A/N: Ha! OK, I had a large paragraph written here—mostly ranting at myself—and cut it all. I'll just say I hope you enjoy this and leave it at that. Oh! And over 2000 hits! Thanks for coming back for more :D
888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
1
Shite! Shite! Shite! Bloody hell, could this day get any worse! He had missed breakfast due to those wankers Pucey and Bletchley—got 'em back though, lousy sods—and now McGonagall had actually sent him back to the dungeons to fetch his homework. It wasn't like he really had any homework to get but he definitely hadn't thought he'd be called on that bloody excuse. Damn Gryffs. Marcus would get his own back at the match this afternoon though, bloody up that skinny prat Wood at the end while the stands cleared or something.
The thirteen year old hunched his shoulders as he skulked through the corridors, his body awkward and bulky and recently disturbing underneath his uniform. He'd like to owl Julian about it but—No. No, Marcus felt his face heat up just thinking about writing the words. Julian would probably think he was a fucking shirt lifter, or worse: he'd tell Mother. Marcus reached a bend and drew back hard enough to smack his head off the stone wall.
There was a girl crying in the hallway. Usually this wouldn't be a problem for Marcus cause, well hell he had made lots of people cry in the last two years, gender made no difference. But there was another girl too, and this one, with the yellow hair and soft smile, had his throat constricting.
"…want, Gryffindork?"
"Are you lost?"
Marcus peeked around the corner, watching as a red headed girl he recognized as a first year Slytherin was helped to her feet by the not-much-older Katie Bell. Her red and gold tie swung freely outside of her robes, her whip-straight tresses hanging down her back with only a small clip keeping it out of her eyes. She could have been bald, Marcus didn't care; what he saw was her smile and that it was the same sort of smile she would have given to any of her little Gryffindor friends, and for some reason it made him even angrier. He stepped out, scowl in place, and continued on his way.
"Flint?" He jerked his head sharply and glared at the shorter female. She looked him in the eye, not the mouth. "Eugenie is having some trouble finding your Common Room. Could you show her the way?"
"I'm not a fucking nursemaid Bell!" Marcus growled, dragging his gaze away from her fairy face to sneer at the first year. She shrank back, an utter disappointment to her House, crying and accepting help from a Gryffindor and now practically shaking in fear. How did she ever get sorted into Slytherin? He hissed. "Come on then!"
2
It burned Marcus.
It was the last day of the long weekend and he should have been home; he should have spent the last five days making Ian scared bloody shitless and rolling Freyja around the grounds, bird watching. But both his siblings were sick and Mother didn't want Marcus to catch whatever fever they had and thus the fifteen year old had to remain at school. But he wasn't the only one and Marcus Flint would never admit to loneliness—not to those who shared his dormitory at least—and there was always the Quidditch pitch and flying, Hufflepuffs to frighten. He hadn't expected the weather to be so nice this morning, to heat up around noon and continue. He hadn't planned on walking to Hogsmead or taking the path by the Black Lake. He hadn't expected students to be enjoying the cold water this late in the season.
The entire fucking Gryffindor team was swimming—sans Oliver of course, and shrieking to tear the ears off a grindylow, but swimming nonetheless; the damn Weasel twins doing running cannonballs off the dock with that wanker Potter and his side-kick, at least giving Marcus the hope that a bone or four could possibly be broken in their carelessness. A bikini-clad Spinnet was dunking Johnson, and while he took in those breasts of hers that his mate Higgs was always going on about it was just a gaze of curiosity, shrugging appreciation. As always it was Bell who caught Marcus' attention, and he frowned at how his eyes naturally followed her bobbing blond head as she floated on the surface of the lake. He frowned harder from his place amidst the trees as her momentary serenity was disturbed by one red headed twin, the ensuing sputtering causing Bell to rise quickly to her feet and cough out a mouthful of water, and causing Marcus to roughly grab a tree limb, blunt nails digging into the bark.
