I'm all brained out.
Title: Daisy-Gram
Author: volatile (that would be me)
Rating: R (I guess)
Pairings/Characters: Marcus Flint/Katie Bell
Summary: Katie has until midnight to find Marcus… or the Niffler gets it!!
Disclaimer: I’m not JK Rowling. I’m a poor smut bunny who owns nothing.
Author's Notes: Written for angylinni’s ’Katie the pursuer’ Valentine’s challenge at bell_flint. I swear that I never meant it to be anything longer than a thousand words… it just kinda got away on me. Also, I can’t promise that the things I found funny while writing this will seem funny to you while you are reading it. Since it’s not meant to be this long, or even in existence, seeing as how I promised myself to focus on another fic, it is not, as yet, Beta’d. I might get around to it… I might even add a longer sex scene. Then again, I might not.
Katie was about to do something stupid. Really stupid. Put-your-hand-on-a-hotplate-and-say-ow-when-you-get-burned stupid.
The fact that she was getting paid to be stupid didn’t really ease the pain. This was her job. It was the only job she could get in the turbulent social climate. Voldemort was back, Quidditch seasons were cancelled across the country, leaving her only marketable talent useless, and she really needed the money.
It’s not like she had anything better to be doing on Valentine’s Day anyway. Well, that was a lie; she could be sitting at home sticking her wand in her eye and practising her conjunctivitis charms. That might be more fun, possibly smarter too.
Four galleons an hour? That’s what this sort of bone-deep, hideous, nauseating mortification was worth? Katie looked at herself in the mirror. She wore a green spandex suit that covered every inch of her, yet seemed to conceal nothing. She caught sight of her bottom; possibly she could have done without that last bag of Bertie Botts Beans. Around her neck was a massive ring of plush yellow petals.
She was a human flower. A Daisy-Gram. A walking, dancing, magic, singing message, spreading love and revolting sentiment for the day.
Would somebody please kill her? Where was a pack of rabid Death Eaters when you needed them?
To be fair, it wasn’t such a bad job. She could walk in, belt a couple lines of some stupid muggle song, shoot some pretty sparks into the air and pass on a message of undying love, or creepy infatuation, depending on the sender and whether or not they had asked for the Daisy-Gram to be anonymous.
The thing about Delia Daynight’s Daisy-Gram organisation that made them a cut above the rest was the If-it-doesn’t-get-there-before-midnight-we’ll-make-our-messengers-eat-a-Niffler Guarantee. So far Katie wasn’t terribly concerned. It was three in the afternoon and she only had one delivery left on her list.
Apparently someone had grown tired of their mortal existence and had thus decided to end it by sending Marcus Flint a Daisy-Gram.
It was a disquieting mission for many reasons. Firstly, Katie was severely concerned to think that someone, somewhere, out there was actually deficient enough to send Marcus Flint any sort of flower, much less a singing, dancing, sparkling one. Secondly, it had been an anonymous sender, so when Flint asked who was responsible, she had nobody to foist the blame upon.
Finally, it was Marcus Flint, Slytherin sex-god, bane of her childhood, the ghost responsible for countless sleepless nights spent with a) her ribs taped, b) her bed curtains closed, c) her pride wounded or d) all of the above.
Marcus Flint, he of the dark hair, dark eyes and dark moods. Marcus Flint, inducer of un-Gryffindor-like thoughts. Marcus Flint, the boy who had-
Yes, her brain snapped, We’ve established that this message is going to Marcus Flint. Maybe now you could deliver it?
Katie grimaced once more at her reflection, picked up her wand and apparated to Diagon Alley, where Marcus Flint was supposed to be haunting the Leaky Cauldron.
@)---}-------
‘What do you mean “He’s not here”?! They said he’d be here. He has to be here. Why isn’t he here? He’s meant to be here.’ Katie’s voice held only the slightest edge of desperation.
‘I mean, pet,’ said the pint-sized grizzled wizard behind the bar, ‘That Mr. Flint. Is. Not. Here. He left. Vacated. In absentia. Gone. Vamoosed. Pfft.’
‘So you’re sure he isn’t here?’ For a moment Katie feared that the bartender was about to hit her with a jar of pickled eggs. Maybe he had something against daisies.
He jabbed a finger towards the fire place, ‘He flooed out. You could try following. There’s spells for that.’
@)---}-------
Indeed there were spells to allow a person to follow someone through the floo system. Katie knew that. What she hadn’t known was that such spells usually took hours to get right, and often required the assistance of extremely well trained wizards and witches. It was not until six o’clock that evening that Katie was spat out of the floo system, a jumble of long green limbs and soot covered fluffy petals. Her hair had begun to escape the stretchy green hood and she was, to put it mildly, feeling somewhat un-Valentine-y.
She straightened and looked around. She was in an expensively furnished foyer. The architect had apparently had a fetish for black marble and the decorator had been partial to artists’ impressions of the inquisition. Nice. If you suffered chronic depression.
