#and penelope is a ravenclaw who was very nearly sorted into slytherin

[t1oui]

forever pushing my percy weasley was a slytherin and he was like a brother to draco malfoy agenda ft my newer draco malfoy and ginny weasley become friends after the war agenda

[ginvera]

deal? deal.

(so. I caved. I broke. I, a good gay child with a shit ton of work to do and five other fics I need to write, wrote the first chapter to a flintwood fic. yup. disclaimers: there’s no like full smut in this but there is a good quantity of gay, like on a scale of 1 to my mother is disowning me this lands at about ���just don’t read it in front of her”. also, a lil implied abuse, but nothing extreme in this chapter, and it’s not explicitly described at all.)

Oliver twisted a button on his binoculars, trying to bring Flint into view. For once, he was rooting for his rival; Ravenclaw was unstoppable with their new seeker, and every time they managed to steal the ball, the cup inched another ten points away from Gryffindor. His contraption finally focused on Flint, just in time for Oliver to witness a bludger catch him right on the side of his head. Shit. Flint swung backwards, almost hitting the stands, before he finally regained control of his broom. Oliver zoomed out again, surveying the field. Slytherin was up eighty, but Ravenclaw was basically guaranteed the snitch, what with the preteen idiot Flint was playing for seeker.

Flint regained the ball after a slightly illicit attack on an unsuspecting fourth year, and raced towards the opposite end of the pitch. The way Flint flew- if Gryffindor had three chasers like him, forget about Hogwarts, they could win the world cup in a heartbeat. He veered around two bludgers racing towards him, throwing the quaffle in the same move. Slytherin up ninety. He cut off the toss from the Ravenclaw keeper to the fourth year midair, halfway between the two players, and threw it back at the goalpost in the same breath. Slytherin up a hundred. Oliver refocused on Flint, watching him rip through the sky effortlessly. When they were younger, Flint had been a gawky and misformed sort of boy, with legs and arms thicker than a tree trunk and shoulders slimmer than a model’s waist. Recently, though, that had changed. Flint had evened out somewhat, grown taller for certain, and it seemed as though he had had something done to his teeth. Now he looked sleek, and a bit dangerous.

Someone moved in front of him, cutting off his view, and he heard Jordan announce that Slytherin was a hundred thirty ahead. He zoomed out again. He could tell Davies was nervous now; he was trying a move that he would usually never use in game. Flint dodged the fourth year (Burren? Burton? Burtrow?) and pulled past Davies, winking at him. He was asking for it at this point; Oliver wouldn’t be surprised if Davies just gave in and socked him in the face. Lord knows there had been times Oliver had considered it. Before he had the chance, Flint pulled up and hurled the ball left in one clean cut move. Slytherin up one forty. Davies signalled something to his beaters. It looked like he had abandoned the idea of a fair game and was moving to plan B, otherwise known as “It’s Pretty Easy to be a Better Chaser than an Unconscious Man”. Before any of this could happen, however, the whole dynamic changed; the seekers had seen something. Or, more accurately, Chang had seen something and the little boy was chasing her at top speed. Chang seemed to be hurling herself as fast as possible at the Ravenclaw goalposts until she pulled up suddenly, and reached up with both hands.

“CHANG HAS THE SNITCH! Ladies and gentlemen, she does it again!” Jordan’s voice echoed through the crowds, “Chang has caught the snitch for Ravenclaw, that’s a final score of 350-340 for the our friends in blue! Flint looks rather upset, I suppose losing a quidditch match is sad, although I’m sure anyone would lose if one team was missing six players, oh wait-”

“LEE,”

“Alright, alright professor, a hard fought win for Ravenclaw which leaves us with Ravenclaw first in the rankings, followed by Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and the good old Gryffindors. Thanks for watching folks, always fun to see three confused boys saved by Chang, what a seeker, and with that, the win goes to Ravenclaw.”

Oliver pulled apart his binoculars, putting the pieces into his bag. They were in last place, which was not great, but they were only two games into the season. Gryffindor still had a chance.

