Detained Chapter 10 Insinuation Part IIb
Disestablishmentarian. Pseudomagiutilization. Supercalifragism.
Katie knew lots of big words. Good words. Useful words.
‘No’ was a good word, too. She liked ‘no'. Useful in many situations.
“Bell, I’ve got some Quidditch books you should read. Tell me where your flat is, and I’ll drop them off. Save you some time.”
That would have been a good time for a ‘no'. Too bad it had escaped her.
It’s not like she hadn’t seen Marcus every day this week. She could deal with him on the pitch, where interludes of him shouting at her about various flaws in her game were broken up by periods of his shouting about other things. She could deal with him at the pub, where she could direct his ire at the fluorescent puddings, or the painting of the partridge wearing what appeared to be spectacles and a frock coat.
That didn’t mean she wanted him in her new flat though. She’d felt more comfortable only giving him the opportunity to criticize her game, and her person. In her flat, he could expand his repertoire to her sense of style, her choice of locations, and all her wordly possessions.
‘At St. Mungo’s. Emergency. Have mysteriously forgotten how to read. Will get books from you once I recover.’ Those were some fine words also.
A sharp knocking interrupted Katie’s planning. Blast. She swallowed hard and pulled open the door. Marcus stood there, filling the doorframe. His arms were full of books, and his robes were thrown over his arm. He’d probably just taken them off so not to cause comment in her Muggle building. Katie quickly stepped aside, ushering him in. He followed her into the flat, dumping the books and robe on the kitchen table.
“Thanks for loaning me these,” Katie said, wishing her voice sounded a bit more nonchalant and a bit less like a house elf with neurological problems. When did enunciation get so hard?
Marcus didn’t seem to notice. He shrugged, and turned to walk around the flat. He stopped at her desk, looking carefully at her photographs. Leaning over her bed, he spent another few minutes looking at her bookshelves. Prowling around her apartment, he ran his hand over the back of her grandfather’s old recliner, which suddenly looked cheap and dusty. His head almost touched the ceiling, which somehow made Katie feel a little claustrophobic.
He looked completely out of place, and yet not at all awkward. Katie had the feeling that if he stayed there for long, the flat would start rearranging itself into more suitable surroundings for him. The tatty old chairs would become sleek leather sofas, the butterbeer would morph into catastrophically expensive firewhiskey. Katie herself would probably be replaced by some curvaceous beauty who spoke fourteen languages. Well, either that or an Afghan Hound.
Actually, it was good her tongue wasn’t working too well right now. It was the only thing preventing her from asking milord if he’d like some wassail, or possibly a fatted calf.
Finally he was done with his surveying mission, and his eyes returned to Katie. Katie held her breath. Even though she’d spent almost every minute of the last few weeks in his company, she had absolutely no idea what he was going to say. Well, based on his recent track record, the most likely guess was that he’d yell at her about her quaffle grip and then slam bodily into her.
“There’s a bed in your kitchen,” he said, gruffly.
Well, that had broken the ice.
“Uh, what?” Eloquence, thy name is Bell.
“There’s a bed in your kitchen,” he repeated.
Confused, Katie looked around her kitchen. Table. Chairs. Well, chair, after Fred and George had used the other one for an impromptu demonstration of the many uses of gravity. Typical Muggle appliances: fridge, stove, microwave. No bed.
Oh, great. She could see the Daily Prophet article now. Falcons Star Suffers Breakdown in Flat with Extremely Tattered Couch.
Maybe the Muggle stuff confused him. “This is a refrigerator,” she said slowly and clearly, pointing to it. She did the same with the microwave, stove, and to be safe, the fichus.
“While I’m glad to see you’re using your words like a big girl,” Marcus said, rolling his eyes, “what are you on about?”
“Marcus,” Katie said, taking a deep breath. “Where is this bed that you’re talking about?”
He strolled over to her bed, resting his hand on the headboard. “This. Is. A. Bed,” he stated with overdone and completely unnecessary gravitas. Prat. “Next week, we’ll work on adjectives.”
“That’s not in the kitchen,” Katie shouted at him, completely exasperated.
Marcus gestured irritably towards the appliances. “Stove. Refrigerator. Fichus. Kitchen.”
Oh. Heh.
“This is an efficiency flat,” Katie explained, briskly. “No walls separating the living areas. The kitchen has the linoleum floor, though. The couch separates the bedroom from the living room, and the study is delineated by a…general miasma of scholarship.” It kind of was all one room, now that she thought about it.
“I don’t care what you call it,” Marcus retorted brusquely. “There’s still a bed in your kitchen.”
Katie decided belaboring the significance of the linoleum was probably a lost cause at this point. “OK…”
He looked at her darkly.
”What?” Katie cried out in bewilderment.
“Everyone who comes to your flat will be staring at your bed,” he explained to her, gruffly, walking over to her and looking down at her very intently.
“I know you don’t know much about life among the little people,” Katie told him archly. “However, a bed really isn’t all that much of a luxury. The Weasley’s might not have a lot of money, but the twins can view a bed without succumbing to a fit of the vapors.”
“The twins were here?” Marcus asked in a low voice, jaw clenched.
“Yeah…they helped me move in,” Katie said, puzzled. She looked into Marcus’ eyes, trying to figure out what was up. He jerked his gaze away, staring at his hand as he ran it along the counter top.
“Wood?” he asked, coldly.
“Uh, no. Formica.”
His gaze snapped to her again. “Was Oliver Wood here?” he asked, with what seemed like savagery, but must have been indigestion or something.
“No…” Katie replied, puzzled. “Is something wrong?”
“Just wanted to make sure I’m not in an Oliver-Wood infected area,” he said snidely. “I haven’t gotten the vaccine.”
“Don’t worry,” she returned, sweetly. “If you develop either a Scottish accent or good manners, I’ll rush you to St. Mungo’s immediately.”
“Thanks, Bell,” he grinned down at her. “However, I’m more concerned about the other symptoms-humorless moralizing and becoming dumber than a statue of Galloway made entirely out of mashed potatoes.”
“Be nice. After all, he doesn’t have your educational advantages-what with only taking the NEWTs once and all.”