A large desk dominated the other end of the foyer; the wall behind it was etched in Gold declaring the building to be ‘Flint Multi-National, Omni-Magical, Inter-Species Corporation’. It seemed obvious, now that Katie thought about it, that Marcus Flint would be working for his family while his Quidditch career was put on hold.
Flint’s family business, it seemed, kept international hours, meaning that it was open around the clock. Katie sucked in her stomach (green spandex really was unforgiving) stuffed some stray hair back under her cap, fluffed her petals and sauntered towards the reception desk.
When she caught sight of the receptionist her first thought was ‘Dominatrix’. That was the only justification she could find for the inordinate amount of black leather that the middle aged, stiff-spined witch was wearing. Either that or a passionate hatred of cows. The woman narrowed her eyes as Katie neared, attempting to decide if the walking flower was insane, retarded or both. ‘May I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Marcus Flint.’ Katie spoke clearly and smoothly. Flower suit or no, no one was going to make her feel like an idiot. She managed to do that quite well all by herself.
‘Which one?’ asked Mistress Dread.
‘There’s more than one?’ Katie panicked briefly.
‘Yes, there’s Marcus Flint Senior, Marcus Flint, Marcus Thaddeus Flint, Marcus Lucian Flint and Marcus Flint Junior.’ It figured that the Flint’s would all name their sons/cousins/penises after one another.
‘I’m after the one with black hair, hideous teeth and an even worse temperament?’
Mistress Dread quirked an eyebrow and tilted her head to the side. Apparently that hadn’t narrowed it down any.
‘Professional Quidditch player?’ This must have rung a bell because the receptionist narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips.
‘I’m afraid it is simply not possible for you to see Marcus Flint Junior today. He just left.’
‘Right, and do you have any idea where he is?’ Katie was willing to allow the woman some concessions; after all, it’s not every day you get to have a conversation with a giant daisy.
‘Look. Let’s make this very plain. I have been fielding Valentines for Mr. Flint all day. Admittedly, you seem a little more zealous than your average Quidditch fan, but the fact remains: if you want an autograph or to send him a love letter, do it though the usual channels and join the Marcus Flint Fan Club. Stop wasting my time.’
‘So, not even a clue?’
Katie retreated quickly as the receptionist reached for her wand.
@)---}-------
Marcus Flint had fans. Who’da’thunk? Katie guessed he held a certain appeal. If you were into hormonal, chromosomally challenged, trolls.
Which, she wasn’t, of course. Not in the least.
She stomped into Delia Daynight’s office and threw herself down into a swivel chair.
‘Katie?’ enquired Delia, ‘Are you finished? I want to go home. This is the busiest day of the year and you and Neville still haven’t finished your rounds.’
‘I can’t find Marcus Flint.’ Katie moaned, rubbing at a soot mark on her knee.
‘He wasn’t at the Leaky Cauldron at three?’
‘No. Not there. Not anywhere, it seems. He’s a hard man to find.’ Katie passed a heavy hand over her eyes, then winced as she realised that she’d just smudged soot over her face.
‘Well, Katie,’ said Delia as she stood and walked to a cage in the corner of her office, ‘You know company policy.’ She pulled a tiny ball of black fur from the cage. A baby Niffler. It gurgled and batted at Delia’s bracelet, but was too small to really do much damage. In fact, it was damn cute. Delia dropped it into the palm of Katie’s hand. It was hardly any larger than a snitch. ‘His name is Killer, and I’m told that Nifflers roast quite well.’
@)---}-------
It was nine o’clock in the evening and Katie was fast running out of options. She’d apparated home and dropped Killer into an old jewellery box, with only a mangled silver ring to keep him happy.
Eating him was simply not an option. He gurgled a little and batted at the ring once more. She’d already grilled Angelina, her insider at the Department of Magical Games and Sports, no luck there. None of her Quidditch contacts had any idea where Flint lived. Apparently, Marcus Flint was as paranoid as Mad-Eye Moody when it came to his home address.
Lying back on an old thread-bare, overstuffed, lounge Katie scooped Killer up and dropped him into her lap. Maybe they could run away to the Caribbean and search for pirate gold.
At about ten the Pop! of an apparition sounded outside her door, followed by a sharp knock. She dropped Killer back into the box and answered the door.
Oliver Wood stood in her doorway with a magazine tucked under his arm.
‘Katie! Good day at work?’
‘Where have you been Ollie? I flooed you.’
‘What for?’
‘I need to deliver my final Daisy-Gram to Flint before midnight or I have to eat Killer there.’ Katie jabbed a finger towards the baby Niffler. Oliver swaggered over to her coffee table and looked down into the box.
‘You know, in Peru, Nifflers are a delicacy. They taste fantastic with cracked pepper and lemon.’
Katie snatched the magazine out from under Oliver’s arm and delivered a quick blow to his head. Oliver sat down on the lounge and Katie threw herself down next to him propping her legs across his lap.
‘Love the get-up, Katie,’ he plucked at the spandex, ‘You’re a dendrophile’s dream.’
‘I knew there was a reason Neville Longbottom was so keen on working with us.’
