the castle, a red loop circles its way around his wrist, striking against his skin. He tries to grasp it, but there’s nothing to touch – just the red thread there, and that fucks with his brain horrendously. Something that looks tangible should be tangible.
“What’s up, mate?” Baddock calls over, noticing how Marcus hasn’t threatened Bole out of the bathroom yet.
“Nothing,” Marcus grunts, because he’s not about to share with his mates – Merlin knows, soulmate threads are touchy enough in Slytherin. He’s not going to spread the information without knowing who’s at the other end.
And so here’s where it gets messy.
Marcus realizes it’s a flawed system, this whole soulmate thing, because he doesn’t actually find out until dinner, the first night back, and the red string stretches before his very eyes to where Oliver Wood is laughing with a crew of Weasleys around him. The string has an end. And here he had been hoping for an easy way out.
Marcus’ fork clatters to the table.
“You alright, mate?” Bole mumbles through a mouthful of food.
Wood continues chattering, it seems, and Marcus looks, keeps looking for a sign that his world has just been rocked and overturned. But everything remains calm and pleasant over at the Gryffindor table, albeit buzzing with the kind of excitement that has always gotten on his nerves.
Marcus swallows, glances at Wood, then back to his wrist and -
Fuck.
***
There are two routes of action. Three, if he were to be really desperate, but Marcus doesn’t think anyone in history has ever successfully dissolved a soulmate thread before without dire consequences and he’s not willing to die over Oliver bloody Wood.
So. Two options.
One: Tell Wood. Somehow, with only Marcus being able to see the string. Tell him with their history of barbs and insults and targeted bludgers - “Hey Wood, guess we’re meant to be.” Attempt a wink. Probably get his teeth knocked out.
Marcus buries his face into his pillow.
Granted, that might allow his teeth to be grown back organized and neat and pretty. His parents would be pleased.
Right. Right , his parents. He should deal with that soon. They were hoping for something nice and politically helpful, maybe with the Greengrasses. But Marcus had known from the first moment he’d seen blonde little Daphne Greengrass scramble far away from a broom that that was always bound for disappointment.
Option Two would involve carrying on as normal, meaning ignoring the string and pretending he’s none the wiser. It’s the easier option, because as much as Marcus likes conflict, he likes to be on the winning side and in this situation, there really are no winners. No, Option Two seems like a momentary peace, means he won’t have to face the reality of the universe somehow deciding that he’s a perfect fit with a fucking Gryffindor pretty boy.
He can carry on with baiting Wood with quidditch and everything else that he usually takes pleasure in. Pushing Wood’s buttons. Sending bludgers his way and practicing the suppression of his conscience.
The downside to Option Two is that once Wood turns seventeen, the jig is up. And knowing Gryffindors and their ilk, that confrontation won’t be pretty. Neither of Wood’s parents are Muggles. He knows how soulmate strings work, knows when you see them, will know Marcus has been neglecting it for a year.
But that’s a year down the line. By then, he’ll be out of Hogwarts and hopefully able to keep far enough away from Oliver Wood that by the time anything does get found out, it’ll be too late.
It’s not foolproof, but Marcus is veering a little into panic.
The next day, Marcus watches Wood smooth the hair out of his eyes while grimacing at his scroll of parchment from across the Great Hall, and decides that Fate can go take a fucking seat and live with being disappointed.
The thing about soulmates is that you technically don’t have to do anything about it. Marcus would know - his mother had ignored hers and instead married a man eight years her senior, for the money and the social standing and then they’d had him and - well.
Only she knows who the other end is attached to, and her expression whenever he’d dared to ask had been enough of an answer.
Someone not proper . Someone not worth following Fate for.
A soulmate string doesn’t ensure falling madly, madly in love, and doesn’t ensure happy endings. Marcus knows that, but he thinks deep down he’d probably hoped.
***
The first time Wood talks to him after Marcus knows is during a Captain’s meeting, when they’re arguing over schedules for the rest of the semester and whether or not Potter should still be allowed to play for Gryffindor.
“What with him being a threat and all,” Marcus jeers, as the Hufflepuff Captain, Lorraine, hangs around awkwardly in the background.
“We’ve been over this, Flint,” Wood tries, but Marcus forges ahead.
