jenszabo

Chapter 12 Detonation Part 2

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 04:02:45 GMT

“Oliver Wood, what are you doing?” Alicia hissed.

Katie and Oliver jumped apart, well, further apart.

“I’m, er, dancing with Katie,” Oliver said, a little shamefacedly.

“Didn’t I speak with you about this less than an hour ago?” Ali demanded.

“Er, yes.”

”Uh, what?” Katie interjected.

“Didn’t I explain that you were not to let Katie indulge her shyness and/or misanthropy by hanging out with you instead of being chatted up by cute and clever boys?”

“She’s the only one here who saw the Ballycastle/Appleby game! I want to hear her impressions.” Oliver complained.

“I’m not a misanthrope,” Katie objected. “I like people…from a distance.”

“You,” Alicia demanded, pointing at Oliver, “dance with me.” She turned to Katie with a stern expression on her face. “You, go sit over there,” she said firmly, gesturing. She began to drag Oliver away, looking over her shoulder to deliver her final instructions. “Look alluring!”

Katie maneuvered her way across the thinning crowds to her assigned seat. Well, at least that explained why Oliver had spent the last few times they danced looking nervously over his shoulder. It had been like dancing with Mad-Eye Moody.

Ali really wasn’t being fair though. Katie had danced! She had danced with Lee, and Fred, and George, and Oliver. Several times. She had danced quite a bit. She’d even danced with a few strangers.

She’d even enjoyed the last one. Stefan. Stefan spent most of the time talking about cufflinks. Based on their name, and their presence in one of the displays at Repent, he’d apparently drawn some erroneous conclusions. He’d been dead fascinated to learn Katie was a half-blood. Loathe to shatter his illusions, Katie had not contradicted his tales of those ‘erotic restraints’. She’d also told him tales of the dark and tempting Muggle world involving ‘chain letters’ and ‘municipal bonds.’ That had been fun. The next time Stefan tried to chat up a Muggleborn, there would probably be an incident.

It would have been nice if she could have said that she sensed his presence. A tingling down her spine or the feeling that someone was watching her…that was how it was supposed to go.

The first thing she noticed was other people reacting to him. Katie had been drinking her ale, people watching, when she noticed people glancing over their shoulders and whispering. Then, ever so casually, most of the witches with the tightest robes and longest legs seemed to be congregating on one portion of the floor. Katie craned her neck to see, expecting to see some celebrity.

It was Marcus, sitting at a table with Higgs and Adrian Pucey.

Then the lightning shot down her spine.

His arms were crossed across his chest, and he looked dark and forbidding and big. Katie braced one arm against the wall as she teetered a bit on her stool. He glanced over at her then, and their eyes locked. Katie smiled tentatively.

He didn’t smile back.

Katie jerked her gaze away, feeling flushed and fluttery. Should she go over there? Would he want her to with his friends there? Probably not. He hadn’t smiled.

He never smiled, though.

Katie took a deep breath and pondered. A big part of her wanted to slip off of her stool and out of the club. Then it wouldn’t be her and him and all these other people in the same room. That felt…wrong. Maybe he’d even drop by later. She bit her lip.

If he was looking at her, she’d go over and say something. Probably.

No, she firmly told herself. Definitely. She was a Gryffindor. It was time to act like one. Katie took a deep breath, and turned. She tried to make it seem casual, but it didn’t matter.

Marcus wasn’t looking at her. Her stomach dropped.

He was watching Alicia dance with Oliver. Correction. He was glowering at Alicia dancing with Oliver. Katie willed him to look over at her but his eyes remained fixed on Oliver.

Marcus never stared, unless he was trying to prove a point. His eyes scanned any room he was in. He weighed options. He perused. Katie had watched him, trying to figure out his thought patterns, learning how he tensed when a crup, a child holding balloons or a blond man walked by, smiling as she noted how brooms and foodstuffs earned far more lustful glances than passing witches…counting the seconds his eyes remained on hers. She probably had gawped at him like a drunken plimpy.

She stared. He never stared. He was staring now. It took an embarassingly long time for her to do the Arithmancy.

It doesn’t matter that you’re not fuckable like Spinnet, Katie. Just try to look self-assured.

It wasn’t too surprising. Ali’s rack was legendary after all. She was one of the ‘Gryffindor Chasers who was actually hot’. No…she was beautiful. Katie watched as Ali spun away from Oliver into the waiting arms of Terence Higgs. Higgs was a brave man to risk chatting her up with Flint staring holes into his back.

Katie watched Ali’s hips sway, brushing up against Higgs, while her hair moved in perfect rhythm. Katie kept her eyes focused on them, wanting to see the fucking tragic denouement, but nothing happened. Lee Jordan cut in, not Flint.

Katie watched Ali watch Lee and Higgs bicker. So did half the dance floor. Maybe Higgs was acting as Flint’s agent…or maybe they planned on sharing her.
Knowing Ali’s proclivities, Katie thought bitterly, maybe Higgs was negotiating the volume discount.

Ali must have felt Katie’s eyes boring into her, because she glanced over and her face broke into her beaming, ‘Ali is happy’ smile. Possibly it was latent Divination talent that made Ali glance over at Katie then. Possibly it was just that Ali always made sure to check up on her, to make sure she was OK. Guilt flooded Katie, and shame. What was wrong with her? Ali waved at her with both hands high over her head, and an exaggerated eye roll at her companions. Katie forced a smile, and then stood. She needed to get out of there.

Crowds of people blocked her way to the portkey and Apparation gates. A small furry creature darted out of the pack of people and over Katie’s foot. She jumped hurriedly aside only to have a few more dart past. Katie groaned. Clearly Fred and George had managed to swap the portkeys with their Jarvey!Jamboree! device. She’d even helped them with the slogan: Exactly as much fun as a barrel of Jarveys…in your older brothers’ sock drawer! Katie would go out and purchase a few tomorrow to replace all the toilet paper in the twins’ flat.

The loo was even more chaotic, as tarts in tight robes tried to squeeze in to avoid the jarveys. Their stiletto heels did damage to both the jarveys and any one else brave enough to get in their way. Katie wasn’t sure what purpose the incessant squealing served. Possibly some form of slut sonar.

She couldn’t go back in and hang out with Lee, and relive great moments of Quidditch with Oliver, and have to see it. She just couldn’t.

The catacombs. She could hole up in there by herself for an hour or so until they jettisoned the Jarveys. Ponder. Brood. Write, direct and produce a play for shadow puppets entitled “Spinster Cellblock.”

A large man shoved past Katie. He was probably going to the catacombs, Katie figured, based on his purposeful air, and the way his girlfriends’ legs were wrapped around his midsection. Katie followed after them at a discreet distance. If she lost sight of them, she could just follow the trail of saliva.

Her instincts had proved correct. After a few moments waiting in line, behind the half-dressed and hormonal, Katie approached the glorified bouncer. He had the word Gatekeeper stenciled on his chest, and the vapid look of someone who couldn’t read it.

“One galleon,” he grunted, down at Katie. She forked it over, silently, and began to move past, when he stopped her. “Where’s the guy?”

“What guy?” Katie asked, irritably.

“I mean,” the beefy man intoned slowly, “your partner, or partners, male or female. Repent does not discriminate based on sexual preference, blood purity, or squib status.”

“I’m here alone.”

“Why would you want to go alone?” he asked, clearly thinking she was dimwitted. “There should be two of you.”

“Who are you? Noah?” Katie cried, exasperated.

“Rupert,” he replied, calmly. They stared at each other for a long moment, before Katie fumbled in her purse.

“There,” she said, passing him another galleon. “Now there are two.” He weighed it in his palm, apparently torn between the fiscal possibilties of a menage a trois and the anxiety engendered by having to count that high. Finally, he lifted the rope and let Katie pass.

She didn’t know what she’d expected. Writhing maidens, men with hoods, snakes…Not this. Twisted corridors extended out in all directions, flickering torches forming grotesque shadows. Manacles were fastened to the stone walls, and a cool mist hung in the air, obscuring visibility. It actually looked like parts of Hogwarts.

She supposed she could just sit down, and wait it out, not risk getting lost in the dark passages. Sure, she told herself sarcastically, sit around buffing her nails, and see if Repent’s verisimillitude extended to rats and Boggarts as well. The important thing is to keep moving, she could hear Marcus’ gruff voice saying. Don’t be a target. Katie took a deep breath, and set off down the darkest corridor.

The passages seemed endless. Katie moved through the gloom, paths branching out in every direction. She remembered reading about the ‘Sinister Rule of Magical Mazes’-by turning left whenever possible a person would reach the exit. Katie turned right mostly, but sometimes to the left and sometimes straight. It was harder than one would think to move randomly.

She thought she heard footsteps at times, and heavy breathing, once, in the darkness. Water dripping. Distant screams that might be echoing from other people’s catacomb fantasies. In hers, she should be alone. There should be no footsteps, no sighs. Katie forced herself to go deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.

She felt like Ariadne trapped in the Minotaur’s maze, unsure if her lover or a monster lurked beyond the next corner. Get a grip, Katie told herself. She didn’t have lovers, she had Weasleys. And as for monsters…Well, more Weasleys would have to do.

The sound of dripping water grew louder and louder as she walked. It seemed to emanate from behind a wooden door. It was solid, utilitarian, and unlike anything else in the catacombs. Katie stood before it, as her mind conjured up visions of a woman with her throat slit, the blood droplets echoing on the stone floor. Enough. She took a deep breath and shoved the door open.

It was a loo. It had a leaky faucet. This was reality.

Marcus didn’t want her. That was reality.

How many more times did she have to learn that? It wasn’t a great romance. It wasn’t anything. Why couldn’t she get that into her head? Plenty of people built castles in the air, but Katie figured she was the only one who was paying rent.

Katie stared at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. This was how it was. This was who she was. Pale and plain. Stalwart, cheerful, fairly clever. If she continued to swan around, thinking she was some pale and tragic sorceress, she’d lose sight of that. She’d lose everything.

She made herself look for a long time. She made herself look until she stopped crying.

Enough. She was done. It was over.

Katie wiped away the tears on her cheeks. Then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and shoved the door open.

Marcus stood there, arms crossed, watching her.

“You’re not there,” she murmured, shutting her eyes. When she re-opened them, Marcus was still there. He was staring down at her with black eyes, holding the door open with one strong arm.

“Never know where I’ll be,” he said, acidly. Katie took a half step back at the venom in his tone. “Enjoying yourself tonight, Katie?”

“I’m actually very tired this evening,” Katie replied, cursing the way hope had tried to claw its way into her chest when she had seen him standing there. “I need it to be over. And yourself?”

“I absolutely am,” he snarled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, I won’t keep you from it,” Katie replied, striving to keep her voice pleasantly neutral. She was up in her tower, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to let him hurt her anymore.

Actually, it was worse than that. He hadn’t done anything to her, this time. She’d wielded the knife herself.

She tried to force a smile, and turned to go. His arm came up, blocking her path, but she quickly side-stepped it and began to walk purposely down the hallway. After a moment, the door slammed behind her and she could hear his footsteps. Katie would swear that she could feel his breath on her neck before he fell into step beside her.

“Too busy to talk to me, Katie?” he growled.

“I’m tired,” she said stubbornly. “I want to go home. I’m sure there are a thousand tarts who would love to play ‘interrogated by the dread lord’ with you. Go find them.” She would not cry.

“Wouldn’t be surprised. Amazing how many tarts there are in a place like this.” Why was he so angry? He had everything he wanted. As always.

“I really wouldn’t know. Not my scene.” Katie walked faster.

“You were here tonight,” he shot back.

“I was here for Ali’s birthday,” Katie spat out. Did he have to argue with every thing she said?

“Yeah, I know that,” he sneered. “Just being the wonderfully supportive and loyal girl that you are, huh, Katie?”

Katie stopped and turned to face him.

“Thank you…Thank you for wasting all that time with me this summer, and thank you for trying to get me on a Quidditch team, and thank you for making…Thank you.” Katie paused, pressing her eyes tightly together for a second before looking up at him. “Please,” she almost whispered, “let me go.”

“Not this time,” he said, with a rough laugh. His eyes searched her face, and he let his hand rest on her shoulder. “What are you playing at, Bell? Are you playing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Katie said, trying to stop herself from trembling.

“He wants you,” Marcus said, coldly.

“No, he doesn’t,” Katie replied flatly. She paused. “Uh, who?”

“Wood.”

“Uh, no, he doesn’t,” Katie replied, baffled and exhausted. Marcus glared angrily down at her, and dropped his arm back to his side. “Look…it was about Quidditch, and fear of innuendo, and because I’m like…neuter, really so it was OK with me…” She paused, taking a deep breath. “It’s like this: Context-dependency confuses Oliver.”

“You telling me what to see, now, Katie?” His voice was soft, but somehow menacing. He looked even angrier.

“I’m telling you what is,” Katie replied. “You’re going to have to fill in why you care,” she finished bitterly.

He looked at her for a long moment, weighing her words. Katie knew that look. He was engaging in some complex internal arithmancy of his own invention, calculating and recalculating profits and risks. He would say one thing and mean another, and neither would have anything to do with her. She would convince herself they did, and lay awake all scared and upset and hopeful. She wasn’t letting this happen again.

It was different this time.

Katie gasped as he grabbed her wrists and held them over her head, shoving her back against the stone wall.

“He wants you,” Marcus snarled down at her. His grip tightened. “He can’t have you.”

“No one wants…That’s not true,” Katie said, voice tremulous.

“It’s true, alright,” Marcus said softly. “He’s going to go home tonight, and think about you. Think about how your legs looked in those short, little robes and how you gave him that big beaming smile as you danced with him. He’s going to lie in bed with his hand on his cock and think back to how once, during that slower dance, he let his hand slide down to cup your ass and you let it linger there for just a second…just long enough to let him know that you liked it. Then he’ll begin to imagine…” Marcus’ voice was low, hypnotic. He leaned forward to whisper into her ear. “Is that what you wanted to have happen, Katie?”

“No,” Katie protested. “You’re wrong.”

“Jordan, too, probably. Could you feel his sweat under your hands? Did you rub your hips against George Weasley just until he started to get hard and then step shyly away? They’ll both have…thoughts I’m sure. Fodder for their fantasies. You played into that, Katie.” She shook her head, and could feel his lips graze her ear. Her knees buckled a bit. “Was it intentional? Did you want that, Katie? That attention? Have you been feeling unappreciated?” He let his teeth graze over her earlobe and she sighed.

“Marcus.” She fought for breath. “Please…listen to me…”

He leaned back and looked at her, eyes heavy lidded. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers once, twice before letting his tongue slide lightly over her lower lip. She never believed she’d have this again. She had laid awake, panicked at the thought of the memories dimming, becoming fuzzy, leaving her bereft. She leaned into the kiss.

“If I’d done that before, would you still have let Oliver touch you?” he whispered. “I don’t think you would have. I must have neglected you.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Katie insisted, voice shaking. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Why so upset?” That seductive voice was so at odds with those hard eyes. “You just went looking for what you needed, Katie.”

“That’s not true!” Katie said, desperately.

His lips were on hers again, taking rather than asking this time. Forcing her mouth open, tongue attacking. Katie twined her hands in his hair and kissed him back with equal fervor. He groaned once, and her blood sang. She had to show him. She had to make him see.

He stepped back from her, breathing hard, looking away. Her hands were still tangled in his hair, and she turned his head, making him look at her.

“Marcus…” she said softly, pleading. His eyes softened for a second and his grip on her wrists relaxed, before he shook himself, and stared down at her.

“You could have been with me tonight,” he said, flatly. “You chose to be with them.” He released her wrists, and spun her around to face the wall. She could feel his heat behind her, as her cheek was pressed to the cold wall.

He stepped closer, sandwiching her between the hard wall and, to her crazed neurons, his equally hard body. She had never felt so soft, or so delicate. The hardness of his cock pressed against the small of her back turned her bones to liquid. She moaned.

“Katie…” he said teasingly, letting his tongue dart out to trace her ear.

“Yes?” she asked, voice quivering.

“What is it that you went looking for?” his voice rasped in her ear. “I think you should tell me what it is that you need.”

“Marcus…” A half-gasp.

“Me?” he chuckled. “I’m flattered, Katie. I don’t think that’s the whole story though. You had me at the Quidditch pitch, hanging out, sparring. You had my conversation, my full attention…That wasn’t enough.” He leaned in and bit her neck, before letting his lips return to her ear. “You need to be satisfied, don’t you? You need me to make you come.”

She whimpered.

His hand had moved to the front closure of her robe and he undid it with expert fingers. They skimmed lightly along her neck, before dipping into her bra, between her breasts and then back out. Katie bit her lip to keep from protesting. His fingers were so rough, it was like he was scraping her nerve endings, making her body cry out. His other hand skimmed up and down her thigh, just tracing the hemline of her robes.

“Am I being a tease, Katie?” he asked gruffly.”Do you feel like you’re going to fly apart with wanting me? Is it being burned into your blood so you’ll never escape it?” She was shaking now. “That would be best, don’t you think?”

“Please…” His hand slid back into her bra, tweaking her nipple hard. The sharp twinge went through her body like fire, and she pressed back against him.

“Not yet,” he said harshly. “We have things to discuss.”

“We do?” her voice was so high-pitched and childlike that she didn’t recognize it.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, tongue snaking into her ear. “You presumed to tell me how I should see things, earlier. Now let me explain some things to you.”

“Marcus…”

“Shhh, sexy Katie.” Her knees buckled, as pure pleasure went through her at his words. “Oh, you like that, do you? You like hearing what you do to me…” His lips were moving up and down the column of her neck, soft little nips that left her gasping. “I think we should talk about what I do to you though.”

He released her leg and both hands slipped up under her robes, moving over her quivering stomach, to undo the clasp of her bra. Katie gasped as it fell away, and gasped again as his hands moved up to cup her breasts. Pulling at her nipples, kneading them. She had reached behind her to grip his robes in a desperate effort to remain standing.

“Your nipples get so hard when I touch them,” he murmured. “I bet they ache. Your heart beats so fast when I’m pressed against you. I can feel it racing under my fingertips.” One hand left her breast and moved steadily downward. Katie shook herself. She needed to explain to him…”When I slip my hand into your knickers, you will be so wet, so needy, Katie.” Her thighs trembled. “You only get like this for me,” he demanded, voice roughening. “You will only be like this for me.”

She ground back against him, desperately, and he stepped back. His hand slipped down slowly, under the waistband of her knickers. Katie held her breath but couldn’t keep from crying out as he slid his fingers through her slick folds.

“If I slipped my finger inside, you’d be tight. Clamping down on me, not wanting to let me go, trying to take me deeper.” Katie flushed as she could feel her muscles flutter in response to his words and knew he could too. His lips were gentle as they kissed the base of her neck. “No one has talked to you like this before, have they, Katie? Not even me…Poor Katie. I’ll have to make up for my years of neglect.”

She wanted to sob as he removed his hand. She could feel the wetness on his fingertips, as he traced around her hip before shoving her knickers down, past her knees, down to her ankles. He knelt behind her, and steadied her as he made her lift up one foot, then the other. When he stood, Katie could see her knickers in his hand. He was silent for a long moment, before he finally spoke.

“White cotton, full-cut. A little tattered.” Katie was embarrassed but could hear…heat in his voice. “You hadn’t planned on letting anyone touch you, had you? Letting them look was enough.” A hand reached up to stroke her hair. Katie struggled to find her voice.

“I didn’t plan on anything. I don’t want anyone but you. I haven’t wanted anyone but you.” There was silence after her declaration, but she could hear him breathing heavily. He stepped closer again, his heavy body framing hers.

“I want to hear you scream,” he said, low and deadly. “I want to watch you come apart.”

“Marcus,” Katie began, trying to turn around. She wanted to see his face, to see if this was just about his anger. His hand pressed against her shoulder, keeping her against the wall.

“My way,” he said, flatly.

“Are you still angry?” Katie managed to ask.

“Why would I be angry?” he asked, coolly. Yes, yes he was. She tried to swallow her fear, as she waited for him to start touching her. His hands remained still. She hadn’t realized his leg has moved until it pressed up against her, forcing her thighs apart. One arm came around her middle to pull her back against him, stabilizing her.

“Marcus!” she gasped, as his thigh moved higher, increasing the pressure and forcing her to rise up on her toes.

“Yes?” he murmured.

“Please…” It hurt a bit, being stretched like that. Little rivulets of pleasure were moving through her body. The realization that her body was being purposefully guided only made them increase. Her hips shifted, rocking.

“You should see how you look,” he told her, voice thick. She blushed to think of how she must look, so desperately needy. Her hand reached up and grabbed the manacle on the wall, fingers wrapping around the cool metal.

“I want to touch you,” she gasped.

“Learn to live with disappointment.” She tried to grind her hips back against his cock, but her mobility was limited, and his hand moved to her hips, stilling them.“Your Gryff boys can’t make you feel like this, can they?” he demanded.

“No…” Katie whimpered, as she could feel him rub his hips against her once.

“It should be me, shouldn’t it Katie?” His voice was thick, and she could feel him hard behind her. When she didn’t answer, he brought his leg up a little more.

“Yes,” she gasped. His hips moved again.

“It should always have been me,” he muttered. “I’m the one who noticed you.”

She couldn’t stifle her moan. He had thought about her. His arms tightened around her.

“I’m the one who watched you,” he whispered, and she felt like she had been dipped in flame. If there were more words, she didn’t hear them, as she fought the pleasure surging through her body. It was too much…

She could feel him grinding against her, his movements becoming jerky as she rocked with his movement. He was cursing, and she could feel his sweat as he laid his head on her shoulder. Then he was talking to her, a steady stream of words, as she struggled to concentrate. She could only pick up fragments.

“Fucking Gryffs…snooty little bitches…condescending…fuck them…they can’t have you.”

Katie wailed. She wanted, she couldn’t, so close. Marcus’ hand snaked down between her thighs and it was enough. She thought she cried out. She thought he cried out. She knew that he had sunk his teeth into her neck, that jagged, ragged semi-circle imprint that was his alone. That might have been the most delicious feeling of all.

They stood still, breathing heavily for a minute. Slowly, Marcus knee dropped, and Katie shifted from leg to leg, stretching the sore muscles. Slowly, their breathing returned to normal. They still didn’t speak.

Katie tried to turn and look at him, only to have him again press her shoulder, keeping her flush against the wall. What was wrong? Was he still angry? Had it only been about the anger?

She could feel his hand move lightly over her hair, almost as if he were afraid to touch her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” she said, with a strange breathy sob. She reached up to brush the tears from her cheeks. She was alright, really.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice hard.

“Yes.” What was she supposed to say? That she’d like him to hold her, that she wished she could stop shaking? “I’m fine.”

“Fuck,” he swore viciously, and Katie suddenly didn’t want to turn around any more. Then, much softer, she thought she heard him speak again. “I’m sorry.”

Then she heard the footsteps as he strode away down the corridor. When she turned around, she was alone again.

Detained Chapter 12 --Detonation Part 1

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 03:57:49 GMT

First off, let me apologize for the delay and the lack of response to comments...I have just been really busy and exhausted. But...I come bearing an older chapter...but one with actual Marcus/Katie interaction in it! (SPOILER ALERT). Hopefully it will be new for some of you. I am writing and will be catching up, but hopefully somebody will enjoy the repost of this. :)

Well, that was certainly an unpleasant use for a butter churn.

For a moment, Katie thought she’d entered the London Torture Museum instead of the club where they were celebrating Alicia’s 20th birthday. An Iron Maiden was proudly displayed in the balcony. Dunking stools were lined up at the bar. Something that looked suspiciously like a rack hung and swayed over the dancers.

No wonder the name of the club was Repent.

Ang, Fred and George were also staring, open-mouthed, Katie noted. She figured that Ang would be the first to break the silence. Katie could see the tirade about warped attitudes about Muggles, jaded pretentious brats, and non-ergodynamic seating forming in her friend’s brain.

She was wrong though. Fred, who had wandered closer to inspect a display of dental drills and surgical implements, turned around and grinned at them. “Dad would love this place,” he called out to George.

“Guys!” A dark-haired whirlwind dashed into their midst. Alicia pulled both Katie and Ang into a bone-crushing hug. Katie winced. For such a small girl, Ali had quite the grip. “You came!”

Once they could breathe, they all wished Alicia a happy birthday. Katie tugged nervously on the hem of her robes. They were a little shorter than she would like, but a nice muted brown. Rather than try to find robes revealing enough to meet Ali’s approval, and demure enough not to make Ang shake her head, Katie went for camouflage in the hopes that neither would look too closely. She’d also made sure they were loose enough so that, if necessary, she could run away.

“Greetings all,” Lee Jordan called out, strolling over. “Hey, Bell,” he grinned, giving her a once-over. “You have legs. Who knew?” he asked cheekily.

“Yes, I do,” Katie agreed, blithely. “I’m quite the envy of all my pals down at the primordial ooze.”

“You do look pretty tonight, Katydid,” Ali chirped, smiling at her.

“Katie always looks lovely,” Ang interjected sharply. “She just doesn’t wear robes with slits up to her nostrils, and down to her kneecaps.” A brief silence fell. Katie assumed that the rest of them, like herself, were trying to picture the robes that Ang described. Katie came up with something that looked like an origami porcupine and gave up.

“Hmm,” Ali mused, aloud. “Would you mind if I used your idea, Ang? I need some new Fall designs for the boutique. I could pair it with the thigh-high boots that have chain-links arranged in sexually-suggestive patterns. You know, the ones that you came up with when we had lunch last week.”

“Sounds a little too subtle,” Ang smirked back. “I mean, for you.”

“Actually, I designed my new collection with you in mind,” Alicia replied sweetly. “Chainmail and wimples.” Ang’s eyes narrowed.

“Alcohol and presents!” Katie inserted quickly.

“Yeah, come on, you two,” Fred agreed. “Besides I want to see if that weird cage is big enough to lock a Slytherin in.”

~*~

For a club modeled after a dungeon, it was surprisingly difficult to find a dark and quiet corner. Katie had happily spent a few minutes laughing at the nose-hair trimmer and electric can opener that the club decorator had apparently mistaken for torture devices. After an hour though, Katie was casting longing looks at the sarcophagus in the corner. She’d promised Ali that she’d stay for at least a few hours. She hadn’t said where in the club, exactly. If only she’d brought a book.

The place was packed. Well, except for the area around Ang and Fred, of course. Their exuberant dancing, combined with the fact that spikes and blades festooned the walls made everyone give them a respectful distance. Maybe Katie should go sit cross legged in that area. With her center of gravity that low, it would be hard for even the combined destructive power of Fred and Angelina to thrust her into something hard enough to cause impalement.

Lee Jordan was making his way across the floor to her again, Katie saw. He and George seemed to have some sort of system worked out. Every fifteen minutes, Lee came by to dance with her. Every twenty minutes, George brought her a drink. Depending on how you looked at it, it was condescending or lovely. It was kind of fun having minions though. Katie kept having to fight the urge to demand that one of them juggle.

“Come on, Katie,” Lee said, firmly. “Let’s dance.”

“No, I’m alright, you go ahead,” Katie assured him.

“Katie…”

“Lee, you’ve danced with me like four times. All the other little wallflowers are getting jealous.”

“I want to dance with you. I never see you! I can chat up the gigglers any night.”

“Hmm,” Katie mused, staring over his shoulder. “I didn’t know this club was ‘robes optional’.” Lee’s head whipped around. Katie snickered.

“Idle curiosity,” he protested, with an over-exaggerated hurt look. “But, c’mon. You shouldn’t be standing here by yourself.”

“Lee, I know you always try to look after me but I’m standing in a crowded club! It’s not like I’m going anywhere. What could happen?”

“Well, if you’re sure,” he said, shrugging. “Do you need a drink?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to put George out of a job,” Katie said wryly. “You could do me a favor though.”

“Name it.”

“Ask a girl that has a chair to dance. I really want to sit down,” Katie pleaded.

He grinned at her, grabbing her arm and towing her through the crowd. A very pretty redhead was just thrilled to dance with him, the girl said breathlessly. She surrendered her stool to Katie without a whimper. Sucker.

Katie perched on her stool and surveyed the dancers. Ang and Fred were maintaining their blast radius. Ali was dancing with a tall, dark-haired guy who looked familiar. Oliver was here, too, with a striking blonde wrapped around him. Young wizardry was out in full force tonight. Look at all the pretty people. Whee.

“And what are you up to?” A tall, lanky guy was grinning down at her. Katie looked at the ale in her hand, and out at the people dancing. Master of the obvious, this one.

“I’m wailing for my demon lover,” Katie replied, sweetly. Confusion flooded his face. He quickly knocked back the rest of his drink.

“Ah, righ’. I need a refill. If you’ll excuse me…” He pushed his way towards the bar. Katie snickered.

The music was boring itself into her skull, and the heat was oppressive. Was it wrong that she had much more fun being yelled at and knocked off her broom? Only the fact that it was Ali’s birthday kept her from ducking out early and meeting Marcus at the Disconsolate Grouse, as he’d requested, well, ordered her to do. Imperious prat.

She would have gone, though. If for no other reason, because the Falcons had done a recent tour of the Continent, and Marcus had been thrown out of at least half the games for throwing people off their brooms, gouging, and in one memorable instance ‘singing in an unsportsmanlike manner’. That sounded like a story worth hearing. Life in the big leagues, she thought ruefully.

“Dance with me,” a voice said behind her, in a husky brogue. Katie spun around to see Oliver Wood. He took her stunned expression for rejection apparently, because he grabbed her arm and looked at her beseechingly. “I’ll give you a galleon.”

“What are you talking about, Oliver?” Katie laughed.

“Just dance with me, please,” he wheedled. “I want to hold an intelligent conversation.” Katie bit back her reply. She liked Oliver, she really did, but he once started a Potions essay with the words ‘Cinnespice is used in Dreamless Draughts, poison antidotes and by my mother when she makes teacakes. The fancy ones, like for company.’

“About?” Katie asked, faintly.

“Well…” he paused. “Quidditch, I suppose.” What a shock.

“OK…Puddlemere vs. the Harpies? Chasers vs. Keepers? How aerodynamic is your hair?”

“Anything is fine,” Oliver assured her. “No one else will talk Quidditch with me,” he said, forlornly, as they moved onto the dance floor. Katie stopped, staring at him in amazement. She quickly surveyed the perimeter. Yes, just as she’d expected, loads of witches and a few wizards gazing raptly at Oliver. After all, he was the boy that had all the Ravenclaws protesting that they found optimizing Quaffle balance an interesting intellectual conundrum.

“I think there are plenty of witches here who would just be ever so delighted to talk Quidditch with you, Wood,” she snickered.

“No,” he said somberly, shaking his head. “They act like they’re talking Quidditch, but that’s not really what they’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No. The first giveaway is the way they say broomstick. Dead lascivious. Then somehow they all call their, er, nether regions, the pitch. They must learn it at the broom bunny academy. It drives me mad too, because it doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t it be ‘the hoop’? But then the other part wouldn’t be broomstick, I guess, but Quaffle. It makes no bloody sense for it to be the pitch, though. First off, I don’t go jamming my broomstick into it like it’s a pogo stick. Second of all, the pitch is about a million times bigger than my broomstick, which makes it not so much inaccurate as bleeding terrifying.” Oliver voice had been rising, drawing even more glances, as he gesticulated wildly. His cheeks had turned a lovely light pink.

“So, it’s not the eroticism but the inaccuracy that gets to you?” Katie asked laughing. “Let me try. Hmm…How about ‘Why don’t you come over to my pitch? I’d really love to see you working my hoops. I’d be more than happy to let my snitch loose as well. Make sure you bring your lovely self and your mighty steed…of stick.’ Oh! Then they could purr ‘Mr. Wood.’”

“Katie!” Oliver was turning a deeper rose color now...

“Bludgers would clearly mean breasts, and we’ve already discussed the snitch…I think we’ll have to go with quaffle for penis, although it does conjure up unpleasantly…doughy images.”

“Katie!” Moving towards fuschia…

“Broomstick and snitch is a little more abstract but I think it works…Bat and bludger lacks couth. Besides, we’ve already iconized bludger.”

“I didn’t understand half of that but what I did understand was appalling,” Oliver told her firmly. “However, it’s not just what they say, though. They’re grabby.”

“Grabby?” Katie laughed.

“Yes! In case I dinna understand that when they say ‘broomstick’ or ‘score’ or ‘Porskoff ploy’, they really mean ‘shag me rotten’, they gesture, er, vehemently.” Katie continued to snicker. “It’s not funny, Bell! The last one was so bad I had to execute a ‘Starfish and Stick’ to get away from her. Quit laughing. It was terrifying.”

“Come now, Oliver. Remember the words of the poets: ‘Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such.’”

“Can we talk about Quidditch now?” he asked, plaintively.

“Weren’t we?” Katie asked, innocently.

“Be serious,” he pleaded. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I’ve heard rumours that you’re consorting with evil companions.”

Katie froze. He knew? Did everyone know? Was Marcus running his mouth? He wouldn’t…Well, there wasn’t anything to run his mouth about really. Then reality reasserted itself. Why would Marcus brag about her? She really needed to get over herself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Katie replied curtly.

“You tried out for the Harpies?” Oliver said, smiling tentatively. Oh. “Competitors of the One True Quidditch Team, Puddlemere United?” The way Oliver said it, you could hear the capitals.

“Yeah,” Katie shrugged. “I didn’t do very well, but I wasn’t expecting much.” She forced a bright smile on her face. “So tell me about that game with Ballycastle! How did Gimlinson get his head wedged in that hoop?”

“He flew into it, head-first, very fast,” Oliver replied blankly. “I heard you did well at the try-outs. You got an offer?”

“Oh, just with their fourth-tier team,” Katie said. “So, the hoops are spelled to be magic-resistant. How did they get him out?”

“Puffapod oil and pushing really hard,” Oliver replied, briskly. “Fourth-tier is quite an accomplishment, Katie. You should be proud. Think of all the people who never get an invite.” Yeah, says Oliver Wood, mainstay of the Reserves his first year out of Hogwarts, Katie thought sourly.

“Yeah, I was pleased,” Katie lied. Same old Oliver. Nothing could divert him short of a wand up his nose.

“I put in a good word for you, you know,” he said, grinning.

“What?”

“One of the Harpies’ assistant coaches called to ask me about you, when he saw that you played under me at Hogwarts. He said you flew really well, and that he and the other assistant were impressed. Did Angelina practice with you?”

“Yeah,” Katie said, casually. Twice, she amended silently. The assistant coaches liked her? That was good news. She’d owl Marcus tonight. Given his allergy to Oliver, maybe she should say that she heard it from Ang.

“So, I told him that you were hard-working, easy to get along with, and loyal,” he informed her.

“Whoo! I’m a Hufflepuff...or a dachshund.”

“Those are important things to be in pro Quidditch,” he told her seriously. “You need to be a team player, and you are. You never…well, you complained less than the others at any rate.”

“Well, you were a very fine Captain,” she told him seriously. He smiled. “Not until tonight did I realize you were such a lyrical storyteller, however.”

“Shut it, Bell.”

“No, really. I think you should sub in for Lee on WWN’s late night Quidditch report. ‘In the Bigonville/Vrasta game tonight, Rousseau caught the snitch by flying very fast. Here at home, Falmouth beat the Cannons by scoring more goals than their opponents.’”

“…and because Marcus Flint cheated, no doubt,” Oliver said, sourly. Marcus never bothered cheating against teams that the Falcons could beat easily. He saved it up for opponents like Puddlemere. Katie decided not to share.

“So…how does it feel to be leading the league in save percentage?”

“Not bad,” Oliver said, grinning.

They talked Quidditch for a while. Listening to Oliver relive games, Katie could now understand why the Gryffindor plays had been so conservative when Oliver was Captain. As a Keeper, the closer the action was to his hoops, the more important it was. A nice sidehand toss from a Chaser close in to the hoops held more interest than a Poynter swerve, mid-pitch. That focus helped make him a great Keeper, Katie realized. As an overall strategist, not so much.

Still, it was kind of fun talking to Oliver. She was enjoying challenging his comments in a way she wouldn’t have at Hogwarts. Learning how one of the best Keepers in the league thought could only benefit a Chaser as well. Besides, she might as well keep dancing. Someone had taken her chair.

“Would you like to come to the next set of Puddlemere tryouts?” Oliver asked casually. Katie froze for a second, before resuming her mechanical side-to-side shuffling.

“What?”

“I could get you an invite. We’re really not scouting Chasers heavily right now, but word will get out to the other teams.”

Another team showing interest might be helpful, Katie thought, excitedly. Marcus was always going on about sweep and buzz.

“Might force the Harpies to take a closer look,” Oliver continued.

It might do that, maybe getting her a step closer to the Reserves. Maybe their hard work would pay off.

Thanks to Oliver.

“That’s really nice of you, Oliver,” Katie heard herself saying, “but I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” Oliver asked, a little puzzled.

“Yeah,” she said, weakly. “I just…I just really need to do this on my own.” She’d think about this later, she promised herself.

“Well, if you change your mind…” Oliver was looking at her very carefully.

“I’ll let you know,” she said, smiling weakly. “Maybe we should go find the others. I’m sure Ali’s dying to open her presents, and we want to be close enough to see but not too close when she opens her gifts from the twins.” He nodded.

Katie walked beside him, toward the booths where the others were gathering, trying to sort out her swirling emotions. Fear was the only one she recognized.

~*~

Oliver had gotten Alicia earrings.

So had Reginald Bradley, Daniella Tourneau, and a few people Katie didn’t recognize. Ang had gotten her personal alarm charms, a stunning-spelled cloak, and some of the new biting locks from Magisecure. And earrings.

The twins, Katie was certain, had not gotten Ali earrings. However, no one got to see what they did get her, thanks to the actions of an unusually perspicacious bouncer who recognized the twins and insisted Ali wait until leaving his club to open those gifts.

“I got her earrings, too,” Desiderata Holcomb whispered to Katie. “How many earrings can one witch need?”

“It’s OK,” Katie assured her, blithely. “I got her another set of ears.” Desiderata laughed nervously.

It was a bit anticlimactic when Ali opened up Katie’s actual presents-a subscription to the Enchanted Chocolates of the Month club, and a book entitled ‘Ain’t Nobody’s Business if I Do: A Collection of Quotations from Outspoken and Outrageous Witches Throughout History.’ Katie fully expected some quotes from Alicia to make it into the next edition.

Ali gave her a big hug and wet, smacking kiss on the cheek, before scampering back to her seat. Katie checked the time. No one would miss her if she left now. She could see if Marcus was home. Of course, this would also mean seeing if Marcus wasn’t home. Kind of like that ‘Ineffable Cauldron’ principle that Snape talked about in Advanced Potions: Until you took the lid off, collapsing the potential potion states, the potion could be perfect, flawed or off shagging some tart from a precision flying squad. Katie thought she’d have another drink.

“You look much better, today,” Angelina slid across the banquette to sit next to her.

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Katie sassed. “I have legs.” Ang rolled her eyes.

“No, better than last week, after the Harpies tryouts. I was worried about you.”

“Was that what the tea, and the blankets and all the shouting was about?” Katie asked, sweetly. Ang elbowed her in the ribs.

Ang worried more actively than anyone Katie had ever met. If Ang had lost a lover in the Giant Uprising of 1863, she would be ripping up his clothes to make bandages for the others who were injured before the body was cold. If Ang saw tearstains on a friends cheeks when she dropped by their fireplace, she damn well came over and aggressively comforted. Well, after pounding on the door, flying over the roof and breaking in through said tearstained friends balcony. Katie had returned home from her dinner with Marcus, planning to stay in bed until she summoned enough strength to self-obliviate or she turned into someone else. A few minutes with Ang, and Katie was drawing up a list of things she needed for mediwizardry school. A few more minutes with Ang, and death was starting to hold a quiet attraction.

“Did everything look better in the morning?” Ang persisted.

It had actually. At 10:30 Ang had left, stressing that Katie needed to focus on the future. Katie hadn’t. She’d retreated into the past, searching for a Katie who wouldn’t care much that she’d never have a Quidditch career, and even less that she’d never had Marcus at all. It was an heartbreakingly small window in which to work. By 11:00, even those memories had become too painful. Through them, she’d managed to form a plan somehow though: She had been a granddaughter, hanging firmly onto her grandfather’s hand through countless forays into the Muggle world, shyly relishing in his delight at the magic she could show him, loved. She would be a mediwitch, trained at the foremost academy of mediwizardry, respected. That should be enough for anyone to rebuild a present around. She would be OK. She had stopped crying then, and sat curled, shaking, in the old tatty recliner.

At 12:15, there was a fierce rapping at the window. Marcus’ behemoth of an owl was scowling in at her, a seventeen page diatribe clutched in its talons. Marcus must have been writing it since she’d left him; it was half manifesto on how to resurrect her Quidditch career, half snarling accusations. The quill had ripped through the parchment in several places, making parts of it impossible to read. The overall meaning was clear, though. They would continue to practice every day, he had insisted. They would be finishing what they had started. This would not be over. The tears had re-started, the pain had come flooding back, and, with it, incredible relief.

Ang was right. It had all seemed much better in the morning.

“Yeah, it did,” Katie smiled at her.

“Good. I’m so glad that you’re OK.,” Ang replied, pulling Katie into a warm hug. Ang tensed after a second, as a thought seemed to strike her. “Where’s Ali?” she asked, scanning the club. Katie had to hide a smile.

“Maybe she’s in the catacombs,” Lee replied, yawning.

“Excuse me?” Ang and Katie asked together.

“The catacombs,” Lee repeated. “A little personal-use spelled dungeon they have in this club. For a galleon, you and a friend can be alone. Cheaper than a room at the Leaky, and far more atmospheric.”

“Atmospheric as in roses and candlelight?” Ang asked, incredulously.

“More as in whips and chains,” Lee corrected.

“Why would there be whips in the catacombs?” Katie mused. Everyone stared at her, so she hurriedly explained. “I mean, they’re graveyards right? So why would you need whips? Flogging the dead seems unproductive. And tiring… I suppose it would save time and effort if you were going to flog someone to death. They’d already be at their gravesite when they…er, expired. Though it’s pretty gauche of them to make someone pay a cover charge for their own untimely demise. Plus it cuts down on repeat business…” There was a pause. “Why are you all staring at me like that?” Katie asked. “It’s wasn’t my business plan.”

Angelina tossed back the remainder of her electric green cocktail in one gulp. “Come on, Fred,” she said, standing and stretching. “Let’s go check it out.”

“What?” Fred asked, disbelieving.

“The catacombs. The drink here is frankly piss, and we’ve danced for hours. No power on earth could stop Ali from making a total scandal of herself at this point. Besides,” she said grinning, pulling Fred to his feet, “I want to spend some time with my man.”

“Abandoning your role as Katie’s chastity belt, then?” George asked sourly.

“There’s a lovely image,” Lee grinned, winking at Katie.

“Oh, I have faith in Katie,” Ang asserted. “I know that the rest of her evening will be spent coming up with cost-benefit ratio analyses for torture chambers, or writing instruction manuals on how to easily make instruments of pain out of an old swingset…That should scare off those who aren’t the right sort. Right, Katydid?” Ang asked, winking.

Marcus doesn’t scare.

Katie flushed at the thought, and nodded, smiling.

“We should be going,” Fred chimed in. “My woman craves my harsh discipline and uncontrollable lusts.”

“I have no idea where you got the idea that I would be the one all bound and helpless, Weasley,” Ang commented blithely as she strode away. “Come along.”

Fred stood, stunned, for a second before shrugging, a wide grin spreading across his face as he followed Ang through the crowd.

“Someone say something, quick,” George pleaded. “Let’s not dwell.”

“Again, we’re confronted with a logistical problem,” Katie mused. “Where in a crypt will you tie someone up?” Lee snickered as she continued. “Maybe that’s why there are all those little statues of angels and infants in cemetaries--They’re like little tiny hitching posts. Of course, it would have to be BYOR-Bring your own rope. Unless you used the aforementioned incongruous crypt-whips for that purpose….”

“Drink,” George said, words muffled by the table that he was slumped over. “I need strong drink.”

Lee snorted in disgust, and headed over to the bar. Katie grinned as Lee wended his way through the crowds by a route that looked completely random until you noticed he managed to casually brush against the most beautiful women in the club, and enter at least the peripheral vision of all the others. Katie was going to point this out to George when she noted his head was still on the table.

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re actually not that drunk.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?”

Katie snickered and went back to watching the dancers. It was funny, really. All that time and money and effort expended on making cheekbones look a little bit higher, or legs longer. Time spent rehearsing in order to pretend they were casually clever, while in fact the three lines that they had come up with represented the better part of three months intellectual effort. For what? To have their knickers peeled off by some bloke who might know either their favorite Quidditch team or the last book they read but not both? Vague, that is what it was. Making themselves sexually appealing and intellectually inoffensive to as many men as possible. Being a blurred version of some guy’s dark princess and slinking into bed with him while it was still a possibility that he was the shining knight.

Whatever the thing between Marcus and her was, at least it wasn’t about demographics.

Not that she knew really what it was about. Or what he wanted it to be about. Or for that matter, what she wanted it to be about. Apparently, she didn’t know much.

At the very least, she was sure that she was his only Quidditch pupil/sparring partner/irritant. For one thing, there just wasn’t enough time left over after all their sessions. For another, if he yelled at someone else like he yelled at her, he’d have laryngitis.

It probably meant that he cared about her, at least a little.

Or maybe not.

No, it did, she told herself. He spent a huge amount of time with her. They didn’t always talk about Quidditch. He really had wanted her to make the Harpies. Sometimes he laughed at her jokes and sometimes he got really angry at them. He paid attention.

He couldn’t have an ulterior motive. She didn’t have any money or power. The only thing she had was a broomstick and some friends. Katie supposed that it was possible that he was helping her in order to get in the good graces of one of her friends, but there was no reason for Marcus to care what any of her friends thought. Marcus didn’t care what anyone thought. There wasn’t anything he could gain, as far as Katie could see, by being nic-, well, by spending time with her.

It must be her voluptuous beauty then, a voice in her head whispered snidely. Clearly, the man who could have any witch he desired wanted her, and chose to go about this by spending the entire summer with her and never touching her.

Only because she told him not too, Katie told herself firmly. That was why.

Oh, he was just being obedient, the voice sneered. It was all part of Marcus’ master plan to have little Katie Bell. In addition to his other plan of not being able to come up with a single nice thing to say to her when she had dribbled her emotions all over his shirtfront. It seems so obvious now, the voice continued snidely.

She wasn’t going to do this. Marcus did care about her. He did. It might not be in a romantic way, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it to be.

Liar.

They were friends, Katie thought fiercely. If it was never anything more than that, it would be OK. She’d thought it was over before, and he hadn’t let it be. He owled her everyday. She was allowed to hope.

You owl him back everyday, the voice chided, only sometimes you put it off for a bit, don’t you? Making sure he’s paying attention by playing a bit hard-to-get?

Katie wondered how the developmental spellcrafting for magilobotomies was coming along. There were parts of her brain that she would really like to shut up.

She wasn’t going to think about it any more. Katie hadn’t seen her friends in ages. She should be enjoying this time with them.

Ali was on the dance floor, the sway of her hips apparently hypnotizing her partner, the Seeker for Pride of Portree. It was official, Katie decided, watching Ali’s liquid movements. The girl did not have a spine.

Katie glanced over at George. If he was staring wistfully at Ali, Katie would have to distract him. Maybe dance with him or enchant his boxer shorts to burst into flame.

He wasn’t brooding. He was staring at Katie, with a peculiar expression on his face. Furrowed brow, determined set to his jaw. He looked a little nauseous.

Blast.

”You’re not going to kiss me again, are you?” Katie asked, pained.

He looked stunned for half a second, but recovered quickly. After a brief transition period of looking like a stuffed frog, he grinned at her. Katie relaxed.

“Oh, that’s very nice, Bell. Thank you very much. Think a bit much of yourself, then?” he grinned at her, tips of his ears turning red.

“Sorry…It’s just this look you get, like you’re steeling yourself for a particularly unpleasant task.” She elbowed him.

“It’s not unpleasant,” George protested. “Well, not extremely so at any rate..”

“Prat.”

“I’m serious. For only a few gallons, I would even consider sticking my hand down your pants.”

“Oh, yes. I can just hear you whispering in my ear: ‘Oh, Katie…you’re so very…kind of tall, and such lovely…hold on, it’s dark in here,…blonde hair? The way your sexuality isn’t overt…or actually even discernable makes me shiver.’”

“There’s nothing wrong with not being a slag,” George muttered, with a dark look over at Ali and her companion. Ah yes, what was always behind George’s half-hearted, intermittent advances. Katie, it’s so wonderful how you’re Alicia’s complete opposite.

“Ali’s not a slag,” Katie replied firmly.

“Loyalty becomes you, Bell,” George muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Think of it this way,” Katie replied, sweetly. “If she was a slag, she’d sleep with you, wouldn’t she?”

“With Lockhart in St. Mungo’s dancing with the Mooncalves, you should take over his career as inspirational speaker,” George said sourly.

“Good idea,” Katie smirked. “I’ll begin right now. Weasley, you pathetic loser…”

“I once walked in on the man licking his own reflection,” George mused, idly. “That was still more inspiring than you.”

“Your brother is in the catacombs right now with a beautiful witch…”

“Being made to bark like a crup,” George returned sourly.

“Lee’s tongue has been in other people’s mouths more than his own this evening.”

“Oliver has hidden under a table twice this evening to avoid sexually aggressive witches. Why don’t you go explain to him what a loser he is? Thousands would agree.”

“You are a successful businessman. You’re a good Quidditch player. There’s really no excuse for you to be such a eunuch,” Katie returned, blithely.

“You’re sitting here with me,” George retorted. “I’ve kissed someone since I last kissed you. Bet you can’t say the same.”

Standing in a steamy shower room, deluded enough to try to hear him breathe over the rushing water. Warm breath against her spine as she fought to stay standing on the pitch. Pushed up against the wall at Hogwarts, despairing and cold, yet still feeling her body respond to him. Sprawled out on her bed, his body heavy above hers as she shivered.

Had George kissed her after that? She couldn’t even remember.

“You’re still going to the wedding with me, right?” George asked. “Because while the rest of our worthless siblings will be off snogging their dates, Charlie and I will need your help keeping a) Mom from portkeying Fleur to Elba, b) Ginny from getting in fistfights with any of the other bridesmaids and c) Dad from doing unintentional yet irreparable harm to anyone with his new Muggle lawnmower. Bill is counting on us.”

“I’ll be there. Harry will too though, which means You-Know-Who will probably apparate into the boulliabaise.”

“True,” George snorted. “Maybe we should have invited Percy.”

“Don’t you have girls to snog?”

“Fine, I’m leaving,” George muttered. “As you’re supposed to be so clever, what should I say to make a witch think I’m sophisticated, clever and dead sexy?”

“How about ‘knock knock’?”

“Oh, shut it, Bell.”

~*~

Headband Project: Do you watch Gossip Girl?

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 18:08:02 GMT

Sorry for being AWOL for so long guys. Life has been...life.

I don't know if many people on my f-list watch Gossip Girl but I used to be a big fan of the show in general. It has become *awful*, kind of sexist and just obliterating characters right and left. I just found out about this fan campaign that is protesting the changes in characterization and sloppy writing, called the Headband Project: headbandproject.livejournal.com So, if anyone else is frustrated with the show (and especially to my mind the HORRIBLE and unfair way that they're writing Blair and Chuck/Blair this season (especially after last season)), please participate. They want everyone to send in a letter or postcard with a few words (or more) detailing the changes that upset you the most on Nov. 20th. The livejournal site I listed has a lot more ideas as well. Also, if you're so inclined, they're asking people to spread the word and if you want, change your icon to one of their cool ones. They have facebook and twitter sites as well.

For those wondering about Detained, I am so sorry for not getting back to you. Expect at least a snippet within the next 10 days on the lj. I will try to get to comments and stuff soon...but life has been life squared actually and I'm a bit overwhelmed.

Detained Chapter 11 -- Audition part b

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 18:37:51 GMT

Marcus strode into the little pub, eyes already searching for her. At the first glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, his heart sped up. By the time, he made it to the table he was hard.

He had been willing to take her anywhere she wanted to go, but her owl had said The Disconsolate Grouse. They’d eaten their first dinner together here, and had countless strategy sessions here since then. The first time she’d admitted enjoying having him around, they’d been here. They were here tonight. Good thing Katie wasn’t the sappy, sentimental sort or he’d end up having to eat in this dump all the time.

She smiled at him. “The private rooms were taken, but they said they wouldn’t seat any one else in this section if they could avoid it. I didn’t ask. I think they remember how last time you made that guy cry.”

“You know what I remember from our last time here, Bell?” Marcus asked, grinning. “You sending an anonymous tip to the MLE, saying that you suspected I was an ogre. Just so you could pay for our dinner while I was being interrogated.”

“You drove me to it, Mr. ‘If you take her money, I’ll rip your fingers off’.”

“That interrogation was the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had in my life,” Marcus snickered, shaking his head. “Are you an ogre, sir? Were you an ogre, previously? Done much marrow-sucking of late?”

She laughed. Her face lit up when she laughed. It always looked like her mind was skittering around whatever was funny, trying to view it from all angles and squeeze every last bit of pleasure out of it.

He enjoyed just gazing at her for a bit, as she looked back nervously. As the silence stretched out though, he began to feel uncomfortable. There was something almost disturbing about a silent Katie.

“Well…how did it go?” he asked gruffly.

“I made some mistakes,” she replied, biting her lip. “On the serpentines, I didn’t mix it up as much as we’d planned. I didn’t showcase my left-handed shot until the last flight. I probably should have studied some of those books you gave me more closely, because I hadn’t ever heard of a few of the drills they ran.”

“What kind of drills?” Marcus asked, tensely, leaning forward.

“Flying in tandem stuff mostly, where I was flying with or against multiple other players,” she replied, plucking at her napkin. “Oh! They ran the gauntlet with two Beaters, which was a surprise.”

“Did you fuck those drills up?” Marcus asked coolly, leaning back in his chair. “Was that the problem?”

“No!” Katie protested, quickly. “No…The first pass on some of them was a little rough, but I think I did OK. I adapted. After all,” she continued smiling “neither of their Beaters were half as good as you, so that wasn’t too bad.”

“Good,” he replied, nodding. “It shouldn’t have been too difficult for you to pick those up on the fly. I doubt they were watching those drills that closely, at any rate.”

“I made some mistakes, like I said…but overall it went OK. I was really well prepared, thanks to you.” Still playing with her napkin, she fell silent again.

“Did they make you an offer?” Marcus finally asked.

She nodded. He relaxed. With the way she had been acting, he was starting to wonder.

“They offered me a spot with their fourth-tier affiliate in Cornwall, or if I wanted more flexibility but less pay, with their off-hours league,” she said, quietly.
“They said they’d keep an eye on me, and if I flew well they’d probably move me up to the Reserves.”

What?

“You didn’t make the Reserves?”

“Well, no…but I hadn’t necessarily been expecting to. I got an offer though, a chance to play pro Quidditch,” she said, smiling tentatively. “All thanks to you.”

“What are you thanking me for?” he asked, dully. A chance to be a professional washout? Players who started that low in the ranks typically stayed there.

“I wouldn’t have made it that far without you.” She paused, and took a deep breath, her next words coming out in a rush. “I was wondering…I know your season will be starting and you’ll be busy, but maybe you’d want to go fly with me once in a while? Give you a chance to be sardonic at absolutely no cost to you. Or just maybe have dinner together some time, so you can relentlessly criticize me and I can explain precisely how heartless and cruel you are? I’ll do it in rhyming couplets, if you like. It will be great.” She shrugged, looking over at him from under her lashes.

He’d failed, his mind repeated as she burbled on. He’d failed her. He had nothing else to offer. Did she really think he was going to hang around like one of her little mates?

“What are your plans, Bell?” he muttered.

Her face fell at that, and she stared at her lap collecting herself. Yeah, he’d figured she’d known that this wasn’t good. After a moment, the chipper Katie was firmly back in place.

“I’ve been thinking…If I took the semi-pro position, it would only be weekends and evenings. Days would be free. I was thinking that I might attend the mediwizardry academy at St. Mungo’s.” She looked at him expectantly.

What?

“I think you need to apply for that, actually,” Marcus replied, trying to disguise his shock. “I don’t think showing up, saying ‘I’m Katie Bell and I’m remarkably clever’ is going to cut it.”

“I did apply,” she replied, sounding a little surprised. “I heard back from St. Mungo’s and a few other places last week.”

For a minute he couldn’t process it. Katie was supposed to want to be a Quidditch pro. She’d always wanted that, even when she was stomping around with pigtails and a pet newt.

Maybe that was just the side of herself she showed him. Maybe other people got to see the rest.

One good thing at any rate, he reflected. He hadn’t failed. She’d just never wanted any of it in the first place. It felt like ice water was flowing through his veins, but it felt good. He felt clear, for the first time in a long time.

“St. Mungo’s?” he asked, coolly. She nodded. He gave her a knowing smirk.
”Your dad’s on staff there, right?” he asked, coolly.

“He’s not on the admissions committee,” Katie said, quickly. A tad defensive there, Bell?

“Didn’t say he was. That’s nice though. You wanting to be just like your dad,” he sneered.

“It’s not that...” she began, then fell silent.

“Hedging your bets, then?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, softly.

“Well, you spend a little time this summer, on someone else’s sickle, I might add, dabbling in Quidditch,” he drawled. “It doesn’t work out, no problem. You’ve got this whole other little life in your back pocket. Who helped you with that one?”

“That’s not fair,” Katie said, quietly. She leaned forward, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Accurate, though.” He shrugged.

“No, it’s not,” she said, firmly. “I wanted…want to be a Quidditch player. I talked to the dean at St. Mungo’s and they’ll let me defer the rest of my education, if my Quidditch career takes off. But…I don’t always get what I want, though.”

He didn’t answer her. He didn’t have anything much to say.

Katie sat there, lip trembling. Marcus sat there, trying to convince himself that this whole nightmare was real.

This hadn’t been how any of this was going to go. At the very least, she was supposed to make the second Reserves. She must have really blown the try-outs. There was no way all those other witches were better on a broomstick. He’d seen her fly. He’d taught her after all. This evening was supposed to start with a starry-eyed and grateful Katie, and end with her writhing and pleading. Fuck.

“I’m…” she paused. “I’m not like you, Marcus.”

“Then who in Hades are you like, Bell? Figured that out, yet?” he asked, flatly. His anger was still there, along with the frustration and the clarity, but mainly he ached.

She was silent for a long moment, staring down at her hands. When she did speak, her voice was so low he had to strain to hear her.

“I’m sorry you wasted your time.” She stood up abruptly, avoiding his gaze. Her voice dropped even lower, quivering a bit. “I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.”

Katie.

She tried to quickly walk away, but his Chaser reflexes came to his aid as he grabbed her wrist.

“That’s never been the problem, here, Katie.” His voice was rough, and tired. Gods, he sounded old. “We’ll try again. I’ll pay more attention this time. You’ll work harder.” She didn’t respond. “Do you hear me, Katie?”

She nodded once, jerkily, and pulled her wrist away. This time he let her go.

Detained Chapter 11 -- Audition part a sigh

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 18:34:37 GMT

Marcus had never had much use for foreplay, unless he was trying to prove a point.

The idea that just standing next to some bint, watching her hair swing or lightly stroking her forearm, was satisfying in itself was the daftest fucking thing Marcus had ever heard. Pucey was hugely into it, saying how the best moment of all was when he first slipped his hand up under some girls robes. To hear him tell it, he could happily spend hours tracing figures on the inside of her thigh, watching her respond. Even Montague had gone on, prattling about watching some Ravenclaw chit move around their hippogriff in Care of Magical Creatures. Ten bloody minutes babbling about how the skin of her calf looked sliding over the beast’s flanks; Marcus had had to take steps. Brutus had even come up with a catchphrase…anticipation heightens and educates the senses.

Morons.

Marcus had flown next to Katie for weeks. Her hair brushing his cheek as she darted in front of him. His hand slipping over her sweaty skin as he tried to pull her off-course. Seeing the indentations her teeth left on her lower lip when she had idly nibbled at it as they pored over diagrams of maneuvers in her flat.

He certainly wouldn’t call himself satisfied.

Marcus leaned back against a tree, and watched her. Katie was ducking around the hoops, tossing the quaffle through from one direction, then immediately reversing and passing it back through another in a complex pattern. Her long hair looked like the tail of a comet, as she flew so fast he couldn’t even see the quaffle. Without slowing, she whirled and flew back to him.

“Again?” she asked, breathing hard.

“No, it was acceptable.”

“I can make those turns a little tighter on the last pass. Just let me...”

“No,” he said, flatly. “It was fine. We’re done.”

“We’re not done,” she protested. “We have hours yet.”

“Harpies try-outs are in sixteen hours, Bell. You want to start tweaking your broom grip now? Switch to a continental seat just for an extra challenge? Turns, speed, tosses, anticipation…they’re all good enough now, Bell. We’re done.”

“We haven’t done impact drills in a while. Maybe we shou-“

“Have your bruises healed?” he interrupted her, brusquely.

“Yeah,” she muttered.

“Have you forgotten what an elbow to the teeth feels like?”

“No.” That sounded a tad sulky to Marcus’ ears.

“You’re ready, Katie. You’ve done well.”

“Yeah?” she asked softly, not looking at him.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “And you’re going to wear yourself out, or get yourself injured, or screw up your broom doing that pogo-stick thing of yours over my dead body. Dismount, Bell. We’ve got things to do.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. Verbally, anyways. He had to hide a grin at the unnecessarily complicated somersault maneuver she used to get off her broom. Kate looked at him expectantly. He shouldn’t have kept putting this off.

“Why should the Harpies pick you?” he asked, bluntly.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“The Harpies, Bell. Quidditch team? Haven for witches with serious broomstick fetishes and anger management problems?”

“Do they have those before or only after they sleep with you?” she asked, saucily.

“You and I’ll have to test that hypothesis, Bell,” he shot back, grinning wickedly. Oh, yeah. The downcast eyes, the faint blush, the half step back. Perfection. He waited until she began to do her ‘Katie Bell is about to change the subject’ hair tuck before continuing. “Let’s see…you’ll have just put in a brilliant, yet ultimately unsuccessful, performance against the Falcons. Seething about some of more creative maneuvers, you wait for my teammates to leave before storming into the Visitors change room. I’m towel-“

“If we’re having story hour, again,” Katie cut in tartly, “I have a few requests. This time could I have purple hair? And possibly close associates named Brighttail and Spearheart?”

Marcus fought down the urge to keep pushing her, to try to get her to stumble over her words as she tried to pretend the two of them weren’t a foregone conclusion. He was too close now to risk messing around.

“Alright, then, Bell. Back to work. Why would the Harpies want you?” he asked, voice cool.

“You don’t think I’m good enough?” she asked softly, looking out across the pitch.

“I didn’t say that. Why do you think that they should pick you?”

There was an instant -truly rare- when Katie fell silent. Finally she said hesitantly, “I’m fast?”

“Are you?”

“Well…yeah. I mean, not the fastest, but…”

“Compelling reason, there. What else?”

“I’ll work hard.” Her voice was slightly firmer on that one.

“Good. Anything else?”

“I don’t know. Think they’ll be swayed by my NEWT scores?” she joked. “Oh, I hear all the teams want players with the ability to make shadow puppets.”

He didn’t smile.

“How many prepared plays and maneuvers have you executed?”

“A few,” she said. “Gryffindor usually kept it pretty straightforward. I’ve done more in practice than in games.”

“A few though?” She nodded. “Try a few hundred, Bell.”

“Well, not in games.”

“Did I ask ‘in games’, Bell? Do you volunteer ‘in games’? You do not. You say you’ve executed hundreds of plays. Full stop.”

“OK…”

“What else?”

Katie shook her head, staring at the ground.

“Have you designed plays? Yeah, since you were about thirteen. How about your bludger redirection?”

”Well, it’s pretty good…for my size.”

Un-fucking-believable. It was unlike her to be so slow on the uptake. “Bell, let’s try this out, alright? No addendums, no clauses. Once a complete sentence passes your lips, stop talking. Now again.”

“I am.” She paused, and it took a moment for it to sink in. Smart arse. Marcus gestured irritably for her to continue. “Good at bludger re-deflection.”

Ten minutes later and Marcus was wishing some innocent bystander would happen along so he could put his fist through their face. He could tell Katie what to say. She could parrot it back. Getting her to extemporize on her virtues was a lost cause, however. And nothing could stop her from doing this odd little half-flinch once she’d spoken, like she was sure someone was going to swoop down and give a scathing rebuttal.

He’d taught her what to say, he reassured himself. Maybe if he could get the rest of the package into place, they wouldn’t notice how she said it.

“Let’s see your walk,” he commanded coolly, backing away from her.

“What?”

“Walk towards me, Bell.”

“Why?”

“Tell me we’re not back to this.”

Her eyes narrowed but she moved towards him, closing the distance quickly. Yeah, that wasn’t going to cut it. Katie moved quickly, but not forcefully. She had an ashwinder’s ability to move out of people’s way before they knew she was there, and the light steps of someone who was going somewhere more interesting than where they had left. She walked like…well, Katie.

“Again,” he said, shaking his head, “but this time try to walk like you’re going somewhere.”

“I did,” she replied, with an edge in her voice. “If I wasn’t going somewhere, I would have been standing still.”

“Stop being clever and start being smart, Katie. You need to know how to do this.”

“Flint, I know those debutante balls you hang out at might have given you the wrong impression,” Katie sniped. “However, with careful training and specially designed corsets, women can walk unaided. I, myself, mastered it years ago.”

He ignored her. “You need to walk like you’re someone important. Force them to look twice.”

“I’ll go fetch my tiara.”

Marcus bit back a snarl. How to explain it to her? Tell her to walk like Johnson? No, Johnson was a fucking Amazon. Someone else then…

“Walk like Spinnet.”

”What?”

“Spinnet? Your pal with the rack and the reputation?”

“Don’t really have the necessary equipment for that, Flint.”

“It’s not the fuckability we’re shooting for here, Bell. It’s the self-assurance.” Merlin knew that watching Katie do that hip-swishing, everything-on-offer walk of Spinnet’s wasn’t something he wanted to see. Ever. Not that he wanted her to lumber like a Weasley either. “Walk like Spinnet would walk if she were a guy.”

“You want me to sashay in a manly manner?” Katie asked, incredulous. Marcus shrugged, then nodded.

Katie looked at him like either she was worried something had hit him in the head, or she was wishing that something would. She did walk though, slow and purposeful, as though she were thinking about every step.

“That’s supposed to be confident and forceful, Bell?” he groaned.

“No, actually that was ‘Adrian Pucey if he were a child-bride in a Welsh mining village’,” she said angrily, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Next I thought I’d do ‘Professor Flitwick as Napoleon’.”

Harsh words were halfway up his throat before they froze there. There had been a brittleness in her voice that he hadn’t heard since that day in the Gryffindor broom shed. Over the last few months, she’d sassed him one minute, and hung on his every word the next. She’d treated him as a sparring partner, as some sort of savant, and, at times, bizarrely, as one of her little mates. For Salazar’s sake, what was her problem? He wasn’t touching her. He was playing by the rules.

“Katie?”

“Yes.” Clipped. Cold. He waited, guts clenching. There was no fucking way she got to pull this on him now. After a moment she spoke again, and the ice queen was gone. “I don’t understand what you want from me.” She gave a hollow laugh. “I mean…I get that I’m doing it wrong but…” Her voice was bewildered, a little hurt and trying not to seem that way. It was very Katie once again. Marcus relaxed, pondering.

“Katie, do you know what ‘sweep’ is?” he asked, gruffly.

“Sweep as in Quidditch ability?”

“Sweep as in the ability to sense the Quaffle when it’s behind you. Sweep as in the ability to coax your broom to fly faster than its spells should allow. Sweep as in the ability to have a little window into the future, to know beforehand which way the keeper will dodge or who an opposing chaser will pass to.”

“Well, yeah, like ‘he’s got sweep’,” Katie said, nodding. “It’s broom mojo.”

“It’s fucking bullshit is what it is. Quidditch is just strength and savvy and will, not some spiritual yingyang. The thing is though, everyone believes in it. Players who do well believe in it because they’re desperate to believe in anything that suggests their current good fortune is permanent. Players who do poorly believe in it because it’s a built-in excuse for their failures: they can tell themselves it’s not that they don’t have the skills, they just weren’t lucky enough to have sweep.”

“OK…”

“The people who believe in it most fiercely though are the coaches and scouts. Because frankly, there are a few people who are a cut above, but once they’ve been snapped up…the coaches are watching a hundred flyers with about the same speed, skills, all of it. They’re fucking loath to say that they picked some tosser because of his haircut, so…voila…’sweep’.”

“So who gets picked is random?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“No. It’s based on who they think has sweep. And we can use that, Katie. The speed you have? That’s special. They need to see it. But they need to see that you see it as well.”

“OK…I’m fast,” she said, nodding. “You’ve already had me master that declarative statement. Do I try to work it into the conversation or write it on my robes or what?”

“You need to seem confident. You need to seem special. Special enough that they don’t think to wonder why you weren’t scouted more heavily or why you weren’t Captain. You need to be obvious.”

“Obvious?”

He thought for a long moment about how to explain it to her.

“They’re looking at hundreds of players, Bell,” he said slowly, still pondering, before his voice picked up speed. “They don’t have time to be surprised at every fucking turn. You can’t trust them to pick up on the speed, and then marvel at the anticipation For them to muse over how someone can see the pitch so well. They’re not going to hold several conversations with you, and slowly figure out how carefully you considered every move, dissected every facet of the game. There’s no time to ferret out the odd Quidditch facts, the clever turns of phrase, the staggering creativity. They won’t see it. The bravery, shyness, determination, sweetness, ferocity…all in one fucking morass of a personality, along with a million other things that you can only get a fleeting glimpse of. Nineteen fucking million types of smiles…” He was breathing hard. She was staring at him, eyes bright and searching, hair reflecting the sun. Like a thirteen-year-old Katie sitting up in the stands at the Hogwarts pitch, so focused on a Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw scrimmage. Marcus swallowed hard, before looking away.

“None of the ‘marvelous individuality’ crap is important,” he said, roughly. She just looked at him. “It needs to be clear to them, Katie,” he continued flatly, after a moment. “You need to be confident. You need to be consistent, and uncomplicated…more like everyone else. You’re a fast, lucky, talented Quidditch player. End of story. That’s all they need to see.”

“How do I show them that?” she asked, quietly.

Was that a trick question? “Be confident,” he advised. “Believe you’re the best chaser in Britain.” There was a long silence.

“Marcus?” He nodded. “I’m not the best chaser in Britain.”

“Well, I know that, Bell,” he said, grinning. “Just act like you think you are.”

“How in Hades do I do that, Flint?” she hissed.

“Bell, you mastered all the Vesina swoop maneuvers in a day. This is a lot easier than that.”

