Archive of Our Own ^beta

To: idea_of_sarcasm
From: Your Secret Santa

Title: The Serpent and the Lion
Author:
Altol Pairing: Katie Bell/Marcus Flint
Summary: Why would a Slytherin and a Gryffindor ever fall in love? Why indeed.
Rating: NC-17
Length: 34541 (eek!)
Warnings: Sexy times, (1 kiss under age 18), rest 18+
Author's Notes:Merry ficmas, idea_of_sarcasm! I know you said you preferred post-DH fics, but you also said in your summary that you had a preference for developed relationships over insta!love, so I wanted to show the growth of both the characters and the evolution of their relationship over time. Hopefully there's enough meat post-DH to keep you happy! Many thanks go out to nighfalltwen, the most wonderful and understanding mod a writer could hope for, who very generously granted me (many) extensions to complete this behemoth of a fic.

There were many things Katie Bell would never forget.

She would never forget her first broom. She would never forget her first ride on a roller coaster, or throwing up her entire lunch by the ferris wheel afterward. She would never forget her first caramel apple at the fair with her brothers (losing a baby tooth in the caramel) or the first time her father took her fishing.

And she would never forget standing on Platform 9 and ¾ for the very first time, waiting for the Hogwarts Express to arrive. She was holding tightly to her father’s hand, peering around the platform, squeezing it every so often for reassurance. Due to her mother’s insistence, they were very early- she’d only seen a few other students pushing trolleys with long-suffering owls peering out from their cages, hooting- the muggles raised their eyebrows and gave them a wide berth.

Here on Platform 9 and ¾, there were only wizarding ilk- Katie recognized a few wands sticking out from pockets and cloaks. Students were pushing their trunks along on trolleys- a few were dragging them across the station, looking as if they regretted packing them so full.

Katie’s own trunk was stuffed to the brim. Her mother had already scolded her for jumping on it to get it to close. In the end, her brother Mason had resorted to five different locking charms to get it closed. When she asked him how she was supposed to get it open again, he'd shrugged and said one of her professors could set it right.

At the top of the trunk was her wand, purchased two weeks ago at Olivander’s (willow and phoenix feather, 11 inches, surprisingly springy). Katie suspected her mother had packed it away to remove temptation- (Katie had, accidentally, dyed her hair orange the week before). Fortunately, her mother had been able to set it right, though Katie had rather enjoyed it. Her father said it looked like her head was on fire. Mason had said she looked like an escaped clown. Mox asked her exactly what spell she had been trying to cast in the first place, to which Katie had no real answer.

Her eldest brother Mox was holding the birthday present he'd bought her last month- a small calico kitten named Sophie who had fallen asleep in his arms.

Looking down, Mox winked at her. “Kiran’s sorry he couldn’t make it today, but he sends his best…and some homemade candies. They're in your trunk....er, somewhere.” Kiran was Mox’s boyfriend who, besides being a wonderful cook, was also very wonderful to Katie. Katie thought of him fondly as a ‘bonus brother’ that knew how to braid hair.

"You know, I never tire of this place," said her father, looking fondly around. "Almost wish I was going myself! What d’ya think, Kathryn, can I hide away in your suitcase?"

“Sure, Dad!” said Katie, beaming up at him.

“If you can fit,” muttered Mason, dragging the suitcase towards the edge of the platform.

Just then, the Hogwarts Express pulled up, ruffling Mason's hair- an impressive, gleaming train with smoke billowing behind it in great gray puffs. Katie felt her stomach clench, and unconsciously squeezed her father's hand. He smiled down at her.

"I'm not certain Hogwarts could handle you, dear," said her mother, rolling her eyes before stooping down to hug Katie.

Reluctantly, Katie had to agree. Her father, a muggle, had gotten his hands on a bottle of Elantine's Everlast glue, once, and they'd spent an hour on the Magical Malady hotline trying to sort it out.

"Have fun at school, Pumpkin, and mind your marks," said Morganna Bell. When her mother straightened up, there were tears in her eyes. “I can't believe our little Katie's all grown up and off to Hogwarts!”

"I'll send lots of owls, Mum, I promise!" interrupted Katie, horrified at the idea of her mother crying in the middle of the station.

"And don't forget to send us packages from Honeydukes," said her father, his eyes gleaming at the thought of fizzing whizbees, chocolate cauldrons, and long loops of candy floss. Katie could remember receiving them all by the boxful from her brothers on holidays. She and her father had made themselves sick on more than one occasion on Bernie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

"Hogsmeade isn't until third year, Dad," said Mason, as their father leaned down to hug and kiss Katie, too.

Hugging her extra tight, her father slipped something into her pocket. "Our little secret. Don't open it until the train leaves," he said quietly, eyes twinkling.

"Come on, Kate," said Mox kindly, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Let's get you settled."

Mox stashed Sophie on the seat next to her and put her carrying basket under the seat while Mason made sure her heavy trunk was securely stationed in one of the overhead bins. The train was still relatively empty, and Katie had a compartment all to herself.

Mox was the first to say goodbye. "Have fun, Kate," he said, hugging her. "And if anyone gives you trouble, just send me an owl."

"And me," added Mason. “We'll hex their bits off for you,” he added, winning a weak smile from his sister.

"I wish you both were coming with me," said Katie quietly, feeling the first acute pains of being without her family.

“Kiran will want a letter, you know,” said Mox. “Better write us and tell us all about your first week!”

Mox was four years out of Hogwarts and worked for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, while Mason had graduated only last year and had recently been hired by Gringotts as a curse-breaker.

"If I make the Quidditch team, you'll come watch, won't you?" asked Katie.

"We've told you, no first years, remember? But make sure you go to all the matches, you’ll pick up tips for tryouts next year," said Mason, ruffling her hair and ducking out of the compartment.

"But when you make the team, we'll be there." continued Mox, smiling as he leaned against the door.

"You'll bring Dad? It's a promise?" asked Katie, looking up at her eldest brother.

"Promise," replied Mox, holding up his hand solemnly before drawing her close in another hug. "Just remember who taught you how to feint when you're signing all those autographs someday." And with a kiss to her forehead, he was gone as well, leaving Katie alone in the compartment with her thoughts, which were racing a mile a minute.

With nothing else to do, Katie changed into her school robes, adjusting and readjusting the fastenings on her cloak until they looked somewhat straight. She made sure Sophie was settled next, but the kitten had already fallen back asleep. Just as well, really. Katie had no desire to deal with a hyperactive kitten on a train.

Katie dug through her pack, looking for something to entertain herself. Her mother had packed a sandwich and some crisps for the trip, but Katie wasn't hungry- her stomach was in too many knots to eat anything. She felt her pockets- her fingers closing briefly around the box her father had given her. But, she remembered, he'd said not to open it until the train left. She withdrew her hand and settled back, sighing.

Suddenly, a flash of light whizzed in front of her face, bursting into a bright red flare of sparks and momentarily blinding her. The smell of sulfur clouded her nose as her eyes cleared. Katie blinked to clear the spots from her eyes. Fireworks?

Katie looked around for Sophie, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Katie, darting out into the hallway. “Sophie! Sophie!”

Katie ran up and down the train twice, with no sight of her kitten. Sighing, Katie plodded back to her compartment and sank onto the seat, new tears welling in her eyes. She’d already lost Sophie, and she was all alone on the Hogwarts Express-

An older boy was standing in the compartment doorway, holding Sophie out in one hand. He was a broad, dark-featured with rather unkempt short dark hair and gray eyes. He positively towered over her, and for a moment, she thought he might be half-giant...or at least part-troll.

Sophie’s tail swished happily in the boy’s grip as she meowed at Katie.

“This yours?” asked the boy shortly.

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” exclaimed Katie, jumping to her feet and taking the kitten from the boy’s grasp. “Sophie!” she scolded, holding the kitten up to look her in the eyes. “You’ve got to stay here! Thank-“

When Katie looked up to see Sophie’s savior, however, he was gone. It had to be a magic trick, disappearing that fast.

Taking her seat again, Katie put her hands in her lap and sighed. Outside, she could hear more people starting to board, chatting and laughing with friends.

What if she didn't make any friends? What if she screwed up all her spells? What if she spent the next seven years, friendless, flunking every class, until, at the very end, they said, “There goes poor Katie Bell. What a shame, two promising wizards in the Bell family, and then, well, you know, practically a Squib-”

There was a loud and sudden commotion outside, and two ginger blurs burst into her compartment, quickly slamming the door behind them and dispelling the unpleasant images of Katie's over-active imagination. Looking closely, she could see the boys were both identical, down to matching grins and singed hair. They both turned to look at her.

"Mind if we share with you?" asked one.

"We-"

"-that is, er, -someone-"

"-may have set off a firework-”

“-or fifteen-”

“-in the corridor."

“Not that we'd know anything about it, of course.”

"Yes, of course," said Katie quickly, grabbing Sophie and setting the kitten in her lap to make room.

The boys turned out to be Fred and George Weasley, and by the end of their introduction, she was both happy to meet them, and fairly certain that they had been the ones that had set off the fireworks.

A new boy with dreadlocks entered the compartment, coughing up a storm.

"Ever thinking of setting it off after we got our luggage stowed?" muttered the new arrival. After setting down his luggage, he hailed two more girls from the corridor, who quickly clambered in, looking harried.

“Off to a bang already, you two,” muttered one.

"This is Katie Bell," said George (she thought it was George) to everyone. "Who has been kind enough to let us take over her compartment."

"It's nothing," blushed Katie, embarrassed to have everyone's full attention.

"This your first time on the Hogwart's express?" asked one of the two girls, shrugging off her coat. "I'm Angelina Johnson, by the way."

"And I'm Lee Jordan," said the boy with dreadlocks, sniffing at his cloak and making a face.

"Alicia Spinnet," said the third, plunking down next to her friend. "Couldn't wait to set those off, could you, you great prats?" she asked, glaring at Fred and George.

"I don't know what she could be referring to, do you, George?"

"Haven't the foggiest," replied his brother. “Besides, they may have been set off by accident-”

“-not that we would know anything about it, mind you-”

Alicia glared at the twins for a moment before once again turning her attention to Katie. "What a pretty kitten! What's her name?"

"Sophie.”

"She's adorable!” said the girl, stroking her. “Well, are you excited? First time at Hogwarts, right?"

"Yes," said Katie, suddenly feeling shy again.

Angelina looked at Katie closely a moment, then frowned. "Wait, Bell? You're not related to Mox Bell, are you? Ravenclaw Seeker? Head boy?"

"Oh, that's my oldest brother," said Katie. "Mason's my other brother."

"You're a shoe-in for Ravenclaw, then," said George, sighing. "Tends to run in the families. Too bad. We can always use more birds in Gryffindor."

Katie looked around. "You're all in Gryffindor?"

"Yep," said Fred proudly. "But Ravenclaw's not bad either, nor's Hufflepuff. It's Slytherin you really want to avoid. Ah, speaking of which-"

Standing in the compartment doorway were three of the biggest boys Katie had ever seen- and one of them was familiar- it was the boy who had handed over Sophie earlier.

Fred was smiling, but the grin was less than friendly. "Marcus Flint. Did you get lost on your way to your compartment?"

Finally, a name to a face. Katie opened her mouth to thank him again, but the boy spoke first.

"Ready for another losing season, Gryffindor?"

Angelina rolled her eyes. "Oh, great, here we go."

"Thought I smelt something foul in the hallway,' said George, turning around.

The older boy narrowed his eyes. "Really. You sure that isn't the fireworks you and your half-wit brother set off? Oringog's hair's still on fire."

Fred clutched his chest in dismay. "You know, Bletchly, you're going to hurt my feelings with your unfounded accusations."

"That's not all I'm going to hurt, Weasley," said the other boy, cracking his knuckles.

"Ah, where are my manners? Katie, meet Miles Bletchly, Adrian Pucey, and last but certainly not least, Marcus Flint," said Fred, giving them a mocking bow. "Members of the Slytheryn Quidditch team which, I'm sorry to say, will be in last place this year."