Katie sighed and unfolded Oliver’s copy of Quidditch Now! Marcus Flint scowled at her from the cover. She poked her tongue out at him and he grinned wickedly. ‘See Inside Marcus Flint’s Bachelor Pad!’ proclaimed the publication.
Katie couldn’t quite work up the energy to be hopeful, but she figured the article was worth a look. Ten minutes later she knew that Flint owned a spa big enough for twelve witches and wizards, preferred blondes and that the black marble fixation was a Flint thing. But nothing more specific than that. She used her wand to summon a black marker from her desk, while Oliver indulged in his secret fascination with muggle TV. With the marker she took her time drawing a moustache on Flint, who found being drawn upon quite insulting.
It was nearing eleven and Katie was adding horns to Flint’s head (to accompany the trident and tail), when she caught sight of something recognizable in a picture of Flint standing in his lounge room. The frieze on the wall seemed oddly familiar. She thrust the magazine in front of Oliver’s face and pointed, cutting him off from Big Brother Uncut.
‘What’s on the frieze?’ She asked.
‘Uh… Quaffles?’
‘Yes… and?’ Katie waited for the cogs to turn in Oliver’s head. He was a keeper… it was a slow process.
‘I have Quaffles on my wall too?’
‘Yes, Ollie, and where do you live?’
‘At home?’
‘And where is home?’
‘Newington Professional Quidditch Housing?’
‘Yes, and weren’t all of the flats decorated in the same theme?’
‘Oh, you think Flint lives near me?’
‘Killer’s life depends on it.’
@)---}-------
Ten minutes to go and still forty apartments to canvass.
Killer was young; at least his flesh would still be tender.
‘Wait,’ Katie grabbed Oliver by the back of his robes to stop him from knocking on yet another door. ‘This is hopeless.’ Not to mention embarrassing. Apparently, people did not take well to being dragged form bed by a giant, grubby and wilted daisy. ‘I’ll go find Flint. You take Killer and help him enjoy his last night outside of my digestive system.’
‘Katie…’ she put up a hand to cut Wood short.
‘Go, I will find him.’
@)---}-------
If she’d been in her right mind she would have started with the penthouse. Now that she gave it some thought, there was simply no other place that he would be. He was after all a Flint.
She checked her watch, two minutes to spare. She knocked.
No one answered.
She knocked again… was that a cough she heard?
Killer’s life depended on the door being open in the next thirty seconds. She kicked the door and quickly realized that it wasn’t going to give.
She pulled her wand out of her sleeve and prepared to charm the door open.
@)---}-------
Marcus Flint finished towelling off his hair before wrapping the towel around his waist and opening his door.
Before him stood a pissed off daisy. In tight spandex. Very tight spandex. Silently, he declared spandex to be the premier muggle invention to date. He feigned surprise.
‘Is that you Katie?’
@)---}-------
While poor Killer’s life had been in the balance he’d been in the bath?
She shot a blast of glitter into his face, crossed her arms and slumped against his door jamb. In the most pathetic and bored-sounding voice she could muster she began,
‘This is your Daisy-Gram wishing you a happy Valentine’s Day.’
Flint spat out a mouthful of glitter.
Katie sighed, pushed away from the door jamb and began dancing the Charleston and singing, deliberately off key and very loudly.
‘Droooop deaaad Valentine,
Wish you’d choke on-‘
Flint slammed the door in her face.
Right. She was going to finish the song if it killed her. She apparated into Flint’s home.
‘-Ovaltine!
Oh oh dro-op deaad love of miiiiiinnnnne!’
‘Ovaltine doesn’t rhyme with Valentine.’ Flint noted from where he stood, he seemed unsurprised that she’d followed him.
‘It does on paper, now shut up and let me finish.
‘Drop dead love of miiiiiiiinnnnne!
I’ll make you a coffin out of, er, finest… ah, pine!!!!’
‘Are you making this up as you go?’
Katie flipped him off and continued, ‘Drop dead while drinking Bordeaux wiiiiiine!!!’
‘Are you having a fit?’
‘I’m dancing. Merlin! You have no appreciation for Daisy-Grams.
‘Droooopppppp deeeaaeaeaeddddd- mphhhh mffffffph‘
It had become too much for Marcus, who stood, strode over to Katie, grabbed her by the petals and crushed his mouth to hers. As kisses went it was more a This’ll-shut-her-up kiss than an I-want-to-have-your-love-children kiss. Marcus kept his lips pressed tightly against hers for a few moments, until she stopped singing. His still damp and largely naked body was pressed against hers, she forgot, for a moment, what she was doing. When she didn’t struggle and remained silent he removed his lips from hers and stepped back.
‘Are you finished?’
She drew in another breath and seemed to be about to belt out a few more lines when Marcus stepped back up to her and clapped his hand over her mouth. ‘As much as I want to hear about how you “swoon when I am supine” and how my “breath smells like turpentine”, I think here would be good place to finish with the singing.’
Katie shrugged and batted his hand away. ‘Fine.’ She turned and moved back towards his door. He swiftly stepped into her path.
‘Stay.’
