Detained Chapter 10--Insinuation Part IIa

[jenszabo]

The large figure was leaning against a tree, swigging a butterbeer and staring out over the pitch.

Flint.

He was dressed in Quidditch robes, and appeared lost in his thoughts. Katie’s mind tried to decide between apparating back home, apparating to another pitch, or sidling quietly away to the Pitch office before he saw her. Her body decided to be avant garde, rejecting all these suggestions in favor of standing there slack-jawed and staring like an idiot.

He was watching her now, looking bored and seemingly unsurprised.

“You’re late.”

”What?” Katie managed to stammer.

“You’re late. We’ve got work to do. Come on.”

Well, she supposed she was late. By about 72 and a half hours. What was he doing here?

“Why are you here?”

“I find practice is more effective if I actually show up at the pitch, rather than sitting at home contemplating my arse,” he said, irritably. “Although I do understand opinions differ on this.”

Oh.

A little voice in Katie’s head whispered that it would be easier to just go along. She’d been bemoaning the loss of his coaching, numb with fear that she couldn’t do this on her own. It wasn’t like he was asking her to apologize. It didn’t even have to be mentioned.

No. She wasn’t falling back into this little dance, where she hoped while she was asleep and hurt while she was awake.

“Come on, Bell.” Marcus had pushed off the tree and was striding off towards the pitch.

“Look,” Katie began. “This isn’t…I’m not…What-“

”Bell.” His voice was harsh, cutting across her rambling.

“Yeah?”

”I heard you the first time.” He still hadn’t turned around.

“I haven’t said anything yet,” Katie protested.

“I heard you before. Last week, after I looked at your back.” He paused, before continuing harshly. “Message received.”

“What?” Katie asked softly. Marcus’ responding laugh sounded bitter to her ears.

“My behaviour will be modified. Now come on.”

Katie stared at his back. She should remain resolute, she knew. That was a certainty. That was the right thing to do.

She wanted to make the Harpies, however. More than that, she wanted to learn how to play like Flint, be able to see the pitch the way he did. She wanted to be able to hear him talk about games he’d played in, and try to dart past him on the pitch, leaving him cursing in her wake. She wanted to know more tomorrow than she did today. She wanted to tangle with him.

It wasn’t the right thing to do, but she was going to do it any way.

“Look, Bell,” he snarled, voice strained. “I’m so terribly sorry that your knickers are in a twist, but we have actual problems here. Beginning with the fact that your Smithson Dodge is a fucking joke.” Katie’s stasis broke.

“It’s good enough to get by you,” she said coldly. Before he could respond, she had swung her leg over her broom and shot past him. She soared high over the pitch, and waited for him to catch up.

~*~

A week later

“Enough for today, Bell.”

Katie glanced over at Marcus in surprise. It was still early. Well, eight o’clock…but Marcus hadn’t let her off her broom before ten this entire week. Fifteen hours a day with Flint-it was like some Hufflepuff vision of hell.

Well, a male Hufflepuff’s at any rate.

Marcus set his broom down on the far side of the pitch, and began the long walk back to the sheds. Katie let her broom skim along the ground beside him, dragging her feet in the grass. She caught his sidelong disapproving look, but didn’t get off her broom. If he wanted her behavior to change, he had to yell at her. Katie was rather looking forward to when she finally drove him to laryngitis. The dumb suffering look in his eyes at her unchecked flow of merry prattle was worth waiting for.

“If you bothered to get enough sleep, you might be able to walk like a big girl, Bell,” he muttered.

“What do I have to do if I want to lumber like an ox as you do?”

He gave her a sour look, but didn’t respond. OK…

“I’m not tired, I’m just efficient,” Katie told him, pertly. “You’re the one who stopped practice early so you can go take a nap.”

“That really what you think that’s what I do with my evenings, Bell?” he snapped.

Oh.

Of course, he must have other plans. Katie had been so exhausted by their activities that she’d pretty much fallen into bed immediately every night this week. Marcus was probably used to it though. No evenings of dental hygiene and sleeping alone for him. Well, he probably did end up flossing with some bint’s thong.

“It’s a little early for you to be starting your evening’s activities, isn’t it?” she inquired archly. “I mean, how much friction can one man handle?”

“I can handle a lot of things you can’t, Bell. For one thing, no matter what I do the night before I can make it through practice without yawning and drifting off. I can’t imagine what a little Gryff could have gotten up to that would have been so bloody tiring, but don’t waste my time again.”

Katie flinched, feeling her cheeks burn. Maybe she had been a little tired. She’d spent most of last night desperately finishing up her essays for her mediwizardry school applications. However, she had yawned maybe twice today, and never complained. She hadn’t been wasting the dread lord of the Falcons time.

“I’m sorry if the occasional glimpse of my tonsils was that upsetting to you, Flint,” she replied coldly. “Unless it was enamel envy?”

“Nothing gets to me, Bell,” he said, coolly. “So, you think you’ll be able to curtail your busy social schedule this evening and get some sleep?” Katie opened her mouth to reply, but he held a finger up to stop her. In a bloody imperious manner, too. “We’re going to need to fit in some strategy discussions as well, but if you’re too busy…”

“Again, I’m not the one rushing off, Marcus. Don’t let me detain you though. You must have plans, probably at some shindig where they dye their house elves to match the tablecloths.”

“Maybe I’m just being a gentleman, Bell,” he sneered. “Don’t want to detain you from your exciting evening of exploding snap or ‘Count the Weasleys’ or whatever. Seriously, why would your career compare with that?”

“Big talk from a man who is going to spend his evening fishing crab puffs out of his dinner companion’s décolletage,” she sniped.

Marcus stopped abruptly, and looked at her speculatively. With a quick twist of her hips, Katie swiveled her broom to face him, stopping on a sickle. She fought back a smile at Marcus’ grudging nod of approval. Alas, his mouth re-opened.