"That's rich, coming from the team that actually WAS in last place last year," said Marcus.

"Flint, I heard you got made captain, is that going to interfere with your detentions?" asked George.

"Keep it up," replied Flint, crossing his arms. "You can joke your way through another losing season."

Katie watched the exchange, wide-eyed, feeling as if she were a spectator in a particularly nasty tennis match.

The boy named Bletchly was leaning against the compartment door with his arms folded, a bored look on his handsome face. "Tell me, did Wood piss his pants when Weasley said he'd made him Captain next year after he leaves? I'd hate to see what happens if he ever manages to save a bloody goal. Probably blow his load right on the pitch."

"Yes, well, let us know what happens if you ever happen to save one, Bletchly." returned Angelina.

Pucey smiled at her. "Ah, Johnson, will you finally be joining the team this year? They're really scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren't they? Or maybe the theme's 'tits over talent' this year."

Lee, Fred, and George all lunged forward, but Angelina and Alicia held them back by their shirt collars. "Don't, it's not worth it," hissed Angelina.

Alicia joined in. "Yes, move along, boys, isn't there a small child you have to steal candy from, or a kitten that needs eating?"

Flint rolled his eyes. "Original, Spinnet. See you on the pitch," he said in a low voice, as Pucey slammed the compartment door behind them.

Lee turned to Katie, who'd been watching the exchange with silent, wide-eyed fascination. He laughed. "Well, that's Quidditch for you. There's never been any love lost between Gryffindor and Slytherin, on or off the pitch. Now,” Lee dug in his coat pocket a moment before producing a pack of cards. "Who's up for Exploding Snap?"

Katie would never forget the cheers of her new friends as the Sorting Hat announced her new placement in Gryffindor, (Mum was going to be so surprised!), Angelina, grinning, patting the seat beside her at the Gryffindor table, or, later, upon being escorted up to the girl's dormitory, opening the box her father had given her from the privacy of her bed after the other girls had gone to sleep. It was a sleek black box, the sort of thing with velvet cushioning inside that you got for really fancy sorts of jewelry. Her father had given her mother a pair of pearl earrings inside a similar box once.

Inside the box was another smaller, red velvet box. Cracking it open, Katie caught her breath at the sight of a ornate little golden snitch, its tiny gossamer wings folded down. The small charm, about the size of a sickle, was threaded onto a delicate gold chain that twinkled when it caught the light. Every detail of the small snitch was perfect, from the ornate etching on the body of the snitch to the thin, intricate filaments of its wings.

My dear Kathryn-

Mox and Mason helped me find this out for you in Diagon Alley. I know starting school is a big thing, but I know you'll do great and make new friends and have lots of great adventures. I know I had a lot of fun at Colchester, and that was a school without any magic at all! Just imagine all the fun you can have with wands and brooms and dragons and trolls!

...best leave the trolls alone for now.

I know beginnings are scary, sometimes, but they often lead to wonderful things. You're a brave girl, Katie, and I know you'll meet whatever comes head on- whether it's your studies, boys, or any challenges you meet along the way.

...best leave the boys alone, too. Until you're 40 at least.

I hope you like the necklace- fly fast, and don't look down!

After all, to really fly, you have to forget that you can fall, right?

Love always,

Dad."

A small piece of parchment at the bottom of the box read:

“This hand-made golden snitch is also embued with a memory charm specifically tailored for the recipient. The snitch, having flesh memory, will only open for the intended recipient (unless the charm is changed to reflect a new owner). This charm can be activated by simply tracing the groove on the back of the pendant. This piece of fine jewelry comes with a lifetime warranty and can be repaired only at Silverstone Brothers, Ltd.”

Pressing her thumb on the front of the snitch, Katie let out a little gasp when it opened. A light glimmered inside, the aureate streams of vapor curling until it formed into two people- a man and a little girl. The little girl was seated on a small broomstick, gliding along, and the man was running alongside her, his hand at the small of her back, steadying her, both of them wearing identical grins-

Her first time on a broomstick. It had been wonderful, and terrifying, and exhilarating-

Katie smiled and closed the snitch in her hand, bringing her fist over her heart. She'd keep it close.

…....
…...
…..
…
..
.
Gryfinndor's first match of the year was not quite the beginning of the winning-streak Fred and George had promised. Despite several penalty shots awarded to Gryffindor for a Parkin's Pincer move that resulted in a collision, one Hawkshead Formation that resulted in a collision, and one execution of a Translyvanian Tackle that had resulted in a broken nose. Katie had never seen so many different penalties in one game before.

Still, despite Gryffindor's thorough defeat, Katie's ambition to join the team next year had not dimmed in the slightest. Sitting in front of the fire in the common room, she pulled out a small sheath of paper from her pocket that she'd taken down from the Gryffindor Activity Board earlier in the week.

"For those first-years desirous of improving broom skills , (or other years wanting to hone or help their skills), Madame Hooch will be holding a two hour supervised free-fly every Sunday out on the Quidditch Pitch before lunch. Those first-years interested should sign up on Madame Hooch's door, located in the dungeons next to the statue of Prewyn the Pugnacious. After last year's incident, NO ATTEMPTS AT THE WRONSKEI FEINT WILL BE ALLOWED."

Katie smiled, set the bulletin aside, and pulled a sheath of parchment out of her book bag and set to writing a note to Mox.

Hey Biggest Brother, (and Kiran too, of course!)

Saw my first Hogwarts match today. We lost to Slytherin- badly, I might add, but I saw some great flying that gave me ideas for next year. Charlie Weasley's as good a flier as you said. I hate to admit it, but Marcus Flint's rather good as well.

For a Slytherin, anyway.

There's been a posting for a free-fly this Saturday, and I'm going to take advantage of it. I sure wish I had my own broom, though- we had flying lessons with Madam Hooch this week, and I couldn't get mine to go faster than a baby crawl.

Tell Kiran thanks for the fudge- it was really good, I had it for breakfast yesterday. And lunch. Was that some sort of pepper in there? Like a trace of Pepper-up potion? Must be why I was so awake in Herbology. Which is good, because last week I fell asleep on top of my mandrake. Pomphrey wasn't pleased.

Neither was the mandrake, come to that.

I'm looking forward to coming home for the Christmas hols already- you and Kiran are coming, right? I know you were away for the DOMC last year, but it just wasn't the same without you. I got dad a Foe Glass for Christmas (ordered from the Diagon Alley Dark Detector catalog- on sale! Apparently they had a bunch leftover from when You-Know-Who was big.) I figured Dad can put it in his squad, though I'm not sure it works on non-magical enemies. As to what I got you, well, you'll just have to wait and see, won't you!

Sophie's settling in nicely. She doesn't appear to be afraid of much, just like her namesake (maybe she'll find a cat version of Howl to keep her company....so far, she's just interested in chasing mice and leaving them on my pillow. Yech!)

I'd better wrap this up and get some sleep before my flying lesson tomorrow- don't want to fall off my broom!

Lots of love,
Katie

…..
….
…
..
.

It was like her dream- here she was, hovering hundreds of feet above the ground, the wind in her hair and a sheen of sweat on her brow.

Unlike her dream, however, she was doing her damned best not to fall off her broom and make an utter idiot out of herself, though she would never admit it. The school brooms were a lot jerkier than the Moontrimmer she'd flown at home, and though she missed the fluidity of her old broom, she was slowly getting used to this one.

After proving to Madam Hooch that she had some experience on a broom, (it helped, she supposed, that Hooch was familiar with both Mox and Mason and considered them an excellent recommendation for Katie's own potential), she was allowed to join the other more experienced broom riders in the higher area of air, while other first years scooted unsteadily along the ground, occasionally getting a good headwind (which was usually followed by an unceremonious tumble to the ground).

Fred and George had come out with her as well, and were currently doing barrel rolls. They had nearly collided twice, though Katie was not entirely sure it was an accident. The twins seemed especially fond of mayhem, especially if they were the ones creating it.

It was a beautiful day- the wind was cool and the sky was powder blue. Perfect weather for flying. Adjusting her stance, Katie reached into her pocket and pulled out the group of pages she'd ripped out from her old copy of “Intermediate Quidditch Techniques”. Taking her finger, she traced the path of moving Quidditch player in a series of loops. Perhaps she wasn't ready for that one quite yet, but she could try a simpler version.

Turning her broom, she hunched her body over the handle and shot off to the far end of the pitch, the school's practice quaffle tucked snugly under her arm. Being a school broom, it didn't go terribly fast, but it was fast enough to get a small spike of adrenaline in her gut as she accelerated. It was wonderful, flying, weightless and carefree above the ground, the broom a rudder as she cut through the air.

She stopped short of the opposite goal, not wanting to incur the wrath of Madam Hooch for going too far. Hovering, she glanced around the pitch, watching the other fliers circle and dive. One in particular caught her attention- a black blur that cast a shadow over the pitch as he skimmed the field. Darting up like a dragonfly, the blur zig-zagged around the goal post and shot past her, creating a wind that ruffled her plait.

Marcus Flint.

Katie hovered as she watched the boy dip down, then zag up just as abruptly, before completely dropping out and shooting across the pitch like an arrow.

Experimentally, Katie dipped the handle of her broom down, leaning into the dive. However, the school broom’s momentum was jerky at best, (or perhaps had some kind of anti-suicide charm that prevented new fliers from doing any sort of dive at all), because the broom jerked to an abrupt halt halfway through, nearly throwing Katie from the broom. Fortunately, Katie had a great deal of experience on a broom (which involved falling off of it a great deal as well), and she managed to grip the broom tightly enough to avoid plummeting. As it was, however, her book pages spilled out of her pocket, twirling lazily down to the lawn, along with the Quaffle, which hit the ground with a thud.

Katie hung by one arm twenty feet off the ground, her hand tightly gripping the handle and palm splintered where her hand had slid across the old, weather-beaten handle. Madam Hooch, who was busy telling off the Weasley twins for finally succeeding in knocking each other off their brooms, hadn't noticed her predicament yet. This was good, as Katie was fairly certain her current state would relegate her to the grass-skimmers for the foreseeable future.

“Careful there, little Gryffindor,” came a voice from above. “Don’t want to break all your bones before they set, do you?”

It was Marcus Flint, the boy from the train, his silhouette blocking out the sun.

And though Katie’s cheeks bloomed with embarrassment, she glared up at him as she pulled up and swung a leg around the broom handle, eventually tilting her weight back up to a sitting position. She supposed she ought to be intimidated.

Marcus Flint was, after all, a great hulking troll, and a nasty Slytherin to boot. Still, Katie had grown up with much older brothers and their older friends, and she had eventually bullied them all into playing with her. And so Katie Bell squared her shoulders and stared up at Marcus Flint with indignation instead of the fear he was used to seeing.

“I have a name, Slytherin.”

To her suppose, the boy grinned. “That so?”

“Yeah, it’s so. I’m Katie Bell.” She snapped. “And these school brooms stink. They won’t dive at all.”

“Well, get used to it,” replied the older boy dispassionately. “First years aren’t allowed a broom. For good reason, apparently, in your case.”

“It's a stupid rule,” muttered Katie, ignoring the jab. “What’s that maneuver you were doing just now, anyway?

“It’s not a maneuver,” replied Flint, still hovering. “Not yet. It's half of one. Ever heard of the Wollongong Shimmy?” he asked, as if he very much doubted she had.
“Yes, I have!” said Katie. “I saw Rudgekins execute that maneuver at the Harpies vs. Falcon’s match last year.”

Marcus looked surprised. “Rudgekins had a pretty good go of it, yeah, but if you want to see what it’s supposed to look like, you should look up Polomorph’s execution in the 89 World Cup.”

“Oy! Flint!” called a boy far across the pitch. “The hell’re you doing?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes at the far-flung figure, then shook his head. “Try to stay on your broom, Gryffindor. If you can’t, well, you’ll be a shoe-in for the house team, won't you?”

“It’s Katie!” she shouted after him, glaring.