“Fine,” she shouted, exasperated. “Pretend you’re not the best chaser in Britain.”

Damn. Well, shouldn’t be that hard.

Not hard at all.

“There’s no reason for me to pretend that, Bell. Why bother with something if it’s not going to get you anywhere? You, on the other hand, need to do this.”

“It’s not that easy, Flint,” she said, flatly, anger simmering in her eyes. “I am all too aware of what I am. Whenever I’ve forgotten it, others have been all to ready to,” she paused, gesturing angrily, “remind me.”

She had drawn herself up to her full height, eyes narrowed and shoulders back. Tension and determination was written in every line of her body.

“So sorry, Flint,” she continued, snarling. “I can’t ju-“

“That’s perfect.”

“What?”

“The way you were standing, Bell. The way you gestured, carried yourself. It’s perfect. I mean, you’ll probably want to cut down on the haranguing…” He smirked. “But you’ve got it.”

“Oh, OK,” she murmured, clearly rattled. “Um, are you going to come along tomorrow and goad me into a repeat performance?”

“Nah, just remember one of our skirmishes, Bell. There are only about a million and two to choose from.” He snickered. “Face facts. You always do act like you’re queen of the bloody world when you’re yelling at me.”

“At the very least you need to act like a queen when you’re arguing with someone who thinks they are a God,” she informed him, pertly.

“A God, Bell? Just a God? I’m a tad hurt.”

“My apologies, oh dread Lord Flint, avatar of Chasers, churls and the catastrophically egotistical.”

They stood grinning at each other for a moment, before Katie gave a delighted little laugh. “So…I’ve got it. The plays, the ability to take physical punishment, the attitude?”

“Yeah, you’ve got it, Bell. Well done. We’re done.” It seemed to Marcus that her smile dimmed a bit.

“Any final words of wisdom?” she asked a little diffidently.

“People believe what you tell them, Katie. That’s the most important thing to remember. But they’re stupid, so you have to keep it simple or they get confused.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said slowly, smiling. “Or perhaps have it needlepointed on a pillow.” He must have looked bewildered because she laughed up at him. “Never mind.”

They began the long walk back to the broom sheds in silence. He assumed Katie was thinking about the next day’s activities. He was. When they reached the sheds, they both slowed to a stop. He turned to face her.

“No food tonight, Bell. Protein tomorrow morning. I’ll see you after.” She nodded.

“I guess that’s it, then.” Katie said briskly, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. She continued in a deep, sepulchral voice. “Thus ends the summer of your discontent.”

“Hate to disillusion you, Bell, but I spent three weeks at Uncle Dan’s Wonder Fun Wizarding Camp when I was seven. It contained something called the hug hut,” he told her somberly. “I have known torment. This didn’t really qualify.“

“I’ll have to try harder, then,” Katie mused. “Maybe if I sang…”

“Not even close…”

“A Gryffindor fight song?” she offered.

“Nah.”

“Lyrics by Oliver. ‘Oh Gryffindor we are the best, at Quidditch and, er, all the rest.”

“I’ll be skipping dinner, but no Bell, still doesn’t compare.”

“’Various others will contest, such as Marcus Flint who wears a dress.’” Katie sang.

“’Listening to this song under duress.’”

“With tiara and heels, quite the princess.’”

“Song’s over.”

“No way,” Katie complained, grinning impishly at him. “I haven’t even gotten to decide which former Slytherin players are into Oktoberfest, incest, or freebasing orange zest.”

“The answer to all of the above is: Montague,” Marcus snorted. Katie looked a little ill. “Problem, Bell?”

“No…just Morgaine, incest…bad image.”

“And I’ll be missing breakfast too, I think. Still it wouldn’t compare to a place which actually forced campers to attend either broom ballet or ‘Befriend a Bowtruckle.’”

“And which did you attend?”

“Neither,” Marcus snorted. “Are you daft, Bell?”

“Sorry, sorry. That does sound pretty bad. How will I ever compete?” Katie lamented, shaking her head. “Additionally, an interpretive dance will be performed by the Weasley twins?” she suggested. “Choreography by Hagrid?”

“Sorry, Bell. No matter what you come up with, this summer still won’t be the worst time I’ve ever had.” A sweet smile lit her up her face at his words, and Marcus tensed.

“For me either,” she said softly. She reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

No, he thought. Don’t let her start spewing out sentiments he had no way to return. He was so bloody close.

“Look,” she said, hesitantly. “I really wanted to thank-“

“For what?” he interrupted. She quickly withdrew her arm. “You’re not on a team yet.”

“For your time, all that effort. The wear and tear on your vocal cords, at least.” She smiled briefly up at him before becoming serious again. “No matter how it turns out, I just want to make sure you know how much I apprec-”

“Tomorrow, Bell,” he cut her off. “After the try-outs, I’ll expect gratitude.” He looked at her for a long moment, letting it sink in. There was confusion in her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed.

“OK. Tomorrow then.” She smiled tightly, and turned and entered the change room.

After a moment, he entered the men’s change room, stripping off before the door had even swung shut. Stepping under the hot spray, he let his mind drift off and his body work out the tensions that had built up over the day.

Half an hour later, he wrapped a towel around his hips, far more relaxed. He left the shower room, and went to grab his clothes. Frowning, he saw a note folded neatly on top of them. Someone had been here and he hadn’t even noticed? He’d left his wand in his bag too. Bloody careless.

His heart slowed down when he recognized Katie’s handwriting, then sped up again.

Marcus,

I wish there was something I could do for you in return for all you’ve done for me this summer, but I guess there really isn’t.

Thank you.

Katie

He stood for a moment, hands shaking, forcing himself to breathe. She had come in to the change room. With him naked and thinking of her just around the corner. Didn’t she know what would have happened if he had found her there?

Maybe she did. Maybe she’d stood there, wondering, thinking of him. Maybe debating joining him, or just taking a peek. Maybe letting herself fantasize…

Merlin, she hadn’t heard him had she? He didn’t think he’d said her name. He certainly hadn’t been quiet though. It was hard to remember as all the blood had rushed to his cock again. She had stood there.

Tomorrow. He’d see her tomorrow.

~*~

Next day

“Nice of you to join us, Flint,” Dylan Broadmoor called down to Marcus, sourly.

Marcus took a quick look around the completely empty pitch, still half in shadows as the sun peeked over the horizon. He refrained from asking the Falcons’ captain who precisely this ‘us’ was. Broadmoor and his broom? Maybe after twenty years as Captain, Broadmoor was starting to hear the bludgers whisper to him.

Landing his broom next to the huge beater, Marcus took the sheaf of papers that were being thrust at him.

“92 chasers flying today,” Broadmoor barked. “Take notes. I want them ranked by the three F’s by the end of the day.”

The Falcons FFF ranking system was a frequent topic of gossip. Fearlessness and ferocity were two of the criteria. They told the press that the third F was for ‘flying ability’. It wasn’t.

Marcus nodded, sitting down just far enough away so that Broadmoor’s slight advantage in size wouldn’t be noticeable to those entering the pitch. He quickly perused the list of names. Maybe a fifth had some potential. Most of the rest were one step away from riding sidesaddle for a precision flying pep squad. Although, so was Warbeck.

92 Chasers. This would take fucking forever. At least it was just general scouting, and picking up a player or two for the second Reserves. A cursory inspection would do for most of them. He wouldn’t be late to meet Katie.

“We need someone to replace Millingstone through January, so I’ve asked the Reserve Chasers to come in as well.” Broadmoor’s voice was cool.

Marcus froze. “What’s wrong with Millingstone?”

“Injured in the scrimmage last week. Messing around with some broom modifications. In a spectacularly unsuccessful manner.”

“He’s out until January?”

“Some rather bad hex deflection, as well as the damage from the fall. January is optimistic.” Something was off, here. Broadmoor would more calmly accept murtlaps setting up residence in his intestinal track than his beloved Falcons entering the season with only two seasoned Chasers.

“Why wasn’t I informed?” Marcus demanded. As soon as the words past his lips, he knew it was a mistake. There were people that he just didn’t demand things of. Well, three of them at any rate.

“Weren’t you at the scrimmage, Flint?” Broadmoor asked in mock surprise. “Surely, you made the party at Mr. Helmsley’s? Your teammates must have owled you at the very least.”

Marcus gritted his teeth, and tried not to flinch. Why hadn’t Galloway gotten in touch with him? Fuck, there had been that owl. Maybe he should have read past the inspirational poem at the beginning. If the man insisted on rhyming ‘comradeship’ with ‘dislocated hip’ though, it surely wasn’t Marcus’ fault for refusing to read further. Blast. Why hadn’t Galloway tried harder to get in touch with him?

“I don’t think these kids will be up to it, nor our Reserves,” Marcus said, forcing his voice to be steady. “I’ll put together a list of veterans that might be available. Ballycastle just let Drayton’s contract expire.”

“No.”

Marcus forced down his rising anger. “No?”

“We’ve managed to keep Wallingstone’s injury quiet. We put the word out that we’re looking for an experienced Chaser this late in the game, and every team in the league smells blood. They’ll go after Warbeck first, then once he’s injured all their energy will be focused on you, and face facts, they can fucking behead you and the refs won’t call a thing. Our keeper’s a good kid, but a kid. They can shake him up. Galloway will get his stupid arse killed trying to protect everyone at once…”

“That’s not the right call,” Marcus insisted. “Look…I can take care of myself. You two wat-“

“No.” The anger that Broadmoor had been hiding came through loud and clear on that one. “You try that, and while you’re sitting on the sidelines from suspensions, having added to your little legend, we drop further and further back in the standings.”

“Look, it won’t even be necessary. I’ll figure out a way to get a good Chaser without tipping off the entire league,” Marcus replied, through gritted teeth. “If I’d known about the situation, I would have had a solution for you today.”

“Know why you didn’t know about it?” Broadmoor asked, harshly. Marcus shrugged. “Because I told the team not to tell you. Good to see they still understand who their Captain is.”

Like they’d ever forget, Marcus thought sourly. Broadmoor had the team so awed that even when he finally hung it up, they’d still cluster round asking his permission to take a leak. Merlin, even if he died, the insufferable tyrant would probably remain a ghost and spend eternity bellowing at Falcons’ players.

Not one of those bastards had contacted Marcus. He forced himself to breathe. There was no point in going head-to-head here. The owner of the Harpies, Helmsley, thought the sun rose when Broadmoor flicked his wand. Broadmoor would never back down either, even if he knew Marcus was right. Gryff to the core. Marcus could maneuver around him eventually, but getting concessions from him today was a lost cause.

“I always remember who you are, Captain,” he said, keeping his face as blank as possible.

“Good,” Broadmoor said, flatly. “Shut up and find me a decent chaser today. Show up to practice. Be as miserable a bastard as is possible on the pitch. Do not tell me how to run my team, kid.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Someday, Broadmoor would retire. They’d have a few things to discuss then.

“Good. Galloway has been working his arse off all summer, Flint, while you’ve been off on holiday. I’ve never figured he was cunning enough to be Captain when I was gone, but I’ll take work ethic over being a manipulative bastard any time. You might want to think about that.”

Yeah, sure. Galahad was just the guy you wanted as a leader…of a Puffskein Patrol troop. Next thing, Broadmoor would tell him that he’d recently discovered that their mascot, Fortinbras Falcon, was a master strategist and would be taking over the reins.

“I’ve barely gotten off my broom all summer,” Marcus said, smoothly. “Not much point in testing my new moves against a keeper who has been watching me develop them. I don’t think you’ll have any complaints.”

Uncertainty flickered just for a second in Broadmoor’s eyes. Marcus managed to keep the smirk off his face, barely.

“I’ll decide that, Flint. Just find me a Chaser today.”

Just like a Gryff. Arrogant enough to think they could make all the decisions, and bloody stubborn enough to have it work. For a while. Eventually, wit and manipulation had to triumph over running around in circles, shouting. Marcus started to peruse the list of Chasers trying out again.

“I’m surprised some of these blokes didn’t go to the Puddlemere trials, instead,” Marcus commented, frowning. Early in Broadmoor’s tenure in Captain, he’d insisted that the Falcons hold their try-outs on the same day as Puddlemere or the Magpies. Let’s see who really wants to be a Falcon, he’d reputedly insisted. It had worked. Skipping Falcons try-outs was tantamount to admitting you couldn’t handle the rougher stuff, and Broadmoor’s team ending up getting the first crack at all the big, mean players.

“Puddlemere rescheduled at the last minute,” Broadmoor replied sourly. “Scheduling conflict involving not wanting players the size of Professor Flitwick, I’m certain. Ballycastle changed dates, as well. No one but us is flying today.”

“The Harpies are,” Marcus replied. He checked his watch. Nine o’clock. Katie should be flying out onto the pitch right about now.

“What in Hades does that have to do with anything?” Broadmoor sneered. “We’re talking about who’ll be flying for the Falcons this September, not who I’ll be fucking in January.” Before he could think, Marcus was on his feet.

“Like she’d ever let you touch her,” Marcus snarled, blood roaring in his ears.

“What are you on about?” Broadmoor snapped, rising. The initial shock in his face was giving way to anger. “Who?”

“None of them. Any of them.” Marcus forced his breathing to slow. Salazar’s snake, he needed to get it together. He forced himself to sound snide, rather than savage. “I just think you’d be better off looking for witches with higher hemlines and lower expectations.”

“Hardly, Flint,” Broadmoor scoffed. “You know who I am. I can’t really imagine any Quidditch-playing witch saying no.”

“I can’t really imagine any Quidditch-playing witch being all that impressed with your broomstick or how you ride,” Marcus drawled, nastily. Broadmoor stepped closer on that one, muscle ticking in his jaw. Well, well, maybe they would engage in some conflict resolution today after all.

“My track record says differently, Flint. Care to make a wager? All new members of the Harpies’ roster by the end of October. A hundred galleons.”

Marcus’ stomach clenched. “Why don’t you save those galleons as a down payment for your coming long-term stay at St. Mungo’s, Broadmoor?”

“Why don’t you watch your mouth, Flint? Or do I need to beat some respect into you?”

“I’m filled with respect for my elders,” Marcus growled back, leaning closer. Broadmoor’s fist was open and closing rhythmically. Looked like they wouldn’t be using wands. “In fact, I’m delighted to hear that you can still get it up.”

“Really? Dreaming of it up the arse, Flint?”

“See, I heard that’s not how-“

“I am in possession of tasty donuts!”

Marcus kept his eyes trained on Broadmoor’s face as the big beater looked over to his right. Marcus let his eyes flick downward. Broadmoor wasn’t reaching for his wand, and he’d turned away; no attack would be forthcoming unless Broadmoor had purchased some subtlety in the off-season.

Marcus turned and gazed up into the grinning face of Galahad Galloway, who was carrying a bakery box large enough to hold a fire crab. Galloway shouldered himself in between the two other men, and sat down. Marcus waited for Broadmoor to sit down, and then followed his example a half second later. Anger still pulsing in his veins, Marcus was about to expound on a few more hypotheses regarding Broadmoor’s ‘A woman is like a bludger’ seduction techniques. He was brought up short by a huge, custard-filled doughnut that had been unceremoniously shoved in his mouth.

“As soon as you’re finished with that one, you should have another,” Galloway suggested cheerily. “I brought lots.”

Bloody lummox.

~*~

If the little punks were any slower, they’d be flying backwards.

They were watching the Chasers fly through some test patterns. Well, Broadmoor and Marcus were. Galloway was happily feeding doughnuts to the squirrels and chipmunks that haunted the stands. Marcus snorted. Galahad had assembled quite the little menagerie.

At least the Beater try-outs had been brief. The only excitement had been watching Broadmoor. The Captain always ran through all the drills himself, a week ahead of time. During the try-outs, he religiously compared his numbers to those of the hopefuls. Marcus was certain that the very day that the young guys started beating his numbers, Broadmoor would walk away from the Falcons. Stupid bastard.

The Chaser try-outs were, impossibly, even more boring.

The first hopeful had clumsy turns. The next paused before every maneuver, like his brain and spinal cord were only in nodding acquaintance. The third flew with less imagination than a flobberworm. A dead flobberworm.

“Strong lads, this year,” Broadmoor commented. “Prepared to do battle. Look pretty good.”

Oh, sure, they were ferocious. Too bad they were all dugbog slow, to boot. Katie would blow past any of them before they had time to blink.

She should been through at least a few drills by now. Maybe he should floo Trudeau at the next break, casually inquire how try-outs were going on. Tansy was easy to steer.

Then, in his spare time, he could figure out how in Hades he was going to pull a good enough Chaser from his wand to get the Falcons to the Cup this year. With four of the top six highest-paid players on the Falcons’ roster, Helmsley had had to economize on his Reserve teams. The more talented players had moved to other teams, for more money and a better chance of moving up to the Premiere division. Marcus could see the headlines now: Did Flint’s New Contract Destroy the Falcons?. He’d definitely be the one thrown to the manticores. This wasn’t what he needed right now.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. A calvalcade of unremarkable Chasers flew in front of them. Broadmoor was still taking copious notes on each one. What could the man be writing? Could outfly a drunken grindylow. Possibly.

Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three. These three might be successful…if the grindylow also had cataracts.

Forty four was flying with the same awful Keeper’s grip that Wood had saddled Katie with. Marcus smiled in grim satisfaction as a bludger hit easily knocked the kid halfway off his broom. He’d told her it wasn’t stable enough for a Chaser.

They’d just watched fifty three fail to score on the Keeper for the fourth time when Broadmoor finally spoke.

“They’re not good enough,” Broadmoor sighed. Clearly. “Any brilliant ideas, Flint?”

“I’ll speak to the grindylow’s agent,” Marcus muttered. At Broadmoor’s quizzical and annoyed look, he shrugged. “We’ll have to start interviewing free agents, and deal with the fall-out later. Alternatively, we could get some virgin’s blood and the horns from a two-headed goat, and go down to Queerditch Cemetery to try to resurrect Mitchell LaFlew. I don’t think anyone would suspect us using players from the eighteenth century.”

Broadmoor threw him a dirty look. Too bad. Like Marcus didn’t have other things on his mind right now. He’d only been planning today for bloody months after all.

Galloway meandered back over, whether because he sensed the tension or his rodent friends were too intellectual for him, Marcus couldn’t say. Sitting down between them, Galloway jerked his head in the direction of a tall red-headed Chaser waiting his turn.

“Who’s that?” he rumbled. Marcus began flipping through his notes.

“Digby Ryan. Went to Choctam instead of Hogwarts. Decent flier. Set a school scoring record,” Broadmoor recited from memory. Bloody annoying, although probably just proof that there wasn’t much else taking up space in Broadmoor’s head.

“Digby Ryan…” Galloway repeated, slowly. “I like it. Let’s sign him!”

Broadmoor exchanged bewildered glances with Marcus. “Any particular reason, Sir Galahad?”

“He looks jolly,” Galloway replied decisively.

“We have all the jolly we can handle, mate,” Broadmoor informed him. “We have you. Why would want more?”

“I personally don’t want any,” Marcus offered. Broadmoor snickered in agreement.

“I am sadly unappreciated,” Galloway informed them, stiffly.

“You’re appreciated,” Broadmoor reassured him. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”

“Even after all those times you got drunk and sang that fucking ‘Bludger and the Badger’ song of yours,” Marcus contributed. Galloway didn’t look especially comforted. He brightened, though, as the red-haired young Chaser had a decent trial. Ryan was probably the best flier they’d seen today, though Marcus wouldn’t be admitting that to Galloway.

“See!” Galloway crowed. “Let’s sign him. He and I can be mates. I could have a normal friend.”

“That would make one of you,” Marcus snorted, watching the trials. The quality of the Chasers today boded well for Katie. He hadn’t seen anyone close to as fast as she was all day.

“What would having a normal friend on the team be like, I wonder?” Galloway mused. “I bet I wouldn’t have to spend as much of my time ducking things. You two have more tantrums than a milk-fed knarl.” Broadmoor was focused on the Chaser hopefuls again, clearly not listening. Marcus did his best to tune Galloway out as well.

Weak competition, and Katie flying better than she ever had. She should make the Reserves easily. Not that Marcus had had doubts.

“My mate Ryan and I…drinking whiskey and singing songs about disemboweling Englishmen…” Galloway blathered on.

He’d see her tonight. She’d tell him about the try-outs, how well prepared she had been for everything. She’d probably be unable to sit still, bouncing around with her eyes shining.

“There will be no brooding silences. There will be no brawling in pubs…Well, no…there will be some brawling in pubs.”

It was what she had always wanted. He’d given her that, as well as what she’d asked for that day in the dungeons.

“There will be no brawling just when a girl with eyes as blue as a lake in Killarney has just stuck her tongue in my ear…”

She’d wanted to feel special. He had given her that this summer, right? His grand romantic gesture. Right out of some little Muggle fairy tale that her mom had probably read her. He’d earned her.

“…or anywhere else.”

Katie understood, Marcus was certain. No one else had gotten her on a team. Merlin, she had to see that no one else thought she was worth the effort to even try.

“Forever united we’ll be, in agreement about Quidditch, ale and poetry,” Galloway finished, triumphantly.

Marcus was in control of the situation, finally. It was solved. So, if he had figured out a way to fix things with Katie, he should be able to find out a way out of this situation with the Falcons. He always won. He was Marcus Flint, after all. Find Broadmoor a Chaser…get things settled with Katie tonight…

“Yves Persault,” Marcus blurted out.

“What?” Broadmoor and Galloway both asked, startled.

“Yves Persault. MVP of the World Cup three years back?”

“We know who he is, Flint. He’s a great Chaser. He’s also a primadonna, and a lunatic.”

“He’s between teams,” Marcus said, flatly.

“He’s unreliable, to put it mildly,” Broadmoor returned. “And he costs the bloody Earth. Plus he’ll want a multi-year contract.”

“He’s a brilliant Chaser.”

“He goes through periods where he thinks he’s Napoleon,” Broadmoor hissed. Galloway looked back and forth between the two of them. “Plus, I don’t want to get rid of Wallingstone. I just want a temporary replacement.”

“Persault always behaves for the first few months with a new team,” Marcus began, running the scenario over in his head. Yeah, he had it. “He’ll keep us up in the standings. We’ll put it out that we’re dumping Wallingstone, and have him hole up at his estate at Cornwall getting back into shape as he recovers. Galloway and you can go out there and work with him sometimes. I’ve got to stick around London as much as possible this season.” Broadmoor opened his mouth to object, but Marcus pressed on. “Have Wallingstone give a really bitter interview to Quidditch Weekly about how we dumped him, and everyone will assume we’re going with Persault for the long haul. All the other teams will design their strategy around defending against a Persault-style ‘swoop and weave’ offense, and will be totally thrown when we bring back Wallingstone and our modified lynchpin style. We’ve all flown together long enough that we don’t need much practice to get in the swing of things. We don’t even need to tell Warbeck or anyone else what’s going on ahead of time.”

“Maybe…” Broadmoor looked excited for a moment before shaking his head, regretfully. “We can’t ask Mr. Helmsley to foot the bill for Persault for multiple seasons when we’re only going to be flying him for a few months. He costs more than the three of us combined.”

“So we get Persault to ask to be let out of his contract,” Marcus explained slowly, as if to a four-year-old.

“He’s crazy, Flint, not dumb. He might be locked up in St. Mungo’s half of the time, but he always manages to get his galleons.”

“He’s engaged to Patrice Velaire, the charm dancer and reputed nymphomaniac,” Marcus explained. He paused, trying to remember the gossip his mother had passed along. “He’s obsessed with her. Left Vostok in the middle of the season because he heard a rumor about her and a WWN correspondent. Given her proclivities, I don’t see him being all that confident that she’ll remain faithful while he spends a season across the channel.”

“So we hope that his bird starts catting around on him, and he catches wind of it and runs back to France?” Galloway asked.

“Seems shaky, Flint,” Broadmoor concurred.

“We don’t hope anything,” Marcus replied, irritated. Bloody infants. “When we’re about done with Persault, we make sure photos of Miss Velaire and various other ‘companions’ start appearing in the mags. Plant a few items with gossip columnists. He’ll be desperate to get back to France, as soon as possible. I’d wager my broom that he’d be more than happy to waive the rest of his contract. Helmsley might even be able to get some of the money he’d already paid him back.”

“How could we make sure that stuff made it into the columns?”

Marcus just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Merlin, there were gossip and Quidditch columnists everywhere. According to reports, Broadmoor had shagged a few of them. They printed what they were told. Plus, Helmsley’s brother-in-law owned half of The Daily Prophet. Broadmoor had definitely taken too many bludger hits to the head.

“It won’t be a problem,” Marcus told Broadmoor, tiredly. He cut off Broadmoor as he started to protest. “If necessary, I’ll portkey to Paris and fuck her myself. I’ll even bring a camera.”

“It might work…” Broadmoor mused.

“It will work.”

“Fine, I’ll have Helmsley contact Persault’s agent,” Broadmoor said, obviously much relieved. “Sometimes I forget how useful it is having your sneaky, despicable arse around.”

“Yeah, blow me later,” Marcus smirked. Look how quickly all was forgiven. His eyes narrowed as he looked out at the pitch. “What are they doing?”

Broadmoor glanced out at the players. “The two-beater drill, you know that, Flint. We’ve been running it for at least five years. Having a Chaser fly a gauntlet against two beaters instead of one is a better test of their anticipation.” Marcus watched as the two Reserve Beaters flew in tandem, harassing the Chaser. He’d forgotten this drill.

It probably didn’t matter. The chances of the Harpies using it were low, he reassured himself. They didn’t run that many contract drills in practice, much less in try-outs. She was fast. Even if they did use it, she’d probably handle it fine.

“I need to go,” Marcus said, standing abruptly.

Broadmoor cocked an eyebrow. “You want to give me your scouting report from today?”

“They’re all shite,” Marcus replied, flatly.

“Is his insightful analysis the reason we keep him around?” Broadmoor asked Galloway, smirking.

“I think it’s his gift for description,” Galloway said, judiciously.

“I’ll write up a report and get it to you in a couple days, Broadmoor,” Marcus replied, irritably. “I’ll even buy a thesaurus and find out twenty-three different ways to say ‘stupid and clumsy’. I need to be going. I know it’s a wrench, but why don’t you two just take turns pretending to be me to soothe the pain of my absence.”

“Oh!” Galloway began laughing. He grinned over at Broadmoor. “Did you tell him?” Broadmoor looked blank for a moment, before breaking into laughter.

“No, no I didn’t,” Broadmoor replied, grinning back. “Flint, maybe you better sit down.”

“What are you two on about?” Marcus asked suspiciously.

“Well…we were doing a little public outreach work,” Broadmoor began, smirking. “At the Drunken Keeper. Galahad was getting us more pints while I was liaisoning with some upstanding members of our fair community.”

“The thong-wearing section of it, any way,” Galahad inserted.

“Two lovely members of that constituency had a seat at my table. Kimberley and…Buxomina or something,” Broadmoor continued, smoothly. Marcus groaned, inwardly. He just couldn’t catch a break. “They told me that they had met just the nicest player from the Falcons, Marcus Flint. Now, of course, I thought they meant that they had met the nicest player from the Falcons and Marcus Flint, because, come on. However, after a conversation along the lines of ‘Big ugly guy? Bad teeth?’, it was established that they were describing you. Now, by this time, my man Galahad had returned with the pints, including two for the witches, clever soul that he is.”

“I am perspicacious,” Galloway agreed, nodding.

“So, I had them describe you to him, no names, and had him guess who they were talking about. So he guessed. And guessed.”

“Every Falcons player that I could think of,” Galloway chimed in.

“Back to 1982.”

“Including the Reserves.”

”Finally,” Broadmoor smirked. “He gave up. We told him. He fell off his chair laughing.”

“Bump bump,” Galloway said, sunnily. Marcus started to ask if they could find a six-year-old to finish reading their little bedtime story too, but Broadmoor held up a warning finger.

“I’m sure that you’ll be glad to hear that the two lasses were quite offended on your behalf, Flint,” Broadmoor continued. “Insisted that we must have you all wrong. Despite your reputation, not only were you nice, funny, warm, and several other words only a bird would use, you were, get this, shy. Apparently, you’d left them quite hastily although they had expressed a desire to, er, get to know you better.”

“After our Captain suggested that you might possibly be a virgin,” Galloway snickered, “I think they felt that we weren’t taking the whole thing quite seriously, and went to try their luck elsewhere. Taking their pints, I might add.”

“Leaving the two of us to discuss it amongst ourselves. Now, we could buy you not shagging a witch or even two…”

“And we could just barely buy you being polite…maybe.”

“You being polite to a witch you weren’t going to shag, however? Not bloody likely.”

“Then there was the way they told us how unbelievably sweet it was, you going to all that trouble to help coach your little sister.” Marcus strove to keep his expression of bored disdain on his face. “Why they just wanted to eat you up with a spoon.” Galloway’s eyes twinkled.

“We briefly debated if they might have been talking about your pretty-boy brother, but then they said the witch seemed clever so bang went that theory.”

“If you actually had a sister, you would have told us. Probably would have provided us with a flowchart diagramming in what order you would remove our internal organs if we touched her.”

“Finally, after intensive discussion, and many, many pints, we figured out the solution.” Broadmoor paused for effect. “Someone is out there, polyjuicing themselves into you, and ruining your reputation.”

“A stain on your escutcheon, as Professor Binns would say,” Galloway concurred in mock sorrow. “Any theories on whom it might be, Flint?”

Marcus looked back and forth between the two grinning lunatics. He’d try to play it off. If that didn’t work, a memory spell would do the trick. Maybe all that time he’d spent perfecting his Obliviate would be worthwhile after all.

“Must be a eunuch to turn down two lovely witches on offer,” he suggested. “Must be a mama’s boy to spend his free time with his little sister. The polyjuice suggests he desperately wants to be me.” Marcus paused for effect. “Gentlemen, I think we know what Oliver Wood has been doing on his summer break.” Galloway and Broadmoor burst into laughter.

They all stood there snickering for a minute.

“I’ve got to go meet Mr. Helmsley,” Broadmoor declared, after a few moments. “Galahad, see you on the pitch Monday. You too, Flint. That’s not a suggestion.”
Marcus nodded. “We’ll hammer out the details on Persault.” He paused. “I want your opinion on adding some new Chaser formations as well.” Marcus tried not to smirk. “This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, Flint. I expect to see you at all team functions: scrimmages, dinners, whatever. A teammate has a bloody baby shower, I expect you to be there.” Broadmoor glared at him briefly, before turning and striding off.

“Off he goes running to his miniature father figure,” Marcus sneered to Galloway as they watched Broadmoor in earnest conversation with the tiny Falcons’ owner. “You have to wonder about that.”

“Eh,” Galloway shrugged. “Everyone’s got something like that. Drunken surrogate dad. Ungrateful and emotionally disturbed friend. Time-intensive little sister.” Marcus tensed, studying Galloway closely. No hint of amusement or hidden knowledge glimmered in those blue eyes however. Maybe it was nothing.

If Galloway continued to grow a brain, Marcus would figure out a way to deal with it. Not today, though.

Today, he needed to go meet Katie.

</lj-cut>

Detained Chapter 10 Insinuation Part IIb

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 18:25:37 GMT

Disestablishmentarian. Pseudomagiutilization. Supercalifragism.

Katie knew lots of big words. Good words. Useful words.

‘No’ was a good word, too. She liked ‘no'. Useful in many situations.

“Bell, I’ve got some Quidditch books you should read. Tell me where your flat is, and I’ll drop them off. Save you some time.”

That would have been a good time for a ‘no'. Too bad it had escaped her.

It’s not like she hadn’t seen Marcus every day this week. She could deal with him on the pitch, where interludes of him shouting at her about various flaws in her game were broken up by periods of his shouting about other things. She could deal with him at the pub, where she could direct his ire at the fluorescent puddings, or the painting of the partridge wearing what appeared to be spectacles and a frock coat.

That didn’t mean she wanted him in her new flat though. She’d felt more comfortable only giving him the opportunity to criticize her game, and her person. In her flat, he could expand his repertoire to her sense of style, her choice of locations, and all her wordly possessions.

‘At St. Mungo’s. Emergency. Have mysteriously forgotten how to read. Will get books from you once I recover.’ Those were some fine words also.

A sharp knocking interrupted Katie’s planning. Blast. She swallowed hard and pulled open the door. Marcus stood there, filling the doorframe. His arms were full of books, and his robes were thrown over his arm. He’d probably just taken them off so not to cause comment in her Muggle building. Katie quickly stepped aside, ushering him in. He followed her into the flat, dumping the books and robe on the kitchen table.

“Thanks for loaning me these,” Katie said, wishing her voice sounded a bit more nonchalant and a bit less like a house elf with neurological problems. When did enunciation get so hard?

Marcus didn’t seem to notice. He shrugged, and turned to walk around the flat. He stopped at her desk, looking carefully at her photographs. Leaning over her bed, he spent another few minutes looking at her bookshelves. Prowling around her apartment, he ran his hand over the back of her grandfather’s old recliner, which suddenly looked cheap and dusty. His head almost touched the ceiling, which somehow made Katie feel a little claustrophobic.

He looked completely out of place, and yet not at all awkward. Katie had the feeling that if he stayed there for long, the flat would start rearranging itself into more suitable surroundings for him. The tatty old chairs would become sleek leather sofas, the butterbeer would morph into catastrophically expensive firewhiskey. Katie herself would probably be replaced by some curvaceous beauty who spoke fourteen languages. Well, either that or an Afghan Hound.

Actually, it was good her tongue wasn’t working too well right now. It was the only thing preventing her from asking milord if he’d like some wassail, or possibly a fatted calf.

Finally he was done with his surveying mission, and his eyes returned to Katie. Katie held her breath. Even though she’d spent almost every minute of the last few weeks in his company, she had absolutely no idea what he was going to say. Well, based on his recent track record, the most likely guess was that he’d yell at her about her quaffle grip and then slam bodily into her.

“There’s a bed in your kitchen,” he said, gruffly.

Well, that had broken the ice.

“Uh, what?” Eloquence, thy name is Bell.

“There’s a bed in your kitchen,” he repeated.

Confused, Katie looked around her kitchen. Table. Chairs. Well, chair, after Fred and George had used the other one for an impromptu demonstration of the many uses of gravity. Typical Muggle appliances: fridge, stove, microwave. No bed.

Oh, great. She could see the Daily Prophet article now. Falcons Star Suffers Breakdown in Flat with Extremely Tattered Couch.

Maybe the Muggle stuff confused him. “This is a refrigerator,” she said slowly and clearly, pointing to it. She did the same with the microwave, stove, and to be safe, the fichus.

“While I’m glad to see you’re using your words like a big girl,” Marcus said, rolling his eyes, “what are you on about?”

“Marcus,” Katie said, taking a deep breath. “Where is this bed that you’re talking about?”

He strolled over to her bed, resting his hand on the headboard. “This. Is. A. Bed,” he stated with overdone and completely unnecessary gravitas. Prat. “Next week, we’ll work on adjectives.”

“That’s not in the kitchen,” Katie shouted at him, completely exasperated.

Marcus gestured irritably towards the appliances. “Stove. Refrigerator. Fichus. Kitchen.”

Oh. Heh.

“This is an efficiency flat,” Katie explained, briskly. “No walls separating the living areas. The kitchen has the linoleum floor, though. The couch separates the bedroom from the living room, and the study is delineated by a…general miasma of scholarship.” It kind of was all one room, now that she thought about it.

“I don’t care what you call it,” Marcus retorted brusquely. “There’s still a bed in your kitchen.”

Katie decided belaboring the significance of the linoleum was probably a lost cause at this point. “OK…”

He looked at her darkly.

”What?” Katie cried out in bewilderment.

“Everyone who comes to your flat will be staring at your bed,” he explained to her, gruffly, walking over to her and looking down at her very intently.

“I know you don’t know much about life among the little people,” Katie told him archly. “However, a bed really isn’t all that much of a luxury. The Weasley’s might not have a lot of money, but the twins can view a bed without succumbing to a fit of the vapors.”

“The twins were here?” Marcus asked in a low voice, jaw clenched.

“Yeah…they helped me move in,” Katie said, puzzled. She looked into Marcus’ eyes, trying to figure out what was up. He jerked his gaze away, staring at his hand as he ran it along the counter top.

“Wood?” he asked, coldly.

“Uh, no. Formica.”

His gaze snapped to her again. “Was Oliver Wood here?” he asked, with what seemed like savagery, but must have been indigestion or something.

“No…” Katie replied, puzzled. “Is something wrong?”

“Just wanted to make sure I’m not in an Oliver-Wood infected area,” he said snidely. “I haven’t gotten the vaccine.”

“Don’t worry,” she returned, sweetly. “If you develop either a Scottish accent or good manners, I’ll rush you to St. Mungo’s immediately.”

“Thanks, Bell,” he grinned down at her. “However, I’m more concerned about the other symptoms-humorless moralizing and becoming dumber than a statue of Galloway made entirely out of mashed potatoes.”

“Be nice. After all, he doesn’t have your educational advantages-what with only taking the NEWTs once and all.”

“Are you kidding me? Snape would have taken his NEWTs for him rather than put up with the eejit of Edinburgh for another year.”

“Knew Slytherin wouldn’t win the Cup while Wood was Captain?”

“Hey! I won the Cup twice while Wood was your Captain. He won one measly year, probably because everyone shoves their nose so far up Potter’s ass that it gives him extra momentum.” He smirked at her outraged glare. “Besides, why bother sabotaging Gryffindor when they’re so willing to do it for us?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, what would you call it when the cleverest Quidditch mind that they’ve had in recent memory steps aside and gives the Captaincy to DeathInABassinet Harry?”

“As opposed to the Slytherin Captain, ‘I have equal amounts of Quidditch talent and pigmentation’ Malfoy?” Katie hissed. “And we still beat Slytherin by the way! And thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Katie.” His voice was low, and he reached out and brushed her hair back over her shoulder. Katie swallowed. How did he switch gears so fast? He hadn’t moved closer to her, but in a way that made it harder. If he pushed, she could shove him away. He wasn’t pushing though. He seemed to be waiting.

What did normal people talk about? What they had done that week for one, but all she’d done was practice with Marcus. Unless he had extremely poor short-term memory, that would be an awkward conversation. Well, she had moved into her flat but that seemed to be a sore subject. Politics? She’d been so busy that she hadn’t even had a chance to see where Fudge was placing his tongue these days.

This was absurd. She always had something to say, especially around Marcus. She was an adult now. She had her own place. Adults talked about taxes, home repairs, and particularly gruesome magical mishaps. Opening conversational gambit: ‘I can’t believe our taxes are being spent on medical treatment for people who have tied their intestines into the shape of a bunny rabbit. It really grouts my tile.’ OK, maybe not.

He was still looking at her. She could punch him. That would alleviate the awkwardness.

Maybe they really didn’t have anything to say to each other besides Quidditch talk and plots of infant abduction. Ironic. They’d never been civil to each other for long enough to realize that there was no common ground or feeling between them. Someday in the future, she’d walk down the street and say hello to him and he’d wonder who she was, just having a faint memory involving detention, Quidditch, and tongues. If they ever left the flat that is. Maybe they’d just stand there forever, until one of them keeled over from thirst and the other…

“Would you like something to drink?” Oh. Words. Good. Maybe her larynx had a little brain of its own.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, stepping back a bit. “Butterbeer would be great.”

“You sure?” Katie moved past him towards the fridge. “I have firewhiskey. Ogden’s Classic. Not up to your usual standards, I’m sure, but your liver won’t request amnesty if you drink it.”

“You have firewhiskey?” he asked. Something in his voice made Katie turn around. He looked serious. “Why?”

Katie wondered why she did have it. Her friends didn’t drink it much. If the Weasleys wanted alcohol, they’d throw some fermentation figs in some pumpkin juice or something. Cheap but effective. Katie could still faintly taste their Watermelon and Waffle Whammy. Ugh. The only person she knew who drank much firewhiskey was…

“Um…it’s for my dad.” That was possible. Dad might like firewhiskey…if he was engaging in a little light surgery at her flat, and needed antiseptic.

It didn’t mean anything. Firewhiskey was just something adults had, along with umbrella stands and paintings of crups. She’d look into getting the other two tomorrow.

She poured the firewhiskey, hearing him come up behind her. Quickly pivoting and handing him the glass, she moved to sit on the kitchen table. She stared at the books he’d brought, avoiding his gaze.

“Thanks. You’re not having any?” he asked.

“Firewhiskey and I don’t mix,” Katie said shortly, before flashing a brief smile. “So any suggestions on where I should start with the books?”

Looking at her speculatively, he pulled a chair out and sat next to her. He went through the stack of books, setting most off to the side.

“Not much of immediate importance in these,” he muttered. “All right, distance shadowing techniques-read this chapter, at least. We’ll have to do defensive holds in practice, so don’t bother reading those parts. All the formation flying sections in Frobisher. Situational broom grips…hard to get those from reading, it will work better if I show you. ‘Questionable Quidditch Tactics’-great book. Read it all.” He flipped through some pages. “Remind me, I need to show you the lover’s knot maneuver tomorrow. And several variations.”

“How come everything that we need to work on now involves manhandling me?” Katie snorted. “I note that everything that requires highly precise flying or delicacy, I can just read about. Man, for a pro Quidditch player, you are lazy.”

“Me lazy?” Marcus scoffed. “I’m not the one who blew off Quidditch practice to have a three-way with the twins.”

Pig. Katie rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it was quite the erotic experience,” Katie shot back. “Oh, oh! George! Lift with your legs, not your back.”

“I can’t believe that’s your idea of manly help,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Two Weasleys. Surely, there was someone stronger and smarter that you could ask.”

“Ang and Ali were here, too,” Katie informed him, pertly. Her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t we just go ahead and bypass whatever crass ‘orgy’ reference that you’re about to make?”

His mouth snapped shut before breaking into a wide grin. “Fair enough. So, what do your little friends think of your summer activities?”

Oh. Blast. How should she field this one? ‘Well, I haven’t actually told them…because being bodily restrained and forced to undergo deprogramming is so tiresome?’ Huh. It was the truth but there had to be a more diplomatic way to say it.

“It hasn’t come up.” Well, it was the truth.

“You’re kidding,” he scoffed. “Like you have any secrets from those two, Bell. All girls yammer on and on about everything to their friends.”

“We do not!” Katie said, outraged.

“What should I wear? What does he think about me?” Marcus mocked in a truly hideous falsetto. “It was all just so exciting! I was dying to tell you.”

“What’s that an impression of? Falcon’s locker room talk?”

“C’mon, Katie,” Marcus smirked at her. “You know that you told them. It’s part of the female package, along with liking unicorns, and reading ‘Estrella Escalade:Teen Investigative Witch’ novels under the desk in Charms class. You’re a slave to biology.”

“Marcus…” Katie paused, trying to come up with something suitably scathing. “Evolve.”

She’d never tell Ang and Ali, not that she had been going to any way. No second opinions could be worth having to look at the smirk on Marcus’ face if he found that she blabbed.

“Slights about male immaturity, Bell,” he laughed. “Textbook female.”

She snapped.

“I am never going to tell any of my friends about this,” she hissed. “Why would you ever think I’d want to?” She wanted to take it back as soon as she said it. Marcus had given up his summer to coach her. Why was she getting so agitated? Because he was arrogant and occasionally insulting? Hardly breaking news in the Daily Prophet.

He didn’t look annoyed though. He looked satisfied. Maybe because he’d reduced her to a screeching harpy-probably another ‘female’ behaviour in his mind. Katie gritted her teeth, and waited for his next sally.

“So, I thought we’d do some timing drills tomorrow,” he informed her. “Give your bruises a day off.”

“OK…” Katie muttered, caught off guard. She recovered quickly. “I’m fine but if your creaking bones would like a respite…”

“Willing to give my body a rest from your ceaseless physical demands, Bell?” he grinned.

“If I knee you in the groin, does your other brain become operational?” Katie mused.

“If I spell your mouth shut, do the nerve endings below your waist start to work?”

“I don’t know,” Katie replied, cheerily. “Let’s test our hypotheses. I’ll go first. Could you stand up please?”

Marcus gave her an appraising look, and grinned. “I’d call that bluff…if I believed for a second that it was one.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’ve known bloodthirsty people, Bell, and I’ve known sweetly impish ones. You’re the only one I’ve ever met who is both.”

Wow. She sounded pretty cool. Huggable and homicidal.

Excellent.

“Well, Flint, if you go around accusing me of reading Estrella Escalade books, you need to accept the consequences,” she shot back. “By the way, for such a manly man, you sure know a lot about a series of books that feature a witch who solves mysteries by interrogating forest creatures and twirling her hair.”

He had the grace to look abashed. “Brutus read them,” he snorted. “He said the subtext was fascinating.”

“Still doesn’t explain how you know so much about them. Oh, wait! It does. Story hour.”

“Sounds like you like that idea, Bell,” he said lazily, looking her up and down. “Is it just the thought of getting to sit in my lap?”

Katie could feel her cheeks flush. If she couldn’t find a spell to stop herself from blushing, she was just going to start wearing a Muggle wrestling mask every time she saw Marcus. That would be probably equally embarassing but at least she’d get to pick out a cool name: Kamikaze Katie or Bell-A-Donna. No! Ding Dong Death.

“Nah, I think it’s the thought of the Slytherin Quidditch team, all sitting on the floor, gathered around Professor Snape as he reads aloud from “Buffin Batsworth, Human Bludger.”

“Gods, Bell,” he choked. “What a horrible, horrible image.”

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Katie agreed, thoughtfully. “Snape would be a terrible storyteller. He probably wouldn’t even do the voices. I mean, can you really see him giving the conniving jarvey, Bagshot, the requisite chutzpah?”

Marcus snorted. “He probably wouldn’t even sound out the blood spattering and bone crunching sounds. Gods, what great books those were.”

“They were,” Katie grinned. “Machinations and violence and Quidditch. And the author was kind enough to put all the apologies and morals and meaningful learning experiences in the last chapter, so you could easily avoid them by stopping ten pages from the end.”

“Yeah, I never finished one of those books,” Marcus agreed. “I had almost all of them, I think. I read them so many times.”

“Yeah, me too.” Katie smiled. “Except for the one where he liked that annoying girl.”

“Prunella,” Marcus shuddered. They stood looking at each other for a moment.

“Did you read the last one? The one that just came out?” Katie asked. “Apparently the author became convinced that someone wanted to steal it, you-know-who, I think, or maybe Lockhart, so he hid it. He made a paper airplane collection with it.”

“Nah,” Marcus said, striving mightily to look unexcited, in Katie’s considered opinion. “I hadn’t heard.”

“Do you want to borrow it?” she asked shyly. Marcus shrugged in a way that attempted to convey his complete and utter disinterest in such trivial things, and failed miserably. Katie bit back a giggle. It was refreshing to see the Machiavellian Marcus be so amusingly transparent.

She hopped off the table.

“So…is this what you do when you get bored, Bell?” Marcus drawled. “Play a game of ‘Let’s Pretend We’re Madam Pince’?”

“No,” Katie replied, sweetly. “If that was what I was doing, I would be shouting at you. Or curating the impressive collection of centaur pornography that is hidden in the Restricted Section.”

Marcus almost choked on his firewhiskey. “Really? Is it strictly centaur on centaur stuff? Or is there ‘hot biped action’?”

“Perv.” Katie rolled her eyes. “Actually, Madam Pince’s interest is purely intellectual, I’ll have you know.”

”Oh, really?”

“Certainly,” Katie said, seriously. “Perhaps you missed her article in the August issue of ‘Library Magic’ concerning the etymology of ‘hung like a horse’?”

“Gods, Bell,” Marcus sputtered, this time actually choking a bit. “Perv.” He sounded a little admiring.

“I do try,” she replied, grinning impishly. She started to move toward the bookshelves, bending over to scoop up some books she had piled on the floor near her bed.

“If only we had known of the untold wealth hidden in Hogwarts’ library…” Marcus mused.

“More Slytherins would have learned how to read,” Katie laughed, turning around so she could watch him glare. He didn’t though. He jerked his gaze away from her abruptly. What was his problem?

Shrugging, she clambered quickly over her bed to get to the bookshelves. Who needed a floor? Maybe she should just install rings in the ceiling and then the lack of floor space wouldn’t be a problem. Plus she could play Tarzan. Ah, there it was on the third shelf: ‘Hey! He Broke My Ribs!’ A classic for the ages. Marcus still hadn’t said anything.

“So is it the rippling hindquarters that does it for you, or do you really just want to braid their tails?” Katie asked. “Maybe it’s the chance to say ‘you’re such a stallion’ non-ironically?”

“What?” He was looking at her again, clearly confused.

“The centaur smut? You’ve been really quiet since we talked about it.” He didn’t say anything. “Just trying to figure out what’s so appealing. Because personally I would have pegged you as more a house-elf fetishist, what with the obedience and the foodstuffs.”

“Just because Gryffindor’s prefer one-stop shopping in terms of servants, shags and steeds, whether because it’s more cost-effective or because they’re easily confused,” Marcus began, sneering, “we in Slytherin house-“ He broke off abruptly as Katie vaulted back over her bed, yanking his gaze away.

“You in Slytherin house?”

“Uh, in Slytherin house, we…don’t.” He muttered, shifting in his chair.

Well, that was weak. Katie glanced around her flat with interest. Was there something there that had the power to destroy Marcus’ ability to banter? He definitely looked a little off. He still wasn’t looking at her.

“I can wait if you need more time to work on your comeback,” Katie said, politely. “Let me know when you’re ready.” She sat cross-legged on her bed, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing.

“Droll, Bell,” he snarled, glancing over at her. “Uh…” He broke off, and resumed inspecting her fichus, rubbing the back of his neck with one large hand. “What was with your crap passes today? You looked like some first year in a food fight.” This was still addressed to her ficus.

Maybe she could figure out what was bothering him by triangulation, she mused. Keeping the banter going on her many Quidditch failings, she began to move slowly around the flat. She didn’t have to say much, as Marcus was always willing to hold forth on his favorite topic. Most of the time when she was in the living room, he watched her. As she moved back in front of the bookshelves he again looked away briefly.

Hmm. Moving slowly back and forth in front of her bed area, she watched him carefully, trying to see exactly when he’d look away. His eyes were fixed on hers though. OK, if she moved out in ever increasing semi-circles…Now he was flat out staring.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, bluntly.

Oh damn. “What do you mean?” she asked, innocently.

“Are you on some kind of pilgrimage of your flat?” he asked, sarcasm lacing his tone. “Are you in orbit around your bed? Are Gryffindors required to take a vow of perpetual motion?”

“Um, no, not in Gryffindor house.” Oh, great. Vapidity was contagious. Katie took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. “Uh, Feng shui.”

“Bless you.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Feng shui. It’s a Muggle thing. It has to do with the position of things, and the balance of, uh, forces, I think.” Marcus looked at her like she was one crumple-horned snorkack sighting away from the psychiwizardry floor at St. Mungo’s. “My apartment is small, and you’re so big, that you’re disrupting the Feng Shui. I was just trying to figure out how best to position you for proper….Feng Shui-ness.”

He looked at her for a long moment, before shaking his head. “Alright. That sounds daft enough to be a Muggle thing. I should go before I disturb the cosmic forces any more.” He paused. “Or before you get any loopier. Take your pick.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go,” Katie said, hurriedly. “We’ll just push the sofa six feet to the left or something.”

“No,” he exhaled, pushing his hands through his hair. “I really should go. Goodnight, Katie.” He smiled at her, not hiding his teeth. Katie smiled back.

“OK,” she moved quickly back to the kitchen, feeling unaccountably bashful. “Here’s the book. Thanks for coming over.” He stood quickly, turning away and pulling on his billowing robes over his Muggle clothing.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the book hurriedly. “Get some defensive spells and some wizard locks put on your balcony door. It’s too easy to break into.”

“I’ve heard that,” Katie smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah.” He already had his wand pulled out. He apparated away with a sharp crack, leaving Katie standing in her kitchen, alone.

She moved over to the pile of books on the table, quickly eschewing the ones that he had told her to read. No homework tonight. A particularly beat-up volume entitled ‘Advanced Chaser Techniques: From the Ludicrously Difficult to the Almost Certainly Fatal’ caught her eye.

Katie grabbed it, and then curled up in her grandfather’s chair. The first page made her laugh. ‘This Book Belongs to Marcus Flint,’ it read, in the careful hand of a young child. The rest of the page was filled with a laundry list of dire warnings of what would happen to anyone who touched the book without permission. Marcus had clearly added to the list over the years, adding new threats, and changing existing ones as his vocabulary grew. Adjectives had been inserted, to explain precisely how painful something would be.

Castration was featured prominently, and a small cartoon was included, in case the meaning was unclear. ‘Cut your head off’ had been replaced with ‘decapitation’, and ‘choke’ became ‘strangulation.’ Katie had to resist the urge to write in ‘defenstration’ where a young Marcus had truly spread himself on how he would toss the unfortunate reader out the window. ‘Feed you to a giant squid’ had remained unchanged throughout the years. Katie was rather disappointed that there wasn’t a picture.

At the end of the list, it read ‘and then you will cry’. A tricky feat since at that point the reader would have had no eyes. Book thieves must have been a hardy lot.

Smiling, Katie began to flip through the pages detailing the techniques. Next to each one was a series of checkmarks and a date. The date seemed to correspond to the date Marcus had first succeeded with that particular maneuver. Given that the more difficult maneuvers had more checkmarks, Katie figured those must stand for unsuccessful attempts. Merlin, he had been six or seven when he completed some of them. Every maneuver had a date after it.

One page was filled with checkmarks. The Torque Paraplegia maneuver. An insane move, where the chaser had to hang upside down, legs wrapped around the broomstick, scoop up the quaffle, and then loop 180 degrees while managing to clamber back on, so the chaser would again be astride their broom heading in the opposite direction. The only time it was useful was when the quaffle was on the ground; this meant the chaser’s head dangled dangerously just above the ground at high speeds. Concussions were almost a certainty, neck fractures were not a rarity, and decapitations were rumoured. Katie had never even heard of someone actually doing it in the modern era, but here was a page filled with hundreds of checkmarks. A date was written at the end of the page, from when Marcus was fourteen. Next to it, in block lettering, were the words ‘FUCKING FINALLY.’ The quill had been pressed into the paper so hard that it had ripped a little.

Marcus had a long, jagged scar at his hairline. He wore his hair a little longer in front to cover it, and Katie had only seen it when he pushed his hair back, to stop sweat from dripping into his eyes. She’d always wondered how he got it. Now she knew.

Her fingers traced the words mindlessly, as she thought of a young Marcus, dirty and tired, perfecting the maneuvers in an empty field, alone.

Detained Chapter 10--Insinuation Part IIa

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 18:22:38 GMT

Next chap! Also, this story re-posting still made possible thanks to teamie.

The large figure was leaning against a tree, swigging a butterbeer and staring out over the pitch.

Flint.

He was dressed in Quidditch robes, and appeared lost in his thoughts. Katie’s mind tried to decide between apparating back home, apparating to another pitch, or sidling quietly away to the Pitch office before he saw her. Her body decided to be avant garde, rejecting all these suggestions in favor of standing there slack-jawed and staring like an idiot.

He was watching her now, looking bored and seemingly unsurprised.

“You’re late.”

”What?” Katie managed to stammer.

“You’re late. We’ve got work to do. Come on.”

Well, she supposed she was late. By about 72 and a half hours. What was he doing here?

“Why are you here?”

“I find practice is more effective if I actually show up at the pitch, rather than sitting at home contemplating my arse,” he said, irritably. “Although I do understand opinions differ on this.”

Oh.

A little voice in Katie’s head whispered that it would be easier to just go along. She’d been bemoaning the loss of his coaching, numb with fear that she couldn’t do this on her own. It wasn’t like he was asking her to apologize. It didn’t even have to be mentioned.

No. She wasn’t falling back into this little dance, where she hoped while she was asleep and hurt while she was awake.

“Come on, Bell.” Marcus had pushed off the tree and was striding off towards the pitch.

“Look,” Katie began. “This isn’t…I’m not…What-“

”Bell.” His voice was harsh, cutting across her rambling.

“Yeah?”

”I heard you the first time.” He still hadn’t turned around.

“I haven’t said anything yet,” Katie protested.

“I heard you before. Last week, after I looked at your back.” He paused, before continuing harshly. “Message received.”

“What?” Katie asked softly. Marcus’ responding laugh sounded bitter to her ears.

“My behaviour will be modified. Now come on.”

Katie stared at his back. She should remain resolute, she knew. That was a certainty. That was the right thing to do.

She wanted to make the Harpies, however. More than that, she wanted to learn how to play like Flint, be able to see the pitch the way he did. She wanted to be able to hear him talk about games he’d played in, and try to dart past him on the pitch, leaving him cursing in her wake. She wanted to know more tomorrow than she did today. She wanted to tangle with him.

It wasn’t the right thing to do, but she was going to do it any way.

“Look, Bell,” he snarled, voice strained. “I’m so terribly sorry that your knickers are in a twist, but we have actual problems here. Beginning with the fact that your Smithson Dodge is a fucking joke.” Katie’s stasis broke.

“It’s good enough to get by you,” she said coldly. Before he could respond, she had swung her leg over her broom and shot past him. She soared high over the pitch, and waited for him to catch up.

~*~

A week later

“Enough for today, Bell.”

Katie glanced over at Marcus in surprise. It was still early. Well, eight o’clock…but Marcus hadn’t let her off her broom before ten this entire week. Fifteen hours a day with Flint-it was like some Hufflepuff vision of hell.

Well, a male Hufflepuff’s at any rate.

Marcus set his broom down on the far side of the pitch, and began the long walk back to the sheds. Katie let her broom skim along the ground beside him, dragging her feet in the grass. She caught his sidelong disapproving look, but didn’t get off her broom. If he wanted her behavior to change, he had to yell at her. Katie was rather looking forward to when she finally drove him to laryngitis. The dumb suffering look in his eyes at her unchecked flow of merry prattle was worth waiting for.

“If you bothered to get enough sleep, you might be able to walk like a big girl, Bell,” he muttered.

“What do I have to do if I want to lumber like an ox as you do?”

He gave her a sour look, but didn’t respond. OK…

“I’m not tired, I’m just efficient,” Katie told him, pertly. “You’re the one who stopped practice early so you can go take a nap.”

“That really what you think that’s what I do with my evenings, Bell?” he snapped.

Oh.

Of course, he must have other plans. Katie had been so exhausted by their activities that she’d pretty much fallen into bed immediately every night this week. Marcus was probably used to it though. No evenings of dental hygiene and sleeping alone for him. Well, he probably did end up flossing with some bint’s thong.

“It’s a little early for you to be starting your evening’s activities, isn’t it?” she inquired archly. “I mean, how much friction can one man handle?”

“I can handle a lot of things you can’t, Bell. For one thing, no matter what I do the night before I can make it through practice without yawning and drifting off. I can’t imagine what a little Gryff could have gotten up to that would have been so bloody tiring, but don’t waste my time again.”

Katie flinched, feeling her cheeks burn. Maybe she had been a little tired. She’d spent most of last night desperately finishing up her essays for her mediwizardry school applications. However, she had yawned maybe twice today, and never complained. She hadn’t been wasting the dread lord of the Falcons time.

“I’m sorry if the occasional glimpse of my tonsils was that upsetting to you, Flint,” she replied coldly. “Unless it was enamel envy?”

“Nothing gets to me, Bell,” he said, coolly. “So, you think you’ll be able to curtail your busy social schedule this evening and get some sleep?” Katie opened her mouth to reply, but he held a finger up to stop her. In a bloody imperious manner, too. “We’re going to need to fit in some strategy discussions as well, but if you’re too busy…”

“Again, I’m not the one rushing off, Marcus. Don’t let me detain you though. You must have plans, probably at some shindig where they dye their house elves to match the tablecloths.”

“Maybe I’m just being a gentleman, Bell,” he sneered. “Don’t want to detain you from your exciting evening of exploding snap or ‘Count the Weasleys’ or whatever. Seriously, why would your career compare with that?”

“Big talk from a man who is going to spend his evening fishing crab puffs out of his dinner companion’s décolletage,” she sniped.

Marcus stopped abruptly, and looked at her speculatively. With a quick twist of her hips, Katie swiveled her broom to face him, stopping on a sickle. She fought back a smile at Marcus’ grudging nod of approval. Alas, his mouth re-opened.

“What an odd world view you have, Bell. You should tag along some time, see what it’s like where people have more money than they do children,” he drawled.

“I’d rather find out what it’s like where people have more brains than broomsticks,” Katie snapped. “However, unless there’s a strike at Cleansweep, I really can’t foresee that happening.”

“Ah, we’ll kill three fwoopers with one stone then,” he shot back. “We’ll grab a bite, and discuss the peculiarities of the Harpies coaching staff. I’ll drop you off at your house early so you can get some sleep, ensuring that I won’t have another wasted day. You’ll be assured of company of a higher caliber than your usual little friends, both intellectual…and otherwise.”

“How’s that?” Katie asked, eyes wide. “Will your owl be joining us?” He gave her a dark look, and she continued blithely. “Thanks, but I could not deny the wizarding elite your company this evening. Why, just the way the periwinkle house elves will set off your rosy schoolboy complexion is a treat for any hostess.”

He looked down at her, face stern and arms crossed. “Some advice, Bell.”

“OK,” Katie said briskly. “Now, just remember, debutante on your arm and napkin in your lap. The other way around makes it much harder to eat your soup.”

He rolled his eyes in irritation. “Advice for you, Bell.”

“I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “I don’t even like soup.”

He glared down at her. Oh, well. At least she amused herself.

“Bell, until some type of treatment is developed to rid you of the need to be bright and amusing every time you open your mouth, smiling and nodding is a perfectly good conversational mainstay. Let’s try it out now. ‘Katie, let’s go grab some dinner where I will impart wisdom, as you listen in breathless and above all silent admiration.’”

If this kept up, she would be useless on the pitch tomorrow…seeing as she’d have sprained her eyes from rolling them so hard. “Wouldn’t dream of taking up any more of your time,” she said smoothly. “Just yell a few snippets about the Harpies’ coaches at practice tomorrow, in between the repetitions of ‘do you even know what a quaffle is, Bell?’ and ‘oh, Gods, fuck, no’. Your conversation has tended to be monochromatic of late. Possibly it’s the lack of sleep. I couldn’t possibly keep you out later.” Katie smiled sweetly, turning and flying away before he could speak.

“Oh, big talk from a girl who is just too cheap to buy me dinner,” he called after her.

Katie stopped and whirled around. “What?”

“Never mind,” he replied, giving an exaggerated shrug. “You’ve got things to do. Go do them. Unless you’re waiting for me to pin a note to your robes in case you get lost.”

“No,” Katie insisted, flying back to him and hopping off her broom. “Marcus ‘I’m a man and you’re kind of a girl’ Flint will let me pay?”

“I’ll let you do something, Bell? Are you new here?”

“We’ll have dinner then? For which I will pay and you will not pay?” Katie asked, eager to nail down any potential loopholes. “With my money?”

“Paying does imply that Bell.” He snickered. “What, you Gryffindors still on the barter system? Trading goats and glass beads for your schoolbooks? Sounds strenuous. Although it would explain why you’re all stuck wearing such ugly sweaters. I believe the finer haberdasheries draw the line at livestock.”

“Guess I won’t be able to pimp you out for sweat socks then,” Katie grinned. “Come on! Food. Advice. Commerce. Let’s go.” She began walking backwards, towards the broom sheds.

He grinned, and caught up to her in a few long strides. “Bell, just because you’re paying for dinner, doesn’t mean I’ll be flashing you any thigh. I want that clear.”

“Huh. So I buy something for you, and then you don’t show me your bits? Not a bad deal. Do you offer more long-term contracts? If I do your laundry for a year, will you maintain a two foot distance at all times?”

He stopped for a second, but quickly resumed walking, strides lengthening. “Hey, I’m just looking out for myself, Bell. Trying to minimize excessive wear and tear on my ‘instrument’. After all, plenty of witches want me, but none have ever panted so much at the thought of getting to buy me dinner.”

“Yeah, because none of them can count. ‘Excuse me, waiter, what’s this squiggly thing? A four? Of the shiny silver ones?”

“Well, Bell, different witches have different skills,” he said, smirking. “I’ll come to you if I need my bank account balanced or develop a sudden abhorrence of silence. I’ll farm the rest out.”

“OK,” Katie swallowed. “Although I think the slurping sounds would take care of the silence problem, so why don’t you just come to me on those rare occasions where sapience is required.” She pushed the door open to the witches changing room. He reached out and caught it before it swung shut.

“But then who’ll knock me off my broom, Bell?”

“I don’t think there will be a shortage of volunteers.”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “They wouldn’t do it right.” He grinned down at her, and Katie could feel her own lips involuntarily curving into a smile.

“Excuse me,” a voice from behind Katie said pleasantly. Katie turned to see two tall, smiling witches watching her and Marcus. “Can we get by?” Fighting down the desire to inform them that no, she’d be holding them for ransom, Katie flushed and stepped aside.

The taller of the two, a dark-haired witch, smiled at Katie as she went past before stopping just outside. “You’re Marcus Flint!”

Gee, what tipped her off? The Falcons robes? The teeth? The fact that he was carrying a huge broom bag with MARCUS FLINT lettered on it?

“Who wants to know?” Marcus said, irritably, eyes still locked on Katie’s.

“Oh, sorry,” the witch laughed. “Didn’t mean to be rude. We’re not broom bunnies or anything.” Oh, so they were just doing a wizarding census? “We’re just getting some practice in before the season.” The blonde, curvy witch next to her nodded vigorously.

Well, that had gained his attention. Marcus immediately glanced over at them, appraising. “You play?”

“Well, only semi-Pro,” the witch who wasn’t named Brunhilde said. Murgatroyd, Katie decided. Murgatroyd was a good name for her. “We’ve been invited to a few try-outs though. Of course, we’re nowhere near your level.”

“He’s not really Marcus Flint,” Katie broke in. “He’s actually a Marcus Flint impersonator. Hires out for kid’s birthday parties and the like. Scratches, swears and shoves like the genuine article.”

There was a pause as all three stared at Katie for a moment. Murgatroyd gave a polite chuckle that in actuality sounded like a cough, while Brunhilde simply nodded. Marcus was staring at her, a speculative look in his eyes. A brief flash of teeth in Katie’s direction and then he turned his attention back to the two witches who were waiting expectantly.

“So…do you two ladies practice here a lot?” he asked, grinning. Oh, original, Flint.

“Oh, you know,” Murgatroyd flirted back. “Anywhere and anytime we can.”

“If you’re willing to pay a tad extra for his services, he does confetti animals. And for the more discerning audience, a truly amazing bogie-conga line charm,” Katie said. This time, only Marcus spared her a glance. His attention was again quickly diverted, as happens with simple-minded creatures, by a bright and shiny object. In this case, an ever-so-precious charm of a chaser hanging in Brunhilde’s abundant cleavage. The quaffle was heart-shaped. There were no words.

“That a Scirocco?” Marcus asked, gesturing at the brunette’s broomstick. “A lot of the Harpies are flying those these days. Sweet, tight, little broom.”

“I like it,” she said, smiling. “Of course, in terms of power and size nothing could compare to yours.”

“He also performs under the name ‘Lance Longsteed’ at MagicaExotica on Tuesday nights,” Katie said, conversationally. “The Daily Prophet called his one-wizard show ‘A Boy and His Broomstick’ an ‘erotic feast for the senses.’ Cornelius Fudge is reputed to be a fan.”

Marcus shifted, letting go of the door and turning slightly away from Katie. As it swung shut, Katie could see the rapt attention on the faces of the two witches. She stood for a second, staring at the door. She could hear Marcus laugh wickedly, but couldn’t hear what the witches had said that was so damn clever.

She could get rid of them. Misdirection spells or a nausea spell would do it. Circe, telling them that a naked, amiable Viktor Krum was locked in the broomshed would probably work. What was she thinking? She could whisper to them that Marcus was planning to change positions to seeker, and they should ask him about it. Problem solved.

Katie disrobed and stepped into the shower, hot water cascading over her. It would only take her a few seconds to put the kibosh on the double-entendre diva and her top-heavy pal. Then she and Marcus could go to dinner. There were some cool Muggle places in the area…

What was she thinking? Marcus was helping her out. Katie had told him not to touch her. He had complied, in a distressingly casual fashion. She’d pretty much told him to look elsewhere. And now he was.

Fact: Two hot Quidditch girls were panting over Marcus. Fact: If he read his runes correctly, he could probably have both of them. Fact: As wonderful a conversationalist as she was, crab wontons with Katie probably couldn’t compare to a sexpot sandwich. Conclusion: The nicest thing Katie could do for Marcus would be to just disappear. Well, that should be easy at least. If there was one thing she was good at, it was fading into the background.

OK. It was decided. Katie dressed quickly, and pulled her wet hair back in a ponytail. She’d charm it dry when she got home. Best to get this over with.

As she strode out of the broomshed, Marcus glanced at her before returning to his conversation. “Really?” he said loudly. “On a broomstick? Sounds strenuous. You’ll have to demonstrate.” The two witches laughed. Katie rolled her eyes. They were still on ‘broomstick’. At this rate they’d never get to his other conversational topics of ‘cleavage’, ‘debutantes’, or ‘eagle owls, erotic uses of.’

The taller witch looked good with Marcus. Classy and athletic. Katie drew a deep breath. “So, I have to go, Flint. Enjoy your evening.”

“What?” he asked, startled.

“That’s great!” Brunhilde said, excitedly. “You can go out with us after all.”

“Remarkable how things work out,” Katie said briskly. “You three remember to wait half an hour after eating before you do ‘strenuous’ things on your broom.”

“Wait a sec-“ Marcus began. Katie disapparated.

~*~

Katie was in a foul mood and running late. She’d been nauseous and restless all night, tossing and turning. At least Flint should be in a wonderful mood today. Polite and professional, she lectured herself. She’d be a regular McGonagall.

He was waiting for her, looking grim. “Where’s breakfast?” he snapped. Katie had skipped the bakery this morning. Nausea and napoleons weren’t a good combination.

“I didn’t have time,” she said shortly. “Is there a problem?”

“Well, yeah, Bell,” he said, sourly. “I’m hungry. Seeing as someone was supposed to buy me dinner last night and welched.”

“Your playmates put you right to work?” Katie scoffed. “I’m surprised they wouldn’t feed you. I would have figured they’d want to keep your strength up.” OK. She’d already broken the ‘professional’ rule.

“Oh, yeah, next time you want to play ‘social secretary’, why don’t you do a good deed and try to get one of your Gryffindork friends laid,” Marcus sneered.

“Uh, because my friends actually have standards?” Katie asked, dryly.

“As do I, Bell.”

“Criteria involving bustlines and fellatio isn’t really ‘having standards’, Flint.” Well, that probably blew that whole ‘polite’ thing as well. Actually, it sailed right past ‘impolite’ into ‘shrew-ville’. Stop it, Katie. She’d already discussed this with herself.

“I saw two of your competitors for a Harpies slot fly last night, Bell. What did you do? Sit at home and write poems about how clever you are?”