“What an odd world view you have, Bell. You should tag along some time, see what it’s like where people have more money than they do children,” he drawled.

“I’d rather find out what it’s like where people have more brains than broomsticks,” Katie snapped. “However, unless there’s a strike at Cleansweep, I really can’t foresee that happening.”

“Ah, we’ll kill three fwoopers with one stone then,” he shot back. “We’ll grab a bite, and discuss the peculiarities of the Harpies coaching staff. I’ll drop you off at your house early so you can get some sleep, ensuring that I won’t have another wasted day. You’ll be assured of company of a higher caliber than your usual little friends, both intellectual…and otherwise.”

“How’s that?” Katie asked, eyes wide. “Will your owl be joining us?” He gave her a dark look, and she continued blithely. “Thanks, but I could not deny the wizarding elite your company this evening. Why, just the way the periwinkle house elves will set off your rosy schoolboy complexion is a treat for any hostess.”

He looked down at her, face stern and arms crossed. “Some advice, Bell.”

“OK,” Katie said briskly. “Now, just remember, debutante on your arm and napkin in your lap. The other way around makes it much harder to eat your soup.”

He rolled his eyes in irritation. “Advice for you, Bell.”

“I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “I don’t even like soup.”

He glared down at her. Oh, well. At least she amused herself.

“Bell, until some type of treatment is developed to rid you of the need to be bright and amusing every time you open your mouth, smiling and nodding is a perfectly good conversational mainstay. Let’s try it out now. ‘Katie, let’s go grab some dinner where I will impart wisdom, as you listen in breathless and above all silent admiration.’”

If this kept up, she would be useless on the pitch tomorrow…seeing as she’d have sprained her eyes from rolling them so hard. “Wouldn’t dream of taking up any more of your time,” she said smoothly. “Just yell a few snippets about the Harpies’ coaches at practice tomorrow, in between the repetitions of ‘do you even know what a quaffle is, Bell?’ and ‘oh, Gods, fuck, no’. Your conversation has tended to be monochromatic of late. Possibly it’s the lack of sleep. I couldn’t possibly keep you out later.” Katie smiled sweetly, turning and flying away before he could speak.

“Oh, big talk from a girl who is just too cheap to buy me dinner,” he called after her.

Katie stopped and whirled around. “What?”

“Never mind,” he replied, giving an exaggerated shrug. “You’ve got things to do. Go do them. Unless you’re waiting for me to pin a note to your robes in case you get lost.”

“No,” Katie insisted, flying back to him and hopping off her broom. “Marcus ‘I’m a man and you’re kind of a girl’ Flint will let me pay?”

“I’ll let you do something, Bell? Are you new here?”

“We’ll have dinner then? For which I will pay and you will not pay?” Katie asked, eager to nail down any potential loopholes. “With my money?”

“Paying does imply that Bell.” He snickered. “What, you Gryffindors still on the barter system? Trading goats and glass beads for your schoolbooks? Sounds strenuous. Although it would explain why you’re all stuck wearing such ugly sweaters. I believe the finer haberdasheries draw the line at livestock.”

“Guess I won’t be able to pimp you out for sweat socks then,” Katie grinned. “Come on! Food. Advice. Commerce. Let’s go.” She began walking backwards, towards the broom sheds.

He grinned, and caught up to her in a few long strides. “Bell, just because you’re paying for dinner, doesn’t mean I’ll be flashing you any thigh. I want that clear.”

“Huh. So I buy something for you, and then you don’t show me your bits? Not a bad deal. Do you offer more long-term contracts? If I do your laundry for a year, will you maintain a two foot distance at all times?”

He stopped for a second, but quickly resumed walking, strides lengthening. “Hey, I’m just looking out for myself, Bell. Trying to minimize excessive wear and tear on my ‘instrument’. After all, plenty of witches want me, but none have ever panted so much at the thought of getting to buy me dinner.”

“Yeah, because none of them can count. ‘Excuse me, waiter, what’s this squiggly thing? A four? Of the shiny silver ones?”

“Well, Bell, different witches have different skills,” he said, smirking. “I’ll come to you if I need my bank account balanced or develop a sudden abhorrence of silence. I’ll farm the rest out.”

“OK,” Katie swallowed. “Although I think the slurping sounds would take care of the silence problem, so why don’t you just come to me on those rare occasions where sapience is required.” She pushed the door open to the witches changing room. He reached out and caught it before it swung shut.

“But then who’ll knock me off my broom, Bell?”

“I don’t think there will be a shortage of volunteers.”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “They wouldn’t do it right.” He grinned down at her, and Katie could feel her own lips involuntarily curving into a smile.

“Excuse me,” a voice from behind Katie said pleasantly. Katie turned to see two tall, smiling witches watching her and Marcus. “Can we get by?” Fighting down the desire to inform them that no, she’d be holding them for ransom, Katie flushed and stepped aside.

The taller of the two, a dark-haired witch, smiled at Katie as she went past before stopping just outside. “You’re Marcus Flint!”

Gee, what tipped her off? The Falcons robes? The teeth? The fact that he was carrying a huge broom bag with MARCUS FLINT lettered on it?

“Who wants to know?” Marcus said, irritably, eyes still locked on Katie’s.

“Oh, sorry,” the witch laughed. “Didn’t mean to be rude. We’re not broom bunnies or anything.” Oh, so they were just doing a wizarding census? “We’re just getting some practice in before the season.” The blonde, curvy witch next to her nodded vigorously.

Well, that had gained his attention. Marcus immediately glanced over at them, appraising. “You play?”

“Well, only semi-Pro,” the witch who wasn’t named Brunhilde said. Murgatroyd, Katie decided. Murgatroyd was a good name for her. “We’ve been invited to a few try-outs though. Of course, we’re nowhere near your level.”