Kitten-savior or not, Marcus Flint had rotten manners. No wonder Gryffindors and Slytherins didn’t get along.

Still, Katie went to the library afterwards to reference Polomorph's version of the Wollongong Shimmy. Flint had been right- Polomorph's was better.
.....
….
…
..
.
She was floating above the Quidditch pitch, the wind in her hair and the ground hundreds of feet below. Her forehead was sweaty, and she was filled with the kind of free-floating exhilaration that only flying could bring. The quaffle was tucked snugly under her arm, and the crowd around the pitch was hollering. After a moment, she realized it was her name-

"Katie!"

"Bell!"

"Katie!" Something was shaking her, and she slid sideways on her broom. She righted herself immediately, still looking down at the crowd. They were bringing out the Quidditch World Cup, she could see the golden gleam from the ground below....

"Bell!"

And she slipped again-

"Katie! Wake up!"

"Miss Bell, wake up," said someone deep in the clouds, and suddenly, her broom began to shake.

Katie opened her eyes to stare into the troubled gaze of Professor McGonagall. Panic spiked in Katie. What could she possibly have done that her head of house was here in the middle of the night? She cleared her throat, blinking up at her teacher as her mind raced, trying to recall any recent indiscretions. She’d kept watch for the Weasley twins last week near the Divination staircase (she found it was best not to ask why, with Fred and George, but…)

"What's..." began Katie.

McGonagall's mouth tightened. "I must ask you to get dressed at once and come with me, Miss Bell."

“But...I-”

“Now, please.”

Wordlessly, Katie pulled on her dressing gown and followed McGonagall down the cold, drafty hallways, still barefoot, a million questions rising and dying on her lips.

Corridors twisted and turned as she stumbled after McGonagall, following the professor’s lit wand tip as it seemed to float in the dark.

Suddenly, they came to a stop in front of a large stone gargoyle.

“Fizzing Whizbees,” said McGonagall firmly, and the gargoyle stepped aside to reveal a large winding staircase. Climbing it, they came to a large, circular room. The walls were filled with portraits of sleeping men and women, and Katie thought she recognized a few old Headmasters. Small silver instruments dipped and whirred on various tables, and a fire flickered from the corner. Overall, it was a very inviting room.

New horror bloomed in Katie’s stomach, however, as she realized the office belonged to none other than Professor Dumbledore, who sat behind his desk, looking at her over the tips of his fingers. “Please come in, Katie, and have a seat.”

Her feet feeling as heavy as giant gobstones, Katie dragged herself across the room and sat numbly in the chair across from Dumbledore, trying to summon her voice and tell the Headmaster that whatever she’d done, she was very sorry for it.

But Dumbledore spoke first.

"It is with greatest regret, Katie, that I must tell you that an unfortunate even occurred this evening involving your father."

Something cold and heavy dropped into Katie's stomach. "I didn't...what?"

Dumbledore folded his hands and gazed at her across the desk, his normally twinkling blue eyes serious.

"Your father was on duty this evening when he surprised two men in a convenience store robbery. He and the owner were shot, and found later by a second responding unit. Your father has been taken to a Muggle hospital-”

“If he's in the hospital, then-”

-“but I am afraid the trauma he suffered has put him into a vegetative state."

“A vegetati-“ began Katie, for some crazy reason thinking of her father exploding a potato in the microwave last summer.

“Your father suffered a gunshot wound to the head. As a result, his brain activity has ceased,” explained Dumbledore calmly. “He is currently on life support. However, per his own wishes, that life support will soon be removed. Your mother has asked me to explain this to you, and to make sure you understand. Do you understand, Katie?”

Brain activity ceased…life support…brain dead….brain dead…..dead….

"No...." The word seemed to come from somewhere else. Someone else. Because her father couldn’t be…she'd only just...he couldn't...not her father, who could still carry her on his shoulders, who had run alongside her on her first broom, his large hand splayed across her back, steadying her, steadying the world around her, whose laughter could fill up a whole room-

McGonagall's hand tightened on her shoulder.

"No!" said Katie, breaking free of her teacher's grasp and rushing towards Dumbledore's desk. "No! It's not true. I want to see him!"

Dumbledore stared sadly at her over the tips of his fingers. "Your brother Mox will be here shortly to collect you, to take you to the hospital-"

Katie shook her head. “But you could help him, couldn’t you? You’re the most powerful wizard, you could fix him, with magic, please-”

But Dumbledore shook his head, slowly, sadly. “Though we often wish that it were otherwise, Katie, there are some things even magic cannot fix.”

Her father, her father, the little pieces of her world falling away like dust-

Katie slammed her fists against the desk. "No. No! He's not dead, he's not, HE'S NOT, HE'S NOT-" she was taking deep breaths now, trying to steady herself, trying to take enough air in, but her world was tightening, vision narrowing-

"Katie-" The Headmaster was standing now. But Professor Dumbledore's words were fading away. The room was fading away.

She was dimly aware of the floor rising up, of the cold stone beneath her knees and the grief, new and piercing and terrible, pressing her down into the earth so hard she could scarcely breathe-

-then arms lifting her up and a familiar voice in her ear, a familiar smell filling her nose- sandlewood and hay, and-

Mox.

"Katie."

But Mox was here, and if Mox was here, then….

“It’s not true,” she said stubbornly, tears slipping down her cheeks as she closed her eyes against her brother's blazer. “Tell me it’s not. He’s fine, he’s-”

But Mox only pulled back and looked at her, tears brimming in his own eyes. “Katie-“

She slumped against him, her tears soaking her brother's shirt and her sobs muffled by his shoulder and the same word breaking her lips over and over again-

"No, no, no, nooooooo-"

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.

Christmastime was usually a loud and boisterous time in the Bell household. Every room was filled to the brim with family and friends, all laughing and toasting and generally making a mess. The table was always laden with goodies- roast ham, yorkshire pudding, Christmas cookies with icing thick as paving stones, a silver tureen of clam chowder and silver boats of thick, hot gravy for the mountains of mashed potatoes her mother whipped up. There was fun in every room. One had only to pick a room of noisy relatives, plop down, and join a conversation or a game of gin rummy or join in the singing. Her father wore a Christmas wreath atop his head with a pair of plastic antlers, waltzing through the rooms and singing carols at the top of his lungs, picking up his wife and waltzing her around the house until she demanded to be set down, then chasing after Katie-

This year, her mother had set the table with cold turkey sandwiches and a bowl of warmed beans.

Laughter and footfalls were conspicuously absent from every room. Instead, a persistent silence had settled over the house, blanketing Katie in a bleak, frigid despair that seemed to soak into her bones and leave her cold, tired, and missing her father something awful.

Morganna Bell was simply not up to hosting Christmas this year, and she'd told Mason and Mox not to come. Sampa and Samma Bell were also absent- no muggle card tricks or monkey bread this year. They’d gone overseas, they wrote Katie, sending a Christmas card filled with muggle money. They'd be vacationing in Italy this year, which Mox had said was to help them forget.

But how could anyone forget? Every morning, Katie woke up to a world without her father in it, and every morning, the knowledge settled over her like a heavy blanket.

No sooner had Katie stepped off the Hogwarts express than her mother's expression tightened, her hug perfunctory, and she'd wordlessly taken Katie to the car. During the car ride back, her mother had asked the usual questions about school, and after that, the car had descended into a heavy silence Katie couldn't seem to break. Katie had gripped the charm on the necklace her father had given her and stared out of the window for most of the ride.

Since arriving home, her mother had said two sentences to her, which Katie believed had been 'take your trainers out of the hallway', and 'a dish for Sophie is in the kitchen.' The hallway, which usually housed a magnificent tree covered in homemade ornaments, was decidedly empty. Every year, her father had pulled up box after box of ornaments from the basement, Mox and Kiran had come over, and they'd all decorated the trees together while the radio blared Christmas music both magic and muggle. Katie's mother didn't cook that night, and instead everyone stuffed themselves on cookies, tarts, and cider as a treat.

Sitting across from her mother at the dining room table, Katie tried to reach past the terrible heaviness in her own heart and summon some holiday cheer. Something to bring a smile to her mother’s blank face. Nothing occurred to her, however, until her eye caught sight of an old bottle of magical super glue on the windowsill next to a cracked dish.

"Mom, remember when Dad tried to help Mason with his model broom and glued his fingers together with that enchanted Everlast glue? We had to call the Magical Malady hotline, and Dad started swearing at the operator...."

Katie's next words died on her lips as she looked up.

Morganna Bell's normally warm, lovely dark blue eyes were hard, her mouth a tight line. In that moment, she seemed to look through Katie, look past her to the wall behind her. Without a word, her mother pushed back from the table, dumped her plate in the sink, and left Katie alone with her Christmas dinner.

Katie picked at her food for awhile, but it had been cold to begin with and she had little appetite. She waited at the table almost two hours for her mother to return before scraping her plate into the rubbish bin and going to bed herself.

It was midnight, now….Christmas day.

“Merry Christmas, Dad,” muttered Katie to the darkness above her.

…..
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The next day, over the same cold turkey sandwiches at lunch, Katie mustered her courage and met her mother's blank gaze across the table.

"We could go and see him," she said, "At the cemetery. We could go and buy some flowers at the Morrison’s shop. Honking daisies, he always liked-"

"Stop it, Katie." snapped her mother, slamming down her fork.

Something hard and ugly knotted in Katie at her dismissal and she looked up at her mother with a mixture of hurt and indignation. "Why?"

"Because he's dead. He's gone, and no amount of wishing will bring him back," said her mother.

"I know he's dead," snapped Katie, slamming down her fork as well. "What I don't understand is why we have to pretend that he was never alive in the first place."

“Katie, I am trying to-”

“You're trying to forget him! Well, I won't!”

This time, it was Katie who shoved back from the table and stormed off to her room, locking the door behind her. She lay on her bed, glaring up at the Holyhead Harpies poster without really seeing the players flying in and out of view, yelling and pumping their fists in the air.

An hour later, Katie heard her mother get up from the table. Her footsteps hesitated outside Katie's door, and for a moment Katie held her breath, not knowing if she wanted her mother to knock or not. But then they continued, and her mother's door slammed shut.

The next day, Morganna was back at the shop before Katie woke up. Katie owled Mox and asked if she could stay at their house for the rest of the holidays, and left her mother a note on the kitchen counter telling her where she had gone.

Kiran picked her up that afternoon.

….......
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Year Two

"I don't understand the appeal," said Leanne as they made their way down the corridor. "Whizzing around on a broomstick a hundred feet off the ground-"

Katie grinned at her friend. "What's not to understand? Wind in your hair, everything happening a mile a minute-"

"-and blokes three times your size trying to knock you off your broom!" continued her friend. "It's madness!"

Katie shook her head. "It's fun! Besides, I'm only a second year," said Katie. "I've got about as much chance of making the team as the Cannon'sve got of winning the league."

Leanne stared blankly at her. "Who're the Cannons?"

Katie rolled her eyes. "Nevermind."
…..
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They say you never forgot your first Quidditch game, and that was true. Katie Bell would never forget her first Quidditch match, because she was nearly knocked off her broom, elbowed in the ear, and nearly fractured her skull when Sam Morrose hit a bludger straight into the back of her head.

Still, she'd never had more fun.

The Rec League Quidditch games she'd played when she was younger couldn't compare to this- the emerald green pitch with Hogwarts looming in the distance, the tall rows of bleachers packed with screaming students, and best of all, her new broom, a Cleansweep 7 (a present from her brothers for making the team), whizzing through the air, her robes rippling, the wind in her hair and the Slytherin chasers hot on her tail.

While her fellow teammates went up to the common room to celebrate, Katie was sent to the hospital wing to have the ostrich egg on the back of her head looked at.

Flint, having lost the battle with Madam Hooch over Harry's creative catch of the Snitch, was also sitting in the hospital wing, blood spattered on his face and robes from taking a bludger directly to the face. His nose looked broken.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head as she handed Marcus a damp piece of gauze to mop up his robes. “Now, mind you, this may hurt a bit.”

Marcus shrugged.