“Are you kidding me? Snape would have taken his NEWTs for him rather than put up with the eejit of Edinburgh for another year.”
“Knew Slytherin wouldn’t win the Cup while Wood was Captain?”
“Hey! I won the Cup twice while Wood was your Captain. He won one measly year, probably because everyone shoves their nose so far up Potter’s ass that it gives him extra momentum.” He smirked at her outraged glare. “Besides, why bother sabotaging Gryffindor when they’re so willing to do it for us?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, what would you call it when the cleverest Quidditch mind that they’ve had in recent memory steps aside and gives the Captaincy to DeathInABassinet Harry?”
“As opposed to the Slytherin Captain, ‘I have equal amounts of Quidditch talent and pigmentation’ Malfoy?” Katie hissed. “And we still beat Slytherin by the way! And thank you!”
“You’re welcome, Katie.” His voice was low, and he reached out and brushed her hair back over her shoulder. Katie swallowed. How did he switch gears so fast? He hadn’t moved closer to her, but in a way that made it harder. If he pushed, she could shove him away. He wasn’t pushing though. He seemed to be waiting.
What did normal people talk about? What they had done that week for one, but all she’d done was practice with Marcus. Unless he had extremely poor short-term memory, that would be an awkward conversation. Well, she had moved into her flat but that seemed to be a sore subject. Politics? She’d been so busy that she hadn’t even had a chance to see where Fudge was placing his tongue these days.
This was absurd. She always had something to say, especially around Marcus. She was an adult now. She had her own place. Adults talked about taxes, home repairs, and particularly gruesome magical mishaps. Opening conversational gambit: ‘I can’t believe our taxes are being spent on medical treatment for people who have tied their intestines into the shape of a bunny rabbit. It really grouts my tile.’ OK, maybe not.
He was still looking at her. She could punch him. That would alleviate the awkwardness.
Maybe they really didn’t have anything to say to each other besides Quidditch talk and plots of infant abduction. Ironic. They’d never been civil to each other for long enough to realize that there was no common ground or feeling between them. Someday in the future, she’d walk down the street and say hello to him and he’d wonder who she was, just having a faint memory involving detention, Quidditch, and tongues. If they ever left the flat that is. Maybe they’d just stand there forever, until one of them keeled over from thirst and the other…
“Would you like something to drink?” Oh. Words. Good. Maybe her larynx had a little brain of its own.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, stepping back a bit. “Butterbeer would be great.”
“You sure?” Katie moved past him towards the fridge. “I have firewhiskey. Ogden’s Classic. Not up to your usual standards, I’m sure, but your liver won’t request amnesty if you drink it.”
“You have firewhiskey?” he asked. Something in his voice made Katie turn around. He looked serious. “Why?”
Katie wondered why she did have it. Her friends didn’t drink it much. If the Weasleys wanted alcohol, they’d throw some fermentation figs in some pumpkin juice or something. Cheap but effective. Katie could still faintly taste their Watermelon and Waffle Whammy. Ugh. The only person she knew who drank much firewhiskey was…
“Um…it’s for my dad.” That was possible. Dad might like firewhiskey…if he was engaging in a little light surgery at her flat, and needed antiseptic.
It didn’t mean anything. Firewhiskey was just something adults had, along with umbrella stands and paintings of crups. She’d look into getting the other two tomorrow.
She poured the firewhiskey, hearing him come up behind her. Quickly pivoting and handing him the glass, she moved to sit on the kitchen table. She stared at the books he’d brought, avoiding his gaze.
“Thanks. You’re not having any?” he asked.
“Firewhiskey and I don’t mix,” Katie said shortly, before flashing a brief smile. “So any suggestions on where I should start with the books?”
Looking at her speculatively, he pulled a chair out and sat next to her. He went through the stack of books, setting most off to the side.
“Not much of immediate importance in these,” he muttered. “All right, distance shadowing techniques-read this chapter, at least. We’ll have to do defensive holds in practice, so don’t bother reading those parts. All the formation flying sections in Frobisher. Situational broom grips…hard to get those from reading, it will work better if I show you. ‘Questionable Quidditch Tactics’-great book. Read it all.” He flipped through some pages. “Remind me, I need to show you the lover’s knot maneuver tomorrow. And several variations.”
“How come everything that we need to work on now involves manhandling me?” Katie snorted. “I note that everything that requires highly precise flying or delicacy, I can just read about. Man, for a pro Quidditch player, you are lazy.”
“Me lazy?” Marcus scoffed. “I’m not the one who blew off Quidditch practice to have a three-way with the twins.”
Pig. Katie rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, it was quite the erotic experience,” Katie shot back. “Oh, oh! George! Lift with your legs, not your back.”
“I can’t believe that’s your idea of manly help,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Two Weasleys. Surely, there was someone stronger and smarter that you could ask.”
“Ang and Ali were here, too,” Katie informed him, pertly. Her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t we just go ahead and bypass whatever crass ‘orgy’ reference that you’re about to make?”
His mouth snapped shut before breaking into a wide grin. “Fair enough. So, what do your little friends think of your summer activities?”
Oh. Blast. How should she field this one? ‘Well, I haven’t actually told them…because being bodily restrained and forced to undergo deprogramming is so tiresome?’ Huh. It was the truth but there had to be a more diplomatic way to say it.
“It hasn’t come up.” Well, it was the truth.
“You’re kidding,” he scoffed. “Like you have any secrets from those two, Bell. All girls yammer on and on about everything to their friends.”
“We do not!” Katie said, outraged.
“What should I wear? What does he think about me?” Marcus mocked in a truly hideous falsetto. “It was all just so exciting! I was dying to tell you.”
“What’s that an impression of? Falcon’s locker room talk?”
“C’mon, Katie,” Marcus smirked at her. “You know that you told them. It’s part of the female package, along with liking unicorns, and reading ‘Estrella Escalade:Teen Investigative Witch’ novels under the desk in Charms class. You’re a slave to biology.”
“Marcus…” Katie paused, trying to come up with something suitably scathing. “Evolve.”