“Oliver!” Penelope appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, “You’re coming to the afterparty, yeah? You have to come, Sophie, you know Sophie from the year below us, she got some firewhiskey, and your beaters say they’ve got some food in celebration of beating Slytherin, and Allen, you know Allen from Hufflepuff, he’ll be there.” Penelope winked at this, proud of her achievements in finding one singular boy who liked boys of vaguely the same age as Oliver, other than the one she was already dating. She was well intentioned, and he loved her to death, but just because two gay people end up on the same plane of existence does not mean they are destined for true love.

“Penelope, I know Allen from Hufflepuff, and I’m certain he’s a very kind person and I’m sure there are people who love him, but I sit behind him in Charms and I swear if I hear that idiot talk about household charms and local variation upon spells around the world one more time I will perform an unforgivable curse and you will not be able to forgive me. I’ll go to your party, but if I so much as see Allen from Hufflepuff in my vicinity, you will never see your dearest Einstein again.”

“You wouldn’t dare hurt a cat! Einstein is innocent, he’s never done anything to you.”

Penelope grabbed his arm as he finished packing up his bag, and hauled him in the direction of the celebratory crowds.

-

Marcus kicked his trunk twice before the lock finally popped. He pulled it open, swearing under his breath at the piece of shit trunk. His mother would faint if she ever learned of this; not because of the language, she was quite foul mouthed herself, but because he had kicked Great Great Great Aunt Eugenia’s dearest trunk, gifted to her by the minister of magic himself, passed down the Avery line for generations, gifted to him, the eldest son of the only daughter of Marcus Avery, for whom he was named, blablabla, blablabla.

For now, though, he wasn’t particularly upset to have it. The stubborn lock protected his alcohol stash. Marcus grabbed the bottle of champagne he had saved for tonight. He had planned on getting shitfaced at a Slytherin party, but moping about the castle feeling sorry for himself with a full bottle of champagne as company seemed to present an equal opportunity for enjoyment. Well, it didn’t, but that’s what you get when you lose to the fucking smart book kid clever ass McIntelligent house. Jesus, his dad would be mad when he told him. He popped the bottle, aiming for the family photo on his nightstand, and missing by a few feet.

Time to go celebrate.

-

Oliver spent most of the night hovering around the food, slowly picking away at the chips George had brought. Penelope had returned to him every once in awhile, introducing him to people he already knew or bringing him food he didn’t want, but as the night went on she grew drunker, and by midnight she could be found on one of the Ravenclaw couches, making out with Percy. He checked his watch, figuring if he left now she would be too drunk to notice his early departure. Carefully, he snuck out of the Ravenclaw common room, and followed his favorite path back to Gryffindor. He turned down a dimly lit hallway that was now mostly used for extra books that wouldn’t fit in the library, but which had held his Transfiguration classroom years ago, and collided with another person.

They stumbled backwards, clearly more than a little tipsy.

“Flint? Is that you?”

“You bet it is Wood, Flint and his best pals,” Flint swung around what appeared to be a bottle of liquor, nearly knocking a light off the wall.

“Are you….. Drunk?”

“You bet I am Wood. Want some? It’s my mom’s, so you know it’s probably from France or some shit like that.”

“Sorry, I was heading to bed. Are you okay?”

“Yeah man, I’m great! I got French drunk, and I lost to the book babies! I fucking repeated high school to lose to book babies!”

“Yeah, you’re not okay.” Oliver leaned forward and took the bottle of champagne. “You want to go sit down for a bit?” He pointed at the room next to them.

“I’ll go in there if you give me the French back,” Flint said, pointing at the bottle, “I think it’s expensive or something.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say. Come on.”

Oliver unlocked the door with a flick of his wand, and lit the room with another flick. He pushed open the door and strode in, making them a place to sit on top of a box of books. Flint sat down immediately, as if he was glad to have a place to be.

