Initiation (nightmares)
"Sit down, Mr. Flint."
Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because he had enough foresight to know how that would go over. Professor Snape was dramatic; he ran a tight ship with everyone, but especially held his Slytherins to higher standards, which is why Marcus already knew what this was going to be about.
He slowly took the seat in front of the professor's desk, feeling his gaze boring into his forehead all the while.
Snape took his seat afterward. "Let's begin."
Marcus dug his (dull, bitten) nails into his palm.
"Let me be frank, Mr. Flint. You are a failure. You are bringing opprobrium to the Slytherin house," Snape drawled immediately, flipping through pieces of parchment. It looked like he was merely assigning random marks to them and moving on.
Marcus would've been more affronted by his statement had he not already expected it. Had he not been through this before.
"I'll get my grade up, Professor."
"It won't work like that this time, Flint. This is your NEWT year. You need this class to graduate," Snape replied, continuing to burn through the student essays.
I really don't need any of it, Marcus thought to himself spitefully. He'd never say that part aloud — not to Snape, anyway.
"Allow me to reiterate it. You need this class to graduate," The professor said, as if reading his mind. He finally looked up from the papers and met Marcus' eye. "It is especially hard to instill this in your particularly thick skull because you are aware of the built-in safety net that you have in the form of your family name and wealth."
Marcus opened his mouth to interject, but Snape continued on.
"However, if you cannot display competence in at least five NEWT level classes, particularly one such as mine, no amount of connections will compensate for your ineptitude. You will fall to the bottom tier of the nepotistic ministry officials, like many purebloods with all the ambition yet no initiative before you. Your future is quite bleak."
Marcus' mouth clicked shut, and he took the silence that fell upon the room in the absence of Snape's tangent to think about what was said.
The fact of the matter was, he lacked both ambition and initiative. Sometimes he didn't know why he was a Slytherin, hypothesizing that the only thing the Sorting Hat considered about him was his last name.
But he didn't want to be a lowlife ministry official, condemned to the ranks of his less talented peers. He'd heard about the purebloods not intelligent or complacent enough for high society from his parents' horror stories. Their parents would set them up with a random property owned by the family, get them a paper pushing ministry job or send them overseas, and completely ignore them in the public eye.
Now, whether or not they were reality or merely made up to incentivize him, Marcus didn't know. He definitely leaned towards the former, however, and this conversation (or really scolding) with Snape only solidified the idea.
And it was working. He shuddered at the thought of being a nonentity ministry worker. Although, being shut away in a family house abroad with nobody keeping in contact with him did sound nice...
"So what does this mean, professor? How is it different this time?" Marcus asked, hung up on Snape's statement that it wouldn't be so easy this time. How wouldn't it be as simple as getting his grade up?
"I'm assigning you a tutor. Never mind the Acceptable you think you'll pull yourself to. You shall get an Exceeds Expectations... at least," Snape declared, as dramatic as ever.
Marcus wanted to complain, but didn't. EE? He'd never gotten that in a potions class.
"Expect to meet in the library tomorrow after dinner," Snape told him, his focus back on the papers.
After a few seconds of expectant silence, Marcus realized that he was dismissed. He left.
As he exited the office, he breathed a sigh of relief at getting out of that stuffy atmosphere, but it was soon filled with dread as realization settled on him.
A tutor? What a nightmare.
Marcus hated his tutor.
He tried to give Farley a chance, he really did. After all, she was respectable. A fellow Slytherin.
But the teaching was ineffective, he still had a P average in potions, and he was getting increasingly annoyed with her everyday.
"And, um..." Gemma paused as she searched for the words to explain it. "How can I put this," she muttered to herself, scanning the page they were on again and again.
Marcus stared at her with his head in his hand, bored. He waited, and waited, figuring that anything she said probably wouldn't be of much help. At this point, he was admittedly just looking for answers. She slipped up and gave them to him a lot.
"Stop staring at me," Gemma muttered after a minute.
"Just waiting for you to be helpful," Marcus snarked, averting his gaze pointedly. "But, whatever you want."
Huffing, Gemma snapped her book closed. "I'm so sick of you, by Merlin! You never fucking listen to me, and you always like to make stuff weird. At this point, it's like you want a P! Ugh!"
"Why are you complaining?" Marcus rolled his eyes. "You act like you're a professor, yet you've half the teaching skill of one. I still have a P, obviously because something you’re doing isn't working for me! You're my tutor! It's only awkward because you make it awkward."
Gemma stared at him blankly, considering, before silently beginning to pack up her stuff.
"What are you doing?" Marcus frowned, annoyed.
"I think we should go our separate ways," Gemma answered without pause.
"Wai — what? The hell am I supposed to do?" Marcus exclaimed. She ignored him, continuing to pack up her stuff. "Snape assigned you to me for the year."
"Yes, well," Gemma finally said, now that she had her bag over her shoulder. She stood up, looking ready to leave. "I'm willing to take the consequences if it means not having to deal with you."
Marcus didn't miss the dig at his tolerableness, but he wasn't worried about that. "But what about me? I need to pass potions, never mind your telling off for abandoning me."
