Part 4 – Bluebird
The worst thing about the Dark Lord's takeover was the effect that it had on the national quidditch league.
People, those who were still free and not broke, were too scared to come out to games, and foreign teams were flat-out refusing to set one measly bristle anywhere near the UK. Attendance and ticket sales had plummeted and were starting to scrape rock bottom. Salaries and endorsements suffered similarly, and that didn't even begin to mention how many teams had lost players and support staff to panicked exodus and Ministry action. If games weren't being canceled for lack of funds and interest and opponents, they were being canceled for lack of players and coaches and refs and even announcers and janitors and concession sellers. There was talk of suspending the league, at least until the unrest died down.
Marcus Flint was frustrated and angry and annoyed. He didn't much care about mudbloods or muggles one way or the other (although he didn't mind some of their food, and movies were pretty entertaining, and just taking an afternoon to walk around places where he wouldn't be recognized and gawped at was awfully relaxing). He didn't care at all about politics or government or who was in charge of either or what laws they wanted to enforce—as long as they stayed the hell away from quidditch. But missing out on games and money and challenging competition was really irritating.
Even worse: as more games and even practices got canceled, Marcus had more free time for his death eater father and half-brothers to infringe upon and fewer legitimate excuses to avoid them.
"This is an excellent opportunity," insisted Octavius Flint; the old man was well into his seventies but still almost as tall and muscular and menacing as all of his sons (who were widely known as hulking brutes, each more hulking and brutish than the last). "Do not embarrass me or our House."
"Yes, Father," Julius eagerly agreed. As the second son, the spare, he always had something to prove and was always eager to please their patriarch—especially if he could manage to make his younger half-brother look bad in the process.
Marcus grunted his agreement, wishing he were soaring high above a quidditch pitch. He rarely felt at ease anywhere else, and being near his "family" was a strain on his seldom-used patience and social skills.
A spell hit him in the back and inflicted the sensation of a cane striking him horizontally across both shoulder blades until he straightened his spine into an acceptable posture. He didn't have to turn around to know who was responsible.
"You could at least pretend to be grateful," Titus, the eldest of the three brothers, pointed out with a disparaging sneer. "We didn't have to include you at all. It's not like you ever contribute anything of worth to this family."
Used to such treatment and such comments, Marcus kept his eyes down and answered with another grunt. He'd learned long ago that arguing with or fighting against his half-brothers was pointless, so he tended to keep his mouth shut around them.
Titus and Julius were ten and five years older than he was, respectively, and they shared a mother, the meek, mousey child-bride Octavius had used for his heir and spare and then discarded. (The world knew that she'd died after falling down the stairs; the Flints knew that Octavius had certainly aided her fall and made damn sure she wouldn't get back up.)
Marcus hadn't been planned or wanted, a surprise pregnancy that Octavius's supposedly barren second wife (a glorified bedwarmer chosen for her useless womb and desperately inflated dowry, according to Octavius and his two eldest sons) had hidden. Marcus's mother had protected him, her miracle child, even before he was born, going as far as fleeing into the muggle world in an effort to shelter him from being killed or being raised as an unwanted third son of a violent death eater.
Unfortunately, she'd been a pureblood and struggled to fit into and find work in the muggle world and stooped to imperiusing random muggles into handing over their cash and valuables. Marcus had been five when she was caught red-handed and then swiftly convicted and sent to Azkaban for life, when he was remanded into the custody of his very much put-out father—only after paternity had been triple-checked. Marcus had been thirteen when she finally died; by then, he barely remembered her at all, but the shock of her death had completely paralyzed him and led him to having to repeat his third year at Hogwarts, which had earned him a reputation as a dimwit. Regardless, he knew that his mother, for all her faults, had loved him dearly. The knowledge helped him deal with being barely tolerated to outright despised by his remaining kin.
"Are you listening, boy?! Too many damn bludgers to the head, ey?! You'd best act right in front of the Lestranges! I won't have them thinking I've got a simpleton for a son, even if it is the truth!"