She’d never tell Ang and Ali, not that she had been going to any way. No second opinions could be worth having to look at the smirk on Marcus’ face if he found that she blabbed.
“Slights about male immaturity, Bell,” he laughed. “Textbook female.”
She snapped.
“I am never going to tell any of my friends about this,” she hissed. “Why would you ever think I’d want to?” She wanted to take it back as soon as she said it. Marcus had given up his summer to coach her. Why was she getting so agitated? Because he was arrogant and occasionally insulting? Hardly breaking news in the Daily Prophet.
He didn’t look annoyed though. He looked satisfied. Maybe because he’d reduced her to a screeching harpy-probably another ‘female’ behaviour in his mind. Katie gritted her teeth, and waited for his next sally.
“So, I thought we’d do some timing drills tomorrow,” he informed her. “Give your bruises a day off.”
“OK…” Katie muttered, caught off guard. She recovered quickly. “I’m fine but if your creaking bones would like a respite…”
“Willing to give my body a rest from your ceaseless physical demands, Bell?” he grinned.
“If I knee you in the groin, does your other brain become operational?” Katie mused.
“If I spell your mouth shut, do the nerve endings below your waist start to work?”
“I don’t know,” Katie replied, cheerily. “Let’s test our hypotheses. I’ll go first. Could you stand up please?”
Marcus gave her an appraising look, and grinned. “I’d call that bluff…if I believed for a second that it was one.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’ve known bloodthirsty people, Bell, and I’ve known sweetly impish ones. You’re the only one I’ve ever met who is both.”
Wow. She sounded pretty cool. Huggable and homicidal.
Excellent.
“Well, Flint, if you go around accusing me of reading Estrella Escalade books, you need to accept the consequences,” she shot back. “By the way, for such a manly man, you sure know a lot about a series of books that feature a witch who solves mysteries by interrogating forest creatures and twirling her hair.”
He had the grace to look abashed. “Brutus read them,” he snorted. “He said the subtext was fascinating.”
“Still doesn’t explain how you know so much about them. Oh, wait! It does. Story hour.”
“Sounds like you like that idea, Bell,” he said lazily, looking her up and down. “Is it just the thought of getting to sit in my lap?”
Katie could feel her cheeks flush. If she couldn’t find a spell to stop herself from blushing, she was just going to start wearing a Muggle wrestling mask every time she saw Marcus. That would be probably equally embarassing but at least she’d get to pick out a cool name: Kamikaze Katie or Bell-A-Donna. No! Ding Dong Death.
“Nah, I think it’s the thought of the Slytherin Quidditch team, all sitting on the floor, gathered around Professor Snape as he reads aloud from “Buffin Batsworth, Human Bludger.”
“Gods, Bell,” he choked. “What a horrible, horrible image.”
“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Katie agreed, thoughtfully. “Snape would be a terrible storyteller. He probably wouldn’t even do the voices. I mean, can you really see him giving the conniving jarvey, Bagshot, the requisite chutzpah?”
Marcus snorted. “He probably wouldn’t even sound out the blood spattering and bone crunching sounds. Gods, what great books those were.”
“They were,” Katie grinned. “Machinations and violence and Quidditch. And the author was kind enough to put all the apologies and morals and meaningful learning experiences in the last chapter, so you could easily avoid them by stopping ten pages from the end.”
“Yeah, I never finished one of those books,” Marcus agreed. “I had almost all of them, I think. I read them so many times.”
“Yeah, me too.” Katie smiled. “Except for the one where he liked that annoying girl.”
“Prunella,” Marcus shuddered. They stood looking at each other for a moment.
“Did you read the last one? The one that just came out?” Katie asked. “Apparently the author became convinced that someone wanted to steal it, you-know-who, I think, or maybe Lockhart, so he hid it. He made a paper airplane collection with it.”
“Nah,” Marcus said, striving mightily to look unexcited, in Katie’s considered opinion. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Do you want to borrow it?” she asked shyly. Marcus shrugged in a way that attempted to convey his complete and utter disinterest in such trivial things, and failed miserably. Katie bit back a giggle. It was refreshing to see the Machiavellian Marcus be so amusingly transparent.
She hopped off the table.
“So…is this what you do when you get bored, Bell?” Marcus drawled. “Play a game of ‘Let’s Pretend We’re Madam Pince’?”
“No,” Katie replied, sweetly. “If that was what I was doing, I would be shouting at you. Or curating the impressive collection of centaur pornography that is hidden in the Restricted Section.”
Marcus almost choked on his firewhiskey. “Really? Is it strictly centaur on centaur stuff? Or is there ‘hot biped action’?”
“Perv.” Katie rolled her eyes. “Actually, Madam Pince’s interest is purely intellectual, I’ll have you know.”
”Oh, really?”
“Certainly,” Katie said, seriously. “Perhaps you missed her article in the August issue of ‘Library Magic’ concerning the etymology of ‘hung like a horse’?”
“Gods, Bell,” Marcus sputtered, this time actually choking a bit. “Perv.” He sounded a little admiring.
“I do try,” she replied, grinning impishly. She started to move toward the bookshelves, bending over to scoop up some books she had piled on the floor near her bed.
“If only we had known of the untold wealth hidden in Hogwarts’ library…” Marcus mused.
“More Slytherins would have learned how to read,” Katie laughed, turning around so she could watch him glare. He didn’t though. He jerked his gaze away from her abruptly. What was his problem?
Shrugging, she clambered quickly over her bed to get to the bookshelves. Who needed a floor? Maybe she should just install rings in the ceiling and then the lack of floor space wouldn’t be a problem. Plus she could play Tarzan. Ah, there it was on the third shelf: ‘Hey! He Broke My Ribs!’ A classic for the ages. Marcus still hadn’t said anything.
“So is it the rippling hindquarters that does it for you, or do you really just want to braid their tails?” Katie asked. “Maybe it’s the chance to say ‘you’re such a stallion’ non-ironically?”
“What?” He was looking at her again, clearly confused.
“The centaur smut? You’ve been really quiet since we talked about it.” He didn’t say anything. “Just trying to figure out what’s so appealing. Because personally I would have pegged you as more a house-elf fetishist, what with the obedience and the foodstuffs.”