Gemma sighed, long suffering. "Look," she began, putting her hand on her hip. "I don't even owe you hippogriff shit. But, I guess I can refer you to someone."
Marcus relaxed slightly, hopeful. "Please?"
Gemma sighed again, ripping off a piece of the parchment that sat in front of Marcus. It was his most recent homework, the bold P it was marked with now in Gemma's hands.
She turned it over and hastily scribbled something on the back, and then with great flourish, dropped Marcus' quill that she borrowed without asking.
"Here," she presented the paper to him. "That's your contact. Get your EE. Save both our asses... but mostly yours."
Marcus accepted it reluctantly and gratefully, Gemma walking away as soon as the paper touched his fingertips. He breathed a sigh of relief.
By all means, this was a nice cutting of losses. He lost his tutor, but she sucked and knew a good one who'd hopefully get him an EE.
Feeling lighter, Marcus decided to take a look at who Gemma'd recommended. As soon as his eyes scanned the paper, however, he suddenly didn't feel so light. Dread filled him.
Percy Weasley? What a nightmare.
"You want me to tutor you?" Percy asked incredulously. He scanned the crowd of students filing by them longingly, and then to Marcus' hand that was still tightly gripping his arm from when he'd yanked him to the side of the corridor.
Truth be told, it took a lot out of Marcus to ask. He first tried to do a little self-studying, but that quickly fell through after he completely skipped out on two assignments in a row in favor of doing literally anything else. They were small, but it really told him that he couldn't hold himself accountable.
He considered finding someone else, but he knew that none of his self-serving Slytherin housemates would do it without being told, or without something in it for them. And he would never resort to someone younger.
By all means, he had to admit that Weasley wasn't a terrible option. Studious, for sure, and he at least seemed like he'd know what to say when tutoring. How to not be awkward. So...
"Yes, I do. I'm really desperate at this point."
"You are?" Percy asked incredulously.
"Yes, I am. Farley recommended you," Marcus explained, putting away his pride. He really was desperate.
"Gemma did?" Percy asked incredulously.
So many incredulous questions. "Yes, she did. So, can you?"
"Um..." Weasley hesitated. He nibbled at his lip, seeming to pay attention to Marcus and what was being said for the first time since the conversation had started.
Marcus held his breath. He didn't know what he'd do if Weasley said no. What if he couldn't get his grade up? Would he be publicly shamed by Snape? Would he be kicked out of his class after the ending of the first term? Would he be shut away to a remote family property to live out the rest of his days as a nobody? Perhaps a paper pushing job? A bootlicker to a lowlife halfblood department head? A lonely loser who drank away his life, never married, and ran out of money, all because he —
"Okay, I'll do it," Percy nodded to himself slowly. Then, he looked at Marcus, more surely nodding to him. "Yes, I can do that."
Marcus almost breathed a sigh of relief, but he kept the tentative hope off of his face, slow to believe it. "Really?" He didn't think it would be that easy.
Granted, he didn't think Weasley was a sadist... more so that there'd be some teasing, some 'why me' and some 'I don't know...'
But this worked even better.
"Yes," Percy shrugged, pulling at his arm slightly while he did so. Only then did Marcus realize he was still holding it, and he quickly let go. Immediately after, Percy began to rub at the slightly red handprint left behind. "You can just owl me about the details. Availability, that kind of thing. I can tell you what works for me."
"Alri..." Marcus began to agree, but Weasley had disappeared into the sea of students bustling to the Great Hall. He saw a glimpse of red hair before it quickly vanished, and he resigned himself to leaving the Head Boy alone for now and owling later.
Nightmare indeed.
Initially, Percy was kind of nervous about the whole thing.
Sure, he excelled in his classes and had tutored a few students in the past, but he really didn't understand why Gemma had recommended him to Flint of all people. By all means, he thought she was far better suited for the job, but he neglected to ask her about it, instead anticipating how he could make it work.
Flint had basically said he had availability whenever he felt like it, which wasn't very helpful because in reality, Percy was well aware of the events he was omitting (i.e. quidditch practice, going to class). So instead of it being easy for the both of them, it was up to Percy to establish a schedule that he thought would work best between them, which was slightly difficult because he had only a primitive idea of what Flint did with his time.
They met in the library the first few times. Percy would sit at a designated table for a while (from half to a full hour) and Flint would show up when he pleased. If Percy decided to show up late because he knew Flint would, then Flint would show up even later. It was like he knew, and just desperately wanted to waste everybody's time.
But, it wasn't terrible. Percy could tell Flint tried, but he also would rather allow himself get lost in the explanation then speak up when he was starting to stray from his understanding. It took a while to get him to stop doing that and say something, and Percy kind of wished he'd encouraged it in a different way, because now Flint felt compelled to interrupt even when he did understand.
One day, at around two weeks in, Percy settled in his usual seat in the library, gearing up to wait a good thirty minutes for Flint. It was Tuesday, and he took especially long on Tuesdays.
However, much to his surprise, Flint showed up a minute later, silently taking his seat like he'd normally do.