“He’s not really Marcus Flint,” Katie broke in. “He’s actually a Marcus Flint impersonator. Hires out for kid’s birthday parties and the like. Scratches, swears and shoves like the genuine article.”

There was a pause as all three stared at Katie for a moment. Murgatroyd gave a polite chuckle that in actuality sounded like a cough, while Brunhilde simply nodded. Marcus was staring at her, a speculative look in his eyes. A brief flash of teeth in Katie’s direction and then he turned his attention back to the two witches who were waiting expectantly.

“So…do you two ladies practice here a lot?” he asked, grinning. Oh, original, Flint.

“Oh, you know,” Murgatroyd flirted back. “Anywhere and anytime we can.”

“If you’re willing to pay a tad extra for his services, he does confetti animals. And for the more discerning audience, a truly amazing bogie-conga line charm,” Katie said. This time, only Marcus spared her a glance. His attention was again quickly diverted, as happens with simple-minded creatures, by a bright and shiny object. In this case, an ever-so-precious charm of a chaser hanging in Brunhilde’s abundant cleavage. The quaffle was heart-shaped. There were no words.

“That a Scirocco?” Marcus asked, gesturing at the brunette’s broomstick. “A lot of the Harpies are flying those these days. Sweet, tight, little broom.”

“I like it,” she said, smiling. “Of course, in terms of power and size nothing could compare to yours.”

“He also performs under the name ‘Lance Longsteed’ at MagicaExotica on Tuesday nights,” Katie said, conversationally. “The Daily Prophet called his one-wizard show ‘A Boy and His Broomstick’ an ‘erotic feast for the senses.’ Cornelius Fudge is reputed to be a fan.”

Marcus shifted, letting go of the door and turning slightly away from Katie. As it swung shut, Katie could see the rapt attention on the faces of the two witches. She stood for a second, staring at the door. She could hear Marcus laugh wickedly, but couldn’t hear what the witches had said that was so damn clever.

She could get rid of them. Misdirection spells or a nausea spell would do it. Circe, telling them that a naked, amiable Viktor Krum was locked in the broomshed would probably work. What was she thinking? She could whisper to them that Marcus was planning to change positions to seeker, and they should ask him about it. Problem solved.

Katie disrobed and stepped into the shower, hot water cascading over her. It would only take her a few seconds to put the kibosh on the double-entendre diva and her top-heavy pal. Then she and Marcus could go to dinner. There were some cool Muggle places in the area…

What was she thinking? Marcus was helping her out. Katie had told him not to touch her. He had complied, in a distressingly casual fashion. She’d pretty much told him to look elsewhere. And now he was.

Fact: Two hot Quidditch girls were panting over Marcus. Fact: If he read his runes correctly, he could probably have both of them. Fact: As wonderful a conversationalist as she was, crab wontons with Katie probably couldn’t compare to a sexpot sandwich. Conclusion: The nicest thing Katie could do for Marcus would be to just disappear. Well, that should be easy at least. If there was one thing she was good at, it was fading into the background.

OK. It was decided. Katie dressed quickly, and pulled her wet hair back in a ponytail. She’d charm it dry when she got home. Best to get this over with.

As she strode out of the broomshed, Marcus glanced at her before returning to his conversation. “Really?” he said loudly. “On a broomstick? Sounds strenuous. You’ll have to demonstrate.” The two witches laughed. Katie rolled her eyes. They were still on ‘broomstick’. At this rate they’d never get to his other conversational topics of ‘cleavage’, ‘debutantes’, or ‘eagle owls, erotic uses of.’

The taller witch looked good with Marcus. Classy and athletic. Katie drew a deep breath. “So, I have to go, Flint. Enjoy your evening.”

“What?” he asked, startled.

“That’s great!” Brunhilde said, excitedly. “You can go out with us after all.”

“Remarkable how things work out,” Katie said briskly. “You three remember to wait half an hour after eating before you do ‘strenuous’ things on your broom.”

“Wait a sec-“ Marcus began. Katie disapparated.

~*~

Katie was in a foul mood and running late. She’d been nauseous and restless all night, tossing and turning. At least Flint should be in a wonderful mood today. Polite and professional, she lectured herself. She’d be a regular McGonagall.

He was waiting for her, looking grim. “Where’s breakfast?” he snapped. Katie had skipped the bakery this morning. Nausea and napoleons weren’t a good combination.

“I didn’t have time,” she said shortly. “Is there a problem?”

“Well, yeah, Bell,” he said, sourly. “I’m hungry. Seeing as someone was supposed to buy me dinner last night and welched.”

“Your playmates put you right to work?” Katie scoffed. “I’m surprised they wouldn’t feed you. I would have figured they’d want to keep your strength up.” OK. She’d already broken the ‘professional’ rule.

“Oh, yeah, next time you want to play ‘social secretary’, why don’t you do a good deed and try to get one of your Gryffindork friends laid,” Marcus sneered.

“Uh, because my friends actually have standards?” Katie asked, dryly.

“As do I, Bell.”

“Criteria involving bustlines and fellatio isn’t really ‘having standards’, Flint.” Well, that probably blew that whole ‘polite’ thing as well. Actually, it sailed right past ‘impolite’ into ‘shrew-ville’. Stop it, Katie. She’d already discussed this with herself.

“I saw two of your competitors for a Harpies slot fly last night, Bell. What did you do? Sit at home and write poems about how clever you are?”

Oh.

“How good were they?” Katie asked quietly. “Not the poems. How good were the witches? On the pitch, I mean,” she added hurriedly. Marcus shot her a dark look.

“Not bad. Not as good as you. Quidditch seems to come first with them though. As opposed to you, where it runs a distant second to pissing me off.”

“Quidditch comes first with me,” Katie protested.

“Yeah, unless I get a little rough physically. Or I get physical at all. Or I say something ‘suggestive’ to you. Or I say anything to someone else.”

