Three Worn Words

Marcus was an expert at distractions. From a young age he had found that he could divert anyone's attention easily, and that included his own. Sometimes he would just ask a question, other times he would disrupt the classroom with childish antics. In his adult life he found that it was harder to derail people's thoughts. Everyone was so serious, so focused. That didn't mean that it was any harder to confuse himself, though. If anything, it was a lot easier to manipulate his own thoughts once he had grown out of most of his childhood stubbornness. He could use his own recklessness as a distraction, take himself out for a few drinks in order to dull the focus in his thoughts. Or else he could go flying and forget for a few minutes what weird thoughts were running through his mind. For now, though, Marcus was content with distracting himself by going on a trip to the Museum of Quidditch so that he could spend a few hours with his absolute favorite sport. Anything to forget what he was wondering about.

Even as he wandered through the Quaffle exhibit, Marcus found himself darting dangerously within his thoughts (well, two thoughts). There was something wrong with him right now, something weird. He had felt off for the past few days, and he needed to take a break from everything that had been happening. It had nothing to do with his brother's recent move to Headmaster, but rather his own overemotional state. It seemed like his brother was moving on from him. Marcus really couldn't blame him. Sebastian was far smarter than he, and ultimately deserved the position. He could shape the future of all the bright children. Definitely a lot better than trying to help his stupid younger brother. Self-pitying aside, he was attempting to rid himself of these silly thoughts by observing the different Quaffles through the ages, reveling in how everything had changed with time.

Well, that was a rule that he could expect to remain the same, at least. Time changed everything. The stretching exhibit of ancient Quaffles proved that. They were misshapen and awkward, with finger holes or wrist straps. One unfortunate model happened to have both, which Marcus thought was amusing. 'Quidditch Through Time' indeed. He stared at the three worn words for a few moments, lost in thought.  

"You look lost," a small voice piped up.

Carin hadn't meant to wander off, not really. Not after convincing Mum to take them to the Museum of Quidditch. Mils sometimes liked Quidditch, so they'd decided they'd learn more about it for her. Mum would say that was nonsense, but Mum had never had a sibling, let alone a sister, so Mum couldn't understand.

But Quidditch-- well, the Museum of it-- was boring, which was stupid, because it was supposed to be kid-friendly. I guess kid-friendly means for babies, they reflected dismally. So they'd ran off. But Mum knew where they were going, so it wasn't getting lost, not really. They had promised to be back in half an hour, and Mum had made sure they had parchment and a pen of Dad's hidden in their clothes, protected so they couldn't be Summoned away, just in case. It was annoying, how Mum doted and was overprotective. But that was parents for you.

"I'm Carin," they said, sticking out a hand. Dad had always said about manners being good, and Mum had made sure the talks hadn't been too long, saying that it didn't matter if Carin knew which fork to use to eat the second course of salad. "What's your name?"

Marcus wasn't good around children. It wasn't that he hated them, per say, but it was the fact that they found him both intimidating (sometimes), scary (most times), and often cried whenever he was stuck near them. Honestly, he couldn't blame them, as he too felt awkward and gross when forced near them. When at family gatherings and the occasional mixer, he tended to stay far, far away from any member that was so gleefully holding a little monster so that nobody could try to rope him into holding or watching one. Part of him supposed that he gained it from being the youngest sibling, while another section just supposed that he was never going to be that type of person. He was coarse and abrasive, and kids just didn't like that. And that was good with him, except when some children just seemed to blatantly ignore that rule and approach him without much warning.

His first thought when the child spoke was rather crude, though not any different than most other things that he said. What in Merlin is that? The thing was little, a mess of hair and a bit of leg. He didn't know what to say to it, and he didn't really know if he should even speak. If anything, he ought to point it in the direction that it came so that it could go bother somebody else. Not him. Marcus turned towards the child, shifting his weight as he fully acknowledged the thing. Before he went out of his way to tell the kid off, though, it extended its hand and said a name. Carin. "That's a ridiculous name," the man said with a snort, but he did take the offered hand and gave it a really hard squeeze, just like he used to give Wood before their Quidditch matches.

"Lord Marcus Flint," he said gruffly, narrowing his eyes at the child. With Carin's odd form, he thought that the child might end up as a pretty decent Quidditch player, perhaps as Beater. But it seemed like it had the makings of a Gryffindor, and he wasn't really willing to associate with that lot. And it could also be a Mudblood. "And I'm not lost, you prat. Just looking. It's a museum, if you haven't noticed."

"Lord's a stupider name," they responded half irritably, trying their best to return the squeeze without flinching. They were ten, and they knew that the person wasn't actually saying their name was Lord, but it would be fun to pretend, they decided, especially as the grown-up acted so high-and-mighty.