This time, however, there was a weird look on his face as he handed Percy a folded up piece of parchment with great gravity. Percy stared at it dumbly.
"Open it," Flint ordered with a roll of his eyes.
Percy felt a little flustered about his hesitancy with the parchment, and hastily opened it up, doing a quick scan.
It was just the last potions assignment, and Percy was going to ask what he was looking at when his eyes landed on the fat red marking in the top right corner.
"Oh," he said, delightfully surprised.
Flint's chest puffed up with pride, slight but noticeable. "Yeah, that's my first ever one."
Percy'd said "Oh," not "O," but he understood perfectly. Not even he'd gotten an O on this one, so it must've meant a lot to Flint.
And in a way, it meant a lot to him too. He wasn't wasting his time, and he wasn't wasting Flint's time either.
"Not such a lost cause, you'd reckon?" Flint joked, accepting the graded work back from Percy. It was obviously meant to be humorous, but there was something in his voice that told Percy that at some point, Flint had believed it to be true.
Percy smiled and answered graciously, "Of course not," and then they got right into it.
From that day on, something had changed in Flint's demeanor. He'd even started being on time, which took some getting used to but Percy appreciated it greatly.
Sometimes, he even let himself think that they had fun together, despite Flint's chronically stony face.
And at times when even Flint had a hard time keeping some semblance of a smile off of his face, Percy rejoiced. Small victories were victories, and the reassurance that Flint didn't find their sessions too boring or overbearing was a victory indeed. Seeing Flint try to school his expressions from showing joy — whether about his improving marks or some stupid joke either had made — made Percy feel joy.
And to think, he'd thought it would be a nightmare!
Surprisingly, Marcus didn't hate his tutor.
Sure, Weasley had a tendency to ramble sometimes, but he learned quickly that to get back on track, all he had to do was interrupt. He had no problems doing that.
His grade was steadily rising, and if he kept on this path then he'd be able to get that EE. Had it not been for his piss poor performance at the very beginning, then sometimes Marcus liked to imagine he could've gotten an O. Maybe on the exam, he could.
In addition to Weasley actually helping his average, Marcus found that he kind of enjoyed himself.
The jokes were corny, but not corny enough to laugh at how corny they were. It was when Percy found it funny or expected him to find it funny that had Marcus almost willing to break character. Almost.
A few times, he'd felt himself do so. He hoped Weasley hadn't noticed, but that smug grin said otherwise.
All in all, Marcus was proud of the work he did with Weasley. He was proud of himself. Weasley was proud of himself. Weasley was proud of him. Marcus was proud that Weasley was proud, so he kept going.
Somebody could be proud of him, so this must be right. And it felt right.
Even Snape had to concede that Marcus was on the right track, although one thing that bothered Marcus about it was that Farley was accredited for his success. For Weasley’s success. He kept the scowl off of his face at the time, but it made him realize something later.
Weasley was just helpful to be helpful. He didn't get paid. As far as the school was concerned, he wasn't the one putting in two hours each day, and it wasn't required of him. He just did.
Marcus couldn't fathom it.
"What's this for?" Percy frowned, staring uselessly at the small pile of galleons that Marcus had deposited in front of him. He went to pick one up, but seemed to catch himself at the last second and revoked his hand. It was like he couldn't touch it or something.
Marcus looked at him like he was dumb. "Repayment," he replied slowly. "For this."
Percy's ears turned a little red, and he sat back in his share and folded his arms. "I don't want it," he declared firmly.
Marcus raised an eyebrow at the display that, in his opinion, was frankly petulant and performative. Who didn't want a few galleons?
"Not everything is so transactional. We were doing fine before, why would I want your money now?" Percy said, as if knowing what Marcus was thinking.
"Maybe you just didn't want to say anything in fear of coming off rude. But, I can say the hard parts out loud. Here you go," Marcus pushed, nudging the coins closer to Percy.
"You have a tendency to make the easy parts hard," Percy retorted, staring at the gleaming coins. They looked so enticing; Marcus himself wanted to snatch them up, and they were already his. Percy pushed them away. "But, like I said, I don't want it."
Marcus stared at the pile that sat between them, before slowly bringing it closer to himself, accepting that the bloke actually didn't want the coins. "Do you want me to be indebted to you? Is that it?"
Percy stroked his chin in a show of contemplation. "Well, that sounds like a good idea... but no. I just don't want anything."
"That's ridiculous," Marcus deadpanned. "I know I'm not easy to put up with. I make it a point to be that way. Shouldn't you want something?"
It was silent for a moment. Percy stared at the table in front of him, appearing to be deep in thought. Marcus stared at Percy.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was actually half a minute, Percy looked up at Marcus, a gleam in his eyes. He'd come up with something.
"I've really got everything I need," he reaffirmed.
"So you've claimed," Marcus drawled, looking Percy up and down pointedly. Maybe it was a pride thing. Everyone knew how the Weasley's...
Percy kicked him in the shin, interrupting his train of thought. "But there is one thing I want..."
More than a few galleons? "What?"