She gave him a look that was a cross between oxygen depravation and frustration. ‘First you want me to go, now you want me to stay? A girl might get ideas.’
Observing the wet patches on Katie’s suit, patches that told the tale of where he’d pressed up against her, Flint himself was getting ideas. ‘That was a lovely song and I’d like to, ah, thank you for it?’
Katie snorted, ‘Yeah? I was meant to sing Funny Valentine but my heart just wasn’t in it.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because Killer nearly died!’
Obviously not the answer he was expecting. ‘Killer?’
‘My Niffler? The Niffler I would have had to eat if I didn’t get to you before midnight? I’ve been chasing you around for nine fucking hours!’
‘Oh, right, Delia Daynight’s Daisy-Gram Guarantee,’ he looked at a wall mounted clock, ‘I guess you just made it. Pity. I’m told Niffler paws make great soup.’
Katie threw her hands up and stomped over to Marcus’s lounge. She gave up. She was tired and cranky and…
Whoa…
Marcus was nearly naked. How had she forgotten that?
He was leaning against a side table, watching her. He was taller than she remembered which seemed impossible because he’d always been pretty huge. Imposing, even. Only, he didn’t seem imposing now… he looked almost inviting. And wet. His hair curled softly and just over his left nipple was a trail of droplets that hadn’t yet dried. Katie bit her tongue. She most certainly would not, ever, give in to the impulse to lick them off. Nope.
She followed the droplets down a scattering of hair that seemed to draw her eye downwards. The towel tucked around his hips was just a tad too small, gaping a little where it met over one muscled thigh. Actually, the towel seemed a bit precarious, hung low on his hips, and she didn’t like the way his hand hovered over tucked in edge of towel. She was almost scared that he would drop the towel.
Almost.
@)---}-------
Marcus wanted to drop the towel. Make her a little uncomfortable, scare her a little. She should be scared. She was finally sitting in his home, she wasn’t going anywhere.
She was pissed that she’d had to chase after him for a day? Tough. He’d been after her for years.
It was nice to be chased for a change… to be desired.
Fuck, he was sounding like Higgs. Next he’d be questioning his changing self-image and the gender expectations being placed upon wizards. God knows Terence had been banging on about Marcus’s unrequited love for Katie for years. Did he say love? Lust, unrequited lust.
That decided it. He was thinking entirely too much with his brain. He needed to drop the towel.
The towel was going.
@)---}-------
Marcus was thinking. Hard. Well, Merlin, Katie had been chasing him all freakin’ day, she wasn’t leaving until he paid for it.
Preferably in flesh. She stood up.
@)---}-------
He took his eyes off her face, he wasn’t sure he could go through with it if he was looking at those fucking wide, golden, innocent eyes. Did she know how close she was to being slammed down on the floor?
She was about to find out. He reached down to flick open the towel, but Katie’s hand was already there, a second ahead of his. One long finger slid between heated skin and the soft towel. Katie flicked her wrist and sent the towel sliding to the floor.
@)---}-------
It took Marcus thirty minutes to get her out of the spandex. Beyond that it took him three days to even allow Katie to leave his flat to retrieve some clothes and quit her job.
With her packed trunk minimised and stuffed into her pocket, Katie wondered how soon she could be back at Marcus’s place. She wasn’t sure why it was so important that she be there, or how she’d gone from singing a ‘Drop Dead Valentine’ to sticking her tongue in his navel… but, things were working out, in that weird I-hate-you-now-get-naked sort of way.
Katie sat down in Delia’s office, Killer snuggled down in her lap, his glossy black fur a little fluffed from a run in this morning with Marcus and his watch.
Delia stomped into the room. ‘Katie? Where have you been? I need you to take some birthday Daisy-Grams. Apparently, Neville went to the wrong house yesterday and got hexed all the way to New Zealand!!!’
‘Two things. I quit and who ordered the Daisy-Gram for Marcus Flint?’
‘I won’t let you and that’s confidential.’ Delia sat down at her desk and crossed her arms.
An explosion issued from the outer office, ‘Neville? Neville, is that you?? Wait here Katie.’ Delia left to investigate the noise in the outer office.
Marcus had been rubbing off on her, in more than just the physical sense; Katie leaned forward and shuffled through a pile of orders and receipts. She needed to know who’d ordered the Daisy-Gram for Marcus so that she could run the silly witch out of town. She flicked through the alphabetised stack, Faber, Filch, Flambard, Flint.
Who had ordered the Daisy-Gram? She scanned the document. Ordered by… Marcus Flint. His father? Brother? Cousin? Maybe one of them was playing a joke. Katie read further down the form.
‘Special notes:’ it read, ‘Mr Flint requests the delivery be made by one Katie Bell.’
Hunh, this was getting odd. She reached the financial details of the order. A Gringotts cheque had been stapled to the paperwork. Signed by… she squinted to read it… Marcus Flint…
Junior.
Katie stuffed the form back into the pile. She sat Killer on her shoulder and stood.
‘I guess,’ she said to the Niffler, ‘That you and I are going to have to hunt down Mr. Flint. Again.’