Distantly, they remembered Gramma Agatha. How closely was she a relation to this adult? They hoped not that much. It was probably third cousins at the closest, because Agatha only had a sister, so thankfully they weren't too related. Still, third cousins were gross, and too related, if that's what the person was.

They flushed rather red. Carin, pronounced Careen was a name that some people might find odd. But they'd been named for their great-grandmother, and there was something to be proud of. And it sounded suitably gender-neutral, and they could always stick on the a if they felt more feminine one day. "Well, I chose it," they responded with a dismissive shake of their head they'd seen Amelia do so many times. It worked better with her, probably because the curls could dance. And Carin's hair was straight today, so instead of staying nice around their head, it danced around their shoulders and got in their eyes.

"That's rude of you to say," they frowned. "If you're saying I'm a prat for saying hello, you're a wanker." Their mother called several people wankers and very other rude terms that Carin didn't quite feel like saying at the moment. Dad would have said they could have walked away, but Mum always wanted to fight, and Mils wouldn't be silent, even though Atha would have.

"And there are different ways of being lost, but you should known that already. You looked lost that the balls looked different." Maybe that was also rude of them, but they didn't care.

If he was ever this terrible, he was shocked that Sebastian ever decided that he had time for him. He was honestly a bit proud of the way that the kid was acting, but it was a bit too offensive for his taste. Then again, that was the way that Marcus himself tended to work, so it was essentially like looking into a very, very tiny mirror. It was all a bit ironic and well according to what his mood was. He had been looking at Quaffles throughout the time, and here they stood, two slightly similar people (at least in his opinion). But no, that was wrong. Marcus was definitely the lesser of the two. He didn't really have the guts to stand up to an adult at that age. "You very well know that's a title," he hissed down at the child. "And if you don't use the moniker, you'll end up on the business end of a curse or two."

He smiled wickedly at that, looking down on the kid with a glimmer of amusement. Carin chose their own name? Well, he wondered if the child's original title was even worse. He couldn't think of anything much stupider, but he supposed that there was probably a name choice that was even more ill-fitting than this one. Maybe it did fit, though. The child was rather ridiculously attempting to shake their head, using too much force and causing their hair to get in their face. Yeah, that was definitely a spoiled kid that was able to choose their own name. "You're not very good at making choices, then."

Marcus had to admit that the child had spunk, though, and despite the fact that the kid was annoying he was actually enjoying the encounter. He wouldn't let Carin go without a fight and a curse or two. And then maybe sending his brother a letter saying to look out for the small thing when it decided to go to Hogwarts. "I'm a rude person, Carin," he said simply. He rolled his eyes as if saying the name pained him. "Just like you're a stupid one. Honestly, did your parents teach you nothing? Must be stupid Gryffindors."

And, as the child referred to him being lost again, Marcus grimaced. "I'm not 'lost'. I was admiring the passage of time."

"Very well, Lord Lint." Oh, Dad and Dad's parents and Gramma Agatha and Mils would be horrified at them. And Gramma Agatha would tease her, saying that she wasn't lint at all, even though her eyes sometimes looked like them.

"My grandmother said that titles like are inherited and that you use them when you're an adult. She never said anything about them being earned, but maybe that's a good thing for you. It takes luck, she said, and that's all that a title shows." That was far too far, they knew, so they better stop it now. But they couldn't apologize, not before the adult did. Adults were supposed to see when they were wrong, and this one was. Wronger than they were, at least.

"I chose it 'cause my other name gave me dysphoria most of the time," they responded, standing up as tall as they could. Tall though they were for their age, they were definitely not near the height of the man. "And I'm still named after who I was named after, so it fits well." But Great-gramma Carina had died for some reason that Gramma Agatha didn't like to say, so it probably meant that it was bad. So that wasn't the best then, to remember. Maybe especially not now.

"My parents," they responded, puffing out a nonexistent chest, "are Hufflepuffs. And I might be stupid, but you're a tosser, and that's worse, because I can always learn."

Marcus clenched his fists in irritation, wondering how much he would be able to get away with for the moment. It wasn't like the museum was overly crowded, as he hadn't seen that many people wandering about, which allowed the man to believe that he could get away with quite a few hexes. Of course, that might draw the attention of the brat's parents, and while he was certain that he was pretty untouchable for the moment, it might not last that long. Besides, he didn't know where the thing came from. It could always be some well-off kid of the twenty-eight that he had overlooked, or from some foreign family. He might as well practice a bit of caution, then, in case some cousins of his showed up and ruined everything.

His train of thought wandered, and Marcus blinked back into reality when the child finished their tirade, a dazed look on his face that was often adopted. "Do you ever stop talking?" he retorted, moving to locate his wand. At the end of his words, he trained the instrument on the child, drawing too his full height as well. 

