June 3rd, 2009

Now of course when Hermione awoke the next morning it dawned on her (pardon the pun) that she needed to first confirm that Marcus Flint and Viktor Krum were indeed cousins. She considered penning a letter to Viktor, but he possessed the remarkable ability to see straight through her, even via written communications. Furthermore, Hermione wasn't quite ready to share well-

To share Marcus.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She wasn't ready to share because one, it was all a bit embarrassing either way and two, well- married war heroes that also happen to be mothers have few secrets. Everything you are, everything you do is shared, scrutinized and analyzed. Sometimes it's wonderful, she'd never regret having a live-in best friend to spend time with, but sometimes it was suffocating. And sometimes-

Sometimes it resulted in an all consuming loneliness. The type of loneliness one suffers when everyone knows everything about you and yet no one knows you.

When you are Hermione the Mother,

Hermione the Wife,

Hermione the War Hero,

Hermione the Best Friend,

Hermione the Brightest Witch of Your Age.

You are rarely just Hermione.

Luckily one of the perks of being said war hero is getting to waltz into the Ministry and nonchalantly comb through birth and marriage records. Even with Kingsley in charge the Ministry was still woefully under protected and it only took her about half an hour of scouring to piece together that Viktor and Marcus were indeed second cousins once removed.

As Hermione stood in that drafty, dungeness room, wand held aloft to illuminate the parchments she had levitating around her, it struck the witch suddenly that she had no idea how she would have known that Viktor and Marcus shared a set of great-grandparents.

Furthermore, if she had never been made privy to their familial relationship then that left only one possibility possible and if the evidence was to be believed then Marcus sodding Flint was in her dreams.

And she had no earthly idea why.

oOo

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

Hermione blinked. Considered denying that she had indeed been staring, but instead said, "I'm ready to hear about your unlucky love life."

"What?" Marcus guffawed, his features twisted. "My love life isn't unlucky, I've been quite-"

Hermione held up a hand. "Please, spare me the speech on your virility."

Color crept into Marcus's otherwise tan face and Hermione suppressed a laugh. Was 'virility' too much for the Slytherin?

I find that hard to believe.

Marcus was nearly stuttering. "Virility?" How could he make a simple word sound so crass?

Hermione sighed. "Yes, your prowess, so to speak."

"Is this the bloody 18th century, witch?" Marcus asked, shaking his head. "My virility and my— my prowess?"

"Goodness, Flint," Hermione said suddenly, a wicked grin creeping to her full lips. "Are you really this prudish?"

"Oh fuck off," Marcus growled but by now Hermione had discovered that Marcus Flint was all bark, no bite. The witch chortled at him.

"You can't handle the word 'virility'?" Hermione was giggling fitfully now.

"Listen," the wizard snapped, crossing his arms petulantly, "I don't give a fuck if you say bollocks, twat, ball bag, beating the bishop, growler—"

"Kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"I don't give a single flying fuck if you use the foulest words imaginable but for the love of Salazar don't say 'virility'."

"Okay, I'll bite. Why can't I say 'virility'?" Hermione asked, hands on her hips even though she was seated.

"Because you sound like my grandmother."

"One day I'll be someone's grandmother. Maybe."

"Gods, Granger, that's a few years yet, yea? You don't need to talk like you're ninety-seven."

"I just find it odd that you have no problems with profanity, but I say 'virility' or 'prowess' and suddenly you're getting the vapors."

"The vapors?"

"Like some sort of antebellum debutant."

Marcus's petulant scowl turned to one of confusion. "Debutant?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't have it in me to explain American muggle culture right now, not when we have your love life to discuss."

"Why?"

Why, indeed?

"Living vicariously I suppose," Hermione shrugged noncommittally. "Or perhaps I'm just tired of talking about Quidditch."

"We don't have to talk about Quidditch, but we're not going to discuss my love life," Marcus said in a tone that brooked no argument. Or a tone that in different company would've brooked no argument.

Hermione Granger-Weasley did not tolerate such tones.

"Oh come now, Flint, don't be shy, growing up my two best friends were blokes, I can handle it."

"Salazar's balls, you're not going to drop this, are you?"

"I'm quite persistent."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"No need to be embarrassed-"

"I'm not embarrassed!" The wizard's face, which hadn't yet recovered from Hermione's use of antiquated vocabulary, was turning somehow even redder.

"Then what exactly is the problem?"

"The problem! Is! It's-" Marcus was waving his hands in the air as if he could pluck the right words from the ether.

Hermione grinned. "As I suspected. There is no problem."

Marcus groaned.

"Now, tell me your latest conquest."

"OK!" Marcus held up his hands. "Ground rules. You are not to talk about my love life like this is the Victorian Era, we aren't in a Jane Austen novel-"

"Have you read Jane Austen?"

