Chapter Text
The one thing nobody ever mentioned about the long process to becoming a Death Eater, Marcus thought as he picked his nails for the twentieth time that day, was how fucking boring it was. Maybe it was better for the ones that were marked quickly, the prodigies, like Snape and Bellatrix, or the prestigious and punished, like that spoiled cunt Malfoy- fucking Malfoy who was probably at home on top of a bed stuffed with fairy wings or some other poncy shit, crying, curled around his freshly branded arm.
Marcus kicked a piece of trash that had tumbled too close, the image didn’t bring him the pleasure he thought it might. Perhaps because, the last time he had interacted with Malfoy, the boy had been a whiny twelve year old, and it was only that twelve year old image that Marcus had to conjure up. Poor, spoiled Malfoy who had cried every night the first two months of Hogwarts and covered his shame by talking about how much better their manor was, in every way, to the school.
Marcus tried his best to stretch his back out against the stone building. Well wasn’t that just the difference between their two families? The Malfoys were precious, little ponces who wanted every luxury of life. Peacocks, he remembered his father muttering something about them after a meeting at their manor years ago. Hah, didn’t that just fit? Perfect, prissy peacocks not expected to do any actual work beyond the ornamental. Hell, the one job Lucius had been given he had failed miserably and worse, his father had gleefully reported, deep in his cups and nearly toppling off his chair, Lucius had failed publicly.
That’s the problem with peacocks, Marcus mused, grimacing as he gave up his endeavor to have his back feel any other way besides miserable, you notice everything they do. If the Malfoys were peacocks, then the Flints were old hound dogs, steadfast, dutiful, not worth any particular notice, and loyal - at least, unless you were between them and a bone. Both of their families had avoided the public-spectacle kind of madness that the Blacks had been known for, but there came, in each of them, some crazed kind of avarice for beautiful things. The Malfoys surrounded themselves with their treasures, donning them, drinking them, displaying them, while the Flints did what any decent dog would do. If a Flint found a bone, they stole it away and buried it somewhere safe.
Though that family notoriety was all but dead now outside of their own inner circle. The last Flint who had buried something worth burying had died over a hundred years ago, and nobody knew where crazy old Augustus had stashed his opalized Ridgeback skeleton, only that it had been worth the prior three generations’ entire fortunes. And now? Well, that’s how Marcus ended up leaning against this unforgiving wall, on this sleepy street, in this muggy weather, doing the world’s most boring job.
From founding members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight to guarding a dead Black’s abandoned London house. Demeaning didn’t begin to cover it. Not even worth an instant marking, forced to work their way up the ranks, and although Marcus hadn’t initially been chomping at the bit to bind himself permanently to the cause, the insult still rankled the Flint family. Nobody more so than Marcus’ father, who had never forgotten that of all the dark and grey-aligned families, the Flint’s hadn’t been approached for membership in the Dark Lord’s first bid for power.
And for that insult, his father had offered both of his sons up for the cause, but only Cato had made any headway towards raising the family name. Father had called both of them into his study a year ago to tell them the good news of the Dark Lord’s return. He reminded them that their house used to be synonymous with honor and victory, churning out soldiers, gladiators, and “bloody fucking knights” as he had so colorfully phrased it. His father had included the both of them in the meeting, but Cato was truly the intended recipient.
What a sorry sight it must have seemed to the paintings on the walls: a drunkard, the first Flint to nearly fail out of Hogwarts, and the only half-decent chance at raising the family’s name in generations. Marcus had resolved, then and there, that the glory would not only be Cato’s this time, and he would do his absolute best to rise to the opportunity he had been given. This time, Marcus swore in his father’s study, things would be different for there were no books necessary to succeed in this task. That was last September. By June, Cato was marked, and Marcus? He had been placed outside of the old Black home, another guarding duty in a series of pointless details.
Marcus would never be marked at this rate. The jobs he was put on left no room for distinguishing himself, he had seen no action, no fighting, and no Order members. Marcus hadn’t been able to swallow his pride and approach Cato for help getting better assignments. Besides, their relationship was too cold and distant for anything like brotherly affection to influence Cato’s decisions. You’d be wrong to think Marcus a coward though, instead he had chosen a scarier, but less personally humiliating, plan and had approached Professor Snape at the end of last week’s meeting. Marcus had always respected Professor Snape who, though he suffered no fools, had been decent enough to give Marcus remedial potions classes and call them quidditch strategy meetings.
This was not to say that Marcus was in any way friendly with the man. Indeed, only a few months ago Marcus had been sent to deal with a boggart in Aunt Eunice’s old room when the damned thing had burst out of the dusty wardrobe as Professor Snape and started telling Marcus what an absolute waste it had been to - well. It didn’t matter what the damned thing had said, Marcus reassured himself as he ran a hand through his hair, the real Snape hadn’t done anything more than ask him his current assignment, make him sit though an oddly long pause, and then say he’d see what he could do. Marcus had hung his hopes on that promise all week and tonight, he reminded himself, as a crack of apparition rang out through the street, it was all going to pay off.
