Detained Chapter 11 -- Audition part a *sigh*

[jenszabo]

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

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

Morons.

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

He certainly wouldn’t call himself satisfied.

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

“Again?” she asked, breathing hard.

“No, it was acceptable.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” she muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” she asked, startled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

“Compelling reason, there. What else?”

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

“Good. Anything else?”

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

He didn’t smile.

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

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

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

“Well, not in games.”

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

“OK…”

“What else?”

Katie shook her head, staring at the ground.

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

”Well, it’s pretty good…for my size.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Walk towards me, Bell.”

“Why?”

“Tell me we’re not back to this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll go fetch my tiara.”

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

“Walk like Spinnet.”

”What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Katie?”

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

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

“Sweep as in Quidditch ability?”

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

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

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

“OK…”

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

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

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

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

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

“Obvious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn. Well, shouldn’t be that hard.

Not hard at all.

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

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

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

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

“That’s perfect.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even close…”

“A Gryffindor fight song?” she offered.

“Nah.”

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

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

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

“’Listening to this song under duress.’”

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

“Song’s over.”

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

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

“No…just Morgaine, incest…bad image.”

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

“And which did you attend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marcus,

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

Thank you.

Katie

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

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

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

Tomorrow. He’d see her tomorrow.

~*~

Next day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s out until January?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

Marcus forced down his rising anger. “No?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See, I heard that’s not how-“

“I am in possession of tasty donuts!”

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

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

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

Bloody lummox.

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He looks jolly,” Galloway replied decisively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…or anywhere else.”

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

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

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

“Yves Persault,” Marcus blurted out.

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s a brilliant Chaser.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seems shaky, Flint,” Broadmoor concurred.

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

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

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

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

“It might work…” Broadmoor mused.

“It will work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am perspicacious,” Galloway agreed, nodding.

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

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

“Back to 1982.”

“Including the Reserves.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all stood there snickering for a minute.

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

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

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

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

Today, he needed to go meet Katie.