“Just because Gryffindor’s prefer one-stop shopping in terms of servants, shags and steeds, whether because it’s more cost-effective or because they’re easily confused,” Marcus began, sneering, “we in Slytherin house-“ He broke off abruptly as Katie vaulted back over her bed, yanking his gaze away.
“You in Slytherin house?”
“Uh, in Slytherin house, we…don’t.” He muttered, shifting in his chair.
Well, that was weak. Katie glanced around her flat with interest. Was there something there that had the power to destroy Marcus’ ability to banter? He definitely looked a little off. He still wasn’t looking at her.
“I can wait if you need more time to work on your comeback,” Katie said, politely. “Let me know when you’re ready.” She sat cross-legged on her bed, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing.
“Droll, Bell,” he snarled, glancing over at her. “Uh…” He broke off, and resumed inspecting her fichus, rubbing the back of his neck with one large hand. “What was with your crap passes today? You looked like some first year in a food fight.” This was still addressed to her ficus.
Maybe she could figure out what was bothering him by triangulation, she mused. Keeping the banter going on her many Quidditch failings, she began to move slowly around the flat. She didn’t have to say much, as Marcus was always willing to hold forth on his favorite topic. Most of the time when she was in the living room, he watched her. As she moved back in front of the bookshelves he again looked away briefly.
Hmm. Moving slowly back and forth in front of her bed area, she watched him carefully, trying to see exactly when he’d look away. His eyes were fixed on hers though. OK, if she moved out in ever increasing semi-circles…Now he was flat out staring.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, bluntly.
Oh damn. “What do you mean?” she asked, innocently.
“Are you on some kind of pilgrimage of your flat?” he asked, sarcasm lacing his tone. “Are you in orbit around your bed? Are Gryffindors required to take a vow of perpetual motion?”
“Um, no, not in Gryffindor house.” Oh, great. Vapidity was contagious. Katie took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. “Uh, Feng shui.”
“Bless you.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Feng shui. It’s a Muggle thing. It has to do with the position of things, and the balance of, uh, forces, I think.” Marcus looked at her like she was one crumple-horned snorkack sighting away from the psychiwizardry floor at St. Mungo’s. “My apartment is small, and you’re so big, that you’re disrupting the Feng Shui. I was just trying to figure out how best to position you for proper….Feng Shui-ness.”
He looked at her for a long moment, before shaking his head. “Alright. That sounds daft enough to be a Muggle thing. I should go before I disturb the cosmic forces any more.” He paused. “Or before you get any loopier. Take your pick.”
“Oh, you don’t have to go,” Katie said, hurriedly. “We’ll just push the sofa six feet to the left or something.”
“No,” he exhaled, pushing his hands through his hair. “I really should go. Goodnight, Katie.” He smiled at her, not hiding his teeth. Katie smiled back.
“OK,” she moved quickly back to the kitchen, feeling unaccountably bashful. “Here’s the book. Thanks for coming over.” He stood quickly, turning away and pulling on his billowing robes over his Muggle clothing.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the book hurriedly. “Get some defensive spells and some wizard locks put on your balcony door. It’s too easy to break into.”
“I’ve heard that,” Katie smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah.” He already had his wand pulled out. He apparated away with a sharp crack, leaving Katie standing in her kitchen, alone.
She moved over to the pile of books on the table, quickly eschewing the ones that he had told her to read. No homework tonight. A particularly beat-up volume entitled ‘Advanced Chaser Techniques: From the Ludicrously Difficult to the Almost Certainly Fatal’ caught her eye.
Katie grabbed it, and then curled up in her grandfather’s chair. The first page made her laugh. ‘This Book Belongs to Marcus Flint,’ it read, in the careful hand of a young child. The rest of the page was filled with a laundry list of dire warnings of what would happen to anyone who touched the book without permission. Marcus had clearly added to the list over the years, adding new threats, and changing existing ones as his vocabulary grew. Adjectives had been inserted, to explain precisely how painful something would be.
Castration was featured prominently, and a small cartoon was included, in case the meaning was unclear. ‘Cut your head off’ had been replaced with ‘decapitation’, and ‘choke’ became ‘strangulation.’ Katie had to resist the urge to write in ‘defenstration’ where a young Marcus had truly spread himself on how he would toss the unfortunate reader out the window. ‘Feed you to a giant squid’ had remained unchanged throughout the years. Katie was rather disappointed that there wasn’t a picture.
At the end of the list, it read ‘and then you will cry’. A tricky feat since at that point the reader would have had no eyes. Book thieves must have been a hardy lot.
Smiling, Katie began to flip through the pages detailing the techniques. Next to each one was a series of checkmarks and a date. The date seemed to correspond to the date Marcus had first succeeded with that particular maneuver. Given that the more difficult maneuvers had more checkmarks, Katie figured those must stand for unsuccessful attempts. Merlin, he had been six or seven when he completed some of them. Every maneuver had a date after it.
One page was filled with checkmarks. The Torque Paraplegia maneuver. An insane move, where the chaser had to hang upside down, legs wrapped around the broomstick, scoop up the quaffle, and then loop 180 degrees while managing to clamber back on, so the chaser would again be astride their broom heading in the opposite direction. The only time it was useful was when the quaffle was on the ground; this meant the chaser’s head dangled dangerously just above the ground at high speeds. Concussions were almost a certainty, neck fractures were not a rarity, and decapitations were rumoured. Katie had never even heard of someone actually doing it in the modern era, but here was a page filled with hundreds of checkmarks. A date was written at the end of the page, from when Marcus was fourteen. Next to it, in block lettering, were the words ‘FUCKING FINALLY.’ The quill had been pressed into the paper so hard that it had ripped a little.
Marcus had a long, jagged scar at his hairline. He wore his hair a little longer in front to cover it, and Katie had only seen it when he pushed his hair back, to stop sweat from dripping into his eyes. She’d always wondered how he got it. Now she knew.
Her fingers traced the words mindlessly, as she thought of a young Marcus, dirty and tired, perfecting the maneuvers in an empty field, alone.