“That’s not true,” Katie said, seriously. “Say whatever you want to me. The only way your repartee bothers me is the boredom caused by standing around waiting for you to come up with a rejoinder. Last night was just me trying to do you a favor. As for the…other, I thought that was settled.”

“A favor, Bell? By not buying me dinner? You were trying to help me keep my girlish figure?”

“Oh, c’mon, Flint,” Katie said, tiredly. “What’s your problem? You clearly were into them. Understandably.”

“I was having a conversation, and scoping out your competition, I might add, because I was bored. Because your little self was taking forever to get ready.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m quite the primpaholic.” Katie shot back. “Why are you denying this? It’s not a problem. Murgatroyd and Brunhilde: instant gratification for your eyes, body, and ego.”

”Murgatroyd?” he broke in, puzzled. “I thought her name was Kimberley.”

“Not the point,” Katie said, quickly. “But I am not aflood with pity for your situation. Seriously, once I got out of your way, your evening was like a game of choose your own goddess archetype: willowy patrician beauty or buxom earth mother.”

“Well, that answers one question at least,” Marcus snorted, gazing out over the pitch. “You do actually overthink everything.”

Katie felt something in her chest ease. The sullen anger had left his voice, replaced by exasperation and incredulity. Business as usual. Maybe things would be OK, if she could quit being so shrill. Not perfect, of course, but…friendly, for lack of a better term. They’d banter. He’d be around.

She dropped to the ground beside him, cross-legged. “Oh, no, Flint,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. “I have not yet begun to overthink. I mean, two witches…Just the symbolic dualism of your activities last night could keep any bitchy bluestocking occupied for hours.”

“Well, there’s something to look forward to,” he muttered.

“Might have to get Morag MacDougal in as a consultant,” Katie teased, forcing down the lump in her throat. “I’m sure she’d have a plethora of theories. I’ll need to start with some questions though. So, last night…manifestation of unconscious desire to return to the womb or just a carnal carnival?”

He didn’t answer her. Well, she hadn’t really been expecting an answer. She’d been expecting him to shout at her, or elbow her, or tell her how useless she was on a broom. Normal behaviour.

“We could call it a carnal-val, I guess,” Katie joked, nervously. “Would save time. But it might just sound like I’d been possessed by Crocodile Dundee.” She looked over at Marcus but he still wasn’t looking at her, just staring out over the pitch. “I wanted to have dinner with you. I was just trying to be a friend,” she continued diffidently.

He glared at her briefly before looking away. She couldn’t believe she was thinking this but he was actually easier to deal with when he was shouting. Interpretation of sullen glances wasn’t her forte.

“I think the Wizengamot would side with me,” she said briskly. “Trading fish and chips for an evening with the beautiful and aggressively accommodating is clearly a good deal. Clearly, that’s what you wanted to do. I wanted you to get what you wanted. So you’re mad because you didn’t get to humiliate me by just canceling our plans in front of them? Knock me off my broom an extra time and we’ll be even.”

More silence. If this kept up, Katie was going to have to resort to other tactics to facilitate open and honest dialogue. Like Cruciatus.

“All right, Flint,” Katie said, drawing a deep breath. “You’ve been here with me every single day almost. From the first thing in the morning until dinner, right?” Katie looked out over the pitch as well. She didn’t want him looking at her. He already knew too much of her, so why let him see more? “And, yeah, that leaves you the evenings, but you’ve got business stuff, and Falcons stuff, and all the other stuff that makes up your life to shove into those few hours, right? It’s not very fair to you. So…these witches? I mean, beautiful and all that, which I figured wasn’t too objectionable to you. Plus they knew Quidditch, and they probably eat at the same restaurants and go to the same clubs as you do. As you said, pissing you off isn’t the first thing on their priority list, so lovely company…for whatever you wanted. I just figured that your…penance, or whatever this is, shouldn’t totally mess up your life. You’re helping me and I appreciate it…more than you know. You shouldn’t have to suff-“

“Bell,” Marcus cut in harshly. Katie jumped in surprise. She turned to look at him. He was looking at her finally, but his face was closed off. There was nothing in it that could explain why her heart was suddenly racing.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he said flatly. They stared at each other for a long moment. Katie nodded hesitantly. “All right, then,” he said, standing. “Let’s get to work.”

*~*

It was a good practice. Bruising, intense, focused. Classic Marcus.

Interspersed with complaints about her concentration, her grip, the lack of breakfast. Classic Marcus.

They hit the ground at the same time, Katie finally managing the leg-swinging hip twist maneuver that Marcus always used to dismount. She grinned in triumph. She had gotten untold bruises attempting that while she was at Hogwarts.

Together, they walked silently back to the sheds, Katie trying to keep from blurting out some asinine-sounding invitation. She was pulling open the door to the witches shed, when Marcus caught her arm.

“Dinner?” he asked, casually.

“Oh, are you hungry?” Katie asked, innocently. “You really should have said something.”

He snorted. “Droll, Bell. So…we’re alone.”

A shiver shot through her body, and she abruptly released the door handle, jumping as the door slammed. “Uh…there are trees.”

Katie shut her eyes briefly. She really wished she had a time turner, to regain those precious few seconds that would allow her to spell-o-tape her mouth shut.

“True,” he snickered. “Your point being?”

“I thought we were engaging in an impromptu ‘extemporize the obvious’ contest,” she said, airily. “What does our being alone have to do with anything?”

“Well, it looks like you’ll actually have to buy dinner. Unless you were planning on calling an escort service to arrange for alternative companionship for me? As you are wont to do.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Dinner will be fine.”

“Just remember, I am starving, which means you need to get ready quick. Ease off the primping for once, all right, Bell?” he grinned. Katie snorted.

“Just remember, I get to pay,” Katie stressed. “Which means you have to put out.” He was gaping at her like a drunken skrewt, as she shut the door behind her and snickered. She never had a camera when she needed one.