Author: volatile (that would be me)
Rating: R (I guess)
Pairings/Characters: Marcus Flint/Katie Bell
Summary: Katie has until midnight to find Marcus… or the Niffler gets it!!
Disclaimer: I’m not JK Rowling. I’m a poor smut bunny who owns nothing.
Author's Notes: Written for angylinni’s ’Katie the pursuer’ Valentine’s challenge at bell_flint. I swear that I never meant it to be anything longer than a thousand words… it just kinda got away on me. Also, I can’t promise that the things I found funny while writing this will seem funny to you while you are reading it. Since it’s not meant to be this long, or even in existence, seeing as how I promised myself to focus on another fic, it is not, as yet, Beta’d. I might get around to it… I might even add a longer sex scene. Then again, I might not.
Katie was about to do something stupid. Really stupid. Put-your-hand-on-a-hotplate-and-say-ow-when-you-get-burned stupid.
The fact that she was getting paid to be stupid didn’t really ease the pain. This was her job. It was the only job she could get in the turbulent social climate. Voldemort was back, Quidditch seasons were cancelled across the country, leaving her only marketable talent useless, and she really needed the money.
It’s not like she had anything better to be doing on Valentine’s Day anyway. Well, that was a lie; she could be sitting at home sticking her wand in her eye and practising her conjunctivitis charms. That might be more fun, possibly smarter too.
Four galleons an hour? That’s what this sort of bone-deep, hideous, nauseating mortification was worth? Katie looked at herself in the mirror. She wore a green spandex suit that covered every inch of her, yet seemed to conceal nothing. She caught sight of her bottom; possibly she could have done without that last bag of Bertie Botts Beans. Around her neck was a massive ring of plush yellow petals.
She was a human flower. A Daisy-Gram. A walking, dancing, magic, singing message, spreading love and revolting sentiment for the day.
Would somebody please kill her? Where was a pack of rabid Death Eaters when you needed them?
To be fair, it wasn’t such a bad job. She could walk in, belt a couple lines of some stupid muggle song, shoot some pretty sparks into the air and pass on a message of undying love, or creepy infatuation, depending on the sender and whether or not they had asked for the Daisy-Gram to be anonymous.
The thing about Delia Daynight’s Daisy-Gram organisation that made them a cut above the rest was the If-it-doesn’t-get-there-before-midnight-we’ll-make-our-messengers-eat-a-Niffler Guarantee. So far Katie wasn’t terribly concerned. It was three in the afternoon and she only had one delivery left on her list.
Apparently someone had grown tired of their mortal existence and had thus decided to end it by sending Marcus Flint a Daisy-Gram.
It was a disquieting mission for many reasons. Firstly, Katie was severely concerned to think that someone, somewhere, out there was actually deficient enough to send Marcus Flint any sort of flower, much less a singing, dancing, sparkling one. Secondly, it had been an anonymous sender, so when Flint asked who was responsible, she had nobody to foist the blame upon.
Finally, it was Marcus Flint, Slytherin sex-god, bane of her childhood, the ghost responsible for countless sleepless nights spent with a) her ribs taped, b) her bed curtains closed, c) her pride wounded or d) all of the above.
Marcus Flint, he of the dark hair, dark eyes and dark moods. Marcus Flint, inducer of un-Gryffindor-like thoughts. Marcus Flint, the boy who had-
Yes, her brain snapped, We’ve established that this message is going to Marcus Flint. Maybe now you could deliver it?
Katie grimaced once more at her reflection, picked up her wand and apparated to Diagon Alley, where Marcus Flint was supposed to be haunting the Leaky Cauldron.
@)---}-------
‘What do you mean “He’s not here”?! They said he’d be here. He has to be here. Why isn’t he here? He’s meant to be here.’ Katie’s voice held only the slightest edge of desperation.
‘I mean, pet,’ said the pint-sized grizzled wizard behind the bar, ‘That Mr. Flint. Is. Not. Here. He left. Vacated. In absentia. Gone. Vamoosed. Pfft.’
‘So you’re sure he isn’t here?’ For a moment Katie feared that the bartender was about to hit her with a jar of pickled eggs. Maybe he had something against daisies.
He jabbed a finger towards the fire place, ‘He flooed out. You could try following. There’s spells for that.’
@)---}-------
Indeed there were spells to allow a person to follow someone through the floo system. Katie knew that. What she hadn’t known was that such spells usually took hours to get right, and often required the assistance of extremely well trained wizards and witches. It was not until six o’clock that evening that Katie was spat out of the floo system, a jumble of long green limbs and soot covered fluffy petals. Her hair had begun to escape the stretchy green hood and she was, to put it mildly, feeling somewhat un-Valentine-y.
She straightened and looked around. She was in an expensively furnished foyer. The architect had apparently had a fetish for black marble and the decorator had been partial to artists’ impressions of the inquisition. Nice. If you suffered chronic depression.