Water coursed down her orange swimsuit, the thick braid that hung over her shoulder. Marcus swallowed. Usually it was all billowing black robes, trousers and school shirts, but now…Merlin, Marcus could see her thighs. They were white, as if she'd never sat out under the sun, as if they had never been scraped or bruised riding a broom, as if they'd never been wrapped—Well of course not! She was fucking fourteen years old! Bell wasn't some slag; she had probably never even kissed a bloke before. Oliver would know—
Fuck. He shouldn't be watching this. It wasn't like a Quidditch practice where he could bring back information to his team. Marcus clenched his fists and continued on his way with a growl, and when he lay in bed that night, curtains closed and a hand around his cock, uneven teeth sunk into his bottom lip, he tried to think of Oliver but only Katie came to mind. She was here in bed next to him, her head resting on his pillow, wearing the bathing suit—no, no, his shirt! She was wearing his shirt, the hem dusting her thighs and he wondered what colour knickers she would—Oh! His body spasmed and he lost the vision with the pull in his abdomen.
He could never touch her.
3
Marcus stalked to the bar, his brow furrowed and back damp from his speedy shower. He needed a stiff drink; and even though he had a cabinet of stiff drinks free at home the professional Chaser also needed the smoky atmosphere and tired, drinking Quidditch players and the rowdy ones too. Practice had been long, hard, and expected, and now Marcus wanted one night to forget. No. That was a fucking joke. Marcus Flint was spoiling for a fight.
Oliver wasn't speaking to him. Couldn't blame him really but Marcus was still too angry to be sympathetic. Wood wanted a big family. Ever since he had shown Marcus picture after picture of his four gaggling sisters and buxom mother and ever-laughing father—and even fucking dogs!—Marcus had known Oliver wanted his own bloody family, his own bloody kids, and after last night Marcus was certain Olivia Wood wanted her only son to have some bloody kids of his own. Lots of kids. Kids with Katie. But it wasn't just that. Kids… Mrs. Wood had to go on and on about Dolores and that fucking wedding—"Ya should all come dearies, the more the merrier!"—patting Katie's hand all the way and giving little winks of which only Marcus seemed aware. Mrs. Wood wanted papers and rings and legalities that would shove Marcus Flint back into the shadows.
Maybe that was where he belonged.
He threw a few darts and fell into the routine of Friday night, laughing forcefully with Falcons team mates, ordering shots of Firewhiskey for the table, and mentally urging Roger Davies to walk in through the door every twenty minutes or so. But Davies hadn't been seen in Wizarding Britain lately and it was probably for the best. The next hit Marcus threw would kill the bastard.
A cheer rose up near the door as another group made their way into Roughage's Tavern. Marcus cocked an eye at the wall clock, having shrugged aside his coat and pocket watch long ago, sleeves rolled up over his elbows. It was late even for Friday standards for a team to now be getting out of practice. No. He must have been drinking more than he thought. It looked like Arrows colours and half their lot were already playing 8-Ball in the back. He stretched and wondered not for the first time where Oliver had found himself tonight. Katie should be home by now. There was a thunk and a pint was placed on the table in front of him.
888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
When Katie stepped off on the tenth floor of St. Mungo's she was met with grim looks and steely glares from a multitude of sallow faced, darkly dressed gentlemen. By the robes she recognized a few as Ministry officials though she had no idea what so many would be doing on this floor. They were usually seen in the ward for those unfortunate victims of Unforgivable Curses or Dark Creatures, not in the- relatively- new Experimental Surgery and Raucous Injury section, and Katie couldn't help the shiver as she approached the main desk. It was a tad cool for July, even for a hospital.
"Healer Bell please," she smiled at the rotund receptionist and adjusted her knapsack, hoping she wouldn't be interrupting her Da from anything important. She had wanted to check in on him before heading to The Three Broomsticks to study. Well…she'd also be meeting Alicia to plan Angelina's birthday, to owl Fred and remind him about his promise to not bring any unusual gifts.