A three-minute shower, and muttering her hair drying charm while pulling on her socks, and he still was ready before her. His hair was still wet though, glistening in the sunlight, and she could see that his shirt was damp where it stretched over his broad shoulders. Katie made a mental note to hire someone to kick her until this alarming tendency to moon about like a heroine in a romance novel written by Professor Trelawney subsided.

Where should they go? Someplace Muggle, definitely. Expand his horizons. Marcus wouldn’t have any Muggle money on him, so he’d have no chance but to let her pay. Either that or wash dishes. Just the thought of Marcus doing ‘elf’s work’ made her grin.

”What?” he asked suspiciously.

“How about a pub? There’s a good one within walking distance,” she suggested.

“So, we can walk amongst the villagers spreading largesse? Why don’t we apparate?” he asked, snidely.

“It’s a pretty day. Maybe I just wanted to get to take a stroll with you in the sunshine, enjoying your company.” Katie remarked, softly.

“Really?” he asked, startled.

“No,” Katie grinned. “Not really. Come on!”

~*~

Well, Katie hadn’t known what to expect.

When she’d dragged Marcus into the Disconsolate Grouse, she thought he might refuse to eat in a Muggle pub. She thought he might peer at the menu, suspiciously, or make horrified remarks regarding ‘toad in the hole.’

She hadn’t expected him to shake his head at the small tables in the crowded room. She hadn’t expected him to coolly commandeer the small private dining room, with nary a peep of protest from the management. She hadn’t expected to be sitting all alone with him, unless you counted the paintings of constipated pheasants. She hadn’t expected the Muggles to be so deferential to him, asking if ‘sir required anything’ while scurrying to light the small fireplace.

Bloody annoying it was.

“Problem, Bell?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, grinning at her.

“Why are we here?” she blurted.

“Well, the reason why I have to correct your quaffle grip every third day is becoming clear,” he snickered. “We’re eating dinner. You’re paying. A bit worrisome that you can’t remember that seeing as you reminded me of it a few hundred times on our way over here.”

“Believe me, I remember every second of your insufferable company,” Katie replied, snidely. “I meant, why aren’t we out in the pub with everyone else? Why are we eating in a room usually reserved for the likes of the ‘Urban Polecat Preservation Alliance’?”

“Instead of Muggle central? Quieter in here, don’t you think? Firelight, soft music, birds with apoplexy.” He grinned at her discomfiture. “Much more conducive to…conversation.”

OK. Bantering. She’d wanted him to banter with her. It would be easier to talk here, without having to shout over the noise from other tables or make sure nothing inappropriate to Muggle ears was said. A nice room. Lovely candles.

She stood up abruptly. “Sorry, I hadn’t considered that you might be uncomfortable in a Muggle place. There’s a wizarding pub down the street. Let’s go there. It’s very…well lit.”

“Sit down, Bell,” he snorted. “I’m not afraid of the ickle Muggles. I just didn’t want to spend the evening saying ‘laser pointer’ instead of wand, or whatever else that daft badger Millhouse is recommending these days.” Stanhope Millhouse was the commentator on WWN’s program ‘CaMuggleFlage’, a popular program about how to live undetected amongst the Muggles. He often proudly claimed that he’d never had to memory charm a suspicious Muggle. Katie had no doubt that that was true: Muggles, like other sapient creatures, tended to stay away from the obviously loopy.

Katie sat back down, trying to look nonchalant. “If you’re not uncomfortable then…”

The awkward silence was broken by the waiter, who bustled in to take both of their orders, glancing nervously at Marcus. Katie ordered fish and chips, and Marcus did the same, whether out of preference or simply imitation Katie couldn’t say. The small man bustled out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

They’d just about exhausted the conversational possibilities of the Harpies- assistant coaches were stupid, head coach was stupider, the general manager was rumored to be unable to find his arse with a staff of trained assistants-when the waiter returned with their order. Katie watched with interest as Marcus sampled his fish and chips.

“Pretty good,” he grunted.

“Surprised Muggles can do something well?” Katie inquired archly.

“I’m sure they can do plenty of things well, Bell,” he returned, smirking. “I just wish they’d do them far away from us.”

“So you’re in favor of excluding Muggle-born wizards and witches from the community then?” Katie asked, curious. “Let them wander around accidentally exploding toilets and occasionally floating, and just hope the Muggles decide to write them off as ‘eccentric’?”

“Nah,” Marcus said, between large bites of his dinner. “I think we should take them.”

“Take them where?” Katie asked, puzzled.

“From their parents. At birth,” he replied, calmly.

“What?” He couldn’t mean…

“I know that the spells to detect magical ability aren’t 100% reliable at that age, but they’re pretty good. If we pour some galleons into research, I bet we can refine the spells.” He spoke as if that could be the only possible problem with his plan.

“You want to steal their children?” In the back of her mind, Katie mused that Marcus had done it. He’d found a topic she couldn’t manage to be bright and amusing about.

“We’ve got two basic problems, Bell. First off, the Muggle parents are a huge security risk for our people. Check the Ministry numbers; a large percentage of hostile Muggle-Wizard contacts stem from irate parents who don’t want little Timmy to turn them into frogs. Second off, the wizarding bloodlines are thinning especially in the old pureblood families. They’re not having enough children. Give then children of the first group to the second group, at least those not too thick to recognize a way to save their family name. They can raise them in the old traditions. They can even cover it up if they want. Voila. Problem solved.”

“What about the Muggle parents? Don’t you think they’d object?”

“Memory spells, continually reinforced if necessary. We’ll save more than enough money, a thousand times more, not having to do all this Muggle-born entry into the community crap. We could do round-the-clock surveillance on them if we have to.”

“How are you going to repay them for stealing their children?” Katie asked, aghast. “Give them a cookie? A really big cookie?”