Oh.

“How good were they?” Katie asked quietly. “Not the poems. How good were the witches? On the pitch, I mean,” she added hurriedly. Marcus shot her a dark look.

“Not bad. Not as good as you. Quidditch seems to come first with them though. As opposed to you, where it runs a distant second to pissing me off.”

“Quidditch comes first with me,” Katie protested.

“Yeah, unless I get a little rough physically. Or I get physical at all. Or I say something ‘suggestive’ to you. Or I say anything to someone else.”

“That’s not true,” Katie said, seriously. “Say whatever you want to me. The only way your repartee bothers me is the boredom caused by standing around waiting for you to come up with a rejoinder. Last night was just me trying to do you a favor. As for the…other, I thought that was settled.”

“A favor, Bell? By not buying me dinner? You were trying to help me keep my girlish figure?”

“Oh, c’mon, Flint,” Katie said, tiredly. “What’s your problem? You clearly were into them. Understandably.”

“I was having a conversation, and scoping out your competition, I might add, because I was bored. Because your little self was taking forever to get ready.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m quite the primpaholic.” Katie shot back. “Why are you denying this? It’s not a problem. Murgatroyd and Brunhilde: instant gratification for your eyes, body, and ego.”

”Murgatroyd?” he broke in, puzzled. “I thought her name was Kimberley.”

“Not the point,” Katie said, quickly. “But I am not aflood with pity for your situation. Seriously, once I got out of your way, your evening was like a game of choose your own goddess archetype: willowy patrician beauty or buxom earth mother.”

“Well, that answers one question at least,” Marcus snorted, gazing out over the pitch. “You do actually overthink everything.”

Katie felt something in her chest ease. The sullen anger had left his voice, replaced by exasperation and incredulity. Business as usual. Maybe things would be OK, if she could quit being so shrill. Not perfect, of course, but…friendly, for lack of a better term. They’d banter. He’d be around.

She dropped to the ground beside him, cross-legged. “Oh, no, Flint,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. “I have not yet begun to overthink. I mean, two witches…Just the symbolic dualism of your activities last night could keep any bitchy bluestocking occupied for hours.”

“Well, there’s something to look forward to,” he muttered.

“Might have to get Morag MacDougal in as a consultant,” Katie teased, forcing down the lump in her throat. “I’m sure she’d have a plethora of theories. I’ll need to start with some questions though. So, last night…manifestation of unconscious desire to return to the womb or just a carnal carnival?”

He didn’t answer her. Well, she hadn’t really been expecting an answer. She’d been expecting him to shout at her, or elbow her, or tell her how useless she was on a broom. Normal behaviour.

“We could call it a carnal-val, I guess,” Katie joked, nervously. “Would save time. But it might just sound like I’d been possessed by Crocodile Dundee.” She looked over at Marcus but he still wasn’t looking at her, just staring out over the pitch. “I wanted to have dinner with you. I was just trying to be a friend,” she continued diffidently.

He glared at her briefly before looking away. She couldn’t believe she was thinking this but he was actually easier to deal with when he was shouting. Interpretation of sullen glances wasn’t her forte.

“I think the Wizengamot would side with me,” she said briskly. “Trading fish and chips for an evening with the beautiful and aggressively accommodating is clearly a good deal. Clearly, that’s what you wanted to do. I wanted you to get what you wanted. So you’re mad because you didn’t get to humiliate me by just canceling our plans in front of them? Knock me off my broom an extra time and we’ll be even.”

More silence. If this kept up, Katie was going to have to resort to other tactics to facilitate open and honest dialogue. Like Cruciatus.

“All right, Flint,” Katie said, drawing a deep breath. “You’ve been here with me every single day almost. From the first thing in the morning until dinner, right?” Katie looked out over the pitch as well. She didn’t want him looking at her. He already knew too much of her, so why let him see more? “And, yeah, that leaves you the evenings, but you’ve got business stuff, and Falcons stuff, and all the other stuff that makes up your life to shove into those few hours, right? It’s not very fair to you. So…these witches? I mean, beautiful and all that, which I figured wasn’t too objectionable to you. Plus they knew Quidditch, and they probably eat at the same restaurants and go to the same clubs as you do. As you said, pissing you off isn’t the first thing on their priority list, so lovely company…for whatever you wanted. I just figured that your…penance, or whatever this is, shouldn’t totally mess up your life. You’re helping me and I appreciate it…more than you know. You shouldn’t have to suff-“

“Bell,” Marcus cut in harshly. Katie jumped in surprise. She turned to look at him. He was looking at her finally, but his face was closed off. There was nothing in it that could explain why her heart was suddenly racing.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he said flatly. They stared at each other for a long moment. Katie nodded hesitantly. “All right, then,” he said, standing. “Let’s get to work.”

*~*

It was a good practice. Bruising, intense, focused. Classic Marcus.

Interspersed with complaints about her concentration, her grip, the lack of breakfast. Classic Marcus.

They hit the ground at the same time, Katie finally managing the leg-swinging hip twist maneuver that Marcus always used to dismount. She grinned in triumph. She had gotten untold bruises attempting that while she was at Hogwarts.

Together, they walked silently back to the sheds, Katie trying to keep from blurting out some asinine-sounding invitation. She was pulling open the door to the witches shed, when Marcus caught her arm.

“Dinner?” he asked, casually.

“Oh, are you hungry?” Katie asked, innocently. “You really should have said something.”

He snorted. “Droll, Bell. So…we’re alone.”

A shiver shot through her body, and she abruptly released the door handle, jumping as the door slammed. “Uh…there are trees.”

Katie shut her eyes briefly. She really wished she had a time turner, to regain those precious few seconds that would allow her to spell-o-tape her mouth shut.

“True,” he snickered. “Your point being?”

“I thought we were engaging in an impromptu ‘extemporize the obvious’ contest,” she said, airily. “What does our being alone have to do with anything?”

“Well, it looks like you’ll actually have to buy dinner. Unless you were planning on calling an escort service to arrange for alternative companionship for me? As you are wont to do.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Dinner will be fine.”

“Just remember, I am starving, which means you need to get ready quick. Ease off the primping for once, all right, Bell?” he grinned. Katie snorted.

“Just remember, I get to pay,” Katie stressed. “Which means you have to put out.” He was gaping at her like a drunken skrewt, as she shut the door behind her and snickered. She never had a camera when she needed one.

A three-minute shower, and muttering her hair drying charm while pulling on her socks, and he still was ready before her. His hair was still wet though, glistening in the sunlight, and she could see that his shirt was damp where it stretched over his broad shoulders. Katie made a mental note to hire someone to kick her until this alarming tendency to moon about like a heroine in a romance novel written by Professor Trelawney subsided.

Where should they go? Someplace Muggle, definitely. Expand his horizons. Marcus wouldn’t have any Muggle money on him, so he’d have no chance but to let her pay. Either that or wash dishes. Just the thought of Marcus doing ‘elf’s work’ made her grin.

”What?” he asked suspiciously.

“How about a pub? There’s a good one within walking distance,” she suggested.

“So, we can walk amongst the villagers spreading largesse? Why don’t we apparate?” he asked, snidely.

“It’s a pretty day. Maybe I just wanted to get to take a stroll with you in the sunshine, enjoying your company.” Katie remarked, softly.

“Really?” he asked, startled.

“No,” Katie grinned. “Not really. Come on!”

~*~

Well, Katie hadn’t known what to expect.

When she’d dragged Marcus into the Disconsolate Grouse, she thought he might refuse to eat in a Muggle pub. She thought he might peer at the menu, suspiciously, or make horrified remarks regarding ‘toad in the hole.’

She hadn’t expected him to shake his head at the small tables in the crowded room. She hadn’t expected him to coolly commandeer the small private dining room, with nary a peep of protest from the management. She hadn’t expected to be sitting all alone with him, unless you counted the paintings of constipated pheasants. She hadn’t expected the Muggles to be so deferential to him, asking if ‘sir required anything’ while scurrying to light the small fireplace.

Bloody annoying it was.

“Problem, Bell?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, grinning at her.

“Why are we here?” she blurted.

“Well, the reason why I have to correct your quaffle grip every third day is becoming clear,” he snickered. “We’re eating dinner. You’re paying. A bit worrisome that you can’t remember that seeing as you reminded me of it a few hundred times on our way over here.”

“Believe me, I remember every second of your insufferable company,” Katie replied, snidely. “I meant, why aren’t we out in the pub with everyone else? Why are we eating in a room usually reserved for the likes of the ‘Urban Polecat Preservation Alliance’?”

“Instead of Muggle central? Quieter in here, don’t you think? Firelight, soft music, birds with apoplexy.” He grinned at her discomfiture. “Much more conducive to…conversation.”

OK. Bantering. She’d wanted him to banter with her. It would be easier to talk here, without having to shout over the noise from other tables or make sure nothing inappropriate to Muggle ears was said. A nice room. Lovely candles.

She stood up abruptly. “Sorry, I hadn’t considered that you might be uncomfortable in a Muggle place. There’s a wizarding pub down the street. Let’s go there. It’s very…well lit.”

“Sit down, Bell,” he snorted. “I’m not afraid of the ickle Muggles. I just didn’t want to spend the evening saying ‘laser pointer’ instead of wand, or whatever else that daft badger Millhouse is recommending these days.” Stanhope Millhouse was the commentator on WWN’s program ‘CaMuggleFlage’, a popular program about how to live undetected amongst the Muggles. He often proudly claimed that he’d never had to memory charm a suspicious Muggle. Katie had no doubt that that was true: Muggles, like other sapient creatures, tended to stay away from the obviously loopy.

Katie sat back down, trying to look nonchalant. “If you’re not uncomfortable then…”

The awkward silence was broken by the waiter, who bustled in to take both of their orders, glancing nervously at Marcus. Katie ordered fish and chips, and Marcus did the same, whether out of preference or simply imitation Katie couldn’t say. The small man bustled out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

They’d just about exhausted the conversational possibilities of the Harpies- assistant coaches were stupid, head coach was stupider, the general manager was rumored to be unable to find his arse with a staff of trained assistants-when the waiter returned with their order. Katie watched with interest as Marcus sampled his fish and chips.

“Pretty good,” he grunted.

“Surprised Muggles can do something well?” Katie inquired archly.

“I’m sure they can do plenty of things well, Bell,” he returned, smirking. “I just wish they’d do them far away from us.”

“So you’re in favor of excluding Muggle-born wizards and witches from the community then?” Katie asked, curious. “Let them wander around accidentally exploding toilets and occasionally floating, and just hope the Muggles decide to write them off as ‘eccentric’?”

“Nah,” Marcus said, between large bites of his dinner. “I think we should take them.”

“Take them where?” Katie asked, puzzled.

“From their parents. At birth,” he replied, calmly.

“What?” He couldn’t mean…

“I know that the spells to detect magical ability aren’t 100% reliable at that age, but they’re pretty good. If we pour some galleons into research, I bet we can refine the spells.” He spoke as if that could be the only possible problem with his plan.

“You want to steal their children?” In the back of her mind, Katie mused that Marcus had done it. He’d found a topic she couldn’t manage to be bright and amusing about.

“We’ve got two basic problems, Bell. First off, the Muggle parents are a huge security risk for our people. Check the Ministry numbers; a large percentage of hostile Muggle-Wizard contacts stem from irate parents who don’t want little Timmy to turn them into frogs. Second off, the wizarding bloodlines are thinning especially in the old pureblood families. They’re not having enough children. Give then children of the first group to the second group, at least those not too thick to recognize a way to save their family name. They can raise them in the old traditions. They can even cover it up if they want. Voila. Problem solved.”

“What about the Muggle parents? Don’t you think they’d object?”

“Memory spells, continually reinforced if necessary. We’ll save more than enough money, a thousand times more, not having to do all this Muggle-born entry into the community crap. We could do round-the-clock surveillance on them if we have to.”

“How are you going to repay them for stealing their children?” Katie asked, aghast. “Give them a cookie? A really big cookie?”

“They can have others,” Marcus said calmly. “They don’t care all that much about them in any case. Look how many turn up missing. Merlin, the Yanks have so many that they put them on their milk cartons. Part of a balanced breakfast,” he snorted.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Why not?” he asked, a little defensively. “What do you think we should do? Wring our hands, go to a lot of meetings and sit around waiting for things to erupt? Make bets on when we finally let it slip to the wrong person, and war breaks out?” His tone became a bit more sneering. “Just as long as you get to say that you didn’t do anything wrong, who cares if there’s a war?”

“No,” Katie said sharply. “I think we should reveal ourselves to the Muggles. Learn how to work with how things actually are, and quit dreaming about some long-lost Camelot where magic ruled. Note how my plan leaves out kidnapping.”

Marcus stared at her for a long moment, aghast, before shaking his head. “Tired of hanging around waiting for a war, Bell? Just want to get it on and over with?”

“Stealing their children will lead to war! If we come out in the open, I’m not saying that there won’t be problems, but they can be dealt with rationally. We won’t have given them a reason to hate us,” Katie said passionately.

“You’re wrong,” Marcus said, flatly. “They will hate us. They will have no choice but to exterminate us. Because…they’ll read about what spells can do, Katie. They’ll see memory modification spells, and Imperius, and restraint spells, and they’ll get what that means, Katie.”

“What does it mean?” Katie asked, coolly.

“You know what it means, Katie. Everyone does, although they pretend they don’t,” Marcus replied, leaning forward, voice slow and deliberate. “Come clean to the Muggles and at first it will be visits to the dragon reserves and trying to talk to bloody fairies, for Salazar’s sake. But sooner or later, slowly I have no doubt, one of them will start to think. They’ll start to think about their wives, or their daughters walking down some alley when a wizard comes up behind…”

Marcus was staring into the fire as his voice trailed off. Katie shivered. His voice had held the resonant quality of someone who’d rehearsed, if not the exact wording, the situation a thousand times in his head.

“There’s rape in the Muggle world too, Marcus,” she told him firmly.

“Memory charms, Bell. Only wizards can do it over and over again, with no one the wiser. Don’t even try to tell me that it doesn’t go on all the time.” Marcus had slouched back in his chair, arms crossed and eyes speculative. Katie felt a little cold.

“I don’t think it happens that often. But if it does, that only makes it more important that we reveal ourselves, teach the women the signs,” she replied earnestly. “At least make them aware it can happen! The Muggles aren’t going to blame all of us. They’ll be able to see how seriously the MLE takes crimes like that.”

Marcus laughed, sardonically. “Yeah, how long was Fergus Whitlock raping Muggles before the MLE caught up with him? Twenty years and then caught only because he raped a Squib by accident. That’ll really set the Muggles’ minds at ease.”

“I know you think the worst of Muggles, but they’re not stupid or crazy. They won’t want war.”

“Worrying every single day that it could happen. Looking at their wives and wondering if it’s already happened. Merlin, wondering if their children are even their own.” Marcus’ voice was soft, Katie noted, but it seemed to reverberate through her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. “No man who was worth anything could live with that. They’ll come after us because they’re not stupid or crazy.”

“If we steal their children, and they find out, it will never be over.” Katie paused. “They’d be convinced we are evil. And they’d be right.”

“So we never let them find out.” Marcus replied coolly.

“How do we do that?” Katie asked incredulously. “You’re talking about stealing many children, every year. Of course they’ll eventually find out!”

“We won’t have to do it every year, Bell. As we take the children with the strongest magic from the Muggle gene pool, there should be fewer and fewer Muggleborn wizards being born. In five or ten years, the wizarding bloodlines will be self-sustaining. After that point, we can choose to take only the children with the strongest wizarding potential, or none at all.”

“So they won’t notice their children disappearing for ten years?”

“We’re talking about a group of people who only occasionally think to wonder what snowy owls are doing flying around Basingstoke, for Pete’s sake,” Marcus scoffed. “I don’t think there will be a problem. Actually, I know there won’t. Their children disappear now. I might point out that wizarding children never just disappear.”

“Yeah, because we have a hundred different types of tracking spells! Veritaserum and memory-enhancing spells as well. Of course we don’t use them to help the Muggles find their missing children,” Katie said, bitterly. Marcus started to say something but Katie continued fiercely. “We’ll go to Muggle doctors for help sometimes, when there is no magical treatment available. We’ve got a whole Ministry office set up to help us with things like that. We’re parasites.”

“What happens when they do find out about us?” Marcus shot back. “Ducking stools, burning pyres, torture. Granted, not always particularly effective but they always give it a good old try.”

“A huge amount of our budget goes to keeping our secret, but that’s just a drop in the bucket. There have to be two solutions to every problem: Muggle and magical. Two separate cures. Two separate discoveries.” Katie broke off, swallowing hard, but Marcus remained silent, staring at her. “Who knows what we could accomplish if we worked together? How many lives could have been saved? How much better everything could be?” Katie fell silent, breathing heavily. She stared down at her hands, letting her hair fall, shielding herself from his gaze. She’d never said all that aloud before. To anyone.

She hadn’t felt him move. She only realized that he had after he’d tucked her hair behind her ear, exposing her face to his view. His hand hovered beside her ear for a second, before he pulled it back. She looked up, a little bashfully. Their eyes met for a second before he looked away.

“A pity your views aren’t more in the public eye, Bell,” he said, tone light but not mocking. “If more of the wizarding world thought that such a thing was truly possible, they’d fall all over themselves backing my plan.” He snorted. “Pity that ineffectual middle-of-the-roaders will always hold more sway than visionaries such as us.”

“My mother was a Muggle-born.”

“What?” Marcus looked at her as if she said her mother was a manticore.

“My mother was a Muggle-born,” Katie restated firmly, taking a deep breath. “My grandparents were muggles.” If he didn’t want to spend time with…coach her any more, so be it. She’d learned enough.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, impatiently. “And?”

Oh.

“If your plan were in effect, my mother would have been stolen! She would never have known my grandparents. She would have been raised by some rich strangers. I would never have known my grandfather! I’d have been raised by some rich blue-bloods to be their little princess.”

Katie didn’t know what she had expected, but it wasn’t Marcus laughing loud and long.

“Gods, Bell. You being a member of one of the old wizarding families. I’d really hate that,” he said, sarcastically.

“What do you mean?” Katie asked. She could feel her righteous fervor start to subside, being replaced by curiosity.

“No way, Bell,” he smirked, shaking his head. “I’m not going to risk upsetting you again. When that happens, I end up spitting teeth, or spell-o-taping my ribs, or conversing with bloody Weasleys.”

Katie snorted. “Do your worst, Flint.”

“Funny, that’s what the lovely Brunhilde said to me last night…Of course, right after she said it she wedged her broomstick between her breasts and wrapped her lips around the end of it, so she might have been talking about something else entirely,” he grinned.

“’Do your worst?’ Maybe she wanted you to smile at her,” Katie said sweetly, watching her tone for any hint of shrillness.

“Let me finish my story,” he chided. “Eyes sparkling up at me, breasts thrust forward, pouty lips around her broomstick…”

“Splinters in her tongue,” Katie broke in. “Sounds painful for you.”

“And then the truth became clear to me…” he continued, blithely.

“If this involves tweezers and your nether regions, I don’t want to know.”

“That with her broom pressed so tightly between her breasts like that, my final hopes were destroyed. For I had been yearning…Alas, she had no sandwiches stashed in her cleavage. So I went home.”

“With the other one?” Katie inquired, eyebrow arched.

“Don’t be daft, Bell,” Marcus snorted. “Did you see how tight her gear was? She had nowhere to conceal even a stick of Droobles, much less something sustaining.”

His eyes didn’t flicker, and he seemed as relaxed as ever. He seemed to be telling the truth. He hadn’t done anything with them. Katie felt a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Well…actually, he could be lying. He was good at it.

At least he cared enough about what she thought to lie about it. That didn’t mean anything, Katie firmly told herself, but the warm feeling didn’t go away.

Although, lying wasn’t exactly a hardship for him. He could simply be doing it for the exercise. To maintain the desired moral flexibility, as it were. It didn’t mean anything.

No matter what her stomach thought.

“So you spent the evening home alone, instead of with the willing and lamentably accessorized?” Katie asked, trying to make the question sound rhetorical. “What would your mates have said?”

“Last night?” Marcus grinned. “Probably something like ‘Take my enchiladas! Just stop hitting me!”

“So you were hungry enough to turn down female companionship and beat your friends?”

“Yes.”

“Why, pray tell, didn’t you take some of those glittering galleons you’re always carrying around and go to a restaurant?”

“Because, Bell,” he said, in a long-suffering tone of voice, “it’s the principle of the thing.”

“The principle,” Katie laughed.

“Absolutely,” he assured her, face solemn but eyes sparkling. “You welched on dinner. Until you made good on your promise, it would stain my honor to have eaten…,” Marcus said seriously, as Katie arched her eyebrow in disbelief, “much.” He grinned widely at Katie’s laughter. “There is a higher law, a moral code, as it were, Bell.”

“A moral code. I see,” Katie said, simply. “What did you say we were working on tomorrow?”

“Stealth chokeholds,” Marcus told her, casually. “Your gouging is coming along nicely I think.” He paused as Katie broke into giggles. “Is there a problem, Bell?” he asked, haughtily.

“Nothing at all,” Katie assured him, blithely. “Before we spun off into the Flint Gospels, you were going to tell me why it would have been better for my mother to have been taken from her parents.”

“Nah, you’ll just get mad.”

“When am I not mad at you, Flint? Spill.”

“No, you’ll get mad. Where you sputter, and then you get quiet. You’ll avoid me, and hence never make the Harpies, and die a lonely bitter old woman. More importantly, I won’t get any breakfast.”

“I won’t do that. I solemnly swear to shout at you until your ears bleed.”

“You promise such sweet things, Bell.”

“Furthermore, I vow to form the Feed A Flint Foundation,” she paused, laughing, “um, forthwith, if I stop speaking to you. Stop being such a flobberworm.”

He leaned back against the booth, arms crossed over his chest, considering her. Katie waited, silently challenging.

“Why would I want your mother to have been raised in a old pureblood family, Bell? It’s not complicated. Katie Bell: debutante. Our families both vacationing in Crete. Knocking a five-year-old you off your broom, thus correcting that half-assed grip of yours in it’s infancy.” His voice became lower, silkier. “You, returning to the table from the loo at some terminally boring dinner party, and running into me in a dark hallway.”

Katie couldn’t breathe. Marcus’ eyes hadn’t left hers, glittering obsidian. She could picture it, lost in a mansion, moving through corridors that all looked identical. Until she turned a corner and Marcus was standing at the end of the hallway, torchlight flickering over his robes. Waiting for her…

Focus, Katie. Baby-snatching.

“I see, you just wanted a chance to argue with me when I had a vocabulary of about twenty words. ‘Meanie Flint! Poop-head boy.’ That would be the only way you could ever win an argument with me.”

He smiled lazily. “Nah, Bell, I’d be content for you to have spent your nose-picking days in isolation, although your Quidditch game would have benefited from my early and constant assistance. But later…midnight at Stonehenge, with the sound of the drums.” His voice became even huskier. “Even better, spending Samhain in the caves, you on my lap with our families a few feet away, while some fat old fool capers around with a candle nattering on about pumpkins and slaughter.”

He’s just playing with you Katie, she thought. “Interesting how all these scenarios are dimly lit. Who gets the esteemed honor of snogging you at noon?”

“During the school day, Bell? Pushed up against the door in McGonagall’s classroom, or my hands moving underneath the potion’s desk, or behind a tree in Magical Creatures?” Katie could feel herself blush.

“Did witches’ average NEWT scores drop for your year? Or did you work out some sort of rotation system so they could at least take notes some of the time?”

“Interesting fact, Bell. Purebloods marry young, so your mother would have ended up having you three to four years earlier. So we’d probably have had lots of classes together. As for your NEWT scores, well…it’s a good thing you’re so clever, isn’t it?”

The blush intensified. Katie’s cheeks burned. “Well, in this little alternative universe of yours, apparently I’m not so clever…seeing as I seem to spend most of my time standing around in the dark.”

“You would, of course, be in Slytherin house,” he continued, ignoring her.

“What?” Katie sputtered. “Are you mad?”

“Purebloods, good families…their children are in Slytherin.” Irritation diminished the seductive lilt of his voice. Katie almost sighed in relief. Lying and annoyed-he was starting to behave more normally.

“The only way I would ever be anywhere near Slytherin house is if I was going to pull a Saint Patrick,” Katie said flatly.

“What? Who?”

“Saint Patrick. Drove the snakes out of Ireland. Muggle religious figure. Suspected wizard. Patron saint of food coloring.”

“Slytherin common room at three AM,” he continued, clearly ignoring her educational and informative history lesson. “Pushing you down on the couch, leaning over you as the firelight flickers behind us.”

His weight over her, orange light bathing his swarthy skin, as he grasped her wrists, immobilizing her. She swallowed hard.

“Again with the dark,” Katie managed to say, mockingly. “What’s next? A rousing game of Lumos tag?”

“You’d be on the Quidditch team, so long, sweaty practic-“

“Hold up,” Katie broke in, incredulous. “Me on the Slytherin Quidditch team? I realize that being raised by purebloods turned me dim, but did it also turn me into a boy?”

“I’m the Captain,” he said, brusque swagger back in his voice. “If I say you’re on the team, you’d be on the team.”

“Well, this is clearly a world apart. Maybe I’d be Captain.”

“Yeah, right, Bell,” he snorted. “Let’s not be farfetched here.”

“Oh, no...” Katie said, faintly. “We wouldn’t want that.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Grueling practices and long hot showers. Slipping back into the change room after the other players have left, surprising you. Watching you give in to me. What part of this did you think I was going to object to?”

Thoughts of green Quidditch robes hitting the floor, the sound of the change room deadbolt sliding into place, and fingers twining roughly in her ponytail flooded her. Dreams indistinguishable from memory. Katie felt cold sweat break out along her neck. It’s just a game, Katie. A skirmish. Remember that.

“So, who would you cut from the team to make room for me?” Katie asked, her voice a little weak. “Higgs or Warrington? Montague would be a lock, right? Warrington doesn’t play enough of a passing game.”

“Warrington would know to keep his eyes to himself,” Marcus said, lowly. “It would be a good squad. Good enough to beat the bloody Gryffs. I’d wait for you by the broom shed as you meandered toward the change room like you always do. Pull you inside…”

“I don’t care if it’s a parallel universe, Harry would still end up catching the snitch,” Katie replied, forcing herself to focus on the Gryffindor line-up, on how things actually were, not some bizarre, irresistible fantasy.

“We’d still win. We’d score so many fucking goals, you and I.” His voice had become even rougher, and she felt as though he was going to touch her. When she glanced down, though, she saw that his hands were on the table, fingers splayed wide, muscles in his forearms taut. “Later, in the broom shed, my hands would slip up underneath your robes as we listened to the rest of Hogwarts stroll past on their way back to the castle.”

Katie remained silent. She wanted to hear how it ended. His version of it, anyway.

“You shaking, whimpering like it was the first time,” he almost whispered. “Maybe it was.”

Lying naked underneath Marcus. The broom shed. Shadowy, with spiders skittering in the corners. The damp and chill air. Fear. His words began to recede.

“Are you done?” she asked, taking a deep breath. “With dinner, that is?”

“Yeah,” he replied, quickly leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I guess.” He looked away.

“OK, I’ll be right back. Could you ask for the cheque? I’ll take care of it as soon as I’m back,” she tossed the last over her shoulder, as she moved quickly toward the loo.

She looked tired, and young, in the mirror; a wide-eyed and pale girl stared back at her. Katie splashed some water in her face, willing the memories and fantasies to dissipate. Slowly, they did. Taking a deep breath, she smiled at her reflection, and then winced at the painful looking grimace. Finally able to school her features into a semblance of sanity, she went back to their table.

Marcus wasn’t there. She found him waiting by the doorway.

“Ready, Bell?”

“Just let me pay,” she muttered.

“I already did.”

”It’ll just take a sec-. What?”

“I paid.”

“No,” she said firmly, grateful to have something to argue about. “No, you couldn’t have.” She lowered her voice. “You don’t have any Muggle money.”

“Huh, and here I thought I did,” he smirked. “Wonder what I paid with then?” He pulled her out of the pub, and into the street.

Katie stopped, abruptly and looked at him. “Alright, how did you know to have Muggle money?” she asked, exasperated.

“I always have Muggle money on me, Bell,” he snorted. “I eat in Muggle places all the time. It’s the only way I can eat without someone wanting to know my favorite kind of seafood, or if I really set Mordeth Murcheson’s nose hair on fire in the last match with Ballycastle, or just wanting to lick my bloody bicep.” He laughed at her stunned expression. “You shouldn’t go around just assuming things about people, Bell.”

Katie felt back on what was always a last resort when dealing with Marcus: an appeal to his honor.

“You said I could pay,” she gritted out.

“And you can,” he assured her, as he backed away from her, moving down the street. “Right after you become a bit more clever. You can try again tomorrow if you like.” He gave her a truly infuriating grin, turned the corner, and was gone.

Bloody prat. Katie laughed.

~*~

Detained Chapter 9 -- Insinuation Part 1

Mon, 08 Jun 2009 04:35:06 GMT

Ow.

Katie had been worried about practicing with Marcus for a lot of reasons. She’d been worried about her psyche, afraid she’d fall back into the trap of pining for things she’d never have. She’d worried that whatever confidence she had would be ripped to shreds. In a totally irritating, little girl lost way that drove her up the wall, she had worried about her heart.

She hadn’t worried about her ribs, though.

She really should have worried about her ribs.

“Again, Bell,” Marcus said brusquely, waiting impatiently by her panting form. “We’ll have to do it again.”

“Until I get it right, huh?” Katie joked weakly, wincing.

“I start counting when you get it right, Bell,” he said coldly. “It only just begins there.”

“Good thing for me you can only count to about seven, then, isn’t it?” Katie smiled brightly, and took to the air again.

She flew around the pitch, alert for any slight sound or movement in the periphery of her vision. There he was, down and to the right. For all his ‘expect attack from anywhere at any time’ bombast, he wouldn’t be Marcus Flint if he approached in such a way that he couldn’t use his elbows.

He swerved, and Katie shot upwards avoiding him. On the first day, she’d paused to revel in her triumph for a second. She was smarter now. To the left, back down to the right, she evaded him again, and then again. A perfect throw and the quaffle sailed through the hoop. Finally.

WHAM.

“Pay attention, Bell,” he barked at her as she was wheezing from the impact. “Just because scoring is such a rarity for you doesn’t mean you should sit there goggling afterwards.”

“Seems like business as usual to me,” she shot back. “You’re a thug and I’m ahead.”

She’d shied away and had caught herself, determinedly moving back towards him before realizing that he wasn’t coming after her. He swerved around her, and had scooped up the quaffle before she could blink. He was halfway down the pitch before she could breathe, and she forgot to exhale when he hurled the quaffle, a powerful throw from only two thirds down the pitch, and it tumbled through the hoop without grazing the sides.

She’d never seen anyone throw that far. Katie doubted she could throw it half that distance. Could all the pros do that? She didn’t remember him being that fast either. She wasn’t that fast.

Well, maybe her mouth was.

But not at the moment, because when he circled back and snarled “Again, Bell,” at her, she merely nodded and reached for the quaffle. He shook his head.

“We’re just running the gauntlet. You won’t need it.”

‘Running the gauntlet.’ Straight from their History of Magic textbooks describing the Muggle practice of making suspected witches and wizards dash between two rows of Muggles armed with sticks - in hopes of tricking them into using magic to defend themselves, so the really creative punishments could begin. At first, Katie had found Marcus’ use of the term for making her fly the length of the pitch while he repeatedly tried to knock her off her broom amusing. Now she was beginning to see the appeal of the ducking stool or being burned at the stake.

Well, no pain, no intriguing scars to make up amusing anecdotes about.

He usually gave her a ten second head start. Maybe she should use it to fly straight up. Steep ascents would probably be harder for him given his large size.

WHAM. OK, maybe not.

She was getting better, she reminded herself, while gritting her teeth at the pain. The first night, she had been able to dodge him maybe twice. Now she could do it two out of three times. His methods worked obviously. She just needed to tough it out. WHAM. Blast.

After three rounds of this, each hit more jarring than the last, Katie had had enough.

“When are we done?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“When I say we are,” he said, bluntly. “Again, Bell.”

“No,” Katie said firmly, shaking her head. “I watched your practices when you were Captain, Flint. You never had people go through the motions. Everything was a lesson, everything had a goal. You kept them thinking.” Her eyes narrowed. “We’ve been doing the same thing for days. You’re not training me. You’re just using me for target practice.” She began to fly away, but he grabbed her arm.

“Make it from one end of the pitch to the other without me hitting you just once, Bell, and we’ll be done, alright?” His voice was casual, but he seemed to be watching her carefully.

She nodded, and her muscles groaned in protest. Too bad. They could shut the hell up.

Her body only complained louder after a few unsuccessful passes, even though he seemed to have eased up a bit. She braced herself for her fourth attempt. OK. She dodged him easily on his first two tries. Getting clumsy there, Flint. He reached out to grab her ankle, but she kicked his arm away – a glancing blow, but effective. He sped under her and came up to block. She avoided him but had to retreat a bit, losing hard-earned ground. Calmly, Katie. She faked him out to the left, he was a bit slow to that side, and went into a sharp descent. With his extra momentum, he needed to slow his broom sooner to avoid colliding with the ground, and she grinned as she pulled away from him. The hoops were just ahead of her…

She’d never know how he managed to catch up to her so quickly. She’d never know how all of a sudden she knew he was behind her. But she swerved to the right, his broom hurtled past, and she reached out to grab the ring. A fierce joy filled her. She had done it.

“We’re done,” she said coolly, as he flew back to her, breathing heavily.

He nodded. “We’re done.”

They didn’t speak as they flew back to where they had stashed their belongings.

“I didn’t know you watched my practices,” he muttered, as he pulled off his Quidditch gloves. He wasn’t looking at her, but Katie turned away to rummage through her knapsack for some water before answering.

”I watched everyone’s practices.” It was true. Not as ardently and secretly as you watched his, her mind whispered. Well. Her mind could join her body and shut it, Katie decided. Her…hair could run the show from now on. “When I could find a seat among the bosomy broom bunnies. That was harder at Davies’ practices than yours though. Then again, Dav-“

“Shut up about Davies, and I’ll buy you dinner.” Surprised, she turned to look at him but he was concentrating on removing his pads, face stern. “Just for those blessed moments of silence while you chew.”

“Hmm….while I understand that your companions probably go for the trollop trifecta - mouth, blouse and legs open - I don’t really think you should have to pay for dinner just for the novelty of a cleavage-free evening,” she replied, tartly. “You’re helping me. I’ll buy.” He had been spending a lot of time helping her, after all. Dinner would be a good opportunity to prove to herself, and to him, that she was over her stupid infatuation.

“You do know that it’s not required that you argue with every single thing I say?” Marcus inquired sourly. “Letting me buy you a curry is not an act of prostitution inside the British Commonwealth.”

“That goes both ways, Flint. Tell you what. You won’t even have to wear the fwooper boa I picked out if you feel that it takes us into a ‘gray area.’”

“I’m the guy, Bell. I pay,” he said, flatly. “Just because your little Gryff boys were too stupid or too cheap or weren’t aware that you were a girl…”

“Just because I don’t have Ang’s cleavage or Ali’s curves doesn’t mean that people can’t tell that I’m a girl.” Oh, good going, Bell. Way to sound indifferent to his opinion.

“Hey,” he reached out and grabbed her arm, dropping it when she glared at him. “I know that you’re a girl. Hence the paying.”

“You’re helping me,” Katie told him flatly. “There isn’t any reason for you to buy me dinner.”

“It’s dinner, Bell. I wasn’t aware I required an action plan.”

“Let’s go to plan B,” Katie said, keeping her voice light. “You go find a witch with a truly startling cup size/chatter ratio to spend your sickles on. I’ll go design a gender identification seminar for Gryff boys. ‘Shoe Shopping or Snot Spells: Observations from the Field.’” She paused for a second, becoming serious. “Thank you for your help, Marcus.”

He looked at her for a moment, stern, unreadable. “You’re welcome.” He shrugged. “I’ll…see you tomorrow then?” he asked casually.

“Absolutely,” she smiled brightly, and made her escape.

~*~

next day

Katie watched Marcus frown at the pastry box, and grinned. He looked conflicted…probably because he was struggling whether to say something derogatory about Muggles, the French, or try to combine them both into a meta-insult. Phyllo from Feckless Frogs? Mademoiselle Mudblood’s Madeleines?

“I’ve heard tell the Muggles call it ‘breakfast’,” Katie informed him. He shot her a dark look, and bit into the turnover he’d been eyeing suspiciously.

“This is pretty good,” he said, surprised, finishing it off in a gigantic bite and reaching for another. Katie grinned. This was starting off well. Marcus was in a good mood, she’d already had chocolate and they were finally going to do something other than evasion drills today. No more crushing blows. Bliss.

“What’s the plan for today?” Katie asked, sunnily.

”Gauntlet,” he said, shortly. He didn’t meet her eyes.

”What?” Katie laughed, sure that he was joking. He didn’t respond. She laughed again, forcibly, just in case he hadn’t yet realized that he had been joking.

“C’mon,” he said, grabbing his broom.

“No, we’re done with impact drills,” Katie said, bewildered. “You said so yesterday. If I could run the Gauntlet, we were finished.”

“And we were finished for that day,” he said, straddling his broom, looking out across the pitch. “Now, we start again.”

“No.”

“Come on, Katie.”

”No. There’s more to Quidditch than getting elbowed in the gut. I’m almost certain.”

“Fine,” he said, finally looking at her. “If you know so much, go ahead. Muck about with your friends. Pick Wood’s great Quidditch mind. Alternatively, hold your ear next to a Haggis and absorb its wisdom,” he said brusquely. “I thought you were serious about this.”

“I am!”

“There might be an easier way, Bell. I think this is important though.”

Clearly, that was all the explanation she was going to get. Did she trust him?

Well, no. Of course not.

She did trust him to know Quidditch though. And in a way she trusted him not to take anything about the game lightly.

“Fine,” she said, flatly, swinging her leg over her broom. “We start again.”

It began again, just like it had on all the other days. Well, with two differences. 1. All the hits she’d taken over the past week were slowing her down. After days of getting better at avoiding him, she was getting worse. 2. He was beginning to hit harder.

There was a third difference. She was beginning to feel a little afraid.

“You OK?” He hovered next to her.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Katie replied coolly. “Let’s continue.” He looked…strange. Katie ran through the known Marcus Flint Emotional Spectrum-rage, fury, bitter amusement, homicidal rage…nope, this was a new one. He almost looked afraid.

This time, Marcus didn’t attack immediately. He flew alongside her for so long that Katie was beginning to wonder if this was some new kind of psychological torture the Falcons were thinking about using. After all, they’d exhausted all the avenues for more plebian physical violence.

He slowed, falling behind her a bit. She began to turn around to ask him what was up, and saw him moving up fast behind her. Too late to do anything about it, unfortunately.

His broom handle speared into her back. Katie felt herself fall forward from the impact, air pushed from her lungs, leaving pain in it’s wake. She struggled to keep her balance long enough to get her broom onto the ground. Gods, it hurt so badly.

She was still wheezing as she heard Marcus land next to her. He said something but she was too busy fighting down her nausea to process it. She turned her head towards him. Repartee was out of the question, but possibly her stomach contents could add something to the conversation.

They stood there for minutes, neither speaking. The pain was still there, but the nausea was subsiding and she could see clearly again. Marcus was staring at her, looking as gray as she felt. He was sweating. Katie moved away from him a bit. If one of them got to vomit on the other, it should be her.

“You OK?” he asked, voice strained.

Was that his point? Showing her she wasn’t tough enough for the big leagues? She drew in a shuddering breath. Surprise, Flint.

“Let’s go again,” Katie said, coldly.

“Kat-“ his words broke off when she glared at him, and he nodded.

Even though the pain still radiated through her, she was flying better than she had been, her anger giving her an edge. He came up fast on her right side, and she got ready to swerve. She dodged him once, but when he moved in fast and hard toward her back, her courage failed her. She couldn’t take another hit like that last one. She pivoted, driving her elbow hard into his face, wincing at the cracking sound. Her broom handle knocked him sideways…and for a second she kept pushing him off his broom.

Horrified, she backed off, reaching out and steadying him. She flew beside him until he was safely on the ground and watched helplessly as he tumbled off his broom, swearing.

He had been helping her. She’d hit him so hard…she just hadn’t wanted to be hit again. She was such a coward. Why hadn’t she just elbowed him enough to knock him away but not hard enough to injure? Why had she kept this going? He had been helping her and she intentionally had tried to hurt him. Now she really did think she was going to throw up. He stared up at her, nose swollen, and blood streaming down his face.

“Fucking finally,” he gritted out.

“Uh…what?” she stammered.

“Only took you six days, Bell,” he wheezed. “Six fucking days to figure out what to do when some asshole comes after you.”

Stunned, she dropped cross-legged to the ground beside him. “This was all some kind of test?”

“It was a lesson, Bell.”

“In what? Using bruising as body art? I’ve got a really good one on my thigh that looks like a purple and green hippogriff. Or Trelawney and Snape dancing the tango. I can’t decide.”

“Oh, you learned a lot, Bell,” Marcus growled, ticking his reasons off on his fingers, one by one. “1. Hits slow you down, 2. Taking a lot of hits makes it harder to score, both because you’re looking around for the next attack and because of loss of confidence. 3. Hits do cumulative damage. Each one you take weakens you a bit. You walk off the pitch a lesser player than you were when you stepped onto it. 4. No one, and I mean, no one can avoid all of them. You need to make people so afraid of you, and you’ll be amazed at how many hits you don’t have to take. 5. There are assholes who’ll hit you just to watch you bleed.” He paused, and looked at her coolly. He spoke his next words slowly and deliberately. “6. After enough of them, you’ll do anything to avoid the next one. Stuff you didn’t even think you were capable of.”

“Couldn’t you have just told me that and saved a lot of effort, and cleansing potions to get my bloodstains out of your robes?”

“Oh, if I said, ‘Hey, Bell, when someone swoops down on you, why don’t you spear them in their stomach, break their nose and knock them off their broom?’ You really expect me to believe you’d have done it?”

Katie flushed. “Well, come on, this was an extreme case. It’s not like you’re supposed to do that whenever someone tries to hit you!”

“Yes, Katie,” he said intently, staring at her. “That is exactly what you’re supposed to do. Gods,” he laughed darkly, “you’re already getting it wrong.”

“Look, I’ve handled rough stuff on the pitch before,” Katie snapped, stung. “Your lovely teammates certainly weren’t angels, and I managed to get through it with only the occasional stint in Azkaban for manslaughter.”

“It’s not like Hogwarts, Katie,” he said softly. “It’s not like club Quidditch. Do you know how many people want to play pro Quidditch? Do you know how short the average career is? They don’t have to worry about getting detention, or kicked out of school. They don’t even care if it makes them look bad. All they care about is staying on the team for as long as possible. Any player that lets themselves get injured or won’t fight back or doesn’t want it bad enough is a player that won’t be taking their roster spot.”

“I’m not a coward, Marcus,” she said angrily, pushing her hair behind her ears. “I’ve never let anyone bully me or my fellow chasers. I’ll stand up for the team.”

“They won’t stand up for you,” Marcus told her calmly. “If opposing players are harassing you, that’s more room on the pitch for your fellow chasers, more scoring chances. If you’re the weak link on the team, not them, they’ll be less likely to get demoted or traded. Beaters spend more time protecting the high-scoring chasers. Let your scoring average drop, and good luck ever getting it back up with a bludger hitting you every three seconds. Your teammates might feel bad, but mostly they’ll just be so fucking grateful that they’re not you.”

She trusted Marcus to know Quidditch. She knew he was telling the truth, and fought back the tears she felt trying to well up. They both sat there silently, gazing out over the pitch.

“Why would it bother you so much to spear someone or knock them off their broom?” He sounded curious, but also like he was casting about for a solution.

What could she say? That she could just envision that one in a thousand chance that an appendix would rupture, that the security team wouldn’t manage to slow someone’s fall? That the impact would twist someone’s head just the wrong way, and they’d never fly again? That there was nothing more horrifying to her?

“It’s…against the rules,” she said weakly.

“No, it’s not,” he scoffed.

“Yes, it actually is,” she said snidely, glad to be on firmer emotional ground again. “I know you’re not really a student of the etiquette of the game, but the rules are what the ref is shouting at you about just before he throws you off the pitch. Again. ‘Flint: Inappropriate Broom Insertion, Flint: Unauthorized Use of Chizpurfles, Flint: Mutilation of Opposing Team’s Mascot.’ Ringing any bells?”

He snickered. “I elbow someone in the face, I get a slap on the wrist. I knock someone off their broom, I’m off the pitch for maybe, maybe, one game. Stooging? I’m fined one one-thousandth of my salary. If they wanted to get this stuff out of the game they could: mandatory expulsions, twenty game suspensions, truly hefty fines. But they don’t. They just want enough punishment to keep the truly expensive injuries down and government attention at bay, enough violence to keep people in the stands, and enough freedom for the players to get a little bit creative. A complex arithmancical equation designed to maximize profits. It works. Except for the Gry-, the poor stupid bastards who actually think the rules are anything but a road map for the most effective ways to cheat.”

“You don’t think this will ever change?” Katie asked, quietly. He looked at her, startled.

“Gods, I hope not,” he said grinning. “It’s fucking brilliant the way it is. All these completely unrelated things: market forces, public relations, and psychology mutating the game. Opposing players and teammates both against you. Jinxes, wind shear, occasional broom going haywire. Velocity, trajectory-an infinite amount of different ways to move at, with an infinite range of speeds. All overlaid with a thin layer of complete and total chaos.” He shook his head, laughing and sounding amazed. “It’s just you and this series of moments, a million decisions you make – all to try to figure out just the right way to slide through this chaos and do what you set out to do.”

Fierce joy was in his voice and eyes, and Katie could feel an answering echo in the way she felt when she was on a broom, or doing something people wouldn’t expect of her, or on the few occasions she’d felt lips moving ov-. She shook herself.

“You’re insane, you know this, right?” she asked, unable to stop herself from grinning back at him.

“Says the girl who filled all of Hogwarts Yule crackers with tiny enchanted replicas of Snape, dancing a merry jig?” Huh. Katie smiled back at him. She hadn’t known that anyone had known about that. His grin widened.

“Let me look at your nose,” Katie said, breaking the silence. She knelt in front of him, bringing her wand up and preparing to do a minor healing spell.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Marcus asked dubiously, eyeing her wand.

“It’ll all be fine,” Katie chided him. “Shut it and let me concentrate.”

“That’s what the guy said who repaired my busted lip when I was six,” Marcus muttered.

“Your lips look fine,” Katie said, looking at him. “Obviously he didn’t screw up too badly.”

”Yeah, but take a look at my teeth.”

“That’s how…” her eyes shot to his teeth and then back to meet his gaze. Maybe he had some weird reaction to healing spells. Thank Merlin he told her before she’d gone ahead…Her gratified musings were interrupted by Marcus hooting with laughter.

“Gullible, Bell.” He smirked.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s not wise to irritate a witch who has a 9 inch wand in such close proximity to so many of your beloved orifices?”

“When I’m around a witch, I’m usually more concerned about my wand,” he mock-leered at her.

“Oh! Nice micro-entendre!” Katie scoffed. She murmured a quick healing spell, and then peered at Marcus’ nose. “Uh…”

“What?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing…you can hardly see it,” Katie reassured him. “Does your flat have a lot of mirrors in it? I’m just curious.” She smiled brightly. “Really! Makes you look distinguished.

He reached for his wand, probably planning on doing a reflection spell. He froze when he heard Katie’s peal of laughter.

“Gullible, Flint.”

~*~

The rest of the day passed quickly and reasonably pleasantly. Precision flying drills-this Katie could do. High speed, tight turns, no one trying to behead you…bliss.

She was ready to call it a day however when Marcus finally called a halt. Her back was still throbbing painfully from the hit she’d taken earlier, and she was sore all over. She surreptiously rubbed her back and winced, before she saw Marcus watching her from the corner of his eye.

“Come here,” Marcus said gruffly.

Puzzled, Katie walked towards him, limping slightly.

“Turn around.”

“Why?” Katie asked, suspiciously. He reached out, grasping her hips and turned her around bodily.

“Step forward a bit.”

“If this has anything to do with the Hokey Pokey, you are in for a world of hurt, Flint.” Katie said firmly.

There was a slight pause. Probably he was debating between asking her what the Hokey Pokey was, asking how she could possibly hurt him, or his all-purpose fallback of asking how she could ramble on like an idiot while her quaffle grip/passing stance/broom positioning was such a disaster.

What she was not prepared for was Flint yanking the back of her shirt up, pulling it loose from her pants. She stepped forward abruptly, pulling her shirt from his grasp.

“What are you doing?” she cried out, spinning around.

“I need to look at your bruise. That was a really nasty hit you took today. We can’t have it slowing you down.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“The muscles start spasming in your back, you’ll probably be off your broom for at least a day.” He stared down at her coolly, eyes flat and arms crossed. “Anything got torn or broken, and you’ll probably be off for a few days unless we treat it immediately. We can’t have you off your broom now, Katie. We can’t even have you be sub-optimal.” He stepped forward, looming over her. She hated it when he did that. “We don’t have enough time for this, Katie.”

Did she want to be a Harpy or not? Hadn’t Marcus shown her that he knew what he was doing over the past week? Stop being such a little girl, she firmly lectured herself. She turned back around, this time holding her shirt up herself, and baring her lower back.

He didn’t touch her, and Katie felt herself start to relax. He was just looking. It wasn’t that big of a deal. He’d seen backs before, she told herself dryly. It wasn’t like all hell would break loose because it was her spinal cord he was looking at. A crunch of gravel behind her puzzled her, until she felt warm breath above the waistband of her sweatpants. He was kneeling.

She’d flown next to him all week; thighs colliding, his arm reaching around hers to try to pull her off her broom, his hand just grazing her ankle as she flew crosswise to him, darting in and stripping the quaffle while leaving just enough room to escape. The proportions of their bodies were as indelibly etched in her psyche as Ang’s and Ali’s birthdays were. She really wished they weren’t. She really wished she wasn’t able to calculate exactly where his gaze was resting or how close her arse was to rubbing against his chest, or exactly how much of her back his hand would cover if he chose to place it there. She would give a lot to be unaware.

Katie tried to tuck her hips under, and slouch a bit. That was better. She could focus on the dull ache in her back, and the increased tension in her thighs. At least until she felt Marcus’ right hand come up and lightly trace the edge of her bruise.

“Gods,” he swore.

“How bad is it?” Katie asked, casually.

“Bad enough,” he said, shortly. They remained silent for a moment, his warm hand resting on her back. “I can’t believe how long you were willing to take those hits, Bell.”

Katie smiled, a warm glow suffusing her with his words. He thought she was tough.

“Bloody stupid,” he muttered. Ah. It figured.

“Are you done?” Katie asked, icily. “If I leave now, I can probably make it to Rent-A-Whiner before they close and get you a pupil more to your liking. Will she require anything other than kneepads and a lollipop?”

Marcus’ short bark of laughter reached her ears at the same time the warm air he exhaled moved over her skin. “That’s cruel, Bell. Going to make me spend my days teaching Quidditch to a bint who giggles and stares longingly at my pelvis every time I say the word ‘broomstick’? I’m afraid I’ll have to insist you stick around.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls…vertebrae.” Katie stepped forward, looking back over her shoulder at Marcus. “What are you doing anyway?”

He reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her abruptly back toward him. Katie stumbled a bit and when she’d regained her footing she was standing even closer to him than before. She would have loved to put some distance between them, but his arm still wrapped about her tightly, holding her in place.

Katie could feel two fingers trace up and down her back, from just under her bra to the waistband of her pants. Without warning, Marcus pressed firmly. Katie yelped in surprise.

“How does that feel?” he asked gruffly.

“It’s a little sore,” Katie admitted. “What are you doing?”

“I’m seeing how bad the injury is, Bell. What the hell did you think I was doing?”

“I don’t know. Playing pat-a-cake? Seems about your speed.” He pressed on a different part of her bruise. “Ow.”

“Sore there as well? How about here?”

”It hurts.”

“What happens when I press here?”

”It hurts.”

“And over here?”

”I am suffused with giddiness and the faint odor of parsnips.”

”What?” Marcus asked, surprised. Katie rolled her eyes.

“It hurts, Flint. That’s what happens when you press on a bruise. Not to discourage your scientific curiosity, but it’s also what’s going to happen the next fifty times you pre-“ A bolt of pain shot through Katie, and her knees would have buckled if Marcus hadn’t been holding her up.

“There, Katie?” She flinched as he probed it again, albeit more carefully.

“Yeah.” She gritted her teeth as he massaged the spot, lightly.

“Some salve will help the swelling,” he said gruffly. “Hold still.”

The icy tingling of the healing salve was a shocking contrast to the heat of Marcus’ fingers, and Katie tensed. Starting from the most tender area, Marcus worked slowly outward until most of her back was covered. His touch was so light that at times Katie could only tell where he was working by the coolness that followed in his wake. She hadn’t realized how much she had been hurting until it stopped. She hadn’t realized he had finished until he cleared his throat.

“Thanks, it’s much better now,” she muttered, cheeks flaming. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” He didn’t release her waist.

“I’ve taken care of the worst damage but the muscles will tighten up if I just leave them,” Marcus replied, in a matter-of-fact voice.

“I’ll just do a relaxer spell when I….oh.” All thoughts of stopping him fled her mind as he began to knead the muscles of her lower back. At first, just the feeling of oxygen flowing back to the areas that had been tight and sore was just too good to give up. Then, as his fingers delved deeper, she realized he was working loose knots that she’d had for years. Her blood seemed to flow easier in her veins and she began to feel a little light-headed.

“Tell me where you need me,” Marcus said huskily. Katie wanted to feel those big hands on her shoulders, but didn’t dare open her mouth for fear of moaning. She bit down on her lower lip hard in an effort to remain silent, but the pain didn’t clear her head.

She didn’t speak but he seemed to know what she wanted anyways. At first, she didn’t even realize she was giving him clues…thought he must be a legilimens and was vaguely flattered that he would bother using it with her. Slowly, she discovered that she was guiding him. He ran his hands over her back, moving on if she tensed and stopping at the places that made her lean into his hands. He could read her signals so easily...Feeling him so focused on her alone made her thighs shake a bit, and she had to fight to steady herself.

Katie slouched a bit, bending her knees just slightly, and he moved his hands upward. Something nagged at her but by the time she realized what it was, his hand had already slid under the back of her bra and was running his fingertips across her back. He would move tantalizingly close to her sides before moving again to the center of her back.

A cool breeze skating across her stomach brought Katie out of her reverie. She realized that he had both his hands on her shoulders, which pulled her shirt up in front, exposing her entire midriff. She hurriedly tugged it back down.

His hands were kneading her shoulders, and it was one of the best things Katie had ever felt. Just the feel of his big hand grasping her muscles, and his strength effortlessly kneading out every single bit of tightness she had. Not the endlessly repeating, gradually loosening massages she’d had before. His hands were so strong that knots just collapsed immediately under the slow, inexorable pressure, her muscles obeying his absolutely. She thought she did moan then.

He stood up, body sliding against hers while his arm pulled her back against him. Too busy trying to remain silent, she was only dimly aware of what was happening until she felt his breath in her ear. She leaned back against him to steady herself.

“How does that feel, Katie?” his voice was low, reverberating down her spine.

It felt…divine. But he knew that. She shook her head, trying to get the fog to dissipate. His voice was confident, and knowing, dark amusement underlying ever word. She’d heard him sound like that before. It’s OK to tell me, Katie. I already know. Is this what you want, Katie?

No. That wasn’t what she wanted any more. That was over.

“I need to go,” she managed to force through her lips.

“You can stay,” he murmured. “You want to stay.”

“Stop it,” she said weakly, pushing at his arm that was wrapped around her waist.

“Stop what?” Still sending chills down her spine. Still so damn amused.

“Stop it!” Katie pushed herself out of his arms, and spun around to face him. She could hear herself breathing.

“Damn, Katie. What?” he snarled at her, pushing his hands through his hair.

“Don’t do that,” Katie said, furious when she heard her voice quiver. Marcus stared at her, looking surprised, frustrated and jaded, in rapid succession.

“Do what?” he asked coolly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You said you wouldn’t do that,” Katie managed to say. “You promised.”

He looked away, and laughed, a little nervously, Katie thought.

“Look, Bell,” he told her, with a shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think you must have misconstrued something. I was just being a good guy. Anything else must have been coming from you, so why you don’t you just calm down.”

Yeah, it was never him. It was just little Katie walking a tightrope, trying to understand and always getting it wrong. Building castles in the air. He was just being kind.

“Flint,” Katie began, taking a deep breath. “Thank you very much for your coaching. I’ve learned a lot, but I think I can take it on my own now. Whatever you thought you might have owed me, for whatever reason, we’re even now.” She was going to tell him good luck, or to take care of himself, but she wanted out of there before she started crying like a little baby.

“What?” Now he looked shocked. “Don’t be ridiculous. You still need me. You’re not ready.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” Katie replied calmly. “Thanks for everything.”

“Bell…nothing happened. It’s over. We move on, preferably to correcting that horrible sidearm throw of yours.”

He had further arguments, but Katie didn’t hear them. She had disapparated.

~*~

"It's so wee!"

Alicia Spinnet's delighted voice echoed off the walls of the small flat. Angelina, far more sedate, rolled her eyes. Katie grinned. The flat was small. The entire thing was about the size of one of Alicia's closets, but it was hers. Well, it would be soon, at any rate.

She loved it.

Crooked bookshelves, floors that creaked, a balcony about the size of a horklump, and cheery yellow walls. She hadn’t even moved her things in yet, and it certainly didn’t look empty. With all her stuff, the flat would be crowded…no, cozy, and just the perfect size for one Katie Bell.

“It’s going to be so great having you in the city proper, Katie!” Ali chirped. “We never get to see you as it is.”

“They must be serious slave drivers at St. Mungo’s,” Ang commented. “You’re never around.”

“Yeah…well, y’know how it goes. For every hour I spend working, I spend another hour listening to people tell me that Dad is A) a genius, B) a great and selfless man working for the greater good of wizardkind, or C) wearing mismatched shoes again.”

It wasn’t a lie, Katie assured herself. She had been working at St. Mungo’s some. Plus, her father had seemed to be having a lot of difficulty with equations like cinnamon dress shoe does not equal chartreuse mukluk recently.

Besides, she wouldn’t be training with Flint any more so why even bring it up? It would be rude to make Ang and Ali waste all that time crafting an essay on “What on Earth Could Bad Boy Marcus Flint Possibly Want From Katie Bell, Our Little Miss: Her Complete and Utter Humiliation or Just Her Lunch Money?” Friends didn’t let friends waste their pontificating on things that were over and done with, after all.

“How many hours are you work-“ Ang began, only to be interrupted by a squeal from Ali.

“What does this do, Katie?” Ali asked. She was staring in wonder at the microwave. Ah, purebloods. Katie shared a grin with Ang, and explained the more important details to Ali.

“Exploding potatoes?” Ali asked, eyes wide. “Can we do that when we help you move in next month?”

“I will lay in a wide variety of root vegetables,” Katie assured her grinning. Leaving Ali to play happily in her kitchen, Katie went over to Ang who was frowning at the door leading out to the balcony.

“What’s wrong?”

“You should have protection spells on this door,” Ang told her seriously. “It’s too easy to get into the apartment this way. Alicia Spinnet, take your head out of the oven. Get some stronger locks as well,” Ang continued. “Might as well cover all the bases.”

“In case someone desperately wants to get their hands on some Harpies posters and a toaster?” Katie asked, laughing.

“You’re a tad over-protective of Katie, Ang,” Ali chided, as she joined them.

“I am not!”

"Oh, you can get out on the roof from here," Alicia crowed, peering out onto the balcony. She gave Ang a sidelong sly glance. "Katie, you could have sex underneath the stars."

"Are you insane?" Ang yelped. "Katie certainly isn't going to be rutting on her roof. That would be very dangerous."

"Yeah," Katie, chimed in. "Besides I could get shingles." Heh.

Alicia stared at her blankly. Well, no surprise, she didn't probably know what either kind of shingles were. Katie thought Ang would have gotten it though, but she was staring at Katie, unsmiling.

"Uh…shingles," Katie explained. "It's a disease…a skin rash."

"I understood the joke," Ang snapped. "Don't have sex on the roof."

“Good thing she’s not over-protective,” Ali snickered quietly, winking at Katie. Thankfully, Ang wasn’t listening.

“You know what you should do?” Ang asked, looking over the flat appraisingly. “Replace the double bed with a single. That would let you move a lot more freely.”

“You know what you should do?” Ali mocked. “Purchase a chastity belt. The extra weight around your hips will drag you down and make the ceiling look taller.”

“She doesn’t have a lot of room here, Ali,” Ang said, annoyed. “Besides you’re the only one who needs enough room to do a handspring in their bed. The rest of us are somewhat less…exuberant.”

“Well…why don’t we go whole hog and get her a coffin to sleep in,” Ali shot back. “That way when she dies from boredom from the milquetoast boys you think she should be with, she’ll be all ready to go to the gravesite. No muss. No fuss.”

“Morbid, Spinnet. See what being a perv does to you, Katie?”

“How do you know Katie’s not a bigger perv than I am?” Ali asked sweetly. “Who knows what tales her bed could tell?”

Katie felt her stomach lurch. Tangled in boring cotton sheets. Half dreaming of warm breath in her ear and hands moving underneath her shirt. Waking to a strange sound only to realize it was her own breathing, before drifting off again.

“Whips, chains, rutabagas…” Alicia continued blithely.

“I can’t hear you,” Ang said, trying not to laugh, hands pressed over her ears.

”You can stay. You want to stay.” Her body leaning back against a wall of solid muscle, like warm stone. Reaching up to twine her arms around his neck and pulling his lips closer to her ear. “You want more then, Bell?” A deep rumbling laugh.

“Katie Bell: Human Pretzel,” Alicia laughed.

“Hysterical deafness is my friend,” Ang said, hands still pressed to the sides of her head.

The pitch awash in sunlight as he pulled her tighter to his body. Sweat beading on her skin in her dark bedroom. “Gods, Katie.” A guttural moan. Her fingers tangling in his hair.

“I hear Katie can train puffskeins to do the most remarkable things.”

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,” Ang sang.

Kicking off the blankets. “Beg me, pretty girl.” Her hand snaking down between her thighs. His hardness pressing against her arse. Euphoric. “So wet for me.” Back arching off her bed, biting back a gasp. “I want you, Katie.”

“Order of Merlin, Second Class, for serving as an erotic inspiration to the wizarding world,” Ali intoned.

“And the little girls, Katie and Ang, ran away from the big scary witch Alicia, and had cocoa with lots of marshmallows. And so did their ponies”

Waking. Not knowing what was real. Memories of him behind her on the pitch. Foggy. Shaking. Wanting her? Probably just a dream.

“Has sexually enslaved several members of the Wizenga-“ Alicia broke off. “Katie, are you OK?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” Katie said weakly. “Why?”

“You don’t look fine,” Ang said bluntly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Katie protested.

“She’s probably nauseous because of your grotesque imagery,” Ang grinned over at Alicia. Alicia didn’t grin back.

”Seriously, Katie, you look upset. What were you thinking about?”

Katie swallowed and pushed the images to the back of her mind, before smiling at her friends. “Nothing that matters.”

~*~

It had been four days. It was starting to move from ‘taking a break to reassess her priorities’ to ‘arse surgically attached to couch.’ She needed to get back on her broom.

Flying drills weren’t a problem. She and Marcus had been over enough of them that she could keep that up. Strength training she could probably handle with some help from Ang; Marcus had already designed a regimen for her. Strategy, insider information, new techniques—those were probably a lost cause, now.

No, she told herself firmly. Not a lost cause. The price was just too high. It was a decision, not some high tragedy.

Scrimmaging however was an absolute necessity. She couldn’t show up at Harpies’ tryouts and expect to wow them with her ability to evade casual bystanders and birds in order to score. She needed actual competition.

There were several clubs and drop-in play at various pitches. She’d figure out a schedule to get to the most demanding ones each day. She should also see if she could rent some pitch time, and get Oliver and Ang together for some critiques. Pitch time was usually fairly hard to get, but Hawthorn Pitch might be available. It’s where she and Marcus had been meeting most days, and he was probably doing most of his training in Diana Bletchley’s bed these days. Or on her trapeze.

Not that it was any of her business what he was doing. It was between him and his playmates, and if he persisted with the trapeze, possibly the Falcons’ chiropractic staff.

Hawthorn it was. Even if there wasn’t open pitch time, she could stick around and help with the Tiny Terrors session, for children eight and under. They were always looking for adult to help corral, er, assist with the kids. Besides with all the expert coaching and broom time she’d had recently, she would probably be quite good.

At knocking the little tykes off their brooms, considering whom her coach had been.

Gathering her broom, wand, and determination, Katie apparated to Hawthorn Pitch. To be more precise, she apparated almost directly on top of someone. The large figure was leaning against a tree, swigging a butterbeer and staring out over the pitch.

Flint.

Detained Chapter 8 -- Reciprocation

Mon, 08 Jun 2009 04:28:43 GMT

May-Hogwarts

Marcus didn’t really like watching Quidditch games any more. At least, not when he cared about the outcome. If it was just two random teams, he could kick back and revel in clever play or horrific injuries to the seekers. But if a bloke let himself get invested, it was a misery. Knowing there was no way to affect the outcome, and yet wanting it so badly-it was a masochist’s game. If he was going to be at the pitch, he wanted his broom in his hand.

Instead, he was sitting on his arse in the stands, about to watch Slytherin lose to the Gryffs. Again.

Gryffindors’ plays would be subtle and inventive, of that he was sure. As for the Slytherin Captain…Malfoy was clever, but Marcus wasn’t completely convinced that Malfoy knew that anyone but he and Potter would be playing today.

His reverie was interrupted by Snape taking the seat next to him. Marcus tensed. He was pretty sure Snape wasn’t just looking for the pleasure of his company. His suspicions were confirmed when Snape muttered a quick Ambigua, making their speech unintelligible to most bystanders.

“I am sure the team appreciates your presence here today, Mr. Flint,” Professor Snape said coolly, only his exceptionally stiff posture betraying his tension.

“Not a big deal,” Marcus replied gruffly. “Seeing as I had business to attend to here this weekend.”

"Ah, yes,” Snape replied, a wintry smile on his lips. “I am glad we had the chance to converse. It was gratifying to learn that there may or may not be events of interest in the coming months. I also appreciated the information that potion smuggling occurred ‘somewhere on the west coast of England’ last week.”

“I’m sorry if you feel that I wasted your time,” Marcus said stiffly.

“Not at all. It is restful to occasionally be reassured that the Earth continues to spin on its axis,” Snape said, smoothly. Very fucking droll, Professor. Snape couldn’t be bothered to actually tell Marcus what he needed to know during their meeting. He didn’t engage Marcus is conversation during the excruciating and mainly silent meal in the Great Hall. He hadn’t done much more than cock an amused eyebrow whenever Marcus had shown up unannounced at Hogwarts in the last few months. Why in Merlin’s name was Snape bothering him now?

It was stupid to keep showing up here. Marcus knew that. He’d even known that a month ago when he’d set up a meeting with McGonagall on the pretext of making a donation to Hogwarts. That had been excruciating. After tossing out a sum, he’d managed to work the conversation around until he could ask what she knew about pseudonunduvirus. Snape would have been able to follow the hint to its rational conclusion almost instantly: If they wanted the cash, they needed to arrange for Marcus to be alone in a room with Katie Bell for a bit. With McGonagall, he had had to make it embarrassingly obvious.

After much painful prodding, McGonagall had thought to mention that the daughter of a leading researcher in that same disease was attending Hogwarts at the present time. Marcus might remember Katie Bell, she had said, seeing as she was a Quidditch player. Katie might be able to answer a few of his questions…or maybe set up a conversation with her father. It was really surprising how small the wizarding world actually was.

Eventually, Katie stood before him, clear eyed and ethereal in the torchlight. He had to go to Africa on business, he had told her, and was worried about possibly contracting the disease. Fully aware that he sounded like a complete and utter ass, he'd told her he would be delighted to offer her a job for the summer, seeing as she probably knew more about it than most mediwizards—all she would need to do was come to Africa with him as an advisor. She’d coolly advised him that all he would need to do was refrain from eating fwooper brains. When he’d protested that he needed expert help to make sure he didn’t inadvertently indulge, she’d told him that ‘advisors’ would be provided for him, free of charge, once he got to Africa. They were called waiters. She’d waive her consultancy fee, she said dispassionately, as she turned to leave. He had stepped into her path but the look she shot him was so icy that he’d immediately moved aside. At least now, he reflected, he didn’t have to come up with a reason to go to Africa.

“There are times when the most dull-witted thing one can do is to endeavor to be clever.”

Marcus jumped. Merlin. He had forgotten Snape was even there, and that was stupid.

“Professor?”

“Just ruminating over your earlier questions, Mr. Flint. On potential side effects and dangers of memory and behaviour modification spells.” Marcus forced himself to remain silent. “I wanted to stress that it is not wise to rely on possibilities when you are attacking someone. Certain spells in conjunction with certain potions can lead to fatal side effects as you aware. However, responses vary among wizards. Subtlety can and should be employed before and afterwards, but the method…the method should be simple and direct.”

Did Snape think he would try to off someone like that? ‘Excuse me sir, please drink this puffapod juice laced with hippogriff feathers while I cast a sleep spell on you. Still feeling OK? Hmmm, on to Tantellagra then, but if you could first step into this suit of armor. Still breathing?’ Merlin. It was a good thing that people underestimated him, Marcus thought, but he’d prefer they would stop short of thinking he was dumber than Hagrid.

Snape was silent, apparently awaiting Marcus’ acquiescence. How would that go? ‘Professor, you are correct. In the future, I will do all my killing in a forthright manner.’ Maybe this wasn’t all bad, though. With Snape misreading Marcus’ intent so badly, maybe he’d slip up and actually tell Marcus something he wanted to know.

“I understand your point, Professor, but there are special considerations in this case. Many attempts might be required,” Marcus mused thoughtfully. “Memory-modifications might be necessary, or a rudimentary submission spell, like Acquiestus. Nothing powerful. Nothing that could cause any potential detectable side effects, which might tip off the target.” Marcus looked expectantly at Snape.

“The side effects of Obliviate, Amnesius, or Acquiestus, when cast correctly, are generally considered to become apparent only after repeated use over a long duration,” Snape said coolly. “I understand you wish this to cause as few ripples as possible. However, I might remind you that a direct approach quickly and effectively removes the primary witness of your action. In this current climate, I feel that people would not investigate too closely.”

Marcus firmly resolved not to accept a cup of tea from Snape the next time they met.

“Are there ever side effects to the spells I’ve mentioned?” Marcus asked intently. “Is any type of diminished capacity possible?”