Marcus nodded along, well used to half-listening to abusive diatribes, absorbing the blows and shaking them off like they didn't even hurt—just like any hit on the pitch.
Merlin's short hairs, he'd give just about anything to be back on the pitch.
He had no idea why helping the Lestranges track down their wayward heiress was supposedly such an honor, and he definitely didn't understand why he'd been invited to participate and therefore summoned to his father's presence to be lectured extensively on expected behavior. Marcus wasn't a death eater and hopefully never would be; despite his performance on the pitch, he wasn't a violent person and couldn't stomach the idea of maiming and murdering innocents just for his or anyone else's sick amusement. Thankfully, he'd been deliberately concealing any hint of magical talent beyond low-average since he got his wand, so everyone who mattered was convinced that he had nothing to offer to "the cause"; besides, the dark mark would be awfully difficult to cover up during his required quidditch physicals, not to mention in the locker room and during photo shoots.
Another caning spell hit Marcus in the back, eliciting a huff of surprise from the twenty-two-year-old chaser.
"This is pointless, Father," Titus sighed. "You'd best just shove the lump into the floo. If he can't be useful, he can at least be punctual."
Marcus didn't take his brother's sour mood personally (and never did). The eldest Flint son had been in a complete strop ever since the Dark Lord had summoned Julius and Marcus by name. Titus, who considered himself practically a god among men for having had the good fortune to be the firstborn son of a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, despised being excluded and considered Marcus's inclusion a further degree of intolerable insult. Of course, the thirty-two-year-old was too sensible (and scared) to actually question the Dark Lord's choices, but that didn't make Marcus any less fair game for conciliatory ridicule. Well, not that Titus actually needed an excuse to torment Marcus; doing so was a favored hobby for both his older siblings and his father.
Rather than respond, which would accomplish nothing but drawing more ire, Marcus nodded along for a few more insults and then was finally allowed to depart, following behind Julius as they traveled to the ancient Lestrange manse known as Stranger's Hall.
The brawny chaser brushed off his robes and surveyed the opulent but tasteful receiving room without any change of expression; however, he was a bit impressed (and only a little intimidated). Despite being a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, the Flints had never been more than comfortably well-off. None of their ancestors had been better than passably competent with money, and most weren't even that.
(Sometimes, Marcus had to battle down the fury that came from knowing that his father's own garish attempts at projecting wealth were funded by the dowries of the wives the old man had shamelessly abused. Marcus wanted as little as possible to do with those funds. He'd taken his signing bonus and every knut since straight to his very reputable accountant to have it budgeted and saved and invested in ways that no one else could touch.)
"Ah, good," Lord Lestrange greeted, rising from his elegant sprawl in a nearby armchair to accept their deep bows. "Come in, come in," the man waved them along, barely bothering to glance at either. "Julius and Marcus, yes? Be welcome. Refreshments right through there. We're just waiting on one more."
As an athlete, Marcus couldn't help noticing that the man's broad frame lacked muscle tone. Lord Lestrange was pale and gangly and somewhat tall, but there wasn't really anything else startling about him. In fact, the chaser was far more interested in the promised refreshments and, after dutifully following Julius into the indicated parlor, fell ravenously upon the generous spread of breakfast foods.
"Like a pig at a trough," Marcus heard his brother scoff to some of the other attendees, who chortled along like any good sycophants would, but the younger man was far past caring. He'd been woken at an absurd hour, before even his regular early morning workout, and denied the chance to fuel up for what had already proven to be a trying day and would definitely prove more so.
He was bloody starving.
After eating nearly his weight in plain egg dishes and lean meat and fresh fruit, Marcus was feeling quite a lot better. Less grouchy, at least. As long as he had a full stomach, he could handle most situations, even the ones involving his idiot family and the psychotic Dark Lord. With that in mind, the young man finally began putting names to the stuck-up faces that surrounded him.
Brooding in a corner by the hearth was Rabastan Lestrange, who looked twice as haggard as his older brother did and acknowledged Marcus's glance with a distracted nod.