“Weren’t there rules put in place for this? Kind of unlike you to use fear of a seeker to your advantage, Wood.”
It’s a three-versus-one argument, because Marcus knows that Stratton, the Ravenclaw Captain, has her own reservations about the whole thing, what being in the line-up to play against Gryffindor soon, and Huffs have been on edge since one of their own had gotten petrified. So really, Wood’s fighting for his own.
The string around his wrist twinges, and Marcus feels a slight sting as Wood’s face furrows with anger. He resists the urge to grip the place of pain. He’d forgotten about this part.
“You’re talking out of your arse and you know it.” Wood’s eyes narrow and his mouth straightens into a flat line. The skin of Marcus’ wrist continues prickling.
Damn, if this is going to be a constant occurrence - and it will, given their relationship - Marcus might have to rethink his plan for the next year. He doesn’t need this - the emotional connection to someone he’s who he can count the number of positive interactions with on one hand.
Stratton sighs, obviously fed up with their posturing. “Screw it, Flint. We can let Wood have his Wonder Boy.”
The stinging around his wrist doesn’t fade but Marcus watches as Wood nods and leaves the room. The feeling only disappears hours later, when Marcus is struggling through an essay and realizes that he can put his wrist down without hissing.
There’s a commotion in the dorm that night, when Higgs storms in and sends hexes towards Bletchley and Baddock in one go. Miles dodges with a yell, and Marcus puts down his quill, thoroughly giving up on doing anything of purpose for the night.
“What’s got your wand in a knot?” Miles hisses, rubbing at the singed skin of his arm.
Warrington appears in the doorway right then, snickering, eyes aglint with malice. “Pity, Higgs. And here we were all betting on one of the Selwyn twins. What a pity. ”
Higgs brandishes his wand amidst the heckling from the rest of the seventh years, mouth curled up in a snarl and for someone so pretty, Marcus can see a hint of deranged in there as well. “Shut it, or you won’t wake up tomorrow morning.”
Ah. Right. Terence’s birthday.
Warrington and Bletchley retreat back to their own rooms, and Marcus watches Terence stalk into the bathroom. They’re not on the best of terms, because of Malfoy and Quidditch and that whole mess early in the year, but he’s still curious. And maybe a little apologetic, being old friends, but Higgs would just use that as a weapon against him.
He corners Terence when they’re switching in the bathroom, and when he closes the door on the rest of the assholes in the dorm, Terence looks at him with both intense dislike and resignation.
“So?”
Higgs runs the tap and stares at the water. “What? No of-age congratulations?”
He pauses for a moment before saying, “This is your fault.”
Marcus bristles. “ My fault?”
“Yeah - letting him hang around the team last year.”
Marcus laughs as Terence continues glaring at him. “What - Pucey? Meek little Adrian Pucey?”
Terence flings another jinx towards him but Marcus has known him long enough to know how to dodge his occasional lash outs. “The fuck am I supposed to do with that, Flint?”
Marcus pauses, knowing the Higgs are still conservative to all hell, knows that Terence has a position in the Wizengamot to claw his way up to after they graduate, knows that having ties to a Pucey, a neutral and notoriously unbiased family, is no use at all. “Well.”
Terence groans. “Merlin.”
“It could be worse,” Marcus finds himself sharing, “Least he’s a Slytherin.”
“We all know he should’ve been a Puff,” Higgs mutters, before pausing mid vigorous hand scrubbing. “Wait - you.”
Marcus makes to leave the bathroom, but Higgs is faster and collapses the door before Marcus’s hand reaches for the handle.
Terence looks like the cat that caught the cream, lips quirked up in a smirk. “Your birthday passed already. Who’s your soulmate, Flint?”
Marcus blanches, curses the fact that he’s left his wand by his bedside, a horrible habit he’s never shaken. “None of your fucking business.”
“Not a Slytherin,” Terence presses on, “Ravenclaw wouldn’t be bad, granted they’re not stuck up bores like Clearwater. Could it be?”
Higgs is mocking him, and he knows it, but he can never help rising to the bait. “What’re you going to do about your clingy little admirer, Higgs?”
“Better than any lousy Gryffindor,” Terence says flatly, “Who is it? Johnson? A Weasley? No, I doubt the world would be that cruel to even your ugly mug.”