Professor Snape looked bizarre in a muggle suit, but he could’ve been walking towards Marcus in one of Dumbledore’s most heinous robes and Marcus would still be grateful for the sight.
“Professor Snape” He greeted pushing off the wall to assume a more respectful position.
“Mister Flint.”
There was something almost comforting about the fact that no matter how much time passed, or what situation they were in, that unimpressed drawl remained the same. Marcus wished more than anything he had the mind or the words to tell Snape exactly how much this vote of confidence meant to him.
Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. Marcus had always been particularly hopeless when it came to verbalizing appreciation. Or small talk. Or, well, anything really. Thankfully the professor had mercy on him and held up a hand to stop Marcus before he could embarrass himself further.
“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. You appreciate my assistance in this matter. The fact that you are capable of appreciation is one of the leading reasons you are receiving my assistance in the first place.”
Marcus nodded his head gratefully. Well at least he hoped it looked grateful, it seemed he had landed somewhere closer to complete dunderhead judging by the look on Snape’s face.
“Your appreciation is not the only price of my help. This job will demand all of your waking hours. You will be the only one watching and the only one who will be relieving you is me, at random intervals. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.” Marcus said lowly. Another guarding job was decidedly not what he had been hoping for, but the promise of more responsibility was too good to pass up.
“There is…another caveat.” Snape hesitated for a moment before beginning again.
“You must not mention this job to anyone else. You will report only to me. Answer only to me. If you see an order member, you will contact me. If you see another death eater, you will contact me. If the person you are watching leaves the property, you will contact me. If you are standing there wondering whether you should contact me, you will contact me.” Snape placed a vice grip on Marcus’ shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “You will do so without a second of delay and without contacting anyone else. Have I made myself abundantly clear?”
An order member perhaps? Did Marcus even dare to hope? He knew that humiliating himself in front of Snape could not come without a pay off of some kind. Trusting Snape had been the right decision, and anything, anything, was better than guarding this empty London street for one more moment.
“Crystal clear, sir.” Marcus did his best to remain solemn, and trusted that any relief or excitement would not show on his face. It was easy to trust, as he had been reliably informed that his face generally conveyed nothing but a half-hearted desire to murder whoever was closest to him, regardless of what he was feeling at the time.
“Good,” Snape leaned back and, mercifully, released Marcus’ shoulder. “We will discuss this further after apparating. Prepare yourself.”
Marcus straightened his shoulders, which had crept forward just slightly at the professor’s intense scrutiny,and nodded. Professor Snape, who was never one to waste time that could otherwise be saved, grabbed his arm and disapparated them without another word.
Well, Marcus thought to himself as he looked around an even smaller, sleepier, muggier street, the hopes of this being an important Order member were looking very slim. His heart began to plummet as he examined the cookie cutter buildings.
Houses, they must be houses he supposed doubtfully. Though Marcus had never seen ones so…small outside of the city. This was somehow more muggle than the street he had just left, despite there being none around. This did not bode well for Marcus who found it difficult to imagine a higher up, dangerous member living in one of these sterilized carriage houses.
“Professor, is the Order member a muggle?” Marcus asked doubtfully as he rushed to keep up with Snape, who had taken off walking up the road without missing a beat.
Snape paused in his careful examination of the houses to throw Marcus a look. “Not quite Mr. Flint. Nor is he, strictly speaking, a member of the Order. Step over here for a moment before we get closer.” Snape directed him to a small, sheltered bus stop before casting a disillusionment charm on the both of them. He checked over both of their disguises until satisfied, and then set off again.
“You’ll need to renew the charm before I leave you. Always come this same way, and cast the charm before you apparate.” Professor Snape advised. Marcus tried his best to keep up despite their near invisibility, nearly running into the man when he stopped suddenly.
“I can do that sir, but who exactly am I meant to be watching?” They had come to a stop outside one of the small homes, this one marked “4” on its exterior. Snape heaved an exasperated and disbelieving sigh, though whether he was doubting the situation or his decision to include Marcus was anyone’s guess.
“You Mr. Flint,” he began slowly, “have been given the unenviable position of keeping track of Harry Potter this summer.” The professor placed a hand on Marcus’ shoulder almost as if in conciliation. “May you have more luck than I have had.”
In the beat of silence that followed Snape’s pronouncement, Marcus’ hopes soared and his stomach flipped upside down. Visions of marching, victorious, into Malfoy Manor with Harry Potter stuffed in a sack over his shoulder, swam tantalizingly in his mind. If he caught the Dark Lord’s greatest enemy then he would surely be marked, rising even above Cato, second only to Professor Snape with whom he would be sharing credit. The professor hadn’t just given him an opportunity, he’d given Marcus the opportunity.