“Episkey,” said Pomfrey, waving her wand. A small crack resounded in the quiet room as his nose reset, but Marcus only blinked.

“Can I go now?” he asked shortly.

“Well, there's gratitude for you,”snapped the nurse. “Mind you sleep with your head a bit elevated tonight. Off you go, then.”

Marcus got to his feet and tossed the gauze on the bed. “You got lucky today, Gryffindor.” he said, looking at her for the first time since she'd entered the room.

“No such thing as luck in Quidditch, Slytherin replied Katie.

“Well, you managed to stay on your broom, at least,” replied Marcus, smirking. “Maybe next time you'll even score a goal.”

Katie narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, and maybe next time, you'll win the game.”

Marcus kept walking. Katie resisted the very childish urge to stick her tongue out at him.

“Now, “ said Madam Pompfrey, her expression softening as she turned to Katie. “Let's see to that fwooper egg on the back of your head, shall we?

…..
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Dear Katie,

Kiran and I got your letter- we'll have to hold a celebration for your making the Quidditch team, though I always knew you were a shoe-in! (All that training from your handsome elder brother must have been what did it!)

Kiran is already talking about the celebration dinner- I can feel myself getting fatter just listening to him dream up the menu. So far it's pork chops with cranberry gravy (your favorite), and of course, trifle with cakes soaked in rum. Better bring pants with an elastic waistband.

I’ll bet you can’t wait until your first match! Dad would be really proud. I know it might hurt you to hear it, but I know, wherever he is, he's proud of you. I hope you aren't mad at me for saying so.

Mom's proud of you too, Katie, whether she says it or not. Write her, okay?

Everything on the preserve is going well. You've got to come and see the Mooncalves- they're getting big (when they'll let you have a glimpse!)

We're both happy that you'll be joining us for Christmas hols. Shok misses you.

Love,
Your favorite older brother
(Mox)

Mooncusser Ranch was a magical menagerie of animals, one of the few of its kind. It was surrounded by trees, hills and disillusionment charms, and a single old windmill that no one used. The grounds of the preserve was something out of Hagrid's dreams: a 200 acre preserve for the most fantastic beasts imaginable (below a class 4, anyway).

Though Mox helped to run the preserve when he was home, Kiran did the bulk of the work, and it was a full day's job. On the eastern corner of the preserve were the Demiguise, who were left to their own devices until sheering season. It had taken Kiran over four years to gain the creatures' trust, and it took at least a year to earn the trust of each of their offspring, through visits and careful gifting of cucumbers and butterleaf. Once a year, in summertime, Kiran harvested the hair of the Demiguise, which was extremely valuable and used in invsibility cloaks. This was where Kiran made the bulk of his fortune, and what enabled him to run such a large preserve. Most wizards killed the Demiguise for their coats- Kiran had found a sustainable way to harvest it, and he was the first.

“Besides,” said Kiran. “They're glad to be rid of the coats in summer. Keeps them cooler.”

The central area of the ranch was the paddocks, which housed the winged horses, the hippogriff Aarti, and the Re'em, Katie’s personal favorite, a giant ox with a glimmering golden hide. The creature had been rescued as a calf by Mox's group after the mother was slaughtered for her pelt, and was, in fact, the reason that Mox and Kiran had met in the first place.

Mox had argued with the Ministry against putting the creature down, Kiran had agreed to take the animal on the preserve, Mox had delivered it, and the rest was history. They'd named the Re'em Shok, and as long as you didn't make any quick movements around him, the beautiful beast liked to be petted and brushed and generally fussed over. His golden coat was as soft as butter. He was quite vain; Katie supposed his golden coat didn’t help.

Katie loved the central part of the preserve. Kiran bred Abraxion, Aethonan, and Granian horses, and recently had acquired a breeding pair of thestrals, which were scary to look at but actually quite sweet. Katie loved rubbing flaxseed oil into the horses wings and braiding their manes and tails. On occasion, she and Kiran went flying together. Kiran didn't believe in harnessing his horses, and so Katie had learned bareback, which, on a flying horse, was a very different kind of adventure altogether.

The western corner of the preserve was filled with trees and tall shrubs, and housed the Diricawl and the Nifflers, which lived in a burrow under the potting shed. Large clumps of faeries populated this section, and could be seen twinkling at night. For this reason, Mox and Kiran often took their evening tea out on the porch.

Kiran made a very generous living running the preserve and Mox made quite a few galleons working for the Ministry, but one would never guess it from their attitude or style of decor. Everything in the house was built for utility and comfort, from the squashy armchairs to the colorful throw pillows tossed haphazardly across the furniture. The two men routinely wore ratty denims and flannel shirts around the house.

Katie loved Mox and Kiran's house. It was a big, beautiful old log cabin with skip planed oak flooring and high, beamed ceilings. The home had a bright, inviting quality to it, with big squashy chairs and warm quilts draped over every piece of furniture. The cabin always smelled like a mixture of spices- sometimes cinnamon and nutmeg, sometimes like cardamom and coriander, depending on what Kiran was cooking.

The inside of the house was filled with animals as well. Puffskein of many colors ran happily around a large, open pen in the living room. Kiran sold the Puffskein as pets only. Lancelot, Mox's dog, was somewhere between a Crup and a bloodhound. The top of its head reached Katie's waist, and the only sign of its Crup blood was its forked tail, which Kiran cast disillusionment charms on rather than sever. There was also a kneazle, Portis, and a common tabby, Shygo, from which Katie's kitten Sophie had come. Fairies flitted in and out of the house at their whim, and on holidays and birthdays, were happily used to decorate trees and draping.

Katie's favorite room in the house was the great room with the fireplace. There was always a big fire blazing in the hearth, crackling and popping, and Katie enjoyed watching the salamanders dance over the logs. After the work was done and dinner eaten, everyone curled up in their favorite chair or sprawled on the rug in front of a large crackling fire. Sometimes they played exploding snap, sometimes a muggle board game or two (Mox always game more interesting by charming the game pieces, and if he wasn't busy, Mason would often Floo in for a nightcap after work.

For Katie, Mooncusser ranch became her home away from Hogwarts. It was warm and safe and inviting, and best of all, no one looked at Katie like a ghost.

Mox had taken Katie out for lunch at Grimmond's Pub, then flown her to the front gates of the ranch before taking off for work.

“Mox?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure I'm not...you know...cramping your style here?” asked Katie, looking down at her bag.

“What do you mean?”

“Well...I don't know...maybe the two of you want privacy, for, um-”

Mox rolled his eyes. “We're alone 8 months out of the year, Katie.”

“Yes, but-”

Mox waved her off. “Fine, go ahead. Leave. Break Kiran's heart. He's only been looking forward to seeing you all day.”

“All right then,” said Katie, smiling as her brother kissed her brow and ruffled her hair.

“Silly girl,” he muttered.

She waved as her Mox disappeared with a 'crack', then picked up her bag and unlatched the impressive front gate.

Aarti was Kiran's hippogriff, a fancy golden female with silver-blue wings and a serene, serious gaze. She raised her head at Katie's approach and let out a loud screech. The hippogriff, besides being a treasured friend to Kiran, served as excellent protection for the preserve. Katie bowed low to Aarti at the entrance, and, after an imperious blink or two, the beautiful beast sunk to her knees and allowed Katie to come forward and stroke her neck. Being pregnant, the creature was more affectionate than usual, and it was nearly an hour before the hippogriff consented to let Katie go and wandered off to check the perimeter. Katie looked forward to the day Aarti would lay her egg- she'd never seen one before, and Hagrid said they were enormous.

Kiran spotted her and waved from the yard, beckoning her over.

Her brother’s boyfriend was gorgeous- Kiran had olive skin, green eyes, and his dark hair was usually tied back in a ponytail, though he was always happy to let Katie practice braiding it. Like Mox, he was tall, and had well-muscled arms from working on the preserve. Unlike Mox, who was more prone to seriousness, Kiran loved to laugh, and made it a point to laugh often.

Their father had liked Kiran as well. When Katie’s grandfather had asked if it bothered him, his son being of 'a different ilk', Jack Bell had shrugged and said, “So long as he’s happy, it doesn’t matter, really. But I've told him no snogging. No father likes to see his children snogging anyone, boy or girl or pillow.”

Mason had never lived down the incident with the pillow.

Kiran had quickly become like a second brother to her....a brother that was happy to take her shopping, plaited her hair, and was always happy to hear about her (usually nonexistant) boy troubles, whereas Mox and Mason preferred to pretend their little sister was asexual.

Kiran reached over and pulled her into a hug. "Glad you could make it!”

“Glad somebody wanted me,” said Katie dully.

Kiran smiled sadly as he pulled back to look at her. “Ah, Kate, parents are only human. This is a lesson you've had to learn rather early, I'm afraid."

"So did you," said Katie, giving him a squeeze.

Kiran Andris was the great-grandson of Artemis Scamander, whose daughter Lelietta married Orpheus Andris the III. Their son, Basil Andris, had then married Ahalya Basir, whose family ran the largest flying carpet industry in the world. The product of their union was one daughter, Malyda, and then later, Kiran.

Ahalya now mostly ran her father’s business, and Andris worked for Gringotts as a Beast Specialist in charge of training security trolls for the larger vaults. “My father isn’t interested in anything he can’t control.” Kiran had once said, in a rare moment of bitterness. Mostly, the young man avoided talking about his family at all.

Kiran had been subsequently disowned at the age of 15 for his stance on animal rights (and his inclination towards men), and his sister Malyda would one day inherit the business. “Fine by me,” Kiran had said. “Do you know how bloody boring flying carpets are?”

“Anyway, let's have some lunch!” announced Kiran, throwing his arm around her as they walked towards the house. “What shell it be today? Shepard's pie? Lasagna? Pancakes?”

“Pancakes!” exclaimed Katie, smiling for the first time in days.

Third Year

Dear Katie,

Too bad about your losing season last year. But don't lose hope! Harness the power of positive-thinking! (or something like that.) They're always telling us that in crisis-training for when you get sealed in a vault or something. I don't know what positive-thinking is going to do against a lack of oxygen, but whatever makes the higher-ups happy.

Last week we found a really cool old crypt in Cairo, filled with treasure and a lot of really pissed-off mummies. Found a really cool scarab pin they're letting me keep that I'm sending along to you (once they finished curse-checking it at the lab.)

Keep me updated about all your Quidditch games- this is the year, I know it!

Love,
Your most handsome brother,
Mason

p.s. Stay away from boys. Trouble, the lot of them.

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The first time Marcus had seen Katie Bell on the pitch, she looked more like a blonde bludger than anything resembling an actual threat.

And then she shot down the pitch scored against him, and he was forced to take her more seriously.

As well as the rest of the team.

“I swear,” cursed Bletchly, slamming his locker, “If they didn't have Potter, they'd be nothing.”
“The new chaser'll be good in a few years,” said Marcus, before he could stop himself.

“What, the one with no tits?” scoffed Bletchley.

“'Bout shoulder high, built like a goal post?” added Adrian, shedding his shoulder guards.

“That's the one,” replied Marcus flatly, pulling his undershirt over his head.

Terrence's gaze was more shrewd than Marcus would have liked. “She's a Gryffindor.”

“Do I need to be reminded what fucking house she's in?” snapped Marcus. “We've just played them, for Merlin's sake.”

Terrence put up his hands in mock defense. “Your grave, mate.”

“Get your head checked. You're not making any fucking sense at all,” snarled Marcus.

“Just saying, that whole lot is trouble,” said Terence.

“And I'm saying I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about.”

And at the time, he really didn't.

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The Flint family's Fish Owl arrived with breakfast, its great wings outstretched as it alighted just short of Marcus's pumpkin juice. Holding out his leg, Apollo blinked imperiously down at Marcus as he untied the note, reminding him of his father. But the note was not from Atticus- rather, it was the family house elf's untidy scrawl.

Master Marcus,

You must please return to the manor immediately as soon as you is able to come. Mistress is very unwell.