He taps his chin mock-thoughtfully, before narrowing his eyes as if the pieces have all fallen together, and Marcus has never hated Terence more than this very moment, for the Higgs’ innate skill in Divination, for Terence’s stupid, creepy sixth sense.
“It couldn’t possibly be Wood, could it?”
Marcus groans, grits his teeth, before grabbing the collar of Terence’s shirt and attempting to shake him scared.
Higgs doesn’t even flinch, merely smirks as his hypothesis lands squarely on target. “Well, look at that. And he doesn’t know yet?”
“Listen,” Marcus hisses, panic and anger twist-turning in his chest, “You tell anyone, and I’ll make sure Pucey hears about yours and how you’re oh-so-excited about your future together.”
Higgs’ face changes from smug to irritated within a split second, and he releases himself from Marcus’ grasp forcefully. “Fine. You keep your mouth shut, I’ll keep mine. Just - deal with Warrington alongside, would you?”
Marcus nods, before letting Terence exit the bathroom first, hears him fending off the nosiness of their dorm-mates. The red thread looks like it’s curled tighter around his wrist, but he’s pretty sure it’s just his mind playing tricks.
He splashes his face with cold water, and doesn’t think about the grim, angry line of Wood’s mouth from the afternoon.
***
Marcus puts Warrington on bludger duty for the next month, along with a pointed threat. He owes Higgs that much.
***
They’re not going to win this year. Nobody will, but that doesn’t stop Marcus from seething, seething over the fact that his last year, likely last victory on a quidditch pitch, has been snatched right out of his hands by some mess of a Chamber and old Salazar’s hopped up schemes.
The only small silver lining is seeing the same agitation reflected in Wood for the last few months that they’ve been escorted to and fro from class to dorm and dorm to Great Hall. The thread around his wrist has gotten tighter, or Marcus feels it more, anyways. A slight pressure constantly pulling at his wrist, as if the magic behind it is urging him to get a move on, to do something about it.
Marcus tries harder to ignore it.
He gets completely fed up one night, decides to take the well known route out of the dungeons and out onto the grounds. He’s almost surprised the professors haven’t put patrols around it, but then again, Slytherin is far from being the house at risk.
It’s brisk and cold, as late March usually is, and Marcus relishes the freedom of not moving in a mass, hovers low on his broom over the pitch and practices rolls and dives for a good half an hour before his peace is ruined by a figure moving in the shadows of the castle.
“Fuck,” Marcus grunts, before landing quickly. It’s too late when he recognizes the familiar tugging sensation by his wrist and the nervous face of Oliver Wood appears, looking extremely guilty at getting caught out on the grounds after dark.
“Um,” Wood says, eloquently.
“Hi,” Marcus says, like an idiot.
Wood’s hand goes up to awkwardly scratch his nose, and Marcus can’t tear his gaze away from the red line looped easily around Wood’s wrist. A direct path from him to Marcus. The thread spirals, twists, and thickens before his very eyes. Marcus jerks his wrist abruptly, but he knows the magic doesn’t work that way.
It’s the first time he’s been so hyper-sensitive to the way they’re now connected. The first time, Marcus thinks, they’ve ever been alone together. And Wood, bless his heart, remains oblivious.
“Alright, look - we’re obviously out here for the same reasons,” Wood sighs, hands held up defensively, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Marcus snorts, unable to help himself. “Really? How do I know you’re not gonna run back to McGonagall right after?”
Wood’s grin is far too nonchalant for the situation. “Because you’ll tell on me, too.”
Marcus raises an eyebrow - Wood’s got a point, and they are both in the same boat. And he would; there’s no reason why Marcus wouldn’t spill to Snape either, own consequences be damned.
He steps to the side to let Wood pass. The thread lengthens as Wood walks by. “Fine. Go on, then.”
Wood turns to glance over his shoulder, and with a rare, raw moment, says “Nice flying” before taking off and veering out of sight. The insinuation is there - you’re good, but I would beat you. Marcus almost laughs out loud at that. Everything - everything is always going to be a competition. He might almost miss that, alongside the game.
It’s the third time they run into each other that Marcus starts getting agitated. And intrigued. They always show up at the same time, Friday or Saturday nights when everyone else is off snogging in abandoned corridors, or sneaking in butterbeer, or playing exploding snap, and Marcus thinks that Wood loves quidditch, sure. Is obsessed with it, but even he must take a break sometime .