A large desk dominated the other end of the foyer; the wall behind it was etched in Gold declaring the building to be ‘Flint Multi-National, Omni-Magical, Inter-Species Corporation’. It seemed obvious, now that Katie thought about it, that Marcus Flint would be working for his family while his Quidditch career was put on hold.
Flint’s family business, it seemed, kept international hours, meaning that it was open around the clock. Katie sucked in her stomach (green spandex really was unforgiving) stuffed some stray hair back under her cap, fluffed her petals and sauntered towards the reception desk.
When she caught sight of the receptionist her first thought was ‘Dominatrix’. That was the only justification she could find for the inordinate amount of black leather that the middle aged, stiff-spined witch was wearing. Either that or a passionate hatred of cows. The woman narrowed her eyes as Katie neared, attempting to decide if the walking flower was insane, retarded or both. ‘May I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Marcus Flint.’ Katie spoke clearly and smoothly. Flower suit or no, no one was going to make her feel like an idiot. She managed to do that quite well all by herself.
‘Which one?’ asked Mistress Dread.
‘There’s more than one?’ Katie panicked briefly.
‘Yes, there’s Marcus Flint Senior, Marcus Flint, Marcus Thaddeus Flint, Marcus Lucian Flint and Marcus Flint Junior.’ It figured that the Flint’s would all name their sons/cousins/penises after one another.
‘I’m after the one with black hair, hideous teeth and an even worse temperament?’
Mistress Dread quirked an eyebrow and tilted her head to the side. Apparently that hadn’t narrowed it down any.
‘Professional Quidditch player?’ This must have rung a bell because the receptionist narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips.
‘I’m afraid it is simply not possible for you to see Marcus Flint Junior today. He just left.’
‘Right, and do you have any idea where he is?’ Katie was willing to allow the woman some concessions; after all, it’s not every day you get to have a conversation with a giant daisy.
‘Look. Let’s make this very plain. I have been fielding Valentines for Mr. Flint all day. Admittedly, you seem a little more zealous than your average Quidditch fan, but the fact remains: if you want an autograph or to send him a love letter, do it though the usual channels and join the Marcus Flint Fan Club. Stop wasting my time.’
‘So, not even a clue?’
Katie retreated quickly as the receptionist reached for her wand.
@)---}-------
Marcus Flint had fans. Who’da’thunk? Katie guessed he held a certain appeal. If you were into hormonal, chromosomally challenged, trolls.
Which, she wasn’t, of course. Not in the least.
She stomped into Delia Daynight’s office and threw herself down into a swivel chair.
‘Katie?’ enquired Delia, ‘Are you finished? I want to go home. This is the busiest day of the year and you and Neville still haven’t finished your rounds.’
‘I can’t find Marcus Flint.’ Katie moaned, rubbing at a soot mark on her knee.
‘He wasn’t at the Leaky Cauldron at three?’
‘No. Not there. Not anywhere, it seems. He’s a hard man to find.’ Katie passed a heavy hand over her eyes, then winced as she realised that she’d just smudged soot over her face.
‘Well, Katie,’ said Delia as she stood and walked to a cage in the corner of her office, ‘You know company policy.’ She pulled a tiny ball of black fur from the cage. A baby Niffler. It gurgled and batted at Delia’s bracelet, but was too small to really do much damage. In fact, it was damn cute. Delia dropped it into the palm of Katie’s hand. It was hardly any larger than a snitch. ‘His name is Killer, and I’m told that Nifflers roast quite well.’
@)---}-------
It was nine o’clock in the evening and Katie was fast running out of options. She’d apparated home and dropped Killer into an old jewellery box, with only a mangled silver ring to keep him happy.
Eating him was simply not an option. He gurgled a little and batted at the ring once more. She’d already grilled Angelina, her insider at the Department of Magical Games and Sports, no luck there. None of her Quidditch contacts had any idea where Flint lived. Apparently, Marcus Flint was as paranoid as Mad-Eye Moody when it came to his home address.
Lying back on an old thread-bare, overstuffed, lounge Katie scooped Killer up and dropped him into her lap. Maybe they could run away to the Caribbean and search for pirate gold.
At about ten the Pop! of an apparition sounded outside her door, followed by a sharp knock. She dropped Killer back into the box and answered the door.
Oliver Wood stood in her doorway with a magazine tucked under his arm.
‘Katie! Good day at work?’
‘Where have you been Ollie? I flooed you.’
‘What for?’
‘I need to deliver my final Daisy-Gram to Flint before midnight or I have to eat Killer there.’ Katie jabbed a finger towards the baby Niffler. Oliver swaggered over to her coffee table and looked down into the box.
‘You know, in Peru, Nifflers are a delicacy. They taste fantastic with cracked pepper and lemon.’
Katie snatched the magazine out from under Oliver’s arm and delivered a quick blow to his head. Oliver sat down on the lounge and Katie threw herself down next to him propping her legs across his lap.
‘Love the get-up, Katie,’ he plucked at the spandex, ‘You’re a dendrophile’s dream.’
‘I knew there was a reason Neville Longbottom was so keen on working with us.’