Julius was holding court with Eric Rosier, Sterling Selwyn, and Luther Yaxley. They were all around the same age, give or take a few years on either side of Julius's, and they were all second sons, which didn't seem to be a coincidence, especially given the fact that second sons or second children at all among pureblood families weren't terribly common. In fact, other than Marcus, everyone in the room was a second son, and they were all from Sacred Twenty-Eight families as well.
Something strange was happening. And it was making his breakfast sit rather badly in his gut.
Rather than the promised "one more" that they were supposedly all waiting on, four more people stepped into the room. Marcus knew Lady Theodosia and Lord Consort Thorfinn Rowle and their fifteen-year-old twins, Thora and Theron, by sight. But that was the extent of the acquaintance. Surprisingly (especially to those familiar with their jovial but rather violently dimwitted and bigoted parents), both of said twins were polite Ravenclaws, so even in Hogwarts, Marcus hadn't interacted with them much, if at all. Their first year should have been his seventh, but he'd still been in sixth with another year to go; he hadn't had much time back then for the runts from his own house, let alone any of the others.
Despite being fraternal twins, Thora and Theron looked remarkably similar. Thora was a bit taller and thicker than the average lass, and Theron was a bit shorter and slighter than the average lad. The result was a rather unremarkable body type that fell exactly between their petite, voluptuous mother and towering, burly father. Both twins had angular but androgynous features and bright golden hair worn loose to slightly past their shoulders. They even dressed similarly, in robes of matching shades of tawny brown and only slight variations in cut to account for their opposite genders (which honestly weren't very noticeable if you weren't specifically searching for them).
Also unlike their parents, neither twin looked pleased to be there.
"Rabby!" Lady Theodosia squealed, stopping and posing just inside the doorway, haughtily extending her arm and snapping her wrist downward as though she fully expected the man she'd summoned to sprint across the room to kiss her knuckles. "It's been far too long, darling!"
Sighing heavily before hauling himself up out of his sheltered corner and indeed trudging, slowly, over to greet his guests, Rabastan Lestrange muttered, "Lady Theodosia. Lovely to see you and your lovely family. Lovely all around on this lovely day."
Somehow, Marcus didn't think that lovely was precisely what he meant.
Marcus also suspected that he was either drunk or sedated, possibly both.
Given that it was Rabastan's daughter who'd run away, destroying nearly an entire wing of their ancestral home in the process, such a state seemed quite appropriate.
"-and you must remember my husband, of course. He was only a few years ahead of us in school," Lady Theodosia babbled on, gesturing emphatically in a way that she probably thought looked elegant and dramatic but just made Marcus think of a flailing mime. "But you haven't met my children, Thora and Theron. When I heard about your situation and that your own little one is in Ravenclaw, I just knew that we could help!" She shoved her twins forward rather ungently, adding, "You can ask them anything about her! They're even in her year!"
The twins sighed in tandem but introduced themselves with textbook-perfect pureblood manners before Theron drawled, "Apologies, my lord, but given that I wasn't aware of any Lestranges at Hogwarts, I can only assume she was going by a different name. Knowing said name would likely help us help you with the information you seek."
Rabastan huffed and quietly admitted, "She was called Mara Blue."
The name sounded… sort of familiar. Marcus immediately found himself picturing a scrawny first-year in Ravenclaw robes, dark blue eyes too big for her scowling face… Something about starting a fire? Or getting in a fight? He really wasn't sure…
A perfectly timed set of snorts echoed through the room. The twins' mother immediately leapt to the task of scolding them for such uncouth manners, but they ignored her.
Thora muttered, "Told you she wasn't a mudblood."
"Just because she beats you at everything," Theron grumbled in reply.
His sister elbowed him hard. "Not everything," she hissed.
"It seems that you know my daughter well," Rabastan interrupted, arching a thick eyebrow as he regarded the bickering pair.
They nodded in tandem, and Theron declared, "Quite well. She always stood out among the lesser elements. I suppose it's now obvious why." He shifted a bit on his feet, exchanging another glance with his sister before offering, "Perhaps it's best if we go with you. Mar- Lady Renata might respond more favorably to familiar faces."