"Please, talk like a normal witch."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest. "I am a normal witch, you wanker."

"Oh for fucks sake, Granger, I didn't mean it in a weird blood purity sort of way," Marcus sighed, massaging his forehead. "I mean that no one, regardless of blood status, talks like this."

Hermione had met Narcissa Malfoy on a few occasions thanks to Draco, both at Hogwarts and after, and she would beg to differ. However, it wasn't worth the argument at this juncture.

"Alright fine," Hermione suppressed a sigh of her own. "Who have you been shagging then?"

"See," Marcus grinned. "Doesn't that just sound better?"

Now Hermione did roll her eyes.

Marcus gazed down for a moment, fiddled with the edge of his black shirt where it crumpled slightly in his lap as he sat, and then looked back up at Hermione, resigned.

"Sally-Anne Perks," he muttered and then, "Most recently, at least."

Hermione tilted her head of bushy hair to the side not unlike a cocker spaniel. She thought for a moment. Briefly she recalled a mousy bespectacled girl with the Sorting Hat sitting lopsided on her head, taking her turn before the famous Harry Potter.

"The Hufflepuff?"

Marcus nodded.

"Curiouser and curiouser."

Marcus frowned. "Somehow, not the response I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?"

"Dunno, gasps maybe?"

Hermione let out a dramatic gasp, hand over her chest. "Better?"

"Much," Marcus chuckled, glancing down at his lap again.

Despite evidence to the contrary there was a very loud part of Hermione's brain that screamed this couldn't be real. Look at him. Look at Marcus Flint embarrassed and even maybe a bit shy? This was not the troll-faced snake she had known at Hogwarts. It couldn't possibly be. Surely that Marcus Flint would jump at the opportunity to regale anyone with tales of his conquests. Surely he wouldn't be this hulking, massive wizard before her turning pink at the mere mention of his sex life.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. She'd been accused of many sins in her life, pride and judgement at the top. Was she falling prey to both now?

"Though," she began, changing the subject or at least, the subject in her own mind. "If I'm to play the part of the shocked friend, as the director you should probably let me in on where this sense of shock is coming from."

Marcus looked up with just his eyes, head still titled down, and gazed at Hermione through his dark eyelashes and for a moment the witch was struck by the sight of him. He was a handsome man, all sun kissed skin over layers of well maintained muscle. That first night she'd thought the muscles were a bit much but no, they were just enough. Any smaller and surely he wouldn't look like himself.

Marcus Flint wasn't handsome in the Draco Malfoy way, with charm and aristocracy, or even the Ron Weasley way, with goofy grins and welcoming smiles. Marcus Flint was handsome in the he looked like he would beat the ever loving shite out of anyone who may call you a 'mudblood' sort of way.

What the hell is wrong with Sally-Anne Perks? Someone needs to lock that down.

Looks aren't everything, certainly. But Marcus is gainfully employed, interesting enough to talk to, easy on the eyes, and had somehow managed to steer clear of falling in with any Death Eaters in years passed. There had to be at least half a dozen witches eyeing the wizard, Hermione reasoned, which only made the witch strangely protective. In a completely maternal sort of way, of course.

Oh no, I'm becoming Molly Weasley

"What?" Hermione asked, suddenly realizing Marcus had spoken.

"Friends," the wizard repeated, "you called us friends."

Hermione considered for a moment. Had she? Technically she'd said she was playing the part of the shocked friend, but why argue semantics? "Suppose I did, yea," she shrugged. "Are we not?"

Marcus grinned, the action changing his entire face to something altogether pleasant. "If I'm going to wax poetic about my sexual exploits then yea, reckon we must be."

And Hermione matched his grin.

oOo

моята английска роза,

It was wonderful to receive your letter, it's been a few months and I worried you'd forgotten me, but I know having your little mila running around keeps your hands too busy to write. The weather is beautiful right now, I'm sure you remember how pleasant Bulgaria is in June. My mother is in good spirits despite her health, it was kind of you to ask after her.

I have to admit, I'm shocked you're asking me for my Quidditch schedule! Every game you've ever come to has been, how do you say? Like pulling teeth. Have you had a change of heart? I doubt it. Are you just desperate to see me? My rose, you know you could portkey over for a visit anytime, bring your husband and daughter for a holiday. No, I think there are ulterior motives here I am not being made privy to. But who am I to understand the workings of the mind of the Brightest Witch of Her Age?

I will be playing the Arrows August 16th in Appleby. Hopefully you won't mind, I've already taken the liberty of reserving you and your husband tickets to the executive box.

Maybe then you'll tell me why the sudden interest in this season's schedule?

Yours always,

Viktor

Hermione frowned, dark forehead wrinkling. Viktor always could see through her.