Dealing with the Devil

A/N: I apologise to anyone who finds Marcus' language offensive. I don't particularly like swearing—call me old fashioned, but it isn't pleasant or classy—and cringe a bit when I do, but I'm no Marcus (thankfully).

This fic was written for several challenges over on the Diagon Alley II forum:

The Fairy Tale Challenge:

Classic fairy tale: Rumpelstiltskin—Write about the loss of a firstborn child.

Potions Club:

Ingredient: Hairy caterpillars—Write about someone who's considered aesthetically or characteristically ugly.

Bingo Challenge:

#3 Marcus Flint

Challenge Your Versatility.

As always, thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope you got some enjoyment from it!

When the devil appeared, Marcus fell for his charm and golden halo. He promised him his deepest desire, for a small price. Had Marcus known what it was, perhaps he would have made sure to hold up his end of the deal.

"Potter has caught the snitch! Yes! At 230–20, GRYFFINDOR WIN THE QUIDDITCH CUP! In your face, Slytherin!"

Hitting the ground, Marcus jumped off his broom and tossed it. Its tail splintered, kicking up pieces of mud and sending them scattering through the air. Rolling up his uniform sleeves, the sweat causing the material to stick to his biceps, he stormed over to his teammates.

"Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckshitfuckshit!" he shouted, glaring around at the team.

Lucian flinched, raising his arms to protect his face whilst Graham shook his head. Flint cracked his knuckles, baring his teeth at the books. Fire ran through his veins, the world turning red before him. One of them was going to pay for their defeat, and he didn't care who it was.

"Calm down, Flint, it's not our fault. Malfoy didn't catch the snitch...again. If you're going to go and hit someone, go get him," Miles said, glaring at the young seeker.

Cassius nodded his head, towering over the blond and cracking his own knuckles. "You cost us, Malfoy," he growled.

For a fleeting moment, Marcus was tempted to let Cassius beat the boy to a pulp, the back of his mind enjoying the way Draco was cowering. It would serve the little prat right for constantly boasting about his Quidditch skills and speed. Nevertheless, a buzzing filled his mind, urging him to step forward and dole out the punishment himself. Besides, it was more Cassius' fault for their loss.

"Shut up, Warrington," he said, pushing the brunet in the chest. Cassius turned wide eyes to him, but Marcus shoved him again. "If you hadn't missed all those goals and fumbled with the Quaffle, we might've won!"

"You only got one goal yourself!" Cassius said.

Cassius had recovered from his initial shock, standing up taller and arching his shoulders. He stood on his toes, pushing his head forward so that it was a mere centimetre from his own. Marcus growled, his eyes narrowed, daring Cassius to raise his fist. As soon as he did, Marcus would knock him into the next century, and the boy would be lucky to play Quidditch ever again, let alone walk.

"Mates, mates, c'mon, chill. Hey, here's an idea, why don't we go hex those stupid lions? They might've won, but there's no need for them to be celebrating, is there? C'mon, let's go."

Cassius grunted, pulling away as Graham tried to calm them down. It was likely that he feared for his fellow chaser's safety, the swelling on his own nose never quite going down from the last time Slytherin lost a match.

Marcus held his glare, holding his trembling knuckles by his side. He gritted his teeth as he watched Graham pull Cassius away, shepherding the team off towards the change rooms. It was only as they were at a safe distance that Marcus finally tore his eyes away and bent down, slamming his fist into the ground. Pain shot through his hand, yet he ignored it, his breath coming out in steady huffs. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

"Tough loss for Slytherin," a steely voice said.

Marcus stood up and swivelled around, meeting a pair of cold, grey eyes. Lucius Malfoy stood, leaning on the snake-decorated cane he seemed to always carry around, his thin lips set in a grim line. His golden hair fell down to his shoulders as it had the last time Marcus had seen him, when the man had presented his team with a set of new broomsticks and the promise of never losing a match. Ha! What a load of Thestral shit that had turned out to be.

He scowled at the man, kicking at the grass. "We should've won!"

"You don't think I know that?" Lucius asked, a thin eyebrow raised. "And to think I wasted all my money on the team last year. Tut, tut."

"Yeah, well, you can have your brooms back. Fat load of good it will do me now."

Marcus kicked at the grass again, sending a few grass blades towards his discarded broom. His eyes lifted up to the stands. The Quidditch League scouts that had been invited to watch the game were making their way towards the pitch with the staff, clipboards held under their arms and lips pursed. The only one who remained was the Puddlemere United rep. The tall wizard decked out in purple and yellow robes stood talking with Dumbledore. Once or twice, he would point over to the celebrating Gryffindor team as they left the pitch and smile. Crap. That bastard Wood better not have been scouted, even if it was by Puddlemere.