Katie knew lots of big words. Good words. Useful words.
‘No’ was a good word, too. She liked ‘no'. Useful in many situations.
“Bell, I’ve got some Quidditch books you should read. Tell me where your flat is, and I’ll drop them off. Save you some time.”
That would have been a good time for a ‘no'. Too bad it had escaped her.
It’s not like she hadn’t seen Marcus every day this week. She could deal with him on the pitch, where interludes of him shouting at her about various flaws in her game were broken up by periods of his shouting about other things. She could deal with him at the pub, where she could direct his ire at the fluorescent puddings, or the painting of the partridge wearing what appeared to be spectacles and a frock coat.
That didn’t mean she wanted him in her new flat though. She’d felt more comfortable only giving him the opportunity to criticize her game, and her person. In her flat, he could expand his repertoire to her sense of style, her choice of locations, and all her wordly possessions.
‘At St. Mungo’s. Emergency. Have mysteriously forgotten how to read. Will get books from you once I recover.’ Those were some fine words also.
A sharp knocking interrupted Katie’s planning. Blast. She swallowed hard and pulled open the door. Marcus stood there, filling the doorframe. His arms were full of books, and his robes were thrown over his arm. He’d probably just taken them off so not to cause comment in her Muggle building. Katie quickly stepped aside, ushering him in. He followed her into the flat, dumping the books and robe on the kitchen table.
“Thanks for loaning me these,” Katie said, wishing her voice sounded a bit more nonchalant and a bit less like a house elf with neurological problems. When did enunciation get so hard?
Marcus didn’t seem to notice. He shrugged, and turned to walk around the flat. He stopped at her desk, looking carefully at her photographs. Leaning over her bed, he spent another few minutes looking at her bookshelves. Prowling around her apartment, he ran his hand over the back of her grandfather’s old recliner, which suddenly looked cheap and dusty. His head almost touched the ceiling, which somehow made Katie feel a little claustrophobic.
He looked completely out of place, and yet not at all awkward. Katie had the feeling that if he stayed there for long, the flat would start rearranging itself into more suitable surroundings for him. The tatty old chairs would become sleek leather sofas, the butterbeer would morph into catastrophically expensive firewhiskey. Katie herself would probably be replaced by some curvaceous beauty who spoke fourteen languages. Well, either that or an Afghan Hound.
Actually, it was good her tongue wasn’t working too well right now. It was the only thing preventing her from asking milord if he’d like some wassail, or possibly a fatted calf.
Finally he was done with his surveying mission, and his eyes returned to Katie. Katie held her breath. Even though she’d spent almost every minute of the last few weeks in his company, she had absolutely no idea what he was going to say. Well, based on his recent track record, the most likely guess was that he’d yell at her about her quaffle grip and then slam bodily into her.
“There’s a bed in your kitchen,” he said, gruffly.
Well, that had broken the ice.
“Uh, what?” Eloquence, thy name is Bell.
“There’s a bed in your kitchen,” he repeated.
Confused, Katie looked around her kitchen. Table. Chairs. Well, chair, after Fred and George had used the other one for an impromptu demonstration of the many uses of gravity. Typical Muggle appliances: fridge, stove, microwave. No bed.
Oh, great. She could see the Daily Prophet article now. Falcons Star Suffers Breakdown in Flat with Extremely Tattered Couch.
Maybe the Muggle stuff confused him. “This is a refrigerator,” she said slowly and clearly, pointing to it. She did the same with the microwave, stove, and to be safe, the fichus.
“While I’m glad to see you’re using your words like a big girl,” Marcus said, rolling his eyes, “what are you on about?”
“Marcus,” Katie said, taking a deep breath. “Where is this bed that you’re talking about?”
He strolled over to her bed, resting his hand on the headboard. “This. Is. A. Bed,” he stated with overdone and completely unnecessary gravitas. Prat. “Next week, we’ll work on adjectives.”
“That’s not in the kitchen,” Katie shouted at him, completely exasperated.
Marcus gestured irritably towards the appliances. “Stove. Refrigerator. Fichus. Kitchen.”
Oh. Heh.
“This is an efficiency flat,” Katie explained, briskly. “No walls separating the living areas. The kitchen has the linoleum floor, though. The couch separates the bedroom from the living room, and the study is delineated by a…general miasma of scholarship.” It kind of was all one room, now that she thought about it.
“I don’t care what you call it,” Marcus retorted brusquely. “There’s still a bed in your kitchen.”
Katie decided belaboring the significance of the linoleum was probably a lost cause at this point. “OK…”
He looked at her darkly.
”What?” Katie cried out in bewilderment.
“Everyone who comes to your flat will be staring at your bed,” he explained to her, gruffly, walking over to her and looking down at her very intently.
“I know you don’t know much about life among the little people,” Katie told him archly. “However, a bed really isn’t all that much of a luxury. The Weasley’s might not have a lot of money, but the twins can view a bed without succumbing to a fit of the vapors.”
“The twins were here?” Marcus asked in a low voice, jaw clenched.
“Yeah…they helped me move in,” Katie said, puzzled. She looked into Marcus’ eyes, trying to figure out what was up. He jerked his gaze away, staring at his hand as he ran it along the counter top.
“Wood?” he asked, coldly.
“Uh, no. Formica.”
His gaze snapped to her again. “Was Oliver Wood here?” he asked, with what seemed like savagery, but must have been indigestion or something.
“No…” Katie replied, puzzled. “Is something wrong?”
“Just wanted to make sure I’m not in an Oliver-Wood infected area,” he said snidely. “I haven’t gotten the vaccine.”
“Don’t worry,” she returned, sweetly. “If you develop either a Scottish accent or good manners, I’ll rush you to St. Mungo’s immediately.”
“Thanks, Bell,” he grinned down at her. “However, I’m more concerned about the other symptoms-humorless moralizing and becoming dumber than a statue of Galloway made entirely out of mashed potatoes.”
“Be nice. After all, he doesn’t have your educational advantages-what with only taking the NEWTs once and all.”