Katie sighed and unfolded Oliver’s copy of Quidditch Now! Marcus Flint scowled at her from the cover. She poked her tongue out at him and he grinned wickedly. ‘See Inside Marcus Flint’s Bachelor Pad!’ proclaimed the publication.
Katie couldn’t quite work up the energy to be hopeful, but she figured the article was worth a look. Ten minutes later she knew that Flint owned a spa big enough for twelve witches and wizards, preferred blondes and that the black marble fixation was a Flint thing. But nothing more specific than that. She used her wand to summon a black marker from her desk, while Oliver indulged in his secret fascination with muggle TV. With the marker she took her time drawing a moustache on Flint, who found being drawn upon quite insulting.
It was nearing eleven and Katie was adding horns to Flint’s head (to accompany the trident and tail), when she caught sight of something recognizable in a picture of Flint standing in his lounge room. The frieze on the wall seemed oddly familiar. She thrust the magazine in front of Oliver’s face and pointed, cutting him off from Big Brother Uncut.
‘What’s on the frieze?’ She asked.
‘Uh… Quaffles?’
‘Yes… and?’ Katie waited for the cogs to turn in Oliver’s head. He was a keeper… it was a slow process.
‘I have Quaffles on my wall too?’
‘Yes, Ollie, and where do you live?’
‘At home?’
‘And where is home?’
‘Newington Professional Quidditch Housing?’
‘Yes, and weren’t all of the flats decorated in the same theme?’
‘Oh, you think Flint lives near me?’
‘Killer’s life depends on it.’
@)---}-------
Ten minutes to go and still forty apartments to canvass.
Killer was young; at least his flesh would still be tender.
‘Wait,’ Katie grabbed Oliver by the back of his robes to stop him from knocking on yet another door. ‘This is hopeless.’ Not to mention embarrassing. Apparently, people did not take well to being dragged form bed by a giant, grubby and wilted daisy. ‘I’ll go find Flint. You take Killer and help him enjoy his last night outside of my digestive system.’
‘Katie…’ she put up a hand to cut Wood short.
‘Go, I will find him.’
@)---}-------
If she’d been in her right mind she would have started with the penthouse. Now that she gave it some thought, there was simply no other place that he would be. He was after all a Flint.
She checked her watch, two minutes to spare. She knocked.
No one answered.
She knocked again… was that a cough she heard?
Killer’s life depended on the door being open in the next thirty seconds. She kicked the door and quickly realized that it wasn’t going to give.
She pulled her wand out of her sleeve and prepared to charm the door open.
@)---}-------
Marcus Flint finished towelling off his hair before wrapping the towel around his waist and opening his door.
Before him stood a pissed off daisy. In tight spandex. Very tight spandex. Silently, he declared spandex to be the premier muggle invention to date. He feigned surprise.
‘Is that you Katie?’
@)---}-------
While poor Killer’s life had been in the balance he’d been in the bath?
She shot a blast of glitter into his face, crossed her arms and slumped against his door jamb. In the most pathetic and bored-sounding voice she could muster she began,
‘This is your Daisy-Gram wishing you a happy Valentine’s Day.’
Flint spat out a mouthful of glitter.
Katie sighed, pushed away from the door jamb and began dancing the Charleston and singing, deliberately off key and very loudly.
‘Droooop deaaad Valentine,
Wish you’d choke on-‘
Flint slammed the door in her face.
Right. She was going to finish the song if it killed her. She apparated into Flint’s home.
‘-Ovaltine!
Oh oh dro-op deaad love of miiiiiinnnnne!’
‘Ovaltine doesn’t rhyme with Valentine.’ Flint noted from where he stood, he seemed unsurprised that she’d followed him.
‘It does on paper, now shut up and let me finish.
‘Drop dead love of miiiiiiiinnnnne!
I’ll make you a coffin out of, er, finest… ah, pine!!!!’
‘Are you making this up as you go?’
Katie flipped him off and continued, ‘Drop dead while drinking Bordeaux wiiiiiine!!!’
‘Are you having a fit?’
‘I’m dancing. Merlin! You have no appreciation for Daisy-Grams.
‘Droooopppppp deeeaaeaeaeddddd- mphhhh mffffffph‘
It had become too much for Marcus, who stood, strode over to Katie, grabbed her by the petals and crushed his mouth to hers. As kisses went it was more a This’ll-shut-her-up kiss than an I-want-to-have-your-love-children kiss. Marcus kept his lips pressed tightly against hers for a few moments, until she stopped singing. His still damp and largely naked body was pressed against hers, she forgot, for a moment, what she was doing. When she didn’t struggle and remained silent he removed his lips from hers and stepped back.
‘Are you finished?’
She drew in another breath and seemed to be about to belt out a few more lines when Marcus stepped back up to her and clapped his hand over her mouth. ‘As much as I want to hear about how you “swoon when I am supine” and how my “breath smells like turpentine”, I think here would be good place to finish with the singing.’
Katie shrugged and batted his hand away. ‘Fine.’ She turned and moved back towards his door. He swiftly stepped into her path.
‘Stay.’