-Maisey

Marcus crumpled the note, and in two hours, he was walking up the Flint Estate front lawn, through the ornate wrought-iron gates, and into the great mansion doors, were Maisey the house elf was waiting.

“She is bad, your mother. She is not making sense. I is trying to get her into the house, but she is not hearing me-” The elf followed behind him as he stalked through the house, wringing her hands on the pink silk pillowcase she wore tied around her tiny frame. “I is putting a cloak on her, yes, but she is not keeping it on, sir-”

“Where is my father?” asked Marcus shortly.

“He is not to be bothered, sir,” said Maisey. “He is away on business.”

“Of course he is,” Marcus muttered, pushing through the mansion's garden doors and onto the massive grounds.

The Spring was slow in coming. There had been a brief warming period, followed by a cold snap that had wiped out a great deal of Professor Sprout's more fragile stock. The backyard of the Flint estates was no different; the grounds were covered in a blanket of snow, with the trees and hedges sparkling with a thick layer of hoarfrost.

“She is back here, Master Marcus, Mistress is back just here, sir-”

Flint Manor was a huge, sprawling estate with a front and back garden, each the size of a Quidditch pitch.

Once, topiaries of horses and knights guarded the winding pathways, and marble fountains shimmered and bubbled with clear, clean water. In a pond in back, a beautiful black swan and seven fluffy cygnets glided thought the water under a curtain of an old willow tree.

The garden had been beautiful, too- flowers of every color and shape bloomed from hedges and garden beds, filling the air with rich, sweet perfumes. His mother grew roses of every size and color, and spent many afternoons tending to the rows.

The gardens were a shadow of what they once were...and so was she.

Marcus found his mother standing in the snow-covered garden, wearing only a slip of a dressing gown. Her hair was loose and unkempt around her shoulders filled with snarls and snowflakes.

She was also barefoot. Snow covered her exposed toes, which were turning almost purple- she must have been standing out in the snow for hours.

“Maisey, go and run a hot bath,” he told the house elf.

“Of course, Master Marcus,” said Maisey, and disapparated.

“Mother.” said Marcus, approaching her.

Vesta turned and smiled at her son, and Marcus had to brace himself against the sight. She had lost even more weight, and the bones of her shoulders were visible through the dressing gown- her cheeks were two sunken depressions that were tinged pink with cold. She hadn't been eating again.

“Mother, it's time to come inside.”

“Marcus. I've picked some flowers for your sister. You know how she loves the yellow ones.” Vesta's thin, bony fingers were wrapped around a cluster of snow-dusted roses, their heads blackened and brittle with the frost. They were ruined.

“You see? Her favorite.” His mother gripped them in a tight fist as she held them out- looking closer, Marcus could see the blood running down her wrists, some of it frozen to her skin.

Reaching out, he pried her fingers apart and took the flowers from her. “Yeah, I know.”

“Shall we put them in the nursery? She'll love to see the colors when she wakes.”

“Yeah, we'll do that,” agreed Marcus, putting the flowers in his pocket. “Let's go inside, Mom.”

Gently taking his mother's skeletal arm and winding it around his neck, Marcus picked her up at the knees and carried her inside, up the stairs to the separate room he could never remember her not sleeping in.

Maisey had drawn a bath filled with lavender salts- steam from the water filled the room with a heavy, perfumed mist. Marcus helped his mother undress, setting the soiled clothes aside.

Neither party showed embarrassment- they were both years and minds beyond it. Picking her up once more, he lowered her gently into the bathtub- she weight almost nothing. And then Marcus Flint, troll of Slytherin, shampooed her hair and ran a sponge over her skin in the same manner she had once done for him.

He waited there with her until the blue in her toes abated, and her skin had flushed a healthy pink once more. Sitting at the edge of the tub, he pulled the thorns from her skin and rubbed a salve over her palms before wrapping them in sterile gauze.

His mother had been a beautiful woman once. It had been what drew Atticus to her in the first place- that, and her family's vast fortune, which he had happily seized upon. As a child, Marcus had sat on his parents' bed and watched her comb her hair every night before bed, the ivory teeth of the comb sliding through the silver locks like silk, the sight reassuring, comforting that all was right and calm in the world.

Now, he brushed her hair for her, patiently picking apart the tangles.

She was deteriorating more quickly now- her body and not her mind the marker for her decline. Her mind stayed the same- fractured, decayed, with occasional flashes of comprehension that were as terrible as the madness.

It was hard to look at her. Her skin draped across her bones like pale silk...her once brilliant grey eyes, so like Marcus's, were cloudy and dull as paving stones. Helping and wrapping her in a clean robe, he led her to the bed and helped her into it.

Vesta Flint took his hand as he straightened. “You'll put the flowers in the room? For your sister? I want them to be there when she wakes.”

“Yeah.” he promised, covering her with the blankets. “Go to sleep, Mom.”

Walking around the room, he pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut and made sure the windows were closed. When he turned back to the bed, he looked at her for a moment. She was nothing like the mother he'd known when he was very young- the beautiful, poised witch that dressed in elegant robes and wore her long silvery hair tightly coiffed with ivory pins. It was Vesta that had explained about serving forks and salad forks- Vesta that had ensured he had flying lessons and new robes when he needed them. The witch that ran the manor effortlessly, proudly- to be a mother, a wife, to be mistress of a mansion had been bred into the lines of her family for generations. Vesta Flint was gone.

This sad creature, this lost soul curled up like a solemn little shrimp beneath the sheets, would have once disgusted his mother, when she had sense and perspective enough to be disgusted.

And his father, the man who should have cared for her most, the reason for her condition, had spent the last six years acting as if his wife had already died. He passed her like a ghost in the mansion, parading his whores through the hall, sealing her away like a room that had outgrown its use.

He let her wander the courtyard, barefoot, feet gnawed by frostbite and hands bloodied by rose thorns.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” muttered Marcus. But Vesta Flint was already asleep.

The elf was waiting in the doorway.

“Maisey, get some hot water bottles and put them on her feet, and make a pot of Airmed's broth for when she wakes up. Make sure she drinks all of it.”

The house elf nodded. “When she is waking, Master Marcus, I should be waking Master Atticus?

Fuck my father to all hells, thought Marcus. “No, Maisey, wake me up.”

“But Master has to go to back to his school!” protested the elf. “If Master Marcus misses his studies-”

“Just do what I say,” snapped Marcus. “And come and get me.”

Marcus went to the study, where he threw the dead roses into the fire. Wherever his sister was, he knew she had no need for them.

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It was not until late the next day that Maisey summoned him, saying that his mother was finally up and taking a meal in her room.

Sure enough, his mother was sitting up in the large bed, her hair clean and braided over one shoulder. Maisey's doing, not her own. When she looked at him, her gray gaze was clear- focused...at least as focused as he could remember it being in years.

“Marcus,” she said, smiling, touching his cheek with her hand. “You're getting big.”

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I'm feeling just fine today,” said Vesta, smiling. “How are you feeling? How is school?”

“Fine...it's fine.”

“Are you minding your marks?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Good. Perhaps later I thought we might take a stroll around the grounds. We could take little Flora, you know how she loves to hold your hand when you're walking. And then afterwards we could take our tea in the garden, and you could take her for a little ride on your broom, just around the grounds. She does love her big brother!”

“Flora's...sleeping now,” said Marcus. “Remember? Maisey's only just put her down.”

His sister would always be sleeping.

“Yes...” said Vesta, slowly, searching Marcus's face for something. “She is, isn't she? Well, perhaps we'll see her tomorrow,” she said. And then she smiled. “And now...well, it's night, isn't it? How silly of me, to lose track of the time. We'll have our walk tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Marcus,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“Goodnight, Mother.” And though there were many things Marcus wanted to say to her, in that moment, he knew she was beyond hearing them.

He found her the next morning, hanging from one of her scarves in what had once been the nursery.

There, among the dusty furniture, among the teddy bears with spider webs spun over their fur and the dolls with blank gazes, Vesta Flint twisted slowly from side to side, her toes scraping the floor, her gaze blank, unknowing.

Marcus cut her down and closed her eyes. He removed the scarf, and told Maisey to make the necessary preparations.

He did not cry for her. She was free.

…..
….
…
..
.

Year Four

Marcus,

It is apparent to me that I cannot relay to you the shame and humiliation you have brought to the Flint name by both the misfortune of your birth and subsequent non-achievement thereafter, not the least of which is because you are apparently too dim-witted to graduate from an institution so dilapidated and watered down by mudbloods and mutants that it is not fit for goats.

Let me, then, express my vexation in terminology you can understand. You will pass your courses, and graduate. You will take your rightful place in this family, and you will attempt to make me proud, or I will make you wish you had been buried alive with your waste of a mother.

Mind your studies, or find someone to cheat for you. Keep in good graces with those of influence, or simply follow and say nothing. It is to your benefit that no one expects much of you. And if you insist on playing that barbarian's bastardization of a sport, I would ask that you at least make an effort to make yourself less an ass and more a captain.

Do not disappoint me again.

And so it was another night in the library, tucked between the Herbology stacks, doing his best to blend in amongst the long rows of old books and carts piled high with scrolls and more old books. Marcus hunched over his Muggle Studies book and stared at the words without really seeing them. The chapter on “Muggle Transportation: Planes, Trains, and Other-mobiles” was as insensible as every other chapter in the book, and Marcus had answered none of his study questions and was no closer to writing his paper on “Why Planes Fly”.

He'd chosen the Herbology section to hunker down because no one in their right mind visited the Herbology section...well, no one in Slytherin, anyway. If Marcus Flint was caught here, amongst books, his entire reputation would go up in flames. Montague thought he was down in the Slytherin broom shed, drawing up some new drills, while he'd told Terrence that he was going to help Pucey rub the Gryffindor staircase down with lamp oil. His only prayer of his web of lies working was if no one talked to, ran into one another, or at any point actually decided to look at him. If nothing else, he supposed he could always tell them he spent the night shagging Orchidia Parkinson. No one would question that one.

Well, possibly Orchidia Parkinson.

The truth was that Marcus was pulling mostly Dreadfuls in Potions and was bordering on Troll in Muggle Studies and Divination, and Snape had hinted that unless his marks improved, he would be writing home to Atticus Flint about his son's poor performance.

It was at times like this that Marcus appreciated that he was an only child, because if Atticus Flint had had the luxury of an extra heir, Marcus was fairly sure he would have been put in a burlap sack and drowned long ago like so many unwanted kittens.

Motion in the stacks caught his attention. Blonde hair, skinny frame- Katie Bell. As he watched, she
seemed to weave aimlessly through the aisles, trailing her fingertips along the spines of the books, some of which giggled at the touch. Sighing, she finally plucked a single book from the shelves, quickly thumbing through it before tucking it under her arm.

Marcus stared back down at his parchment. So far, he'd managed the title- “How Planes Fly” followed by a big fat fucking question mark.

He could see his father's hulking form looming over him, his voice harsh, crooked teeth opening to issue spit and thunder-

Troll.

Fool.

Fuck-up.

Squib.

Marcus's quill snapped in half. He cursed. That was his last good one.

Katie looked up and took a startled step back when she saw him.

Marcus glared up at her. “The fuck are you looking at?” he hissed.

Katie's replaced the book on the shelf. “Marcus Flint, in a library. Perhaps I ought to check the window for flying pigs.”

“Very original, Gryffindor.” muttered Marcus.

She raised her chin a fraction. “I keep telling you, I have a name.”

“And I'm still not sure why you expect me to remember it,” replied Marcus, digging in his bag for another quill.

“You went to school with my brothers,” said Katie. “Bell? Remember?”

“No.”

They were both distracted by a loud sniff. Madam Pince was pushing a trolley full of books towards the back of the library, and gave both Katie and Marcus a disapproving glare.

Glancing behind her, Katie took a seat across from Marcus, plunking her book bag down on the table.

“Yeah, help yourself,” said Marcus sarcastically, moving his own book out of the way.

“Oh, keep your knickers on,” retorted Katie. “I'm only across from you, I'm not in your bloody lap or anything. And anyway, this was my spot first.”