“I have already assured you that it would be highly unlikely, Mr. Flint.”

“But possible?”

“Is the target really of such value? Typically one does not cast these spells to improve the recipient’s health, Mr. Flint,” Snape replied, eyes narrowed. “However, I know of no verified incidences of such a thing happening.”

“Would you say it was theoretically possible, though?” Marcus asked, kicking himself as he did it. He’d probably sunk below Hagrid in Snape’s estimation at this point. There really wasn’t a reason to sink to Trelawney’s level.

“You want a categorical assurance that a certain stimulus can never lead to a certain outcome? I think you know that any such statement would be a fallacy, Mr. Flint,” Snape said softly, eyes glittering with amusement. “I have been asked to give such assurances before, of course, but they are usually accompanied by requests for some ice cream or a ‘teddy’.”

Fine. He’d had that one coming. Hopefully, Snape would now use that sharp tongue to either lick Dumbledore’s boots or scold some Slytherins for not being sufficiently supercilious. Anything, just so he took his aspersions and insinuations elsewhere. Marcus wanted to concentrate on the match. He was a spectator. He was allowed to watch her.

If she could forget her little soliloquy…if he could get her to stop fighting him for just a second...She wouldn’t know that he’d done anything to her. According to Snape, there was no reason to expect any ill effects. She’d be fine. She’d actually be better. He would make her happy.

Marcus carefully kept his eyes trained on the Slytherin players as they entered the pitch, Malfoy in the lead. He was so focused on not watching the Gryffindors, that he didn’t even hear Snape clear his throat the first two times. Marcus glanced over. Snape looked as tense and unpleasant as always, but the expression on his face was oddly wistful.

“Will we win today?” Snape asked, quietly.

“No.”

“Ah.” Snape paused for a long moment. “Even if defeat is likely, it is not certain.” His voice was calm, but his gaze hadn’t left the Gryffindor stands.

True. Victory was possible. Just as it was possible that Voldemort would shack up with Galloway. It just wasn’t likely.

“Gryffindor has better strategy, better chasers, and Potter. We have better beaters and marginally better brooms. It’s over.” Marcus told him flatly. “Malfoy needed to come up with some creative nastiness in order to win, and he didn’t bother.” He did stop short of asking Snape if he needed his teddy. Not that he expected much gratitude for it.

Snape stared out across the field, before nodding sharply. “Next year, then.”

Maybe next year. One fucking hoped.

The Slytherin team was taking the field. The nearby students stood, cheering fiercely. Malfoy was striding out first, looking imperious, ickle teammates trailing behind him. Bloody idiot didn’t even realize that he’d lost this game months ago.

Hooch called out for the Captains to shake hands, and Marcus finally allowed his gaze to drift toward the Gryffs. A thin, spiky-haired kid moved forward to shake Malfoy’s hand. Marcus’ heart stopped beating for a moment. Potter? Was Katie hurt? His heartbeat came back, fast and uneven, as he wildly searched for her. There she was, blonde braid hanging down her back, talking quietly to the Weasley girl. It was OK. She was OK. Marcus slowly exhaled.

She was OK. She just wasn’t Captain.

Why in Merlin’s name wasn’t she Captain?

“Potter’s Captain?” he hissed to Snape. Snape appraised him coolly, eyebrow arched.

“Surely this cannot surprise you, Mr. Flint,” he murmured sardonically. “Nothing must be denied to the Boy Who Lived. Such heroism, cunning and wisdom is very rarely shown in infants, after all. He must be celebrated.”

“Bell should be Captain,” Marcus muttered. Snape shrugged.

”How Gryffindor House chooses to conduct its affairs is none of my concern,” Snape said, icily. “Nor, I think, of yours.”

The hell it wasn’t.

*~*

Marcus strode down toward the Gryffindor locker room, fuming. What a lousy game. Watching two yobs chase after a little golden ball with attention deficit disorder, while everyone watched them in breathless admiration made his gorge rise. They could have replaced the quaffle with a puffskein for all it mattered.

Katie had flown…demurely. She’d always had that skill-the ability to be in front of the hoops with the quaffle and no one having any idea how she’d gotten there, but it seemed mechanical now. Only at the end of the game, with Potter and Malfoy diving for the snitch, had she broken loose and executed a perfect Poynter swerve. Almost like she knew no one was watching her. He had been, though.

Marcus positioned himself alongside the shed, where he could see anyone who left without them seeing him. Katie had been the first to leave the celebrating, striding off to the showers after a few perfunctory hugs. He wouldn’t have to wait long. Hopefully, she’d be alone. Actually, Marcus reflected, he didn’t much care either way. Any of her little teammates would scamper off after a few harsh words. They were brave, not stupid.

Nah, they were stupid too. Katie would send them on their way though. She didn’t like to see people get hurt.

High-pitched giggling erupted from the change room. The other chasers no doubt. Actually, no, it was those scrawny beaters. Merlin. Potter and his pet Weasley came next, jostling each other and laughing, looking about twelve. Katie’s fellow chasers came out next. Excellent, Katie and he would have some privacy when he explained things to her. The red-headed chaser, who Marcus knew absolutely nothing about other than that she was his favorite Weasley, turned back and pulled open the door to the change room.

“Katie, come on! It’ll be fun. You always like it when Ron lets Pig drink butterbeer,” the Weasley chit wheedled. “Remember last time when he tried to play tag with Ron’s chessmen? Besides, Gred and Forge sent me some of their new prototypes. I need a co-conspirator.”

What a complete and utter cow.

Apparently Katie sent her on her way, because she turned and moved away towards the castle. Marcus moved around to enter the change rooms as soon as the Weasley bint had gotten a few feet away. He pushed open the door, and strode in.

Katie was sitting on a bench, elbows on knees, and staring at the floor. Her pads were off, but she looked tired and disheveled. Blond wisps of hair were coming loose from her thick blonde braid, and Marcus had to force himself not to grasp it and use it to pull her to him. His fingers itched to untangle it.

Not now. This was important.

“Katie.” His voice, louder than he’d intended it to be, grated. She looked up at him, startled. For a second, he thought she looked, if not happier, more alive. A second later, and her expression was shuttered again.

“Flint,” she said, flatly. She returned her gaze to the floor. Marcus sat on the bench across from her, leaning towards her.

“Why aren’t you Captain?” he asked bluntly. That had gotten her attention. Her startled blue eyes met his own, and held.

“What?” she asked incredulously. “You want to chat about Quidditch?”

“Save it, Katie,” he ordered. “Why aren’t you Captain?”

“Unfortunate incident involving Filch, firewhiskey and a feather boa,” she replied, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

“Cute, Bell,” he replied, shortly. “Answer the question.”

“It conflicted with my new job as public health consultant. Next Friday, I’m lecturing in Belgium. I can now say ‘Don’t eat fwooper brains’ in seventeen languages.”

Hilarious. He was trying to help her and she was using him for fucking target practice.

“When are you planning on growing up and answering a simple question?” he snarled.

“I think I like it better when you send the owl,” Katie sniped. “It’s quieter, for one. Plus it forgoes all the sophisticated psychological torture and goes straight to the hair pulling.”

“Why are you all of a sudden second-best to Potter?”

“Why would you care?” she retorted acidly. “Better yet, who the hell do you think you are? How do you think anything I do or am is remotely your business? Where do you get off? And finally, when are you going to quit playing your sick little game and leave me the hell alone?” Katie looked at him for a long moment, eyes snapping with anger.

“This isn’t a game,” he told her, harshly. Getting himself under control, he continued in a low voice, eyes fixed on hers. “Forget that day in the dungeons. It doesn’t matter. This is important.”

“Ah,” Katie said, softly. The anger faded from her eyes, leaving them cold. “So we’re dealing in the important issues now?” She stood up, brushing past him on the way to her locker. He stood and moved to stand behind her.

“Katie.” She continued to rearrange the contents of her locker. He was about to turn her bodily around when she spoke.

“Go ahead, Flint. If it’s so important to you.” Her voice clearly suggested that it was nothing to her.

“Why aren’t you Captain?” he repeated, firmly, fighting off the sick feeling in his stomach. She wasn’t listening to him. Eventually, he’d have to use his wand.

“I wasn’t chosen,” she said, quietly. “McGonagall picked Harry.”

So Katie had remained in the background for years…cheerful, hard-working support for Wood and Johnson. Then when it was finally her turn, she’s shunted aside just so The-Boy-Who-Regrettably-Lived can have more glory heaped on him? That bitch, McGonagall…the tabbycat really needed to have a meaningful learning experience with Hagrid’s three-headed dog. Maybe something could be arranged.

“You should be Captain,” Marcus growled. “You’re the only seventh year. McGonagall always picks by seniority.”

“She asked me if I wouldn’t mind stepping aside,” Katie said quietly. “It was my decision.”

Gods, no.

“Why in Hades did you agree to that?” Marcus snarled. “Teams look at that, Katie. I told you that Captaincy counted.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t turn around. Her voice reverberated slightly as it echoed off the hard metal of her locker.

“Do you know who is on the team this year? Harry Potter. Harry Potter’s best friend. The girl who has had a crush on Harry Potter since she was five, two brothers who worship Harry Potter, and the girl who went to the Yule Ball with Harry Potter,” Katie said shortly. “It was probably better for the team that I step aside.”

“Better for the team?” Marcus asked, with a short bark of laughter. “How so? Because they won’t have to learn anything more complex than ‘throw quaffle’, ‘hit bludger’ or ‘block quaffle’? Because they won’t have to face the unpleasant pressure of having any effect on the game?” Katie spun around, cheeks flushed.

“Spare me your Quidditch evangelism, Flint,” she sneered.

“Spare me your attempts to disguise cowardice as selflessness,” he shot back, stepping closer to her. “You know you would have been a great Captain, yet you let them take that away from you. Without a fight even. Katie.” He wanted to shake her.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t understand,” she muttered, looking down. “Other people’s feelings or desires never matter much to you.”

“I don’t let them use me at their convenience, no,” he lectured. “I’m not weak enough to let them tell me what I want.” Her head jerked up and stormy blue eyes met his own.

“I get it,” she flared. “You’re so tough that no one could possibly have taken the Captaincy away from you.”

No, she didn’t get it. She didn’t understand who was on her side.

“If I’d been around, Bell, they couldn’t have taken it from you either.” For a second, he thought he’d gotten through. She bit her lip, and gave him that wide, innocent, surprised look-the one he hadn’t earned in quite a while. He waited for her to say something, but the resignation was back in her eyes a few seconds later. He exhaled in frustration.

“Flint, this has been scintillating, but I’ve got to take a shower. If you have other thoughts for me, why don’t you write me a letter like last time? Then you can say your piece and I can crumple it up and throw it away, unread, again. We’ll both be happy. It will save such wear and tear on our vocal cords.” He froze.

“What did you do?” he shouted.

“Just then?” she asked. “I mocked you. Hardly unprecedented.”

“You threw away my letter?” He couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah.” At his angry scowl, her smile faded. “I won’t do that again, though,” she said seriously.

“Alright,” he said suspiciously.

“I’m planning on taking up origami.” She snickered. He grabbed her shoulders in a fierce grip, silencing her.

“You’re not a lock to make a team, Katie,” he said, slowly and clearly. “The letter had scouting reports in it. You needed that information. You needed the Captaincy. You might have just thrown away your future, being a child.” He sounded cold and angry, even to his own ears. Good. Scare her a bit.

“Marcus Flint, careers counselor?” she sassed back.

“Stop running your mouth!” he roared. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“Oh, no, I got it,” she hissed. “Marcus Flint disapproves. Hardly news. It’s the footnote to my life.”

“I don’t get you, Bell. Why can’t you listen to me? Why couldn’t you just say no to McGonagall?” He shook his head. “You’ve never had any problem standing up to me.”

“You inspire me,” she snapped.

“That goes both ways.” The words were out before he could stop them, before he could even tell if it was anger or hope that prompted him. He stood, towering over her, staring down. She looked up, hands clenched into fists. Both of them were breathing heavily.

“Katie?” A voice called out. “Ginny and Hermione sent me to come get you. Please come so they’ll quit nagging at me.” Ron Weasley said plaintively, as he shoved the door open. He stopped in shock, looking at Katie and Marcus, so surprised that he didn’t even notice the door swinging back to hit him. “Ow.”

This one might be dumber than Charlie. Remarkable.

And hell-bent on proving it, apparently. Weasley darted across the room quickly, shoving Katie behind him and tearing her from Marcus’ grip.

“Stop bothering Katie, Flint,” he said, in firm tones. He looked uncertain for a second, and risked a glance over his shoulder at Katie. “He, uh, is bothering you, right?” Katie laughed, helplessly. Marcus was unamused.

“Step between us ever again, Weasley,” Marcus growled, “and I’ll shove my wand up your nose, spin it around, and use it to pull your brains out through the other nostril.” Ron paled, but stayed where he was.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Ron replied. His voice was a little shaky but his gaze was steady.

“You should be,” Marcus snarled.

“Yes, you really should be, Ron,” Katie snorted. “Especially since to make good on his threat, Mr. Flint will have to revoke the laws of physics. I’d really love to see him fit a 14-inch-wand into anyone’s skull, and then there would be huge problems with maneuverability.” She paused before continuing, a bitter edge in her voice. ”Unless, of course, space and time are now doing your bidding, along with the rest of us.”

Part of Marcus wanted to laugh at the confused expression on the Weasley’s face, as the prat tried to parse together what Katie had said. Part of him wanted to throttle her for always making things so damn difficult. Part of him wanted to grab her and hold her tight, long enough so that all her memories of things he’d said and not said would fade next to the feeling of his arms around her.

He opened his mouth to snarl at Weasley again, but then shut it. No, that wasn’t how this needed to go.

“Get him out of here, Katie,” he said lowly, staring at her, ignoring the red-headed wanker completely. “C’mon.”

She gazed at him silently, jaw tight and chin up.

“Ron, go ahead and go back to the castle.” Her eyes didn’t leave Marcus. “I’m fine.”

“But…I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Ron said, visibly deflating. The valiant knight didn’t like being told to run along and play. Too bad. The red-headed dolt brightened after a second, clearly struck by inspiration. “He’s a Slytherin.”

“Thank you for trying to help, Ron,” Katie said calmly. “Please go back to the castle.”

“An especially Slytherinish Slytherin, too,” Ron continued, firmly. “And big. I’m staying. You don’t want to be alone with this guy.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” snapped Katie. Huh. Marcus had never heard Katie talk to anyone like that. Well, anyone but himself. If he was surprised though, Sir Ron was shocked. His jaw had dropped open as he stared at Katie, before flushing and quickly nodding. The prat was afraid of Katie? Must be brighter than he looked.

Not very bright, though, because halfway to the door he turned around. “He’s uh, Marcus Flint, y’know,” he volunteered helpfully. At Katie’s glare, Ron spun around and finally made his long-anticipated exit. Probably scurrying off to fucking joust.

Marcus stepped closer to Katie again. She didn’t back away.

“I’ll get you other copies of those scouting reports,” he said, firmly. As soon as she agreed, took an interest in her own fucking life, they could move on to other things. She’d sent Weasley away. She was still here.

“Don’t bother. I won’t read them.” What? Marcus could feel his anger rising. She couldn’t possibly be that stupid or that stubborn. Katie Bell wanted to be a Quidditch player. That was what she had always wanted. To screw up her chances just cause she was mad at him? Just because he couldn’t spew out treacly tidings of adoration on demand? There wasn’t even a word for stubbornness that monumentally stupid. No, he corrected himself angrily. There was. It was ‘Gryffindor.’

“Why not?” he snarled. “You’ll turn down valuable information just because of some personal stuff? It’s free, Katie. Take it.” He took a deep breath, willing the anger to calm to just a simmering nastiness. She was looking at him, but her eyes weren’t on him like they usually were. He needed to wake her up. “This is insanity. No, actually it isn’t. It’s a tantrum.”

“It’s not,” Katie said, almost absently.

“Not a tantrum? Cause it loo-“

“Not free,” she said, quietly. He just stared at her. What was she getting at now? “Everything is always a trade, you said so, but you never let me know the cost up front. What am I going to owe you for this? Or are you paying off some debt you incurred? I never know.”

He swallowed hard. That wasn’t true. That wasn’t fair. He didn’t want anything from her. Well, alright, it would be nice if she wouldn’t look right through him, for one. It would be just marvelous if she didn’t twist every situation so he was the bad guy. Fucking delightful if she didn’t act like he was trying to turn her into a whore.

“Price? I don’t know,” he sneered, looming over her. “Maybe a hand job, huh? For sex, I’ll throw in a new broom. That sound fair? To get you to suck my… You know what, Bell? Forget it.”

He hadn’t been going to do that any more. After her words that day, he’d decided to keep sex out of their battles, not let anything get crude with her. He hated it when she was aloof, though, acting like he wasn’t worth her time. And he loved that little shocked gasp she always gave him, right before her eyes narrowed and she charged in.

“Five months ago, fucking me was worth ‘anything’ to you,” she said, acidly. “Now it’s worth a broom? I have depreciated. Clearly not a long-term investment, hmm?”

“I’ll put my original offer back on the table, if you agree not to talk while we fuck.”

“I could not let you do that in good conscience,” Katie cooed back. “I’m clearly over-valued. I’m sure you could have Morag MacDougal just by using many adverbs to tell her how clever she is.” His heart jumped a little. She was sparring with him.

“Careful, Katie,” he smirked. “That almost sounded like jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous of her,” Katie said calmly, looking straight at him. “She doesn’t have anything that I want.”

Marcus froze. She couldn’t really believe that Morag was anything to him but an irritant. She really thought he had a bit on the side? He wouldn’t do that to her.

“Katie…”

“So, I’d hold off on your offers, if I were you,” Katie told him coolly. “According to you, I won’t be playing pro Quidditch. I’d wait until right after I’ve been rejected by every team in Britain; I should be at a real low point then. You might not have to offer me anything. Just the fact that you would bother to notice a non-entity like me would probably be enough to get me to spread my thighs.”

No.

“Stop it,” he muttered.

“Stop what?” she asked, with counterfeit innocence. “Oh! I neglected to factor in the cardiovascular benefits.” She paused, and considered thoughtfully. “Maybe I should be paying you.”

“Stop being like this.” He had to force the words through his throat.

“Like what?” she asked, in a sugary-sweet voice. She gazed at him for a moment, wide-eyed, before the mask dropped and her face and voice hardened. “Don’t be crude? Cynical? Accurate? What exactly don’t you like about how I’m behaving, Marcus?”

“Just don’t…” he struggled for the words, and failed.

“Ah,” she said, smiling bitterly. “I forgot. You don’t like anything about me, do you?” She pushed past him, walking over to her locker. Purposefully keeping her back to him, she began to clean it out.

Katie wasn’t like this. This wasn’t her.

She was never going to listen to him. He slowly drew his wand.

“I just can’t understand why you even waste any time on little old me,” she continued in a bright, brittle voice. “I’m poor. You’re rich. I’m a nobody. You’re famous. I’m weak. You’re strong. I only dream of being a Harpy. You’ve slept with their entire roster…”

Just a simple spell and he’d have her back. At least, back to where she was before. Clear-eyed, mouthy and irrepressible. Pure. A memory spell would be best for that; just like a time-turner. He’d do it better this time. This time he’d know.

“I’m swooning just thinking about your manly magnetism,” Katie drawled, oblivious. “It seems a shame that a paragon of virility like you has to bother asking women at all. Maybe you could start requesting written testimonials from your shags; that way, you could probably stream-line your courtship ritual down to pointing, and the occasional grunt. Let me write you one: ‘I fell hard for Marcus Flint the very first time he shoved me off my broom. Gazing up at him, silhouetted against the sky like an angel, I knew my life, and my ribs, would never be the same. Through the coming years, Marcus was a patient and kind teacher-gently correcting my faults, and rewarding me generously on occasion. These rewards were not crass things such as spoken compliments, but rather the bounteous giving of his physical being. As I grew older, I marveled at his willingness to share these gifts so generously …blessing all women, rather than jealously hoarding his talents for me alone. How lucky I am to know him!’”

Do it, he berated himself. In a minute, she’d turn around and that would only make it harder. Snape said it wouldn’t hurt her. He lifted his wand.

“’Do not think that I alone am in awe of him!’” Katie continued, dark amusement in her tone. “The village women say that his touch, as with the ancient kings of old, can cure the scrofula.”

Marcus laughed, and wanted to scream. How could he know that his spell wouldn’t slow her down-mind a little less sharp, taking a half-second more to come up with her next retort? There were no other minds like Katie’s, no way to be assured that he wouldn’t damage her.

He dropped his wand.

Katie finally finished shoving things into her bag, and turned around. She looked at him for a long moment, before averting her gaze and striding toward the dressing room door.

“Katie…” It was the only word in his head. She didn’t turn around.

“Don’t worry about it,” Katie said calmly. “This morning, it was probably an hour and half before you even crossed my mind. Trelawney should have given me better grades in divination, because I think I can see the future. Next month, I’ll be able to hear your name without wanting to throw up. Six months from now, I’ll be able to read Quidditch Weekly without worrying about seeing a picture of you. Sometime, in the next few years, I’ll look over at some guy and I won’t immediately compare him to you. I’ll be free and you have always been. There’s nothing left to say.”

He could hear the door close behind her.

Maybe the one who needed Obliviating was him.

~*~

Everything was beautiful as long as you stood far enough away from it.

Marcus stood in front of the large picture window in his flat, looking out over London at night. Amongst the muggle churches and office buildings, he could pick out some wizarding landmarks. St. Mungo’s…Gringott’s…the Daily Prophet’s headquarters. From up here, there seemed to be a pattern to the world. It could fool you into believing that life wasn’t chaos overlaid with natural selection.

Few things were worth what they cost. This view was one of them. Quidditch was the other. Everything else remained open to question.

There were people who said honor was worth any price, he knew. The same with love. Interesting thing, though. People who said stuff like that were never the people who could afford flats like this. Maybe that was the difference. Maybe all those vaunted virtues were the coinage of the non-wealthy. People traded what they had. If not galleons, then emotions.

He could just hear Katie telling him that while many people thought about things like honor, compassion and purity, Marcus was the only one who would try to calculate their market value. Love wouldn’t come up though. It wasn’t the kind of thing they dealt in.

He had wanted to watch her as she looked out this window. She’d probably never been this high up. Let her see the rest of the world looking small and insignificant for a change.

He had wanted to fuck her there. Her naked back pressed against the glass, legs twined tightly around his hips. Sweat glistening on her pale skin, dimly lit by the lights of London behind her. He could almost hear her low voice begging him, panting heavily in his ear, as she dropped her head onto his shoulder in exhaustion. Whole sentences at first, then only words…his name, a soft ‘please’, oaths…morphing into gasps and moans, as he drove faster and harder into her.

Gods. He had done it again. Unconsciously shifting his firewhiskey into his left hand, so his right could fumble with his belt and zipper. Hand stroking over his cock while his thoughts were elsewhere. Since when did he have so little control? His body needed to do what his brain told it to. His brain needed to do as he willed. The Falcons, his family…now wasn’t the time for his discipline to go on fucking holiday.

Cursing, he re-zipped his pants.

He moved through his darkened flat, back towards his bedroom. He’d broken long-standing rules and brought a groupie here last week. Fucked her hard in his bed, trying to exorcise thoughts of Katie. Only Katie Bell could haunt somewhere she’d never been.

He angrily shoved his bedroom door open. The Flint Industries annual report was still on the floor, where he had thrown it in disgust last night. He grabbed it. If he had time to stand around mooning like an idiot, he had time to try to figure out where all the money came from. He sat down on the bed, flipping through the report while unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

Amalgamation. Consolidation. Amortization. Fuck. The thing read like it was underwritten by the ‘Society for Promotion of Syllables’. Sighing in frustration, he absentmindedly undid a few more buttons while trying to figure out what ‘actuarial arithmancy’ was. Concentrate, Marcus. How hard could it be? Antony managed to understand it. Marcus had understood it when he was six, for Salazar’s sake; he could remember Granddad explaining it, using the salt shaker as a holding company, the soup spoon as a hostile takeover, and some parsley as hired muscle to deal with recalcitrant associates. That had all seemed crystal clear.

Shrugging his shirt off his shoulders, he tossed it on the floor. ‘Incidental expenses?’ Why didn’t they write ‘firewhiskey and porn’, and be done with it? Marcus kicked off his shoes as he tried to decipher a page that appeared to be 83% acronyms. Was he smarter when he was six? Blast. This stuff was supposed to be in his blood, just like curse-breaking was in Higgs’ or being a sadistic killer was in Malfoys’, he mused, while unzipping his trousers. Bell probably could identify all sorts of horrifying rashes when she was four. Bell.

Concentrate, Flint. He had to learn at least one thing before he allowed his mind to drift off.

‘Business Partnerships.’ Sliding his pants down his legs, he quickly read over the list of alliances. Connections to almost every pureblood family seemed to appear on it somewhere. Katie would say something about how even their money was inbred.

He hurriedly shoved his boxers down, stepping out of them as he continued to read. Alright, some of Flint Industries money was being overseen by MagiSupply Inc., owned by the Parkinsons. Marcus had learned where 1.2% of the money was: Brutus had it. He was done.

Tossing the report on the floor, he climbed into bed. Even as he squirted some lotion into his palm, he berated himself. He needed to stop doing this. He needed to accept that he was never going to have Katie. Katie wanted some earnest babbling boy who would proudly declare feelings that Marcus wasn’t even capable of having. Marcus wanted…Katie not to want that.

He let his hand rest lightly on his cock, and shivered. This needed to stop. He needed to learn to want something else. When he shut his eyes though, he saw her sprawled out on his bed, big blue eyes challenging him. Gods. He’d allow himself to have this one more time.

Marcus shut his eyes, leaning back against the head board, and let an image of Katie coalesce in his mind. Her long legs were stretched out over his bed, pale skin visible between her kneesocks and the fabric of her Hogwarts skirt. Shirt partially unbuttoned, and pushed apart at the neck, a white cotton bra strap just visible through the cascade of her hair. Slender wrists were fastened to the bedposts, his bedposts, with silk ties. Perfectly displayed, like he’d already arranged her to his satisfaction.

His eyes moved slowly up the column of her throat, over her chin to her beautiful mouth. His Slytherin tie ran between those full lips, silencing her, but her eyes were still all too eloquent. Stormy, challenging, aware. As Marcus slowly moved his hand down his length, her sky blue eyes darkened to dusk. He could picture himself, fully clothed, so fucking in control, moving to sit beside her on the bed. Reaching out his hand, running his fingertips over her lips. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to hear her. That would come later though.

“What do you want, Katie?” his doppelganger asked her huskily, slowly dragging his wand up her thigh to the hem of her skirt. Her eyes slid shut as he traced patterns on her skin, inching the skirt higher. When she began to pull on her bonds, he moved to her torso, carefully sliding it between two buttons, just below her breasts. “Here, Katie?” He forced the wand downward, straining the material, forcing the buttons back through the buttonholes. By the time he’d reached the third button, she was pressing her flat stomach up to meet his wand. Using it to drag the material away, exposing her stomach, he bent to dip his tongue briefly into her navel. Reveling in the way she shuddered, he sat up and looked at her pleading eyes and flushed gaze. This time, he moved his wand up to her shoulder and slowly down to her wrist. Watching her carefully, he traced the ends of her bonds. “Here, Katie? You want me to let you go?” She just stared at him, unreadable. He murmured an incantation and the knot started to slip. Katie shook her head abruptly, cheeks flaming, and twined her fingers around the silk tie.

Marcus moaned, lost in the fantasy. He forced his hand to move slowly, but his grip was firmer. His thumb rubbed over the head of his cock, grazing the slit and making him shudder. Gods, this felt so fucking good.

He could see himself leaning over Katie, tongue darting out to trace her lips around the gag. Still holding the wand, his double leaned back, grinning ferally down at her. Katie had begun to fidget, constantly repositioning her hips and biting her lip. Her eyes widened as he whispered a transmutation spell as his wand moved over her body. Her clothes melted away, colors flowing off her skin before re-coalescing in an abstract pattern on his bedspread, framing her nakedness.

Marcus broke out in a cold sweat, jerking when a drop trickled down his back. He would swear he could feel her there next to him, heat radiating off her body. The cool sheets became soft, silky skin under his fingertips and the sound of his hand sliding down his cock morphed into her excited gasps. He forced himself to exhale, trying to calm his breathing.

In his mind’s eye, he grasped her ankles and firmly pulled her legs apart, moving to kneel between them. Letting his eyes rest only briefly on the gold curls between her legs, he began a leisurely perusal of her body. Long and thin. Lovely. As he gazed at her breasts, her skin flushed and he watched fascinated as her blush spread out over her body. He reached out, tracing her hipbones with calloused fingertips, before splaying his hand wide and ghosting it over her flesh. He moved it slowly upward, watching as she arched her body to meet it.

Her eyes were shut tight, as she gasped for air. Her head turned to the side as he moved his hand up through the valley between her breasts, letting his thumb graze lightly over one nipple. Levering himself over her body, he grasped her chin and turned her head to look at him. He remained suspended over her until her eyes opened. They were clouded and deeply blue, almost dazed. He remained still above her until her eyes cleared, her blush intensifying but her lips rising up towards his. He sucked gently on her lower lip, smiling at her moan of frustration as he traced the edge of her gag with his tongue. Moving down to her neck, he bit gently, pulling away to stretch the skin and grinning as her hips bucked. He soothed her skin with his tongue, tracing the area lightly before sucking hard enough to mark her.

Marcus reached down and fondled his balls gently, gasping and allowing his hand to move faster on his shaft. Why did she have to fight him? If she would just let him…He would make it so good for her.

Instead he was lying here wanking like some pimply fourth-year Ravenclaw. Pathetic, miserable, stupid bastard. He struggled to recapture his fantasy, with a Katie who writhed underneath him, and a Marcus who knew what the fuck to do.

Images of himself over Katie-stroking her hair, running his tongue over her collarbone, grazing her nipples with his teeth-filled his mind. His actions and her reactions. Trailing warm wet kisses down her rib cage, and over her abdomen; smirking at her sudden stillness as he moved lower.

Then flat out grinning just before he slipped his tongue inside. Wet. Tart, tangy. No sickly sweetness for his girl. He looked up, wanted to see her. Her eyes were shut and face averted, so fucking shy…but her hips thrust up in tiny movements, just millimeters. She had no leverage, with her leg hooked over his shoulder and her arms tied. He could see the desperate effort it took for her to move reflected in the shuddering of her stomach muscles.

Marcus bit his lip hard, but the pain only spurred him on. His grip tightened around his cock, hoping it would overwhelm his brain. Make him not notice the blurriness of his images of her body, her movements, stuff his imagination couldn’t quite fill in. Make him forget that this was all just a fucking hypothesis.

Certain things he could manage though. The way her body would quiver from his hot breath on her clit. The way the chunky heel of her shoe felt scraping along his lower back-fucking long legs. The way her thighs felt, gripping his head tightly, as wetness filled his mouth. The way her hand felt tangling in his hair, petting him, after it was over.

The way he wouldn’t let it be over.

He let his hand move a little faster and harder, let it hurt a little. Gods, he was going to fly apart. Marcus had heard teammates compare getting off to flying, but they were morons. Flying was strategy, trajectory, velocity. This was fucking anarchy.

He could see himself rising onto his knees, still fully clothed, staring down at her. Pulling his shirt off, his other clothes somehow evaporating, and he was over her. He let some of his weight rest on her, enough to mold her to him, feeling her smooth skin all along his body. Pliant and soft. She was shivering as his stubble scraped over her. He wanted to hear her moan.

He couldn’t hear that yet, though. He needed to show her first. Needed to make her see.

He did, with his hands and tongue and size. He was stroking her breast, biting her neck in the way that always made her press herself against him, when he heard it. Heavy thuds, like bludgers beating against their restraining ties. Something attacking? He looked around frantically, reaching for his wand. It took a few seconds for it to sink in.

Katie was pulling against her ties, drunk with lust. Her arms would relax for a second, only to again jerk against her bonds as she tried to reach him. Gods, no. He quickly ran his fingers over her pretty wrists, knots untying and falling loose. He kissed her wrists, bruises vanishing under his touch. She jerked them free impatiently, arms twining around him, raking his back with her nails.

She wasn’t a ghost here any longer. It was too real. Marcus dug his nails into his thigh, forcing his hand off his cock for a moment. He needed to last. If this was the last time, he needed to make it to the end.

Katie’s blue eyes staring into his as he slowly pushed into her. Hot. Wet. And so fucking tight…He hit the barrier. It felt like a steel wall, denying and protecting. Fuck, yes. Brushing her hair off her face, he waited. She nodded, and with one thrust of his hips he was through, and she twined herself more tightly around him.

He let his hand return to his cock, hips rocking slightly to the rhythm of his fantasy. She was gazing up at him, and she looked sweaty, exhausted, and so happy. As his hips picked up speed in his fantasy, so did his hand. She was staring into his eyes and then her eyes were shut and then her back arched and then she clamped down on him so hard, biting her lip as he watched her. Almost there.

“Tell me,” he gritted out, reaching up and pulling down her gag. “Tell me, Katie.”

“I’m yours,” she said softly, in her low husky voice that he could never get to sound quite right. “I belong to you.”

Yes. Every muscle in his body contracted at once. He could hear himself shout-it could have been her name, or an expletive, or a prayer. He could feel the warm splatter on his hand and his legs.

For just a second more, he could feel her.

Then it was over. He lay there, listening to his breathing slow. A Scourgify and a shower and it would never have happened. Just the memory of her final words.

Katie Bell doing what she was told. That was a fucking fantasy all on its own.

The last one actually. He’d promised himself.

Already he could feel the rebellion start. Why shouldn’t he let himself indulge? It was the closest he was ever going to get to actually touching her again.

Maybe because it turned him into such a sniveling bastard. Because it made him so fucking weak.

Eventually, Katie would have been gone, in any case. She’d have trotted off with some little Gryff or maybe the aggravation would have started to outweigh the ardor. He hadn’t expected ever after. He just hadn’t expected it to be over before it even began.

He hadn’t expected her to grow up and outgrow him at the exact same fucking point in time.

It didn’t really matter what he had expected though, did it?

~*~

June, Katie’s bedroom

For a second, he thought he had the wrong room.

The desk was there, but no photographs. The frilly canopied bed was there, but no purple unicorn. No Harpies’ posters on the walls. No clothes strewn casually about. For a second, he was worried that she hadn’t come home after graduation, after all. Maybe she’d just taken off.

A movement in the corner of the room caught his eye. Katie was kneeling, taping up a box. She impatiently brushed her hair back over her shoulder and out of her face, as she worked. He had to force himself to tap on the window, rather than just watch her. It wouldn’t do for her to look up and see him standing there, though. He had to appear as open and honest as possible for his plan to work.

At the rapping sound, Katie whirled and stared out at him. She wasn’t close enough for him to read her eyes. After what felt like minutes, she averted her eyes and resumed fastening the box. She wasn’t going to open the window, Marcus sternly lectured himself. He’d known that. He’d come back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. He was working for the eventual, not the immediate.

He almost fell off his broom when she abruptly rose and moved toward the window, head down. She was just going to pull down the blinds because he hadn’t taken the hint, he firmly lectured himself. Fly away, you idiot. Don’t push her.

Marcus was still berating himself when Katie jerked the window open, and stepped aside to let him in. Déjà vu flooded him, as he threw a leg over the windowsill and entered the room. Katie was standing there, T-shirt and jeans, just looking at him. His carefully prepared speech evaporated.

“Congratulations,” she said, quietly.

“What?”

“The Quidditch cup?” she asked, eyebrow arched. “The Falcons? You guys won the championship this afternoon. The reason you’re drunk enough to show up here and try to con me tonight?”

Oh.

“I’m not drunk. I’m not here to con you.”

“OK, then…just another of your laissez-faire home invasions?”

“Congratulations.”

“What?”

“On graduating,” he muttered, before smirking a bit. “The reason you’re breaking my balls here and not Hogwarts?”

“I’m not br-,” she broke off. “Thank you.”

“Harpies try-outs are in August?”

“Yes. And?”

“We have two months, then. Get your broom.”

She went very still. “What?”

“To get you ready for the Harpies tryouts. I have pitch time reserved. Come on,” he said forcefully. She didn’t move. “What? You have a better offer?” His stomach tightened.

“No…Wait. Right now?”

“Why not right now? Who’s helping you that is so much better?” he asked, angrily. “Charlie Weasley? He’s never even played pro Quidditch! One of the twins? Yeah, they’d be great. Spend the intervening months picking up bludger injuries so you’re half crippled by August. Great thinking, there.”

“Uh, hate to break into your rather disturbingly detailed fantasies about the Weasley clan, but what in Circe’s name are you on about?” She sounded annoyed. What did she have to be annoyed about?

Fuck. He knew who it was.

“It’s Wood, isn’t it? Katie, he’s an idiot. I could train a jarvey to be a better coach.” He broke into an overdone brogue. “Now, the most important thing to remember is you want the quaffle to go through the hoops. Not over. Not under. Through.” Marcus shook his head. Wood had been her Captain for years. She knew what he was like. “C’mon, Katie. Put aside your predeliction for pretty boys for a second, and think.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, shaking her head. “Wait until I figure out what’s going on and then kick you out, or follow my instincts and throw you out right now. Other than your de facto disdain for Oliver and the Weasleys, what’s your problem?”

“Those guys…” Marcus swallowed hard and broke off, before summoning up the courage to continue. His voice was low and husky. “They haven’t just sat around and watched you fly. They don’t know how you angle your broom handle down to stabilize you in high winds. They haven’t thought about defensive techniques to help you compensate for the increased size of the players, which will hit you hard seeing as you’re about fifty pounds below the average weight. They haven’t realized that already you’d be about the third fastest chaser in the league, once we get you on a premier broom. They haven’t spent hours trying to dissect just how you always know -ever since your second year, for Circe’s sake- which way to dodge to avoid an oncoming player. They can’t help you. I can.”

She looked at him, shock on her face. It made him feel naked. Part of him wanted to flee, but he couldn’t stop looking at her. She was the one to look away. That made him feel a little stronger.

“You want to help me?” she asked softly. He nodded. She took a deep breath, and her voice became businesslike. “OK. This should be helpful. Angelina has volunteered to fly with me a few times, and I’ll get feedback from you tonight. If you could kind of let me know what they expect at try-outs, that would be great.” She moved past him towards her closet, probably to fetch her broom, and he reached out and grabbed her wrist. She pulled away immediately, her body tensing.

“Every day,” he said, firmly. Her arms were crossed in front of her body, first-year defensive posture.

“What?”

“Prepping for your try-outs…you and me. Every day. Twice a day, preferably. Drills, strategy discussions, endurance stuff. I’ll arrange for pitch time.” She looked stunned.

“That’s a huge amount of time,” she said, looking a little apprehensive.

“We can work around your work schedule or whatever,” he told her, stomach roiling.

“I meant for you.”

“I’ll make the time.”

“But…”

”I said that I’ll make the time, Katie. Once or twice isn’t going to be good enough.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. He wanted her inquisitive eyes off him, to stop her decipherment. “Unless it’s too much bother for you?” he asked sarcastically. It didn’t work.

“So, I get amazing coaching and pitch time for two months. What do you get out of this?” she asked seriously.

“I won’t bother you,” he told her gruffly. He had to force his next words through his lips. “I promise not to touch you. Just get your broom, alright?”

“What do you get out of this?” she asked, more firmly this time. She clearly wasn’t going to let him off the hook. He closed his eyes. He didn’t have to do this. He could just leave, try again tomorrow.

“I…I get to be the guy who helped you, that’s all. It’s an even trade.”

He was cursing himself as soon as the words passed his lips. He felt gutted, his entrails spread out for her amused inspection.

Dead silence. He couldn’t hear her move or breathe, but she always had moved like a cat. Maybe she’d left the room so he could skulk away with the remainder of his dignity intact. He opened his eyes, and she was standing by the window, broom in hand and eyes turned away from him. He exhaled slowly, almost dizzy with relief.

“You coming?” she asked, still not looking at him.

“Yeah.” He followed her out the window, and into the night.

Detained Chapter 7 Initiation Part 2

Mon, 08 Jun 2009 04:25:47 GMT

Hogwarts, the next day

Katie woke up and didn’t want to die, which made for a nice change.

In a month, Quidditch season would be over. Another month and she’d be done with Hogwarts. She was more than ready. To do what exactly, she had no idea. But she was ready for it.

She dressed quickly and grabbed her bag, making sure that her NEWTs review guide was easily visible underneath her arm-a handy talisman to ward off lectures from Hermione. After a mild collision-Neville should really pay more attention to where he was going, because Katie had very little control when she was sliding down the banister-she made her way into the Great Hall.

Katie chose her seat carefully. Anywhere where Seamus and Lavender were in your line of sight was out, unless you were a particular aficionado of tongues. Parvati and her boyfriend were at the Ravenclaw table today, so she needed to be angled away from that. Then to avoid the usual trouble spots…Draco and Pansy, Hannah and Ernie. Why couldn’t people be satisfied with their own saliva? She could see Ron doing the same triangulations in his head, with the added constraint that he didn’t want to have to look at a Slytherin while eating. People should really refrain from getting their full rut on while others were trying to digest.

As Katie was laughing at Ginny carefully placing her copy of ‘What You Need to Know for OWLs’ between herself and Hermione, the owls started to arrive.
Ron’s spastic owl, Pigwidgeon, swooped and twittered around Katie’s head, absolutely refusing to give Ron his letter until he was absolutely the center of attention. Pig was completely useless and a total menace; Katie adored him. She grinned to herself as Ron berated his owl, while continually feeding him Owl Treats.

Her weekly owls from Angelina and Alicia arrived. They’d both been diligent about that, and Katie had been diligent about writing back…at least since the day they had sent 23 howlers as a gentle reminder. Not expecting anything else, Katie choked on her pumpkin juice as a snowy owl dropped a silver envelope in her lap. She turned it over in her fingers…it might have been from the Harpies. Of course, it might also have been a ‘You May Have Already Won a Winged Horse’ sweepstakes entry. Even if it was from the Harpies, it wasn’t necessarily an invitation to closed tryouts, she told herself firmly. Sometimes they just sent form letters to members of the house teams.

“Uh, Katie,” Harry said, a little nervously. “Do you want to do something about this?”

Katie looked up. Marcus’ overgrown owl was perched in front of her, glaring. She stared at the envelope gripped in its talons. What did he want?

She’d seen him a few times since ‘the incident’. Outside the Great Hall after dinner, or walking beside her as she did her Prefect’s rounds, or ducking and weaving around her as she was out for a broom ride. Absurdly banal questions about NEWTs or slights against her Quidditch team were the only conversation; a hand on her shoulder, his hip slamming into her as they flew, or a grabbed wrist the only contact. Katie had done her best to keep herself quiet and aloof and most of all absent on these occasions. She didn’t think he had any idea how close he was to getting hexed.

The last time had been on the Quidditch pitch last week, when Katie was taking a solitary broom ride. All of a sudden he had been there, suspended in mid-air next to her. Katie had wheeled her broom around and flown, trying to ignore him. He had pursued, at first just flying alongside and then trying to strip an imaginary quaffle from her arms. He had started to bump into her harder, cursing and muttering as she elbowed him. When she’d tried to land, he had forced her to abort, swooping underneath her, almost causing a collision. Finally, she had leaned forward, cheek against her broom handle, and had flown as fast as she could back to the school. She could feel him pursuing her and didn’t stop until she reached the Tower. Once she got there, she risked a glance behind her but there was no one in sight. Maybe she had imagined that he come after her at all.

Katie stared blankly at the gargantuan bird, mind racing. What could Marcus possibly have to say to her now? Maybe he’d written out everything he thought about her so she would have a handy pocket guide of her failures. No, it probably said something like ‘Hey, Bell…I still like absolutely nothing about you. Just thought you’d want to know. Flint’. She didn’t want to read it. She had been fine.

“Take it back,” she said, to the owl. “Return to sender. Big guy, bad teeth and unpleasant disposition?” The huge bird’s black eyes just stared at her. She grabbed the envelope from its talons, and then gave it back. It remained impassive. Blast. Even his owl was impossible. When she rose and left the table, it flew after her. Perfect. This was going to make Quidditch practice a tad awkward.

Pig dashed out after them, clearly wanting to play. Katie swore softly. She was sure Marcus’ owl would be more than happy to play too…only the game would be ‘Food Chain.’ Katie carefully trapped Pig in her cupped hands, and took him back to Ron, who reddened. When Katie left the great hall, bird behemoth trailing behind her, Pig was careening around inside Ron’s robes, hooting happily.

This was demented. Speeding up, turning, shouting and heaving bread rolls smuggled out of the Great Hall-nothing had any effect. She felt like some brainless bimbo in a fairy tale; any second and she would be singing a duet with a woodland creature. Katie smiled politely at the passing students, who were looking at her curiously. Feigned nonchalance probably wasn’t very effective with an ostrich following you around. There was no way she could ever feel any more idiotic than she did right now.

How could she get rid of it? What kind of hexes would be effective but not too damaging? Katie really didn’t want an owl-avenging Marcus showing up here, shouting about her molesting his familiar.

Water. Birds hated water, right? Katie ducked into the girl’s bathroom, darting into a shower stall angling the showerhead behind her and spelling the water on full blast. Katie smiled at the annoyed squawk, as the owl darted out of the stall. Yes! Sure, she was slightly damp but she had struck a blow for mammals everywhere. She turned off the water and sauntered out of the stall.

The owl was waiting. It immediately flew to follow her. Owl 2, Katie 0.

OK…what were her options? She could stay in the bathroom; eventually, it would give up. As stimulating as Katie’s company was, it probably couldn’t compare to snacking on field mouse innards. Who would want to hang out in a loo all day? Hey, maybe this had been how Moaning Myrtle had started out! Circe. Katie was leaving now.

She felt a sharp tugging on the back of her head, and turned to look. The owl had entwined some of her hair around its talons, making fleeing an impossibility. As Katie left the bathroom, the feathered felon flew directly above her, causing some of Katie’s hair to be pulled toward the ceiling.

OK, she had been wrong. She felt more idiotic now.

Hagrid! Hagrid was great with animals. She’d just run down to his cottage and see if he had any suggestions. If Hagrid couldn’t come up with anything to get rid of the FlintFowl, maybe Fang, fine fellow that he was, would eat it. She quickly moved down the hallway towards the entrance hall.

“Miss Bell.” Blast.

Katie turned and smiled as innocently as possible at Professor Snape. He coolly surveyed her, eyes narrowing a bit as he examined the owl. She knew he was going to take points, but what reason could he possibly use? Interfering with the mails? Excessive and distracting personal ornamentation? That’s what they had used to ban Parvati’s singing barrettes. Did owls violate the dress code?

“I know this seems strange…” Katie said, her voice trailing off. Snape’s eyes glittered in amusement. Or possibly malice. The owl settled on a sconce and peered at both of them.

“Miss Bell, the most remarkable facet of this situation is how unsurprising I find it to be,” he said coldly. “Explain.”

“There is an owl tangled in my hair.” Simple. To the point. Elegant, really.

“Explain, not describe, Miss Bell.”

“I’m sorry, Professor. The owl’s motivation is shrouded in darkness.” She opened her eyes as widely as possible, and bit the inside of her cheeks trying not to laugh. This technique always caused Snape cognitive dissonance; he could either accuse her of having the brain of a puffskein or of being incredibly disrespectful. As those were both pet theories of his, it pained him to have to choose.

Snape stared back at her, black eyes glittering. “I believe the owl’s rationale is clear. It has a letter to deliver. It is your motivations that are somewhat inscrutable. I hypothesize that this is just a colorless girl’s rather sophomoric attempt to attract attention. The fact that your clothes appear to be wet is somewhat puzzling, but I will not inquire.”

Screw him. Screw Flint, too.

“You’ve caught me out, sir. I thought it would impress my peers if I had minions,” Katie said sunnily, gesturing at the owl. “The hunchback will arrive on Monday.”

“Take the letter, Miss Bell,” Snape snapped, eyes narrowed. “Then Mr. Flint’s owl may be on its way. I would not want him to use his owl’s absence as a pretext for a visit.” His voice clearly suggested that had been what Katie was planning. She reached up and angrily snatched the letter away. Both beady-eyed, hook-nosed sadists continued to stare at her. “Open it, Miss Bell,” Snape ordered. “I think the courier would be reassured if he saw evidence that you actually understood the process.”

Katie ripped open the letter. Odd. It was a list of the open try-out times and locations for all the British Quidditch teams. With a derisive hoot, the owl finally flew away, taking a few strands of Katie’s hair with it. Off to harass Sinbad, no doubt. She turned back to Snape, glaring.

“Twenty five points from Gryffindor, Miss Bell, for being too impressed with your own cleverness,” Snape said, icily. “However, the recommendation letters I have written for your post-Hogwarts applications will remain unaltered.” He shook his head in a way that Katie would have interpreted as disappointment in anyone else. “You are dismissed, Miss Bell.”

“Yes, sir.” Feeling oddly chastened, Katie retreated back down the hallway. Biting her lip, she ducked into an empty classroom and took a longer look at Marcus’ letter. The first page was just the times of the try-outs…which wasn’t really that helpful seeing as The Daily Prophet published it about every two weeks. It was probably just Marcus’ oblique jibe about no teams being interested in Katie. A little out of character for him to be oblique about anything though…Marcus was usually all too happy to be blunt.

Katie frowned as she read over the other pages. Detailed lists of the teams, broken into several categories-analyses of the scouts, the coaches and the management, the types of players each team was looking for (the entry for the Falcons said: Big, mean, brilliant and devastatingly sexy), recent trades. Even what kind of drills each team liked to use to test potential players. Katie snorted as she read the last page-‘Susceptibility to Bribes and Blackmail.’ Ew. Note to self: Never leave broom unattended in Ballycastle’s change room.

Where had Marcus gotten his hands on this? Why would he send it to her? Probably so that when she still didn’t make a team, it would be even more humiliating. No, Katie corrected herself, that wasn’t it. Marcus could be a colossal jerk but his nastiness usually wasn’t choreographed. It must be guilt or possibly pity.

She didn’t need his help. She didn’t need him. It would be really nice if someone would occasionally listen to a single thing she said.

A tap of her wand and a whispered Confettini, and the letter exploded into a million iridescent pieces, all corkscrewing off in different directions. That was taken care of.

What else was on her to-do list? Deciding on her future, studying for NEWTs, figuring out how to tell her father that she wouldn’t be working in his lab or living in his house this summer (probably after having to gently remind him who she was), then figuring out how she was going to handle that independence financially, and owling Ang and Ali. That last one sounded OK. The others she would figure out…later.

Katie headed into the library, picking a table that was in a quiet section, yet near enough some troublemakers that she wouldn’t be Pince’s most likely suspect. Just in case inspiration struck. She pulled out two pieces of parchment and her charmed Duo-Quill from her bag, carefully tucking the unopened silver envelope back in. Maybe she’d open that one after her first NEWT, as a reward. Now it was time to write the next installment of ‘Katie Bell’s Life at Hogwarts-The Complete and Unvarnished Truth.’ As she wrote with one quill, the other copied her words on the second piece of parchment.

Dear Ang and Ali, Big news at Hogwarts! This week, the wizarding romance novelist Passionata Puffskein was revealed to be none other than our own beloved Professor Snape. While we were initially surprised by this, on reflection it seems obvious that our dear professor is the mastermind behind the torrid trilogy, But She’s a Werewolf!, She’s Also a Vampire! and Oh Well, At Least She’s Not a Gryffindor. For his next passionate love story, Professor Snape claims that he is trying for a slightly more sophisticated feel but with all the love, lust, and laughs of his first three books. Word on the street is that the tentative title for this new novel is Roasting Harry Potter on a Spit.

Katie paused for a second. That owl incident this morning was the first thing that had actually happened this year that was funny or interesting enough to put in an owl. She hadn’t really shared all the relevant backstory with Ang and Ali though…like the fact that she had even spoken to Marcus since his graduation from Hogwarts. Back to fantasy then.

Love is in the air at Hogwarts! Mandy Brocklehurst bared her soul to our own Dean Thomas, claiming that he was a god who walked as a man, that she had always adored him, and that he was infinitely shaggable. Dean immediately claimed that he had always adored her too, and provided her with a detailed list of her many sublime qualities -as is mandated by the Law of Narrative Expectation, except, of course, if the witch is unattractive. We wish them happy and harmonious co-ownership of children and pets in the future.

Does the Pumpkin Mafia have undue influence at Hogwarts? The plaintive cries have echoed off the walls of the Great Hall for years-‘why can’t we have just have some orange jui-‘

“Miss Bell.” Katie jumped. Professor McGonagall was standing by her table. This didn’t bode well.

“Yes, Professor?” It was surprisingly hard to look innocent when you weren’t sure what you supposed to be guilty of. Maybe that’s why so many Slytherins looked confused.

“I need to speak with you in regards to your career counseling appointment,” McGonagall informed her, brusquely. “You only put down two possible professions on your form. You’re required to have at least three.”

“I put down three,” Katie protested, widening her eyes in a semblance of innocence. Please. Katie was certain McGonagall hadn’t made Ali or Ang list three. Apparently she felt little Katie needed all the help she could get.

“’Unicorn’ isn’t a profession, Miss Bell, as I’m sure you’re aware. Professional Quidditch is clearly a chancy proposition for anyone. With your OWLs and Hogwarts’ reports, I think St. Mungo’s MediMagic School will almost certainly accept you…but mediwitchery is a highly competitive field as well. It is my responsibility to ensure that you receive the most efficacious counseling possible. Please pick a third profession that you feel is interesting, not unduly difficult, and easily attainable.” She thrust Katie’s form at her, and stood there calmly waiting.

Fine, then. Katie wrote Hogwarts’ Transfiguration professor on the bottom of her form and handed it back. Professor McGonagall read it and her lips tightened. Looked like Katie was going on a final farewell tour of detention. She almost looked forward to it.

To Katie’s surprise, Professor McGonagall smiled at her. Uh-oh.

“Miss Bell,” she said dryly. “Being a member of the faculty at Hogwarts is rewarding. However, while you’re an acceptable Transfiguration student, you are truly remarkable with Potions. Might I suggest you direct your ambitions to that area? Good day.” She turned and calmly left the library.

Alright, Katie grudgingly admitted…that had actually been pretty funny.

OK…back to the task at hand. Katie was debating between ‘Purpose of Quaffle explained to Gryffindor Quidditch Captain Harry Potter’ and ‘Peeves named as new DADA professor’, when Morag MacDougal entered the library with some friends. Katie tensed, and started gathering her things. No, she told herself firmly. It didn’t matter who Marcus spent time with; after all, Katie had reached her decision about him long before she’d heard about Morag. She was going to have to learn to deal with this sort of thing. Well, either that or permanently Silencio Lavender and her ilk.

In any case, Katie should be working on her magnum opus. Why bother wasting time on thoughts of Monotone MacDougal or the dread lord of the Falcons? Morag’s conversation wasn’t even worth eavesdropping on, unless you were passionately concerned about ‘wizarding unity’ and ridiculously credulous. Or if you were troubled by insomnia.

“I know I’ve always mocked that ball,” Morag said, sitting down at the table next to Katie’s, ”but last night was the greatest night of my life.”

The greatest night of her life was spent in a stuffy ballroom, eating murtlaps in puff paste while dressed like Glinda the Good Witch? Someone didn’t know how to play Quidditch, apparently.

“He’s just so sophisticated!” Morag said, giddily. “Charming conversationalist, divine dancer and magnificent manners.” Katie dropped her quill. Interesting. Morag had apparently decided to leave out ‘amazingly arrogant’, ‘hugely homicidal’ and ‘stupendously sullen.’ Maybe Morag was just delightfully deluded. Maybe Marcus was different with her. ’Divine Dancer’, though? Katie wasn’t an expert but she’d have sworn that Marcus would hex for less. “Antony Flint!” Morag went on, grinning. “I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.”

Antony?! Katie tried to slow her suddenly racing heart.

Well…that made Morag’s manners comment a little more believable, at least. Had Lavender been wrong? Maybe Marcus hadn’t been Morag’s escort...Oh, and maybe Marcus had laryngitis when he couldn’t come up with a single nice thing to say about Katie, her mind sneered. Maybe at this very moment, he was sitting in his flat writing a poem about her perfection. Maybe he wanted to ride broomstick by broomstick with her for the rest of their lives. Try not to be such a mewling little girl, Katie. It didn’t matter which Flint had been Morag’s escort. Whatever had gone on with Morag and Marcus, it was none of her business.

“Antony is just the perfect man,” Morag continued dreamily.

Idiotic comments like that were definitely Katie’s business, though.

Antony the perfect man? Only if vacant was the new valiant. He was a pleasant guy, no question. It had been sweet of him to ask Katie to dance at the Yule Ball, whatever his reason for doing it. However, to Katie’s mind, perfection required a little more in terms of synapses and sense of humor. To be fair though, she had derived much amusement from Antony’s habit of responding to anything he didn’t understand with a completely unrelated anecdote about his school days in France.

“I told him all about the paper I would be presenting, and my ideas about wizarding unity,” Morag was gushing. “Then, he told me so many fascinating things about Beauxbatons!” Katie had to bite down on her quill to keep from laughing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mandy Brocklehurst laughed. “Best thing since hair-drying spells. The pinnacle of manhood.”

“Absolutely. Especially compared to my escort,” Morag sighed. “Mr. Terrible Teeth himself.”

Question answered.

Wait a minute, though. Mr. Terrible Teeth? Was she serious? Was she five? Katie felt sorry for Morag’s future dates-‘Ugly McMeanie’ and ‘Poopbrain’. Amateur. ‘Denti-Dementia’ or ‘Uncouth DeTooth’ or ‘Lord of the Liquid Diet’ would have been funnier, and those were just off the top of Katie’s head. Besides, his teeth were only about the twelfth most mockable thing about him. Ravenclaws.

“What I want to know is how you managed it?” Lisa Turpin drawled, flipping through the Daily Prophet. “You’re clever, I know, but Marcus must have noticed you swapping him out for his brother in the middle of a ball. He’s not that thick. So, how did you make the trade?” Probably in the exact same way people could manage to trade a galleon for a knut.

“All Antony’s doing,” Morag smiled. “He came over and rescued me. They had a brief discussion in French and Marcus slunk off to do whatever it is that trolls do.”

Even putting aside the absurd casting of Marcus Flint in the role of ‘Bitch Boy’, that was still about the most pathetic sentence ever. ‘To do whatever it is that trolls do?’ Try ‘engage in a border dispute with some billygoats’ or ‘investigate housing availability beneath the Tower Bridge.’ One thing was for sure, if Marcus ground Morag’s brains to make his bread, he would be going hungry. Why did people think this witch was clever?

“Your picture made the social page of the Prophet,” Lisa told Morag, shoving it toward her and snickering. “Will you be putting it into your scrapbook?”

“Please, my mother probably had it framed,” Morag replied, rolling her eyes. “Her finest moment.” All three witches laughed. Aw, a mother who was proud of her. What a difficult life Morag led.

The three witches continued to gossip and banter back and forth. Really. Didn’t they understand that this was a library? Katie had homework that she might have eventually gotten around to trying to do. People should be more considerate.

“There is entirely too much noise in this section!” Madam Pince had come barreling over. Finally. “The library is not a place for conversation.” Pince looked at Katie suspiciously; she’d never been a fan of Katie’s since the ‘Restricted Section Red Cap Rampage’ back in 4th year. Finally, Pince grudgingly decided that the three girls with no books open were the more likely culprits than the solitary Katie, and threw them out. Katie nodded her approval at Pince. Pince glared at her. Oh, well.

Morag and her minions had left the Daily Prophet on the table. A picture of a portly wizard nuzzling a lime green bird with a long tail caught Katie’s eye. Fudge Fondles Fwooper, the headline read. Katie reached over and grabbed it. She was just curious, that’s all.

The article detailed two possible theories for Fudge’s latest scandalous behaviour: 1. Fudge was a sick freak for whose carnal lusts species was no barrier. 2. Fwooper feathers were really soft, and Fudge was kind of an idiot. Interestingly enough, the Yule Ball ‘wedged in chafing dish’ snogging incident was used as supporting evidence for both theories.

Katie flipped to the Quidditch section, smiling as she found Angelina’s and Oliver’s names on the stats page. She might as well look at the social pages too. They were always mock-worthy. Katie snorted as she scanned the pictures of the deb ball. Vapid-looking witches clinging proudly to the arms of their ‘escorts.’ What were they so proud of? Didn’t these witches realize that the need for escorts implied that they were so dumb they needed a bloke to steer them?

There was a picture of Morgaine Montague revealing cheekbones that could cut you to ribbons, and eyes that suggested she’d like nothing better than to do just that. There was also a picture of Draco, his parents and Pansy. The Malfoys might have the ‘purest’ bloodlines in wizardry, but at least Pansy had pigmentation. Albino prats.

Miss Alicia Spinnet and Mr. Terence Higgs. Miss Alicia Spinnet and Mr. Markham Montague. Miss Alicia Spinnet and Mr. Roger Davies. In each picture, Alicia laughed and waved happily at Katie. Katie smiled. Alicia had always referred to the deb ball as ‘Wizarding Society’s Bloodstock Sale and Steeplechase.’ Alicia always got the joke.

The next photograph was the one Katie had tried to tell herself she wasn’t looking for. Morag looked uncomfortable, sidling to the edge of the photograph, and fidgeting. Marcus hardly moved, face grim and dark eyes intense. The grimness wasn’t all that surprising. The only thing Katie had ever seen him look at affectionately was his broom. His wizarding photographs were always pretty still, as well. Katie supposed he was always precisely where he wanted to be, so why move?

Any worries Katie had been harboring that Marcus might actually feel something for Morag were dispelled immediately by the photograph. He clearly felt nothing for her besides his default emotions of irritation and disdain. Whatever reason Marcus had for escorting Morag, it had nothing to do with feelings.

Nothing with Marcus had much to do with feelings, probably. Katie had wasted all that jealousy and angst on the likes of Diana Bletchley and Tansy Trudeau. They weren’t why Marcus didn’t want Katie. At least not the only reason.

Marcus had plans. There were people so ambitious and single-minded that others didn’t really even register in their sneak-o-scopes. It was good to have people like that in the world. People like that defeated tyrants and discovered things and cured diseases.

It was good to have people like that in the world. It just wasn’t good to care about them. Thank Merlin, Marcus hadn’t told her some lie. She’d have hung onto it and believed, and Katie had seen what happened to people who did that. He had really done her a kindness.

Besides, Katie had plans of her own. She pulled out the silver envelope, and yanked it open, forcing herself to read it.

Miss Katie Bell, The Holyhead Harpies would like to invite you to their closed try-outs at Hagshead Stadium on August 1st of this year…

Katie’s eyes slid shut. Thank you.

Detained Chapter 7 Intermission Part 1

Mon, 08 Jun 2009 04:20:27 GMT

Chapter 7
April-Debutante Ball, Cauldron Club

It was supposed to be a pretty straightforward thing. The young witches were supposed to walk down the stairs, stop and smile. Marcus had worn his dress robes. He had endeavored not to look nauseated or too horribly bored at being in Morag MacDougal’s presence. He hadn’t let her fall down the stairs or wander aimlessly off while the photographs were taken.

She kept talking to him though. He’d never agreed to talk.

“You’re a professional Quidditch player then?” the dark-haired witch asked coolly, as they stood watching the dancers. “My father seems quite impressed with you.”

“Falcons chaser,” Marcus muttered.

“Ah,” Morag replied, then stood silent for a moment. “Now would be the time when a gentleman would ask me what I was interested in, in case your etiquette is as limited as your facial expressions.”

“Good. Go find one.” That shut her up. He stared out at the dancers. It was kind of remarkable. Morgaine was here, as well as her brother. Antony. A blonde witch he had shagged at a drunken party at Terry’s, whose name he couldn’t remember. Was the theme of this ball ‘Let’s Annoy Marcus?’ No. In that case, Galloway would have been there. Singing.

“If you’re so uninterested in my life and opinions, why did you want to escort me to this ball?” Morag sniped.

Good question. Well, Marcus reflected, he had had this moronic idea that he could seduce this girl with seriously prime Quidditch tickets. So, he had engineered a truly Byzantine twelve-party swap that made the Goblin Accords look like a Chocolate Frog card trade in comparison. This had allowed him to have the unrivalled pleasure of attending birthday parties, shipping autographed Quidditch gear to the four corners of the globe, and spending one truly spectacular afternoon at a fucking tea moderating some old biddies’ argument about whether a dress was mauve or lavender. All for a witch who wanted nothing from him but his absence. And now, for his final performance, there was Morag.

“I just really missed this punch actually,” Marcus shot back. “The way it tastes like watered-down fermented snake piss and its truly unanticipated gray color.”

“So you’re not only an athlete, but have a sensitive and refined nature as well?” Morag inquired archly. “My mother was right. I am such a lucky young witch.”

He’d gone and gotten her some punch for the simple reason that she couldn’t talk while swallowing. However, ladies only took the daintiest of sips. Marcus only got milliseconds of sweet silence before she started running her mouth again.

“Aren’t we going to dance?” Morag sniffed.

”We? No,” Marcus replied, not looking at her. “You can. I don’t dance.”

“How ever will I be able to thank my father sufficiently?” Morag inquired of the ceiling. “Look at all the unfortunate girls who have dancing, smiling, talking escorts.” Marcus rolled his eyes. Infant.

“Look. This is how this works,” he said calmly. “I am a highly sought-after wizard. Just being here with me confers value on you. My job is just to be here. Your job is to be pretty, polite, and quiet.”

“Oh, that’s all you think witches are good for?” Morag asked, outraged.

“There’s one other thing,” Marcus suggested, calmly.

“What?”

“You should look at me adoringly.” He thought for a brief second that she was actually going to become amusing and try to hit him. She certainly looked angry enough. Then her eyes narrowed and, well, no surprise here, her mouth opened.

“Intelligence and magical ability are clearly two different considerations,” Morag said seriously. “Chizpurfles are magical, yet not sapient. Muggles possess the gift of language, one of the hallmarks of intelligence, yet are hopelessly lacking in magic.”

Interesting. Marcus had been so certain that he was the one who was going to be literally bored out of his mind. How had Snape told them to handle people who were deranged from potion fumes?

”You are aware that you’re mental, right?” he asked her.

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said, smiling. “However, my mother has instructed me to be vivacious and charming. That means every time she looks at me, I will make sure that my lips will be moving. As I have nothing to say to you, I will take this opportunity to practice my ‘Magisapience: Towards a New Paradigm of Wizarding Identity’ speech for the Youth United for Knowledge conference.”

Bloody Hell.

“Will you accept galleons?” Marcus asked desperately. She ignored him and began to drone on again.

Marcus tried to tune her out. He scanned the crowd, looking for someone, anyone, that might be able to divert Morag’s attention. A trip to the loo got him a few minutes respite, but as soon as he returned she was back in full flow. He interrupted only once, inquiring acidly whether it was really necessary to use the word ‘epistemological’ twice in one sentence. Morag had stared blankly at him for a moment, before continuing with a sentence that contained ‘pseudomagiutilization’ three times. He was seriously considering faking his own death when she uttered something that he could actually translate.

“What?” he sputtered.

“Clear and effective communication of the underlying precepts will result in behaviour modifications for the groups involved,” she repeated, a little startled. Marcus took a quick look around to make sure no one was in their immediate vicinity.

“Did you just say the reason that Death Eaters roast babies on spits is because no one has mentioned to them that it would be ever so nice if they stopped?” he asked incredulously. Like words ever fixed anything.

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Morag said stiffly. “And yes, rational discourse will provide the foundation.”

“’Dear Eaters of Death, We found the placement of a severed head in the punch bowl at the latest Greater London Gobstones Club luncheon to be a hurtful act. Please come to tea on Tuesday so we can discuss this matter further, and reach an accord. Crumpets will be provided,” Marcus sneered. Morag’s mouth open and closed a few times, and her cheeks were flushed.

“I’m certainly not going to bandy words about with you,” she said coldly. As if she could. That was one residual benefit of that twisted dance with Bell, at least. If you could hold your own with her, no one else stood a chance. “Some of us are serious about the future of wizardry, you know. Some of us want to understand why certain groups behave as they do.”

Because they can. A vaunted intellect and fine education and she still couldn’t figure that out. She really wasn’t worth the syllables he’d have to expend trying to explain it to her.

At least she’d finished her little speech.

“Intelligence and magical ability are clearly two different considerations,” she said, in a voice even more pinched and grating then before. Oh bloody hell. She was going to recite the whole thing again.

“Look,” he interrupted. “I don’t like you. You don’t like me. Why don’t you go find some other bloke to bore?”

“And spend the next year getting lectured by my parents, just so you can go find some brainless buxom bimbo that is undoubtedly your type?”

An image of Katie, unyielding and remote, flashed through his mind. What he wouldn’t give to just be the shallow bastard everyone thought he was.

“What do you want?” he asked Morag, abruptly.

“Pardon?” she asked, a little taken aback.

“Underneath your pomposity and verbosity, you’re a girl. You’ve got the frilly white robes, and the flowers in your hair and the conventional turn of mind…All you need is some upright, uptight Prince Charming to complete the picture,” he sneered. “So why don’t you describe him to me, and I’ll get you set up and me off the hook.”

“I’m not some simpering fool,” Morag objected. “I don’t need to be on the arm of a man to be complete.”

“Ah, as I thought,” Marcus said coolly. “I’m sorry but it’s not going to happen.”

”What?” she asked suspiciously.

“Clearly, you’re pining for me,” Marcus explained. “I’m your fantasy. Well, I suppose I can bear up with your company for a few more hours, since it means so much to you.” He smirked at her outraged gasp.

“Intelligent. Brilliant, preferably. Sensitive,” she listed. “Cultured. Sophisticated. Basically your opposite in every way. Looks, of course, are of no importance.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange.”

For a moment, Marcus thought it was going to be so simple. Markham Montague was sauntering past. He could pass for all the things on Morag’s list, as long as he didn’t open his mouth.

“Montague,” Marcus hailed him.

“Flint,” Montague said, tensely.

“Magpies are doing well.”

“Second place,” Montague returned.

“Second place is great,” Marcus assured him. “It’s not as if there was ever the slightest chance of them being in first, with the Falcons around. Do you know Morag?”

“Yes,” Montague said curtly. Markham wasn’t really giving him much to work with here. Morag wasn’t a big help either, just standing there glaring at him.

“Good,” Marcus said. “Dance with her, will you?” Maybe he could have handled that better. Morag’s offended glare certainly suggested that he could have.

“I don’t know exactly what you’ve heard,” Montague said coldly. “But I have better things to do than try to get a leg over with one of your little witches.” He nodded to Morag, then abruptly turned and stalked off.

Merlin. Puncture one measly lung of his and the guy comes over all offended.