Oliver looked at him hesitantly. He looked a little desperate, and quite a bit like someone who was trying to pretend to be okay. “Listen, Flint,”

“I’m not Flint. My dad’s Flint. He’s Mr. Flint. I mean I’m a Flint yeah he’s my dad but I’m not….. I’m just….. I’m Marcus, okay? Call me Marcus. Call me Mark. My house elf calls me Markie but she’s sixty five and makes me brownies and you haven’t earned that one yet.”

“Right. Okay. Marcus.”

Oliver studied him for a second longer, searching for something to say. “You weren’t bad today. I mean, you were good, you know. You’re a good chaser. A great one, at that.”

Marcus looked up at him, “You think so? I mean, I lost. I’ve been flying for my whole life, my dad taught me when I was five, and I lost.”

“You know, quidditch is a team sport. You can be a damn good chaser and still lose all the time if no one else is giving it their all.”

“Yeah, but I’m the captain, and I lost. It’s on me.” Marcus looked up at Oliver, and seemed to feel bad for a moment. “It’s fine man, I’ll beat you next time,” he said, pulling up a crooked smile. Oliver caught on.

“Like hell you will Flint. You seen Spinnet this year? That girl can move like the wind.”

“Marcus, and yeah I’ve seen her move, but trust me, I’m better.” Marcus leaned in to Oliver. His eyes were a little red around the edges, but the irises were a deep brown, sweet like honey, glowing like gold. Oliver found himself unable to look away. Marcus continued, “You seen my moves this year?”

“I’ve seen your moves this year, Flint, but don’t worry, they won’t matter if I’m there to block them.”

“Marcus, and trust me, you can’t block this new thing I’ve been working on. I scored three hundred on Ravenclaw today with it, you really thing the chosen one can catch fast enough to stop me?”

“Flint, I swear, there is no way you will be able to beat my team. We could kick your ass, even twice as drunk as you are right now.”

“Marcus, and you’ll regret those words next Saturday.”

“Really? Fine. Gryffindor wins and you have to do whatever I say all of Sunday.”

“Deal.”

“You’ll regret that one, Flint.” They were centimeters away now, both of them grinning wildly.

“Marcus.” Marcus leaned forward ever so slightly. If Oliver so much as inhaled, he swore they would be touching. Their eyes were locked. The room was completely silent, filled with shelves of untouched and ancient books, the two of them facing each other, and Oliver swore he could hear Marcus’s heartbeat.

Oliver pulled back a bit. He didn’t want to push his luck too far. “What, are you going to fucking kiss me?” he choked out, forcing a laugh to lighten the tension.

-

Marcus kissed him. Jesus fuck, he was drunk, but that didn’t change much either. Oliver had always been beautiful, had always been strong, had always been tempting, he had just never been right there the way he was now. He leaned forward, pushing, but Oliver pulled back.

“I’m sorry, I’m drunk, you’re just…” Marcus was aware he was still staring at Oliver like an artist at the Louvre, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

-

Oliver kissed him. He had been surprised at first, but now this was all he wanted, all he could think about. Oliver leaned in, parting Marcus’s lips with his tongue. Marcus made no protest, instead just pulling him closer, pressing up against him, closer than Oliver had ever been to anyone ever before. Oliver pushed his hands through Marcus’s hair, up Marcus’s shirt, everywhere and anywhere he could reach. One time, when he was a fourth year he had gotten into a fight with Marcus and they had ended up wrestling on the floor. This was oddly similar, but god was it better. Marcus pulled back and started unbuttoning his shirt, pausing between each button for a kiss. The shirt went, then the undershirt, then Oliver’s. Marcus pushed him back against another box, holding him down, kissing, pulling, pushing. After a few minutes of this, Marcus’s hand slipped lower, and Oliver pulled away.

“No.”

Marcus stopped immediately, sitting back up. “I’m sorry, I just…”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just, you’re drunk, and god I want to but I don’t- I’m not going to- you’re drunk.”

They just looked at each other for a few seconds, both breathing heavily. They were still close enough that if Oliver leaned forward they could be kissing again in a second.