"Oh? I thought playing Quidditch for the League required broomsticks," Lucius said, following Marcus' gaze before focusing back on the boy's face.

Marcus looked at him, head tilted. "Yeah, and?"

A shiver—whether it was of fear or excitement, he did not know—ran down Marcus' spine when Lucius smiled at him, grey eyes twinkling.

"I've been watching you these last few years, Marcus. My son tells me you are quite the captain, and from what I have witnessed today, I can see why."

Marcus felt his anger begin to disappear, his racing heart slowing down. It was replaced by a sense of pride as Lucius' words sank in. Holding his head higher, he felt his lips twitch. Lucius' smile grew wider.

"Draco has also told me of your intent to join the Falmouth Falcons. A good choice, if you ask me," the man continued.

Thinking hard, Marcus couldn't remember telling the twerp about his desires. Then again, most Slytherins made it their mission to know the secrets of those around them—both friend and foe. If they didn't, they could hardly expect to survive in the world, let alone dominate.

Shrugging, he said, "Yeah, they're the best. Dirty fighters, but winners."

"I'll tell you what, Marcus. I'm confident that I can help you achieve your deepest desires; the very thing you've wanted most in life."

"You can?" he asked, frowning. The scouts had gone, and though Marcus knew the Malfoys were a powerful family, he very much doubted that a set of new broomsticks would be able to buy a place in the professional league. "What's the catch?"

"Ah, a smart man we have here. Of course, I expect nothing less from a fellow Slytherin. There's no need to worry, however. All I ask is that you come to my aid should I ever need you."

Well, that wasn't so bad. He was certainly getting the better end of the deal; if their positions were switched, Marcus would have asked for something better, like money.

"Sure, whatever."

"Do we have a deal then?" Lucius asked, extending his hand.

Marcus smirked, gripping it. He almost crushed it within his, used to do so every time he was required to shake another captain's hand. He didn't however, loosening his grip slightly and shaking it up and down.

"Deal."

Lucius dipped his head, pulling his hand away. "It shall be done. Be warned, though; go back on your promise, and the most important thing to you will be taken away forever. Is that understood?"

"Sure."

"Excellent. I shall bid you good day, then," Lucius said.

He grinned as the man turned on his heel and strolled away. As soon as Lucius was off the pitch, Marcus pumped his fist into the air, "Yes!"

"Alright, good work team. A few more sessions like this one, and we'll be a sure in for the cup. Break on three, two, one… Falcons!" the captain shouted.

"Falcons!" six voices echoed, cheering.

Marcus followed his teammates across the pitch as they headed off to change and shower, his muscles aching. Unlike his teammates, however, he revelled in the burning sensation; sore muscles were a sign that the practice was paying off, and he couldn't wait to show off what he had learnt in Saturday's game.

His eyes caught sight of a cloaked figure, standing by the bottom of one of the stands. Seeing a line of gold shimmer through the person's hood, he paused. What did he want?

"Are you coming, Flint?" Jared—one of the Falcon's beaters—called, seeing that he had changed direction.

Walking towards the figure, Marcus waved his hand. "Go on, I'll join ya later."

Making sure that Jared didn't linger and feeling relief as the man simply shrugged, Marcus closed the remaining distance between himself and the cloaked man.

"You're playing well, Marcus. I trust that you are enjoying the League?"

"Thank you, Lu-Mr Malfoy, I am," Marcus replied, watching as Lucius pulled off his hood.

The man looked older than when they had last met. Fine lines were etched across his brow, his cheeks sallow. Lucius' normally pale skin was toned with grey, and an unknown emotion flickered across his steely grey eyes. It was only when the man gazed around the pitch, searching for possible intruders, that Marcus remembered that he had spent the last few months in Azkaban. He shivered at the very thought of spending that amount of time in the company of Dementors, learning from a recent encounter at a game that they really weren't a laughing matter.

Swallowing down his fear of the black-cloaked beasts, he asked, "Is there something I can do for you?"

Lucius' gaze flicked back to him, that same, unknown emotion flitting through his eyes once more. Nevertheless, the man's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile and he nodded.

"As a matter of fact, yes, there is something you can do for me. I have come to collect on my end of our deal."

Marcus thought back to three years ago, trying to remember what he had promised the man. In all the excitement of being scouted for Falmouth, he had completely forgotten about Lucius. Still, as he recalled that day on the Quidditch pitch, he realised it wasn't anything too bad.

"Oh, alright, then. What do you want me to do?"

Lucius smirked. "Excellent. As you know, the Dark Lord has risen to bring Great Britain and the wider world back to its former glory. Some foolish wizards have been resisting the noble cause, and as such, the Dark Lord has seen fit to reward his younger followers. I can assume that you are one of them?"