“Markham Montague?” Morag asked indignantly. “Possibly I should have explained this more clearly, but ‘intelligent’ and ‘sophisticated’ do imply that the wizard must know how to read.”

“Most witches seem to like him,” Marcus said mildly.

“I’m not most witches,” she hissed. “Please give me some credit.”

“Fine,” Marcus said coolly. “I apologize. There is someone here who fits all your criteria…you would never give him a chance though.”

“Why do you say that?” Morag asked hesitantly.

“Because you’re too rigid, and wouldn’t be able to see his sensitive nature. You’d just dismiss him out of hand.”

“I would not,” she protested indignantly. “Introduce us.”

“Nah, you’d snub him. It would be too hurtful to his refined soul.” Heh. Her eyes were blazing now.

“I insist you introduce me to him,” she insisted. “Now.”

Marcus shrugged and led her to a quiet corner where Higgs was chatting Alicia Spinnet up. Higgs saw them approach but appeared to be pretending not to see them, no doubt in the hopes they would go away.

“Higgs, I need you for a minute,” Marcus interrupted.

“I need you to get lost, mate,” Terence replied, keeping his gaze fixed on Spinnet.

“I need a person of sensitivity and refinement, such as yourself,” Marcus returned blithely.

“I need to see this,” Spinnet snickered. “Please, Terry, go right ahead.” Terence sighed in a long-suffering manner, before turning to face Marcus. Marcus looked expectantly at Morag. She stared back at him.

“There’s a problem?” Marcus asked her.

“This is Terence Higgs,” Morag screeched. Spinnet laughed.

“He has hidden depths,” Marcus assured her. Terence looked simultaneously confused and insulted. “Say something of great portent, Higgs.” Now he just looked confused.

“This is Terence Higgs,” Morag repeated.

“You know…” Spinnet said thoughtfully. “She does make a good point.”

“No, seriously,” Marcus insisted. “It’s a side that he hides from almost everyone, but he’s a true philosopher.”

“Marcus,” Terence asked, in a pained voice, “would it be too much trouble for you to kill yourself?”

“No, no,” Spinnet insisted, laughing. “I want to hear more about Terence Higgs as philosopher sage. This is the first interesting thing I can ever recall happening at this ball.”

“I don’t know,” Terence said judiciously. “Last year, Brutus had that allergic reaction to the puffapod juice, and vomited little flying elephants. That was pretty good.”

“Very philosophical,” Spinnet said, before she doubled over in laughter.

Marcus closed his eyes. How fucking hard would it have been for Terence just to have stood there and pretended to be wise? This was a lost cause now.

“I rest my case,” Morag said, acidly. “I suggest you come up with another candidate.” She turned and stalked over to the corner, glaring at Marcus. She did that a lot.

“So you’ll be leaving, then?” Terence asked Marcus hopefully.

“I think I will,” Alicia said, wiping tears from her eyes. “No matter how hard you try, I don’t think you could possibly come up with anything else quite as amusing, Higgs. I don’t want you to strain yourself trying. Rest up and I’ll see you at the Hogwarts Benefit next month.” She grinned impishly at the two of them, then turned and sashayed away, hips swaying. Terence stared forlornly after her.

“Thanks for nothing, mate,” Marcus muttered. Terence stood open-mouthed, as Marcus grudgingly made his way back to Morag. She gave him one furious glare, and then turned and sniffed disapprovingly. Looked like he would have to resign himself to the unadulterated pleasure of her company for the rest of the evening.

He’d be stuck with her for hours.

OK. So, from her description she liked annoying ponces. Brutus was pretty much definitional for annoying ponce. He’d always been resolutely and regrettably faithful to Morgaine though, so Marcus would have to use some pretty hefty memory modifications in order for Brutus to be useful. Morgaine would also need to be taken care of. A sleeping draught, maybe? Since the chocolate-covered cherry incident, she’d been pretty uptight about what she ate and drank…so maybe he’d have to memory modify her? Plus there would be witnesses who would ask inconvenient questions…He could cast a glamour on Morag so she looked like Morgaine to the rest of the attendees, if he knew how to do that. He could hire someone…Maybe this plan wasn’t all that workable.

Morag sniffed disapprovingly again. Merlin.

The plan wasn’t completely unworkable either. All right, maybe stunning spells would do for Morgaine.

“Do you know what I find utterly incomprehensible?” Morag snapped.

“That your parents are trying to flog you off to the highest bidder? That this band only knows three songs and one of them is ‘Broomstick Boogie’? That no one has spelled your mouth shut?”

“That you could possibly be related to him,” Morag sniped, nodding in Antony’s direction. Well, that was fair enough. Marcus found it fairly incomprehensible as well. “He’s just so…” her voice trailed off.

Ridiculously pretty? Marcus had always figured it was some kind god’s way of protecting the vain and indolent, thus ensuring income throughout the generations for makers of hair care products and Italian shoes. The delicate balance of nature and all.

Marcus looked over at Morag, who still hadn’t managed to say exactly what Antony was. Well, better minds had tried and failed on that score. It was the look on her face that brought him up short. Naked longing filled her features as she watched his brother. It was embarrassing even to look at her.

“He’s just so what?” he asked gruffly.

“I don’t know,” she said softly, then visibly shook herself. Marcus watched that cool façade slide back into place. “Sophisticated. Sensitive. Clearly of superior intelligence. Your opposite in every way, of course.”

Marcus took a quick look over at Antony again. His brother had positioned himself so that the chandelier would glint off his platinum highlights. Merlin, he looked even more vapid than usual tonight. Marcus would cut him a break though. For the first time in his life, Antony was actually going to be useful.

Marcus strode across the room towards the blonde blockhead. When he’d placed about ten feet between Morag and himself, he turned around and looked at her.

“Coming?” he asked impatiently. She looked uncertain, but clearly didn’t want to draw attention to herself by shouting back and forth to him. She started to hurry over to him, and Marcus resumed striding toward Antony, forcing her to follow along. Antony looked startled at his approach, but had recovered himself by the time they reached him.

“Little brother,” Antony said jovially.

“Pretty boy,” Marcus returned. “Have you met Morag MacDougal?” Morag flushed, and gave Antony a shy smile.

“I’ve admired from afar,” Antony said, smiling down at her. “However, I’ve never had the explicit honor. Are you enjoying the dance?”

Marcus watched, with equal parts amusement and revulsion, as Morag assured Antony that she was having a lovely time at this lovely ball with the lovely hors' douerves. Lovely.

“Do you not enjoy dancing?” Antony asked her. “Or is it that my brother is being inexplicably derelict in his duties?”

“I’m sure you’ll be more than happy to make up for my shocking lack of manners,” Marcus said, with a warning look. “Just remember, elle a seulement seize ans.”

Marcus only knew how to say two sentences in French. Fortunately, “she is only sixteen” and “her husband breeds attack hippogriffs” comprised about sixty percent of what he usually had to say to Antony. Antony gave him a thin-lipped smile.

“Would you mind terribly excusing us for just a moment?” Antony asked Morag, cordially. “My brother hasn’t spoken with me since Yule and there are a few family matters we need to discuss.” Morag hastily protested that that would be fine, family should always come first, and people of character realized that. Marcus rolled his eyes.

After Antony made sure Morag was settled comfortably with a glass of champagne, he drew Marcus over to a quiet corner.

“You want me to dance with your date?” he inquired mildly.

“Yeah,” Marcus said, impatiently. “You’re slow tonight. Usually, all that’s required is to vaguely point you in the direction of something in a skirt.”

“Just wanted to avoid further unpleasantness,” Antony said, calmly. “You’re often difficult to interpret, Marcus. Tonight, you’re shoving your date in my direction. A few months ago, I danced with a girl that you couldn’t stand, and you became quite agitated.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marcus gritted out. “Are you going to do this, or not? If not, I’ll see you next Yule.”

“I’ll do it,” Antony replied. “You have to promise to go to mother’s Mooncalf Protection Society Luncheon next week, though. Oh, and you have to promise not to refer to them as the CowHumpers again.”

“Fine,” Marcus snarled. “You have to keep MacDougal occupied and happy for the rest of the night though.”

“Agreed,” Antony smiled. “Her name is Morass?”

”Morag, you moron.” Merlin.

“Morag,” Antony repeated, concentrating distressingly hard. “You are slipping, by the way, little brother. I would have taken her off your hands for nothing. She’s a lovely girl.” Marcus shot a quick glance at Morag. Dark hair, dark eyes. It wasn’t exactly unprecedented. “As gentleman, we should take pains to make sure that people don’t think you were just trying to get rid of her,” Antony continued. “Possibly you could complain loudly about how hard it is when witches prefer me to you?”

“Possibly I could storm out onto the dance floor under the pretense of a jealous rage and punch you extremely hard in the face?” Marcus countered. “As gentleman, we should not be concerned with trifling matters such as a few loose teeth.”

“Perhaps it would be better to keep things as simple as possible,” Antony said quickly.

They strode back to Morag in silence. She rose and smiled nervously, biting her lip shyly as Antony led her out onto the dance floor. Marcus watched them for a moment, marveling at the way Morag looked at his brother.

How could anyone look at Antony and see intelligence and sensitivity? Maybe that’s what birds did though. Find some guy towards whom they felt some rudimentary physical attraction, and somehow hypnotize themselves into thinking he was something remarkable. To look at some angry, manipulative bastard and see a demi-god. For all he knew, Morgaine might think Brutus was a gladiator.

Sighing, Marcus moved over to the corner table where Morgaine and Brutus were sitting. Waiting for Morgaine to go elsewhere was probably futile; she’d been spell-o-taped to Brutus’ side of late. Besides, Morgaine eventually always got her digs in, and it was never a good idea to let her pick the time and place.

Bloody hell, she was feeding Brutus a piece of chocolate cake.

“Should I be grateful that he can still at least chew without your helpful guidance?” Marcus drawled, sitting down. Brutus jumped guiltily, blushing. “That is only acceptable at your wedding, primarily because I won’t be able to see it through the haze of my tears.”

“Jealous?” Morgaine asked, eyebrow arched. Sighing, Brutus began to read a book he’d had hidden underneath his chair.

“No, I wouldn’t allow you to feed me,” Marcus assured her. “If you want to poison me, you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way… by spitting venom from your fangs.”

“Ah, I forgot that the weak-minded interpret everything literally,” she said sweetly. “Let me re-state: Are you jealous that no woman will ever care enough about you to be upset if you starve?”

”I need women to clean my house, cook my meals and suck my dick, Morgaine. I can take care of eating and dressing myself,” Marcus sneered, holding up his champagne glass in a mock salute. “But hey, to each his own.”

“Please tell me that’s not your toast for the wedding.”

“I’m not really going to do a toast…more a call to arms.”

“Silencio-the bride’s best friend.”

“I’ve always thought that this wedding owed more to Imperius.”

“Only to get the maid of honor to dance with you,” she smiled sweetly.

“I don’t typically have a problem getting witches to do what I want,” he said bluntly.

“Oh?” Something flashed in Morgaine’s eyes and Marcus felt a little uneasy. “Which witches are these?”

“I’m not going to name names,” he said, shortly.

“Oh, you are growing up,” Morgaine purred. “I had hopes that you were when I saw you with your new little friend, Morag MacDougal. Certainly the smartest witch you’ve ever spent time with.”

No, she wasn’t. She wasn’t even close.

“Morgaine,” Marcus said, silkily. “I wasn’t interested in her. I was simply trying to sell Morag on Brutus’ charms…seeing as they’re both so clever. Didn’t work, though. She’s too appalled by where he’s been. As are we all.”

Brutus’ gaze remained fixed on his book, but he reached out and moved the candelabra to where neither of them could reach it. After a moment’s pause, he took Morgaine’s fork and stuck it in his coat pocket.

“Oh, I should have known you weren’t really interested in her,” Morgaine said, eyes simmering. “You’re too much of a pragmatist.”

“As flattered as I am that you spend this much time thinking about the witches in my bed, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Marcus said, feigning boredom.

“Well, why bother getting invested in Morag when she’s almost past her prime? That is why you threw over the little Gryff isn’t it? Much better to start with a twelve or thirteen-year-old. That way you’ll have a few good years before you have to find another.” Bitch.

“I have no idea what Gryff you’re talking about,” Marcus said, coolly. “As for your other statements, we could duel over them I suppose…although I hate to have my retribution constrained by convention.”

“It’s so droll when you pretend not to be obsessed with Katie Bell,” Morgaine laughed. “I was saddened to hear about your recent problems.”

Marcus’ heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. Morgaine didn’t know anything about his problems with Katie. They weren’t even really problems. Katie would calm down. Just because she hadn’t yet, didn’t mean she wasn’t going to.

“That my best friend is engaged to a delusional psychopath? Yes, it is tragic,” he drawled.

“Your problems at the Yule Ball,” she continued blithely. “It must have been heart-wrenching for the poor girl…having you go off and fuck Diana right in front of her. Were you punishing her for something? You should really be more sensitive, Marcus.”

“You should really learn your place, Morgaine. Stick to lolling around, casting hair-styling charms and eating, I don’t know, chocolate-covered cherries. Do you require further education in this?” Fear flashed in Morgaine’s eyes for just a second. It was soothing. In the next second, the arrogance and anger were back.

“You do seem upset, Marcus.” She leaned forward and pitched her voice even lower. “I apologize for what I said about you throwing her over. It was rude and hurtful…especially when it’s now clear to me that it was the other way around.”

Katie hadn’t thrown him over. They were at an impasse, that’s all. He could fix it. He had a wand. There were ways.

“Thank you for your condolences. Somehow I’ll recover from being dumped by a figment of your imagination.”

“I hope you won’t think badly of her because of this,” Morgaine cooed. “She’s spent all these years at school, far away from you, with all those lads…probably they were chatting her up constantly. I’m sure the temptation was nearly constant…”

He knew it. Clearly, Morgaine didn’t know what she was talking about; she was just extrapolating from some clever observations and a lot of nosiness. Katie would never…

“Ah, I get it now,” Marcus said, coldly. “All this was just a roundabout way of justifying infidelity…This is probably something you need to discuss with Brutus, not me.”

“Such a suspicious mind. If things do get back on track between you two, you should really bring the Gryff to the wedding. She’s probably never gotten to go to an event where she wasn’t expected to bring ice or some chairs. I’m sure your mother would find her to be absolutely charming.”

Useless fucking cow. He forced himself to remove his hand from his wand.

“I wouldn’t bring anything I cared about anywhere near you. You’re a virus.” He didn’t sound angry, he noted. He didn’t even sound human. Let her say one more thing…but she had fallen silent.

“Viruses are fascinating,” Brutus interjected. Marcus and Morgaine looked at him in shock. He gazed calmly back at them. “Infinitely changeable, highly adaptable, omnipresent in all environments. I could speak of them at great length. In fact, I plan to start right now.” Marcus forced his jaw to unclench and nodded. Morgaine exhaled.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “Pansy looks upset. I think she had a fight with Draco. I had better go see to her.” She reached out and squeezed Brutus’ hand before going.

“You disappointed me this evening, Marcus,” Brutus said quietly.

That was that, then. Brutus was going to be the big man. Marcus was willing to give him some latitude on the topic of Morgaine, but there were certain subjects Marcus would not allow her to befoul. Brutus needed him, after all. Marcus was fine on his own.

“Yeah?” Marcus said calmly, a warning note in his voice. They looked at each other for a long moment before Brutus looked away.

“You were standing at the top of the stairs, right behind my sister and Malfoy,” Brutus said, cracking a smile. “How hard would it have been for a robust specimen such as yourself to throw young Draco down the stairs?” Marcus let out the breath he had been holding. Thank you, Brutus.

“I thought since we were being photographed at the time, it might not be sufficiently discreet,” Marcus smirked.

“Piffle,” Brutus returned. “I’m sure you could have dissembled well enough to avoid suspicion.”

“If that situation does require attention,” Marcus said seriously, “I will take care of it. Say the word.”

“Thank you,” Brutus replied, just as seriously. “That’s not necessary yet. I just wanted…If you would refrain from trying to make Morgaine’s internal organs external, it would be appreciated.”

Marcus shrugged. No promises there. He could hear Brutus take a deep breath, preparing to force the issue. Blast. Time was when the man knew when to shut up. Why couldn’t Morgaine come and stick her tongue in his ear now?

“How many chizpurfles can dance on the head of a pin? Why are the Portuguese such lousy Quidditch players? If a tree falls on someone and kills them, and no one else is around, did it make a sound? Why would you serve food dripping in fluorescent orange sauce at a ball where most of the girls have to wear white? Why do they all have to wear white anyways-is this ball sponsored by the dairy council?”

Terence Higgs did serve a purpose. Who knew?

“You might wonder why I’ve all of a sudden developed such a thirst for truth.” Terence told Brutus, earnestly, as he sat down. “It’s because I’ve recently discovered that I’m a philosopher.”

“The tireless search for answers is a thirsty job.” Brutus said dryly. “Let me fetch you some hemlock.” Terence gestured rudely at him. “Have any great insights been visited upon you?”

“Only that Marcus is an unadulterated bastard,” Terence informed him, slumping in his chair.

“What did he do now?” Brutus asked curiously.

“Completely fucked up my chances with Spinnet for this evening,” Terence replied morosely.

“Really sorry, Higgs,” Marcus sneered. “I know this must be especially difficult for you now that you’ve finally overcome your maiden modesty and managed to talk to a girl.” Brutus snickered.

“I was making headway after a hundred attempts, and you come barreling in because you don’t want to actually have to spend time with your date?”

“MacDougal bored me,” Marcus grinned. “Lighten up. It’s not like you and Spinnet aren’t going to be at a thousand terminally boring events just like this before you both shall die. So you’ll have to wait another month before you see her knickers.”

“At which point in time you’ll probably come barging in, demanding that I dance with your date or otherwise serve as your lovely assistant,” Terence said sourly.

“Merlin, Higgs, I won’t be there,” Marcus scoffed. “Remember…I’m the one of us who isn’t some society lapdog. I plan to avoid dilettantes, dancing and dowagers for the rest of my life. My final fucking appearance, gentlemen.”

“That raises a point,” Terence said. “Why are you here tonight, mate? Tongues are all a wag.”

“Any particular interesting theories?”

“About half of the people, of which I am one, think you’re sucking up to Malcolm MacDougal to facilitate some business dealings. Most of the other half, all of whom have apparently never met you, think you’re looking for a wife.” Terence paused, before casting a sly look at Brutus. “Parkinson thinks your mother made you do it.”

“All I said,” Brutus protested, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture, “was that your mother somehow makes you go to the Yule Ball every year. I thought similar pressure might have been brought to bear.”

“He thinks you’re a sniveling cream puff,” Terence translated, gleefully.

“You’re both wrong,” Marcus said, leaning back in his chair. “I just get off on being surrounded by girls who are dressed like druids. It’s very pagan.”

“Really?” Terence considered. “Kind of hot. As long as they’re ‘I enjoy the occasional natter with a tree’ types, and not the ‘please allow me to bury you alive in this peat bog’ sort.”

“It has nothing to do with the Celtic priesthood,” Brutus said, rolling his eyes. “The white robes symbolize virginity,” he lectured. “Debutante balls probably have their roots in ancient rituals such as harvest festivals, or sacrifices to the sun gods.”

Marcus considered. This evening wouldn’t have been half bad if he’d been allowed to throw Morag into a volcano.

“Of course, now it’s been stripped of its more primal elements,” Brutus continued. “We’re left with mainly virgins, dancing and feasting.”

“Sure,” Terence scoffed. “Like any of these girls are virgi-Ouch!” He glared at Marcus who had just elbowed him extremely hard in the ribs. Realization dawned. “Except for Pansy,” he assured an agitated Brutus. “Untouched. Completely. Hear she’s famed for it.”

“Absolutely,” Marcus chimed in. “It was in the Slytherin newsletter.” Brutus cast them both withering looks, before returning to his book.

“Although I’d be sorely disappointed with the boys of Slytherin if there are any other virgins at Hogwarts above 5th year,” Terence snickered.

“Shut your mouth,” Marcus snapped, “or I’ll rip off your dick and gag you with it.” Terence and Brutus both froze.

“Sorry, mate,” Terence apologized after an uncomfortable silence, obviously baffled. “You have a sister that you’ve never mentioned to us?” he joked. Marcus forced himself to laugh, as his blood roared in his ears.

“Nah, I just enjoy threatening you, Higgs.” Merlin, his voice sounded tight. Breathe. “I think it’s the lovely shade of puce you turn when you’re about to wet your pants.”

“I just enjoy being friends with you, Flint,” Terence returned. “I think it’s the fact that I seem even more handsome and intriguing when I’m standing next to your ugly self.” Marcus rolled his eyes.

“Dare I ask what sophisticated witticisms and trenchant observations have been uttered in my absence?” Migraine had slipped quietly up behind them. If Brutus insisted on keeping her around, he was going to have put a bell on her.

“Well, next year we think they should sacrifice one of the debutantes to ensure a good harvest,” Terence said airily. “Oh, and if Marcus had a sister? She would definitely be a virgin.”

“If there was a family resemblance, that would be a certainty,” Morgaine said coolly, sitting down and studiously not looking at Marcus. “Virginity and bloodletting? Throw in a few huffy words about the garish state of robes today, and they’ll let you join the Witches Abstinence Coalition.”

“What do they do at those meetings anyways?” Terence asked curiously. “Just sit around and refrain from having sex? Compare and contrast different types of chastity belts?”

“Maybe they try to attack the problem of promiscuity at its source,” Marcus offered, snickering. “Run around putting up wanted posters of Diana Bletchley.”

“Speaking of La Bletchley, where is she?” Brutus mused, looking around. “Tonight has seemed strangely lacking in cleavage.”

Thank Salazar. Marcus was still fucking paying for his last run-in with her. There was a witch who needed a bell around her neck. And a muzzle.

“I think the Cauldron Club doesn’t send her an invitation,” Marcus sniped. “Don’t want her around the little debs in case being a complete and utter slag is contagious.”

“Probably a wise choice,” Terence smirked. “She does advertise her lifestyle.”

“Ah…Diana isn’t fit to associate with these pure young girls? What a threat to their virtue she is. ” Morgaine drawled, eyebrow raised. “Brutus, dance with me please. I must escape this miasma of hypocrisy.”

“I’m not a threat to anyone’s virtue,” Brutus told her earnestly, standing and taking her hand.

“I know you’re not,” she said contentedly, giving him a quick kiss as they walked towards the dance floor. Marcus and Terry rolled their eyes.

“So do I have to buy them a wedding gift?” Terence asked sourly. “I paid for the drinks when we threw that intervention for him.”

“What a waste that was,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “I don’t think he even read all of ‘Articles against Morgaine: Musings from a Concerned Public.’” Such a waste, really. It had been quite the treatise.

“I mean, what would be an appropriate gift in these circumstances?” Terence complained. “Brutus, you’ve just shackled yourself to a viper. Here are some candlesticks.”

“You could give him a signed affidavit that you won’t sleep with his wife,” Marcus suggested.

“Would that work?” Terence asked hopefully. “That would be highly cost-effective.”

“And in this case, no hardship.”

“When’s his stag party going to be?” Terence asked, sounding disturbingly upbeat at the prospect. “You’re the best man, after all. Montague and I are mere attendants.”

“Just as soon as any of three things are possible,” Marcus drawled. “1. Montague suddenly developing the ability to not annoy the fuck out of me. 2. You spending more than twenty consecutive minutes with your pants zipped and your mouth shut. 3. Brutus being able to look at naked women with an emotion other than unease.”

“No stag party? You’re a lousy best man, mate.”

“Be grateful I’m not throwing him a wake.”

“I’m going to go see if Montague wants to do his duty, if you’re not going to,” Terence chided. “He and I can at least pour some drinks into Brutus, and take him to see the MagicaExotica show or something. It’s tradition.”

“Because when you think of the erotic uses of snidgets, you think of Brutus.”

Terence gave him a superior look, and headed over to talk to Montague. Nothing could stop him when he thought he had the moral high ground. Maybe it was the rarity value. Montague, Terence and Brutus in an evening of male bonding—talk about your meeting of the minds. Eh, what did Marcus know? They’d probably like it. After they were done drinking, they could paint each other’s toenails.

A couple of the braver attendees came over to discuss Quidditch for a bit. There wasn’t that much to talk about, though. Marcus really didn’t feel like listening to geezers drone on about how much better the game used to be, when they played on glorified twigs and decapitations were frequent, to hear them tell it. As for the current season? The Falcons were doing well. They could always do better, though. They would do better.

The young wizarding world was in full rut, he saw. Girls in white, blokes in black…paired off in perfect symmetry, one from column A and one from column B. Brutus was earnestly explaining something to Morgaine as they danced. Marcus would wager his broom that the look of rapt adoration on her face was feigned.

He didn’t think his brother and MacDougal had left the dance floor since Marcus had managed to foist her off. From the way Morag was gazing besottedly up at Antony, she still hadn’t managed to do the arithmancy. Blast. Marcus should have told her that his brother was an aspiring poet. It would have been priceless to see what Antony would come up with. Knowing Antony, he’d probably end up rhyming “Morag” with “not a slag”, or “should bring an overnight bag.” Knowing Antony’s effect on women, she’d probably end up nominating him for poet laureate.

Marcus wanted to take his broom and get out of there. Go fly through the Forbidden Forest, weaving and ducking so fast that it wasn’t even possible to identify the creatures that reached out for him. Maybe go to Dover again and race headlong at the cliffs; turning aside at the last possible moment, feeling the limestone graze his robes, just a second away from becoming a stain on the white surface. Better yet, maybe tonight was a perfect time to finally grab his invisibility cloak and go down into the Tube tunnels, trying to stay ahead of the Muggle trains in the dark. Find out how good he really was.

Maybe he would.

Maybe he should watch himself. He already knew two things: First, that he was better on a broom than anyone else and second, that no one was perfect. If he already knew that, there wasn’t much for the tunnels to teach him. If he was going to risk leaving some of his plans unaccomplished, he’d better have some justification. Did he have any?

No. He didn’t.

Marcus didn’t have to sit there and watch the mating dance of the latest crop of the finely bred, however. There was better whiskey and better company-that is, none at all-back at his flat. He stood up and started moving towards the door.

“Marcus, come over here,” Terry called. Marcus raised an arm in greeting, but kept moving.

“Hey,” Terence broke away from conversation with two witches whose make-up probably weighed more than their dress robes. “Good idea, mate. Let’s go get a pint at the Dragon and Dugbog.”

“I was thinking higher alcohol content and fewer people,” Marcus said, shortly.

“If we hit the pub, we could pick up some witches.”

“Not interested.”

“Strip club?”

”Even less interested.”

“Alright. We can pick up some witches, pick some fights or pick our noses,” Terence said exasperatedly. “Your choice.”

“While those are your favorite three activities, Higgs,” Marcus sneered, “some of us prefer to do other things.”

“You want to partake in your favorite activity?” Terence asked, grinning. “Alright, we can brood.”

“You are aware that brooding requires silence?”

“Absolutely, my liege. You will have to help me with the finer distinctions though: is this going to be a teeth-clenched suppressed rage sort of thing, or a more lugubrious moping?”

“Isn’t that Spinnet?” Marcus asked, pointing in a completely random direction. Terence stopped and whirled around.

“I don’t see her,” he said disappointedly.

“I think she’s sitting at that table over there. That woman’s bustle is in the way.”

“I’ll go check,” said Terence happily. “Stay here.”

“Sure thing,” Marcus replied easily. As Terence disappeared behind a gaggle of giggling witches, Marcus moved quickly to the door and out into the night.

<>

Detained Chapter 6 -- Alteration

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 04:42:41 GMT

March, Falcon’s dressing room

She’d be here. Not that it was that important.

The Magpies trailed the Falcons by only a few points in the standings. Montague had just been brought up from the reserve team for the Magpies. Marcus knew he would have to watch himself; the ref for this game had already complained about him to the league. Marcus couldn’t risk another suspension. That was what he needed to care about right now, not some indecisive schoolgirl.

This was brutal. He’d won. Katie had admitted that she wanted him; he’d pulled the words out of her to end their years long battle. For the first time ever, though, she wasn’t playing by the rules. She’d all of a sudden become fickle and teasing, holding out for something that she wouldn’t even name. Gods, she drove him mad. Marcus had always figured that they both knew what was supposed to happen when she caved. She was supposed to get in his bed and stay there.

He’d see her after. Right now he needed to concentrate, and soak up the silence. He grinned as the rookie keeper tiptoed quietly past, trying not to disturb Marcus’ pre-game ritual. In this room, at least, he got respect. All right, game first and then Bell later. The Magpies’ keeper was out of this world, so he’d have to pay more attention to defense. Montague would be on the left side, so Marcus would need to shift-

“Do you like these socks?”

Bloody hell. Everyone else in the room is whispering to avoid disturbing him, and Galloway decides this is a great time to discuss knitwear.

Garrick “Galahad” Galloway was one of the best beaters in the league. Marcus had to remind himself of this fact quite often seeing as it was the only thing that kept Galloway alive. Galahad was a boisterous, friendly former Hufflepuff-a Saint Bernard come to life. He backslapped, he told bad jokes and he never, ever shut up. It drove Marcus crazy but his hands were tied; chasers were too dependent on the goodwill of beaters in order to keep their scoring average up, and their teeth intact.

“Hey, do you want a chocolate frog?” Galloway was still rambling. He had the attention span of a snidget. “So this Montague kid, you used to play with him right?”

“Why talk quidditch when we can talk about your socks?” Marcus asked sarcastically.

“OK,” Galloway agreed amiably. “So, I wanted ones with little bludgers but they didn’t have any. They only had snitch ones. So I…” he continued to drone on as Marcus tuned him out.

His eyes settled on the Falcon’s motto, stenciled above the doorway. Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads. He was going to do both and then some.

He felt good. He was going to go out and play the game of his life today. Katie was going to be blown away.

*******

190 to 150, Falcons over Magpies. 17 goals past the best keeper in Britain. Flying so well that he’d managed to trick the Magpie beaters into sending bludgers into their teammates on three occasions. Undisputed control of first place thanks to his performance.

Marcus sat on a bench in the locker room. It was over. It had been his greatest ambition since he first got on a broom, and he’d finally gotten there. Everyone who had seen the game would be saying it: Marcus Flint had no equal on the pitch. No one could touch him now.

He was the best chaser in the league. Who the fuck was Katie Bell?

“Well played, m’boy! Well played!” The jubilant tones of the Falcons owner, Vernon Helmsley, jolted Marcus out of his reverie. He hurriedly stood, and shook the outstretched hand. The old man’s fierce grip almost ground his bones together, and Marcus forced a smile onto his face.

“Next game will be better,” Marcus returned confidently.

“I don’t see how it could be,” Helmsley chuckled. “Mind you, I was worried when you dropped the quaffle right in front of me at the beginning of the game. Isn’t that always the way? Nobody ever screws up in front of the cheap seats. Worked out well for me though. That prat owner of the Magpies offered to double our bet when he saw your fumble. Took him for 5000 galleons, I did! He said he was going to complain to the league about your alleged stooging, but we’ve weathered worse storms, m’boy.” The man clumped Marcus on the shoulder one more time, before moving on to congratulate the Falcons’ new keeper, cackling merrily. Marcus was forcibly reminded of a leprechaun who had traded in the gold for firewhiskey.

Galloway was standing at his locker in his boxer shorts, fixing a cut on his face. If Marcus wasn’t mistaken, he was singing the theme song to “Dugbogs Ahoy!” Yeah, yeah he was.

“They’ve given up the mandrake. Live off lollipops and seed cake. No more marshes. Good bye galoshes. Our friends have headed out to seaaaaa!“ Galloway sang happily while lacing up his boots. Bloody fruitcake.

“I hope you carefully prepared your pal for life in the top box, Galloway,” Marcus sneered. “It must have been quite a shock for him, what with all the caviar, champagne and non-plastic spoons.”

Galahad just smiled and looked at him expectantly.

“Feel free to chip in, and take an intellig-, well, at least an interest in things,” Marcus said irritably.

“Sorry, mate.” Galloway grinned at him. “It’s just that usually if I stare blankly at people, they hurry up and explain whatever the bloody hell they’re yammering about. It saves effort.” Cheeky bloke.

“I was just surprised to see your best girl, Charlie Weasley, up in the premiere seats,” Marcus said snidely. “Pretty gallant of you mate.” He watched Galahad carefully.

“Charlie’s here?” Galahad asked happily. “No way.”

“Yeah, hobnobbing with society. If you hurry up, you can probably catch him,” Marcus replied coolly. “I’m sure he’s still up there, with all the debutantes and free food. Although I cannot imagine who, besides your insufferable self, would give him a ticket.”

“I’ll go catch him then,” Galloway said happily. “See if he wants to go for a drink.”

“Run along. Seeing as you broke Montague’s nose with that beautiful move today, I’m feeling generous. I’ll swing by the pub and buy you both an ale,” Marcus offered brusquely.

“Thought you had plans?” Galloway asked curiously, pulling his robes on.

“No,” Marcus replied, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Dress robes in your locker.” Blast. Did all of Galloway’s synapses get together and decide today would be the day they would fire?

“I just need to make a quick appearance somewhere. Drink some champagne. Deflower some virgins.”

“You’ll leave all that to come hang out with Charlie and me?” Galloway asked, widening his eyes in mock surprise. “That will mean so much to us, coming from our lord and master.”

“If you’re very good, I’ll show the both of you how to use a fork,” Marcus shot back. Galloway replied with a short bark of laughter and a rude gesture, before sauntering out of the dressing room to find his friend.

That was handled then.

“Wallowing in your quaffle hog glory, Flint, or just wishing you knew how to count well enough to know how many points you scored today?” Quentin Warbeck, lesser Falcons chaser, sneered. Quentin’s perpetual scowl did manage to lessen the nauseating effect of his pretty boy face. Slightly.

“Come now, Warbeck. Quidditch is a team game, didn’t you know?” Marcus smirked back. “And in that spirit, let me be the first to congratulate you on your goals. Oh, sorry… goal.”

Warbeck opened his mouth, then shut it quickly, before spinning on his heel and storming out of the locker room. All those Ravenclaw brains and he couldn’t come up with a comeback in less than a long weekend. Good of Warbeck to throw a tantrum in front of the owner, the coach and the captain though. Nice of him to make Marcus’ life so easy.

He should get the post-game political crap done with so he could get to the pub. Marcus forced himself to slowly make his way around the room, exchanging a few words with rookies and veterans alike. Laughing at jokes, complimenting plays, pretending to give a flying fuck. Marcus finished up with a quiet discussion of the game with Dylan Broadmoor. Broadmoor had been Captain for forever, a force in the league before Marcus even went to Hogwarts. Marcus could almost even muster up some sadness at the fact that Dylan would be retiring within the next few years. Almost.

Listening to all the blather was worth it though. Marcus Flint would be the next Captain of the Falmouth Falcons. Warbeck would have to settle for being the next spokesmodel for SpellSuds shampoo.

Marcus glanced at the clock. Galloway was probably at the pub by now. Just one more thing to do.

“Great game, kid,” Marcus muttered to the new keeper, who was standing in a corner of the dressing room talking to his parents and girlfriend. “Look, why don’t you head over to Merveilleux to celebrate. They’ll put it on my tab. Not every day you get a shut-out in your first game.”

“You could get a table there?” the cute little girlfriend gasped. “I heard it takes months to get in.”

“I had them reserve the entire restaurant,” Marcus informed her coolly. “Who wants people gabbing all around them when you’re trying to enjoy a meal?” They looked stupid enough to believe that that was something Marcus did all the time.

“I hear you can see the entire city from there,” the mother chipped in excitedly, “It floats high above the Tower Bridge, right?”

“Enjoy.” Marcus said smoothly, then turned to go. Merveilleux would only be expecting two people, but they’d improvise. They were a restaurant; they should bloody well have food. Paying that many galleons so a teammate could have a celebration would seem eccentric, but better that than pathetic. It would start far fewer tongues wagging than no one showing up would. Plus, ninety percent of the time that kid got hold of the quaffle from now on, he would be passing it to Marcus. Maybe everything had worked out for the best. Maybe now, Marcus thought, he’d just be able to get past this thing with Bell.

He’d do that. Right after he went to the pub.

***********

The Drunken Keeper was packed, but the men inside hurriedly stepped out of Marcus’ way. A few of the women stepped into his path, but a snarl and a glimpse of his teeth was enough to dissuade them. Broom bunnies weren’t noted for their bravery.

Galloway and Weasley were at a corner table with a couple of giggling witches. A girl with cleavage on offer was draped all over the Weasel. Interesting. Either he wasn’t involved with Bell or that Gryff halo had become tarnished since Hogwarts. Maybe Marcus had been reading the situation wrong. Possibly his owl hadn’t even reached Bell…and Weasley had just found the ticket where it had been dropped.

Marcus refused to admit he’d even thought that.

He moved toward their table, looking for someone he knew and hadn’t knocked off their broom in the last year. There were a few blokes standing there that looked familiar. Marcus sauntered over, and immediately got dragged into a conversation on the crackdown on broom modifications. Marcus was all for it. The league should throw the book at you…if you were stupid enough to use detectable spells. It wasn’t like they employed aurors to do the broom checks.

Marcus let his mouth run on auto-spell, occasionally interjecting ‘yeah’ or ‘Firebolt’ or ‘bloody idiot’ into the conversation. Merlin, had people always been this boring? Why hadn’t Galloway hailed him over yet? Maybe he’d finally managed to drink himself literally blind.

“Flint!” Finally.

“The grown-ups are talking now, Galloway,” he bellowed back. “Why don’t you go play with your broomstick?”

“FLINT!” Galloway apparently felt loud trumped clever. Eh, Marcus had played hard-to-get for long enough. He strolled over to the boisterous beater and his little redheaded pal.

“Did you need help figuring out which orifice to pour that ale down, Galloway?” Marcus asked. “Let’s not have a repeat of that unfortunate nostril incident.”

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Marcus,” Galloway beamed at him. “You’ve come through once again.”

“What?”

“Belinda and Morella wouldn’t believe that you could possibly be as unpleasant as I said,” Galahad replied, beaming at the two giggling witches. “Ladies, did I lie?”

“Being a good teammate, I’d typically never object to being used in your quest to get a leg over,” Marcus replied, grinning at the outraged gasp from the witches. “However, what with the rash and your statutory case coming up, maybe you should cool it.”

Galloway spluttered, and the witches looked at each other uncertainly. Galloway might still have been able to charm them if it hadn’t been for Charlie Weasley collapsing in gales of laughter. The braless twins hurriedly excused themselves. Marcus took one of their chairs.

“Bastard,” Galloway said morosely, shaking his head. He brightened after a minute though. “You owe me a drink! Firewhiskey, the reserve, if you please. The same for Charlie.” He grinned sunnily.

Marcus hailed a waitress and ordered them doubles. The drunker Weasley got, the easier this would be. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long. Marcus wanted out of there before Galloway got drunk enough to sing.

“Thanks,” Charlie nodded at him, and held out his hand to shake. “Charlie Weasley. You were a few years behind me at Hogwarts, right? Slytherin house?” Weasley’s voice was friendly, but his eyes definitely flickered with something else. Marcus felt his lip curl.

“Gryff seeker, right?” he drawled.

“Not this house rivalry crap again,” Galloway groaned. “I insist you come up with better reasons for hating each other. Charlie, I can provide a list of Marcus’ faults if you like. Marcus hates seekers on principle, so that’s settled.”

“Why do you hate seekers?” Charlie asked curiously.

“You’ve got twelve players on the pitch who are all about the quaffle, and strategy and teamwork. Then you’ve got two blokes buzzing around chasing after some bird substitute. They have nothing to do with the real game; yet, they end up deciding the outcome, more often than not. The snitch is worth too many points. It’s bad for the game,” Marcus replied coolly. Plus, seekers were brain-dead, lightweight glory hounds to a man, he added silently. He’d explain that later, after Weasley told him what he needed to know.

It did raise a fair point, though. Bell was a chaser, and no bimbo. She’d never go for a seeker. Marcus would bet his broom on that. The Spinnets and Greengrasses of the world went for seekers, not his clever Katie. By Hades, how had Weasley gotten that ticket?

“Galloway,” Marcus started. “Did you still need extra tickets for the Ballycastle game? I know somebody who has some good seats for sale.” Good seats should lead directly to questions about how a Weasley ever got admitted to the top box. It’s not like there were that many connections in Galahad’s brain.

“Yeah, thanks, mate,” Galloway replied. “That reminds me…Charlie, have you ever been to Belfast?”

Unfortunately, the connections that did exist appeared to be completely fucking random.

An hour later, and Marcus was almost shaking in frustration. Weasley just wasn’t steerable. Marcus had learned about the mating habits of the Antipodean Opaleye, the whereabouts of the best Chinese restaurant in Bucharest, and the date of Bill Weasley’s stag party. He had not learned anything about quidditch tickets, Charlie’s shags, or his views on a certain snippy blonde chaser.

Maybe he should just get out of here. It would be easier to get the story straight from Bell; when she looked at him, the words just tumbled out. Snape wanted to see him any way. It didn’t even need to look like Marcus had come for her. He had wanted to be prepared though, to know just how angry he needed to be. Well, screw it. It was no wonder that Weasley and Galloway were pals. Flobberworms were better drinking companions. Marcus set his glass down, and started to rise.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Galloway slurred. “You can’t do that to me.”

“Weasley not meeting your needs, Galloway?” Marcus returned snidely.

“Compared to you, witches find me appealing,” Galloway laughed. “Next to the guy that has women throwing themselves, and amazing quidditch tickets, at him? Not so much.”

“What?” Marcus sat again, forcing his hands to unclench.

“Some girl sent him that ticket. Can you believe it?” Galloway marveled. “I think a girl gave me some gum once.”

Some girl, Marcus told himself. There are lots of girls. It isn’t necessarily Katie.

“Yeah?” Marcus asked, looking over at Weasley. He looked embarrassed, but shrugged and grinned.

“It’s true,” Charlie laughed. “I am irresistible…to girls who haven’t even bloody seen me in years. I’m deadly at a distance. I’m considering moving to Tahiti.”

“A girl just sent you this ticket out of the blue?” Marcus sneered. “Better be careful or she’s liable to take liberties.”

“Hey, a girl who has access to tickets like that should be allowed full and easy access by any right-thinking man,” Galloway said, eyes twinkling. “I do hope you lived up to your responsibilities to the little miss, Charlie.”

“I don’t think they allow conjugal visits to the nutcase floor at St. Mungo’s,” Marcus interjected.

“She doesn’t have to be insane to really want to take a ride on Charlie’s broomstick,” Galloway chided with overdone sincerity. “Just…unconventional.”

“Is that Hufflepuff jargon for delusional?” Marcus shot back.

“Now, Marcus, I’ve heard Charlie is quite the stallion,” Galloway said, nodding knowingly.

“Hey!” Charlie broke in, looking simultaneously amused, aggravated and appalled. “Before you two start undressing me with your eyes, let me state the following facts in my defense: This girl is a friend of my little brothers, OK? She had a crush on me when she was about seven, probably because I showed her how to slow her broom down without having to steer it into a tree. Katie’s a sweet kid, that’s all.”

There it was then. Question answered. Katie had used his gift to try to get in Weasley’s pants. That was pretty conniving. Marcus supposed he should be proud.

She didn’t want him. Well, at least not as much as she wanted Weasley.

His first instinct was to leave. Get on his broom or go on a bender or both. No one would think twice about his leaving. A Flint staying at a table with a Weasley is what people would find strange. Weasley didn’t know Marcus well enough to pick up on anything wrong. No point in even worrying about Galloway; Marcus would have to tattoo it on his forehead before anything sunk into that thick skull.

No. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t going to run away from this like some pathetic boy. Marcus was going to have another firewhiskey and look at the man that Katie Bell preferred to him. Let it sink in. Maybe this time he’d be able to remember that dealings with Katie always ended up with him looking stupid and feeling worse.

“You got that ticket from Katie Bell?” Marcus scoffed. “Doubtful. She’d have to raffle off her internal organs in order to afford it.”

“I didn’t say it was Katie Bell,” Charlie replied, eyes narrowed. “Do you know her?” What a pillock.

“Named Katie. Friends with the pestilential Weasley twins. At home on a broom. Young enough for you to call her a kid. Daft enough to be interested in you. Uninteresting enough to be described as a ‘sweet girl’,” Marcus rattled off, as dispassionately as possible. “It wasn’t bloody arithmancy.”

“You seem to know a lot about a girl who was years behind you and in a different house,” Charlie persisted.

“You don’t seem to know much about anything, Weasley,” Marcus retorted. “I was Quidditch captain. She was on an opposing team. Unlike you, I don’t think the captain’s duties can be summed up by ‘See snitch. Pretty snitch. Go catch.’”

Charlie leaned forward, bristling. Marcus hoped he was stupid enough to take a swing.

“I think you two are both overlooking the important issues here,” Galloway said mildly. Once they had stopped glowering at each other and looked at him, Galloway elaborated. “1. How old is she? 2. Is she hot? 3. Does she like Irishmen?”

“You’ll have to negotiate with Weasley for her, Galahad,” Marcus smiled coldly, eyes not leaving Charlie’s face. “His family has right of first refusal for all Gryff pieces of ass. They’re pretty desperate though. A set of second-hand robes would probably do it.”

“What is with you, Flint?” Charlie asked, annoyed.

“I’m just helping Galloway with Weasley shagging etiquette,” Marcus replied smoothly. He glanced over at Galloway, smirking. “Does it matter to you if Charlie does her first, though, mate? I’m thinking Bell should get some sort of reward for her generosity.”

“Flint, I don’t care what you say about the slags of Slytherin, but shut up about Katie,” Charlie said, angrily. “She doesn’t deserve to be dragged through the slime that you call a psyche.” Go get on your fucking horse, Lancelot.

“I’m the ungallant one here?” Marcus asked in mock surprise, deriving bitter enjoyment from the way Charlie’s jaw clenched. “Don’t bestir yourself too much, Charles. She’s no virgin. I’m pretty sure a couple of your brothers have had her.” Weasley seemed like the sort who wouldn’t want hand-me-downs. Well, it would be Charlie’s little brothers…so would that be hand-me-ups? He’d have to ask Bell someday.

“Maybe we should have you to stick to butterbeer in the future, young Master Flint,” Galloway joked, a little uneasily. “Let’s all go home, throw up and pass out.”

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed in low tones. “I think I’ve heard your pal talk enough shite about an innocent young girl.”

‘An innocent young girl.’ Well, looked like Bell would have to get used to disappointment. ‘Chivalrous Charlie’ talked about her like she was five. Katie would have to find some other self-righteous wanker to break her cherry. Hopefully, one who was less into blathering and more willing to take his fucking wand out already. Weren’t Gryffs supposed to care about fair maiden’s honour and all that crap?

“There’s a difference between a girl being innocent and just unwanted, Weasley,” Marcus sneered. “If you’re so concerned about her, why not give her a pity shag?”

“Did Katie Bell kick your crup or something?” Charlie asked. The anger was still there but suspicion was there as well. “Maybe she just embarrassed you on the pitch one too many times, huh, Flint? I wonder what she could possibly have done for you to hate her this much.”

Marcus froze.

Sloppy, Flint. You’re so obvious that even a Weasley can twig that something’s off. Was he going to let some spindly little girl throw him this badly? He really needed to pull it together.

“Actually, Weasel, I’m trying to see if you have any balls at all,” Marcus drawled lazily. “I’d always heard that Weasleys, embarrassment to pureblood wizardry though they are, were honorable. Yet I call a ‘sweet kid’, a long-time friend of your family’s I might add, a pathetic little slut who should be passed around like a quaffle…and you sit there like your arm is fucking broken.” Marcus grinned as Weasley visibly flinched before recovering.

“I was taught that we should pity the deranged, not fight with them,” Charlie replied dismissively. “Maybe you should go duel with one of the voices in your head.”

“Maybe you should run away like the sniveling little coward you are,” Marcus said, leaning forward.

“Maybe we should have another drink?” Galloway interjected hopefully. “At separate locations, I think.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Charlie said, not taking his eyes off Marcus. “It was good to see you Galahad, although I don’t think much of your taste in friends.” He started to rise. No way. There was no way Weasley got to walk out of here in the same condition he walked in.

“You know, I never knew you were a coward.” Marcus said thoughtfully. “I always thought that the reason you turned your back on a lucrative quidditch career, while your brothers were going through Hogwarts with second-hand books and third-hand robes, was because you were selfish and stupid. Way to help out your family, Weasley.” That had finally done it.

Marcus thought he had his wand ready a second before Charlie did. It didn’t matter though. The necessary swish movements were impossible with someone holding your wrist in an iron grip. Interfering moron.

Keeping his eyes on Charlie’s wand, Marcus tried to pull his arm away from Galloway, but was held firm. He risked a glance over. What in Merlin’s name was Galloway doing? Usually he looked so benign that it was easy to overlook how big he really was. Blast.

“Drop your wand,” Galloway rumbled, voice stern.

“Hear that Weasley?” Marcus smirked. “Be a good boy and do what the Happy Hufflepuff says.”

“Shut it, Marcus!” Galloway demanded. “Unless you want to explain why you’re so hell bent on picking a fight with Charlie.”

“I’m bored,” Marcus drawled. “Now be a good boy, Galahad, and let go of my arm.”

“No. I’m holding you here until you drop your wand,” Galloway said firmly. “I’m not going to let you start throwing curses and causing trouble just because you’re in a bad mood. It’s behaviour unbecoming a Falcon.”

“Unbecoming a Falcon?” Marcus asked, incredulously. “Don’t you remember our motto? You should, seeing as it’s tattooed on your ass.” Giggles rang out from the direction of the bar, and Galloway blushed but didn’t loosen his grip.

Marcus considered his options. Weasley still had his wand trained on him, unfortunately. He could disarm Weasley or wrench himself away from Galloway, but not both. Maybe Weasley could do his work for him.

“Always have the Irish Idiot handicap in duels, Charles?” Marcus sneered. “I bet you’ll conveniently need to go back to Romania before we settle this.” No reaction showed in Charlie’s face, but Marcus could see his hand tighten on his wand.

“Let him go, Galahad,” Charlie said, voice tight. Excellent. At least Marcus would have the memory of Bell’s boy spitting teeth to savor. It really was a good thing that Weasley was no brighter than he looked.

“Uh, no.”

Marcus and Charlie froze, then both turned to look at Galloway in amazement.

“I said to let him go, Galahad,” Charlie said calmly, wand never wavering.

“I said ‘no’,” Galloway returned, resolutely. “Marcus is going to drop his wand. You’re going to grab your cloak and go. I am going to get some sleep, and then get some normal friends.”

Just great timing for Galloway to issue a bloody emancipation proclamation.

The pub had gotten very quiet. So far everyone was just gaping, but the publican was hovering by the fireplace, probably getting ready to contact the MLE. Getting hauled in by the Muggle Loving Eunuchs would just be the perfect ending to a truly marvelous day.

“Just drop the wand, Marcus,” Galloway said, half pleading and half demanding.

“No,” Marcus said, not even bothering to look at him. If he was going to do anything, he had to do it now. He yanked his arm, twisting as hard as he could. Galloway tightened his grip reflexively, and searing pain shot through Marcus’ arm. Marcus twisted violently once more, and he was as surprised as anyone by the cracking sound. Galloway dropped his arm quickly, shocked.

Ironically, Marcus’ fingers didn’t have the strength to hold his wand, and it fell to the ground. A quick glance at Galloway and Charlie showed that Marcus was the only one who found it funny. He laughed even harder at the disconcerted look on Weasley’s face.

Charlie had dropped his wand to his side. Marcus considered rushing him, but there really didn’t seem to be a point. Bell would find some milquetoast replacement for Weasley. Marcus would be on to bigger and better things. Weasley…well, maybe some public-spirited Horntail would finish him off. One could only hope.

“You are the most insufferable bastard I have ever met,” Charlie said softly, shaking his head. With a quick nod to Galloway, he turned and started to leave the pub. The other patrons quickly returned to their drinks.

“Give my best to Bell,” Marcus called after him. Charlie paused briefly, and then kept walking. Now, Marcus just had to deal with Galloway, and then he could go home and drink.

“Sorry about your wrist,” Galloway muttered. “Get a healer to look at it, OK?”

Marcus nodded, and Galloway stood staring at him for a minute.

“Go home, Huffleboy,” Marcus drawled.

“Do you have to be so bloody…’you’ all the time?” Galloway asked sorrowfully, burly body and serious demeanor making him look like a plush-toy vicar.

“I don’t have any one else to be,” Marcus replied coolly. Galloway nodded slowly, then turned and left the pub. He didn’t look back.

Everyone else pretended not to look at Marcus. Marcus pretended not to notice.

**************

Snape’s office, two weeks later

“Patterns are dangerous, Mr. Flint.”

Marcus bit back a comment on the perils of paisley and waited, as Snape coolly appraised him. Marcus couldn’t decide whether it was Snape’s cunning, skill with potions, or the fact that he never bloody blinked that got him the head of Slytherin job. He waited. Snape had summoned him after all. The last place Marcus wanted to be was at Hogwarts.

“Three times in the last two years, you have come to this office,” Snape continued smoothly. “Three times, you have given me information that led to the discovery of illicit potions labs and caches of dark artifacts. Three times, the aurors have arrested servants of the Dark Lord during these raids. Three times, they have heard reports of a man who was in charge of these operations. Yet, this man miraculously has escaped. Three times. Don’t you find that curious?”

Oh, fuck.

“That the aurors have botched things three times?” Marcus replied. “Not really. I do remember the four-day standoff they had with a pig.”

“Ah, yes.” A brief smile touched Snape’s lips. “Auror Parkins’ increasingly hysterical insistence that the squeals heard coming from the building were from Death Eaters torturing their victims. Odious man. Gryffindor.”

Marcus smirked, but made no other reply. Snape had demanded this meeting. Snape had insisted it be at Hogwarts instead of Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Snape could bloody well do the work now. Marcus wasn’t in Slytherin House any longer.

“Aurors are, however, trained to look for patterns, Mr. Flint,” Snape continued after a brief pause. “If this one becomes more apparent, there will be inquiries which I believe you would prefer to avoid.”

“They don’t know where the information comes from though, right?” Marcus asked, counterfeit worry in his voice. “That was our deal. Only you would know I was the source.”

“Generating interest and suspicion is an unwise choice,” Snape said in icy tones. “I believe you are aware that it is the old pureblood families who are harassed whenever the Aurors get edgy. There was no link between Flint Industries and the Death Eater raid on the ministry last year, yet I believe you were still subjected to a full audit. How many months were the MLE agents camped out in your mother’s solarium?” Snape’s eyes glittered as Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “I do remain the only one who knows of your generous assistance, as per our agreement.”

Besides Dumbledore, Marcus added silently. The rest of the wizarding world tiptoed around Snape, but Snape would always be Dumbledore’s bitch. Anything that Snape knew that was worth knowing would eventually find it’s way to Dumbledore’s ears. Marcus was counting on it.

“Thank you, Professor,” Marcus replied. “I will strive not to be unsubtle.”

“Very well, Mr. Flint,” Snape replied, flipping through a pile of student essays in a clear gesture of dismissal. “You have the same chamber as last time. I will see you at the quidditch game tomorrow.”

“I’m not staying,” Marcus asserted curtly. Snape paused and set the essays down, studying Marcus. Marcus felt like he was a specimen wriggling on the end of a pin. There had always been rumors that Snape was a highly talented legilimens, but Marcus had to be imagining the sensation of someone rifling through his brain.

“In order to use the Quidditch game as a plausible reason for your presence here, it is in fact necessary for you to attend the aforementioned game,” Snape said, coldly. “One does not need to be particularly subtle to understand that.”

“Didn’t you teach us that deceptions shouldn’t be too perfect, because that draws unwanted attention as well?” Marcus replied quickly. “I helped Malfoy with game strategy in view of several Slytherins. I think my presence here has been sufficiently explained.”

“Perhaps,” Snape said, eyebrow arched. He appraised Marcus for a long moment before continuing. “Very well. I won’t detain you further.”

Surprised that it was that easy, Marcus thanked Snape, and quickly rose. His hand was on the doorknob when Snape spoke again.

“One moment, Mr. Flint. During your time here, you concerned yourself with quidditch and a lucrative smuggling operation among other things, while Mr. Parkinson handled most of your academic duties. I allowed this because your talents and temperament were more aligned with the realities of existence, shall we say, than the uses of bladderwort. You did, after all, receive an education.” Snape paused, and looked at him coolly. “I have allowed you to believe that you carried this out undetected. I sincerely hope this misapprehension has not led you to believe that you are more clever than you actually are.”

Marcus waited to be taken apart and rearranged to Snape’s satisfaction.

“Good evening, Mr. Flint.” Something, possibly amusement, flickered in Snape’s eyes.

Marcus nodded quickly, and left. He couldn’t say the meeting had gone well, but at least it had gone quickly. In three minutes, he’d be out of the building. In ten minutes, he’d be back at his flat. There were corridors in the dungeon that led directly outside, so he should be able to get out of there without even seeing another person. It had gone well enough, he supposed. His only interaction with Bell had been her eyes burning into his back. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, Snape making him come here. At least he got to show her how much she didn’t affect him.

Was the secret passage behind the third tapestry on the left? He was wracking his brain trying to remember the ins and outs of the tunnels when he rounded a corner and almost collided with her.

Katie stood there, biting her lip, looking at him warily. She was in her school robes, but the torchlight flickered off of her hair and her full lips looked red next to her pale skin. What was she doing in the dungeons? She didn’t belong there.

“What are you doing here?” he heard himself ask, voice rasping.

“I was waiting for you,” she said hesitantly. Marcus could feel his traitorous cock start to harden at her words. He just stared at her dumbly, trying to get himself to start breathing again. “Oh, and translating the Hogwarts Unity Helpers manifesto, which appears to be written in the lost tongue of the idiot people.” She jerked her head at the poster behind her.

It was amazing that he hadn’t noticed it before this, seeing as it was about twenty-three different colors, each uglier than the last. There was a drawing of animals that seemed to be engaging in an orgy of some sort. In large pink lettering, it read Four Houses. One World. Either his brain wasn’t yet functioning, or here was something that made even less sense than Bell usually did.

“As far as I can tell,” Katie continued, “‘We must celebrate and respect the diversity of our four great houses’ means ‘Everyone must now act like Hufflepuffs.’ ‘Offer kindness even if you are offered scorn in return—Bridges take time to build’ can be more elegantly stated with the simple ‘Have you hugged a Death Eater today?’” She smiled nervously, waiting for a reply. His tongue was as paralyzed as his feet. Her smile wavered and she turned to examine the poster, avoiding his gaze. “The picture of the four house mascots holding hands and skipping in a circle is also revealing. The hand-holding represents the unity of the houses, and the skipping and frolicking apparently suggest that in the united wizarding world, narcotics will be cheap and plentiful.” She glanced quickly at him again, before jerking her eyes to the poster and speaking even more rapidly. “The drawing isn’t very effective though, as snakes don’t have hands; it looks like the other three are using your mascot to play jump rope. The way that the snake’s teeth are sinking into the eagle’s wing, is a nice metaphor but unintentional, I think.” There was a slight quaver in her voice now. “In other news, badgers and lions will no doubt be delighted to learn that they now have opposable thumbs.”

Marcus forced himself to snap out of the partial trance he had fallen into. What was the matter with him? Let her natter on to someone else. He moved quickly past her, and forced himself to start walking down the corridor with steady measured strides. He looked down, making sure that he really was placing one foot in front of the other. After a few seconds, he could hear Bell’s footsteps following behind him.

Remember Weasley, he told himself. Marcus had taught her, had pursued her, and had sent her gifts. She had insulted him and run from him for years, while pining after Sir Charles. She just let Marcus glimpse hints of the possibilities, and then she moved out of his reach again. There was only one way to view a relationship like that. Even if he’d managed to hide it from everyone else, he knew what it made him.

The footsteps behind him slowed. There. It was done, then. She’d stop and go running back to her tower any second.

“Did you need something, Bell?” he asked, voice hard. Bloody fool.

He heard her approach but didn’t turn around. She stood behind him for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and walked around to face him.

“I just wanted to tell you that it was an amazing game. The Falcons one. I listened to it on the wireless, and you were incredible.” What?

“You gave your ticket away, and then listened to it on the wireless?” he asked incredulously. “Why would you do that? Oh, because hearing about something second-hand is safer than actually experiencing it yourself, right? Perfect metaphor for your life there, Bell.” He sounded good. Cold and contemptuous.
Anger flashed in her eyes for a split second but then it was gone.

“I also wanted to apologize for giving the ticket away like that. It was very rude. I obviously should have just returned it to you,” she said stonily, sounding like she was reading from a script. “I’m sure it was very expensive.”

Part of him wanted to lash out at her, get her scared. The other part wanted to tell her to quit playing with her robes and fidgeting like some overwrought little girl. She still hadn’t learned to keep her guard up. Get some pride, Bell, to go with all that cleverness and determination.

“I got it free, Bell,” he forced himself to say. “It was nothing.”

“That can’t be true,” Katie replied, stubbornly. “People fight duels over seats like that. It was a very big deal. I wouldn’t even know how to get one, even if I could afford it.”

“That’s true, Bell. You couldn’t get your hands on one. It wasn’t a problem for me. Whether you went or not, I figured it made up for me upsetting you after the Yule Ball. Just being a fucking gentleman.” She looked uncertain at that. Good. “If you want to apologize for something, apologize for giving it to Weasley instead of Spinnet or Johnson. It wouldn’t have been a hardship to see one of them after the game. Although if things had gone well, I might have ended up owing you a favor.” He grinned lasciviously. Hurt flooded her eyes, and he felt better than he had in weeks.

“Then I suggest, next time, you send one of them the ticket,” Katie said, quietly. “Good luck this season.” She turned and walked away.

“You’re just a piece of ass to him, do you know that?” he called after her.

She stopped and turned to face him. Even from 30 feet away, he could see her puzzlement. He approached her before elaborating.

“Charlie Weasley. He doesn’t care about you, you know,” Marcus replied. He was expecting pain but she just looked confused.

“OK…” she replied, slowly. “Duly noted. Now I will return the favor: Celestina Warbeck doesn’t care about you. Is that how we play this? I don’t think much of your new game, Flint. Pretty boring.” Did she not get what he’d said about Weasley?

“No matter what gifts you give him, or how high you let your robes ride up when you get on a broom, that isn’t going to change,” he growled at her. “He thinks you’re a kid.”

“Did he ask you to tell me this?” she asked incredulously.

“I’m telling you the truth because I don’t want to see you make a fool of yourself in front of him. It’s embarrassing for all concerned.”

“How would I make a fool of myself? Would I run up to him and start telling him which people don’t want him?” She was looking at him like he’d decided to get a sex change and play for the Harpies.

“Your pathetic crush on him is all too apparent, Bell. Weasley knows. We discussed it,” Marcus sneered. “Apparently it’s been going on since you were about seven?”

“My crush on…Charlie?” she said slowly, before breaking into laughter. “Charlie thinks I have a crush on him?” Marcus felt relief flood his veins before reality kicked back in. How many times did he have to learn the same fucking lesson? He knew Katie wanted Weasley.

“Don’t deny it on my account,” Marcus replied. “I’m just doing my good deed for the day.” Katie stopped laughing, and her eyes narrowed.

“Here are a few facts for both you and your good pal, Charlie,” she said, flatly. “1. I don’t have a crush on him now. 2. I didn’t have a crush on him when I was seven. I liked to watch him fly, and used to follow him around because he jumped on his broom at the oddest times,” she paused momentarily, shaking her head. “Although I now see that he might just have been trying to get away from me. 3. I gave the ticket to the Weasley family because they have been very kind to me, which actually holds more weight with me than being some Quidditch stud. 4. He’s a seeker, for Circe’s sake.”

He tried to tell himself that she was lying, but her gaze was steady as she looked at him. Unless she’d become an accomplished liar in the last few months, she was telling him the truth. She didn’t want Weasley. This time he let the elation come. Nothing made any fucking sense now, of course, but it never did with her.

“I’m glad that you’re not so fickle as to want Weasley,” he said huskily, stepping closer to her. “After all, you’ve recently told me how much you wanted me.” He smirked down at her, as she glared at him.

“Yeah, well, you’ve recently told me how much you wanted to get a leg over with my best friends,” she snapped back. “Are victories really so rare for you that you still need to be gloating over that one?”

“I win all the time, Bell,” he assured her, grinning. “Victories over you are rare for anyone though.” That had pleased her. Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“It’ll be the only one you ever get, Flint.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” he chuckled. “Unless that was someone else who was so desperate to see me that she stood waiting for hours in the dungeons?” She stiffened. Blast. Why did he always push it with her?

“I waited for maybe 15 minutes, Flint,” she returned, coldly. “I’ve waited longer in order to get a second helping of meatloaf at dinn-,” she broke off, and took a deep breath. “That’s not even the point. I wasn’t waiting because of my waning, pathetic crush on you. I had done something rude and I wanted to apologize. I believe I’ve done that, so I’ll be going.” She spun on her heel and marched off.

He had won. So why was he the one always stuck watching her leave?

“Don’t walk away from me again, Bell,” he gritted out between his teeth, striding after her. He grabbed her arm and forced her to turn to face him.

“Why? Am I not allowed?” she asked sweetly. “Or is it that no woman can escape the gravitational pull of your ego?”

“No other woman fights it like you do,” he muttered.

“I’m not a wailing estrogen junkie like the rest of your little flock,” she snapped. “I may always be alone but at least I won’t be blubbering in my tea, whining about how I just can’t help myself around the manly Marcus Flint.” Katie tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, and crossed her arms defiantly, just daring him to touch her. Gods, she got him hot.

“Jealousy is an ugly emotion, Bell,” he snickered.

“What would I be jealous of? Their ability to kneel prettily? Their over-identification with their uteruses?”

“Their bravery.”

“How are your tarts brave?” she asked incredulously. “Because they look at your hideous visage and still put out? No, wait, let me guess! It’s their willingness to play virus roulette by sleeping with you?”

“It’s their ability not to live in fear, overthinking every single step. Merlin, even when you’re dripping wet for me, your brain is still nattering on.” He went on to mimic her in a high-pitched voice, stepping closer and looming over her. “Should I be doing this? Maybe I should get my Arithmancy homework done first? Perhaps I need to make him jump through fifteen more fucking hoops before I’ll give it up.” She gasped a bit at the last one.

“What you’re describing isn’t bravery. It’s living life solely below the neck.”

“What you’re living isn’t life. It’s purgatory with a slight risk of enjoyment.”

“I get plenty of enjoyment out of life. For the example, there’s the simple but abiding pleasure that your prolonged absences bring.”

It would be so easy to just let it happen. Keep the argument going until she needed an extra half-second to come up with her next scathing retort, and then slide his tongue in deep. He could already feel the way her body felt wrapped around his.

It would be nice to believe that all that stood between them was sharp tongues and stubbornness, but he couldn’t anymore. It was madness to keep reading the same book and expect a different ending. It would end up like it always did, with his body on fire and her running away.

“Why did you give it to Weasley?” he asked her abruptly.

“I told you,” she said, startled. “They’ve been very kind to me. Yes, I should have owled it back to you, but I’ve apologized.”

“Why did you feel the need to get rid of it in the first place? Why not come to the game?” He tried to sound casual, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers.
She drew in a quivering breath and looked away. “Katie?”

“I thought you said that you didn’t care if I went to the game or not,” she said, stubbornly.

“I didn’t care. Why didn’t you go?” Couldn’t she answer a simple question? After a long moment, she looked at him again, blue eyes clouded.

“Did you have sex with Diana Bletchley the night of the Yule Ball?” she asked, quietly.

“What does that have to do with fuck all?” he blurted out. That’s what this had all been about?

“So you did?”

“No, actually,” he replied, coolly.

“Oh.” Her voice was very soft. “I’d heard you did.”

“That’s why you wouldn’t go? Because of a rumor that I shagged a girl at some dance? I’m no virgin, Bell.”

“Some dance?” Her voice was questioning, and she was looking at him intently.

“You’re right. Not ‘some dance’.” He stepped closer and lowered her voice, speaking slowly, making sure it sunk in. “I remember the dance, Katie. I remember the cloakroom, your house, all of it. I remember how every single moment of it felt.” Satisfaction filled him as he saw the way her eyes softened. “Do you think after you left, I went and tagged Diana? I didn’t. I went and found a reverse floo directory so I could find out where you lived.”

“And the rest is history, huh?” she joked, with a tentative smile.

“That’s why you didn’t go?” he asked, shaking his head. He reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear. It was even softer than he’d remembered. She took a deep breath before responding.

“No. I wouldn’t have gone in any case,” she said, quietly but firmly. His stomach dropped.

Somewhere along the line, he’d been put under Imperius. There was no way he’d have ever allowed his life to become this messed up all on his own. There was no other explanation for why he cared so much about what this mad girl thought.

“You know what, Bell? I think this is the exact moment when you became more trouble then you’re worth,” he snarled, stepping away from her. “I’m asking you one more time: why didn’t you go?”

“What do you feel about me?” she asked, face pale but composed. It was like she hadn’t even heard what he’d just said.

“What do I feel about you?” he laughed bitterly. “It’s complicated, so give me a minute. I’m trying to remember what I wrote in my diary or maybe what I told Higgs at our last slumber party. What do I feel?” he continued, icily. “I don’t feel anything.”

He should just leave. This was never going to work. He knew that, but he couldn’t make himself move.

They stood looking at each other for a long moment, his furious gaze meeting her determined one.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, slowly. “Maybe I haven’t been very brave about this.”

“Brave about what?” he bit out. There was a moment where he didn’t think she was going to reply. She took a deep shuddering breath, clearly gathering strength.

“I’m always amazed by how you dominate any room, any situation that you’re in,” she began. “The rest of us try so hard to find a niche where we can hide, but you’re fearless. You…you tell the universe how it should be, not the other way around.”

He was stunned. How could she look at him and see that? Even while he knew he would jealously hoard her words in his mind forever, part of him wanted to stop her. She shouldn’t expose herself like that; she was leaving herself open to too much pain. Hadn’t she learned that much just from being alive?

“When you’re on a broom, I can’t look away because it is so beautiful. I like that you’ll always fight. I like how I’m braver when I’m around you,” she said quickly, before pausing. She was clearly having trouble getting the next words out. “I like how my body reacts to being near you.”

He quit breathing. Sweet Salazar.

“That’s how I feel about you,” she said, face flushed. “How do you feel about me?” He just stared at her, aroused and disturbed and jubilant. “I mean,” she continued, voice tighter, “is there anything you like about me? You’ve never mentioned anything.”

What did she want him to say? That just listening to her talking to her friends got him hard? That in a world where everybody was so hell-bent on being so obvious all the time, she was always unexpected? That he thought about her? He wasn’t a mooning poet. He wasn’t going to audition.

He remained silent.

After a minute, her face crumpled. Her lips trembled, and those big, radiant eyes went dead. She looked beaten, and he would have said all of what he’d held back and more, if only he could have pushed the words through his throat.