A smile spread across Marcus’s lips. “Does that mean when I’m not drunk, we could do this again?”

“New deal, Marcus. You win next Saturday, I’m yours on Sunday. Same way around if I win. Deal?”

“Deal.”

[soclearwater]

;; Penelope Clearwater

;; At a Glance

Name: Penelope Clearwater

Faceclaim: Ashika Pratt 

Age / Birthday: 27 | July 3rd, 1976

Gender / Pronouns: Cisfemale / She/Her

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Occupation: Head Researcher at the Improper Use of Magic Office 

Affiliation: Neutral

;; A Little Deeper | Headcanons

Penelope was born in the heart of London to a pureblood mother and half-blood father, who both loved her very dearly. Her parents were both successful potioneers who ran the Clearwater Cosmetics empire, a successful line of beauty potions that remain increasingly popular with witches and wizards, alike. In this regard, Penelope grew up skirting around the edge of pureblood circles, but never quite fitting in given both her blood status and the unique circumstances of her family’s wealth. The Clearwaters scoffed at tradition. After all, they were entirely new money-- modern, inventive, with eyes set on the future.

Both of Penelope’s parents were Hogwarts-educated, so when Penelope started showing signs of magic they were no less than thrilled to be sending their daughter off to their beloved alma mater. The daughter of two Slytherins, it was a small shock when Penelope was sorted into Ravenclaw, and though her parents’ love ran deep for her, her sorting marked the first time Penelope felt their adoration might not be entirely unconditional. Despite her parent’s slight disappointment, Penelope always felt certain Ravenclaw was the right place for her. Penelope had always been smart, but her house managed to stimulate her creativity, allowing her to challenge herself and push her limits like never before. Penelope thrived on a proper intellectual challenge and thanks to her diligence and natural bookishness, Penelope would earn herself the position of Ravenclaw Prefect and eventually, Head Girl. While Penelope’s academic accomplishments were no doubt impressive, it would always be these irrefutably public labels that she prided most. As frivolous as they may be, Penelope attached her identity and self-worth to those titles as a way of asserting her dignity.

Immediately after graduating Hogwarts, Penelope began as an apprentice at her parent’s company. While her older sister, Portia, had always been the intended Clearwater Cosmetics heir, Penelope’s parents had always hoped that both sisters would remain involved in the business. As it turned out, Penelope quite hated working for her parents and instead took to the research and experimentation side of business. After growing bored of studying cosmetic magic, Penelope decided to apply to a junior research assistant position at the Improper Use of Magic Office where she hoped to have the opportunity to explore a greater variety of magic. Eventually, over the years, she worked her way up to the head of the research division where she works today. As a researcher, she’s accountable for many things including providing expert testimony at major trials and staying up-to-date with the legal ramifications of new magical developments.

Penelope both loves and loathes working in the Ministry. On one hand, she’s worked her way into a rather prestigious position that provides her the resources she needs for her research, but on the other, she can’t help but feel stifled by all the red tape and politics that seems to take away from the sanctity and freedom of her work. The constant answering to Wizengamot whims and questions, all while begging for funding grows exhausting after a while. Not to mention, she’s been in her current position for nearly 3 years and she’s growing antsy for more.

;; Into the Future | Plots

I think it’s possible that Penelope might be on the hunt for a new job. Whether she cares to admit it or not, her current position has grown tiring and uncompelling. The part of her that feels desperate to cling on to the stability and prestigiousness of her current position stands in direct conflict with her desire for fulfillment, so I would love to explore a situation where Penelope might be tempted by a new opportunity.

Additionally, by way of her work and upbringing, Penelope is a character that has connections to both the dark and light sides of the war. For most of her life Penelope has quite purposely avoided taking a stance either way. Frankly, I would love for her neutrality to be challenged. I’m curious about exploring Penelope’s tipping point and what might compel her to actually take a real stance. For someone so non-committal, I’m curious to see how Penelope might grapple with the prospect of real loyalty.