Even Marcus thought that the offer was about as subtle as a brick to the face. The twins were obviously friends with this girl, as much as they might not be in a position to admit that they'd befriended a supposed muggleborn, and he'd place good odds that the pair would attempt to help their friend and sabotage the hunters.
"Unless you have a solid lead about where she might go to hide and what the security measures might be…" Rabastan offered carefully. When he got a set of reluctant head shakes in reply, the man continued, "Then I appreciate the offer, but it's probably best to leave this operation to more experienced wizards. However, I'm sure Renata will be happy to have you visit once she's home. Perhaps you'll be able to stress to her the importance of good behavior and help her adjust to her new circumstances. In the meantime, can you think of anything that might assist us in finding her and bringing her back here unharmed?"
The twins exchanged another round of significant and reluctant glances, which their mother headed off with a piercing shriek of, "You will answer my friend's questions, darlings. Or I will remember to be cross about your association with a girl you believed to be a mudblood!"
After a paired grumble of, "Yes, Mother," they seemed to elect Thora to speak first. She began with, "I never believed she could be a mudblood anyway. Mar- Lady Renata is very gifted in most subjects, and all she does in her spare time is read ahead and learn new spells and perform experiments, and she keeps up with a bunch of muggle education on top of that. I don't even know how many languages she speaks, but she earns pocket money doing translations of both magical and muggle texts. I would guess she'd stay in crowded muggle areas. She knows her way around them, and she's mentioned before that the average wizard sticks out like a sore thumb when he tries to lay low among muggles."
"She got away by tampering with your wards, right?" Theron added, barely holding back a smirk. "She's good at that. The runes professor throws her out of class several times a week for destroying or outright weaponizing some basic scheme, but then the same professor always ends up inviting her back in to gush over whatever she did… Most people like her or at least don't mind her, and there are even a few who pay her for tutoring, but she doesn't have any close friends that I can think of who might be harboring her."
Marcus almost groaned. He didn't want to be chasing after some brainy chit who weaponized runes as a hobby. The last thing he needed was to suffer a season- or career-ending injury over such nonsense.
"Thank you, young man," Lord Rodolphus declared as he swanned into the room with Jerome Avery, presumably the actual "one more" they'd been waiting on, in tow. "We'll keep that in mind. I was able to use family magic to track her, and the area does seem to be crowded and muggle, so your theory, young lady, is quite correct. But my brother is also correct that this undertaking is no place for children." He turned to their parents next, his ghoulish face twisting into an expression that had probably once been charming as he offered, "Perhaps we can get together next week? I hate to seem rude, but this little search party really must get searching. The idea of my heiress lost among muggles… Well, I'm sure you can imagine."
"Of course, Roddy!" Lady Theodosia simpered. "That poor girl! Go and save her from the muggle filth, and owl us as soon as you can. I'm looking forward to catching up." With that, she swept out of the room, her bored family trudging behind.
There was general standing and shuffling as the group of assorted second sons (and Marcus) set aside their refreshments and congregated toward the center of the room, around the Lestrange brothers.
Lord Rodolphus and Rabastan looked over each guest quite carefully before the elder of the pair announced, "You will subdue my heiress without causing her permanent harm, or I will visit said harm upon you by at least tenfold. Understood?" After some murmurs of agreement, the emaciated man added, "Splendid. Also, no matter how tempted you are, do not cause a fuss among the muggles. At least not until after we've secured Renata. As the lad said, she's quite comfortable in the muggle world, and if you make a spectacle of yourself, she'll likely notice it and run."
Rabastan unfurled a length of thick rope, which was just about the only thing that actually made sense to use as a portkey for a large group—unless all the people in said group wanted to get very well acquainted.
Minutes later, they were all hundreds of miles away and in pursuit of a girl they probably should've left alone.