Well, there was no arguing with that logic. In his short time on earth, Marcus had found that it was generally useless to argue with women in general, and this one in particular.

Marcus settled for staring at her as Katie proceeded to rummage around her bag and pull out a quill, a roll of parchment, and her Potions textbook, setting them on the table as if she planned on hunkering down for a bit.

Great. Just great. An unfinished paper and now an annoying little distraction sitting in front of him. Marcus tried glaring at her for a few moments, but it didn't work. She wasn't leaving.

Along with that unwelcome revelation came another- this little Gryffindor, this tiny slip of a girl, really wasn't scared of him at all. Three years and at least two dozen fouls committed on the pitch, several insults off of it, and a few heavy-handed threats exchanged between houses in general, and she approached him as if he were as benign as a loaf of fucking bread.

As if to prove his point, Katie sat and kept digging, removing half an apple core, a few crumpled notes, and what looked like a dead mouse carcass.

Marcus's initial impression of the last object turned out to be correct; Katie let out a little shriek and sent the corpse flying with a wild flick of her hand. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, but Madam Pince seemed nowhere in sight.

Marcus snickered.

Katie made a face and wiped her hand on her robes. “It's my cat, Sophie. She keeps leaving them everywhere. I suppose she thinks its a present.”

Leaning forward, Katie peered over at Marcus's paper. “Airplanes?”

Marcus pulled the parchment towards himself, glaring at her.

“Oh, I've ridden loads of times. Do you want help?”

“I can write it myself, thanks,” snarled Marcus.

Katie rolled her eyes. “Or I could help you, and you'd have done with it in about half the time.”

Marcus simply stared at her, willing her to disappear. If someone caught him here in the library, he'd never hear the end of it, not to mention sitting at the same table with an annoying little Gryffindor that barely reached his armpit.

“And what do you want?” asked Marcus.

Katie blinked at him for a moment. “Oh, that's right, you Slytherin lot never do anything for each other without something back. Well, I suppose you might teach me that Wollongong Shimmy.”

“Are you mental? I can't be seen with-”

“I'm not asking you to hold my bloody hand, am I?” snapped Katie. “Next time there's an Open Fly, just let me watch you do it. I learned a lot of moves watching my brothers, and from books.”

“Think you can learn from me, do you?” he asked, smirking.

Katie shrugged. “You're a fair flier, when you're arse-deep in penalties.”

Marcus studied her a moment. Well, if this little blonde bludger thought she could learn something from him, why not? If it got his Muggle Studies work done....

“Fine,” said Marcus.

“Fine,” said Katie, setting down her quill. “Now, first thing you need to know about Muggle airplanes is lift, thrust, drag, and weight-”

They continued on like that for the next fifteen minutes, with Marcus scribbling away and Katie whispering about baggage claims, plane engines, and in-flight meals. That was, until Pince found the dead mouse lodged in the Magical Plants of the Americas section.

“WHO ON EARTH PUT THIS HERE?!” came the screech.

Wincing, Katie grabbed her book bag and fled. There was no way for Madam Pince to prove it was her, of course, but as Katie explained to Marcus later, she'd already exploded a can of muggle soda practicing her Transfiguration homework, and was on thin ice already.

Marcus looked after her as she fled the library, and resisted a smile.

Barely.
…...
….
…
..
.

A week later, despite his better judgement, Marcus sat across from Katie once more, trying to concentrate on Muggle Studies and doing a piss poor job as usual. What the hell was a bicycle, anyway, and why the hell would anyone want to ride one? The unicycle made even less sense. Muggles were fucking crazy.

Katie, however, appeared to be actually studying.

“Potions?” asked Marcus, glancing at her notes.

“Yeah. Not doing so well,” admitted Katie, sighing. “It's Snape, he makes me so nervous. I've mucked up half my potions in class, so I've got to do well on all the papers.”

“Snape's not so bad.”

“Says the Slytherin,” scoffed Katie, trialing her finger down a chunk of text, muttering to herself as she fished for an answer.

“It's clover,” said Marcus, reading her paper upside down.

“What?”

“The answer's clover. You use clover to negate the rash commonly associated with the Frostbane potion when it makes contact with the skin. Four-leaf is best, but three-leaf works okay, too.”

At Katie's surprised look, he glowered. “I'm not a total fucking idiot, you know.”

“No, you just have bad taste in Quidditch teams,” said Katie, smiling. “Thanks, by the way.”

Katie bent her head and scratched away with her quill, leaving Marcus to his thoughts. He hadn't been entirely truthful the other day when he said he hadn't heard of her family- he was acquainted with both of her brothers, but it was difficult to believe that she was related to either one. While Mox and Mason Bell had identical coloring and blue eyes, Katie's eyes were a dark hazel, and she had a generous smattering of freckles sprinkled across her nose that stayed regardless of season. There was also the matter of temperament- while both the Bell brothers were usually calm, cool, and collected, Katie reminded him a bit of a niffler in Gringotts- excitable, enthusiastic, and just a touch erratic.

Madam Pince gave them a nasty look as she walked by. Marcus had the feeling they were still at the top of the list of suspects for the dead mouse incident.

As she leaned over her Potions notes to check something, her necklace spilled out from under her robes and rapped against the table, making Marcus look up.

“What is that necklace, anyway? You never take it off.”

Katie's hand went to the golden charm, once again tucking it under her shirt. “Just something my Dad gave me.”

“He give you presents often?” asked Marcus, imagining a spoiled little girl getting everything she set her eyes on by an overly indulgent father. It would certainly explain the unflinching attitude, the unshakable confidence.

“Not anymore,” replied Katie shortly, dipping her quill in ink.

“How come?”

“Just doesn't.” With that, she drew her quill across the parchment hard enough to slice through it. She cursed and pulled out a new roll.

“You've got the two brothers, right?” asked Marcus.

“Two older brothers. They've graduated already. Mox works for the Ministry as a Hunter for Class 5 creatures, and Mason's a Curse Breaker for Gringotts,” said Katie. “And I was sort of a surprise. Mum thought she'd finally gotten the girl she wanted, but I was as good as another boy. All I wanted to do was play Quidditch with my brothers.”

Someone dropped a book and let out a curse. Both Katie and Marcus glanced behind them, both on the lookout for the cantankerous librarian. “I've never heard of your family name, though.”

“You wouldn't have, would you?” replied Katie lightly, flipping through 'Fun with Fungi: Two Thousand Magical Mushrooms'. “My father was a muggle.”

“Your mother's a witch, though, isn't she?”

“Yeah, some big old wizarding family. Selwyn something? Anyway, they shut her out when she married Dad.”

“A Selwyn?” repeated Marcus, eyebrows raised. “That's one of the Sacred Twenty-eight.”

“The what?”

“One of the last true pure-blood families. It's in the directory.”

“Directory?” parroted Katie.

“The Pure-blood Directory. It's a list of Pure-blood families.”

Katie looked unimpressed with his revelation. “You actually read that?” she scoffed, sitting back.

“I can read, you know,” replied Marcus darkly.

“Oh, come off it, I didn't mean it like that,” snapped Katie. “I was speaking to the highly disputable quality of the material, not your ability to read.”

Marcus shrugged. “My father's a fan.”

“Your father would have been a big fan of the Heir of Slytherin, then,” said Katie grimly.

“It's not like you had to worry about it. You're half-blood-”

Katie snorted. “Pure-blood, half-blood, mudblood, it's all a lot of rubbish. Even if I could hide my heritage, I wouldn't. And I shouldn't have to. Nobody should.” Marcus raised an eyebrow.

“You've got a lot of opinion.”

“What, for a woman?” she sniped, jabbing her quill into her inkwell.

“For anyone,” retorted Marcus.

Katie kicked him underneath the table.

…..
….
…
..
.

Katie generally followed the school rules, but with friends like Fred and George, you were bound to get detention once in awhile simply by matter of association. This particular incident involved deck of exploding snap cards and Montague's Quidditch uniform pants, so Katie could not entirely regret her circumstances.

And as this detention featured working with Hagrid, Katie faced the prospect cheerfully enough. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and Katie threw on an old jumper and a pair of ratty denims and headed down to Hagrid's hut. And as much as Katie would have liked to be irritated with the twins, Fred and George were currently spending the afternoon with Filch, scrubbing the statue of Limerand the Licentious, (which seemed to Katie to be an odd statue to have at a school for children). All things considered, Katie thought that they had probably been punished enough.

“Hello Katie,” said Hagrid cheerfully. “Fred and George, eh?”

“Hello Hagrid,” said Katie, smiling. “Right in one.”

“Bad influence, those two.” The groundskeeper chuckled. “I'm a bit tied up at the mo', so if you could jus' go t'the hippogriff paddock, tidy up, give 'em some pats or brush an' a lump o' sugar or two. An don't forgeh' t'bow, yeh remember, righ?”

“Sure thing.”

Hagrid smiled at her. “Reckon ye kin handle 'em without my help. How's Mox an' Kiran?”

“Really good,” said Katie. “They've got two new mooncalves this year.”

After saying goodbye to Hagrid, Katie filled her pockets with sugar cubes and dead earthworms and grabbed Hagrid's box of grooming tools, which included a brush and a large bottle of linseed oil.

As Katie rounded the corner, she was surprised to see Marcus Flint forking hay into the paddock. Well, perhaps 'surprised' was the wrong word. Marcus Flint and detention were not exactly mutually exclusive.

He looked up at her approach. “What're you here for, Gryffindor?”

“Once again, I have a name, you know,” said Katie tiredly, swinging her leg over the fence and dropping down. “And let's just say that Fred and George's plans aren't exactly the image of perfect provision. You? Eat a kitten? Steal candy from a puffskein?”

“Failing Divination,” replied the older boy, shoveling another forkful of hay into the enclosure.

She grinned. “Didn't see that one coming, did you?”

“Har har.”

Two unicorns were in with the hippogriffs, a mother and her colt, and the baby approached Katie cautiously, tail swishing.

Katie held out her hand, exposing the sugar cubes, and soon the little golden foal was nuzzling her hand and letting her stroke his neck.

Marcus smirked. “Still untouched, Bell?”

Katie glared at him, stroking animal's velvety neck. “None of your business.”

The mother nickered at her colt from across the paddock, and the baby came running back to her, giving Marcus a wide berth.

Katie shook her head at the scene. Apparently Marcus Flint was not a virgin. She wasn't sure why the revelation surprised her...or bothered her just a little. Perhaps it was the idea of Flint having sex, she reasoned.

Wiping her hands on her denims, Katie picked up the brush from the tacklebox, making a low trilling sound in her throat that Kiran had taught her. A female hippogriff on the fringe of the herd raised her head, and after Katie bowed low, came trotting over to her.

Marcus looked after the unicorns. “What's wrong, Kathryn, none of your fellow Gryffindors up to the challenge?”

It was like hitting a switch. Katie's face darkened immediately.

“Don't call me that,” she snapped.

“Why not, isn't that the name you're so insistent I remember?”

Katie ignored him, running the brush over the beast's dappled coat. The hippogriff eyed Marcus beadily with her brilliant orange eyes, seeming to sense the source of the girl's irritation.

Marcus took a step back and picked up another forkful of hay. After Malfoy's idiotic brush with death, he'd gained a healthy respect for the creatures.

“So what, did an ex-boyfriend call you that or something?” persisted Marcus.

“No,” replied Katie. “My Dad.”

“And?”

“And what?” she snapped, irritated.

“What soured the name for you? Did he run off with the chambermaid? Dirt you and your mother or something? Refuse to buy you enough teddy bears growing up?”

“No.” said Katie flatly. “He died.”

“When?” asked Marcus bluntly.

“My first year,” replied Katie, patting the hippogriff's dappled flank as she walked around to the other side.

“Sorry,” said Marcus shortly, turning away.

Katie snorted. “I doubt it,” she replied. “He was a Muggle.”

