Detained Chapter 8 -- Reciprocation
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.
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.