She gave him a look that was a cross between oxygen depravation and frustration. ‘First you want me to go, now you want me to stay? A girl might get ideas.’
Observing the wet patches on Katie’s suit, patches that told the tale of where he’d pressed up against her, Flint himself was getting ideas. ‘That was a lovely song and I’d like to, ah, thank you for it?’
Katie snorted, ‘Yeah? I was meant to sing Funny Valentine but my heart just wasn’t in it.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because Killer nearly died!’
Obviously not the answer he was expecting. ‘Killer?’
‘My Niffler? The Niffler I would have had to eat if I didn’t get to you before midnight? I’ve been chasing you around for nine fucking hours!’
‘Oh, right, Delia Daynight’s Daisy-Gram Guarantee,’ he looked at a wall mounted clock, ‘I guess you just made it. Pity. I’m told Niffler paws make great soup.’
Katie threw her hands up and stomped over to Marcus’s lounge. She gave up. She was tired and cranky and…
Whoa…
Marcus was nearly naked. How had she forgotten that?
He was leaning against a side table, watching her. He was taller than she remembered which seemed impossible because he’d always been pretty huge. Imposing, even. Only, he didn’t seem imposing now… he looked almost inviting. And wet. His hair curled softly and just over his left nipple was a trail of droplets that hadn’t yet dried. Katie bit her tongue. She most certainly would not, ever, give in to the impulse to lick them off. Nope.
She followed the droplets down a scattering of hair that seemed to draw her eye downwards. The towel tucked around his hips was just a tad too small, gaping a little where it met over one muscled thigh. Actually, the towel seemed a bit precarious, hung low on his hips, and she didn’t like the way his hand hovered over tucked in edge of towel. She was almost scared that he would drop the towel.
Almost.
@)---}-------
Marcus wanted to drop the towel. Make her a little uncomfortable, scare her a little. She should be scared. She was finally sitting in his home, she wasn’t going anywhere.
She was pissed that she’d had to chase after him for a day? Tough. He’d been after her for years.
It was nice to be chased for a change… to be desired.
Fuck, he was sounding like Higgs. Next he’d be questioning his changing self-image and the gender expectations being placed upon wizards. God knows Terence had been banging on about Marcus’s unrequited love for Katie for years. Did he say love? Lust, unrequited lust.
That decided it. He was thinking entirely too much with his brain. He needed to drop the towel.
The towel was going.
@)---}-------
Marcus was thinking. Hard. Well, Merlin, Katie had been chasing him all freakin’ day, she wasn’t leaving until he paid for it.
Preferably in flesh. She stood up.
@)---}-------
He took his eyes off her face, he wasn’t sure he could go through with it if he was looking at those fucking wide, golden, innocent eyes. Did she know how close she was to being slammed down on the floor?
She was about to find out. He reached down to flick open the towel, but Katie’s hand was already there, a second ahead of his. One long finger slid between heated skin and the soft towel. Katie flicked her wrist and sent the towel sliding to the floor.
@)---}-------
It took Marcus thirty minutes to get her out of the spandex. Beyond that it took him three days to even allow Katie to leave his flat to retrieve some clothes and quit her job.
With her packed trunk minimised and stuffed into her pocket, Katie wondered how soon she could be back at Marcus’s place. She wasn’t sure why it was so important that she be there, or how she’d gone from singing a ‘Drop Dead Valentine’ to sticking her tongue in his navel… but, things were working out, in that weird I-hate-you-now-get-naked sort of way.
Katie sat down in Delia’s office, Killer snuggled down in her lap, his glossy black fur a little fluffed from a run in this morning with Marcus and his watch.
Delia stomped into the room. ‘Katie? Where have you been? I need you to take some birthday Daisy-Grams. Apparently, Neville went to the wrong house yesterday and got hexed all the way to New Zealand!!!’
‘Two things. I quit and who ordered the Daisy-Gram for Marcus Flint?’
‘I won’t let you and that’s confidential.’ Delia sat down at her desk and crossed her arms.
An explosion issued from the outer office, ‘Neville? Neville, is that you?? Wait here Katie.’ Delia left to investigate the noise in the outer office.
Marcus had been rubbing off on her, in more than just the physical sense; Katie leaned forward and shuffled through a pile of orders and receipts. She needed to know who’d ordered the Daisy-Gram for Marcus so that she could run the silly witch out of town. She flicked through the alphabetised stack, Faber, Filch, Flambard, Flint.
Who had ordered the Daisy-Gram? She scanned the document. Ordered by… Marcus Flint. His father? Brother? Cousin? Maybe one of them was playing a joke. Katie read further down the form.
‘Special notes:’ it read, ‘Mr Flint requests the delivery be made by one Katie Bell.’
Hunh, this was getting odd. She reached the financial details of the order. A Gringotts cheque had been stapled to the paperwork. Signed by… she squinted to read it… Marcus Flint…
Junior.
Katie stuffed the form back into the pile. She sat Killer on her shoulder and stood.
‘I guess,’ she said to the Niffler, ‘That you and I are going to have to hunt down Mr. Flint. Again.’