Marcus was silent, staring off into the distance. The Thestral herd was moving along the fringes of the forest- two colts following six adults. One of the adults turned its skeletal neck, calling back to the little ones- a high, keening call that sent a shiver down Marcus's spine.

“You can see them too, huh?” asked Katie quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Who was it for you?”

“My mother.” said Marcus shortly. “How'd he die, you father?”

Katie looked at him for a moment, and he knew she was weighing the wisdom of telling him against any natural desire answer his question. “He was a policeman-”

“A please-man?” repeated Marcus.

“He protected people...he put people away that broke Muggle laws.”

“Like an Auror?”

“Sort of.”

“What happened to him?”

“Got shot by two drug-addicts holding up a grocer's,” said Katie, simply, patting the hippogriff's flank as she moved around to the other side. “You've got two decent chasers this year,” she said. “Too bad your Seeker's an idiot.”

Marcus noted the abrupt change of subject. “Yes, well, we can't all have Potter the Wonderboy, can we?”

“Wood says he's got a good feeling this year.”

“What, as opposed to last year? Or the year before?”

“Oh, shut up.” Taking the hippogriff's wing joint in her hands, Katie pushed at it delicately with her knuckle, and the animal unfurled its great gray wing without hesitation, with Katie standing under it like an awning. Sunlight filtered through the feathers, highlighting her hair.

Marcus went back to shoveling hay.

Gently, Katie began to run her fingers along the animal's feathers, applying oil, while the hippogriff shook her head happily. Absently, Marcus wondered where she had learned to do that.

“Wood doesn't know his ass from his elbow. Picked eye candy for chasers and the same two idiots for beaters again-”

“Excuse me,” said Katie, bursting out laughing. “Eye candy? On the pitch, Wood doesn't know a breast from a bludger. Besides, is this coming from the man who chose size over skill this year?”

“Yeah well, they weren't all my choices, were they.” replied the elder Slytherin darkly.

Katie's brow creased. “But...you're the Captain. You pick the players, don't you?”

“Very astute.” snapped Marcus, plunging the pitchfork into the dirt. “You really don't have a bloody clue how the world works, do you?”

“And what exactly does that mean?” asked Katie, pausing in her brushing of the hippogriff to glare at him.

“It means there are politics involved. Parents want their kids to play Quidditch. Parents with influence.”

Katie raised her eyebrows at the revelation. “It isn't like that in Gryffindor.”

Marcus heaved another heapful of hay over the fench. “Bully for Gryffindor. You're giving me a fucking cavity, it's all so fucking sweet.”

The hippogriff, apparently annoyed at the loss of attention, nudged Katie with her beak, nearly toppling her over. Katie gave the animal an exasperated look and resumed brushing. Marcus snorted.

“People are all out for themselves, Bell. The sooner you learn that, the happier you'll be.”

“You're not.”

“Excuse me?”

“That day on the Hogwarts Express. You brought Sophie back to me, and you didn't have to.”

“You think...because...” Marcus laughed, but it was humorless. “You Gryffindors are all the same. All naïve as fuck, swinging on rainbows, eating bon-bons and having do-gooder circle jerks, all ready to believe that everyone else wants to save the fucking world. You're going to get eaten alive outside that high-flown little house of yours, Bell.”

Katie resumed her brushing of the hippogriff. “So what, your answer is to assume everyone's an asshole out for themselves? How's that working out for you?”

“Just fucking fine, thank you,” snapped Marcus, hefting another heavy forkful of hay over the fence.

The two worked in quiet for awhile, each busy with their own thoughts.

“You know,” said Katie thoughtfully, breaking the silence. “I think it would be worse to expect nothing from people than to be disappointed sometimes.”

“Yeah well, what the hell do you know?”

“My father used to say that,” said Katie quietly.

“Yeah, and how'd that work out for him?” snapped Marcus.

Katie flinched as if he'd physically struck her. She didn't yell. She didn't punch him. Just stared at him from behind the hippogriff, her face naked with hurt and fury.

Marcus threw down the pitchfork and stomped off, not caring if he got detentions for the rest of the week, just knowing he had to get away before he said anything else stupid.

...like that he was sorry.

…....
….
…
..
.

Dear Katie,

Parle vous francais? The answer is “not well” in your brother's case, so this trip has taken longer than planned. I actually thought the Abraxan's owner was going to punch him in the face when he confused 'horse' and 'your wife' (once again, your brother is terrible in foreign languages.) Still, I think we'll be flying home with the filly very soon- can't wait for you to meet her!

I don't mind the delay- the shops around here are great and I've already picked up some great things for you. There's a lot of little outdoor cafes and I've caught up on some reading as well- your brother, of course, is itching to get back to the ranch. It's only a week- I'm sure Abhay can handle things for a week (as long as he doesn't try to pet Sten.) Hmmm...perhaps I'd best owl him, yeah?

How is school going? Do you have dozens of boyfriends? I know Mox wants you to enter the convent straight out of Hogwarts, but you know I'm personally rooting for you in the romance department. I want details!

Do we have the pleasure of expecting you for Christmas hols again this year? I hope so- the fairies have been breeding up storm and I want the tree to positively glow.

Lots of love,
Kiran

…..
….
…
..
.

The weekend free-fly was poorly attended, owing to the enthusiastic downpour that had begun in the morning and held strong into the afternoon. Madam Hooch, dressed in a heavy cloak and sitting beneath the stands, seemed to content to let the die-hards practice in the pouring rain, so long as they stayed away from the metal posts.

There were five people out in total, all soaked to the bone; Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson, who were practicing their passing, Katie Bell, who was practicing dives, Cedric Diggory, who was chasing a snitch around, and Anora Sweetstone, a Ravenclaw hopeful for next year's team.

“Out for a fly today, Mr. Flint? Lovely weather for it.”

Marcus nodded before pulling the hood over his head and taking off. The cloak was useless- he was immediately soaked. Adjusting his grip on the handle, he lowered himself over the pitch and took off, pushing the broom as fast as it could go towards the opposite end of the pitch, welcoming the rain stinging his face.

Katie had given up on dives and was attempting to pass to herself- a difficult maneuver made even more difficult by the rain making the Quaffle slick. Marcus heard her curse as it slipped from her fingers, plummeting to the ground below. Lowering himself, Marcus dropped beneath it, catching it just before it hit the ground.

Katie had stopped her broom's motion and watched him as he flew up to her height. She had removed her hood- her hair was plastered to her face and her normally kind hazel eyes were bright with anger.

He held out the Quaffle to her- she watched him warily as she took it. “Something else you wanted to say?” she asked. “Something else about how it was my Dad's fault he's dead?”

“It's-” began Marcus, but the words felt as alien on his tongue as another language. “I-”

“All right, Katie?” asked Oliver. He and Angelina had stopped their drills and had flown up to see what was going on. Oliver's look was openly hostile, while Johnson's was more curious than anything.

“I-” said Katie, not looking at him. “Yes, everything's fine. Go back to your drills.”

“Holler if you need us,” said Angelina.

“Watch yourself, Flint,” added Oliver coolly before turning his broom back towards the goal posts. Marcus resisted the urge to knock him off his broom.

Force of habit.

“You were saying?” asked Katie.

“I-”

“You're sorry? You're an arse? You'll never say shite like that again? You'll teach me the Wollongong Shimmy now?”

“Yes.”

When he looked at her again, she was smiling just a little. They spent the rest of the afternoon out in the rain, soaked to the bone, rising and diving like sparrows on opposite ends of the pitch, each watching the other.
No one watching would have assumed they were flying together.

Marcus should have known then that he was lost.

…..
….
…
..
.

At the approach of the winter holidays, everyone in the Slytherin dorm was packing, preparing to pack, or putting off packing for as long as possible. Marcus belonged to the last group, and spent the afternoon in the Great Hall before reluctantly descending the stairs to the Quidditch common room.

Both Terence and Adrian were smirking at him when he arrived, which was an early warning sign that the mickey was about to be vigorously taken.

“You've got a guest in your bed, Flint,” said Terence, glancing behind them.

“Yeah, she's waiting for you.” said Adrian, after which both burst into laughter.

“What'd you do?” asked Marcus darkly. “Who exactly did you let in?”

“Oh, we didn't let her in,” smirked Terence. “She let herself in.”

“Wait here. I'll be back to kick your arses directly.” said Marcus, stalking past them.

Marcus pulled back the curtains on his bed, and there she was, sprawled out on his pillow like she owned the place.

“The fuck-”

A small, cream-colored kitten with ginger-tipped ears and a thick bottle-brush tail peered back at him with bright amber eyes. She was wearing a red bow around her neck, upon which a note had been attached. Reaching out, Marcus disentangled it.

Marcus,

Thanks for showing me the Wollongong Shimmy. Think I've got the hang of it now!

This is one of Sophie's kittens. She had eight total- I suspect Crookshanks. She likes cream and sardines, though she's old enough to catch mice for herself now.

Happy Christmas,

Katie

p.s. Don't eat her. She's a gift.

Marcus fell back onto the bed, heaving a great exasperated sigh. The kitten, evidently taking this for an invitation, stalked forward and made herself comfortable on his chest.

Fucking Gryffindors.

…..
….
…
..
.

Flint Manor had fifty-two rooms in total.

One grand foyer in the front, one conservatory in the back, one linen room, two greeting rooms and a servants' quarters with six bedrooms. There were two kitchens, one pantry, and two storage rooms for extra furniture and old trunks. There was a root cellar, a meat cellar, and a kennel that had nothing but old leashes and leads.

There were two trophy rooms, each filled with stuffed creatures with glassy eyes, chests filled with galleons and very old suits of armor draped with cobwebs thick as capes. Two libraries flanked either side of the main house, each with a grand fireplace and heavy velvet curtains. There were 17 bedrooms, three offices, two dining rooms, an apothecary, and a prison complete with seven cells, a rack, and an enchanted Iron Maiden. As a child, Marcus had obsessed over the shadows steeped into the stone floor, wondering if they were blood.

As an adult, he knew for certain, and found he preferred wondering.

There was a wine cellar filled with wine as old as Merlin himself, which Marcus was pretty sure made it glorified vinegar by now. Two small windowless rooms flanked the wine cellars, each with several enchanted locks on the door. Vertical slashes scored the walls- Marcus would later recognize them as marks made by fingernails, by desperate prisoners trying to claw their way out. An ornate chair had been propped up against the outside of those walls, accompanied by a small table for a wine glass and bottle of wine.

Marcus could easily imagine Atticus Flint sitting in that old wingback chair, sipping wine and listening to the screams and scratches echoing off the walls until they faded to silence.

There was a small greenhouse and a potting shed that had been overtaken by vines. A stable stood off to the side of the property, but as far as Marcus could remember, there had never been horses, only bales of hay and a few dusty halters. There was also a small Owlery where the Flints kept their post owls, though Marcus did not consider that so much of a room than a small tower encrusted with bird shit and mouse carcases.

The backyard of the estate featured a sprawling green lawn, complete with two separate gardens. His mother had loved the gardens and spent many hours out on the lawn, tending to her roses...when she was able. In her last years, she simply sat in the gardens, staring at the overgrown hedges with cloudy eyes. In those years, Marcus had cut roses for her and had them placed in her room.

Marcus's favorite rooms in the house were the library and the greenhouse. Not because he was particularly fond of reading or of gardening, but because these were rooms his father did not frequent. Atticus Flint had no use for books and he had no love of plants, so Marcus was free to spend summer afternoons in the hedges, relaxing and eating the snacks Maisey prepared for him, or skimming the lawns of the estate on his broom. On rainy days, he'd bring his broom into the towering library and practice his cornering, whipping around the shelves and knocking the book spines with the soles of his shoes. He'd toppled an entire row of shelves, once, but that was years ago. He could thread a needle around those corners now.

Being Christmas, however, it was too cold to be in the gardens. Still, Marcus had taken his broom for a few sweeps up and down the estate before retiring for the evening when his feet began to freeze. Maisey was familiar with Marcus's haunts, and had set out a mug of hot chocolate on a table in front of the fire. She'd even left Marcus's presents in front of the fire- Maisey's presents were always homemade. This year, it was woolen scarf, knitted with white and green yarn, and a tin of butter cookies.