He doesn’t, apparently. Every time Marcus lands, he watches the thread around his wrist glow brighter, get thicker and then Wood’s slipping out from a side door of the castle.
He’s surprised no one has caught them yet.
It’s obvious what Wood’s doing - making up for his losses, for next year. Marcus can see it in the set of his brow, the determination, the stupid Gryffindor whole-heartedness of throwing yourself into something and expecting it to catch you.
They exchange cursory greetings, and complaints here and there about the lack of action, the lack of competition, the lack of anything to do . Maybe they’re a bit selfish. Marcus doesn’t care - it’s not in his character to be anything but. Wood offers to practice together, a Keeper for a Chaser, but Marcus turns him down. He’s not sure he wants to spend more time with his soulmate (Merlin, fucking - damn) than necessary, especially since he’s not planning an outcome.
Marcus turns back and watches the fifth time they run into each other, really watches. Notices that Wood does low loops and twirls that no Keeper ever gets to execute and there’s something almost graceful about it. Wood loves quidditch, no doubt, but he loves quidditch more than he does winning. And that’s something Marcus knows intimately - playing as if both nothing and everything is on the line.
It’s the eighth time - and Marcus thinks the professors mus t know by now - the eighth time when Wood gives him more than just a cursory nod. He’d stopped asking Marcus if he wants to practice together, knows the answer he’s going to get before he even opens his mouth.
Instead, he watches Marcus dismount, and asks with the casualness of locker room banter, “You gonna keep going?”
Marcus pauses. “Keep going with what?”
“This,” Wood gestures, “Playing.”
“Who knows,” Marcus says, oddly honest without his Slytherin tie and cloak. The words surprise him and maybe Wood too, because his companion’s face shifts as if he was expecting an insult. They’re capable of having civil conversation, just not about anything like this. “What are the chances?”
Wood stares out at the darkened pitch with a set jaw. “You up your own chances.”
At that, Marcus grins. “Don’t need to tell me that.”
“Fairly,” Wood retorts, but there’s no bite to his words. “Really? You haven’t thought of it? Chasers - higher chances.”
“What about you?” Marcus asks instead, sidestepping the possibility of him being too honest. That of course he’s thought about it, but the reality - the reality is that he’s the only son. Flints go into the Ministry. Flints play the same pureblood power game generation after generation. They don’t run off and play professional quidditch, let alone bother with daydreaming that they can even get into the leagues.
“Of course,” Wood says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to admit, and Marcus supposes it probably is, given his reputation, “It’s more about what happens if I can’t.”
At that, Marcus lets himself look - really look - at Oliver Wood. Because he’s surprised, maybe, because he’s curious, because there’s this pull in his chest at the idea of Wood not playing quidditch anymore. Even in his bitterest moments towards Wood, stinging from a loss, he’d only ever been able to see him on a broom after Hogwarts. Anything else seemed like a tip in the balance.
Wood’s face is grim, anxious. Marcus recognizes the expression. He wonders if Wood’s even thinking about soulmates, amidst all this.
“Keeper is,” Marcus tries, words fumbling like they always seem to, “Harder.”
Wood makes a sound in agreement. Then he looks at Marcus straight on and Marcus realizes that even after so many years across from each other on the pitch, he doesn’t know what color Wood’s eyes are.
“You should do it,” Wood says, as if they give each other encouragement every day, as if this isn’t something out of the blue, as if they haven’t spent the last six years trying to tear each other down, “Try out. After you graduate.”
Marcus stares at him.
Wood stares back.
Marcus breaks first, because the thread between them has started twisting. He jerks his wrist and Wood’s gaze falters, darting to the sudden movement.
“Why’re you asking?” Marcus blurts, before Wood can start putting two and two together.
Wood shrugs. “Dunno. Just thought - well, just wondered whether I’d play against you again.”
“Why does it matter?”
Wood laughs, almost self-consciously, except Marcus doesn’t think he’s ever known him to be ashamed of anything he does. “You’re the only one who gets it, y’know? Quidditch.”
And well - it strikes so close to true that Marcus doesn’t know what to say.
Wood shrugs again, then turns to straddle his broom. He takes off without a backwards glance, leaving Marcus to watch the regular series of dives and loops. He thinks he spends more time watching than anything these days.