“Are you kidding me? Snape would have taken his NEWTs for him rather than put up with the eejit of Edinburgh for another year.”
“Knew Slytherin wouldn’t win the Cup while Wood was Captain?”
“Hey! I won the Cup twice while Wood was your Captain. He won one measly year, probably because everyone shoves their nose so far up Potter’s ass that it gives him extra momentum.” He smirked at her outraged glare. “Besides, why bother sabotaging Gryffindor when they’re so willing to do it for us?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, what would you call it when the cleverest Quidditch mind that they’ve had in recent memory steps aside and gives the Captaincy to DeathInABassinet Harry?”
“As opposed to the Slytherin Captain, ‘I have equal amounts of Quidditch talent and pigmentation’ Malfoy?” Katie hissed. “And we still beat Slytherin by the way! And thank you!”
“You’re welcome, Katie.” His voice was low, and he reached out and brushed her hair back over her shoulder. Katie swallowed. How did he switch gears so fast? He hadn’t moved closer to her, but in a way that made it harder. If he pushed, she could shove him away. He wasn’t pushing though. He seemed to be waiting.
What did normal people talk about? What they had done that week for one, but all she’d done was practice with Marcus. Unless he had extremely poor short-term memory, that would be an awkward conversation. Well, she had moved into her flat but that seemed to be a sore subject. Politics? She’d been so busy that she hadn’t even had a chance to see where Fudge was placing his tongue these days.
This was absurd. She always had something to say, especially around Marcus. She was an adult now. She had her own place. Adults talked about taxes, home repairs, and particularly gruesome magical mishaps. Opening conversational gambit: ‘I can’t believe our taxes are being spent on medical treatment for people who have tied their intestines into the shape of a bunny rabbit. It really grouts my tile.’ OK, maybe not.
He was still looking at her. She could punch him. That would alleviate the awkwardness.
Maybe they really didn’t have anything to say to each other besides Quidditch talk and plots of infant abduction. Ironic. They’d never been civil to each other for long enough to realize that there was no common ground or feeling between them. Someday in the future, she’d walk down the street and say hello to him and he’d wonder who she was, just having a faint memory involving detention, Quidditch, and tongues. If they ever left the flat that is. Maybe they’d just stand there forever, until one of them keeled over from thirst and the other…
“Would you like something to drink?” Oh. Words. Good. Maybe her larynx had a little brain of its own.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, stepping back a bit. “Butterbeer would be great.”
“You sure?” Katie moved past him towards the fridge. “I have firewhiskey. Ogden’s Classic. Not up to your usual standards, I’m sure, but your liver won’t request amnesty if you drink it.”
“You have firewhiskey?” he asked. Something in his voice made Katie turn around. He looked serious. “Why?”
Katie wondered why she did have it. Her friends didn’t drink it much. If the Weasleys wanted alcohol, they’d throw some fermentation figs in some pumpkin juice or something. Cheap but effective. Katie could still faintly taste their Watermelon and Waffle Whammy. Ugh. The only person she knew who drank much firewhiskey was…
“Um…it’s for my dad.” That was possible. Dad might like firewhiskey…if he was engaging in a little light surgery at her flat, and needed antiseptic.
It didn’t mean anything. Firewhiskey was just something adults had, along with umbrella stands and paintings of crups. She’d look into getting the other two tomorrow.
She poured the firewhiskey, hearing him come up behind her. Quickly pivoting and handing him the glass, she moved to sit on the kitchen table. She stared at the books he’d brought, avoiding his gaze.
“Thanks. You’re not having any?” he asked.
“Firewhiskey and I don’t mix,” Katie said shortly, before flashing a brief smile. “So any suggestions on where I should start with the books?”
Looking at her speculatively, he pulled a chair out and sat next to her. He went through the stack of books, setting most off to the side.
“Not much of immediate importance in these,” he muttered. “All right, distance shadowing techniques-read this chapter, at least. We’ll have to do defensive holds in practice, so don’t bother reading those parts. All the formation flying sections in Frobisher. Situational broom grips…hard to get those from reading, it will work better if I show you. ‘Questionable Quidditch Tactics’-great book. Read it all.” He flipped through some pages. “Remind me, I need to show you the lover’s knot maneuver tomorrow. And several variations.”
“How come everything that we need to work on now involves manhandling me?” Katie snorted. “I note that everything that requires highly precise flying or delicacy, I can just read about. Man, for a pro Quidditch player, you are lazy.”
“Me lazy?” Marcus scoffed. “I’m not the one who blew off Quidditch practice to have a three-way with the twins.”
Pig. Katie rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, it was quite the erotic experience,” Katie shot back. “Oh, oh! George! Lift with your legs, not your back.”
“I can’t believe that’s your idea of manly help,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Two Weasleys. Surely, there was someone stronger and smarter that you could ask.”
“Ang and Ali were here, too,” Katie informed him, pertly. Her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t we just go ahead and bypass whatever crass ‘orgy’ reference that you’re about to make?”
His mouth snapped shut before breaking into a wide grin. “Fair enough. So, what do your little friends think of your summer activities?”
Oh. Blast. How should she field this one? ‘Well, I haven’t actually told them…because being bodily restrained and forced to undergo deprogramming is so tiresome?’ Huh. It was the truth but there had to be a more diplomatic way to say it.
“It hasn’t come up.” Well, it was the truth.
“You’re kidding,” he scoffed. “Like you have any secrets from those two, Bell. All girls yammer on and on about everything to their friends.”
“We do not!” Katie said, outraged.
“What should I wear? What does he think about me?” Marcus mocked in a truly hideous falsetto. “It was all just so exciting! I was dying to tell you.”
“What’s that an impression of? Falcon’s locker room talk?”
“C’mon, Katie,” Marcus smirked at her. “You know that you told them. It’s part of the female package, along with liking unicorns, and reading ‘Estrella Escalade:Teen Investigative Witch’ novels under the desk in Charms class. You’re a slave to biology.”
“Marcus…” Katie paused, trying to come up with something suitably scathing. “Evolve.”