Marcus nodded, earning him a wider smile from Lucius. Though he didn't really care for murdering people—well, at least not some people—he knew You Know Who had valid points. The Quidditch League had been filling up with filthy Mudbloods in the last few years, and many of the referees were oblivious to the fact that they couldn't play. It would be nice if he could play a decent, rough game for once without little twits calling fouls all the time.

"Good, good." Lucius looked around, as though he was distracted. Then, turning back to him, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment and slapped it into Marcus' hand.

"What's this?" Marcus looked at it, going to unfold it.

Lucius, however, closed his hand around it. "Not here," he hissed, looking around once more. "Put that in your pocket and memorise it. It's an address and time."

"Oh."

"Go to the address and do not be late. There you will have the honour of being initiated into our ranks."

"You mean the Death Ea—"

"Shh! Yes, I mean exactly that," Lucius said, glowering at him. Then, breathing out, he lowered his voice and smiled once more. "You should be pleased. The Dark Lord doesn't just ask for anyone."

Marcus smiled. He knew he was special, and not just because he was amazing at Quidditch.

"You know, you might even be assigned a special task, if I—if you're lucky," Lucius continued, nodding more to himself than Marcus.

"Marcus!"

Both men jumped and spun around, eyeing the pretty witch approaching them. Her cheeks were flushed, but her blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight and she waved at them. Smiling when Marcus lifted his hand and returned the gesture, she glanced down at her protruding stomach and patted it.

"Claire is looking well," Lucius said, also waving at the young woman, yet his lips were now twisted into a smirk. I'm glad you two found each other. I must be off, now, I'll see you Saturday evening."

With a loud crack, Lucius Disapparated, leaving Marcus to stare at the patch of dirt he had been standing on. He didn't have the chance to tell Lucius that Saturday was game day, and given that they were playing the Wasps, it was sure to be a long game. There was no way he could make that meeting.

Raking a hand through his hair, he walked over to his fiance, crumpling the parchment up and putting it into his pocket. He would deal with it later. Right now, he had something much better to focus on. A smile crept back onto his face as Claire grinned at him, flashing her even, white teeth.

"I thought I'd come pick you up after work," she said, standing on her toes and placing a kiss upon his cheek. "I'm not early, am I?"

Marcus shook his head. "Never, darling," he replied, placing his hands on her stomach. He could feel a kick and his heart soared.

It remained a mystery to him how he had ever managed to meet a girl who was interested in him. There was no denying it that his teeth could use a little work, and his forehead was much too big. The only girls who dared to date him were only ever interested in his fame. Claire was one in a million, and her love of the game was only a bonus.

"Settle down, love, you're wearing a trail into the carpet," Claire said, a lilt in her voice.

Marcus paused, turning to look at her. "Calm down? Calm down? How can I calm down? Look outside, the weather is just begging for me to join it!"

Claire shook her head, smiling. "The skies will be clear in the future. For now, my love, you must stay inside."

Huffing, he began pacing again. Stay inside his ass. It was all their fault that he could not go outside and enjoy himself; this stupid war meant that months had passed by without him able to even sit on a broom. The League had decided that games would no longer go ahead, cancelling the very first match of the season when the game was invaded by Death Eaters. Only one death had occurred and that was the Muggle's own fault. Why would he risk watching a game for wizards? He had thought his team would've protested the idea, but they, too, had been a sore disappointment, refusing to fly. No one would play—why, even that Quidditch-obsessed tool, Wood, had gone into hiding. Bah.

"I'm heading up to bed," Claire said, standing up. Walking over to the cot, she stopped down and pressed a kiss on their baby's cheek. "Katie is almost asleep, try not to disturb her with your grumbling."

Marcus rolled his eyes, though his lips began to twitch. Claire walked over to him, grabbing his arms. Trailing her soft fingers up his bare, creamy arms, she hummed. The tune was the lullaby she often sang to their child, yet now she was using it to soothe him. He began to melt into her arms, locking his eyes onto her kind, olive ones.

Grinning, she finished humming the tune, stood on her toes and kissed his nose. "Good night, love. Don't stay down here too long."

He swallowed as she let go of his arms and sauntered towards the stairs, turning around only to wink at him as she reached the top. Yes, his fiance knew exactly how to soothe him. It was not enough, however, to stop him from glancing out of the window once more, sighing as the stars sparkled, uninhibited by the clouds. Perhaps if thunder and lightning was crashing down, then maybe staying indoors would be easier. Maybe.

"Heh heh."

Dragging his gaze from the window, he turned towards the crib, sitting up against the nursery wall. It was almost as if his daughter was laughing at him, as though she knew his inner turmoil. Walking over to the crib, he leaned over the bar, smiling down at the tiny bundle swathed in a pink blanket.