“They can have others,” Marcus said calmly. “They don’t care all that much about them in any case. Look how many turn up missing. Merlin, the Yanks have so many that they put them on their milk cartons. Part of a balanced breakfast,” he snorted.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Why not?” he asked, a little defensively. “What do you think we should do? Wring our hands, go to a lot of meetings and sit around waiting for things to erupt? Make bets on when we finally let it slip to the wrong person, and war breaks out?” His tone became a bit more sneering. “Just as long as you get to say that you didn’t do anything wrong, who cares if there’s a war?”

“No,” Katie said sharply. “I think we should reveal ourselves to the Muggles. Learn how to work with how things actually are, and quit dreaming about some long-lost Camelot where magic ruled. Note how my plan leaves out kidnapping.”

Marcus stared at her for a long moment, aghast, before shaking his head. “Tired of hanging around waiting for a war, Bell? Just want to get it on and over with?”

“Stealing their children will lead to war! If we come out in the open, I’m not saying that there won’t be problems, but they can be dealt with rationally. We won’t have given them a reason to hate us,” Katie said passionately.

“You’re wrong,” Marcus said, flatly. “They will hate us. They will have no choice but to exterminate us. Because…they’ll read about what spells can do, Katie. They’ll see memory modification spells, and Imperius, and restraint spells, and they’ll get what that means, Katie.”

“What does it mean?” Katie asked, coolly.

“You know what it means, Katie. Everyone does, although they pretend they don’t,” Marcus replied, leaning forward, voice slow and deliberate. “Come clean to the Muggles and at first it will be visits to the dragon reserves and trying to talk to bloody fairies, for Salazar’s sake. But sooner or later, slowly I have no doubt, one of them will start to think. They’ll start to think about their wives, or their daughters walking down some alley when a wizard comes up behind…”

Marcus was staring into the fire as his voice trailed off. Katie shivered. His voice had held the resonant quality of someone who’d rehearsed, if not the exact wording, the situation a thousand times in his head.

“There’s rape in the Muggle world too, Marcus,” she told him firmly.

“Memory charms, Bell. Only wizards can do it over and over again, with no one the wiser. Don’t even try to tell me that it doesn’t go on all the time.” Marcus had slouched back in his chair, arms crossed and eyes speculative. Katie felt a little cold.

“I don’t think it happens that often. But if it does, that only makes it more important that we reveal ourselves, teach the women the signs,” she replied earnestly. “At least make them aware it can happen! The Muggles aren’t going to blame all of us. They’ll be able to see how seriously the MLE takes crimes like that.”

Marcus laughed, sardonically. “Yeah, how long was Fergus Whitlock raping Muggles before the MLE caught up with him? Twenty years and then caught only because he raped a Squib by accident. That’ll really set the Muggles’ minds at ease.”

“I know you think the worst of Muggles, but they’re not stupid or crazy. They won’t want war.”

“Worrying every single day that it could happen. Looking at their wives and wondering if it’s already happened. Merlin, wondering if their children are even their own.” Marcus’ voice was soft, Katie noted, but it seemed to reverberate through her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. “No man who was worth anything could live with that. They’ll come after us because they’re not stupid or crazy.”

“If we steal their children, and they find out, it will never be over.” Katie paused. “They’d be convinced we are evil. And they’d be right.”

“So we never let them find out.” Marcus replied coolly.

“How do we do that?” Katie asked incredulously. “You’re talking about stealing many children, every year. Of course they’ll eventually find out!”

“We won’t have to do it every year, Bell. As we take the children with the strongest magic from the Muggle gene pool, there should be fewer and fewer Muggleborn wizards being born. In five or ten years, the wizarding bloodlines will be self-sustaining. After that point, we can choose to take only the children with the strongest wizarding potential, or none at all.”

“So they won’t notice their children disappearing for ten years?”

“We’re talking about a group of people who only occasionally think to wonder what snowy owls are doing flying around Basingstoke, for Pete’s sake,” Marcus scoffed. “I don’t think there will be a problem. Actually, I know there won’t. Their children disappear now. I might point out that wizarding children never just disappear.”

“Yeah, because we have a hundred different types of tracking spells! Veritaserum and memory-enhancing spells as well. Of course we don’t use them to help the Muggles find their missing children,” Katie said, bitterly. Marcus started to say something but Katie continued fiercely. “We’ll go to Muggle doctors for help sometimes, when there is no magical treatment available. We’ve got a whole Ministry office set up to help us with things like that. We’re parasites.”

“What happens when they do find out about us?” Marcus shot back. “Ducking stools, burning pyres, torture. Granted, not always particularly effective but they always give it a good old try.”

“A huge amount of our budget goes to keeping our secret, but that’s just a drop in the bucket. There have to be two solutions to every problem: Muggle and magical. Two separate cures. Two separate discoveries.” Katie broke off, swallowing hard, but Marcus remained silent, staring at her. “Who knows what we could accomplish if we worked together? How many lives could have been saved? How much better everything could be?” Katie fell silent, breathing heavily. She stared down at her hands, letting her hair fall, shielding herself from his gaze. She’d never said all that aloud before. To anyone.

She hadn’t felt him move. She only realized that he had after he’d tucked her hair behind her ear, exposing her face to his view. His hand hovered beside her ear for a second, before he pulled it back. She looked up, a little bashfully. Their eyes met for a second before he looked away.

“A pity your views aren’t more in the public eye, Bell,” he said, tone light but not mocking. “If more of the wizarding world thought that such a thing was truly possible, they’d fall all over themselves backing my plan.” He snorted. “Pity that ineffectual middle-of-the-roaders will always hold more sway than visionaries such as us.”

“My mother was a Muggle-born.”

“What?” Marcus looked at her as if she said her mother was a manticore.

“My mother was a Muggle-born,” Katie restated firmly, taking a deep breath. “My grandparents were muggles.” If he didn’t want to spend time with…coach her any more, so be it. She’d learned enough.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, impatiently. “And?”