Within mere seconds though, her back stiffened. She tossed her hair over her shoulder defiantly, and her gaze was resolute.

“Yeah,” she said, voice betraying no emotion. “That’s about what I figured.”

She turned and walked away.

There was no way it was ending like this. In a few seconds, he had Katie pressed up against the wall of the corridor, with his lips and hands moving over her. She melted when he touched her. It was only when he tried to speak that everything got fucked up.

For a few seconds he didn’t even notice that anything was wrong. It felt so good to have that hair twining through his fingers, and her warm skin under his lips again. Gods, how had he made it through these last few months?

Then he realized: the only movement she had made was her hands on his chest, pushing him away. He refused to accept it for a minute. He kissed her harder, bringing his knee up between her legs, so sure that she’d respond. She pushed harder and he stepped back, stunned. He hadn’t really thought that she could resist him.

“I understand why you think I’m not on your level,” she told him coolly. “I understand why you think I’m not pretty. I suppose I can even understand why you don’t think I’m as smart as I think I am. I can accept your snide remarks about my quidditch ability, my mouthiness and my lack of sophistication. Merlin knows, I can understand why you think my friends are hotter than I am.”

He tried to staunch her flow of words. Listening to her list her supposed flaws made him feel sick. That was how he made her feel? When she always made him feel so alive?

“What I cannot understand,” she continued in the same dispassionate tone, “is why you think I’m weak. Because I’m not now and I never have been. I don’t need you.”

She looked as pale as the moon, and about as reachable.

“Katie…” He had never pleaded with anyone in his life. Until now.

It didn’t work.

Detained Chapter 5 - Negotiation

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 04:24:57 GMT

Night of the Yule Ball, Katie's bedroom

Gryffindors were brave. It was something everybody agreed on. If there was a scream from a darkened room, they charged right in. If a Death Eater were threatening pink-cheeked Muggle children, a Gryffindor would be the first throwing hexes. If a Gryffindor was snogged madly by the sexiest Slytherin in existence…Well, Katie wasn’t exactly sure what proper procedure was in that case. She was sure, however, that scurrying away liked a scared puffskein probably wasn’t it.

The click of the door shutting behind Marcus had served as the on-switch in her brain. One second, she had felt like some wanton, beautiful goddess. The next, she was plain old Katie Bell again. That radical a transformation could only occur by magic…or by oxygen actually reaching your brain. If she were ever smothered by a lethifold, perhaps she’d turn into Mary, Queen of Scots.

It had taken her all of five minutes to duck back down to the ballroom and convince her father that her dress had always been ripped, the bruises on her neck came from bobbing for pumpkins and that no, she couldn’t get their cloaks because the hospital had decided to raffle them off for charity. Her father probably suspected something, but fortunately the reality was far too boring to serve as a plausible hypothesis for Sebastian Bell. Tomorrow he would probably reassure her that he loved her even if she had been turned into a vampire.

She hadn’t been cowardly though, right? There was something to be said for caution. Other houses joked that Gryffindor’s motto should be “Steel in their guts, valor in their hearts, and brains on your carpet.” She was playing it smart this time, that’s all. Needed just a few moments to process the feel of his teeth on her neck, the sound of fabric shredding as he ripped her robes…This really wasn’t helping her to feel more rational.

Katie curled up onto her bed and stared out the window. Why had he kissed her? Just an hour before that, being under the mistletoe with her had sent him into paroxysms of panic. Maybe he and Cornelius Fudge had a bet going to see who could snog the most witches at the ball? Possibly she was just the first witch to walk into the cloakroom. He didn’t want her.

Marcus had been looking at her all evening though, a little voice whispered. Katie knew that voice. It was the same voice that had convinced her to follow him out on the balcony, to follow him to the room of requirement, to get thrown into detention with him. It was the same voice that would sometimes murmur that Marcus seemed to spend a little too much energy and time on her to really think she was that boring. OWLs and NEWT prep combined had caused Katie less grief than that stupid voice. Why couldn’t she have smarter imaginary friends?

At least, she’d be headed back to Hogwarts tomorrow. Far enough away from Marcus so that he couldn’t sweep her off her feet again. Far enough away so she wouldn’t have to know if he didn’t try to sweep her off her feet again. Although, cynicism told her that if she gave him a bottle of firewhiskey and then insulted him, they’d end up in the exact same place. Then she’d end up skulking out of some hotel room in the middle of the night, trying to forget the disdain on Marcus’ face after he was finished with her. And then Molly Weasley would embroider ‘Scarlet Woman’ on Katie’s Christmas sweater. Katie sighed. It would be nice to have a brain that couldn’t go from one to worst case scenario in a millisecond.

All right, enough whinging. She was starting to sound like a horrifying hybrid of Rita Skeeter and Professor Trelawney-lurid and fatalistic. Katie Bell was stalwart and clever. She could take care of herself. If danger threatened…well, she’d mock it relentlessly. If the wizard of both her dreams and her nightmares showed up at her window at three in the morning, she didn’t quite know what she would do. She better figure it out pretty quickly, though. Immediately, actually.

Marcus was at her window, staring in at her.

Nothing good could come from letting him in. She was still too raw and emotionally exhausted. Dealing with Marcus took a composed mind, iron nerve and preferably several carefully prepared insults. Crafting them had always been Katie’s favorite thing to do in Divination. Besides, it was hard to appear cool and collected when wearing an old Harpies sweatshirt and boxer shorts decorated with quaffles and hoops. Clearly the smart thing to do was to shut the blinds and go to bed, Katie thought, as she tugged the window open.

“Did you bring my cloak?” Her voice sounded too high-pitched, more jarvey than sophisticate. Maybe she could have gotten by with it if what she’d actually said hadn’t been so bloody idiotic. Katie swallowed hard and tried again. “What do you want?”

Marcus threw a leg over the windowsill, brushing against Katie. She jumped back, startled. That was a mistake. He quickly moved all the way into the room, propping his broom up against the windowsill. Circe, his broom was gorgeous. Tapering bristles and some custom modifications on the handle. She bet that the charms on it were complex and probably illegal as well. It was the most beautiful thing in the room…that hadn’t tried to get her knickers off. Flint was slipping though. Katie had his broomstick and a window; even Crabbe could forge an escape plan with that.

“Accio broom.”

Blast.

“Thinking about running out on me, again, Bell?” Marcus asked dryly, broomstick in hand. He was casually surveying her room with an air of bored disdain.

“I didn’t run; I sauntered. There were better things to do than listen to you give your brother a recap.”

“A recap? You didn’t hear anything?” he looked incredulous, and maybe a little relieved.

“It wasn’t a recap? Oh, of course! You needed his advice. Did you write it on your hand, Flint? ‘1. Tongue down throat, 2. Remove knickers, 3. Thrust?’” Katie mocked. His gaze was blistering; direct hit for Bell. That was good though. She could handle mad. He’d been mad at her for about six years.

“Be happy to show you my technique, Bell. I doubt that I’m the one that will require coaching,” he said in low tones, his eyes burning into her.

“If I’m so inept, why are you here?” Katie asked, vaguely amazed at her own bluntness. For a second she thought he was going to move toward her, and she fought down a shiver. It was almost anticlimactic when he sat down on her bed, his eyes never leaving hers. Well, not really. Marcus Flint on her bed was pretty climactic. In more than one way.

A whinnying sound broke into their reverie, and Marcus stiffened. Katie flushed. Marcus shifted off the purple stuffed unicorn that he had inadvertently sat on, and his lips twitched. Yeah, she looked sophisticated. Marcus was absentmindedly stroking her childhood toy as he looked at her, those long fingers tracing patterns on the soft fur. Katie realized she was staring and yanked her gaze away.

Hopes that he hadn’t noticed were destroyed by his low chuckle. “Ah, that’s right. You’ve always liked my hands, haven’t you Katie?” The love child of Gilderoy Lockheart and Dolores Umbridge couldn’t be so smug. Katie forced herself to look at him, trying to school her features into a look of disdain.

”The only thing I like about you is your broom. Could you please stop molesting Hubert?” she asked in icy tones. Marcus leaned forward, elbows on knees.
His fingers slowed, each movement more deliberate as he caressed the unicorn. He stared at her, his hand wrapping around the toy, massaging it. She felt a strange fluttering in her stomach.

“Come here, Katie.” His tone was commanding and the low, liquid timbre of his voice surrounded her. All traces of the smug joker were gone.

It wasn’t fair. He was holding a stuffed animal, sitting on a frilly pink comforter. By all rights, he should have looked ridiculous. Instead, Katie could only focus on the length of his legs, and the way his shoulders flexed when he shrugged. The top few buttons of the shirt were open, and she could see dark hair curling underneath. She really wanted to forget who she was and just obey him.

Forcing herself to turn, she moved quickly over to her desk and started rummaging through it. A tiny feeling of triumph went through her as she heard him exhale in exasperation. She’d been given one innate gift at least-the ability to completely irritate Marcus Flint.

Ah, she’d found it. She turned back towards him, smirking. Her camera was in her hand.

“What are you doing?” he asked, with a vague note of unease in his voice. Good. Confusion interfered with his ability to secrete pheromones.

“What am I doing? I’m getting a picture of Marcus Flint, quidditch superstar and plush toy enthusiast. The Daily Prophet will pay handsomely I’m sure. It’s just delightful the way the pink canopy really brings out the roses in your cheeks,” Katie laughed, delighting in his light flush. He recovered quickly though, leaning forward and grinning. Maybe she should forget repartee and go straight to stunning spells.

“I’m game for a photo, Bell. As long as I get one of you, looking like you did when I arrived. Stretched out over your bed, biting your lip, with those pretty fingers playing with that long, long hair.” His eyes flickered up and down her body, as his tongue darted out quickly to touch his upper lip. Katie could swear that her thighs had just quivered; the way he described her, she had actually sounded sexy. “You looked lost in fantasies when I got here, Katie. Reliving our earlier activities?”

“Absolutely. Composing a poem about them, actually. It’s so convenient how ‘mauling’ rhymes with ‘appalling,’” she shot back, noting with pride that she had even managed to sound disdainful.

He was off the bed and standing next to her before she had even finished congratulating herself on her control. Just a few inches away, he was forcing her to crane her neck to look at him, probably trying to make her feel like a child. She could smell him, a dark spicy scent that made her mouth go dry. What was wrong with her? Smell him? Next she’d want him to pick insects out of her fur.

“You didn’t enjoy it then, Katie? Moaning in boredom? I cannot wait to hear how you’re going to explain away the writhing.” He was still smirking but Katie noted that he plucked her camera out of her hand, and stuck it in his pocket.

“Slytherin saliva makes me have seizures.” Katie wished she had a somewhat less ridiculous comeback, but maybe she’d get points for alliteration. “What’s with pilfering my camera, Flint? Afraid I won’t make you look good?”

“On the contrary, I have no doubt that you’d make me look terrific. Your room is practically a shrine to me, after all.” What? Egomania had always encased Flint in a fog of smugness, but he usually wasn’t this delusional.

“Nothing in here is remotely connected to you, Flint. Except for maybe the Harpies poster, seeing as you’ve probably slept with all of them,” Katie sneered. “Oh! Believe me, I see the resemblance, but that’s really just a Titus Troll action figure, not a statue of you. He has better teeth, see?”

Marcus just cocked an eyebrow and strutted over to her closet, rifling through it.

“Marcus, I think it’s very brave of you to admit these desires openly, but I really don’t think you’re going to fit into my clothes.”

He pulled out an old stained quidditch robe, in Gryffindor colors. “Remember this, Bell?”

”It’s my quidditch robe from last year, Flint. Why is it supposed to remind me of you, because it’s filthy?”

“It’s not nice to lie, Katie. This is the robe from your third year. You got knocked off your broom, and alas, none of your little Gryff boys could be bothered to come to your rescue. I caught you in my arms about ten feet above the ground?”

“First of all, it’s not that robe. Second of all, you were the one who knocked me off my broom in the first place.”

"Do you always accessorize your robes like this, Bell?" He turned the robes around so she could see the large jagged tear up the back.

"That game wasn't the only time in the history of quidditch that a witch tore her robes. By the way, that was ever so gallant of you to grab the back of my robes and almost strangle me with them, as I was falling. It's not everyday a witch gets to suffocate while plummeting to her death."

“Had to slow your fall somehow, Bell. Look, here are the stains from where I bled all over it, after a little Gryffindor chaser bit me. Sure these aren’t the right robes? Or do you go around biting people all the time?” he snickered. “Plus, look what’s written on the sleeve-Gilderoy Lockheart is a hottie. Wrote that in your sixth year, huh, Katie?”

“Alicia wrote that, and even if it was in my third year, I can’t be expected to be able to identify every piece of ripped clothing.”

“I just find it interesting that the only old robes you bothered to keep are the ones that you were wearing when I saved your life. I remember how you looked up at me, trembling, and then threw your arms around my neck and wouldn’t let go.”

”All I remember was you strangling me, and then having to spend the next five days in the infirmary with damaged vocal cords. I couldn’t speak for weeks,” Katie huffed.

“I remember those weeks too. They were among the happiest times of my life, with all that blessed silence,” Marcus retorted.

“You’ve caught me, Flint. I have an old robe in my closet so clearly I burn with lust for you. I blush to think of the interpretation you’re going to give to my collection of Droobles bubble gum wrappers.” That hadn’t been too bad. He couldn’t really know anything from some old uniform. He simply smiled at her and walked over to her desk, placing his hand on a pile of old issues of Quidditch weekly, and grinning lazily at her.

“Reading Quidditch Weekly means I’m obsessed with you? Thousands of wizards and witches have subscriptions, Flint. Are you going to stage home invasions of all of them, or I am special?”

“I wonder why you kept these particular issues, Bell.” He flipped through one, set it down and went on to the next in the stack. “It couldn’t be because a certain Falcons Chaser is mentioned in each of them, could it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Katie laughed uneasily. “I’m sure you’re not in all of them.”

Marcus started steadily working his way through the pile, flipping through the magazine until he found a picture of himself, showing it to Katie and then going on to the next. Katie watched with mounting horror as the pile grew.

“It’s not my fault you’re over-exposed, Flint. Besides, if I was obsessed with you, wouldn’t I have the issue where you’re actually on the cover?”

“Oh, I think that you think that you’re too clever to leave that just lying around, Bell,” he smirked. “Do you really think I won’t be able to find it though?” He lazily let his fingers run over her desk, and then bookshelves watching her carefully. Katie had to remind herself to breathe.

“Could you quit fondling my belongings? It’s kind of disturbing,” Katie demanded. Circe, how had that quaver snuck into her voice?

Marcus grinned at her, and pulled the book his hand rested on off the shelf, flipping through it. When he found nothing, he moved onto the next one. Katie stepped closer, debating whether she should try to physically stop him, but she was too late. He’d pulled out the third book, and a magazine slid to the floor. They both stared at the picture of a snarling Marcus, with ‘Fearsome Falcon’ emblazoned below.

“Not a very convenient location, Bell. You should really keep it by your bed,” he mocked in a low whisper.

Katie blushed. She could feel the heat coming off her face, as she tried to look everywhere but the hulking man in front of her. There was nowhere for her to hide. Her room was too small, and he seemed to fill up all available space.

“Interesting that you have the joint team pictures only for the years I was still at Hogwarts,” he mused. Gods, she hadn’t even realized that she’d done that. “Nice snapshot of the lovely trio of Gryffindor chasers here. Of course, Spinnet has her eyes closed and Johnson is clearly yelling at someone off camera so one wonders why you display this one so proudly. Could it be because of the Slytherin quidditch captain in the background?” Fine, he had won. Did he have to keep flaying her alive like this?

Katie started to protest when he reached out for the picture of her mother, but his hand dropped back to his side after he saw the look on her face. There was no time to wonder about it though, as he moved quickly toward her in the next second. She froze, too shocked to protest when he reached out and pulled her sweatshirt off, her stiff arms causing him a few problems. She didn’t know what she expected, but the smirk of pure triumph wasn’t it.

“A Falcons T-shirt, Katie?” Bastard. Katie looked away and folded her arms over her chest. “Thought I recognized the collar. Why would little Katie Bell, devoted Harpies fan, want to sleep in Falcons gear? Maybe it just seems fitting to have it in your bed, or do you like the way it feels on your skin?” He had stepped closer to her and she could swear she felt the heat radiating off his body. She wasn’t going to look at him, no matter what he did. It was bad enough having him know without seeing the awareness in his eyes.

“Give me my sweatshirt back, Flint,” she said stiffly, voice oddly scratchy. She stuck her hand out for it and waited.

“Why? So you can neatly fold it and put it away like the rest of your little life, Katie?” He was letting the material slide through his fingers, toying with it. She reached out to grab it and his fingers locked around her wrist.

She just stood watching his long fingers move over her wrist, a crampy ache filling her. Why didn’t he just end this? Either laugh at her and leave, or stay and…

Katie swallowed her disappointment as she felt him drop her wrist and step away from her. So, he was leaving. Apparently, he had just wanted to make a fool of her. She wasn’t going to watch him leave. On her return to Hogwarts, she would devote every single second to learning how to work memory charms. Then she’d eliminate every memory he had of her feelings, her embarrassment and her response to him. She would still know, but he’d just be another dumb self-important quidditch ox with no hold over her.

The rustling of papers made her look up. Marcus was pulling the note off her bulletin board. He had probably seen it as soon as he entered her room; she was sure that had been what tipped him off. Katie didn’t want to see this destroyed too. She strode over to him and tried to snatch it from his hands. He grinned and held it above her head. Katie glared at him. Did he think they were five?

“Nice little drawing of a Gryff chaser here, Bell. Especially like the way the big Slyth is swooping up to take the quaffle away from her.”

“As I remember, I was minding my own business and doodling. You were the one that grabbed it away from me and added the ugly, albeit accurate, picture of yourself.”

”As I remember, you then grabbed it back and extended your broomstick so it looked like I was being impaled on it. The entrails were a nice touch, I must admit,” he laughed down at her. “We had gotten into so many arguments in that detention that Sinistra finally cast Silencio on us both, remember? So we traded nasty notes back and forth.” He actually looked like it was a happy memory.

“I can’t really remember it that well, Flint. We had so many arguments, and you never really had anything that memorable to say,” Katie replied coldly. “Just give it back to me, and go find another girl to torture.”

“You don’t remember this part, Bell?” he quirked an eyebrow at her and began to read some of his words from the note. “So what is it little Katie Bell wants in a lover then? Someone who gets you wet just by looking at you? You need someone who’ll mess you up a little bit, I think. Gods, you were blushing so hard that day, you were fuchsia.”

“Stop it.” She would kill him if that were the only way she could shut him up, she really would. He wasn’t fazed by her anger, just laughed and continued reading.

“I think you want someone who will force you to do all those things that you’re so scared of, Bell.”

She shoved her elbow into his gut before he had time to react. When he doubled over, she snatched the parchment out of his fingers and shoved it into the waistline of her boxer shorts. Let him come get it.

They stood for a moment, frozen and both breathing hard, before Katie reached a decision. He already knew everything; she’d already suffered through the years of longing and humiliation. Maybe she should just go ahead and take what she could get. What else could he do to her?

When he stepped forward, fingers moving toward her waistband, Katie fisted her hands in his hair and pulled him down to her. Pain lanced through her as her lips smashed against his, but that was all right. It felt good to hurt, somehow fitting. As she thrust her tongue into his mouth, she raked her nails along the back of his neck, and he gasped. For once, she got to be the predator.

Her fingers quickly moved to unbutton his shirt, hands sliding over his chest as she tried to pull his shirt off. Gods, she could feel the muscles move under her hands, actually responding to her touch. Moving her lips down over his chin to his throat, she felt him swallow hard as she rubbed her cheek against his stubble. This was delicious.

His dark eyes were even blacker than usual, and he looked like he was having trouble controlling his breathing. Katie was running her hands up and down his sides, thumbs rubbing against his abdomen, when he grabbed her wrists. She yanked one arm free, and used it to pull his lips back down to hers. She didn’t want to stop, to let reality slide back into place.

His grip loosened on her other wrist as they kissed, and Katie moved her fingers to his belt, trying desperately to unhook it with shaking hands. Marcus immediately grasped her hands, stilling their motion. Katie felt her heart stop for a second; she couldn’t bear it if he left her now. He interlaced their fingers and brought her arms firmly to her sides, his lips never leaving hers. Katie bit down on his lip, driven by the fear that he would stop.

He pulled back slightly, rubbing his thumbs over her wrists, until Katie quieted. Then he resumed kissing her, only to pull away again when she rubbed her hips against his. They continued that way, Marcus breaking contact every time she became more aggressive, until Katie found herself succumbing to his deep, languid kiss.

It was slow, soft and somehow wetter than other kisses. Their tongues slid slowly against each other, and Katie realized dimly that he had released her hands but she didn’t have the strength to move. She felt simultaneously cherished and possessed; some hitherto unknown combination of the princess in the tower and a courtesan bound with silk scarves.

Katie began to feel a little afraid. Marcus could find ways to tear her apart when she was in control, high on adrenalin and cleverness. Now she felt like she was drowning in his arms, robbed of the crazed momentum that usually characterized her interactions with him. The lust was still there, but a deeper feeling of contentment mingled with the euphoria.

He pulled back from her slowly, running his thumb over her cheek and looking at her. He looked hungry but his touch was so gentle. For a second, Katie felt like he was looking at her not to try to read her mind or gain an advantage, but rather because he enjoyed it. She wanted to feel all that muscle against her. Katie stepped closer, but he grasped her forearms and held her away from him, not allowing their bodies to touch.

“You’re trembling,” he said in a low, rough voice, sounding a little surprised. Katie tried to steady her shaking limbs but when he bent to kiss her again, she knew it was hopeless. When his lips moved to her neck, she realized what the strange emotion she was feeling was.

It was hope.

Something in her believed that Marcus couldn’t kiss her like this if she meant nothing to him. That was stupid. No matter what ridiculous fantasies she’d had in the past, she’d always known that she needed to keep one thing clearly in mind. Marcus might sometimes find her amusing or challenging, but he would never actually care about her. That thought gave her the strength to move back out of his arms.

Katie was expecting exasperation or a challenge, but he just looked at her with his black eyes and continued to slowly stroke her hair. She bit back a sob. How was she supposed to fight him if he was going to be like this?

“We should stop…” she muttered weakly. Oh, yeah, Bell. Real proud and defiant.

“Don’t,” he said roughly and then pulled her back into his arms. To her horror, Katie felt tears gathering in her eyes as his lips met hers. She tensed as his warm, calloused hand touched her bare back, waiting for a cutting remark on how she wasn’t wearing a bra. However, only a slight hitch in his breathing suggested that he’d noticed at all.

He was every bit as slow and deliberate as before. Like a drowning person going down for the third time, Katie quit resisting and simply felt. Those large hands seemed to cover her entire back, making her feel almost tiny.

“Katie,” he whispered in her ear, and she had to grab his shoulders to keep her knees from buckling. “Tell me how you feel,” he cajoled, tracing her ear with his tongue. “Is this what you want?” Gods, that voice-deep and knowing.

“Yes…” she heard herself breathe out, and was rewarded when his hand slowly moved up to touch the side of her breast. She had to fight not to lean into his hand, knowing he would only pull back.

“Am I what you want?” he breathed into her ear. Katie couldn’t force the words past her lips but whimpered as he started to move his hand away. “It’s OK to tell me, Katie. I already know,” he murmured.

She nodded quickly, and then smiled as his hand stopped retreating, and he began gently kneading her breast. Heat flooded through her, muscles contracting involuntarily. Circe, please let him keep touching her.

“You need to be sure, Katie,” his voice low but stronger.

“I am,” she burst out before he could even begin to move away from her. “I want you.” She thought she heard a strangled groan, but she was too befogged to be sure.

“Maybe it’s a whim?” he suggested, before lightly pinching her nipple. It was so unexpected, and Katie wasn’t prepared for the pain and pleasure that lanced through her. Her back arching, she realized that she needed him to continue.

“It’s not. I want you,” she protested. His other hand started tracing just underneath the waistband of her boxers, dipping tantalizingly low. Katie fought to be able to speak. “I want you so badly. I’ve always wanted you…for so damn long.”

After a second, she heard what she had just allowed herself to say and her eyes flew open. Marcus stared down at her, smirking and triumphant. Gods, what had she just let him make her do?

She tried to step away from him, but his hand fisted the waistband of her boxers and held her close. His expression was feral as he bent to kiss her again. The careful seducer was gone, and this kiss was bruising and passionate. Why would he need to seduce you, a little voice inside her asked bitterly, when you just threw yourself at his feet? She turned her head to the side, avoiding his lips.

Marcus simply moved his attentions to her neck, and started moving forward, propelling Katie backward onto the bed. She whimpered as she felt his hardness press against her thigh; he laughed softly, and started to remove her shirt. Katie grabbed his hands and tried to sit up. Marcus held her down, but pulled back and stared down at her, face hard.

“My dad’s downstairs. This isn’t a good idea,” Katie said, trying to hide her melancholy. She just needed him to go; the reason didn’t matter. Marcus’ face cleared and he slowly ran his fingertips under the waistline of her boxers, the back of his hand brushing her stomach.

“So, we’ll go somewhere else,” Marcus replied, amused. He twined his fingers in her hair as he grinned down at her. “Paris? The Ukraine? Wherever you want.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Katie stated. She tried to disentangle his fingers from her boxers, steadily refusing to look at him.

“Katie,” he murmured, voice low in her ear. “What else do you need?” He nipped lightly at her earlobe, and slowly ran his hand up the inside of her thigh. Katie heard herself gasp. “Compliments? Jewelry or flowers? Candlelight? Whatever it is you want, I’ll give it to you.” He planted a wet kiss on the side of her neck. “Anything.”

He thought she was for sale?

“You want to barter?” Her voice sounded alien, high-pitched and thin. “I can’t believe you’re trying to negotiate.” She jerked her body away from his seeking hands.

“Why not?” he asked pointedly, grasping her chin and forcing her to look at him. “Life is a negotiation, Bell. You’ve admitted that you want me. I clearly get you hot but something is holding you back. Just tell me what it is, and I’ll take care of it.”

“I might not be the most experienced girl in the world, but I’m pretty sure that romance isn’t supposed to resemble a swap meet,” Katie sniped.

“I’ve had a lot of women, Bell. I think I know how this game is played.” The worst thing about it was the tone of his voice, Katie decided. He wasn’t arguing with her. He was instructing.

Yeah, thousands of witches would be more than happy to be Marcus Flint’s bauble of the moment, and Katie wished him joy with every single one of them.

“I’m sorry, I really think I’ll have to speak to a lawyer before we can draw up the contracts,” Katie snapped. “Now, please go.”

Marcus cast her a look of stunned disbelief before flipping onto his back, exhaling in exasperation.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to change your fucking mind again,” he growled. “You were panting for me a few minutes ago. You would have let me do anything to you. Now you’re acting all insulted?”

“I’m sure you can find better looking prostitutes elsewhere. Leave. If I scream, my father will come running in here.” Katie stood up and turned to look at him, resolute. Marcus sat up abruptly and stared at her. She really wasn’t prepared for his mocking laughter. Well, at least he had deigned to get mad.

“What the Hades could he do to me? Lecture me on intestinal parasites until I run away? That is, if he decides his daughter’s deflowering is worthy of his attention,” Marcus sneered. “You’re really lucky I’m not the guy you think I am, because you’ve got no one.”

“You don’t know anything about my father or me, Flint, so shut up and leave.” Bastard.

“I know a few things, Katie. I know that I offered to give you anything to be with you, and you act like I insult you. Do you think I make that offer often? I typically barely bother to kiss.” He spoke slowly and clearly as if she were a child or a half-wit. “Then, you insinuate that I would rape you? But somehow I’m still the bad guy here.”

“Spare me the hurt act, Flint,” Katie said coldly. “You won, after all. You didn’t want me, you just wanted me to confess that I wanted you. After all, you wouldn’t even let me touch you, lest it interfere with your master plan to humiliate me. Don’t act like you’re the wounded party just because I didn’t let you administer the coup de grace.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t let you touch me, Katie,” he sneered. “You might not have liked my response if I’d let you crawl all over me before you went into your little cock tease routine.”

“Run along and find a new playmate,” Katie hissed. “I understand that the going rate for a red-headed Belgian nurse is three goats and a package of Sugar Quills.”

Marcus stared at her, with a contemptuous look on his face. Katie felt a pang. He’d often been angry and sometimes cruel, but he’d never looked at her like she wasn’t worth his time before. He shook his head as if to clear it, and then grabbed his broom and strode toward the window. Katie held her breath, trying to fight back the tears until he left.

He paused at the window, but didn’t turn around.

“I did you the honor of treating you like an adult, Katie,” he stated in a dead voice. “Most guys would have tried to hand you a line about the knight in shining armor and his pretty, pretty princess. I’ve always known you were far too smart to believe in that crap.”

He swung his leg over his broom and was gone.

Probably for good this time.

Katie breathed in deeply, trying to steady herself. She could fall apart later, but right now she had a few things to take care of. Maybe Flint was right about one thing. Maybe it was time for her to grow the fuck up.

Katie picked up the stack of quidditch magazines and threw them in a garbage bag. The photographs with Flint in them soon followed. She quickly pulled the Falcons T-shirt over her head, and shoved it in as well. Katie went to her closet to pull on a Harpies’ sweatshirt. After a moment’s pause, she grabbed the old quidditch robes and stuffed them in on top. She stood for a moment, scanning the room for any more childhood detritus. Fighting back tears, she grabbed her purple unicorn and added him to the bag.

Grabbing her broom and her wand, she flew out and down into her little back yard, carefully placing her sack of pathos on the concrete path. An Incendio later, and the sad little pile was ablaze.

Katie reached into her boxers and pulled out the note. It needed to go, too; she didn’t want to think about the hundreds of times she’d read it over the last few years. Time to make a clean break, and leave her pathetic crush behind.

When she tried to drop it into the flames, her hand refused to open. She stood there for a few minutes, clutching it in her fist and trying to bully herself into dropping it. It was no use. Great job, Bell. So much for that symbolic emotional cleansing. All she’d managed to do was give Hubert a Viking funeral.

Katie stood, turning the note over in her fingers. She stared at the flames until they had burned out.

*******

February, Hogwarts Great Hall

Katie was calmly drinking her pumpkin juice and flipping through Quidditch Weekly when the muggleborn first-year sitting next to her screamed and dove under the table. Katie glanced up, and promptly spat her pumpkin juice out on the remains of her breakfast.

Flint’s gargantuan Siberian eagle owl was perched in front of her, holding a letter. It had always been the biggest owl that Katie had ever seen, and it looked even bigger now, like Flint had been feeding it mice dipped in growth potion. Katie snagged the letter, and offered it the only thing at hand-a soggy piece of French toast. It gave a brief hoot of derision before taking to the air, swooping low over the ducking heads of the students and then away. Well, it was a Flint owl. It was probably used to being offered ashwinder eggs and stock options. She reached down and helped the terrified first-year to her feet.

Katie bit her lip. Why was Marcus writing her now? Shortly after returning to Hogwarts, she had sent him a brief, cool note stating that she hadn’t meant to insinuate that he was the type of wizard who would force a witch. He had replied almost immediately, sending a small barn owl. According to his calculations, he wrote, the sexual rate of exchange for a prissy pseudo-apology was a kiss, but if she wanted tongue, she would have to sweeten the deal. Katie had spent the remainder of that day on her broom, racing about Hogwarts and trying to work off her anger. Communication had been non-existent since.

“Oi! Katie! Was that Flint’s owl?” Ron shouted down the table at her. The remainder of her housemates looked at her expectantly. Blast.

“Yeah, yeah it was,” she called back. “He and I are having a passionate love affair.” Something inside her twisted as the assembled Gryffindors burst into laughter. “He wanted me to tell you, Ron,” she continued, “that he’s asking to be traded to the Cannons.” Katie ducked the bread roll Ron threw at her, and laughed at Hermione’s scandalized ‘Ron, you’re a prefect!’

Ginny Weasley sat across from her, looking at her a little too speculatively. Katie smiled at her as innocently as possible. Typical Marcus. All that talk about keeping things hidden and letting no one know what you’re up to, and then he gets a flipping emu to deliver his mail.

Katie opened the envelope, being sure to hold it to the side so that whatever unpleasant thing rushed out would be pointed at the Slytherin table. When she didn’t hear any screams echoing from that direction, she went ahead and pulled out the paper within.

It was a quidditch ticket. Falcons vs. the Magpies. As the two teams were battling it out for first place, it would be quite a game. Katie’s eyes widened as she saw where the seat was. Top box, AAA stands. She grabbed her quidditch magazine and flipped to the page that held the seating charts for all the league’s stadiums.

Wow. It was one of the best seats in the house. Possibly the best seat. All seats in those sections were season tickets, willed from one generation to the next and guarded jealously. Blood feuds were started over these tickets. Man, the Malfoys didn’t even have seats this good, from what she’d heard.

How had Marcus gotten his hands on it?

That’s not the question, her mind whispered snidely. The question is: why on earth he would send one to you? Maybe it was a trick. Maybe she’d show up and they wouldn’t let her into the stadium. Possibly, the seat was charmed to act as a portkey, and she’d end up in Bulgaria. In a brothel. That would be embarrassing. She shouldn’t go.

Maybe he was sincere in his offer, another part of her mind suggested. Of course, he’d already established that he gave nothing without expecting something in return. What he would want, Katie didn’t want to give him. Absolutely not. Definitely. She’d keep repeating that to herself until it sunk in. She shouldn’t go.

Her inner McGonagall told her the same thing. Even if Marcus’ intentions were pure…well, OK, not completely evil, it was still a bad idea. If he didn’t want to trick her or get her off his ‘to-do’ list, all that was left was that he felt sorry for her. Katie had lost their long battle after all. Having Marcus think she was weak was about the worst thing of all. Best to keep her pride. She shouldn’t go.

Marvelous. All the voices in her head agreed. Consensus through psychosis. She shouldn’t go.

She really wanted to go.

There was no way that she would ever get her hands on a ticket like this again in her lifetime. No one was going to waste one on her. All the seats were supposedly equipped with pre-installed deluxe omniculars. She’d probably never get to use one of those at any other time in her life either. It would be an amazing game, too. She hadn’t gotten to see a pro game since Oliver had sent them all tickets. She’d get to Catlyn Morestone, the premiere keeper in the league. The chasers would all be fantastic. Plus, Marcus Flint on a broom was always a thing of majesty.

Maybe she’d go.

“What’s up?” Lavender asked as she rushed up to the table, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Katie’s having a passionate love affair with Marcus Flint,” Seamus told her, through a mouthful of eggs.

“Katie who?” asked Lavender blankly.

And thank you for that, Divination-loving ditz. Please direct all further comments to Uranus.

“Katie Bell, woman!” Seamus replied.

“Oh…Katie Katie!” Lavender exclaimed.

“As opposed to Augustus Katie,” Katie returned dryly.

“Well,” Lavender twinkled at her, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re not his only scrumptious love bunny.”

“Alas,” Katie cried, hand on her chest. “My valiant swain shields other fair flowerets with his love…uh…tarp?” Not a shocking insight on Lavender’s part. Flint has lots of women. In other breaking news, ice is found to be cold.

“Well, he’s not Terence Higgs but he’s been around. He’s got something going on with at least two members of the Harpies, that deejay from ‘Magic and Music Review’, some models…oh, and Cyrene DiPaolo…”

Katie tuned out. Yeah…Flint was a manwhore. She was aware. Besides Cyrene DiPaolo had slept with everyone. What was the point of dishing the dirt about something that unsurprising? It was like gossiping about gravity.

“Oh…and that chaser for Puddlemere…” Good Godric, Lavender was still blathering on. “He’s got to have at least half a dozen witches in his life at any one time.”

“I heard he had at least half a dozen witches at the Yule Ball,” Parvati snorted.

“The St. Mungo’s one?” Katie asked. There was no way.

“Well, I heard something about identical twins in the kitchen,” Parvati started off.

Yeah, Katie had heard that one too, except it involved Roger Davies and the girl’s loo. Clear fabrication.

“Then, I heard he snogged a witch right on the buffet table,” Lavender chimed in.

“That was the Minister of Magic,” Katie interjected sharply.

”Fudge?” Dean Thomas asked. “He snogged a witch on the buffet table?”

“Yeah,” Katie informed him. “He got temporarily wedged into a chafing dish. It was awesome.”

“Then, I heard he was snogging some witch in the cloakroom. He threw everyone’s cloaks on the floor. My aunt was furious when she went to get hers,” Parvati giggled.

Wow. She had made Lav and Parvati’s snog report. Maybe she should buy a thong.

“Oh! Madeleine MacFarland! Lisa Turpin said something about Flint and her in one of the banquet rooms,” Lavender yelped. “Didn’t she and Flint have something going on while they were here?”

Well…that might be true actually, Katie thought. Madeleine had been there, looking very beautiful in a blue dress. Marcus hadn’t been anywhere near her as far as Katie could remember, but it was possible. On the other hand, Lavender and Parvati having accurate information? What were the odds?

“My cousin told me this one.” Parvati was clearly trying to out-do her friend. “Flint and Diana Bletchley were shagging on one of those balconies. My cousin said she walked out on it to get some air, and they were so into each other that they didn’t even notice her.”

Katie felt cold. Marcus had been talking to Bletchley for quite a while, and she had been draped over him. Plus, she was clearly all buddy-buddy with his mother. It wouldn’t be the first time. Katie could remember the time her third year herbology class had discovered the two of them naked in greenhouse #3.

Diana Bletchley had slept with everyone though, Katie firmly reminded herself. Bletchley was…completely gorgeous. Rich. Sophisticated in that bitchy way that girls who don’t wear knickers are. Experienced. She’d seduced everyone, Oliver and the twins included, from what Katie had heard. If Diana hadn’t graduated when she did, she would have had to start sleeping with first-years if she wanted new blood.

Katie had run into Diana on Katie’s hurried retreat from the balcony that evening, she remembered. Marcus had taken a long time to show back up in the ballroom. No matter how much she wanted to deny it, it was probably true that Marcus had slept with Diana that night. Katie was just one of the teeming hordes of Marcus’ playmates. Maybe he had just been waiting in the cloakroom for the next random witch to enter.

He showed up at your house, part of her argued. Yeah, but maybe it was part of his appointed rounds. He didn’t arrive until hours after the ball had ended. Maybe she was his third or fourth stop. Maybe he was just en route to somewhere else.

It was true, Katie was sure of it. Marcus and Diana…they fit. Both were rich, amoral and experienced. Diana was probably one of the most beautiful witches in Britain. Plus, Marcus had always had a thing for her. There was a while where Katie couldn’t eat breakfast without hearing a new story about their exploits. Diana Bletchley-bitch goddess. Katie Bell-bit player.

Yeah, it was really great of Marcus to turn Katie’s world upside down just because he felt like using her as a warm-up. Thanks a lot, Flint. Guess that quidditch game was not in her future, after all.

“I’ll see you guys,” Katie said. There was only a slight quaver in her voice, she was proud to note. “Why don’t you type up ‘Fucked By Flint: Volumes 1-19’ and I’ll catch up on the rest of it later?” She grabbed her bag and left the Great Hall, reminding herself not to run.

“Ginny,” Katie called after the red-haired fellow Chaser. “Wait up.”

Ginny turned around and smiled at Katie. “What’s up?”

“Are you guys still looking for a birthday present for Charlie?” Katie asked.

“Yeah,” Ginny exclaimed. “Do you have any ideas? It’s a complete nightmare. Fred and George want to get him a chimera; Percy wants to get him broom insurance.”

“Give him this.” Katie thrust the ticket into Ginny’s hand. “It’s should just be a great game, and the seat is fabulous.”

“Wow,” Ginny’s eyes widened. “I can’t take this, Katie. You have to go!”

“I can’t. I’ve got to study for NEWTs.” If Katie was going to be a boring spinster her entire life, she should start practicing.

Ginny looked at her stunned, obviously torn between thanking her profusely and telling her she was brain damaged.

“Just take it. It will make me happy knowing that there’s a Weasley sitting there amidst the indolent and the inbred.”

“I’m sure Charlie would be honored to do so,” Ginny giggled, before looking more closely at Katie. “Katie, are you all right? You look a little shook-up.”

“No! No, I’m fine,” Katie insisted before waving goodbye to the other girl and making her way to class. It was nice to do something for the Weasleys after they had done for her. It was great that Charlie would get to see it; during summer quidditch games at the burrow, he had gallantly always picked a young Katie to be on his team.

She was fine. She’d be OK.

Detained Chapter 4 Conflagration

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 04:06:39 GMT

Thanks and everlasting gratitude still go out to teamie

St. Mungo’s Christmas Benefit Ball, Katie’s 7th year

Plausible deniability wasn’t worth this.

Marcus looked out at the assembled ranks of upper crust wizardry. The ballroom was packed. It was amazing how interested in charitable causes everyone became after Voldemort’s return. Like throwing some galleons at the Puffskein Pox Prevention Fund would keep the aurors off your back. Half the people here were probably praying that the Dark Mark would go up somewhere tonight, just so they could show that they weren’t the ones who had done it.

An entire night where the main intellectual challenge was remembering which of the giggly young witches were the daughters and which were the trophy wives. Several of both had stopped by the Flint table, pouting prettily and waiting for Marcus to ask them to dance. They had all gone away disappointed. He was here to drink, and to make sure his brother didn’t accidentally seduce anyone underage or with an exceptionally powerful husband.

His mother was holding court next to him with the plausible charm and icy watchfulness of a serial killer. She had chaired this ball for as long as he could remember. He’d received several owls from her over the past few weeks reminding him that his attendance was positively mandatory. As far as Marcus was concerned, that was the perfect reason not to show up. Why in the name of Merlin had he come to this thing?

Bell was here. Tucked into a corner next to a potted plant, partially hidden by the fronds. Three older wizards shared the table with her, deep in a conversation that she was clearly following but not participating in. Her robes looked like they had been designed by the Witches Abstinence Coalition. The full skirts completely covered her legs while the high neckline did its best to disguise her gender. Those legs had been long a few years ago, when she had been at least half a foot shorter. Marcus couldn’t even imagine how long they’d be now. That thick cascade of dirty blond hair hung straight down her back and blended in with the color of her dress. Bell always did know how to hide in plain sight.

Katie glanced over at him, trying to pretend she was just casually surveying the room. She turned her neck at a constant speed, spending just as much time looking at an empty corner as she did at the somewhat alarming sight of Cornelius Fudge practically snogging a witch on the appetizer table. When Katie’s eyes finally met Marcus’ gaze, he leaned back in his chair and cocked an eyebrow at her. She stiffened momentarily before continuing to look around the room, now apparently fascinated by some chairs. Marcus grinned. For such a clever witch, Katie was hopeless at deception. Eventually he’d have to do something about that.

“Marcus, please quit gazing into space and focus on your responsibilities.” His mother’s sharp tone interrupted his reverie.

“Drinking? Flattering virgins?” He smirked at her. Volumnia Flint’s back stiffened.

“There are important people here this evening, Marcus. Important to Flint Industries and important in society. I would prefer that they do not think my heir is a slack-jawed adolescent who is more interested in doing fancy tricks on his broom than performing his duties.” She paused. “No matter how true that might be.”

“My broom? I knew I forgot something.” Marcus gave her a wide grin. “Seems a shame to waste these high ceilings. Plus, no waiting in the buffet line.”

“Are you being amusing?” she inquired coolly.

“Apparently not.”

“I thought you were,” Antony interjected.

“Antony, your brother is difficult enough to control without your encouragement.” Volumnia’s eyes flickered between her two sons. “I hope that both of you know precisely which of the people here are significant. That is, with whom you should refrain from being ‘amusing.’”

“Why don’t you pick me out a wife?” Marcus shot back. “That usually keeps you happy and quiet for at least a few minutes. Alternatively, maybe you should just Imperius me into the fawning halfwitted son that you want.”

“All I expect from you this evening are table manners,” his mother replied coldly. “Discussion of your other shortcomings will resume after the holidays.”

Marcus opened his mouth to suggest that his mother should take both her etiquette lessons and her high society brood mares and use them to start a finishing school in Zanzibar, when Antony cleared his throat. His brother gestured at the tall silver-haired wizard and curvaceous young witch who were approaching.

“Duncan, how pleasant to see you and your daughter,” Volumnia’s smooth voice held no trace of her prior irritation. “Diana, you look lovely,” she smiled down at the younger witch. Diana Bletchley blushed and smiled shyly. It was an impressive performance from a witch who had managed to shag every quidditch player at Hogwarts, with the possible exception of her little brother.

“You both know my son, Marcus, I believe,” his mother continued smoothly. Marcus hurriedly stood. Needling his mother was one thing. Slighting the owner of the largest wizarding import/export business in Britain was another. He extended a hand which the older wizard shook heartily.

“Ah, yes, the quidditch star,” Duncan smiled.

“I’m not sure if both of you have met my step-son, Antony? He is currently running our French office,” Volumnia stated proudly. Antony stood and smiled politely at Duncan. Diana’s eyes raked over Antony’s lean body, finally resting on his blatantly handsome features. Antony Flint bore more than a passing resemblance to Gilderoy Lockhart. If he hadn’t been his brother, Marcus would have messed up that pretty face at every possible opportunity.

Diana’s gaze remained on Antony. Marcus swallowed a laugh as he watched her try so hard to flaunt her cleavage that it looked like she was bowing after a magiharp recital. Somehow he suppressed the urge to applaud. He could see the exact second when her Slytherin instincts kicked in, and she realized that Marcus, not Antony, was the Flint heir. She pivoted so quickly toward him that it could have passed for a pirouette, and tried to look properly adoring. Marcus grinned at her, making sure to show all his teeth. He felt a grim satisfaction when she flinched.

“Something wrong, Diana?” he sneered.

She recovered quickly. He had to give her that. Seconds later her hand had started trailing down his arm. She was biting her lip and looking up at him with a sultry gaze. The resemblance to a horny chipmunk was uncanny. Smirking, he stepped away from her.

“Mother, Diana was just saying how she’d like to volunteer to help with the New Years Cauldron Exchange?” With luck, she wouldn’t be able to weasel herself away for hours. His mother was tenacious.

Volumnia looked at him with surprise, before smiling.

“That would be wonderful. Many young wizards and witches are unable to live up to their full potential because they can’t afford the proper materials. If you three could excuse us?” Volumnia’s tones were warm as she took Diana’s arm. Diana only had time for a quick reproachful glance over her shoulder before his mother led her away.

He looked over at Katie, and caught a flash of blonde hair as she hurriedly turned away.

He really needed a drink.

***

“Marcus, I want you to ask that young woman to dance.” His mother’s imperious words scraped across his nerves. He didn’t even bother looking up.

“Don’t prostitute me to further your social or financial ambitions, Mother,” he replied snidely. “Isn’t that why we have Antony?”

“I am not being mercenary. She looks like a sweet girl, and I don’t think she’s danced yet. That’s not a pleasant experience.” Her voice was gentler than he was accustomed to hearing, almost wistful. He glanced over at her to see who she was talking about.

“You want me to ask Katie Bell to dance?” he asked, stunned. He looked at her carefully, trying to figure out if this was a test. It had to be a coincidence. He’d been careful.

“Bell? Sebastian Bell’s daughter?” She was delighted. “Perfect. We definitely want to be in the good graces of a distinguished medical researcher. I understand that he is a leading expert in pseudonunduvirus among other things.”

“Don’t you get that from eating raw fwooper brains?” Marcus thought he could vaguely remember overhearing Bell saying something about it. “Let me get this straight. Just in case, at some point in the distant future, Antony decides to go to Africa and develops a taste for uncooked bird organs, it’s imperative that I suck up to Katie Bell now?”

“Flints prepare for every eventuality, Marcus. You know this.”

“I have a radical alternative plan. It’s called: ‘Antony, stick to mutton.’”

“Don’t be tiresome. Are you going to do as I ask?” her voice had chilled a few more degrees.

“Do I ever?” Oh, yeah, Mother. I’d like nothing better than to have you watch me put my hands on Katie Bell. Right after I snog Dumbledore.

Volumnia rose to her feet.

“I believe I need to speak to Cornelius on a few matters. If you could attempt to not be so infantile on my return, I would appreciate it.” She strode away, stopping briefly to speak to Antony. No doubt she was enlisting his help in her latest plot to drive Marcus insane. Ah, yes, his brother had started to glide over in his oh-so-sophisticated way . Marcus thought the way Antony walked was the perfect object lesson in why you shouldn’t send your sons to school in France.

Antony sat down, looking warily at Marcus. “Must you always go out of your way to irritate her?”

“Hey, if you could have stayed away from the fwoopers, none of this would have happened,” Marcus replied. Antony looked puzzled for only a second before shrugging his shoulders. If it didn’t have tits or a bank account, he usually couldn’t be bothered to expend any thought.

“Is avoiding one dance really worth having Mother storm about the manor for the next month?” Antony asked.

“I don’t live there. You do.”

“It’s not even all that horrible of an assignment,” Antony continued, looking Katie over casually. “With a haircut and some self confidence, she might be passable.”

“She’s a Gryffindor.” Marcus tried to inject as much loathing into his tone as possible.

“About a quarter of wizarding Britain is, little brother.”

“No, she’s a Gryffindor. A full blown Godric.” Antony still looked unimpressed so Marcus continued with a high-pitched mimicry of Bell. “’You’re a Slytherin? I’m certain that your father was a Death Eater and your mother was an acromantula.’”

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?”

“Our father was a Death Eater.”

“Hardly the point, Antony.”

***

He’d promised himself.

Marcus breathed in the cool night air before exhaling quickly in frustration. He’d escaped the ball and found refuge in an isolated balcony. Marcus supposed that most people would find the stars overhead, the fairies flittering about the banisters, and the view of the river absolutely enchanting. What he liked about it was its lack of debutantes, dowagers, and anyone else who lived to annoy him.

He had vowed that he was going to stay away from Katie until she graduated from Hogwarts. The desolation in her eyes after their fucked-up scene in the Room of Requirement had convinced him of that. Granted, the minute that she did graduate, he was going to find her and finish it. She’d be eighteen and out in the real world and no one could say anything. Until then, though, he’d keep his distance and let her live in her safe little world. He’d broken his vow only once, checking up on her at the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup final last May.

Other than that he had remained resolute. He hadn’t gone to see her play quidditch. He hadn’t allowed himself to find out where she’d be all summer. The June morning that Katie had turned seventeen, he’d awoken to find a large owl tapping on his window. “Congratulations, Marcus,” it read. “Today is the day that your fascination with the little Gryffindor ceases being a felony and becomes merely deeply disturbing-Morgaine.” The thought that Katie was now legally an adult followed him everywhere, and Marcus had stopped by Knockturn Alley to arrange a particularly unpleasant ‘thank you’ for Morgaine. He still had managed to stay away.

He’d been virtuous. For the past year, various sultry and experienced witches had shared his bed. Miss Katie Bell, with her stubborness, quick mind and smart mouth, had remained untouched. What did he get for his good behaviour? An evening with her just outside his reach; too many eyes were on him tonight, searching for weaknesses.

The sound of light footsteps walking out on the balcony startled him, and he wheeled around. Well. Maybe he was wrong after all. Maybe virtue was rewarded.

Katie stood before him, arms crossed. Marcus smirked, awaiting flustered lies about how she had just accidently stumbled across him. This should be amusing.

“Why do you keep looking at me?” she asked quietly.

He’d forgotten who he was dealing with.

“Better keep hold of your ego, Bell. What, you think I’m dripping with so much lust for you that I just can’t tear my eyes away?” He moved toward her slowly. If she was going to follow him, all bets were off.

“I know that’s not why,” she replied, an edge to her voice. “I’m not a fool. I just want to know why you were watching me.” She eyed him warily as he moved closer, but did not back away.

“What makes you think I was watching you?”

“I counted.” At his incredulous look, she elaborated. “I counted how many times you looked at me, and how many times you looked at other people. Then I chose a few people at random and watched how many times they looked at different people. You were looking at me way more than the average.” The funniest thing about this was that she clearly thought this was rational behavior. She probably couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t approach sexual dynamics the exact same way you did your arithmancy homework.

“Maybe I was just wondering if I should end your misery, Bell? You were looking at me with such longing, it was becoming embarrassing. People were starting to talk,” Marcus replied in an amused tone, stepping so close that Katie was forced to back away.

“I was not!” she spat out angrily. “I didn’t look at you until you looked at me! Well, I might have gaped a moment when I first saw you. It isn’t everyday you see a troll in dress robes.”

Marcus let his eyes trail lazily over her. She’d gotten really tall. She was still slender but he’d like to know what other changes she was hiding under the stiff material and billowing lines of her robes.

“Well, Bell, it’s not every day you see a walking couch, either. Did you buy those robes or is the Gryffindor common room missing some drapes?” he shot back, smirking. He continued to move forward slowly, backing her up.

“Granted, my dress does have enough material for slutgear for a thousand of your little playmates. Personally, I don’t happen to think string held together with spell-o-tape is appropriate for December weather, but they do need to advertise. Frostbitten nipples are probably just an occupational hazard.” Her flow of sarcasm broke off as he maneuvered her up against the wall, catching her by surprise.

“Jealous?” he asked, wicked amusement in his tone. The apprehension in her eyes turned to anger.

“Oh, yeah, I am. Inbred manwhore bullies get me hot,” Katie sneered. “Throw in bad teeth and perversion and I can’t feel my legs.” She tried to push past him.

Perversion? What the Hades was she talking about? He felt frozen.

When he didn’t step aside, she rolled her eyes. “Are you taking me prisoner, dread lord Flint? C’mon, get out of my way.” She shoved against his chest.

“Or what? You’ll call me a pedophile again?” he snarled at her. She looked up at him with surprise. What had made him say that? He’d planned on never letting her know how much that had bothered him. She didn’t look triumphant though, just confused.

“I never called you a pedophile,” she said, sounding bewildered.

“Yes, you did,” he snarled before he could stop himself.

“No, I didn’t,” she shot back. “I wouldn’t have. I try to never use polysyllabic words around you, Flint. I am not a cruel witch.”

“You implied it.” Shut up, Marcus. Get some self control. She still looked puzzled, clearly wracking her brains to figure out what he was talking about. Then her face cleared.

“In the Room of Requirement? That whole ‘Wee Witches’ thing?” she asked hesitantly. At his sharp nod, she laughed in his face. His guts twisted. “I didn’t call you a pedophile. I merely suggested that you might not want to get your pick-up lines from the writing staff of ‘Harry the Hungry Horklump.’”

He felt something in his chest ease, even though she was looking at him like he was a few straws short of a broomstick. Mouthy wench. Letting his lips widen into a broad smirk, he stared down at her with a heated gaze, and reached out to push her hair of her face. She had started to speak but broke off, swallowing hard. Satisfaction filled him as he saw how she was looking at him. She got the same smitten look on her face after watching him play quidditch. Katie jerked her gaze away.

“I’ll be going, unless you need more seduction tips to help you with your little tramps,” she said coolly. It was a valiant try, he had to admit. Too late though. He already knew.

“My little tramps, Bell? They’re all far away in the ballroom. The only one out on this balcony with me is you,” Marcus purred. He braced his hands on the wall to either side of her, and leaned down toward her lips, slightly angling his head. Then he stopped.

For a second he thought he had her. Her eyes darkened and her lips moved infinitesimally closer to his. Then he could see the second when her control returned. Her back stiffened and she glared up at him.

“Oh, am I supposed to be overcome with your manliness now? So besotted that I throw myself at you, giving you have yet another reason to mock me? Nice try, Flint. I haven’t fallen for that trick of yours since I was, I don’t know, fourteen years old,” she said angrily. She was so riled she didn’t even seem to know what she’d just owned up to.

“Finally admitting you want me, Bell? You have matured,” Marcus asked with his cockiest grin. Her eyes narrowed.

“When I was fourteen, I admit that I may have very briefly considered you to be not completely repulsive. When I was seven, I wanted to be a unicorn. A purple one, as I recall. People outgrow things, Flint.” Her tone was heated but her eyes didn’t hold the fear or confusion that he was used to seeing when he pressed the issue with her. She wasn’t trying to get away.

“You’ve outgrown your fascination with me, Bell? You spent the last year snogging some little boy from Gryffindor?” he laughed. She flushed and looked away. He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. “I don’t think that’s true. I think you spent those lonely nights in Gryffindor Tower with your hand between your legs and me on your mind.” His voice was gruff, as he pinned her with his stare.

“You don’t know everything,” Katie replied with a hint of resignation. She still wasn’t pulling away. Those gorgeous eyes dropped to his mouth and he got the feeling that she wasn’t planning on fighting him any more.

“I know enough.” The blood roared in his veins as her hand came up to rest on his shoulder. It was the first time she had ever touched him.

In a non-violent manner, anyway.

“I know pure, chaste Katie Bell wants me,” he whispered, leaning in.

The hand on his chest pushing him away was so unexpected that he stumbled backwards. He stared at her, mouth open, unable to process what had just happened. A few moments ago she had been warm and soft; he would have bet a thousand galleons that she was wet for him. Now she looked like she was carved out of ice.

“You don’t know everything you think you do, Flint,” Katie’s voice was hard and bitter.

It had all been an act? He had never thought Katie was like that. Fucking tease.

“Get away from me, you bitch,” he snarled. “Go home.”

“With pleasure,” she replied angrily. What in Merlin’s name did she have to be angry about? “I think I’ve exceeded the maximum recommended exposure to unimaginative, self-centered snobs.”

He reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Don’t talk about my mother,” he hissed at her. She yanked free and for the second time that evening, laughed in his face. He didn’t think he could stand hearing her laugh ever again.

“A few mommy issues, Flint? I was talking about you. Possibly I should have made that more explicit. I just didn’t think it necessary since you always think everything is about you any way.” She was walking away, almost to the door.

“Shut up or I’ll…”

She whirled on him. “You’ll what? There is nothing left for you to do to me, Flint. You’ve already told me that I’m plain, that I’m not good enough to play pro quidditch, that I’m probably not as smart as I think I am, and that no one will ever want me. Guess what? I’m still here,” she snarled. “Think I didn’t pay attention to your lessons, Flint? I did. There aren’t any more weak spots for you to exploit. I am now immune.” She was shaking but her chin was up and her eyes defiant.

She hadn’t learned anything. There she stood, daring him to cut her deep, actually thinking that he couldn’t hurt her. Katie’s mother had died young, her two best friends had left her behind to go out into the real world, and her father was so out of it that he had spent last year’s Yule Ball lecturing a house elf about venereal disease prevention. It wouldn’t take much for Marcus to convince Katie that no one had ever loved her, and no one ever would. He could teach her that there was always room for more pain.

He couldn’t do it. Not again. There were plenty of people Marcus would gore just for the pleasure of watching them bleed, but Katie wasn’t one of them. She never had been.

“Run along and play with your little friends, Katie,” he said wearily. She looked even angrier at that.

“I am not a child,” she flared, hands on her hips.

“I know!” he bellowed at her. She stepped back, shocked by his vehemence. They both stood frozen for a minute, gazes locked.

“Just please stop looking at me,” she said softly, before turning away. Marcus didn’t breathe until she was gone.

*****

Marcus stalked back towards the ballroom. He’d let his mother get a few jabs in, swipe a bottle of firewhiskey and go for a broomride. Bell could shag Higgs for all he cared. Not that she would. She’d sit in the corner and do her impression of a cloakrack.

“Going somewhere?” a voice purred behind him. He wheeled around. Diana Bletchley leaned against a wall. Once she saw he had his full attention, she put her index finger to her lips and sucked on it. Her eyes were smoky as she started tracing the neckline of her outrageously low cut robes with the same finger.

Brunette. Large breasts and a tiny frame. Tight robes in glittering green and silver. Experienced and undeniably skilled in bed. Frank appreciation in her eyes when she looked at him. She was the perfect witch.

He grabbed her arm and started heading back towards the balcony. She followed him for a few steps before digging in her heels and yanking her arm away.

“Where are we going? I should get back to the ball,” Diana said in a voice that she probably thought sounded innocent; it actually sounded like she been on the wrong end of a botched lobotomy. She fluttered her eyelashes at him. She was probably wishing she had a fizzing whizbee to complete the effect.

Who was he to go against a cliché? “Come on, little girl” he growled and pulled her roughly to him. Diana pouted but followed him out onto the balcony.

“Look at all the twinkly stars”, Diana cried while spinning around in circles. Apparently Diana had mixed up her ‘little schoolgirl’ routine with her ‘spastic house elf’. Marcus could give her a few pointers. Actual virginal misses led you on then shredded you to ribbons with their tongue. Gryffindor maidens would no more mention twinkly stars than they would fuck you.

Marcus shoved her up against the wall. Her gasp of outrage was at odds with the dark amusement in her eyes. He skimmed his hand along her lush outline, over her soft breasts before moving up her thigh and underneath her robes. Nice. She wriggled, trying to get him to move faster. He tugged her tight robes up, bunching them around her waist.

“How do you want it?” he hissed in her ear.

“What do you mean? Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she wheedled, persisting with her little act.

Marcus snarled but bent to kiss her. When he moved his lips to her soft neck, she let out a triumphant little giggle.

“You’re not going to tell my boyfriend, are you?” she whispered in his ear.

Was she serious? Who was her boyfriend? Was it one of his mates? Oh Merlin, maybe it was one of his relatives. That was about what passed for clever with Diana. He could just see her setting up a confrontation at the family Yule party. In front of his mother.

Screw this. There were other witches around who would know how to be properly grateful for his attentions. Frankly, bringing himself off would achieve the same result with less drama and probably better conversation as well.

“Sorry, love. Just remembered I’d already had this,” he grinned down at her, and stepped back.

Anger flared in her eyes before being replaced with a calculating stare. She glanced down at his crotch before returning to his face with a sickly sweet look of sympathy on her face.

“It’s OK, Marcus. I understand that these things can happen,” Diana said in syrupy tones with another quick glance at his crotch. “No one has to know.”

Bitch. Marcus grabbed her hand and pressed it against his hard cock. She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s fine, Marcus. If you don’t think you’re up to performing…”

He had her back up against the wall in a flash. She rubbed her hips against him and reached up to pull his head down to hers. Marcus scowled. There was no way. He reached out and pushed down on the top of her head, making her kneel. Diana resisted for a second, then sank down.

Her hands skimmed up underneath his robes, and unfastened his pants; deft fingers having no trouble with the buckle. A shiver went through him as she scraped her nails along the back of his thighs. It had been a while.

Diana grinned wickedly at him before flicking her tongue over the head of his cock. Marcus fought to keep his hips still as she slowly drew his shaft into her mouth. He hit the back of her throat before she started sucking. Hard. Merlin, Diana had always been good at this. In the back of his mind, Marcus could hear Bell saying that the vacuum between Diana’s ears probably helped with the suction.

He shouldn’t be thinking of Bell right now. She didn’t want him. She definitely wouldn’t approve; he could imagine her standing there, prim and sarcastic and filled with Gryffindor self-righteousness.

Marcus stared down at Diana as he tried to block out the image of blonde hair and blue eyes with full lips twisted in a smirk. He squeezed his eyes shut, his head falling back as he gasped. It was futile to even picture Katie like that. She would never go down on him.

He was sure she had never gone down on anyone.

There was no reason that should turn him on, so it must have been Diana’s sudden swallow that brought him over. Pure pleasure raced through his nerve endings as he jerked his hips forward sharply. Marcus could feel small hands milking the base of his cock but he could also somehow feel longer fingers touching far more lightly. Blonde hair mixed with black curls, eyes both green and blue. Soft lips caressing him as well as Diana’s tight lipped sucking.

He stopped shaking a few moments later. He felt a little sick.

Marcus quickly refastened his pants. Diana stood and stretched, standing on tiptoe to wind her arms around his neck. He just wanted to finish this. He debated leaving her unsatisfied but Diana was never known for her sense of decorum. Loudly declaiming in the ladies room that he’d seduced and abandoned her was her style. Marcus would prefer that neither his mother nor…anyone else were treated to a recap.

Marcus hoisted her small frame onto the railing. Grasping her chin, he turned her head so she could see the multi-story drop beneath them. As he’d figured, her eyes darkened with arousal. Twisted girl. Marcus wrapped his arm around her to keep her from falling, and slipped his hand up her robes.

She was already wet so he slipped two fingers into her. As he stroked rhythmically in and out, he watched her face carefully. There was no way he was doing more than the bare minimum requirement. Marcus brought his thumb quickly over her clit, and she gasped but held out. Diana smirked at him, clearly determined to make him work for it.

Fine. Marcus increased the pace. Diana yawned widely. He suddenly released her, letting her slip over the edge of the railing, and pressed down on her clit hard. As he caught her a split second later, he could feel her convulsing around his fingers as she screamed. His work here was done.

“That was incredible,” Diana breathed into his ear, tongue darting out and flicking his earlobe. “Fuck me.”

Wiping his fingers clean on her inner thigh, Marcus removed his hand from underneath her robes and stepped back.

“Later, Bletchley.” He turned to go.

“You’re finished?” Her voice was incredulous.

“I’ll never fuck you,” Marcus laughed angrily. “Who knows what kind of fertility-enhancing potions you’ve been swilling in order to trap a husband?” He turned back around so he could enjoy the effect of his words.

“Why would I want to marry you?” Diana spat out, hurriedly readjusting her clothes. She sauntered slowly toward the door, pausing at the entrance.

“You know what would be the only good thing about marrying you, Marcus?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “Fucking your brother in your bed. He’s delicious. Did you know?” Bitch.

“I’m sure you’ll get that husband soon, Bletchley. There are probably a few wizards around whose only requirements for a wife are a nice rack and no gag reflex.” Marcus smirked as she stormed out, slamming the door shut behind her.

Great night. His mother, psychotic husband hunters, and Katie Bell once again proving that she was the most insufferable witch alive. Firewhiskey and a broom ride were looking better all the time. As he headed back to the ballroom, Marcus knew one thing. Bell would have to come to him. He was through.

***

“Move,” Marcus growled.

Satisfaction flooded him as Antony flew backwards, away from Katie. It took his brother a moment to regain his composure.

“I think that’s my little brother’s way of saying he wants to cut in,” Antony said, winking roguishly at Katie. “Use your words, Marcus.”

“Now,” Marcus bit out.

It worked. Antony nodded, and disappeared quickly into the throng of dancers without even glancing at Katie again. Marcus stared at her coldly. She crossed her arms and stared right back. They both ignored the curious glances from the other dancers.

“What have I done now?” Katie asked, voice laced with irritation. “You think I called your mother a pedophile?” Marcus remained silent. She didn’t deserve an explanation. “Fine,” Katie muttered, as she turned to walk away. His arm shot out, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her back around.

“He just danced with you because my mother told him to,” Marcus said in a voice that sounded dead even to his own ears.

“What? Who? What are you talking about?” Katie asked. She sounded exhausted.

“My brother. My mother has been bugging both of us to ask you to dance, because you looked so pathetic sitting in the corner. It was depressing the other guests,” Marcus mocked her, feeling a bit of sick pleasure at the shame in her eyes. For a moment, he thought she was just going to skulk silently off like a beaten crup. He didn’t know quite how he felt about that.

“That’s very kind of your mother,” Katie said stiffly. “However, since the worthy cause tonight is supposed to be magiflu research, and not nondescript teen-age girls, I’ll let her dutiful sons off the hook.” Again she turned to leave. Again Marcus stopped her.

Not really understanding what he was doing, he pulled her all the way into his arms.

“I said that’s why my brother asked you to dance,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t say that it was why I did.” His arms encircled her loosely, just exerting enough pressure to not let her pull away. She offered only token resistance.

Her hair brushed against his knuckles as they swayed, electrifying his nerve endings. He knew it was just dirty blonde hair, but it had always fascinated him. Some strands were dark while others were platinum. It flowed down her back in a thick cascade, and streamed out behind her when she flew. Why would his brother ever think she should cut it? Antony always had been an idiot. Antony, who had had his hands on Katie just a few minutes before.

“Just can’t stay away from the pretty boys, eh, Bell?” He wished his voice had sounded a little more dismissive and a little less plaintive when he said that.

Again she looked confused. “What?”

“My brother. Wood.” He managed to keep his voice casual. “Montague.”

She abruptly pulled away and looked at him in shock.

“What are you going on about?” she asked, forcefully. “What about Montague?”

“You’ve expressed your appreciation for his boyish good looks in the past, Bell. You followed Wood around like a puppy, and you just draped yourself all over my brother.” He didn’t even bother to hide the bitterness in his voice as he continued. “For someone who prides themselves on being so unique and independent, you’re just like all the other witches underneath.”

“What a rich inner life you must have, Flint.” She was shaking her head in amazement.

“What?” Did she stay up at night trying to think of new ways to confuse him?

“I’ll rephrase. What’s it like where you live?” she asked incredulously. “I don’t even know where to start. First of all, the only thing that I would be less likely to praise than Markham Montague’s looks would be Markham Montague’s brain. The only place I ever followed Oliver was to quidditch practice.” She paused thoughtfully. “Although I will admit that when he was captain that was pretty much all of the time. What else? Oh, I didn’t drape myself over your brother. Frankly, I wouldn’t even know how to begin to drape. Your brother’s virtue is safe with me.”

“You seriously expect me to believe that he doesn’t get you hot?” Marcus sneered.

“Have you been snacking on fwooper brains?” she snarled back. “What is with you tonight? You’ve never been my biggest fan, but you used to just stick to criticizing my actual flaws, instead of making new ones up. All of a sudden, I’m some shallow femme fatale? What will I be next, a cross-dressing werewolf?”

Circe, she looked hot when she was angry. Tossing her hair and breathing hard, her blue eyes were burning into his. He’d never seen her get as angry with anyone else. Actually, he’d never seen her look at anyone else with anything but casual goodwill, amusement or polite interest. There seemed to be huge parts of the emotional spectrum that she reserved just for him.

The song ended. Katie exhaled and stepped back.

“You better lay off the eggnog, Flint. It’s been…well, baffling and a little frustrating, actually. See you next year.” Something inside Marcus gave way as Katie turned to go. He grabbed her shoulders.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled. Katie shrugged.

“I really don’t think we have anything more to say,” she said wearily.

“Then don’t talk.”

He pulled her close again, this time holding her far more tightly. She didn’t pull away. Lucky, that. He wasn’t completely sure he would have allowed her to go.

He gazed down at her as they swayed. He had never been this close to her before. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and after a moment’s hesitation, she rested her cheek against his chest. Marcus fought to keep his eyes open; he felt drugged.

She drove him mad. When they’d both been at Hogwarts, he’d hear her make some offhand remark to one of her mates about the cheekbones of some Hufflepuff, or her new potions partner’s smile, and he would slowly go out of his mind. Later the same evening in the Great Hall, her eyes would be on Marcus. She only ever looked at him. He would lay in bed and wonder if just taking her would free him from his misery. Marcus still wondered about it.