Marcus knew that the operation would not go well when he realized that he was the only member of the group who remembered or cared to transfigure his clothing into appropriately muggle garb, a stylish suit he'd had many opportunities to practice to perfection. He especially knew that the operation would not go well when he realized that he was the only member of the group who didn't immediately hare off into the crowded streets. Instead, he bothered to ask what city they were in (Portsmouth) and for a picture of the target (a mundane pencil sketch, actually, since the Lestranges hadn't had time to make their heiress sit for photos or portraits).
He was the only one who spent a few minutes consulting a nearby map and thoughtfully planning a course of action before casually strolling off to put it into motion.
xxXxx
If the last month and a bit had taught Mara anything, it was that despite all propaganda and social conditioning to the contrary, stealing was a lot smarter and stealthier than pursuing legitimate revenue streams.
Of course, stealing wasn't her first choice for coming up with cash, but she certainly didn't have many qualms about resorting to such measures when she really, really needed cash—especially when said cash was really, really needed to get her out of the country and far away from her insane relatives. She did, however, have preferred targets that made the distasteful act a bit easier on her (admittedly quite stunted) conscience.
ATMs were laughably easy. If she waited until late at night in sparsely traveled areas and approached from an awkward angle, she managed to avoid witnesses and cameras before applying a small burst of magic to short all the mechanisms and vanish the front. Stealing from faceless corporations that oppressed the masses and wouldn't even miss the money (would, in fact, probably just write it off in their taxes) was barely even a crime at all.
Drug dealers and pimps were more challenging but vastly more satisfying prey, mostly because Mara liked to rob them blind and then leave them with the overwhelming urge (one might say compulsion) to turn themselves in to the authorities or (if especially heinous) otherwise throw themselves in front of a train.
If she'd had more time, she probably would've gone after a pawn shop that she knew dealt in stolen goods and a jewelry store that she knew dealt in blood diamonds. But, alas, her crime spree had a clear deadline, and easy pickings were definitely a more efficient use of her limited time.
Mara would be ready to leave within the hour. She'd already packed and shipped everything she wanted to take with her—magical and nonmagical items being shipped separately, of course, and to unrelated waypoints that would forward her mail when she was reasonably certain that it couldn't be used to trace her. All she had left to do was purchase a ferry ticket. Well, she would have to decide whether she wanted to go to France or Spain, transfigure a decent counterfeit passport, and then purchase a ferry ticket.
Actually, if she had enough money, she might even buy both just to throw off any potential pursuers.
Speaking of which, there was a swarm of obvious wizards walking up and down the street like surly, confused clowns. She could see them from the upper window of the vacant warehouse that she used as a safehouse, and only her subtle defensive wards were keeping them from noticing it and her, at least for the moment.
"Bloody perfect," the girl murmured, annoyed and alarmed that she'd obviously been found. More than likely, the family magic that had latched onto her like a starving tick was enough to lead her father and uncle and a bunch of borrowed goons right to her.
That was a problem. A really big problem that she didn't know how to fix. Hopefully, getting the fuck out of the country would help, but she wasn't very optimistic. The only other option that she could think of was to keep moving. The prospect wasn't entirely unappealing. Mara liked to travel and certainly hadn't been able to afford to do enough of it; she was looking forward to embracing her new life as a nomadic rogue.
But before she could, the girl had to get past the goons and onto a ferry.
And for that, she was going to need to tweak her plan.
xxXxx
"So…" Rod wheedled, barely restraining a smarmy grin as they walked side by side down the grimy muggle street, "Any of the suitors meet your standards?"
Glaring, contemplating downing yet another calming draught, Rabastan growled, "The only one who's not a useless moron is the younger Flint. Surprisingly, if you were ever inclined to believe his braindead father's or brothers' opinions."
"I thought the same!" Rod agreed, far too cheerful. "A good sort, Marcus is. And I'll happily steal him away from those cretins. They obviously don't deserve him. Or all the quidditch tickets he can get me."