She’d never tell Ang and Ali, not that she had been going to any way. No second opinions could be worth having to look at the smirk on Marcus’ face if he found that she blabbed.
“Slights about male immaturity, Bell,” he laughed. “Textbook female.”
She snapped.
“I am never going to tell any of my friends about this,” she hissed. “Why would you ever think I’d want to?” She wanted to take it back as soon as she said it. Marcus had given up his summer to coach her. Why was she getting so agitated? Because he was arrogant and occasionally insulting? Hardly breaking news in the Daily Prophet.
He didn’t look annoyed though. He looked satisfied. Maybe because he’d reduced her to a screeching harpy-probably another ‘female’ behaviour in his mind. Katie gritted her teeth, and waited for his next sally.
“So, I thought we’d do some timing drills tomorrow,” he informed her. “Give your bruises a day off.”
“OK…” Katie muttered, caught off guard. She recovered quickly. “I’m fine but if your creaking bones would like a respite…”
“Willing to give my body a rest from your ceaseless physical demands, Bell?” he grinned.
“If I knee you in the groin, does your other brain become operational?” Katie mused.
“If I spell your mouth shut, do the nerve endings below your waist start to work?”
“I don’t know,” Katie replied, cheerily. “Let’s test our hypotheses. I’ll go first. Could you stand up please?”
Marcus gave her an appraising look, and grinned. “I’d call that bluff…if I believed for a second that it was one.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’ve known bloodthirsty people, Bell, and I’ve known sweetly impish ones. You’re the only one I’ve ever met who is both.”
Wow. She sounded pretty cool. Huggable and homicidal.
Excellent.
“Well, Flint, if you go around accusing me of reading Estrella Escalade books, you need to accept the consequences,” she shot back. “By the way, for such a manly man, you sure know a lot about a series of books that feature a witch who solves mysteries by interrogating forest creatures and twirling her hair.”
He had the grace to look abashed. “Brutus read them,” he snorted. “He said the subtext was fascinating.”
“Still doesn’t explain how you know so much about them. Oh, wait! It does. Story hour.”
“Sounds like you like that idea, Bell,” he said lazily, looking her up and down. “Is it just the thought of getting to sit in my lap?”
Katie could feel her cheeks flush. If she couldn’t find a spell to stop herself from blushing, she was just going to start wearing a Muggle wrestling mask every time she saw Marcus. That would be probably equally embarassing but at least she’d get to pick out a cool name: Kamikaze Katie or Bell-A-Donna. No! Ding Dong Death.
“Nah, I think it’s the thought of the Slytherin Quidditch team, all sitting on the floor, gathered around Professor Snape as he reads aloud from “Buffin Batsworth, Human Bludger.”
“Gods, Bell,” he choked. “What a horrible, horrible image.”
“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Katie agreed, thoughtfully. “Snape would be a terrible storyteller. He probably wouldn’t even do the voices. I mean, can you really see him giving the conniving jarvey, Bagshot, the requisite chutzpah?”
Marcus snorted. “He probably wouldn’t even sound out the blood spattering and bone crunching sounds. Gods, what great books those were.”
“They were,” Katie grinned. “Machinations and violence and Quidditch. And the author was kind enough to put all the apologies and morals and meaningful learning experiences in the last chapter, so you could easily avoid them by stopping ten pages from the end.”
“Yeah, I never finished one of those books,” Marcus agreed. “I had almost all of them, I think. I read them so many times.”
“Yeah, me too.” Katie smiled. “Except for the one where he liked that annoying girl.”
“Prunella,” Marcus shuddered. They stood looking at each other for a moment.
“Did you read the last one? The one that just came out?” Katie asked. “Apparently the author became convinced that someone wanted to steal it, you-know-who, I think, or maybe Lockhart, so he hid it. He made a paper airplane collection with it.”
“Nah,” Marcus said, striving mightily to look unexcited, in Katie’s considered opinion. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Do you want to borrow it?” she asked shyly. Marcus shrugged in a way that attempted to convey his complete and utter disinterest in such trivial things, and failed miserably. Katie bit back a giggle. It was refreshing to see the Machiavellian Marcus be so amusingly transparent.
She hopped off the table.
“So…is this what you do when you get bored, Bell?” Marcus drawled. “Play a game of ‘Let’s Pretend We’re Madam Pince’?”
“No,” Katie replied, sweetly. “If that was what I was doing, I would be shouting at you. Or curating the impressive collection of centaur pornography that is hidden in the Restricted Section.”
Marcus almost choked on his firewhiskey. “Really? Is it strictly centaur on centaur stuff? Or is there ‘hot biped action’?”
“Perv.” Katie rolled her eyes. “Actually, Madam Pince’s interest is purely intellectual, I’ll have you know.”
”Oh, really?”
“Certainly,” Katie said, seriously. “Perhaps you missed her article in the August issue of ‘Library Magic’ concerning the etymology of ‘hung like a horse’?”
“Gods, Bell,” Marcus sputtered, this time actually choking a bit. “Perv.” He sounded a little admiring.
“I do try,” she replied, grinning impishly. She started to move toward the bookshelves, bending over to scoop up some books she had piled on the floor near her bed.
“If only we had known of the untold wealth hidden in Hogwarts’ library…” Marcus mused.
“More Slytherins would have learned how to read,” Katie laughed, turning around so she could watch him glare. He didn’t though. He jerked his gaze away from her abruptly. What was his problem?
Shrugging, she clambered quickly over her bed to get to the bookshelves. Who needed a floor? Maybe she should just install rings in the ceiling and then the lack of floor space wouldn’t be a problem. Plus she could play Tarzan. Ah, there it was on the third shelf: ‘Hey! He Broke My Ribs!’ A classic for the ages. Marcus still hadn’t said anything.
“So is it the rippling hindquarters that does it for you, or do you really just want to braid their tails?” Katie asked. “Maybe it’s the chance to say ‘you’re such a stallion’ non-ironically?”
“What?” He was looking at her again, clearly confused.
“The centaur smut? You’ve been really quiet since we talked about it.” He didn’t say anything. “Just trying to figure out what’s so appealing. Because personally I would have pegged you as more a house-elf fetishist, what with the obedience and the foodstuffs.”