"Carina, then? That's your given name?" He couldn't comment on that one. Sadly enough, he recognized that name. As far as he could tell, that would make this child extended family if it was truly named after Carina Flint. "Honestly, you should change it again. I doubt you're worthy of such a title." And he wasn't sure what dysphoria meant, but he didn't really want to ask, especially not this child.

Marcus snorted at such a proud response, shaking his head. His wand was still aimed at the brat, and he hadn't lowered it. He might not be able to kill this kid, but he might send a hex or two its way. "If you're descended from Hufflepuffs, I doubt that you're learning any more than you have. And I'd watch your mouth, Carin, or else I'll wash it out with soap."

"My name," they responded icily. A few sparks popped onto the ground near the man's foot. "is Carin. If you call me Carina again today--" what could they do? They were just a kid, and he was an adult. "I will embarrass you and draw all eyes here to you. The name I was given at birth is absolutely none of your business."

Normally they weren't like this. But sometimes, the mosquitoes were hard and hurt more. Better now to state their case firmly than to leave it hanging. They didn't know what they meant-- or understand, really-- by title, because their namesake had been a regular person, and Gramma Agatha never put on airs like this older man. She half-wondered if the man's insistence on a title meant that Gramma had one, and brushed the though off. Of course Granma didn't. But if he had one, her grandma might as well.

Mils's father was titled too, like the great lunk in front of her. Would Mils have one? Would Atha? They couldn't imagine their shy brother having one, but could imagine their sister having one later. If Mum let them. If Mils's grandmother let her.

They had to be careful, and not snarky, like Mum. Mum had a rough side of her tongue, and that was something Carin had from her, and if Mum was here she'd be fighting. Or arguing and winning. She couldn't be too angry, not with the wand at their face. They went slightly cross-eyed, trying to keep both their eyes on it.

But that was an insult to Mum and Dad! They had to now. "Well, I don't see how you could learn to not be so angry, if you're really descended from Trolls." That was mean now-- that was really mean of them, and it was the sort of thing Mum might say when she was furious, but he'd insulted Mum. Mum would understand. They felt along a wall at their back, in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

Marcus had to admit that the kid's moxie was impressive, but it was getting on his last nerve. Where was the respect these days? His father would have had his head if he had ever attempted to speak to an elder in this way, and Sebastian would probably have hexed him into oblivion. He had to uphold the Flint name, and apparently this Carin didn't have to worry about that at all. Probably a spoiled kid, or a last child. He couldn't really imagine another circumstance that would have caused someone to end up like this, especially if they were named after someone like Carina. Unless there was some sort of break in the Flint family that he should have been more aware of. Everyone was related to everyone these days, so Marcus couldn't really keep up. It took too long, anyway.

"You have some of Carina's temper, Carin," he said casually. He didn't call the brat Carina, heeding their warning slightly. He didn't really want to draw attention to the pair, not until he could come up with a way to place all of the blame on the little brat. "Though that won't save you in the end."

And in his opinion, it was something that had to do with him. This was probably some second cousin of his, and although he really, really wanted to curse the brat. Could he? He twirled his wand carelessly, taking heed not to drop it so that it wouldn't drop on the ground and ruin his hopefully frightening demeanor. Carin was observing it with crossed eyes, and Marcus recalled the first time that he was on the business end of a wand. It had been terrifying, if he was recalling it correctly. He had been petrified and had walked away with a sore body due to the curse that had been inflicted on him. 

"Where did you hear that?" he growled out. He kept his wand trained on the child. He didn't know how the kid could have heard such a rumor; it hadn't looked like it had noticed his name, and he doubted that they had ever met. "Besides, if you're descended from Carina, then you're of the same stock." That was the best that he could do before he aimed a Stinging Jinx towards the kid, moving his wand so that it was aimed towards the child's arm. It would be easy for the child to duck out of the way if it was quick enough.

"Well," they responded, tilting their head. "You sorta look like one, and I don't. But that's okay."

They should be nicer then, right? He knew their namesake. "I mean, that just mean spells bounce off you more. Is that useful for duelling? Mum said that the best thing is duelling is just reacting. And knowing stuff."

They noticed the wand moving, and fear kicked in, helping them dodge the spell. At least this time it wasn't transphobic. Which meant that maybe-- maybe it was not the worst thing? If it was annoyance, they could do polite. Dad's parents liked polite, so they could be like that. And then maybe he wouldn't be so mean. "I didn't hear it anywhere, promise. I just guessed. Where'd you hear that about my great-grandmother? have you met her? She died before I was born.
Before my mother was born even, maybe. Are you that old?"

Was that rude? They didn't think so. If he acted up again, then maybe they'd run. No matter the title or whatever, it would probably look bad for a man to chase a screaming and crying child.