Merlin, he sounded like a Ravenclaw. A million thoughts and too chicken to do anything about them. He was a Slytherin. Actually, he was the Slytherin. No matter if Bell always unleashed her tongue when he got too close. There were ways to tell if a witch wanted you that didn’t involve words.

He pulled back from her slightly, and she looked up, her eyes questioning. Slowly, he began to move his hand back and forth between her shoulder blades, inwardly cursing the high back of her ridiculous dress. Her breath hitched slightly. Marcus let his left hand drift up to the nape of her neck, massaging the soft skin slowly. Katie stiffened and his hand stilled. Once she had relaxed, he restarted the slow motion. There was nothing that she could construe as a challenge or even an invitation; to Marcus’ delight, Katie remained silent and just looked at him, her eyes a shade darker. When his hand moved slowly into her hair, a pink tongue darted out to lick her lips. She leaned into his touch, hypnotized. Marcus carefully schooled his features, not letting his rising satisfaction touch his eyes. Either Katie Bell really did want him or he was hallucinating.

“Ah, Marcus.”

Marcus had figured out the perfect murder, his alibi and seven interesting places to hide the body before Marsden Montague spoke again.

“Come and join us. I was just talking to your mother, and realized that you haven’t been out to the castle in quite a while. I know Morgaine would love to see you,” Marsden chuckled. “You can go,” Marsden told Katie, clearly dismissing her as no one of consequence. The tall wizard was really pushing his luck. He was already on Marcus’ list for interrupting his moment with Katie and for bringing forth the twin plagues of Morgaine and Markham into the world.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Katie try to slip away into the crowd. He grabbed her wrist and held her there. She wasn’t getting away from him tonight.

“How is Morgaine, Mr. Montague?” Marcus asked coolly. Actually, he knew how Morgaine was. Morgaine was currently undergoing very painful and expensive treatment at St. Mungo’s several times a week; she’d eaten some cursed chocolate-covered cherries that had caused her intestines to slowly turn themselves inside out. The cherries had been ridiculously expensive and worth every cent Marcus had paid.

“She’s, er, in France,” Marsden said. Apparently intestinal disorders lowered the market value of finely bred chattel. “Seriously, come join us. I want to tell you this story about Janus and Volumnia and a puffapod.” It really was tragic when the brain ceased functioning before the liver did.

“Excuse me, I’m in the middle of something here.” With that, he turned and marched Katie and himself away. It would have looked better had Katie not decided to elbow him in the ribs. Marsden was probably still standing there, slack jawed.

“Didn’t you want to hear about the puffapod?” Katie asked innocently. “I always love this ball. It allows me to view all the inbred rich imbeciles in their native habitat.”

He ground his teeth. She had done it again. How could she be so completely under his sway one minute, and then openly laughing at him the next.

“I’m sorry. That was rude,” she said contritely. “I should have said all you inbred rich imbeciles.”

He turned to snarl at her but it was no use. He’d die before he would admit it to anyone but she was just too damn cute like this. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes danced, and she did this little bounce when she thought of something particularly clever to say. It always did make him want to shut her up though. Preferably by shoving his tongue down her throat.

“Who has names like ‘Janus’ and ‘Volumnia’ anyways?” she laughed up at him.

“My mother and her father, also known as my grandfather.” That did shut her up. “Also known as the last CEO of Flint Industries. Also known as someone who was responsible for millions of galleons. Also known as someone who was consulted by many high ranking ministry officials. All of which I’m pretty sure has never applied to anyone named ‘Katie.’” He shot back.

“Your mother was a Flint? But that doesn’t make any-” she said, before flushing. Yes, Katie, that would make both of my parents Flints by birth. He waited, amused, for her to continue. She chickened out. “So, I guess I should be going.”

“You disappoint me, Bell. I was really looking forward to hearing you come up with a polite way to ask me if I was illegitimate or just really inbred,” he mocked, pulling her back onto the dance floor and placing her arms around his neck. She still looked horribly embarrassed. Which was pretty ironic when you considered that she had insinuated that he had sex with dugbogs. On multiple occasions.

He took pity on her.

”My mother loved the power and prestige of the Flint name. However, she thought it was terribly bourgeousie for her to keep her own last name when she married. So she found a reasonably respectable Flint who she wasn’t closely related to, and then she married him.” Marcus laughed at Katie’s stunned expression. “And that tells you everything you need to know about my mother, Bell.”

She was quiet for a moment, before looking at him. “It’s not a bad idea,” she offered.

“What?”

“No, really, Flint,” she said seriously. “I like it. There’s a first year named Kevin Bell who is distinctly promising. Not bad on a broom.” She was clearly trying to keep a straight face. “Impressive collection of chocolate frog cards.” They both started laughing.

”Like them young, huh, Bell?” he asked, smiling. She stopped laughing, and took a deep breath.

“No.” He swallowed hard, as he felt her hand start to play with the short hairs at the base of his neck. How did they get back here again? More importantly, how did he make this Katie stay?

“Marcus?”

Not again. He turned to see Diana looking incredulously at Katie. Damn it.

“What are you doing? Is this charity?” Diana asked, looking Katie over with contempt.

Marcus remained silent, trying to figure out how to get rid of Diana without goading her into mentioning any of his earlier activities. Katie could be very Gryffindor at inconvenient times.

“Actually, yes. It is charity,” Katie said calmly. Both Marcus and Diana looked at her, shocked. “Marcus assures me that it’s for such a good cause, though. All proceeds will be going to buy you a bra,” she finished sweetly.

Diana sneered and sauntered away, swaying her hips. Marcus let out a sigh of relief.

Katie gave him a long cold look. Then she turned and walked off the dance floor. What in Salazar’s name was her problem now? He moved quickly after her. Let people talk.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she bit out. Like hell.

“C’mon, Katie. What did I do?” Merlin, he sounded pathetic.

“Nothing. You did absolutely nothing, Marcus.” What did that mean?

He was wracking his brains for what had gotten her so upset, when a flash of greenery caught his eye. Mistletoe. He yanked her out of harm’s way. She looked at him with indignance and a little puzzlement.

“Mistletoe.” He jerked his head toward it.

“Lucky escape for you, then,” she said lightly, looking out onto the dance floor. Whatever. When he kissed her, it wasn’t going to be because fucking foliage had given him permission.

“Be a little more careful, Katie,” Marcus said gruffly. “You don’t want to give some guy an excuse to maul you.”

They stood silently for a minute. A group of witches called out to Marcus. He ignored them.

“It has been, as always, educational,” Katie said, eyes unreadable. She nodded toward the witches. “Why don’t you run along and play with your little friends?”

What? “Hold up, Katie. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…” she broke off. “I’m just not used to people coming up to me and being…” she broke off again, and shut her eyes. “Look, it’s not your problem. See you next year.” He thought he could catch a glimmer of tears in her eyes as she turned away.

“You’re leaving?” He couldn’t believe the situation has slipped so far from his control. Again.

“I promised someone a dance,” Katie tossed back over her shoulder. “Besides,” she added dryly, “I don’t think you’ll be lonely.”

Had he just been dismissed?

He watched Katie lead a slightly pudgy wizard out onto the dance floor. He had been dismissed. He had been dismissed for Neville Longbottom.

Unacceptable.

***

There were a lot of boring things in the world. One of the most boring things, in Marcus’ opinion, had to be sitting in a dark cloakroom, waiting for a witch to show up.

He took another swig of firewhiskey.

The ball was winding down. Eventually Katie would have to come and get her cloak. Marcus supposed it was remotely possible that she would send her father, but he seemed like he could get lost in a bathtub. She would come.

He had bribed the attendant to take off, forcing people to come in and search for their cloaks themselves. His mother would be fielding complaints about that for months. Such a shame.

Marcus had reached a decision. He couldn’t wait any longer. If things continued to drag on with Bell, he would go insane. Tonight, he was going to have her. Unless she kneed him in the groin. Either way there would be closure. Besides, he thought he’d figured out where it always went wrong between them.

All their problems stemmed from allowing Bell to speak.

A wizard came in, looking askance at Marcus as he searched for his cloak. Marcus raised the bottle in a salute, and the man scurried off.

The location did have its advantages. Katie couldn’t see him from the doorway. Once she did come in, he could pull her into the little room in the back. No one would be coming in there; he’d already removed all the coats, and thrown them on the floor outside.

One thousand butterbeers on the wall. One thousand butterbeers…

Katie walked in. Marcus just hid in the shadows for a moment and watched her. She was rifling through the cloaks, searching for hers. He loved the serious little expression she got when she was concentrating.

Katie laughed quietly. She did that a lot, laughing at a joke no one else could get. Katie seemed to think the world was pretty funny. Merlin, nothing compared to that smile.

As she moved further into the room, he stepped out of his hiding place. She gasped.

“Marcus?” she asked, a little puzzled.

“Katie.” He grinned down at her.

“Y’know, skulking is so last season,” she laughed nervously. “The fashionable hulking troll is into bellowing.” He laughed. She looked at him carefully, unsure of what he was up to.

“Bye!” she said, trying to dart past him. He blocked her path. She looked up at him in surprise.

“What are you do-“

He pulled her up against him. His lips were on hers so quickly that she didn’t have time to even think about protesting. His tongue slid into her mouth immediately, trying to map out every inch of the warm cavern. He had waited far too long to be gentle.

Katie let out a squeak of protest as he lifted her up and carried her into the back room, kicking the door shut behind him. He pressed her up against the door and kissed her harder. He could feel her slide her tongue against his, trying to regain some control over the kiss. No. He wasn’t negotiating here. He was going to fucking conquer her. He sucked on her tongue hard, and reveled in her whimper.

He pulled back to look at her. He wanted to see her drugged by his kiss, just holding on tight during the ride. She did look wanton, all flushed cheeks and pouting lips. Her eyes were aware though, stormy and darker than he’d ever seen them.

He was bending to kiss her again, when she launched herself at him, forcing him to step backward. She kissed him hard, nails digging into his scalp and teeth scraping along his lip. Her tongue had wrapped itself around his as they both tried to subdue the other.

Whenever he’d fantasized about this, lying in bed with his hand on his cock, he’d seen her writhing and in his complete control. He’d expected a surrender and she had attacked.

Snarling, he forced her backwards again, shoving her hard into the wall. He let his hands roam over her body as their tongues dueled. That fucking dress covered everything. One hand cupped her firm ass as the other stole up her front. She gasped as his hand moved over her breast. That was a sound he wanted to hear over and over and over…

He broke the kiss to look at her. She was panting hard, and looking at him with demanding eyes. Slowly he ran his hand back over her breast, watching her arch into him, eyes drifting shut. When he moved his thumb firmly over the tip of her breast, she bit her lip and her hips jerked towards him. She was so fucking sexy. He needed to feel that smooth skin beneath his hands.

He squeezed her ass once and hoisted her up, bracing her with his body. One of her legs was trying to wrap itself around his waist, but that damned skirt kept getting in the way. He reached blindly down, searching desperately for her ankle. He was going to slowly drag that hand up her leg and watch her go out of her mind.

As his hand wrapped around her smooth ankle, she stiffened. Marcus bit back a curse, and let her ankle drop. He bent to kiss her again and she eventually relaxed. He slowly ran his hand around the crease where her thigh met her ass, and felt her shiver. Her hands were moving mindlessly over her back. He could feel the heat her skin was radiating, even through the thick material. Gods, he didn’t think he had ever been this hard.

He slowly moved his hand down her shoulder, forcing her arm down and lacing their fingers together. He smoothed his thumb over the back of her hand and brought their joined fingers together to press against his cock, hissing in pleasure. She yanked her hand back, as if burned.

Marcus bit down his snarl of frustration. He needed to be patient with her. He brought one hand up behind her neck to angle her head as he kissed her. His lips twisted into a smile at Katie’s breathy little sigh. When he moved his lips and teeth to her ear, he could feel her hand lightly rest itself on the front of his pants.

His tongue traced the curve of her ear as he felt her light touch stroke over him. Circe, that felt good. As her touch became slightly firmer, he had to bite down on his lip to keep from screaming. He looked down, fascinated by the slow movements of her delicate fingers. When he looked up, he saw that she too was staring down at her hand, her face a picture of extreme concentration. It was too much.

He pushed his hips forward, pinning her hand between their bodies. The high collar of her dress completely covered her neck. Damn it, he wanted to feel her pulse racing under his lips. Sliding his fingers down the neck of the dress, he grasped the collar and yanked his hands apart as hard as he could. The material ripped, exposing the smooth column of her neck. She moaned, and it was the most womanly sound Marcus had ever heard.

He savaged her neck with his teeth, rocking his hips into her, fighting for control. Her breath was coming in quick little pants. Marcus knew he was fast losing control. He needed to get her out of here, preferably to somewhere with a bed and a door only he could open. He wanted to be able to take his time, leaving no doubt in her mind that she belonged to him.

Where should they go? For one insane moment, he thought he should bring her to the manor and take her over and over in the master bedroom. He shook that thought free, but his mind still raced. A hotel? His apartment? Part of him wanted it to be somewhere he had never had a woman before.

She had started rotating her hips back against his. If he didn’t decide quickly, he’d end up finishing it right here. Fine, his apartment would do. Where in Hades had he left his wand?

“Marcus?” his brother’s voice called out.

Oh, Merlin, please no. Damn it, where was his wand?

“Marcus, I know you’re there.” Antony called again, amused. “Your robes and wand are right outside the door.” Merlin, he was right outside the door.

Marcus and Katie stared at each other. Katie’s dress was ripped and her lips were swollen. She still looked drugged with passion. There was no way he was letting Antony see her like that.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

He shoved his hands through his hair and tried to steady his breathing. There wasn’t much he could do to hide the rest of it. Making sure Katie was hidden, he pushed the door open and stepped out, closing it immediately behind him. Antony was craning his neck, trying to look inside. Git.

“Who is she?” Antony asked gleefully.

Merlin, could he be any louder?

“None of your business. Get out of here.” He couldn’t sound too eager to get rid of him, or Antony would never rest until he found out who had Marcus so hot and bothered. His brother was known to enjoy poaching on Marcus’ turf. Marcus bit down his rage at the thought of Antony and Katie.

“Your skills are impressive, little brother,” Antony said. “How on earth do you get them to spread their legs so readily?”

Marcus shut his eyes briefly. Please, don’t let Katie hear this.

“Is it the same one you disappeared with earlier?” Antony continued. “Or are you taking them in shifts tonight?” His voice had gotten even fucking louder.

Someday soon he was going to have a long talk with Antony. Somewhere where no one could hear his brother scream.

“Why do you have to live vicariously through me, Antony?” Marcus sniped, picking up his wand and robes. “Do no witches want you any more or is it that you just can’t get it up?” He needed to get back in there and calm Katie down. He’d be able to talk his way out of it eventually, right?

Antony snickered. “Fine, little brother. Enjoy your evening.” He sauntered out, whistling. Fucking moron.

Marcus dove back into the room, an apology already forming on his lips. It died, unuttered.

At the back of the room, another door was wide open. She was nowhere to be found.

Damn it, Katie.

Detained Chapter 3 -- Alienation

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 03:17:25 GMT

September

Detention with the Slytherin quidditch captain. Isn't that new and novel? Katie thought.

She cast a sidelong look at Markham Montague. The tall, burly boy stood next to her, casually propping himself up against Hagrid's hut in that who-needs-brains-when-you-have-cashmere way of his. He was holding his neck at a really weird angle, Katie noticed. It took her a minute to realize that it was in order to present the perfect side profile to the giggling Ravenclaw girls who were sneaking looks at him. Katie rolled her eyes. She'd never fancy a guy who thought charm was an acceptable replacement for thought.

"Alrigh', then," Hagrid said, bustling about. "Montague, you'll be sortin' knarls from the hedgehogs, and Katie, you'll be tending the unicorns." Hagrid smiled at her. Sweet! Katie loved unicorns.

"Why does she get to tend the unicorns?" Montague complained.

"Well, jus' usually the girls...If yeh think you'd be able ter," Hagrid trailed off. "Alrigh' with yeh, Katie?"

Oh, this would be excellent. "That's great, Hagrid. I like knarls too."

Montague shot her a smug smile, and moved toward the silver unicorn. It immediately shied and bolted away. He continued to lumber around the paddock, the unicorn moving away every time he got close. Katie waited patiently for Montague to work it out, his brain slowly turning pages until he got to V for virgin. Montague wasn't getting close to that unicorn without a time-turner. To add insult to injury, the unicorn darted behind Katie and started nuzzling her neck.

"Well, of course they'd like you," he sneered.

"Virgin isn't an insult, Montague. Just like brain-dead Slytherin quidditch pretty boy isn't a compliment. I'll come up with some more examples for you, if you need them."

He snarled and went back to sorting the knarls from the hedgehogs. This involved him feeding them, and then seeing if they tried to attack. Katie smiled as she heard Montague's intermittent pained cries.

She finished with the big unicorn, and moved on to the golden foals, brushing their flanks carefully. She hadn't gotten to do this in such a long time. It was probably because she hadn't had detention in quite a while. Hardly at all since...Flint graduated. Ha! It really always had been all his fault.

She wouldn't even be in detention today except for an incident involving Umbridge, magenta-colored Gryffindor first years with horns, and a suspiciously angelic-looking Fred and George. Katie had taken one look and decided that a Bell in detention beat two Weasleys thrown out of Hogwarts. She'd received one detention for saying that she'd done it. She'd received two additional detentions for saying she'd done it to make the first years more decorative.

"The unicorns really should be able to tell the difference between pure sweet virgin girls, and those who are virgins because nobody would want to shag them. We all know which camp you fall into." Montague's snide voice was right behind her. Katie looked up at him.

"How would that work?" Katie faked puzzlement. "You want the unicorns to keep us under constant surveillance?" He just looked down at her, obviously at a loss for words.

"OK, Montague? This is where you reply. It's the 'rep' part in repartee." Katie said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He opened his mouth, and then shut it, exasperated. Katie smirked as she heard him storm off, chuntering under his breath.

Hagrid had set them both to tending flobberworms by the time he spoke again.

"Is Gryffindor even going to bother to show up for the game against Slytherin, Bell? If I were you guys, I wouldn't even bother."

"Why? Because of your exemplary track record against us?"

"Because we're better than you, Bell. Losing Wood really hurts your team. Plus it comes down to the captains, and I'll be the best Slytherin's had."

"How's that? You going to polyjuice yourself into Marcus Flint?" Katie shot back. Whoa. Montague looked mad. Usually he was more into smarminess than rage.

"It's going to be a slaughter, Bell. All you Gryffindors will see and so will Flint."

"Flint's coming to the game?" Katie asked quickly. OK, that had sounded a little too eager. It would just be interesting to see him...now that he was playing for the Falcons. It would be just as cool for any other quidditch pro to be at the game.

"I'm sure he won't miss an opportunity to be quidditch king."

"Oh, are you going to tell him that? I would love to see the ass kicking that would ensue. I'm sure that Snape will beg him to come to the game so he can figure out how you're botching things."

"The only botched things will be all those super secret plays that Gryffindor is working on. Honestly, do you think I won't already know what all of them are by game day, Bell?"

"How are you going to do that? With your super Slytherin spy network?" Katie asked. "Wait, I know. You're going to get the unicorns to help."

Montague ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Be quiet, Bell! Merlin, you never shut up. Just...quit talking." He broke off for a second before trying again. "Remain silent. It would be really great if you would just never speak again...or talk..."

"Sure thing, master orator."

"Aargh!" he stormed off to the other end of the paddock. Katie laughed.

***********
October

Katie tossed in her bed. She couldn’t get to sleep. After sneaking out twice to go on broom rides, and once to the kitchens, she was out of distractions. It as just that she felt so wound up. Closing her eyes, she tried once again to drift off…

Candles flickered in sconces, causing the spider webs to gleam. Katie had somehow made a wrong turn on her way to the Potions classroom, and was lost deep in the dungeons. Doors slammed shut behind her, making retracing her steps impossibility.

The only sound was the echoing of her own footsteps on the stone of the corridor. Sometimes it sounded like there was another set of footsteps, walking almost in time with her own...possibly in a distant corridor. She turned around but there was only shadowy passage behind her. Maybe she was imagining things.

She resumed walking, stepping as softly as possible and listening carefully. She could just make out the creak of doors opening, and the scrape of a shoe on stone. She stopped and the sounds ceased as well. She stepped forward but did not set her foot down. She heard the footstep behind her a split second before she felt hot breath on her neck. By the time she'd decided to run, one large hand was entwined in her hair and a strong arm was wrapped around her waist.

"You're a long way from anywhere that you know, little Gryff."

Flint.

Katie froze. "What do you want?"

The hand that was in her hair moved to cover her mouth, and his voice was low in her ear. "I want so many things."

She tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

"Behave," he hissed in her ear. His hot breath caused little trails of sensation, like ashwinders slithering over her skin. Her eyes drifted shut and she choked back a moan.

"What do you want, Bell?" he asked. "This?" He petted her long blond hair, hand tracing lightly over her scalp. "Or this?" Suddenly she was up against the wall, breasts flattened against the cool stone, his hips pressing her forward. She gasped against his fingers. "Or do you not even know what you really want?"

Katie yanked her head in a way that she hoped would look like resistance, but really just served to bare her throat to his mouth. She waited for a second, longing to feel his lips, his teeth, along the column of her neck. They didn't come, so she started to resume struggling.

As soon as she moved, Marcus pulled her head back to the side and sunk his teeth into the side of her neck. Katie smiled. His bite didn't form the even semicircle of your typical quidditch boy with the charming smile. It felt jagged, parts barely skimming her neck while others pressed uncomfortably deep. Take away her sight, the feel of his hands and body against hers, all other sensations...and she would still know whose mouth was at her throat.

"Tell me," he said in her ear, tongue darting out to lick her earlobe. He quit covering her mouth, moving his hand to grip tightly around her waist, pressing her stomach back into his hips. She remained silent.

"Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me what you want." She leaned back against him but still refused to speak. His hands became more insistent. One splayed wide across her stomach and started to make slow circles. The other moved along the side of her face, skimming the curve of her ear before moving to trace her lips and then to skim over her pulse.

"Bell." His voice was still low and seductive, but she thought she could detect frustration as well. Her tongue darted out to lick at his fingers, and his grip tightened on her.

They were deadlocked. He continued murmuring in her ear, wanting words from her. She rotated her hips back against him, and entwined one of her hands in his hair, but his touches did not venture any further. Katie felt stretched, unable to go forward and unwilling to go back.

Voices penetrated through the haze of her mind. There were people close by, on the other side of the wall. Katie tensed. Would they find her like this? Would they know? She smiled as the voices started to move away.

"Scream," he said.

"What?" She was so startled that she forgot that she had resolved to remain silent.

"Scream. Let them come to your rescue. Wrest you from my vile Slytherin clutches." His voice was amused but intense. Katie remained silent. "Katie, you're not screaming," he whispered. His hands stilled.

Katie didn't scream. She stood silently, and then finally pressed her body against his. He laughed, long and low.

"You don't even realize what you've done, do you, little girl?" He held her tightly but did not move. "Game over, Katie." His tongue snaked into her ear, and she shivered. "You no longer get to pretend you don't want this." His voice held a distinct note of triumph.

"Such a twisted little girl, Katie." His hands had started moving over her body again. "Up against a wall? With me?" He had managed to lift up the side of her robes, and was skimming his hand slowly up her leg.

"You're really not supposed to actually like it," he whispered as his hand reached the top of her thigh.

Katie sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. Where had that come from? She didn't want that. She shook. Eventually, her breathing slowed.

OK. Well, if Hogwarts continued to think pumpkin juice, Yorkshire pudding and peppermint humbugs were a balanced diet, they could bloody well assume all responsibility for her dreams as well.

*******

Katie collapsed on her bed exhausted. She'd spent the past 45 minutes on her broom racing around the grounds, and occasionally the hallways, of Hogwarts. It hadn't worked. She was still thinking about the dream.

Maybe mockery would distract her. Katie pulled a magazine out from underneath her mattress. She kept the August Quidditch Weekly for the comprehensive broom review and definitely not for the "Rising Stars of Quidditch" article. Hey, she might be able to afford a new broom this year...if she smuggled a bunch of rabid nifflers into Gringott's.

She rifled through the magazine, stopping on the picture of Oliver Wood.

"Oliver Wood is a dedicated young man, the article read. Translation: Oliver Wood is a fanatical nutcase, Katie thought. " Since early childhood, Oliver has spent most of his time honing his keeper skills. " Since he was a tiny tot, people have enjoyed hurling objects at Oliver Wood's head. "Recently, Oliver spent the night on a quidditch pitch in Wales practicing, while his teammates slept in a nearby hotel." Recently, his teammates were so fed up with him that they locked him out of the hotel rooms. However, even at three in the morning, there were still plenty of people about who wanted to throw things at him.

Ha! If neither the quidditch nor mediwitchery worked out, Katie figured she could become a journalist. Sports sarcasm with Katie Bell! Or possibly Katie Bell's Snark-A-Thon. OK, back to reality. Next page.

"Marius Ventanyu is a Romanian seeker with formidable skills." None of us have ever seen him play. "We think he will bring an exciting new style into the English quidditch ranks. We got three letters to the editor last week complaining that we were anglocentric. "Ventanyu joins several other new exciting players hailing from eastern Europe." English quidditch fans will know him by his other name, NotViktorKrum.

Next page...Marcus Flint. Oh, yeah, him.

"Marcus Flint couldn't tell us how many penalties he received in his first season with the Falcons." Because he can't count. "However, it was a franchise rookie record, and his rough and tumble style instantly endeared him to the Falmouth fans." Because they can't count either. "The Falmouth management is quick to point out that several review committees have found no evidence that he is trying to maim or severely injure other players." They never recovered the bodies. "We at Quidditch Weekly are fascinated by the enigmatic Mr. Flint, a brooding character far removed from your typical quidditch pretty boy." He has terrible teeth. "Love him or hate him, few can disagree that Mr. Flint is an exceedingly rare combination of brute force, savvy and breathtaking skill; he will certainly be a force for years to come."

Katie glanced up at the accompanying photograph. Unlike the other players, who were darting back and forth on their brooms, Flint stood still, arms crossed and occasionally shifting his weight. He stared intently with a look similar to the one he'd often used on Katie; it was a knowing expression that demanded an answer when she hadn't even understood the question.

OK. Maybe that hadn't been such a great distraction technique. Time for phase two: the upstanding young man unattainable crush. She'd just take whatever impulses were focused on...whoever...and redirect them. Oliver Wood had been perfect for the role; he was handsome, moral, kind, and wouldn't have noticed Katie if she was lying naked on his bed unless she diagrammed quidditch plays on her torso. Cedric Diggory had been last year's choice. He'd had all of Oliver's virtues plus a soulful gaze that made twelve year olds think he was their soul mate. Katie had been sixteen, and realized that it was just the bemused expression of someone desperately trying to remember your name. She didn't really want to think about Cedric, though.

Katie had started flipping through last year's annual when she was knocked flat on her back by a human cannonball. Alicia Spinnet grinned impishly down at her. For a small girl, she certainly could generate a lot of force. An amused Angelina Johnson sat down on the next bed.

"What's up, Katydid?" asked Alicia as she clambered off of Katie. Her dark eyes sparkled as she pulled Katie back into a sitting position.

"Nothing. Where have you guys been?" Katie replied.

"Checking out Slytherin's quidditch practice," Angelina laughed. "You should have been there. Montague had all these tiny diagrams and tons of notes, and I figure this year there are maybe two members of the team who can read."

"By the end, he was mainly just shouting at them. He'd gotten very good at using only one syllable words. " Alicia was snickering too.

Katie silently wondered if maybe the whole practice had been a complicated ruse to fake the Gryffindors out. Sometimes Slytherins were smarter than they looked. Then again, Crabbe and Goyle were on the team this year.

"What do you think of Kevin MacMillan?" Katie asked.

"As a what?" Alicia replied.

"As a guy."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"What's the matter with him?" Angelina asked Alicia. "I think he's perfect for Katie."

"How do you figure that? The boy does not play quidditch." Alicia said aghast.

"He's nice. He's cute. He's kind of smart but not as smart as Katie. Most importantly, I can beat him up." Angelina replied.

"Let me repeat. The. Boy. Does. Not. Play. Quidditch. Plus, you need to stop being so overprotective of Katie. You never feel the need to beat up my boyfriends."

"Given the vast numbers involved, where would I find that kind of time?" Angelina asked sweetly. Alicia threw a pillow at her. Katie shook her head. It was kind of like having two fairy godmothers...who had neglected to take their anti-psychosis potions.

"OK." Katie decided. "This year's unattainable crush will be Kevin MacMillan."

"How do you figure he's unattainable?" Alicia asked curiously. "I bet he'd love to go out with you."

"Oh..." Katie paused. "I'll pick someone else then." Alicia started to pound her head against the wall in frustration.

"Katie, sweetie, this year why don't you spend one-on-one time with something besides your broom?" Alicia asked hopefully, and then sighed as Katie stubbornly wouldn't meet her gaze. "Fine, if you're going the crush route, at least pick a bad boy. Like, I don't know, Terence Higgs."

"Oh, like you picked that name completely at random," Katie retorted.

"Or how about Marc-"

Katie froze. Angelina shrieked.

"-ham Montague." Alicia looked puzzled at their reaction. "What?"

"He's a Slytherin." Angelina hissed.

"He's a halfwit." Katie protested.

"Katie, just pick someone fun. Don't worry about what house he's in or how many OWLs he has. Listen to your Aunt Alicia."

"Hey," Angelina protested. "She should benefit from my wisdom and experience with guys, too."

"Does Katie really need to read 'The Book of Fred'?" Alicia asked archly.

Katie figured she better come up with a diversion quickly. Alicia and Angelina were the closest friends she'd ever seen, but sometimes they forgot that.

"Hey, Roger Davies is really hot," Katie interjected. That worked. Alicia and Angelina looked at her with horror.

"Roger Davies? Ick. Who knows where he's been?" Angelina asked with distaste.

"Actually, I have heard where he's been," Alicia said, shuddering. "And ick."

***************
November

"You will never believe who is here," Alicia whispered to Katie. The Slytherin/Gryffindor game was going to start in about fifteen minutes. They were trying to be very quiet and not set Angelina off. She had already threatened to use the beater clubs to do some pruning of the Weasley family tree.

"Flint?" Katie whispered back.

"Oh, he's here?" Alicia replied. "Tansy Trudeau, you know, the chaser for the Harpies? She's here scouting. Lee told me she was sitting in the Slytherin section."

"Should we tell Angelina?"

George raced by, closely pursued by an irate Angelina.

"Let's hold off," Alicia decided.

************

This was definitely not Katie's game. She'd already let Warrington take the quaffle from her, was nearly knocked off her broom by Goyle, and botched a pass to Alicia; it was only five minutes into the game. Plus that stupid song was driving her mad. What a great game for the Harpies to be scouting.

While Madam Hooch was assigning penalties, Katie snuck a look into the stands, looking for the Harpy scout. There she was about halfway up in the Slytherin section...with her tongue in Marcus Flint's ear. Katie's stomach dropped. Oh, classy. Very nice.

Merlin, the game was back on. Katie dashed down the pitch, reaching out to grab the quaffle when that big oaf Warrington dropped it. She wheeled about, racing toward the hoops when she realized that she had dropped the quaffle. Dropped. The. Quaffle. She hadn't done that even in practice since third year. Idiot.

Maybe Trudeau was too occupied with Flint to have noticed. Katie snuck another look and saw that Trudeau probably hadn't seen anything. Not unless Flint had omniculars installed in his tonsils. Who ever thought she'd be grateful to him for being such a manwhore?

"Warrington drops the quaffle and Katie Bell -er- drops it too." Lee’s voice echoed throughout the pitch.

Yeah, thanks a bunch, Jordan.

***************

Katie bolted into the great hall. She knew Angelina would be impatiently waiting to discuss Umbridge's wholesale destruction of the Gryffindor team.

She was darting past the Slytherin table when an arm shot out and grabbed her wrist. What would Slytherins want with her? Sacrificial virgin, her mind helpfully suggested. She looked down at Morgaine Montague, whose hand remained wrapped around Katie's arm.

"Katie, right?" Morgaine gestured to the open seat across from her. "Please join us."

Us? Apparently us consisted of Brutus Parkinson who was reading a book, and Marcus Flint who was deep in conversation with the blonde Harpy. He hadn't even noticed Katie's presence. Morgaine looked at Katie expectantly.

Katie racked her brain as to why the older Slytherin would want to talk to her. She was pretty sure that up until now her only interactions with Morgaine had consisted of silent times in the potions classroom. Morgaine had been doing extra credit and Katie was, well, in detention. Katie didn't know much else about the Slytherin, other than that she was rumored to be descended from a piranha.

Should she sit? Curiosity might have killed the kneazle but so could a lot of other things. Like toaster ovens. And who liked kneazles anyways? It was decided. Katie sat.

"I never really got a chance to talk with members of other houses while I was at school here," Morgaine said. "It seems such a shame for there to be these...divisions...in the wizarding world."

Oh. Katie got it now. All year Dumbledore had been trying to 'promote unity' and 'foster understanding.' He must have coerced former students to come and help him with his whole cross-house thing. This must be a pop quiz. She just had to come up with something inoffensive enough to pass muster yet not so obsequious that her Gryffindor soul went on a rampage.

"I welcome the opportunity to assimilate other viewpoints in a open dialogue. Proactively." Yeah! Bell scores.

"I'm so glad we have this chance. I have so many questions. Do you have a boyfriend?" Morgaine asked immediately.

"Migraine, we all understand that you need to lure other women to your bed to keep Brutus interested. We sympathize. However, could you not recruit while I'm trying to eat?" Marcus' gaze remained fixed on Trudeau, and his voice was cold.

Okay, Katie thought. Maybe she should re-examine that virgin sacrifice theory.

"Marcus, you're blithering. Have you been swilling home-brewed potency potions again?" Morgaine's tone was icy as well. It quickly warmed as she turned to address Katie again. "So, do you have a boyfriend?"

"Uh, no." Do you have a psychiatric mediwizard?

"I find that hard to believe." Morgaine said sweetly, ignoring Draco Malfoy's "I don't." For some reason, Morgaine's gaze was fixed on Marcus as she spoke. "I bet there are guys around who spend plenty of time thinking about that long blonde hair."

"Uh...so I'm learning something already," Katie laughed nervously. "Is this typical Slytherin dinner table conversation?" Morgaine didn't even look at her, keeping her narrowed eyes on Marcus.

"I'm just saying that I'm sure that some of your little friends and acquaintances are thinking about you in ways that your little Gryffindor self couldn't imagine."

Well, Dumbledore was right. Interaction was broadening Katie's preconceptions about Slytherins. She was sure that they were still snobby, arrogant cheaters, but apparently some were perverted fruitcakes as well. Live and learn.

Morgaine stared at Marcus. Other people at the Slytherin table were beginning to do so also, trying to figure out what was going on. Even the Bloody Baron appeared to be taking an interest. Katie found herself doing the same, although she had not the slightest idea why.

"Well, you're a quidditch player, and spend all that time with your long thighs wrapped around a broom," Morgaine murmured silkily. "I bet there are a few lads up late in Gryffindor Tower, imagining those thighs wrapped elsewhere..."

Katie opened her mouth to object, rant, something Gryffindor. Before she had a chance, Marcus turned cold eyes on Morgaine.

"Morgaine, please keep your sexual fantasies about Kelly, or whatever the hell her name is, to yourself. Like I said, I'm trying to eat." His voice held no note of interest or anger. Katie's stomach dropped. He couldn't even remember who she was?

Brutus had been examining all three of them like they were a mildly interesting play. "I think her name is Katie," he volunteered.

"She's a scrawny little Gryffindor twit with no breeding, no manners, and no style" Morgaine snapped. "It hardly matters what her name is." All semblance of human feeling had left her eyes as she continued to glare at Marcus.

OK, enough. Katie rose to her feet, swallowing hard.

"You know, I always figured Slytherin families had so few children because they were so ridiculously inbred. I'm now wondering if it's because they eat them. So sorry that we kicked your brother's ass at quidditch today, Migraine, but losing to Gryffindors is something that all Slytherin quidditch captains have to get used to." Katie smirked as she could feel the rage rolling off of Marcus. Her gaze flicked to Brutus, who was still looking at her as if he hoped she was about to do something entertaining. "And....it's rude to read at the dinner table, didn't you know?" Weak, but at least it was something.

She turned to storm off and found herself face to face with Professor Snape.

"Miss Bell, how very Gryffindor of you to intrude on a Slytherin table, and lecture everyone on their behavior. Since detention never seems to make an impression, shall we say an even thirty points from Gryffindor?"

Katie stomped off. Slytherins.

* * * * * *

Katie walked down the corridor, stopping to look in every classroom and alcove. She'd decided to combine her prefect's rounds with looking for Ron Weasley. As far as she could tell, no one had seen him since the game this afternoon. Katie figured she might be one of the few people who could understand.

Her two best friends were pretty amazing. Katie was...pretty good on a broom. Not completely stupid. Loyal. She figured that she had a pretty good idea what it felt like to be the stalwart companion of 'the Cleverest Witch in her Generation' and 'the Boy who Lived.' Besides, Katie reflected, she'd been pretty abysmal out there on the pitch today too. Maybe she'd better plan out what she was going to say though. "Hey, Ron, I'm a huge loser, too," probably wouldn't be too helpful.

"Looking for one of your little Gryffindor lads, Bell?"

Oh, joy. Flint. Katie turned around.

"Do I know you?" she asked coolly. "Have I seen you somewhere before?"

"In all your sexual fantasies, Bell," Marcus said, smirking. "Thought I'd cut you a break."

"Oh, maybe you're looking for Kelly. I think she's in the library," Katie replied. She turned and started walking down the hall away from the walking ego. In a few long strides, he'd caught up to her. He matched her strides easily, walking backwards just in front of her.

"You've grown up, Bell," he looked her up and down slowly.

"Barring isolated incidents with a time-turner and contraceptive potions, that's usually how it works, Flint." Katie kept her tone as even as possible, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead.

"Thank Merlin," Marcus laughed. "The mouth is still fully functional. After watching you stink up the pitch, followed by that self-righteous babble at the Slytherin table, I thought it had finally happened."

"What, Flint? You hitting puberty?"

"I thought McGonagall finally realized that she had neglected to give you the mandatory Gryffindor lobotomy. What a pity it would have been for you to spend the rest of your days bleating hackneyed tripe about honour like the rest of Godric's little lions." He smiled again.

"And as for me hitting puberty? I really don't think there is a time since we've met that you haven't been aware I was a man..." Marcus grabbed her hand and placed it on his chest. Covering her slender fingers with his, he slowly started to drag their hands downward.

Katie swallowed hard. His chest was so hard that it was like stroking marble. The cashmere of his sweater caressed her fingers as he moved their locked hands down over his stomach. The ridges of his stomach muscles passed under her fingertips. He gripped her hand harder, as if he was expecting her to pull away. Just under the waistline of his pants, he stopped and looked at her. He seemed puzzled. Katie smirked. She might not be the most experienced girl at Hogwarts but she was a Gryffindor. Gryffindors knew how to handle dares.

"Nice pants," she said calmly. "Was there anything else you needed my opinion on, or are we done?"

He dropped her hand, and grasped her elbow, forcing her to walk alongside him down the corridor. "You have grown up, Bell," he said gruffly, his voice laced with grudging admiration.

"Am I to be taken in for questioning?" Katie asked with a raised eyebrow. Marcus looked at her blankly. She pulled her elbow loose from his grip. "I can walk, Flint."

"Just thought you might need some help after watching how incredibly uncoordinated you were during the game today, Bell." Marcus grinned down at her. "You were lucky that I had Trudeau...distracted...when you flat out dropped the quaffle. There would have gone your chance at the Harpies."

"Ah yes, you're quite the quidditch concubine. Did you flash some thigh to get Falmouth to snap you up so quickly?" Katie asked sweetly. "Anyway, I don't hold out much hope for the Harpies now that I know their scout is such a close personal friend of yours."

"Why, Katie, do you think I don't like you?" Marcus chuckled, and threw his arm around her, his large hand massaging her shoulder. The surprisingly heavy weight of his arm made Katie flash back to her dream. She pulled away abruptly.

"What's wrong? Still think boys are icky?" Marcus' tone was light but his eyes looked like he was trying to puzzle something out. Katie looked away but he ducked his head trying to catch her eye. Katie avoided his gaze again. Merlin, she could feel still feel his lips on her neck. Stupid subconscious.

He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. Well, fine, she'd look. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin darker than hers too. Stubble that she would swear hadn't even been noticeable a few hours before. He was still so big...like he was sculpted by an artist trying to forge a tangible link between men and gods. Ever since Katie had first seen him, he had this way of making the world around him look second-hand. Places and people that had seemed perfectly comfortable and fitting seconds before all of a sudden seemed lifeless and shoddy when he walked in to a room. Katie hated looking at him. Sometimes she thought she hated him period.

"Well, this is new," he murmured, searching her eyes. "Why so skittish when I touch you, Katie? Are you afraid of me or is it something else?" His tone was taunting. Good. She knew how to deal with mocking Flint.

"I know you were too busy 'distracting' Trudeau for my benefit, Flint, but I took a bludger to the shoulder today. Your meaty paw was manhandling my injury." Katie was proud of how disdainful her voice was.

Marcus' eyes widened with surprise for a second, then a broad smile broke out over his face. Katie pushed down her worry. There was no way he could know anything. Maybe he just had a flashback of making out with Trudeau. Maybe he just was a fruitcake. He was still grinning down at her like a loon.

"What's so funny, Flint? The fact that you're quickly becoming the slag of choice in the pro quidditch ranks, or the fact that I have a painful injury which you just exacerbated?"

"Well, Bell, what I think is funny is that the bludger hit was on your other shoulder."

Katie froze. Merlin, who figured Flint would be that observant?

"So, Bell, you get upset when I touch you and then lie about it? I wonder why that could be." That stupid grin was getting wider.

"I didn't think it was polite to mention the gut-churning revulsion you stir in me, Flint."

"Of course. Sparing my feelings has always been a prime concern of yours." He was still laughing, the prat. "C'mon, Bell. I need to show you something." He started strolling down the hallway. "Unless of course you're afraid?"

Arrgh. Katie followed quickly. Might as well get this over with.

"So, Flint, where are we going?"

"Patience, Bell. Is it the short attention span or the belief that the world revolves around them that makes Gryffindors so impatient?"

"Just the desire to get away from Slytherins, Flint. So, is it the inbreeding or the sexually transmitted magiviruses that make Slytherins such winning dinner table conversationalists?"

"Oh, as compared to the Gryffindor opening conversational gambit of 'Oi! Slytherin! I don't know what you're doing but stop it anyways."

"We're just not steeped in perversion enough to know all the terminology. Educate me though, Flint. What is the term for having sex with a grindylow in a bath of pumpkin juice?"

"Ooh...kinky, Bell. We'll have to get you down to the dungeons some time and see what else you can come up with." Flint looked down at her, his eyes sparkling.

Katie realized that she was actually kind of having a good time. When they kept the conversation away from Death Eaters or how unattractive she was, her bouts with Marcus were almost entertaining. She might even have missed them.

"Why the smile, Bell? Fantasizing about the grindylow?"

"Just thinking about our quidditch victory, Flint."

"Oh, a Gryffindor thinking about their superiority...Isn't that novel? Well, I suppose it's better than the other Gryffindor hobby of trying to get yourself killed in moronically brave ways."

"Each house has its strengths, Flint. Gryffindors are brave. Ravenclaws clever. Hufflepuffs sweet. Slytherins...have good hair?"

"Slytherins have ambition, Bell. Drive. Cunning. It's why we rule the world." He'd put the menacing growl back in his voice but his eyes were still gleeful.

"For someone who prides themselves on their ambition, you spend a lot of time bickering and wandering aimlessly down hallways," Katie retorted. They'd gone up and down this corridor at least three times.

"Not aimlessly, Bell. We're here." He grasped Katie's wrist and pulled her into a room. Katie quickly took a last look around the corridor to try to figure out where they were. Huh. Why would he bring her here?

They were in the room of requirement. Katie had been here for the DA meetings. She really couldn't see what Flint's point was in...Oh, Circe. She had to get out of here. Katie spun around.

Flint was leaning up against the only exit, arms crossed and smirking.

"Yeah, great, Flint. Thanks. A room. Next time you grace us with your presence, why don't you swing by and show me the Great Hall." Katie approached him. "Move, Flint. If I hurry back to Gryffindor Tower, Lee Jordan offered to take me to see the Arithmancy classroom." She kept her tone mocking and light with effort.

"Oh...the point isn't the room, Katie. The point is seeing what your brain thinks is required when you're alone with me." His low laugh reverberated along her spine. "Now we know." He gestured behind her, but his darkened eyes didn't leave her face.

Katie reluctantly turned and looked. The room was completely bare except for a large bed in the center of it, covers already turned down. No candles, no flowers, no fireplace. This wasn't coming from her. She wasn't the kind of person who wanted no-frills grappling on a bed with a guy who couldn't be bothered to remember her name.

"Not possible, Flint. I didn't even know we were here, so how could I have consciously wished for this."

"In the absence of someone consciously expressing a need, the room picks up on subconscious desires. I should know, Bell. I've had a lot of fun with this room."

"It reflects the thoughts and desires of all the people in the room, Flint? So this must be coming from you as well, unless you are finally going to admit that you don't have a brain."

"Oh, part of this is mine, Katie. You just admitted that part of this is yours, though." Marcus pushed off the door and started walking slowly toward her.

"You conjured up the bed, Flint. I must have come up with the door." Katie started quickly moving toward it. "I think I will now fulfill my deep, dark fantasy and leave." She pushed past him, but he moved quickly as well, bracing the door shut with his arm.

"No way, Katie. You know you want this, and I'm in the mood to," he paused, considering before his lips twisted in a brief smile, "oblige you." He turned her so her back was flat against the door, and slipped his large hand through the loose neck of her sweater to massage her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Katie cursed inwardly. Her voice sounded so shaky and weak. She had thought his touch had been electrifying in her dream, but this was like being branded and coated in ice at the same time. His calloused fingertips moved slowly and rhythmically, and her legs started to shake.

"It's OK, Katie," he murmured softly, his voice oddly gentle. "I know you're not seventeen yet. Nothing is going to happen that you aren't ready for." He ran his thumb over her lips and stared down at her. He was so tall.

Katie knew she needed to stop this. She couldn't lose her virginity to some guy who could barely tolerate her, just because he was so incredibly sexy. Although he wouldn't really go through with it. He'd just get her to give in and then mock her for it. She'd be a humiliated virgin instead of a humiliated slut. Katie supposed that was an improvement. Marginally.

"You don't need to be afraid, little girl," he whispered gruffly in her ear. Katie's eyes flew open. Here was a way out. She burst out laughing.

Marcus pulled back. The seducer was gone, and he was looking at her with the combination of aggression, antagonism, and interest that was so peculiarly Flint.

"Are you mental, Bell?" he snapped.

"It's just...'you don't need to be afraid, little girl'." Katie snickered again. "Merlin, Flint, you sounded exactly like Knockturn Neil, the child molester on 'Warnings for Wee Wizards and Witches.' Remember that wizarding wireless program?"

Flint took a step back. For the first time in Katie's memory, he didn't have a smirk or a snarl on his face. He just looked...blank. Shaken.

"Wands spark and cauldrons bubble. Talking to strangers will get you in trouble." Katie sang the jingle that had been annoying children for at least 15 years. "I think if the quidditch thing doesn't work out, we've found you a new career, Flint."

Marcus swore under his breath. "I was mistaken, Bell. You haven't grown up at all; you're still a mouthy little kid."

"Then I guess your little seduction is over then? I'll be going."

"Go ahead, Bell. Go back to your little life as general annoyance and mediocre quidditch player."

"Good enough to kick your team's ass, Flint."

"It's not my team anymore, Bell. It's Montague's," he sneered.

"Oh, like there's a big difference," Katie shot back and turned to go. Flint grabbed her arm hard and spun her back around.

"What does that mean, Bell?" his voice was low and menacing.

"You're both big, stupid Slytherins. You both overestimate your quidditch abilities. You both think every witch in the world is panting to go to bed with you, and you're both sadly mistaken. You're both incredibly annoying gits to be stuck in detention with." Katie took a breath and was going to continue, but broke off at the look on Marcus' face. She'd never seem him look so angry, not even when she insinuated he was a Death Eater. His grip tightened on her arm.

"Spending a lot of quality time in detention with Montague, then, Bell?" His voice was ice. What was his problem?

"I wouldn't call any time spent with a Slytherin 'quality time', Flint. However, I suppose it's better than 'quantity time' with one of you gits." His grip hadn't loosened. Katie tried to yank her arm away. "He is a lot better looking than you, though...Nice smile." Marcus dropped her arm and pushed his hands through his hair.

"So unless you particularly want to have a few rounds of Me Gryffindor, You Slytherin, I'll be going. It's been interesting as always, Flint." Katie started to leave.

"It's lucky for you that you're in Gryffindor." Flint's voice was so low that Katie almost didn't hear him.

"Well, I agree but I'm surprised to hear you say so."

"Even though I will never understand why, Gryffindors get a lot of respect around here," Marcus continued in the same low voice. Katie turned back around. He was looking at the floor. "It's good that you get a taste of that at least once in your life."

"What are you going on about, Flint?" Katie tried to fill her voice with bored disdain but she was uneasy.

"Let's face facts, Bell. You're a half-decent quidditch player, but at most you'll scrape together four or five professional games before they forget you like the other has-beens. You're not pretty."

"I'm a good quidditch player." Katie's voice shook a little.

"Think I can't judge quidditch talent, Bell? I'm the genuine article. What else about you? Everyone thinks you're smart but people always think that about mousy girls, probably so that don't have to make the effort to pity them."

It would have been easier to take if he'd been yelling, but his voice was calm, even bored. He raised his eyes and they held even less emotion than his voice.

"You're fairly popular, but, hey, your best friends are two of the hottest girls in the school. How many people will even bother to remember who you are once they graduate, I wonder? You should enjoy this time in your hotshot house with your hotshot friends. Reflected glory is better than none at all."

"Shut up." He wasn't playing the game. She'd always figured that Flint's sarcastic comments and brutal quidditch play were as mean as a person could get. Now she knew better.

"I'm telling you the truth, Bell. You should be grateful. You should have taken me up on my offer, too. I was being charitable. Now you'll end up losing your virginity to some dweeb like Longbottom or a lesser Weasley and even they'll probably be thinking about someone else the whole time."

You will not cry. Katie kept repeating the four words in her head, forcing the tears back by sheer force of will. Her gaze remained locked on Marcus'. She realized that at some point she had wrapped her arms around her body in a defensive posture, so she forced them to her sides.

"Sorry, Flint, I know the secret of Slytherin. All your power lies in making other people doubt themselves, like that charming little song about Ron at the quidditch match today. I don't care what you think about me. You're no one, anyways."

"I've been gone from this school for two years, Bell, and everyone still knows who I am. They'll probably know five years from now. I bet there are some people in your own house who don't even know you."

"People know you because they fear and despise you. I may be nothing special but at least I don't improve the world by my absence." Katie noted that her voice wasn't shaking anymore. Good. She kept her eyes locked on his, and Flint looked away first. He sighed. He looked really tired.

"Katie...Look, I didn't real-"

"Whatever you're going to say, I don't care, Flint. Hagrid probably keeps some pixies down in his hut, so maybe you can go tear the wings off of them. I, however, am done with you."

Flint looked at her for a long moment before he turned and left the room. Katie drew a shaky breath. She had gotten the last word. She tucked the memory away for a day when happiness seemed possible again.

Katie walked back to Gryffindor tower. She briefly joked with Lee Jordan, commiserated with Harry about his quidditch ban, and rifled Alicia's hair as she went past. Once she was up in her room, she crawled into bed and pulled the curtains.

Then she cried.

***********
March

"Oh, you look so pretty!" Alicia Spinnet bounced up and down like a deranged pixie.

Katie looked in the mirror. It was red. It was short. It was a dress. That kind of exhausted its talking points.

"Angelina, come look!" Alicia squealed. Katie thought maybe Alicia needed more protein in her diet.

Angelina Johnson took one look at Katie and bounced up and down. Katie shook her head. Alicia was always bouncing around like she was on springs, but Angelina? That was new.

"Oooh, you look so pretty, Katie!" Angelina cried.

"Your legs are so long," Alicia commented.

"Yeah, well, I'm tall," Katie replied.

"We are going to have so much fun at this party," Angelina commented.

The party would be fun if you were Angelina, who any guy would happily follow into battle or the bedroom. It would be great if you were Alicia, a witch so physically perfect that slower-witted wizards were known to get confused deciding where to look first. If you were Katie Bell? Not so much.

"Let me put your hair up, Katie," Alicia decided. "Your neck is so long."

"Yeah, well, I'm still tall," Katie retorted. "Guys...I'm not going to go to this thing. You go ahead."

Alicia's hands tightened on her hair. Ow. Angelina put her hands on her hips, and glared down at her.

"Katie, you've been moping around ever since the Slytherin game. You'd think that Umbridge kicked you off the team," Angelina lectured. "Alicia and I agree that you need to get out. We agree, Katie. You know how rare that is. You're coming."

"Besides," Alicia interjected, "Angelina isn't even insisting that you dress like a librarian. You know the situation must be desperate." Alicia finished arranging Katie to her satisfaction, and then they both dragged Katie off to the Ravenclaw common room.

*************

Well, Katie had learned something. At parties, if you threw yourself on a couch and refused to move, guys kept bringing you drinks. Handy. She sipped the firewhiskey Roger Davies had brought her, and forced herself to smile. If she looked like she was being sociable, it would keep Alicia and Angelina off her back.

Alicia and George kept looking at each other in that sidelong way they used when even they couldn't remember why they weren't on speaking terms. Fred and Angelina were dancing. Angelina towered over Fred, Fred's hair was sticking out in a million directions, and they both looked like they were doing pre-quidditch limbering exercises. They were so radiant that it was beautiful..and painful...to watch them.

Davies was still blithering at her. Something about his broom? A room? Katie nodded, hoping that was the correct response. A look of shock passed over Davies' face. Oops.

"Davies, your girlfriend is looking for you." George stood behind them, cocking an eyebrow. Davies shot up and disappeared into the crowd, with an apologetic shrug in Katie's direction. George flopped down on the couch next to her, forearms on his knees.

"Davies hitting on you, Katie?" He sounded concerned.

"No. Besides, Davies hits on shrubbery."

George smiled. He shot another glance toward Alicia. Katie took pity on him.

"Alicia was late for Potions. You decided it was the perfect time to test your new voice-activated 'Stink-n-Ink' bomb prototype. She told you never to speak to her again. You were angry when she immediately started dating her herbology partner." Katie shook her head. "George, you two really need to start writing this stuff down."

"Thanks, Kates." George gave her a lopsided grin, then looked at her carefully. "Katie, how much have you had to drink?"

Katie widened her eyes in mock surprise. "Why, Angelina, I didn't recognize you!"

"I deserved that," George admitted. He patted Katie on the head and stood up. "Try not to do anything too embarrassing though." George disappeared into the crowd, no doubt planning on turning someone into a schizophrenic parakeet.

Katie shut her eyes and let the sounds of the party wash over her. Life could be worse. Her friends were deranged but they cared. She'd gotten a new broom for Christmas. Flint had told her the no-holds-barred truth about herself and she'd survived. Plus, she hadn't had even one of those stupid dreams about him since that whole twisted melodrama in the Room of Requirement.

"Miss Bell," a voice murmured seductively in her ear, "you look tired. I should take you back to Gryffindor Tower and put you in bed." Her eyes flew open. Jordan, that prat. She reached behind her and pulled him around the couch by his dreds.

"Ow! Damn, Bell," Lee laughed. "C'mon, dance with me." He pulled her to her feet and she stumbled into him, dizzy. Whoa.

"Katie, are you OK?" He peered into her face. "You look really out of it. Let me walk you back to Gryffindor Tower and get you in bed." Lee paused. "I meant that completely non-suggestively this time." He started to pull her towards the door. Why did everyone feel like they could drag her around? Katie stumbled. OK, maybe she should get back to the Tower.

"Lee, fine, I get your point. I'll go back to the Tower but you stay here. I don't want to receive death threats from all your admirers." The walking thing was getting easier now. Good.

"I'll come back and fulfill all of their fantasies once I make sure you're OK," Lee said firmly, continuing to manhandle her along.

"I heard a rumor Hannah Abbott isn't wearing underwear," Katie sing-songed. Lee looked torn. I'll go directly back to the Tower. I'm a little buzzed. I am not, however, four."

"You'll go straight back?" he asked. Merlin, people were slow tonight.

"Yes...and I won't talk to any strange wizards." She shoved him towards a group of giggling Hufflepuff girls. He reluctantly went, with one last glance over his shoulder at her.

Katie managed to stumble her way out of Ravenclaw, sobering a little as she went. She didn't really want to go back to the Tower but she didn't want to return to the party either. She didn't know what she wanted. Well, actually she did.

She really wanted not to be Katie Bell anymore.

Maybe a broom ride would help. Katie wandered out towards the pitch.

******************
May
The unicorn shied away, startled, as Katie approached. She leaned up against the paddock fence, and watched it resume grazing close by. Katie yawned. There had been pretty much a non-stop party since Gryffindor won the Cup yesterday. Angelina's and Alicia's parents had come up for the game and had taken turns force-feeding the three girls.

The unicorn bolted to the other side of the paddock. Katie turned around. Flint was approaching. What a shocker. She was surprised that the unicorn hadn't broken through the fence and fled into the Forbidden Forest.

"Do you not have a home?" she asked acidly. Her eyes widened as he stopped next to her, leaning on the paddock rails. Weren't they done with each other? Hadn't he done enough? He probably wanted to give her a wedgie.

"Snape required my insightful input on a few issues. I am a legend around here."

"You're notorious, Flint. The Weasley twins? They're legendary."

"You were pretty legendary in that quidditch game yesterday, Katie. Best I've ever seen you play."

What was he playing at? He saw the expression on her face and laughed.

"Don't look so surprised, Bell. I said you were good. I didn't say you were as good as I am." She continued to stare at him. "What, I'm not allowed to pay you a compliment?"

"Uh, sure. In magical opposite land."

He laughed again. Katie wondered if he'd been dipping into Professor Sprout's special stash.

"There were a lot of scouts there yesterday," Marcus commented. "I figure from at least six different teams."

"Angelina's a great player."

"You think they were all there just to see Angelina?"

"Why, Flint? Do you figure they came to stare at your ass?" Katie sneered. "As I remember, that's your standard hypothesis."

"Still the same Katie Bell." He sounded almost delighted by it.

"Don't really have anyone else to be." She had better things to do than serve as target practice for Flint. Katie pushed back from the fence and started walking away.

"Bell," he called after her. She kept moving.

"Bell...Katie!" Katie could hear his steps behind her, and she increased her pace. Next would be something about her house..."Gryff!" Bingo. Now a general insult, maybe. "Hey! Twerp!" Correct again. "Katherine Bell." Pity he didn't know her middle name. "Mighty mouth." OK, that one was new.

They'd reached the broom sheds by the time Flint gave up and bodily turned her around to face him. Katie crossed her arms and looked up at him defiantly.

If she ran, she lost. If she cried, she lost. She couldn't beat him up. Given the vast number of curses Slytherins knew, he'd wipe the floor with her in a duel. Katie used to think she had a decided edge in verbal battles, but she knew better now. He was a virtuoso at wounding her, and she had no idea how to hurt him. She didn't even really believe he could be hurt.

So, she'd fight and do her best. There really wasn't anything else she could do. Katie took a deep breath and waited.

"You are so easy to manipulate, Katie," his voice wasn't harsh but she could hear the mockery.

"It means so much to be that you take the time to come and torture me in person, Flint," Katie began. "So many less considerate sadists would just send an owl." He just stood and looked at her with those eyes that hid more than Katie would ever know. Her courage flagged. She really, really just wanted this to be over.

"Flint, you told me the truth that day. I get it. OK?" Katie could hear the teary wobble in her voice, and fought against it. "I understand. I know that I'm not pretty and that I'm no-"

"There." His voice was harsh and angry, and the suddenness of it shocked Katie into silence. "That's what you do. Do you listen to yourself? You're standing there telling your enemy what your weaknesses are."

Katie didn't know what to say.

"Are you completely unable to keep your guard up, Bell? When someone says something that really bothers you, you bite your lip. I bet you didn't know that. You rarely lie, but when you try to, you look down and to the right." Cold fury laced his voice and his eyes. He was every bit as angry as he'd been in the Room of Requirement. "Even when you do figure out what your opponent's weak spots are, you rarely use that knowledge, probably because it's not 'honorable.' Whatever the Hades that means." He laughed bitterly. "Then after giving away every possible advantage, you stand there and try to fight." He broke off, shaking his head. His voice was soft as he continued. "You make it so easy to rip you apart, Katie."

They stood there and looked at each other. His face shimmered in front of Katie, refracted through the unshed tears that had gathered in her eyes.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you? Do you get it at all?" His voice was low but intent.

Katie knew she didn't. Not really. It was probably like trying to explain the color blue to a blind person.

Marcus exhaled loudly. He began to speak, and then stopped, apparently still searching for the right words. He looked down at the ground.

"Remember the stuff I said in the Room of Requirement?" Marcus asked. Like she would ever be able to forget.

"Yes," Katie said, her voice soft and hesitant. How embarrassing. She sounded like she was a five year old who loved the color pink.

"You're not a mediocre quidditch player, Katie. OK?" He looked at her then. "Do you understand?"

Katie shrugged. They stood there, neither willing to say more.

"Katie?" the concerned voice of Kevin MacMillan asked. He stood 15 feet away, looking at them nervously. He took a step backwards as Marcus' head snapped around to stare at him.

"Hey, Kevin," Katie said, with a quick wave. He looked at her for a second more and then moved off.

"Who's that?" Marcus snarled.

"He's just my Potions partner."

"Why did he come over here to harass you?" The snarl was more pronounced.

"Who knows?" Katie smiled hesitantly. "I don't think he wanted to stare at your ass, but I suppose we could ask him."

A quick snort of laughter escaped Marcus' lips. He pressed them tightly together, than gave in and laughed. Katie started laughing too. He gave her his rare genuine smile, where he neither hid his teeth nor used them to intimidate. It wasn't a bad moment. She felt like maybe some day she could learn to live with the realities that he'd so coldly revealed to her. Maybe grow up a little and try not to be so stupid.

They continued to stand quietly. Katie shifted uncomfortably. They may have reached a truce but she didn't want him looking at her, his dark eyes picking up on all her flaws.

"Do you want to play quidditch?" she blurted out.

"What?" Marcus sounded bewildered. Weird. Out of all the words in the English language, she thought he would know those six.

"Quidditch?" she asked again. "You and me? One on one?"

A wicked smile lit up his face and something flared in his eyes but Katie couldn't interpret it. She was about to get them brooms when he shook his head as if to clear it, and then looked away.

"That's probably not a good idea, Katie."

Well, OK, Captain Mood Swing. "Sure...I think I'm going to grab my broom and go for a quick flight, though," Katie told him.

Marcus smiled and started backing away, his long legs distancing him from her quickly. "Try to take care of yourself, alright, Bell?" Katie nodded awkwardly.

He turned and walked back towards Hogwarts. Katie didn't let herself watch him go.

Detained Chapter 2 Transition

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 02:49:54 GMT

Chapter 2: Transition

It was a bad day. Marcus stood gazing at the house points abacus, glumly noting how many Gryffindor had.

"Too bad that you'll win neither the House or Quidditch Cup in your final year," a voice remarked, oozing with false sympathy. Marcus spun around to see Bell already walking away. He snatched at her bulky, misshapen sweater and pulled her around to face him.

"What was that, Bell? A snark and run?"

"Just an observation, Flint."

"Reveling in your house's victories? You must be very proud of yourself, Bell. It took a lot of courage and determination to be born a year ahead of Potter," Marcus said, ladening his voice with overdone sincerity. Bell stiffened abruptly. Ooh, that hit a nerve.

"Harry isn't the only reason our quidditch team wins, Flint." Katie replied, chin up.

"Looks that way to me. You don't win for years, and then you win all of your games his first year on the team. That is, until he lands himself in the infirmary. Then you get slaughtered. This year, if Potter managed to stay on his broom, you won. If he swooned over dementors, you lost. How many of these games are you winning by more than 150 points, Bell?"

"Sour grapes, Flint."

"What would I have to be resentful about? Three out of the four years I was captain, we won the Cup. Two of those years we won the House Cup as well. Without Dumbledore's boy toy on the team, I might add."

"Although with outrageous cheating, as I remember."

"Oh, that's rich. Please cast your mind back to two years ago. A leaving feast, a hall decorated in green and silver. Then Dumbledore hands out 170 points at the last minute, and surprise! Gryffindor wins the cup."

"They defeated You-Know-Who!"

"Oh, yeah, right. They managed to catch big bad Professor Quirrell, the stuttering fool, doing something or another. What, was Voldemort living under his turban?" He smiled as she flinched at the name.

"He was disembodied! Plus, Harry, Ron, and Hermione protected the Sorcerer's stone!"

"Believing in fairy tales, Katie? There are a lot of weird things in this world, I will admit. However, I will never believe in Neville freaking Longbottom defeating Voldemort."

"He didn't. He just tried to stop Harry...and was hexed..." Katie trailed off.

"Oh, so Harry the Killer Baby and his cronies got points for saving the world and Neville got points for trying to stop them from saving the world? That makes sense. Face facts, Bell. Dumbledore wanted Gryffindor to win the House Cup so he threw you some points."

"That's not true! Dumbledore would never! Your illustrious head of house, on the other hand..."

"What does big bad Snape due to the poor ickle Gryffindors?" Marcus sneered.

"It's amazing we ever can win the Cup at all with the way he takes points. Last year, he took twenty off of me for breathing too loud in Potions!"

"Panting in Potions, Katie? You wanton girl. Oh, don't you share that class with the Slytherins? I understand now." He grinned wolfishly down at her.

"If I were panting, it was because I was hyperventilating from the pervasive Slytherin stench." Katie's eyes blazed but she backed up a step as Marcus leaned forward. She gasped as she realized he had had her up against the wall.

Marcus propped his arm over her head and leaned in. "Now, now Katie, be nice. It's understandable that you get all hot and bothered when a sexy, gorgeous Slytherin is this close to you."

Katie looked around in mock surprise. "Is Adrian Pucey here?" she asked sweetly.

Marcus could feel his grin slip a little. Merlin, her mouth never stopped. He could almost see the next snide remark forming in her brain.

"Move, Flint." She pushed at his chest.

"Y'know, I think I like it here." He let his voice deepen menacingly.

"Sorry, Flint, I'm simply not afraid of you. Oh! Oh! I know what you could do. You could dress up like a dementor again. That was so vewy vewy scawy!" His eyes darkened as she laughed at the expression on his face. He scowled down at her, in her huge sweater and pants that were at least three inches too short. No makeup and hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Nothing that hinted at the amazing audacity inside.

"I'm sure that someday a girl will find you sexy and/or frightening, Flint. Hang in there."

"I'm sure that someday you'll actually succeed at something without riding Potter's coattails, Bell. Maybe."

"I'm sure that you'll back away and quit bothering Katie in the next three seconds, Flint. Definitely." Both Katie and Marcus turned in surprise.

George and Fred Weasley stood there, wands out. Angelina Johnson was next to them with a grim expression on her face. There were a few others that Marcus didn't know as well as Potter's little posse. Alicia Spinnet was jumping up and down behind them, trying to see. Marcus thought distractedly that at least half of them seemed to be wearing knitted monstrosities similar to Katie's. Did Gryffindor mean really ugly sweater in Welsh?

"Move, Flint." The Weasley twins' faces turned ugly. Marcus calculated the odds of taking on twelve Gryffindors at once, and started to step away as McGonagall came barreling down the corridor.

"What is the meaning of this? Professor Snape and I could hear yelling all the way down the corridor." McGonagall was severely displeased. Snape looked dispassionately at the scene.

"It's clear, Minerva. We have about fifteen Gryffindors, some with wands drawn, attacking a lone Slytherin."

"He was hassling Katie," Fred protested. "We just wanted him to get away from her."

"She started it, Weasley." Marcus knew he should shut up and let Snape punish all the little Gryffs, but he was still smarting from being forced to back down.

"All of you go back to the common room, except for Miss Bell and Mr. Flint," commanded McGonagall, overriding Snape's pained protest and the twins' grumbling.

"Some of your students should be punished, Minerva," Snape insisted. "They were clearly ganging up on my student." A long look passed between them.

"Miss Bell, do you have any responsibility whatsoever for this incident?" McGonagall asked haughtily.

"Yes, Professor." Katie said quietly. Marcus looked at her in surprise.

"Very well, then. Both of you will serve detention with Mr. Filch at 7:00 this evening." She quirked a questioning eyebrow at Snape, who nodded.

Katie nodded and quickly began to retreat down the hall. Marcus was watching her when he heard Snape clear his throat behind him. Marcus turned.

"Mr. Flint, a word in my office. Now, I think." Snape pivoted briskly and stalked off toward the dungeons, leaving Marcus to hastily follow.

***********

Snape gestured for Marcus to sit down with a sweep of his hand and an arched eyebrow. His steady gaze remained fixed on Marcus but he didn't speak, waiting for something. Marcus knew better. Snape always let students confess whatever they thought he knew before coming down on them with what he did know. He hadn't fallen for that trick since second year. Snape nodded briefly in approval at Marcus' silence.

"Mr. Flint, do you believe that you will choose to pass your NEWTs this year?"

Marcus was surprised. He thought this was going to be about the fight with Bell.

"I will do my best, sir. I do feel better prepared this year so I expect things will go more smoothly." Marcus kept his expression as blank as possible.

"Do not insult my intelligence, Mr. Flint. Quidditch season was cancelled last year. Ergo, no scouts coming to see the games. Ergo, no contract offers. QED, Mr. Flint magically manages to do just badly enough on his NEWTs to be kept back a year but not badly enough to be denied the privilege of playing quidditch. You judged that very delicately."

Marcus knew he was caught.

"Sorry, Professor."

"Oh, don't apologize, Mr. Flint. I enjoy it when Slytherin House's average NEWT scores drop precipitously." Snape's voice was silky. "I also enjoyed the monthly reports I had to submit on every single seventh year to avoid, in Professor McGonagall's words, a repeat of this unfortunate incident. What I enjoyed most of all, however, was Professor Sprout asking if our house would like to have joint tutoring sessions with hers, seeing as we both had students who had difficulties with the 'highly demanding'...her words, not mine...curriculum. A Slytherin/Hufflepuff alliance. How my heart warmed." Snape's eyes glittered.

Marcus shut his eyes briefly. He was amazed that Snape had not confronted him until the end of the year. Hell, he was amazed that his body hadn't been found, gutted, in Knockturn Alley.

"I am curious, Mr. Flint, as to why such drastic measures were necessary. Surely, you could have gone to tryouts and made a team."