Oh.

“If your plan were in effect, my mother would have been stolen! She would never have known my grandparents. She would have been raised by some rich strangers. I would never have known my grandfather! I’d have been raised by some rich blue-bloods to be their little princess.”

Katie didn’t know what she had expected, but it wasn’t Marcus laughing loud and long.

“Gods, Bell. You being a member of one of the old wizarding families. I’d really hate that,” he said, sarcastically.

“What do you mean?” Katie asked. She could feel her righteous fervor start to subside, being replaced by curiosity.

“No way, Bell,” he smirked, shaking his head. “I’m not going to risk upsetting you again. When that happens, I end up spitting teeth, or spell-o-taping my ribs, or conversing with bloody Weasleys.”

Katie snorted. “Do your worst, Flint.”

“Funny, that’s what the lovely Brunhilde said to me last night…Of course, right after she said it she wedged her broomstick between her breasts and wrapped her lips around the end of it, so she might have been talking about something else entirely,” he grinned.

“’Do your worst?’ Maybe she wanted you to smile at her,” Katie said sweetly, watching her tone for any hint of shrillness.

“Let me finish my story,” he chided. “Eyes sparkling up at me, breasts thrust forward, pouty lips around her broomstick…”

“Splinters in her tongue,” Katie broke in. “Sounds painful for you.”

“And then the truth became clear to me…” he continued, blithely.

“If this involves tweezers and your nether regions, I don’t want to know.”

“That with her broom pressed so tightly between her breasts like that, my final hopes were destroyed. For I had been yearning…Alas, she had no sandwiches stashed in her cleavage. So I went home.”

“With the other one?” Katie inquired, eyebrow arched.

“Don’t be daft, Bell,” Marcus snorted. “Did you see how tight her gear was? She had nowhere to conceal even a stick of Droobles, much less something sustaining.”

His eyes didn’t flicker, and he seemed as relaxed as ever. He seemed to be telling the truth. He hadn’t done anything with them. Katie felt a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Well…actually, he could be lying. He was good at it.

At least he cared enough about what she thought to lie about it. That didn’t mean anything, Katie firmly told herself, but the warm feeling didn’t go away.

Although, lying wasn’t exactly a hardship for him. He could simply be doing it for the exercise. To maintain the desired moral flexibility, as it were. It didn’t mean anything.

No matter what her stomach thought.

“So you spent the evening home alone, instead of with the willing and lamentably accessorized?” Katie asked, trying to make the question sound rhetorical. “What would your mates have said?”

“Last night?” Marcus grinned. “Probably something like ‘Take my enchiladas! Just stop hitting me!”

“So you were hungry enough to turn down female companionship and beat your friends?”

“Yes.”

“Why, pray tell, didn’t you take some of those glittering galleons you’re always carrying around and go to a restaurant?”

“Because, Bell,” he said, in a long-suffering tone of voice, “it’s the principle of the thing.”

“The principle,” Katie laughed.

“Absolutely,” he assured her, face solemn but eyes sparkling. “You welched on dinner. Until you made good on your promise, it would stain my honor to have eaten…,” Marcus said seriously, as Katie arched her eyebrow in disbelief, “much.” He grinned widely at Katie’s laughter. “There is a higher law, a moral code, as it were, Bell.”

“A moral code. I see,” Katie said, simply. “What did you say we were working on tomorrow?”

“Stealth chokeholds,” Marcus told her, casually. “Your gouging is coming along nicely I think.” He paused as Katie broke into giggles. “Is there a problem, Bell?” he asked, haughtily.

“Nothing at all,” Katie assured him, blithely. “Before we spun off into the Flint Gospels, you were going to tell me why it would have been better for my mother to have been taken from her parents.”

“Nah, you’ll just get mad.”

“When am I not mad at you, Flint? Spill.”

“No, you’ll get mad. Where you sputter, and then you get quiet. You’ll avoid me, and hence never make the Harpies, and die a lonely bitter old woman. More importantly, I won’t get any breakfast.”

“I won’t do that. I solemnly swear to shout at you until your ears bleed.”

“You promise such sweet things, Bell.”

“Furthermore, I vow to form the Feed A Flint Foundation,” she paused, laughing, “um, forthwith, if I stop speaking to you. Stop being such a flobberworm.”

He leaned back against the booth, arms crossed over his chest, considering her. Katie waited, silently challenging.

“Why would I want your mother to have been raised in a old pureblood family, Bell? It’s not complicated. Katie Bell: debutante. Our families both vacationing in Crete. Knocking a five-year-old you off your broom, thus correcting that half-assed grip of yours in it’s infancy.” His voice became lower, silkier. “You, returning to the table from the loo at some terminally boring dinner party, and running into me in a dark hallway.”

Katie couldn’t breathe. Marcus’ eyes hadn’t left hers, glittering obsidian. She could picture it, lost in a mansion, moving through corridors that all looked identical. Until she turned a corner and Marcus was standing at the end of the hallway, torchlight flickering over his robes. Waiting for her…

Focus, Katie. Baby-snatching.

“I see, you just wanted a chance to argue with me when I had a vocabulary of about twenty words. ‘Meanie Flint! Poop-head boy.’ That would be the only way you could ever win an argument with me.”

He smiled lazily. “Nah, Bell, I’d be content for you to have spent your nose-picking days in isolation, although your Quidditch game would have benefited from my early and constant assistance. But later…midnight at Stonehenge, with the sound of the drums.” His voice became even huskier. “Even better, spending Samhain in the caves, you on my lap with our families a few feet away, while some fat old fool capers around with a candle nattering on about pumpkins and slaughter.”

He’s just playing with you Katie, she thought. “Interesting how all these scenarios are dimly lit. Who gets the esteemed honor of snogging you at noon?”