“Just because Gryffindor’s prefer one-stop shopping in terms of servants, shags and steeds, whether because it’s more cost-effective or because they’re easily confused,” Marcus began, sneering, “we in Slytherin house-“ He broke off abruptly as Katie vaulted back over her bed, yanking his gaze away.
“You in Slytherin house?”
“Uh, in Slytherin house, we…don’t.” He muttered, shifting in his chair.
Well, that was weak. Katie glanced around her flat with interest. Was there something there that had the power to destroy Marcus’ ability to banter? He definitely looked a little off. He still wasn’t looking at her.
“I can wait if you need more time to work on your comeback,” Katie said, politely. “Let me know when you’re ready.” She sat cross-legged on her bed, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing.
“Droll, Bell,” he snarled, glancing over at her. “Uh…” He broke off, and resumed inspecting her fichus, rubbing the back of his neck with one large hand. “What was with your crap passes today? You looked like some first year in a food fight.” This was still addressed to her ficus.
Maybe she could figure out what was bothering him by triangulation, she mused. Keeping the banter going on her many Quidditch failings, she began to move slowly around the flat. She didn’t have to say much, as Marcus was always willing to hold forth on his favorite topic. Most of the time when she was in the living room, he watched her. As she moved back in front of the bookshelves he again looked away briefly.
Hmm. Moving slowly back and forth in front of her bed area, she watched him carefully, trying to see exactly when he’d look away. His eyes were fixed on hers though. OK, if she moved out in ever increasing semi-circles…Now he was flat out staring.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, bluntly.
Oh damn. “What do you mean?” she asked, innocently.
“Are you on some kind of pilgrimage of your flat?” he asked, sarcasm lacing his tone. “Are you in orbit around your bed? Are Gryffindors required to take a vow of perpetual motion?”
“Um, no, not in Gryffindor house.” Oh, great. Vapidity was contagious. Katie took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. “Uh, Feng shui.”
“Bless you.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Feng shui. It’s a Muggle thing. It has to do with the position of things, and the balance of, uh, forces, I think.” Marcus looked at her like she was one crumple-horned snorkack sighting away from the psychiwizardry floor at St. Mungo’s. “My apartment is small, and you’re so big, that you’re disrupting the Feng Shui. I was just trying to figure out how best to position you for proper….Feng Shui-ness.”
He looked at her for a long moment, before shaking his head. “Alright. That sounds daft enough to be a Muggle thing. I should go before I disturb the cosmic forces any more.” He paused. “Or before you get any loopier. Take your pick.”
“Oh, you don’t have to go,” Katie said, hurriedly. “We’ll just push the sofa six feet to the left or something.”
“No,” he exhaled, pushing his hands through his hair. “I really should go. Goodnight, Katie.” He smiled at her, not hiding his teeth. Katie smiled back.
“OK,” she moved quickly back to the kitchen, feeling unaccountably bashful. “Here’s the book. Thanks for coming over.” He stood quickly, turning away and pulling on his billowing robes over his Muggle clothing.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the book hurriedly. “Get some defensive spells and some wizard locks put on your balcony door. It’s too easy to break into.”
“I’ve heard that,” Katie smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah.” He already had his wand pulled out. He apparated away with a sharp crack, leaving Katie standing in her kitchen, alone.
She moved over to the pile of books on the table, quickly eschewing the ones that he had told her to read. No homework tonight. A particularly beat-up volume entitled ‘Advanced Chaser Techniques: From the Ludicrously Difficult to the Almost Certainly Fatal’ caught her eye.
Katie grabbed it, and then curled up in her grandfather’s chair. The first page made her laugh. ‘This Book Belongs to Marcus Flint,’ it read, in the careful hand of a young child. The rest of the page was filled with a laundry list of dire warnings of what would happen to anyone who touched the book without permission. Marcus had clearly added to the list over the years, adding new threats, and changing existing ones as his vocabulary grew. Adjectives had been inserted, to explain precisely how painful something would be.
Castration was featured prominently, and a small cartoon was included, in case the meaning was unclear. ‘Cut your head off’ had been replaced with ‘decapitation’, and ‘choke’ became ‘strangulation.’ Katie had to resist the urge to write in ‘defenstration’ where a young Marcus had truly spread himself on how he would toss the unfortunate reader out the window. ‘Feed you to a giant squid’ had remained unchanged throughout the years. Katie was rather disappointed that there wasn’t a picture.
At the end of the list, it read ‘and then you will cry’. A tricky feat since at that point the reader would have had no eyes. Book thieves must have been a hardy lot.
Smiling, Katie began to flip through the pages detailing the techniques. Next to each one was a series of checkmarks and a date. The date seemed to correspond to the date Marcus had first succeeded with that particular maneuver. Given that the more difficult maneuvers had more checkmarks, Katie figured those must stand for unsuccessful attempts. Merlin, he had been six or seven when he completed some of them. Every maneuver had a date after it.
One page was filled with checkmarks. The Torque Paraplegia maneuver. An insane move, where the chaser had to hang upside down, legs wrapped around the broomstick, scoop up the quaffle, and then loop 180 degrees while managing to clamber back on, so the chaser would again be astride their broom heading in the opposite direction. The only time it was useful was when the quaffle was on the ground; this meant the chaser’s head dangled dangerously just above the ground at high speeds. Concussions were almost a certainty, neck fractures were not a rarity, and decapitations were rumoured. Katie had never even heard of someone actually doing it in the modern era, but here was a page filled with hundreds of checkmarks. A date was written at the end of the page, from when Marcus was fourteen. Next to it, in block lettering, were the words ‘FUCKING FINALLY.’ The quill had been pressed into the paper so hard that it had ripped a little.
Marcus had a long, jagged scar at his hairline. He wore his hair a little longer in front to cover it, and Katie had only seen it when he pushed his hair back, to stop sweat from dripping into his eyes. She’d always wondered how he got it. Now she knew.
Her fingers traced the words mindlessly, as she thought of a young Marcus, dirty and tired, perfecting the maneuvers in an empty field, alone.