Marcus figured complete and total disclosure was his best chance for survival.

"If you start off with a contract, they're invested in making sure you succeed. Open tryouts will be filled with players struggling for a few positions, and scouts lobbying to make sure that their favorites are looked at closely. Also, quidditch has its own snobbery, like everything else; players who were recruited will end up with higher salaries, more playing time and more respect for equal performance. I could have made a team but playing time would have been hard to come by and if I was injured, well, no team might have looked at me again."

"Very well, Mr. Flint. I suppose I cannot criticize a Slytherin for being ambitious and cunning." Snape's voice was calm. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief and stood up.

"Sit down, Mr. Flint. I have other things to discuss with you." Marcus sat hurriedly. Snape continued. "I want to make sure that you are keeping certain truths about Miss Bell clear in your mind."

Marcus froze. Snape couldn't know. Not that there was anything to know. At all.

"Uh, truths, sir? That Miss Bell is a Gryffindor or that Miss Bell is a mouthy little twerp?" Marcus chuckled nervously.

Snape looked at him coolly.

"That Miss Bell is fourteen."

"She's turned fifteen." Marcus said without thinking, and then flushed as Snape cocked an amused eyebrow. Marcus recovered quickly. "I'm sorry if my yelling at a younger student reflected poorly on Slytherin. I'll control my temper, Professor."

"Very well, Mr. Flint. Your temper is one of the things you should control around Miss Bell." Snape paused for a long moment and stared at him. Marcus swallowed hard.

"You have almost always been a credit to Slytherin House, both on and off the quidditch pitch, during your eight years here. " Snape's lips twisted into a brief smile. "I thank you for that. I would like you to pick the captain for next year's team and I would also appreciate any suggestions you have for the coming years of Slytherin quidditch. You may go." Marcus muttered his thanks and departed hurriedly. NEWTs should be a breeze compared to a one-on-one session with Snape.

***********

The Slytherin common room was crowded when Marcus returned. Brutus Parkinson and Terence Higgs were stretched out in easy chairs by the fire. Brutus had Morgaine Montague curled up in his lap. Marcus debated briefly and decided that hanging out with Brutus and Terence outweighed having to put up with Morgaine. He headed over.

Brutus peered over his gold-rimmed glasses at Marcus as he collapsed noisily in the chair next to him. Brutus was reading 'Trends in Arithmancy.' Merlin, he was a ponce. Terence lazily waved but didn't bother opening his eyes. Morgaine looked like she always did when Marcus was around-like something had curled up and died in her nostril.

"Morgaine, I read in the Daily Prophet that the weakening of the galleon and the new statutes limiting trade in phoenix feathers will result in a poor year for magical supply companies. I think you might want to run the numbers again and see if Brutus is really the one you want to marry." Marcus smirked at the green-eyed, angular witch.

"Oh, I think I'll keep Brutus around." Morgaine shot back. "His non-tangible assets are definitely appreciating. And appreciated." She leaned over to lick Brutus' ear. Brutus turned a page in his magazine. "I'm curious, Marcus. You dishonor Slytherin House in so many ways...which did Snape want to yell at you for?"

"Just wanted to let me know what an honor and a privilege it was to have me around, Migraine. He also wanted to discuss the quidditch team." Marcus grinned menacingly back at her, making sure to show all his teeth.

"Did he want to discuss the bizarre personnel decisions you've made as captain?" Terence inquired. "About the seeker position, perhaps? Or last minute chaser replacements?"

"No." Marcus gave Terence an annoyed glance. "I'm sure Snape sees it like I do: Trading a crap seeker for a crap seeker and seven state-of-the-art brooms is good policy. I replaced you for the last Gryffindor game because we needed size and I could trust Warrington to play the fucking game, instead of flirting with Spinnet. So shut up about it before I decide to shut you up"

"I was not a crap seeker." Terence said sulkily.

"Well, you weren't Potter either. It frankly didn't matter who I put up as seeker, you can't get around that damn kid. Though, now that you mention it, Terence, it would have been nice for you to have turned yourself into a bloody keeper. You know, like I told you too. A keeper with at least one reflex would have been an improvement. Bletchley's useless."

Markham Montague, another chaser on the Slytherin team, flopped down by the fire. "Talking quidditch?"

"Of course." Morgaine said, smiling at her little brother. "What else does Marcus do except abuse children and plot ways to get Brutus to dump me?"

"You overestimate your importance as always, Migraine. I've long ceased plotting. Although, I did have such high hopes for the garlic and holy water."

"So getting Higgs to try and seduce me wasn't your idea at all, Marcus? Tell us another one." Morgaine smiled viciously.

Brutus' head shot up. "Terence tried to seduce you?" His jaw clenched.

"I tried to seduce you?" Terence asked incredulously. "Merlin, I must have been drunk."

"Terence trying to seduce someone isn't a plot." Marcus scoffed. "It's the natural order of the universe."

Markham tried to break the tension. "What's this about our illustrious captain abusing children, Morgaine?"

"Oh, Marcus cornered a little Gryffindor child outside the dining hall. You could hear him bellowing in Hogsmeade." Morgaine explained sweetly.

"What child?" Brutus asked curiously.

"Their spindly little chaser...Katie Bell, I think."

"She's hardly a child." Markham scoffed.

Marcus' head whipped around. "What the hell does that mean, Montague?"

"I don't know...Bell's in her fourth year. She's my potions partner in that healing potions tutorial Snape's teaching this year. It's not like she's a first year." Markham looked puzzled at Marcus' apparent anger.

"Montague just doesn't want to admit she's a child after he almost beheaded her in that last game." Terence snickered. "What the hell was that by the way? If it had been Johnson or Spinnet, I'd have thought you were trying to feel her up."

"What happened?" Marcus asked lowly.

"You didn't see it, mate? It was brilliant. Bell's got the quaffle. Montague pretends like he's going for it but grabs her head and yanks her off course. She spins out of control, drops the quaffle and almost falls off her broom. It took her about a minute and a half to get it under control. He could have killed her. You'd have loved it, Marcus." Terence snickered. Marcus' eyes narrowed as he looked at Montague.

"What? You said you wanted the Gryffindor chasers incapacitated. Bell's fearsome with her elbows so I improvised. I thought that the whole game plan was 'they can't score if they're unconscious.'" Markham said defensively.

"And they say chivalry is dead..." Brutus remarked dryly. "Marcus, you're so gallant."

"I wanted to win. We weren't going to get the snitch so we had to outscore them by 160 points. We're good but there's no way we were going to get 16 goals up on Johnson, Spinnet and Bell in normal circumstances. Especially not with a weak keeper. If we could have knocked even one of them out, Bole and Derrick could have hammered the other two...leaving us free to score." Marcus tried not to sound defensive. "I thought I told you to take Spinnet, Montague."

"Yeah...but Bell was there with the quaffle, and so was I. It was just one of those magical moments. I improvised." Markham snickered.

"Well, maybe if you knew how to follow orders, we'd have won the cup," Marcus snarled. Morgaine was smirking at him. "What?"

"Oh, Marcus. I learn something new about you every day. You're always so amusing in such unexpected ways." Marcus didn't like the threat in her silky voice.

"Piss off, all of you." He stood abruptly and strode out. It was time to get to detention anyways.

**************

He was early for detention. Moaning Myrtle had been overflowing her bathroom again and they got to clean it up. Without magic. Filch was such a wanker. Myrtle had made her appearance as he and Filch had waited, silently staring at each other.

"Why is there a boy in my bathroom?" Myrtle whined. "You shouldn't be in here, you know."

"I'm not a boy." Smooth, Marcus. Stand there and debate semantics with a dumpy ghost. It is time for you to get out of Hogwarts.

"You shouldn't be in here. This is where I died. It's my place. I ran in here one da-"

"Shut up." Marcus snarled at her. "Let's get something clear. I don't want to hear about Olive Hornsby. I don't want to hear about the big ugly snake...or the heir of Slytherin...or about lemon-scented cleaning products. I don't want to listen to any of your sniveling."

"You're rude!" Myrtle gasped and immediately made the toilets overflow again. Filch swore softly.

"Let me explain something to you. I am very, very good at hurting things. I like to hurt things. You know about Slytherins?" He asked. Myrtle nodded, wide-eyed. "I'm a very, very bad Slytherin. I know how to cause pain to all living things...including plants. I will admit that even I don't know how to cause a ghost pain. I do promise however, that if you don't shut up and get out of my sight this instant, I will spend the rest of my life figuring out how to. Are we clear?" Marcus snarled.

Myrtle made a little gasping sound and disappeared down the drain. Filch looked impressed. They stood there and stared at each other some more.

At precisely 7:00, Katie walked in. She was wearing an even more gargantuan sweater than earlier and her hair was pulled back. She avoided Marcus' gaze as Filch explained their duties to her. She nodded and then turned to get to work.

Marcus scowled. This would be a long three hours if he couldn't wind Bell up.

"It's your lucky day, Bell." She still refused to look at him. "Another detention that offers you unparalleled opportunities to stare at my ass." That got her attention and she looked up, meeting his challenging gaze with angry eyes. Marcus grinned. Game on.

"The only good thing about looking at your ass is that it means your ugly face is pointed in the opposite direction," Katie sneered.

"I'd say something rude about your ass, but nobody's ever seen it with those baggy clothes you're always wearing. Do you not know how to dress or are you generously trying to spare the rest of us the nausea caused by looking at your scrawny frame?"

"I dress like this because I'm not one of your little sluts. With the company you keep though, it's no wonder your perspective is messed up. For further reference, most women don't spend most of their days kneeling with their mouths open."

"You certainly can never manage to keep yours shut. Although, you Gryffindor lasses probably do think too much of yourselves to ever kneel. It's probably why the Gryffindor male's favorite activities are shouting and brawling; it's the only way they can work off the frustration."

"It beats the scheming and bed-hopping that are oh so de rigueur with the Slytherins. Explain this to me: according to Slytherins, girls aren't allowed to play quidditch, but they certainly are expected to polish broomsticks."

"Most girls don't need to play quidditch; they have plenty of other talents. It is a really good thing that you play, though, Bell. Seeing as that broomstick is going to be the only thing that you're ever going to get between your legs."

"Oh, I despair over that, Flint. I really do. Night after night, I lie in my bed thinking "Oh, if I were just one of Marcus Flint's sluts. In his bed, looking up at him...thinking 'if only Terence Higgs and Adrian Pucey hadn't already been busy.'"

"I don't get any complaints from my bedmates, Bell."

"Well, as previously stated, their mouths were probably full."

Marcus' blood was pounding through his veins. He wanted to apparate over a dragon's nest, take his broom into a nosedive...get into a fistfight with a troll. He felt good. Katie had risen up on her toes, arm flung wide and breathing hard. No cowering there. He was leaning over her, just a few inches away. How in the hell had that happened? Merlin, her eyes were blue. Her full lips were contorted into a snarl and her blonde hair was all wild around her face. She looked a hell of a lot like he felt.

And she was in her fourth year. Plus, it was freaking Bell, for Circe's sake. He took a step backward and tried to school his features into indifference.

"Let's get back to work, Bell. The last thing I want to do is spend more time with you than necessary." He noted proudly that his voice was steady. Katie sucked in a long breath.

"Finally, Flint, something we can be in perfect agreement on."

"Well, then isn't it lucky for both of you that you'll have some extra help?" Angelina Johnson remarked dryly. She was leaning up against the doorway casually, but her gaze was intent as it flickered between the two of them.

**********

"Angelina? What are you doing here?" Katie gasped.

"Detention, obviously." Angelina smiled. "Were you aware that Filch doesn't like dungbombs? See, I didn't know that. If only he had ever mentioned it..." She sighed melodramatically before flashing an impish grin at Katie.

"Your Astronomy OWL is in an hour and a half. Why would you deliberately get detention? You were supposed to be doing something with Fred," Katie protested.

"Where do you think I got the dungbomb? Filch'll let me leave in time for my OWL. Gred and Forge wanted to come play too," Angelina cast a dark look at Flint, "but we decided that would be too suspicious. Alicia is finishing up your transfiguration essay for you."

"Ooh, ickle Gryffindors are cheating. I think I'll have to tell McGonagall." Marcus commented.

"Go ahead, Flint." Angelina replied coolly. "Who do you think she'll believe?"

It was almost comical. He was across the room from both of them. He had a sponge in his hand, not his wand. Yet every time he moved to a different part of the room, Johnson would not so subtly maneuver herself between him and Bell.
What the hell did she think he was going to do? He'd been at Hogwarts for eight years and no young women had mysteriously disappeared.

He could overhear their muttered conversation. It was about quidditch. He smiled. Typical Bell.

"Kevin McMandon." He called over. They looked puzzled. "The name of the beater who lost his club and had to use his broom to hit bludgers in the 1956 World Cup. The one you guys couldn't think of." Katie's 'thanks' reached his ears at the same time as Angelina's 'quit eavesdropping, Flint.'

Katie stood and stretched. "We need another mop. I'll go grab one."

"Why don't you go, Johnson? Since you're leaving early." Marcus interjected.

"Go ahead, Katie." Angelina replied. "I'm sure Flint and I will have plenty to discuss while you're gone." Katie hesitated. "Go." Angelina insisted. With a last uncertain look at the two of them, Bell departed.

"Do you always order her around like that, Johnson?" Marcus sneered. "Bit heavy-handed, aren't we?"

"I had a few things that I wanted to say to you alone, Flint." Angelina strolled over to him. "I don't know what you did to Katie last week in detention. I don't know precisely what happened this morning, or what I walked in on earlier here." She took a deep breath and continued. "I do know that you're a bully. Whatever it is you're doing to Katie, I want it to stop."

"I'm not doing anything to her, Johnson. Not that it's any of your business anyways." He forced himself to hold her gaze. She was looking at him with steely determination, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. She really was an Amazon.

"I know that you probably think she's weak and an easy target. I'm here tonight to tell you that you'll have to put off your sadistic jollies until you graduate and can go around torturing muggles. That is, if you manage to pass your NEWTs this time."

"Sticking up for your little Gryffindors, eh, Johnson?" Marcus pushed down the rage that was rising.

"I would stick up for any Gryffindor, but Katie's not just any Gryffindor. She's special to me. She's special, period, even though you'd never be able to see it. No hulking Slytherin brute is going to harass her on my watch. Are we clear?" Angelina's voice remained even.

"I have no idea what you're going on about, Johnson." Marcus replied blandly. He was irritated. Bell, at least, never handed him this 'my magical Gryffindor power that can divine Slytherin intentions without proof' crap. He'd almost forgotten how annoyingly superior Gryffindors were. They were still staring at each other when Bell and Filch returned.

"Miss Johnson, you may go." Filch said. "Bell and Flint, finish up and then you may leave as well."

Angelina quickly protested but Katie insisted that she'd be fine and that Angelina needed to go. Marcus smirked inwardly at the annoyance that had crept into her voice.

As they were running the mops over the floor one last time, Katie spoke.

"Well, you got one of your wishes granted tonight, Flint."

What was she talking about? "And that would be?"

"You had detention with one of the 'Gryffindor chasers who is actually hot'." Katie mimicked his guttural voice. Yeah, and what a joy that was, Marcus thought.

"Too bad we had this annoying brat around, or something might have actually happened," Marcus muttered but he knew his heart wasn't in it. His earlier euphoria had completely evaporated.

"I'm sorry too, since that 'something' would have involved Angelina making you eat your own kidneys." Katie sneered but she sounded tired as well. She propped the mop against the wall and grabbed her bag. "Good luck on the NEWTs. I understand you get a few points for spelling your name right. Brush up on that." She started to push past him.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed her arm. He wasn't stupid and she should know that. Hadn't they had a hundred sparring matches by now?

"Why so hostile, Bell?" He paused and racked his brain for something that would hurt. "I know. You're just disappointed that you didn't get a chance to throw yourself at me like you did last detention."

He didn't know what he expected back. Something verbal. Something cutting that he would swat away at the time, and then would nibble on his psyche for days afterward.

He wasn't prepared for the pain that flooded her eyes. He certainly wasn't prepared for her hard shove that knocked him to the ground. She left the room at a run and he could hear her steps echoing down the hall. By the time he'd gotten to his feet and out into the hallway, it was like she was never there.

***********

Marcus sighed. He was going through end of the year individual meetings with the quidditch team but his heart wasn't in it. Usually, he had a million things to say about every facet of the game, but not today. He'd just spent five minutes with Derrick basically saying, "Please continue to hit things hard with a stick."

Terry hadn't even bothered to show up. Marcus was trying to come up with different ways to say 'don't suck' to both Malfoy and Bletchley. He had to make freaking Montague captain.

Montague walked in, looking entirely too cocky. He would be the next captain. Marcus knew it had to be him. Montague knew it had to be him. Bole and Warrington were graduating. Terry was...well, Terry. Malfoy was too young and Bletchley too incompetent. Derrick was really good at hitting things hard with a stick.

Marcus stood up as Montague entered. Good, he still had at least an inch and a half over Montague, and maybe 30 pounds. For a while, Marcus thought he'd have to slip the kid some porlock droppings to stunt his growth.

They discussed a few things that would make the outlook much brighter for Slytherin quidditch. It would help if Malfoy continued to improve as he had been. It would really help if Terry, with his great reflexes, would practice being keeper. It would really, really help if someone managed to knock Potter off his broom.

"As captain, you'll be representing Slytherin house. Keep fraternizing outside the house, whether sexual or social, to a minimum." Flint tried to emulate the quiet menace that Snape could convey. Montague laughed nervously.

"You're kidding, right? There are more Ravenclaws in our common room than their own on weekends. Same goes for Hufflepuffs."

"I see I wasn't clear. There are two, and only two, houses at Hogwarts that matter-Slytherin and Gryffindor. You don't hang out with Gryffindors, you don't sleep with Gryffindors and frankly, you don't even talk to Gryffindors." Marcus paused. "Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are fine. Tutors and shags have to come from somewhere." He added as an afterthought.

"I know not to hang out with Gryffindors." Montague said incredulously. "I've been in Slytherin for five years."

"And yet you have a potions partner who is not only from Gryffindor, but is on their house team, " Marcus replied calmly.

"Bell? It was the only seat left. Besides, she knows what she's doing so I don't have to." He faltered as Marcus' gaze remained on him. "Fine, I'll make sure I have a different partner next year. I won't even speak to Bell."

Marcus nodded.

"You can go now, Montague."

**********

Marcus pored over his notes in the crowded dining hall. His final NEWT was tonight; the leaving feast was on the following night. His Hogwarts time was almost over. He glanced over at the Gryffindor table. Nope, she wasn't looking at him.

A few seats over, some fifth years were quizzing each other for their remaining OWL.

"What type of creature follows people in Russia, creating an overwhelming feeling of lethargy?" One of them intoned gravely.

"What kind of creature can't keep its pants zipped for more than five minutes at a time?" Brutus mimicked, looking darkly at Terence.

"What kind of creature names their children 'Brutus' and 'Pansy'?" Terence returned snidely.

What kind of creature has gits like you two for friends, thought Marcus. They hadn't stopped sniping at each other since Brutus heard that Terry hit on his woman. He glanced at the Gryffindor table again. Bell and Woody had their heads close together, looking at something on the table. Quidditch plays no doubt. Their discussion looked fairly animated. She still wasn't looking over at the Slytherin table.

Over the last year, he'd always been able to catch her looking at him at least once a day. A quick glance over at the Gryffs and their gazes would lock, until Bell flushed and looked away. Bell hadn't looked at him once since their last fight. When they passed in the halls, she stared right through him. Marcus wondered whether it was because their last altercation had been so overtly sexual or because he had actually managed to make her break and run. It bugged him but he couldn't say why.

He glanced over again. She and Spinnet were laughing at something Jordan said. She still seemed blithely unaware that the Slytherin table existed. Marcus pushed away from the table. One more NEWT to go.

***********

Marcus looked out over the quidditch pitch. It was over. The party had started in the Slytherin common room last night and would continue through tomorrow morning until they had to get on the train. He'd go back to it in a minute but he'd wanted to take one more flight over the pitch. He grinned at the tiny blonde dot executing tight turns high in the air. Two birds with one stone then.

As soon as Bell realized she had company, she landed her broom and started walking back towards the school. Marcus landed beside her and tried to catch her eye. She resolutely looked at the ground and walked faster.

"You'll never make a pro quidditch team with the way you've been going," he called after her. She stopped and turned around.

"You have hideous teeth," she shot back, and then snorted with impatience as he didn't reply. "C'mon, Flint. Now you say something derogatory about my personal appearance and I tell you how stupid you are. Then you take one of two tacks, A> that I'm a pathetic weakling dripping with lust for you or B> I'm a moralistic, stuck-up prude. I say that you're an egomaniacal pureblood snob. Then we usually descend into a few rounds of 'Gryffindor, Slytherin, blah blah blah.'" Her eyes looked tired but defiant. "Or better yet," she continued, "we'll skip all that today and go straight to the part where we never have to deal with each other ever again. Have a nice life, Flint." He felt a peculiar twinge in his gut at her words.

"Typical Gryffindor," he started, ignoring her snort of impatience, "always thinking you know what the other person is going to say." Marcus pinned her with a look before he continued. "I was going to say that you're good enough to play pro quidditch in a few years, but you're not going to get noticed with the Gryffindor team's current game plan."

"What do you mean?" She was trying to hide the curiosity in her voice.

"Wood's strategies are pretty straightforward, speed and strength type stuff, with set plays. You're a highly intuitive flier, which gets shortchanged in a highly regimented system. Who is going to be captain next year?"

"Probably Angelina." Her eyes were trained on him and for once she wasn't mouthing off.

"Her strategies will probably be similar to Wood's from what I've seen, but she's your mate. Come up with a few plays that show off your moves and show them to her. Something with a lot of turns that highlight your maneuverability. Also, improvise successfully during practice and she'll be more willing to let you do it during games."

"OK, what else?" she asked quietly. Man, he'd never seen Bell listen this intently before.

"Your size will count against you; you're pretty spindly for a chaser. The Harpies are your best bet, so watch their games over the next few years and see what they need. Then try to mold your game to fit it." He smiled at her quick nod. "Try to make Captain in your final year. You'll finally get the credit for all those plays you're constantly outlining at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall."

Katie looked surprised but nodded slowly. "Thanks," she muttered, quickly meeting his eyes and then looking away. He nodded back.

"Oh, one more thing, Bell. The scouts are going to be blinded by Potter. Arranging an 'accident' for him that keeps him out of a few games would benefit you and your other teammates." He smirked as he could see the Gryffindor righteousness flare in her eyes. "Nothing that keeps him out against Slytherin. He's the only way you'll ever beat us. You could take the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws without him though. Think about it."

"Sabotage my own teammates? You truly are a Slytherin." Katie retorted.

"Proud of it. Have a nice life, Bell. It's been interesting." He took one last look at her blue eyes set in her determined face before he turned around and started walking away.

"Flint." He stopped and turned when he heard her call out after him.

"Yeah?"

"When you're attacking from above on the left side and you switch the quaffle to your left hand to make it look like you're aiming for the lower right corner, you always end up firing at the upper left quadrant. That's why Oliver always can make the save." Katie told him, demonstrating with wide-sweeping gestures. Marcus swore softly, remembering all the times Wood had blocked him on that type of shot.

"How the hell did Woody figure that one out?" Marcus asked sourly. He didn't want to think that the Scottish git might be brighter than he looked.

"Oh, he didn't." Katie gave him the beaming, impish smile that he'd only ever seen directed at her mates. "I told him."

She turned and walked back to the castle. Marcus forced himself to mount his broom for his final spin around the Hogwarts pitch.

Detained Chapter 1 -- Initiation

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 22:26:07 GMT

Thanks to the efforts of the wonderful teamie I now have Detained back again. I'll be posting chaps here and to fanfiction.net. That might result in a very brief clogging of your friends list, so if anyone wants to defriend me over it I won't be offended.

Thanks again to teamie, and all the other wonderful people who offered help. You guys are awesome.

Detained-Chapter 1:Initiation

Disclaimer: not mine. I claim no money from things that are not mine.
Authors note: It will be NC-17 in the future, just not until Katie is older. Feedback welcomed, including criticism. I'm not sure that the characterizations work here. I have used some things that I think are standard fanon elements in the Marcus/Katie relationship but not from any particular fic. If you think any of these things are specifically your creation, let me know and I'll give you credit or remove them.

"Gryffindor."

"Flint."

Katie Bell spoke without even glancing at the burly Slytherin quidditch captain. She continued to organize potions ingredients in one of the cabinets in the Potions classroom. Marcus Flint was not going to get to her today. She would get this detention over with as soon as possible. He came to stand directly behind her, actually casting a shadow over her. Well, he could stand there all day as far as she was concerned. She was going to get out of here without losing any more points for Gryffindor.

"Where's Snape, Gryff? Hey, hello? Gryffindor?" Marcus grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to spin around to face him. "Are you deaf?" He sneered.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were talking to Godric." She grinned at his puzzled expression. "Gryffindor." She said in a deep voice, imitating his low growl. "Seriously, Flint, I do have a name."

"Yeah, well, I have no idea what it is. I can't keep track of all the skinny little girls running around this place. Just like a Gryffindor, though, to assume everyone is obsessed with them." He sneered.

Katie laughed. "Flint, it's hard to believe you don't know my name when you said it about 50 times last game. 'I'm going to knock you off your broom, Bell.' 'Quidditch isn't for little girls, Katie."

"Well, it's hard to forget with Jordan fawning all over you all freaking game. 'Miss Bell, our lovely chaser...another outstanding play from Katie...the delectable Katie Bell. Merlin, Bell, did you blow him before the game?"

Katie smirked. Did Marcus realize he just admitted to knowing who she was? She arched her eyebrow at him, and was delighted as he flushed. Hah, Flint! You're not nearly smart enough to be able to take on me.

"No. Unlike you, I don't reside in the gutter. Anyways, Flint, I'm pretty sure that Lee didn't call me delectable."

"Yeah, well..." Marcus smirked, looking her up and down slowly, "Who would?"

Arrgh! Katie had better things to do than stand around trading quips with this Neanderthal. She turned back to the cabinet and spoke in what she hoped was a calm, collected voice. "Snape's in his office, no doubt trying to figure out a way to take points from Gryffindor for your lateness. He said that we needed to organize the potions ingredients by magical class, then by subspell, then alphabetically. I'll classify, organize and log them here, and you can start carrying the ones I've already done over to the new cabinets and put them away."

"So, I do all the heavy lifting and you flit around with a piece of paper?" Marcus snarled. "Is that because you're a weak little girl, or do you just want to watch me bend over a lot?"

"Honestly, Flint, I just wasn't sure you knew how to read." Katie replied coolly and turned again to her task.

***********

Katie couldn't believe it. An hour later and they were barely halfway through. Flint hadn't spoken since her last sarcastic comment and Katie was almost wishing he'd start in on her again. At least then she wouldn't be so bored. She sat down on a desk and rotated her head back and forth, trying to relieve the tension in her neck.

"Y'know, the longer you sit on your ass, the longer we're both stuck here." Marcus said irritably.

"Oh, thanks for the etiquette lesson, Mr. I-was-45-minutes-late-for-detention. I'm sorry my 90 second break is going to be a crimp in your social life." Katie shot back, but stood up and resumed working. A minute or so later, a half empty bottle of butterbeer was thrust at her. She looked quizzically at Flint.

"Just drink, alright? It's late, we're tired, detention sucks. Drink up, for tomorrow we may be stuck scrubbing toilets for Filch." He thrust the bottle at her again.

Katie was about to say something clever, well relatively clever, about Slytherin cooties, but stopped at the last moment. He was actually being nice and she was thirsty. She grabbed the bottle and took a long swallow before passing it back to him.

"Thanks." She muttered, looking at the floor. She glanced up and he was staring at her with a somewhat puzzled expression on his face. Circe, he was tall. He offered her the bottle again, wordlessly. She took another sip and passed it back.

It was weird. They stood silently but every time Katie risked a glance up, Marcus was looking directly at her. She could feel herself flush and looked down at his hand wrapped around the bottle. Merlin, his fingers were long. He offered her the bottle and she took it, still avoiding his gaze.

He was slouched against a cabinet, propping himself up with his forearm. Katie found herself looking at his fingers, splayed against the shelf. She wondered how they'd look wrapped around a broom. Would they give him more control? Or was it his muscular forearms that enabled him to make such amazing stops and swerves on the pitch?

"See something you like?" At Marcus' words, Katie's eyes shot up to fix on his face. He looked supremely relaxed and self-confident, smirking slightly as his eyes lazily trailed over her. Smug bastard. Katie flushed. Why did she always have to make an idiot out of herself? She searched desperately for a way to cover her embarrassment.

"Actually, just looking for the Dark Mark." She replied with bravado. She was beyond shocked when the same fingers that she had been admiring...well, no just inspecting, really, reached out and grabbed her arm harshly.

"Do you think that's funny?" Marcus asked, leaning over her, dwarfing her small frame. His voice was cold and his eyes steely. She tried to pull away from his grip but he held fast. "Suggesting that I am allied with someone who killed babies, tortured even his allies, and went about trying to enslave the wizarding world? Someone who used Avada Kedavra like the rest of use Alohomora?"

"I..." Katie desperately tried to pull away.

"Just because someone thinks that having 95% of our laws and regulations focused on avoiding detection by muggles, and then blindly welcoming thousands of mudbloods and their families into the wizarding world each year with no questions asked is a little bit contradictory? That makes me a baby-eater, huh? I've got news for you, Bell. Not everyone who doesn't subscribe to the Gryffindor trinity of bravery, sanctimony and gullibility is a monster. And not everyone with a Gryffindor tie is the savior of the bloody world." He released her arm angrily, thrusting her away from him.

Katie took a deep breath. He was an arrogant, infuriating pureblood snob but he was right about one thing. The suggestion that he was in league with he-who-pesters-Harry was unfair in the extreme. She could only imagine how she'd have felt if someone had accused her of that. She needed to apologize. Sometimes Katie hated being a Gryffindor.

"Flint..."

"SHUT UP, BELL! I'm sick of you and your damn house. Thinking you're better than everyone just because you're too slow to see the way the world really works. Hiding behind that whole noble bravery thing when it's really your stubbornness and inability to see more than a couple of moves ahead that keep you from getting ahead in this world. Then turning around and acting like you're better for being poor, for getting killed, for whatever insanely stupid and self-sacrificing thing you all are always coming up with. Do you know what really gets to me? How the other houses are falling all over you, willing to be your hangers on, instead of recognizing what a bunch of priggish, superior dolts you really are."

Katie took a deep breath.

"Why do the other houses support us, Flint? It is because they know that whenever someone is cheating, picking on someone else, or just making life a little bit harder for someone else, nine times out of ten it is a Slytherin. They know that when you Slytherins are acting like the rest of us owe you rent for taking up space, we'll stand up to you. They also know that valor and honor are far more important than good looks and cunning. I think even you know it, Flint. That's why you hate us so much."

"Go to hell, Katie."

"Hey, Flint, since you're passing out lessons, I have one for you. What do all these former Slytherins have in common? Bellatrix Black, Niles Avery, Rodolphus Lestrange, Barty Crouch..."

"Sirius Black." Marcus shot back.

"Congratulations, Flint. That's one. I'm sure that you could come up with one Ravenclaw or maybe even a Hufflepuff who was a death eater as well. Shall I continue? Nestor Crabbe, Anton Dolohov, Oliver MacNair, Lucius Malfoy...I could go on." Katie looked at Marcus. He stared back, his eyes dark and hands clenched. Katie took a deep breath. "I do have to apologize for what I said about the dark mark. It was an unfair thing to say and you have every right to be angry."

"Oh, I have your permission? Thanks, Bell." The sneer was back on Marcus' face but his eyes no longer held the gleeful wickedness he'd had earlier.

"I am sorry, Flint." Katie waited. She didn't know why what he said was important to her, but she could barely breathe while waiting for his reply.

"I'm sorry, too, Bell. Sorry that when there are two gorgeous, sexy and delicious...no, delectable...chasers on the Gryffindor team, I'm stuck here with the scrawny, boring, unattractive wallflower." Marcus turned back to the cabinets and resumed working.

"Two words, Flint. Dental charms." Katie fought back tears as she faced the wall.

*************

"So, Bell, do Gryffindors actually shag or just sit around and congratulate each other on their superiority?" Katie gritted her teeth. The uncomfortable silence that had reigned in the room until now didn't seem so bad.

"Actually, Flint, when a Gryffindor boy loves a Gryffindor girl very much they sit in a circle and hold hands. Magically, a baby is created from the aura of righteousness and bravery that swirls around them. Then the Gryffindor girl thinks of Slytherins and the resulting nausea causes the girl to vomit the baby out. The baby within a few weeks becomes the overlord of the local playground, creating a fair and harmonious community for all. Why, how do you do it in Slytherin house?"

"Incredibly well, Bell. Your Gryffindor way does make a lot of sense though. If I was a girl and thought of well, me, and then had to shag a Weasley, I'd vomit too." Katie rolled her eyes. Marcus eyes glittered as he continued. "I am just so very curious, Bell, about a house where the highest thing a girl can aspire to is being shackled to a Weasley. Now, I understand that Angelina and Alicia get the Weasley twins on account of being, well, so much hotter than you, but are you first in line for the little brother on account of being on the Quidditch team? Or does he get to pick? Is there some sort of competition for his affections? Now, I will admit that I can see how shagging someone half your age sounds appetizing when your other option is Wood."

"He's only a year." Oh, great comeback, Katie. What a world-class wit you are.

"What?" Flint looked confused.

"Ron. He's only a year younger than me." Merlin, Katie, shut up! You must have 30 insults ready to hurl at a Slytherin and you're babbling on about Ron Weasley. Much to Katie's surprise however, Flint looked uneasy all of a sudden. His eyes shifted away from hers, back quickly and then away again. That managed to shut him up? It was official. Flint was fodder for the St. Mungo's psychiatric ward.

"Let's get back to work. I don't fancy being here all night." Flint stated than abruptly turned and resumed working. Katie shrugged. She didn't especially want to hang around either.

A few minutes later, Snape swooped in and raised an eyebrow when he saw they were still not done.

"Is there a problem? Miss Bell, are you really this incompetent?" Snape queried. "Filch told me he heard shouting from this room earlier. Since I have never known Mr. Flint to instigate unpleasantness, I think I'll need to take ten points from Gryffindor for your actions. Next time maybe you'll work instead of picking fights with other students."

Katie's mouth opened in indignation. Before she could defend herself, Marcus interrupted.

"Excuse me, Professor. I was late due to a meeting with other senior members of Slytherin house concerning student leadership. It was unavoidable but that has delayed us. It was not Miss Bell's fault."

Something that would have looked like confusion in anyone else flickered in Snape's eyes. He paused. "Very well, then. No points will be taken but I will remind you Miss Bell that detentions are to be taken seriously here at Hogwarts. Of course, if you had managed to be in your dormitory at 3:00am instead of in the astronomy tower, you would have avoided this situation altogether." He looked at them both for a long moment and then swept out of the room.

Katie looked at Marcus in shock.

"Thank you." Marcus said.

"What?"

"Thank you. Those are the two words you're trying to remember. Because I just saved your ass?"

"Thank you." Katie said weakly. "Student leadership?"

"Someone needs to handle the procurement and distribution of firewhiskey for the student population, Bell. Heavy is the head that wears the crown."

She couldn't help it. She snickered, covered her mouth, then gave in and laughed again.

Marcus resumed working but glanced over his shoulder at Katie. "So...who was the guy?"

Huh? "What guy?"

"The guy who was worth sneaking out at 3:00am to snog in the astronomy tower. The guy worth breaking curfew for. The guy worth getting detention for...and by the way, why didn't he get detention, too?" Marcus shook his head as if he thought her rather slow. "Was it Jordan? If it was, he's already got a couple of Hufflepuff's on the go. Please don't tell me you're changing little Ron Weasley's diaper for him." Marcus shuddered.

"You're deluded. And perverted."

Marcus froze. "It's Wood, isn't it? Katie, really. The Scottish slut? Quafflehead? Our Father Who Art in Egomania? He's your captain. Really, good move, Bell. Way to get yourself kicked off the team when he tires of you."

"It's not Oliver. I wasn't with a guy!"

"Spinnet?" Katie rolled her eyes. "So I'm supposed to believe you snuck up to the astronomy tower by yourself to gaze at the stars. Not even Gryffindors are that thick."

"Just because I'm not pretty doesn't mean I'll shag any guy who asks, Flint. I was with my beloved..." Katie paused. "Broom."

"What?"

"I was practicing the Poynter Swerve. The astronomy tower is the perfect place with the tight turns and all those windows to duck in and out of." Katie mistook Marcus' stunned expression for confusion. "The Poynter Swerve is a series of very tight rhythmic turns both up and down and side to side. It is supposed to disorient pursuing players, making it virtually impossible for them to take the quaffle from you."

It was Marcus' turn to roll his eyes. "I know what it is Katie. I've been able to do it since I was eight. I just can't believe you risked expulsion to practice quidditch moves. Why not do it in the daylight? How did you get caught anyways?"

"During daytime it's filled with students snogging. I got sick of trying to execute moves while half-naked people screamed in surprise. Oliver always gets on my case when he sees me doing stuff like that anyways." Katie switched into a surprisingly good Scottish accent. "Bell, quidditch is about teamwork and discipline, not fancy little flying tricks." Marcus laughed.

"So how did you get caught?"

"Half-naked people. Honestly, I would be happy to point them to any number of broom closets or unused classrooms at Hogwarts. Can I practice the Poynter Swerve in a closet? No, I cannot. Selfish gits. Anyways, I was happily swooping in and out of the windows, and this idiot sits up instead of saying something to me. So I run into him, tumble down onto his girlfriend, who screams, and alerts Filch to our presence. He comes running up the stairs with his psychotic cat."

"Why didn't you fly away? Too honorable?"

"Please." Katie rolled her eyes. "I figured no one had gotten a good look at me, so I was out the window, down along side the building, up to Gryffindor tower and into my bed in 30 seconds flat."

"Someone saw you?"

"No. The Poynter Swerve has all sorts of tricky parts to it though, and I thought I might need a reference..."

"You didn't."

"Yes, left my copy of 'Quidditch through the Ages' in the astronomy tower. With 'Property of Katie Bell' written on the inside cover." Katie shook her head ruefully. Marcus threw back his head and laughed. "Can you really do the Poynter Swerve? The book said that if you do the moves quickly enough, you can actually disorient the pursuing player to the point where they pass out and fall off their broom. Have you made anyone do that?" Katie asked eagerly.

"Sometimes they pass out and fall. Sometimes they vomit." Marcus smiled at her. "The most important thing to remember is never to do it if there is a player above you." It was Katie's turn to laugh.

She stopped laughing as Marcus stepped closer and tucked her hair behind her ear. He was really tall. And big. And intimidating. He was all hard angles and steel. His eyes were black as they stared down at her and she could feel those long fingers on the side of her face...

"Little Katie Bell...rebel chaser and juvenile delinquent." He slowly moved his fingers down to her neck, and Katie had to swallow a sigh. He was touching her skin so lightly and she could feel her blood skim just below his fingers. Every cell felt electrified. "I do believe that I may have misjudged you." Marcus continued softly.

He started to lean closer to her, fingers slipping around to the back of her neck. Katie couldn't believe it. She had never been kissed. No one had ever really acted like they wanted to. She did want this. Even his teeth were enticing her, a clear signal that this was not the stalwart Gryffindor boy your mother would like. He was scary and immoral and all wrong for her and Katie thought that if he would just kiss her, she could go the rest of her life babysitting other people's children, and owning cats, and healing the sick and be the dependable, helpful friend to all and never despair. If she could just have this. He was coming closer and Katie shut her eyes and reached up with her lips, issuing a silent prayer that she wouldn't be a disappointment to him.

Katie waited and nothing happened. The touch on her neck had been so light that she could not tell just when it disappeared. She opened her eyes.

Marcus Flint leaned against the wall a few feet from her and grinned. Every bit of arrogant self-satisfaction that she had suspected was in him shone out from his eyes. His arms were crossed across his chest, and his voice was casual.

"Bell, thought you fell asleep there. Was there something you wanted?" His voice was low and sensual, mocking her. Katie's stomach clenched. He had played her effortlessly it seemed. She was out of her league and he knew she knew it. All right, you were dumb and you've paid, her inner voice said, just don't let it happen again. Katie vowed silently that it never would. With anyone.

Marcus held the door open for her, in a mockery of common courtesy.

"Katie." He nodded to her as she slipped past him.

"Slytherin." Katie replied, voice unquavering. She returned to Gryffindor tower.

Minor crisis....

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 04:24:26 GMT

Uh, does anyone happen to have a copy of Detained? Chasers apparently is no more and while I was calm initially, I am starting to panic a bit. I am having momentary difficulty laying my hands on one. I am sure after digging through back ups or working through my current brain freeze I can eventually find one.

I've got the outline of plans for it, and the newest chapter that I'm working on. I've got copies of most the amazing reviews you guys have left. I just have managed to somehow MISPLACE THE ENTIRE REST OF THE STORY.

Again...if anyone does for some reason happen to have a copy and would be willing to send it to my e-mail...I will forever be in your debt. If not, I will eventually find one of my backups I'm sure.

I'm sorry.

Tue, 17 Mar 2009 03:21:35 GMT

I really am so so sorry for the long delay. I wrote 2500 words on Detained over the past couple days so hopefully soon, if anyone is still reading (and this isn't a plea for responses really, you guys have been more generous in that regard). I have been really really remiss in getting back with people and I'm sorry. That's all I wanted to say.

As soon as the new chapter is up, I will start responding to back e-mails and reviews, probably startling the hell out of people: "Who is this chick that's writing me? What the hell is she talking about? Let's go check her lj. Hmmm. She's a fruit loop who threatens violence on television characters. Better change my e-mail address."

Yes, clearly this is a well thought out plan.

I know no one cares about this, but I need to get it out.

Re: Gossip Girl (and yeah I'm too old to watch that show. I know, OK?)

Chuck and his sex-nanny are cordially requested to die in a fire. And to please take Vanessa friggin' Abrams with them. They are also cordially requested to record their screams of torment, so that I can play them back when I need a laugh.

*note to self*: Get hypocrisy dampener so Vanessa's screams don't screw up my speakers.

I don't care about your sadistic tendency for torturing her or your efforts to submarine her, show. Blair Waldorf is better than everyone. The end.

Now, I'm off to stab someone, and then back to writing. Thanks, guys.

Dumb little snippet

Sat, 03 Nov 2007 00:30:26 GMT

I'm revising and trying to work out the blocks on the oft-delayed chapter of Detained. One thing I think I have gone astray on is being too indulgent with peripheral characters and scenes, so I'm making some cuts in hope of creating more momentum in the scene. I thought I'd post one of the snippets I cut, in case anyone finds it amusing. It's possible a few lines will end up in the chapter, but most will probably be cut. I've tried throughout to have everything in the fic ultimately be about or reflect back on Marcus and Katie and this screamed "filler" at me on a re-read. However a few things in it made me laugh, and I didn't want to just delete it.

“No,” Ron insisted. “I’m not going back out there. I’m on strike.”

“Ron…” Charlie warned. “Bill needs our help. You’re supposed to help keep Fleur’s family and friends happy. And make them feel at home. And to not let them congregate in groups of more than three.”

“I’m not going to do it,” Ron proclaimed stubbornly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You do it. I’ll do your job…Yammering at Katie, right? I can do that. Pig can help. Katie likes Pig,” he continued desperately. “Katie. Tell Charlie how much you like Pig.”

“I like Pig,” Katie agreed amiably. “One might even say he’s a hoot.” Heh. Neither Charlie nor Ron smiled. Must have been too subtle for them, Katie decided.

“There’s an idea,” Charlie muttered to Ron. “If chitchat with a few girls taxes your intellect that much, take Pig with you. He’ll certainly incite comment.”

“Not a good idea,” Ron said, firmly. “Some of their robes are really low-cut. Remember what happened at the engagement dinner? Poor Pig. His feathers are just starting to grow back in.”

Their standoff was interrupted by Garrick Galloway stumbling in. The huge Falcons beater threw himself into a chair, and gazed at them forlornly. “Does anyone know what French girls like to talk about?”

“You tell me, mate…” Charlie replied, bemusedly. “What have you been talking to them about for the last three hours?”

“The quill of my aunt, mostly,” Galloway rumbled. “So far it’s been on the bureau, in the knapsack of my brother, underneath a black cat, on a bus to the magiquarium-“

“Galahad,” Charlie interrupted, “you do realize that most of them speak English, right?”

“I know.”

“Then why are you conversing solely in phrases from ‘My Kneazle Loves Provence: French for the Young and Magical?’”

“I don’t know! You told me not to talk about Quidditch. I thought maybe the French had a thing for writing implements. Then I thought they maybe had a thing for pursing their lips and staring blankly at a bloke until he felt a right idiot. They’re impossible.”

“They’re not really that bad,” Ron objected.

“Nice try, Ronald,” Charlie scoffed. “You’d rather hang out in the kitchen with Katie than dance with them.”

“Uh yeah. Because if I don’t dance with them, Bill yells at me. If I look at them while I’m dancing with them, Hermione yells at me for drooling over brainless tarts. If I look at my feet while dancing with them, Ginny yells at me for kowtowing to the snobby Beauxbatons bints. If I look at the sky, I trip over things,” Ron shot back, exasperated. “Talking to Fleur’s friends is the least of my problems.”

“What do you talk to them about?” Galloway asked, curiously.

“Uh…bouillabaise, mostly,” Ron replied, considering.

“Does that work?”

“Seems to.”

Quick note...

Sat, 23 Dec 2006 05:47:04 GMT

I've had a couple people write me about Detained recently, so I'm breaking my vow not to mention the fic until the new chapter is up. I had hoped the new chap would be up before Christmas, but sadly it will not. I currently have a little over 6000 words done on it (about 3000 written in the last week), so I am closing in, and really think it will be posted in January. Apologies to those who don't want there f-lists clogged up with posts about a fic that hasn't been updated in months.

Happy holiday season to all.

Rec for new M/K fic

Thu, 03 Aug 2006 04:28:30 GMT

corinthian has posted the beginning of a brand new M/K fic on her lj! It's hot. I *really* enjoyed it, and know that several people are dying for new M/K so please go check it out here:
http://users.livejournal.com/corinthian___/3545.html

My selfish plea: Please also encourage her to write more! You know you want to.

In other news, the overcomingrvlry fic fest fics have started to be posted. blondesimone has put up the beginning to a very cool Angelina/Montague fic (including interesting things on forensics in the wizarding world), and more fics will be being posted. Thanks to angylinni for the coolness that is OR. :D

Request for help

Sun, 30 Jul 2006 02:35:28 GMT

I'm trying to get back into writing Detained and am struggling a bit. I was wondering if anyone on my f-list A) remembers the fic after the hiatus and B) would mind helping out. This is a weird request I know, especially because the fic is plotted out to the nth degree, so I *know* what's going to happen and am pig stubborn and unlikely to change the events.

However, I am lacking in inspiration. If anyone had thoughts on the fic...stuff that they were looking forward to seeing, or favorite/least favorite moments, or pet peeves, or things that they were worried about for the characters, or really any thoughts at all, I'd appreciate hearing them. If not, consider this a pathetic cry for attention, roll your eyes, and prune your f-list.

Thanks!

M/K ficlet.

Wed, 17 May 2006 07:47:57 GMT

redcandle17 and sunmumsie bear much of the blame for this.

Yeah...well, the next part of Detained still isn't up. I blame the Weasleys. I hope y'all enjoy this ficlet... and becisvolatile, I really wanted to have the next part of Detained up as a gift to you for the birth of your twins, and I've just been blocked. I hope you enjoy this one.

Title: What the hell happened to your head?
Pairing: If you read my lj, I really think you know.
Length: 1421 words.
Rating: PG
Warning: This hasn't even been proofed yet. I'm tired and want to go to bed. I will proof it later, so you might want to hold off on reading.

“What the bloody hell happened to your head?”

Katie glanced up from the book she’d been reading as she walked along, eyes widening as she saw the big Slytherin looming over her. “Pardon?”

“Your hair, Bell?” he growled. “What happened to it?”

Katie took a deep breath. The world did not dissolve. She was still standing in the Hogwarts Hallway. The suit of armor was still singing something by Kylie Minogue. Marcus Flint still appeared to be aware of her existence.

Surreal.

Well, Witch Weekly had said that a dramatic change in look was just the thing for a wallflower. She hadn’t really believed it though. Did this mean she also had to believe the article about cucumber face masks being the key to a lasting marriage?

This seemed a little much though. The goal had been that Lee or some other boy-type creature might look at her, and have their first thought not be ‘where are Angelina and Alicia?’ but ‘Katie. Girl. Who knew?’ Then their second thought could be of the A’s with the C-cups, and Katie could get back to her life. Shadow puppets. Hot chocolate. Exhorting the castle mice to rise up and claim their rights. Business as usual.

Going straight to having the uber-male, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain, himself accost her in the hallways seemed to be skipping a few steps. Or a few hundred.

“My hair?” she stammered.

“The stuff on your head,” he snarled. “Or, I should say, the stuff that formerly was on your head.”

“I cut it,” Katie explained. She would have thought that would have been self-evident. Maybe the troll blood thing wasn’t just a rumor. “To make it shorter.”

“And stuck your head in a tar-pit?” he muttered, sounded baffled.

“I dyed it black,” she replied, defensively. “For a change.”

“A new sweater is a change,” Flint told her shortly. “A shot of cinnamon in your pumpkin juice is a change. Amputation is not a bloody change.”

“I’m pretty sure all my limbs are intact,” Katie informed him. “Should I kick you to provide empirical evidence?”

“This…” Flint was gazing down at her, all rugged features and stubble. What was his problem? His hair was black. His eyes were blacker still. “This is unacceptable,” he said, shaking his head.

Katie had kind of wondered what it would be like for a boy, no a man, to pay attention to her. To focus solely on her. She’d figured it would be exhilarating, a little scary, and just a tad bit delicious. She hadn’t figured it would be like dealing with the Weasley twins when they’d had too much sugar. Ah, disillusionment.

“I was unaware that my coiffure fell under your jurisdiction,” Katie said, tartly. “I’ll keep that in mind in the future, oh fuhrer of the hair follicles.” She stepped around him, and began moving down the empty hallway.

He caught her arm, and swung her back around to face him before she’d taken three steps.

“What’s this all about, Katie?” he asked her, voice harsh. His hand was still on her arm, rough and warm. It made her feel a little light-headed. Merlin, Katie thought, she’d have to inform Ali and Ang that they were wrong. Marcus Flint was hot.

“I wanted a change, is all,” Katie told him, simply. “What’s it to you?” That last part had come out breathier than she wanted, all syrupy and sweet and hopeful. She might have wanted a change, Katie told herself, but apparently what she needed was a good kicking.

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not trying to look like that slag, Spinnet, are you?” he asked, darkly.

“No! And Ali’s not a slag,” Katie said, fiercely. Yanking her arm free, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, just in case Flint felt like commenting that there were a few areas in which she fell far short of that goal.

“Look, Bell, you’re probably too young to realize this…but how a girl looks, how short her skirts are, or how she wears her hair, sends signals to other people, to guys…about how she should be treated.”

What?

“Have I inadvertently chosen the ‘please, big boy, accost me in hallways and rant incomprehensibly’ cut? Please excuse me. I feel the need to go shave my head.”

“Yeah, funny, Bell,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Look. Just charm your hair back to how it was, alright? You really don’t want guys to get the wrong idea about you.”

“Invest in dental charms, Flint,” she replied, tartly. She tried to toss her hair back over her shoulder like she used to, for emphasis, but the short cut just swished against her face. Damn. A pained look crossed Flint’s face. “We don’t want guys to think you feast upon the flesh of the living.”

Marcus’ face became an impassive, icy mask. “Yeah, whatever, Bell,” he muttered, turning and striding away.

Katie opened her mouth to…well, she didn’t know quite what she planned to do. Apologize? Ask for tips on conditioning from one who appeared to know so much? Gawp like an idiot? In her entire life, Katie had never been clear on what she wanted, and she couldn’t exactly claim that she’d had a great epiphany now either…It was just that, suddenly, she realized that it would be preferable for him not to go.

She didn’t get to act on her newfound revelation though, because Flint swung back around and marched back towards her, a determined expression on his face. She didn’t have time to come up with something even ostensibly clever to say. She just gawped. That was something at least, Katie Bell could gawp with the best of them.

He came to a stop before her, just a handsbreath away. Gazing down at her, face stern, his hand slowly came up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. It immediately slid back to its prior position. This hairstyle was too short for tucking.

It was the thought that counted, though, Katie mused dreamily as she stared up at him. She recognized this position. Any girl would. She and Flint were currently starring in the tableau of ‘Innocent young girl about to receive first kiss from handsome, er, ‘handsome’ older boy.’ He would kiss her, and her leg would bend up behind her in a little kick, and her hands would twist in his robes, and he’d pull back, and she’d look at him starry-eyed, and he’d tuck her hair behind her ear again, and she’d smile, and then an alternative-rock song would play, roll the credits.

He didn’t kiss her though. Purebloods just didn’t know how to behave.

“You’ve totally fucked up your Quidditch game, you know,” he told her, smirking.

“What?”

“Your hair always used to stream behind you when you flew. It was disorienting…hard to figure out which way you were going to turn when you moved one way and it moved another. Try to come up fast behind you and a bloke would have that hair lashing across his face, stinging his eyes. Did a hell of a job of reflecting light too, blinding anyone looking when the sun hit it just right.” His grin widened. “Now though…I can tail you and knock you off your broom as easily as I do Spinnet or the other one, the Amazon. I should be bloody grateful actually. Your hair always ended up giving me motion sickness.”

Katie wasn’t an experienced player in the realms of romance and/or seduction and/or trollish mating rituals. However, it seemed to her, that being told her presence made him want to throw up wasn’t an encouraging sign.

His smirk had only grown wider, the hulking prat.

“Motion sickness, eh? Probably cause you’re so thick even your stomach is easily confused,” she said, huffily.

“I’m going to go tell Woody,” he laughed. “’Hey Wood, congrats on your captaincy skills. Couldn’t keep one little slip of a girl in line, and now your entire Chaser lineup will be eating turf and I’ll be waltzing away with the cup. I appreciate it. Really I do. I especially appreciate it that you’re in no way man enough to force her to change her hair back before the game.” He snickered, and reached out and ruffled her hair.

Stupid. Annoying. Insufferable. Trollish. Asinine. Git.

He moved back down the hallway, whistling. Halfway down he turned around, walking backwards and watching her. He shook his head. “Fucking mutilation,” he muttered.

Huh.

Yeah.

Katie couldn’t just stand around here all day. She had things to do.

“Rodents of Gryffindor tower, hear my call…The kitchen larders are full to bursting with cheese, cheese that must be liberated for the good of the revolution…”

Quid Pro Quo chapter1

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 03:45:03 GMT

Quid Pro Quo chapter 1. I added on the beginning to chapter 2. I'll quit clogging up your f-lists now, I promise.

Authors note: Yeah, I don’t really need another fic in the works, but I’ve been fighting writer’s block and this seemed to help. Let me assure you that I wish it were another chapter of Detained as well. ;) Thanks to Hamadryad and Angylinni for looking over parts of this. All mistakes are mine. I’d love to hear what you think.

The Daily Prophet
August 19

Katie Bell’s Quidditch Pro Quo column

Well, readers, today is a very special day. For years, a gender barrier has marred the Quidditch world: Women coached the Harpies and men coached every other team. Today, in an egalitarian masterstroke, this wall has come tumbling down.

How, you ask? Has Meghan McCormick been promoted from her assistant coach position with Pride of Portree? Possibly the Tornados decided to reward their ex-Captain Danielle Bainbridge for her long years of service? Or maybe one of the experienced European female coaches are now employed this side of the channel?

None of the above. Not baby steps, this. A true blow for gender equality.

Marcus Flint has been named the coach of the Holyhead Harpies.

I offer my sincere and heartfelt congratulations to Mr. Flint, so bravely making his way into a position dominated by women. As a former player for the Harpies, I so often decried the lack of hair pulling and biting in our play. Mr. Flint’s grabbing of his genitals to express elation, defiance, or as a friendly greeting has been far too long out of the public eye. Fans rejoice!

For those new to the sport, let me offer a brief synopsis of Mr. Flint’s career: Rookie year- the league was forced to rule that insertion of the broomstick up an opposing player’s nose, whether ‘accidental’ or not, would be ruled a penalty. Second year- League forced to rule that all players under the effects of a spike-skin, razor-ring, or similar curse was not allowed to be play quidditch until the effects were reversed, whether they were ‘mysteriously hexed by person or persons unknown’ or not, after Mr. Flint’s skin conditions put several opponents into St. Mungo’s. Third year- League forced to reverse the ‘spike-skin’ ruling after the entire Puddlemere United starting line-up was jinxed before their final match with the Falcons, forcing them to use the Reserves and lose home-pitch advantage for the playoffs.

That doesn’t even scratch the surface of Mr. Flint’s misdeeds. After all, Mr. Flint did play in the league for fourteen seasons. For a voluminous though still incomplete and somewhat pandering account, I recommend “Fearsome Falcon: The Marcus Flint Story” by Kenton Whingle. For the real info, buy an ex-Quidditch player or ref an ale at the pub and ask them about Flint. Under no circumstances would I recommend “Bastards, Bludgers and Broom Bunnies: My Life in Quidditch” by the great man himself, unless you are in need of an emetic.

I have a confession. The disturbing thought that all this might be another salvo in my ongoing war with the Harpies management has occurred to me. After all, I did state in an earlier column that their plans to have ‘young female broom enthusiasts’ do precision flying exercises while clad in halter tops and tiny shorts at every Harpies game was the ‘stupidest and most appalling idea that would ever be.’ Well, you guys got me. Clearly, your imagination exceeds mine for never in my wildest nightmares could I have come up with the idea of Marcus Flint, Harpies coach. I surrender. Now make it stop.

Now, I know some of you will say that Mr. Flint has always been good for Quidditch. He brought even more interest and attention to this popular sport, and attendance did shoot up during his years in the league. While I would like to write that off as a coincidence, it would be hard since his autobiography has been on best-seller lists for the last three years.

So, fine, keep him around. Make him a commentator, a glad-hander, a figurehead. Heck, shove him into a halter-top and have him treat us all to an exhibition of eye gouging. Don’t , however, give him the head coaching position of one of the most high-profile teams in the sport. Show some respect for the game, if not for the fans.

I have been decrying the changing state of Quidditch for some time. Players are getting bigger and injuries are both becoming more severe and more common. There are fewer women players than there were ten years ago. There are no women assistant coaches for any of the teams, outside the Harpies. The Harpies not only have a storied Quidditch history in their own right, but the team has been a springboard for women players who later move onto other teams. 82% of the women players in the league played their first games in a Harpies uniform. Now is not the time for a male coach of the Harpies.

Let me ask, in the native tongue of our esteemed Mr. Flint: Who in the hell does a girl have to blow around here to get some service?

******
Harpies Press Conference

Bugger.

Dealing with the press was easier when you were allowed to spit on them.

Well, he’d never spit on someone. Just in their general direction. Casually, as it were. He might make an exception for Bell, though.

Of course, she couldn’t make things easy on him and sit out his first press conference as coach of the Harpies. She was front and center, smiling icily at him, pad at the ready. Why in Hades would she have to take notes? She probably had already written her next column: Marcus Flint Smells Bad and I Hate Him. How come the Prophet printed her whiny delusional ravings?

Merlin. That tosser from Quidditch Weekly was chatting her up. There was hard up for you. Although from a distance, Bell was passable, Marcus guessed. Miles was always going on about her legs. The Quidditch Weekly bloke was sitting right next to her though. You’d think that he could see the fangs.

Blah blah storied tradition blah power of witches blah new day for the team. The general manager was still droning on. Oh, Gods, that hoary old thing about the female of the species being deadlier than the male. Did the man hear himself? Several reporters in the audience were actually writing this crap down…either that or playing solitaire hangman. Bell wasn’t though. Her eyes hadn’t left Marcus. Probably figuring out which parts of him would bleed the most if an opportunity should present itself. Good thing that the podium would be shielding his more important areas.

“…our new coach, Mr. Marcus Flint.”

Fucking finally.

“I think this will be a good year for the Harpies. I look forward to working with the several talented athletes. A return to fundamentals, some new techniques and some strength training and I think you’ll be surprised at the improvements. I am honored to have this chance.” Merlin. Marcus appreciated the fact that Terence had written a ‘non-offensive’ speech for him but did Ter have to make him sound like such a ponce?

Terence was leaning against the wall at the back of the room, nodding encouragingly. Pillock.

“Thank you. I’ll enjoy speaking with you all throughout the season,” Marcus continued. Terence was frowning at him. Too bad for Higgs. If he hadn’t wanted Marcus to smirk, he shouldn’t have given him such ridiculous things to say.

Marcus pivoted and quickly moved to the edge of the platform. He’d almost made it to the stairs, when the general manager Bill Blankenstone’s voice rang out.

“We have time for a few questions for Mr. Flint.”

Blast. Storming out and ignoring your boss on the first day of the job probably wasn’t on. Let them see how much they needed Marcus, and then it would be business as usual. Until then, pleasantness personified.

“For our first question…” the GM scanned the crowd.

NotBellNotBellNotBellNotBell.

“Katie Bell from the Daily Prophet.”

“Mr. Flint, you’ve never held a coaching position before,” the harridan asked, coolly. “What makes you think you’re qualified to coach the Harpies?”

“I know Quidditch,” Marcus replied shortly. “Next question?”

Her eyes narrowed but she reluctantly sat back down as Marcus handled a few softball questions on how it felt to be involved in the game again and what he’d been up to. A vague-looking blonde woman was waving her arm, looping it in figure eights in a hypnotic fashion. He was getting sleepy. Thankfully the woman dropped her arm before Marcus took a header off the stage. Belatedly he realized it was because she had been called on.

“Luna Lovegood. Quibbler. Does the snitch pitch and twitch for a witch?”

Uh.

Marcus took a deep breath. Take it easy, mate…just answer. It’s more important to seem confident than sensical. “Er…yes.”

The blonde nodded, satisfied, and sat back down. The other reporters looked amused but also a little impressed. He exhaled. He’d passed that test, then.

Out of the frying pan and into the blazing hells of Armageddon. Katie Bell stood again.

“Mr. Flint, you’re now a very public representative of the Harpies,” she said. “I wondered how you would respond to their naysayers. For example, what would you say to the Quidditch player who said ‘Any of the Harpies are welcome to take a ride on my broomstick, but other than that they should stay the hell off the pitch and out of my way.’”

“Well, I’d have quite a lot to say to that gentleman,” Marcus retorted firmly, glancing over at some of his new players that had come to watch the proceedings. “Actions speak louder than words, though. If you could tell me the player’s name, I can make sure we’ll have a non-verbal answer prepared when we play his team.”

“I’m sure your players are delighted in your faith and support,” Bell replied sweetly. Marcus felt himself relaxing, until she started flipping through her notepad like she was looking for something. Bell always had the facts at her fingertips. She never needed to look something up. “Ah, yes,” she smiled viciously at him. “It was a Falcons player, their Captain actually. His name was Marcus Flint.”

Oh, bloody hell. How drunk had he been?

“I don’t recall ever saying anything to that effect,” he stated firmly. Stout denial. Better shield than innocence any day.

“Oh?” Katie asked, one eyebrow arched. “It’s a good thing that it’s in the Wizarding Wireless archives from an interview you did on Mad Magicking Matt’s midnight show. The quote in question comes right after you call the Harpies franchise a ‘joke’ and right before you suggest that they hang it up and become a precision flying team. “

Damn and blast. And damn. Angelina Johnson, current Harpies’ Captain, glared at him as the other players looked offended.

“I can’t remember the incident,” Marcus replied shortly. “I was clearly drunk, and saying stuff I didn’t mean.”

“Do you often say things that you don’t mean?” Katie asked, smirking. Amazing how she could speak so clearly with a forked tongue. “Nice of you to warn us not to believe a word you say up front like that. Saves so much time. Is frequent inebriation also something we should keep our eye out for?” Bitch.

“Does any one else have questions?” the GM asked, a little desperately. Katie sat down, smug in her triumph. No way she got to walk out of here the winner. It could not be allowed.

“I have a question for the other members of the press,” Marcus smiled, nastily. “What’s the best way to handle Bell and her rampant insanity? Does just avoiding her gaze work, or do you ever need to use stunning spells?” Some people sat in frozen disbelief, but Marcus could hear a few sniggers.

“I have a question for the general manager and owners,” Katie replied, voice calm. “Who is the next coach of the Harpies?”

“Look, Bell, I think you’re just pissed because I’m coach-“, Marcus snarled. Her short bark of laughter cut him short.

“You think I’m pissed about you being coach? I would think you would be certain,” she snarled back. “You must know about my column. I’m sure the Harpies employ someone to read documents out loud to you, or perhaps re-interpret them as a puppet show.”

“Oh, I read it, Bell. I’m flattered by your desire to see me in a halter-top, believe me. As for your offer of a blowjob? I’ll put you on the wait list.”

“Yeah, you’ll be waiting all right, Flint. And while you are, you can read my columns detailing the slow and horrible demise of your coaching career. Next career stop: Ludo Bagman, professional has-been. I do hope you will enjoy my documentation of that delicate transition.”

“I’ve got better things to do than read the deranged ramblings of a hag.”

“Like give radio interviews, for instance. Where you say things you don’t mean.”

“You need to get laid, Bell.”

“Oh, is this the first example of your time spent ‘considering the requirements and motivations of quidditch-playing witches’?” Her face was red, and her voice was almost as loud as his. It rose over the scandalized murmurs that surrounded them. In addition to drills and strategy sessions, all your players must shag at proscribed intervals?”

“Could you stop putting words in my mouth?”

“It’s certainly easier than trying to shove something into the brain of yours. Like the fact that the Harpies don’t need you.”

“Don’t need me?” he laughed, angrily. “Are you kidding me, Bell? They haven’t had a winning season in twelve years. They haven’t won the cup in fifty. Do the arithmancy! The only ‘storied tradition’ I see around here is sucking!”

Marcus had thought he knew what silence was like. The silence before taking the field at the World Cup. The silence as the minutes ticked away as he frantically tried to finish his NEWTs essay. The silence the first time he had sex, gazes locked, before he started thrusting. None of the silences were as deathly still as the one that surrounded him now.

“No further questions,” Katie said quietly.

No one had further questions. Every single reporter sat there looking at him. That wasn’t good. He knew from his playing career that blood in the water usually inspired a feeding frenzy in the press. They were only silent once the target was already dead and decomposed. Was his coaching career over already? Marcus couldn’t bring himself to look at the players but Mrs. Mincemeld, who owned the Harpies along with her husband, sat there rigidly, lips tight.

People were standing, ready to leave him and the ruins of his career behind. He had to make a move.

“I’m not good at giving speeches,” Marcus declared loudly. “I’m no diplomat or Quidditch historian.” People were still moving towards the doors. “I’m only really good at one thing.” Now they were interested. “You think I’m going to say Quidditch, but I’m not. I’m good at winning. I know how to win. I have always won and I will do anything in my power to see that the Harpies win. If I was chosen to be the next babysitter for some gender-equality museum, I’m absolutely the wrong man for the job. If I was chosen to coach the Harpies, mold them into winners, I will deliver. I promise that.”

Some looked interested, some still looked offended. None looked amused however. Johnson, at the back of the room, cocked her head and stared at him in interest. Maybe…maybe he had pulled this off.

“My office,” Blankenstone hissed at him, striding past on his way to mollify the Mincemelds. At least he wasn’t already fired.

Terence was waiting as Marcus hopped down off the stage. “Well,” Terence smiled. “That was different.”

“Bleeding harridan,” Marcus fumed. He looked around for Bell but she had already disappeared. Funny, he couldn’t even smell the brimstone.

“I think you might need to work on your public relations, mate,” Terence laughed.

“That…” Marcus broke off. “That was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Nah.”

Marcus turned and stared at him. “You don’t think that was a disaster?” he asked incredulously.

“Oh, no, it was,” Terence agreed cheerfully. “But it was somewhat mitigated.” He clapped Marcus on the back, as they walked back towards Marcus’ office. “There are things I can help you with, though.”

“Yeah?” Marcus asked warily.

“Certainly. If you’re only good at winning, well that just leaves a whole raft of things that you must be bad at. Including a few that I’m sure it’s hard for you to own up to. If only you had come to me sooner. I could have imparted some advice, and you wouldn’t have had left all those women unsatisfied. It’s really just a question of technique, Marcus. A few pointers and we’ll have you on track. I could bring Alicia in as a consultant if you like. I’m sure she would be more than happy to explain all about the varied girl parts.”

“Shut it, Terence.”

Chapter 2

September issue of Harpy Happenings
Notes From the Coach Column, first draft

In the coming months, I’ll be using this column to discuss topics such as broom selection, training techniques and diagramming a few plays for you. However, lately several people have been calling the Harpies’ offices concerned about things that they have read about me in the Daily Prophet. In order to calm your hysterical whinging and explain a little something about the no-talent parasites who hang about the Quidditch world, this months’ column is about ‘How to Become a Quidditch Columnist.’

1. Bitterness and Jealousy: Loathing of those actually directly involved in Quidditch is a must-have for columnists. A short-lived and forgettable playing career is the best way to achieve this. Failing this, being very, very drunk can help the aspiring journalist reach the required levels of self-importance and incoherence.

2. A high vocabulary/talent ratio. Remember, describing things is far more important than actually being able to do them.

3. Columnists need a hook, to set them aside from the pack. It is most effective if the hook is something that the columnist can natter on about endlessly, and especially if it can be used as fodder for humorless tirades about discrimination. Ownership of a vagina is actually considered a sufficient hook, so look no farther ladies. Lads, you’ll probably have to obtain a disfiguring injury or be really short.

Three simple steps and a sports journalism career is yours. Enjoy it as far away from me as possible.

Til next time,

Flint

P.S. While sexual frustration might help reporters summon up the requisite shrewish nastiness, I’m sure that , despite the rumours, celibacy is a ‘lifestyle choice’ for Ms. Katie Bell of the Daily Prophet, and not a stipulation of her contract.

From the Desk of Bill Blankenstone, General Manager, Holyhead Harpies

Re: ‘Notes from the Coach’.

Do I need to remind you you’re still on probation from the incident at the season ticketholder’s tea?

Rewrite it. Anecdotes. Platitudes about the season. Jollity.

September issue of Harpy Happenings
Notes From the Coach Column, second draft

Whoo-hoo! Go Harpies. I am atwitter with anticipation.

I hope you all will enjoy my grandmother’s recipe:

Filgella Flint’s Old Fashioned Persimmon Muffins

Ingredients:
Persimmons
Muffins

Combine.

Excerpt from the September Issue of Harpy Happenings

Our new coach, Mr. Flint, has needed every available second to prepare his team for the season. Notes from the Coach will return next month.