"And just what would you be wantin' with Healer Bell, young miss?" Katie turned to address the rude scratchy voice and paled as she came face to face with the glowing tip o an Auror's wand. It was as if time stopped for the teenager, her jaw dropping and eyes like saucers as voices rose around her and someone was suddenly between her and the grizzly haired man.
"…my daughter you bastard!"
"That's a transfigured bag Bell! We told you this floor should've been on lockdown!"
Katie was dragged away, felt hands on her face.
"Katie. Katie love! Are you alright? What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Katie shook her head and looked up into her father's angry face and scared eyes.
"I just wanted to bring you some soup," Katie dazedly pulled a warm thermos out of her knapsack. What had just happened here? She blinked hard and looked back at the small crowd, several arguing with other staff members now including the older Auror. "Da…what's going on?" She was pulled into a hug, her fingers sinking into the odd material that made up Mr. Bell's medical robes.
"Nothing love," he looked down at her, forcing a smile and lowering is voice. "Nothing that you need worry about. Why don't you sit in the waiting room for a minute—I've already eaten but there's someone in there that could use a distraction I dare say. You probably know him from Hogwarts." Katie gave her father a quizzical glance but nodded, turning towards the brightly lit yet wholly depressing room; he'd explain later when there weren't so many ears about. None of her friends had mentioned having a family member in St. Mungo's—but then again if it had been a friend her father would have mentioned them by name.
888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
3
"Nott! What the bloody fuck are you doing back in England?"
Marcus watched with a surprised drunken gaze as fellow Slytherin Theodore Nott sat down across from him, a snifter of brandy the thinner man's drink of choice. Tosser. Marcus raised his glass with a chuckle and drank down a cool gulp.
"I had some business, some friends to visit," Theo shrugged, returning the toast. "You know how it is Flint." Even in his intoxicated haze and the few years difference in their ages, Marcus could understand the strangeness in Nott's presence. Everybody remembered the scandal surrounding elderly Theodore Nott Sr.'s death and the taint of Death Eater that still clung to the Nott Family Tree. Young Theo had said Fuck You! to wizarding Britain and finished his education at Durmstrang among some distant relatives. More power to him, Marcus had thought at the time. A pardon from the Dementor's Kiss by the Ministry but they were too little too late to see the truth of elder Nott's Imperius defence and the old man had been in Azkaban too long.
Marcus snorted. Maybe Nott had kept in touch with Malfoy or Zambini; then again, from the little Marcus remembered of his younger schoolmates and their separate social circles, Nott had been rather ambivalent towards the more-zealous purebloods in his year, watching them from a body bred to stand with other purebloods.
888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Katie sat silently with slightly bitten lip near the boy who was trying to hide his watery blue eyes as each held a cup of savoury tomato soup, waiting amongst beige-green walls and windows charmed to look out on a lolling countryside complete with disgustingly bright sunshine. She had no stray tresses to push back, her long blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail; she had no rings or bracelets to pay attention to, Katie had never been big on jewellery; she had just worn a simple red jumper over her white blouse and black trousers, no robes of any sort to feign interest in whilst occupying the same space as a grieving son.
She knew who the fourteen year old was, and after letting him yell at her irrationally for disrupting his solitude Katie had spoke his name and offered food and now they sat in awkward silence drinking soup. Nott's father was supposed to have been executed today at Azkaban—The Prophet had been reporting for weeks on the event and the efforts for pardon with which the family had been pressing the Ministry.
"I'm…I'm glad he won't die in prison." Katie's eyes slid from their position on the floor to Theodore's damp face, his skinny angular body swamped in the long formal mourning wear, his voice hoarse. "He wasn't around but-but he was innocent. Now everyone will know the truth." Nott's voice broke on the last syllable and he fell forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, holding his breath to refrain from crying in front of a pretty girl. Katie swallowed, her hands automatically reaching out. She understood what it meant to lose a parent and she had had tons of people around her. Theodore Nott was alone.