Hazel eyes blinked back at him, mouth opened in a smile. He reached down to tickle her chin, chuckling as she gripped his hand in her little fingers. His heart lifted and he cooed at her.

"Someone has a strong grip."

Katie gurgled, bringing his finger to her mouth and sucking on it. Part of him wished he could move her up into their bedroom once more, and ignore Claire's new no-touch policy. Recently, his fiance had taken to reading articles in maternity magazines which told readers to leave their children in another room for the night. Any crying, they wrote, should be ignored, and the baby would be as safe as possible as long as there weren't any pillows or heavy blankets to smother them. It was ideal for raising the perfect, independent child. Marcus had scoffed at the idea, wondering if Muggles had come up with it. He was just as capable of raising his child without the help of a magazine full of drivel.

Still, a stronger part of him wondered how he could ever have lamented the fact that his first child was a girl. Marcus had always imagined he would have a son, whom he could train up to play Quidditch. He imagined tossing the Quaffle at a young boy with brown hair like his, watching as he later became Slytherin captain. Looking down at Katie, her eyes slowly closing, her knew he had been stupid.

"You can be a Chaser, sweetie, yes you can," he said, moving his finger around.

Katie scrunched up her eyes and she spat out his finger. Curling her hands, she waved them around, her cheeks growing red. Then, her legs flailing about, she began to wail.

Marcus jumped back, looking to the stairs and back to Katie, hoping Claire hadn't heard. Luckily, his fiance always placed a silencing charm on their bedroom door, another part of the stupid 'independent child' policy.

"Shhh, shhh, it's alright. Ok, you can be a Seeker, shhh," he said, trying to cheer his daughter up. Her cries only grew louder, blocking out his attempts to quieten her.

Unfortunately, they also blocked out the cracks of Apparition.

"No, I really don't think it is alright."

Marcus spun around, meeting the cold gaze of Lucius Malfoy. The masked man stood behind him, twirling his wand. Next to him, two other cloaked figures stood, their silver masks glinting in the soft candlelight.

Stepping forward, Marcus asked, "What are you doing here?"

Ignoring his question, Lucius looked behind him at the source of the crying. "I see you were too busy to hold up your end of our deal."

"Look, things came up. That's all," he said, blocking Lucius' view with his body.

"That's all? That's all? Nothing is more important than the Dark Lord!" the Death Eater to Lucius' right shrieked, black eyes blazing.

"Calm yourself, Bella," Lucius said, turning his gaze back to Marcus. "I warned you to keep your word. I'm afraid I must now take away what's most important to you."

Marcus reached into his pocket, searching for his wand as Lucius raised his own. The other Death Eaters snickered, withdrawing their own wands. His heart began to pound as his hands brushed against the material of his cloak, realising too late that his wand was on the coffee table.

Giving up, Marcus held up his hands. "You've already done that! I don't play Quidditch anymore, thanks to you lot."

The group snickered again, the female letting out a shrill cackle. "You're right, Lucius, he is thick!"

Marcus frowned, but before the meaning behind her words could sink in, she flicked her wand at him. "Alarte Ascendare!"

He was blasted up into the air, head hitting the ceiling. The back of his skull throbbed, but it was the least of his worries as the woman flicked her wand again, sending him crashing into the wall. Spasms erupted all over his body, and the world spun as he tried to lift his head. A low buzzing filled his ears, blocking out the screams of his daughter.

Green light flooded the room and soon the screams stopped, as did his heart.

For one, painful moment, whether it was a second, a minute, or even an hour, he couldn't breathe; his chest had tightened, squeezing any emotion out. The low buzzing continued, growing louder, and the world continued to spin.

Finally, it all stopped, and he was able to sit up without feeling as though his body would explode. A cloaked figure stood over him, golden hair brushing against him and tickling his face.

"Because you didn't uphold your end of our deal, my only child is probably dead., and now you have lost yours. Next time, remember who you are dealing with."

Lucius swept away, black cloak billowing behind him. A crack sounded his departure, leaving Marcus to stare over at the silent crib. Something sticky and wet slid down his face, yet he had been certain his forehead had not been cut in the attack. The silence was worse than the screams, and though he tried, all he could do was sit and stare.

He would remain in that position until morning, when Claire would find him, tears drying upon his cheeks. His eyes would be staring at their daughter, to whom she would turn, heart racing. Running over, she would scream and yell, picking up the infant and attempting to shake her back to life. She would turn to Marcus, her own tears falling, and demand to know what had happened; to know why the most important thing in their lives was gone. And he would sit there, unable to do anything but wonder if Quidditch was worth it.

When the devil left, Marcus had paid the price. No longer would he see mistake anything for a halo, not even his own.