Marcus had gone to sleep on his seventeenth birthday with anticipation sparking in his chest, an excitement, a worry of who his soulmate would be, whether they’d be able to make it work. And then he’d found Wood. No, and then Wood had appeared and that - that was that.
Wasn’t it?
The thread lengthens, spreads like silk, bright red against the dark night sky as Wood flies farther and farther, and Marcus almost regrets turning away.
***
The next day, he notes that Wood’s eyes are brown.
***
He packs his trunk at the end of the year, boards the train without running into Wood again at the pitch. He’d stopped sneaking out, too shaken by the last conversation they’d had. Shaken by how with a few extra minutes, a yearning had started growing in his chest. The urge, the wanting of more was far too dangerous. Far too tempting for Marcus to even bait.
So Marcus went back to his plan of action - avoid, compartmentalize, disregard. He’d blundered through all the written parts of his NEWTS, looked on as Potter managed to save the day and listened to Malfoy’s whining, and when he’d left the Slytherin common room, he hadn’t felt anything but relief. Over and done with - both the years of frustration in class and the limbo of avoiding his soulmate.
The thing with plans, however, is that they rarely turn out the way he wants them to.
His father’s cold silence is something he’s far from unfamiliar with, but it’s crushing this time around. The Ministry owl is pecking at the leftover crumbs from breakfast. Their house elf is too frightened to move to clean up the mess.
Marcus fiddles with his knife. His NEWT scores rest opened on the table, a silent Howler.
“Marcus,” his father says, “ Explain. ”
“I’m stupid?” Marcus tries. His father’s nostrils flare.
His mother huffs. “That is not true-”
“Well, I can’t write for shit-”
“Language,” Claudius Flint says, and Marcus shuts up. He’d think for an old man that curses as much as his father does, he’d allow his son to swear as well. “Your practical magic is fine. Your OWLs, while lacking, were not this horrible. Did you study?”
No.
“Yes,” Marcus attempts to smile sweetly. His father remains unamused.
“Clearly not. Why?”
His mother looks at him expectantly. The only reasons he has are: one, to avoid the Ministry like the plague, and two, because he was so preoccupied by the identity of his fucking soulmate that he’d stopped caring.
“Just - didn’t.” He mumbles, and the piercing stare his father sends his way is enough to make him look to their house elf for help. Floppy only wrings his old hands, and sidles out towards the kitchen. Marcus sighs.
“You’ll be going back then,” Claudius says, standing up with an air of finality, “Until you get the grades required for a proper position in the Ministry.”
Marcus splutters, because - no. No. He can’t do that, can’t last another year listening to droning lectures and trying to make sense of the swimming letters in front of him and dragging himself through essays, and certainly not another year of being - oh Lord, being in the same damn classes as Oliver Wood.
His mother looks equally appalled. “Dear, I’m sure his practical abilities are enough-”
“No,” his father says coolly, “He’s returning to Hogwarts. And if you don’t succeed this time around, Marcus - we’ll discuss your inheritance.”
Marcus stares in disbelief as his father turns his back on the table, heading towards his study. He’d thrown away his NEWTs - for this. For another year of being stuck in that stupid castle, trying to raise his stupid grades. For an ultimatum. And Wood.
Fuck, Wood . He’s going to know.
He’s going to know.
Marcus’ chest constricts, and his mother is saying something but he can’t hear what she’s trying to console him with. Instead, he shoves his chair back with a loud screech, and races to his room, wand already out by the time he slams the door shut.
He’s not thinking when he does it, or else he wouldn’t have tried in the first place. Marcus has heard enough stories, enough warnings, and yet - he says a breathless diffindo and moves his wand over the stretch of his soulmate thread, hoping all the same.
He regrets it immediately, because a sharp pain roots itself in his chest, piercing and cold, and Marcus’ knees buckle. The pain spreads throughout his body, centers at his wrist and Marcus bites his bottom lip to try to prevent his parents from hearing. He’s taken bludgers to the ribs and skulls before but Merlin .
He remains collapsed on the floor until the pain fades to a dull throb, almost in tune with his pulse. When he catches his breath, he opens his eyes and stares at his quidditch robes, hung up messily on his bed post.
When he dares to look, the thread remains, perfectly intact.