"Nott. It's time boy"
The grizzled wizard stood in the doorway, regarding Nott and herself with a sneer; Katie dropped her hands back to her lap and Theodore remained untouched. She cleaned up the soup spill after Nott left to watch his father die.
888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
3
The vein above his right eye had begun to throb erratically. Marcus' anger wasn't pretty, it wasn't choreographed or rhythmic and he certainly didn't have time to rehearse hackneyed phrases of outrage inside his head—especially not while three sheets to the wind and the man in front of him had just used Katie Bell's name three times in the same sentence. He had roomed with one of the blokes on her team. And they had talked earlier and she even knew who he was after seven years. Well wasn't that fucking wonderful for him! Marcus chewed viciously on a handful of liquorice snaps, relishing how they moved independently in his mouth and under his dinosaur teeth before finally slipping down his throat.
Something else had to hurt.
"She mentioned that she lived with you and Wood." Marcus' jaw cracked.
"Did she?"
They had waited too long. He and Oliver had waited too long and now there was a possibility they would lose Katie before she knew—He listened, barely, and finished off the rest of his pint.
"Ya know Nott," Marcus scratched his chin, knuckles rubbing over the stubble, "Katie's in a good place right now. I don't think she needs anyone complicating—"
"Complicating?" Theo raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, long artist fingers resting near the bottom of his glass. "What are you talking about Flint? How is a night out for chips complicating Katie's life?" Marcus' eyes flashed as he watched Nott, pushing back his own chair and standing up to his full six foot three height. It was on now; this was it and Marcus was going to feel excellent breaking this pretty boy's nose…How did Nott get up so fast? "You're acting more like her father than the ass who sent her to the infirmary—"
Marcus' balled fist shot towards Nott's head. Making him out to be protector and abuser in the one sentence. Father?! And the gruesome memories of purposely hurting Kate Bell when all he had wanted was to hold her, to be the one she walked with, the one who shared her silences and smiles. But these thoughts didn't matter at present as Marcus had hit nothing but air and his lip was bleeding with the force of Theo's own surprise attack. There was the sound of scraping chairs; Marcus had one hand on the table, the other cupping his dripping mouth, a headache forming and ready to split his skull in two.
"Merlin Flint, how much have you had tonight?" Marcus wasn't going to dignify that with a response.
"Thar'll be no fightin' in Roughage's while I be alive!" A gruff voice roared out in the smoky stillness that ensnared all bar patrons when chaos threatened to break loose. The beefy bartender Herwick held a beater's club in one hand and tapped it twice against the counter. "Yer done fer tha night Flint; and Nott, get yer arse outta here 'fore my memory starts slippin' and I call tha Aurors down here!"
4
He draped an arm around Oliver's waist, listening to his lover's heavy breathing, feeling the rise and fall movement underneath his sated body. Marcus used his chin to nudge Oliver's head, to insinuate his mouth into the shoulder nook, to inhale and lap at the salty sheen of Wood's flesh.
"She never came, did she?" Marcus mumbled after a moment, rolling onto is back. Oliver slowly turned his head, his brown eyes half-closed, his body's released energy tugging him in to sleep.
"Suppose not." Marcus fixed his gaze on the ceiling. He knew something had happened between Katie and Oliver. The Keeper wasn't the type to kiss and tell—and Merlin, did Marcus know Wood could fill a dozen bodice-rippers with the amount of kissing he had done in the past—but a few times Oliver had approached him with a new gleam in his eye, and though Marcus had orchestrated much of their plan, had started the ball rolling, the idea of anything happening without his knowledge was excruciating.
"If she loves you—"
"Shut it Flint," Oliver groaned into his pillow. "Christ. I'm apparating to Cuba at nine and dark circles don't sell brooms!"
"But if she loves you…"
"…But I love ya. Now shut it before I smother ya in yer sleep."