“During the school day, Bell? Pushed up against the door in McGonagall’s classroom, or my hands moving underneath the potion’s desk, or behind a tree in Magical Creatures?” Katie could feel herself blush.

“Did witches’ average NEWT scores drop for your year? Or did you work out some sort of rotation system so they could at least take notes some of the time?”

“Interesting fact, Bell. Purebloods marry young, so your mother would have ended up having you three to four years earlier. So we’d probably have had lots of classes together. As for your NEWT scores, well…it’s a good thing you’re so clever, isn’t it?”

The blush intensified. Katie’s cheeks burned. “Well, in this little alternative universe of yours, apparently I’m not so clever…seeing as I seem to spend most of my time standing around in the dark.”

“You would, of course, be in Slytherin house,” he continued, ignoring her.

“What?” Katie sputtered. “Are you mad?”

“Purebloods, good families…their children are in Slytherin.” Irritation diminished the seductive lilt of his voice. Katie almost sighed in relief. Lying and annoyed-he was starting to behave more normally.

“The only way I would ever be anywhere near Slytherin house is if I was going to pull a Saint Patrick,” Katie said flatly.

“What? Who?”

“Saint Patrick. Drove the snakes out of Ireland. Muggle religious figure. Suspected wizard. Patron saint of food coloring.”

“Slytherin common room at three AM,” he continued, clearly ignoring her educational and informative history lesson. “Pushing you down on the couch, leaning over you as the firelight flickers behind us.”

His weight over her, orange light bathing his swarthy skin, as he grasped her wrists, immobilizing her. She swallowed hard.

“Again with the dark,” Katie managed to say, mockingly. “What’s next? A rousing game of Lumos tag?”

“You’d be on the Quidditch team, so long, sweaty practic-“

“Hold up,” Katie broke in, incredulous. “Me on the Slytherin Quidditch team? I realize that being raised by purebloods turned me dim, but did it also turn me into a boy?”

“I’m the Captain,” he said, brusque swagger back in his voice. “If I say you’re on the team, you’d be on the team.”

“Well, this is clearly a world apart. Maybe I’d be Captain.”

“Yeah, right, Bell,” he snorted. “Let’s not be farfetched here.”

“Oh, no...” Katie said, faintly. “We wouldn’t want that.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Grueling practices and long hot showers. Slipping back into the change room after the other players have left, surprising you. Watching you give in to me. What part of this did you think I was going to object to?”

Thoughts of green Quidditch robes hitting the floor, the sound of the change room deadbolt sliding into place, and fingers twining roughly in her ponytail flooded her. Dreams indistinguishable from memory. Katie felt cold sweat break out along her neck. It’s just a game, Katie. A skirmish. Remember that.

“So, who would you cut from the team to make room for me?” Katie asked, her voice a little weak. “Higgs or Warrington? Montague would be a lock, right? Warrington doesn’t play enough of a passing game.”

“Warrington would know to keep his eyes to himself,” Marcus said, lowly. “It would be a good squad. Good enough to beat the bloody Gryffs. I’d wait for you by the broom shed as you meandered toward the change room like you always do. Pull you inside…”

“I don’t care if it’s a parallel universe, Harry would still end up catching the snitch,” Katie replied, forcing herself to focus on the Gryffindor line-up, on how things actually were, not some bizarre, irresistible fantasy.

“We’d still win. We’d score so many fucking goals, you and I.” His voice had become even rougher, and she felt as though he was going to touch her. When she glanced down, though, she saw that his hands were on the table, fingers splayed wide, muscles in his forearms taut. “Later, in the broom shed, my hands would slip up underneath your robes as we listened to the rest of Hogwarts stroll past on their way back to the castle.”

Katie remained silent. She wanted to hear how it ended. His version of it, anyway.

“You shaking, whimpering like it was the first time,” he almost whispered. “Maybe it was.”

Lying naked underneath Marcus. The broom shed. Shadowy, with spiders skittering in the corners. The damp and chill air. Fear. His words began to recede.

“Are you done?” she asked, taking a deep breath. “With dinner, that is?”

“Yeah,” he replied, quickly leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I guess.” He looked away.

“OK, I’ll be right back. Could you ask for the cheque? I’ll take care of it as soon as I’m back,” she tossed the last over her shoulder, as she moved quickly toward the loo.

She looked tired, and young, in the mirror; a wide-eyed and pale girl stared back at her. Katie splashed some water in her face, willing the memories and fantasies to dissipate. Slowly, they did. Taking a deep breath, she smiled at her reflection, and then winced at the painful looking grimace. Finally able to school her features into a semblance of sanity, she went back to their table.

Marcus wasn’t there. She found him waiting by the doorway.

“Ready, Bell?”

“Just let me pay,” she muttered.

“I already did.”

”It’ll just take a sec-. What?”

“I paid.”

“No,” she said firmly, grateful to have something to argue about. “No, you couldn’t have.” She lowered her voice. “You don’t have any Muggle money.”

“Huh, and here I thought I did,” he smirked. “Wonder what I paid with then?” He pulled her out of the pub, and into the street.

Katie stopped, abruptly and looked at him. “Alright, how did you know to have Muggle money?” she asked, exasperated.

“I always have Muggle money on me, Bell,” he snorted. “I eat in Muggle places all the time. It’s the only way I can eat without someone wanting to know my favorite kind of seafood, or if I really set Mordeth Murcheson’s nose hair on fire in the last match with Ballycastle, or just wanting to lick my bloody bicep.” He laughed at her stunned expression. “You shouldn’t go around just assuming things about people, Bell.”

Katie felt back on what was always a last resort when dealing with Marcus: an appeal to his honor.

“You said I could pay,” she gritted out.

“And you can,” he assured her, as he backed away from her, moving down the street. “Right after you become a bit more clever. You can try again tomorrow if you like.” He gave her a truly infuriating grin, turned the corner, and was gone.

Bloody prat. Katie laughed.

~*~