Rabastan closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, definitely not in the mood to entertain his brother's self-serving idiocy. For Merlin's sake, they were rich. It wasn't like the quidditch-obsessed pillock even needed connections to get excellent tickets to any match. Hell, he could just buy himself a whole team if he really wanted. (Actually, that might be a good birthday present for him… He was notoriously difficult to shop for…)
Of course, Rabastan couldn't deny liking the idea of a son-in-law who wasn't actually a death eater; despite Marcus's intimidating physique, the young man seemed quiet and thoughtful, and there was a good chance that he wasn't a violent or cruel sort. Fewer opportunities for him to end up dead meant that Renata probably wouldn't end up widowed and that any children probably wouldn't end up orphaned…
Rab shook himself, hardly believing that he was entertaining such thoughts. He really was against forcing her into a marriage, especially so soon. But he was also a realist. If Rod and the Dark Lord were going to press the issue, Rab couldn't do much other than ensure that his daughter ended up with the best husband he could give her.
Actually, speaking of Marcus, Rab wasn't sure where the lad had gone after he'd asked his very obvious and sensible questions, which were all the more impressive for the fact that no one else had bothered or probably even thought to do so…
"Huh," Rod murmured, peering down at the heavily enchanted scrap of parchment serving as their map to Renata. He squinted at the shifting lines for a few moments before announcing, "She's on the move. From the speed and the route, she'd have to be on a broom, so hopefully also disillusioned… I think she's heading toward the coast."
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Rab fumbled in his pocket for another calming draught and prayed to whatever deity was listening that his daughter wasn't desperate or ignorant enough to attempt to cross the Channel on a broom. The trip was doable but very inadvisable as a solo journey, not to mention the trouble she would be in with the French authorities even if she did manage to complete said illegal and recklessly dangerous stunt.
Within a few minutes, they managed to round up most of their search team; the stragglers, including Marcus, would have to be left behind. There was certainly no time to go searching for them, and they were all adults who would probably be fine on their own for a while. Then, Rab had the distinct displeasure of attempting to herd said men masquerading as cats (or vice versa) into a secluded alley so that they could all disillusion themselves and blind apparate to an area that would hopefully let them head off Renata's route.
It didn't go well.
Too anxious to wait any longer, Rab quickly decided to leave his brother to deal with their empty-headed entourage. A quick apparition later, the death eater was surprised to almost immediately spot Marcus, who was leaning up against a railing outside what looked like a ferry terminal.
Rab was quick to duck away and cancel his disillusionment before jogging over to question the young man about his presence.
Marcus barely spared him a glance, instead staring intently inland, scanning the crowd and occasionally the sky.
"She's coming this way," Rab said. "How did you know to be here?"
Apparently, Marcus's tendency toward few words did not indicate any lack of intellect. He grunted, "You don't pass to where the chaser is. You pass to where he's going to be." With a brief glance around to make sure that the muggles weren't paying them too much attention, the hulking lad made an exaggerated stretching gesture that resulted in a colorless spell shooting wordlessly upward from the wand up his sleeve.
Moments later, an unconscious bird fell out of the sky and into his hand.
Although Rab was impressed by the ability to hit a bird in flight at least several meters in the air (and with barely a look, nonetheless) and then catch the thing without hurting it, he didn't particularly understand why the young man had felt the need to stun the local wildlife.
Probably sensing the incredulous and confused gaze on him, Marcus very gently showed off the drab blue-and-brown-and-white creature, which looked impossibly tiny in his enormous palm, and murmured, "Nonnative species."
Either Rab had downed too many potions or the lad really wasn't making sense. Maybe both.
Marcus sighed, "I might be wrong, but there aren't many ways that a witch could get through intact perimeter wards undetected. Not being a witch at the time would be one of them. Spotting a bird species that has no business on this continent in exactly the place I expected said runaway witch to end up seemed just slightly too convenient."
Rab had to stare at the fragile little bird for another few moments before what the young man was saying finally clicked.
By the time his brother found him, Rab was clutching an unconscious bluebird to his chest and trying not to hyperventilate.
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Ta-da! What do you think of Marcus? And the Rowles? And Mara's animagus form? I'm envisioning her as a Western bluebird (in case you want to look up pics; they're pretty cute). Reviews please!