Marcus ate a cookie while warming his toes in front of the crackling fire, his back braced against one of the old study chairs.

His father might be somewhere in the manor tonight, or perhaps at one of the many holiday parties the wizarding upper-crust seemed so fond of, drinking mulled cider and toasting to their pureblood empires. Soon, Marcus knew he would be required to attend these events- he was already obliged to attend the Greengrasses' New Years party, something he was not looking forward to in the slightest.

This Christmas, Marcus was alone. His father was rarely there for dinners, and the holidays were not an exception.

His mother was the one that had decorated a tree with fairy lights and sung carols when he was younger. She was the one that had bundled Marcus up in a thick coat and herded him outside, taking walks through the snow-covered gardens and snapping off icicles to cool his hot chocolate.
After his mother became ill, Christmas had ceased to be. Marcus would eat dinner at one end of a forty-two seat oak table, helping himself to gravy, roast, and potatoes from assorted silver tureens and chewing in silence.

This year, he had Maisey prepare a small meal in the library and ate alone, tuning into the wireless for background company.

Though he had company of his own, this year.

Ceres was sitting in his lap, purring, her tail swishing across his leg as she soaked up the heat from the fire. She'd already made herself at home in the old manor, and had dropped two dead mice on his pillow just this morning. He supposed it was the cat's idea of a Christmas gift.

Stupid cat, he thought, scratching her between the ears. The spoiled thing now wore a silver collar with a name tag and a tiny bell attached to the end. Not because he cared about the dumb animal, he told himself, but because he wanted some warning before the fucking thing jumped on his face in the middle of the night.

In a year's time, he wouldn't have to come back to the manor for the holidays at all. His father could still summon him, true, but he wouldn't have to live there anymore. After this year, he'd leave Hogwarts. Flunking out wasn't an option. One year, he could get away with- two, and Marcus was pretty sure his father would Kedavra him himself.

And so, Marcus sat and stared into the fire, trapped in a beautiful house that had never truly been a home.

Year Five

Marcus's mother had fallen into illness when he was very young- his memories of her whole were limited at best, and limited to a few clear memories. He had been raised mostly by Maisey, and even then, she had little direction to give. Mostly, she fed him, and saw to his daily needs.

His father kept a steady stream of nearly faceless women through the manor, and none of them concerned themselves with raising Marcus, either.

Atticus himself was not much in the way for hands-on parenting, though there was one notable exception. When he was 14 and came home for summer holiday, Atticus had summoned Marcus to his study. His father's study not being a place of particularly fond memories, Marcus's stomach was in a knot by the time he reached the grand room, wondering what manner of unpleasantness awaited him.

Two figures sat before the fire- the hunched, hulking outline of his father...and a guest.

Salva Mireleir was a curvy sort of woman and looked older than her 34 years. She was a visitor to the Flint manor from time to time, and always left through the back entrance.

Salva winked at Marcus as he passed her, her strong perfume filling his nose.

“Sit down, boy.” said his father.

Marcus sat, never taking his eyes off his father.

“Seems to me it's about time you started becoming a man. Since you can't seem to do it yourself, I've brought in someone to do it for you.”

“What-”

But his father had already turned from him to Salva. “Don't let him leave until he's learned what he needs to know,” said Atticus, tossing a handful of galleons onto the table as he walked out.

Salva was as good as the galleons on the table- when she slipped from the room much, much later, Marcus had been well and truly educated.

Still, as he stared at the dark walls of the room, feeling his heartbeat slow, he found himself half-wishing that the experience had been with someone who wanted to be there, someone who stayed...not someone who patted his shoulder, scraped the galleons from the table, and slipped out through the back door.

Since then, the women in his bed had been there mostly out of one obligation or another- fellow pure-blood witches that wanted to lay groundwork for future unions...girls that looked through him towards Flint Manor and the opportunities it offered. Marcus had never been disillusioned about his looks- he knew he looked like his father- dark-haired, broad-shouldered , with the sort of teeth that gave him plenty of reasons not to smile. The only thing he had inherited from his mother were her eyes, and, according to his father, her intelligence.

When Marcus had joined the Falcons, he was surprised to see that women actually wanted to go to bed with him, and he lost no time in taking advantage of the opportunity. In the moment, it was always satisfactory, but afterwards, it was as hollow as anything else. The women were shells- no substance, no fire, just an endless, sucking need that attached itself to anything rich or famous. That it was him they were fucking was purely incidental.

He had a beautiful life but it was really nothing but a beautiful shell. He had an apartment with a huge kitchen and no one to eat breakfast with. He had a veranda that he sat out on and watched the sun set and moon rise and the days pass by like strangers on the street. He had expensive things that were worthless without someone to share them with, but the idea of having anything else was unknowable. A bird could only build the same kind of nest it was born in. An ant dug the same tunnels as its ancestors. The Flints built giant structures out of tradition and obligation and then slowly sealed themselves inside.

And so Marcus got up each day in his million-Galleon flat and played Quidditch and posed for the cameras and fought the lingering fear that he'd broken free of his father only to build himself the same kind of fucking cage he'd been born in.

Marcus stood in front of the mirror in his large flat, adjusting his tie. Another event tonight, this time for his father.

Legacy. Tradition. Obligation.

Maybe some cages were just too big to be free of.
…..
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.

Katie looked into the mirror, turning back and forth. Normally a pretty but rather plain girl looked back at her- but not today.

Her mother had outdone herself with the dress, which had arrived by owl post last week. It was as red as a phoenix feather, and it floated like one when she moved. The bodice was shirred with stays that virtually melted into the fabric, and the skirt was made from layered organza that fell in different lengths against her thighs. It was the single most beautiful thing she had ever worn. Katie's joy at having had her mother make something for her was tempered by the very real possibility that Morwenna Bell hadn't trusted her daughter to dress herself.

Katie touched the charm at her neck, closing her eyes for a moment. She wished her father could see her now. He'd twirl her and smile and say, “Where'd you go, Kathryn? All I see's an angel in front of me!”

Leanne had applied gobfuls of Sleakeasy's Hairpotion and had wrapped her hair in an ornate tangle of curls at the nape of her neck, then lent her a pair of gold earrings. Katie took one last look at the stranger in the mirror before hurrying out of the room, patting Sophie before she left.

The dinner was wonderful, and her date, Abram Kabinov, was also an enthusiastic follower of Quidditch, though he preferred to talk about the Bulgarians. She'd met him during the tournament, and was happy that he'd asked her to go as friends.

After dinner, they'd danced quite a bit, and Katie chatted happily with Hermione, who'd come with Victor Krum, of all people.

Katie broke away after a particularly vigorous dance to grab some punch. Fred and George passed her on the way, each giving her a wink. She frowned after them, then decided that whatever it was, she'd find out sooner than later.

She was ladling punch into a crystal cup when someone else joined her. Someone tall, and broad-shouldered, and-

“Marcus?”

He grinned at her. There was something different about him, but she couldn't place it.

“Why on earth are you here?” she blurted when she saw him.

“Why, hello to you too, Bell. My father's a generous patron of the school, so in the off season, I'm required to put in appearances.” I

“How tiresome for you.”

“It has its advantages,” replied Marcus.

“And what's that, all the underage witches you can slag?” Katie took a sip of the punch, wincing as it burned on the way down. She looked at her glass. Someone had spiked it- that someone most likely being two someones. Katie looked around for Fred and George, who were conspicuously absent. Definitely spiked.

She turned back to Marcus. Sod it. She took another long drink.

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Nice. Where's your date?”

“He's not a 'date',” said Katie. “He's a friend.”

“Does he know that?” asked Marcus.

It was Katie's turn to roll her eyes. “Of course he does.”

“Then he won't have a problem with you dancing with me, will he?” asked Marcus, setting down her drink and dragging her out onto the dance floor.

“Wait, what- you can't just drag someone out on the dance floor-” said Katie indignantly, her high-heeled shoes making it impossible for her to dig in. Instead, she skated along the floor until they were in the middle of the crowd.

Marcus made a show of looking around. “Well here I am. And there you are. So apparently, it is, in fact, possible.”

“Arse,” muttered Katie.

Marcus grinned. “So, you enjoying yourself?”

“I was,” said Katie petulantly.

“It's that bad, dancing with an old schoolmate? I thought the Tri-Wizard tournament was about encouraging cooperation in the magical community.”

“You actually believe that?” asked Katie.

“Not at all,” replied Marcus, and twirled her. Katie's non-date, Abram Kavinov, was frowning at Marcus from across the punch bowl.

“Your date is glaring at me.”

“For the last time, he isn't my date. And he isn't glaring at you- he's just got big eyebrows, that's all. Congratulations on making the Falcons, by the way,” said Katie begrudgingly. “What'd you have to do at tryouts? Behead an opponent? Steal from an orphan?”

“No, but they do look for that in the first few games,” replied Marcus.

“They had your match against Puddlemere on the wireless,” said Katie. “Four goals, not bad.”

“Well Katie Bell, I didn't know you were a fan. I'll have to send you some tickets.”

“Oh, so you can write. I assumed you'd forgotten how.”

She expected him to write to her? About what?

Marcus frowned. “I suppose I could be bothered to send you some tickets. Let you see how real Quidditch is played.”

“Don't bother, unless it's against a decent team,” retorted Katie.

“Ouch! The kitten has claws,” said Marcus, spinning her, but he grinned.

Reluctantly, Katie smiled, too. “Speaking of which, how's your kitten?”

“Fucking thing's taken over my apartment.”

The Weird Sisters ended their slow song and began a fast one, and a few enthusiastic dancers mashed them together as they tried to move off the floor. To Marcus's great surprise, Katie willingly took his arm and allowed herself to be escorted off the dance floor. Grabbing some more punch, they walked outside, where snow was beginning to fall. Katie talked happily about next year's Quidditch team, and asked him questions about the Falcons, most of which related to the number and nature of penalties that they tallied each game.

Finally, they rounded a corner of the castle. Thick tufts of snow had piled on the trees and carriages, twinkling in the light of the moon. Katie's breath clouded the air, and snowflakes sparkled in her hair. Katie leaned back against one of the stone pillars.

“So, why aren't you out with your fellow Quidditch stars, knee-deep in adoring fans?”

That was a good question. His fellow Chaser, Fenrick, was throwing a huge bash at his flat tonight, and the place would be swarming with fellow players, food, (alcohol that wasn't poorly-spiked punch) and Quidditch floozies dying to see the inside of his bedroom. And yet, when Atticus had owled him regarding putting in an appearance at the Yule Ball and refreshing some old alliances, Marcus had found himself agreeable for several reasons, not the least of which was seeing an underage half-blood Gryffindor who half-hated his guts half of the time.

Which was...really fucking pathetic.

Wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

“Hello?” Katie was waving her hand in front of his face, laughing. “Earth to Marcus, are you-”

And then Marcus Flint did the stupidest thing he could think of.

He kissed Katie Bell.

…..
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Year Six
Diagon Alley had changed, and not for the better. People talked in hushed voices and hurried whispers- children stuck close to their parents, instead of racing up and down the street, peering in store windows. Olivander's was boarded up, and all the windows in Florean Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlour had been smashed. A dark mark had been etched above the doorway, meaning the man was as good as dead.

Marcus pulled up the lapels of his black traveling cloak and crossed the street.

Marcus stopped off at Quality Quidditch Supplies for a bottle of Fleetwood's High Finish Handle Polish and ate a quiet lunch at the Leaky Cauldon before stopping at his final destination, Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The Falcons had ordered all new robes for the upcoming season, and as Madam Malkin's was a friend of the Captain's mother, she would be taking and filling the rather large order.

Hard to believe that Quidditch continued at a time like this.

Pushing open the door, Marcus met the last person in the world he expected to meet.

At 17, Katie was as tall as Angelina, and through she maintained the same slim figure she'd had at 11, she now had a small groove in her hips and the writing on her t-shirts was beginning to strain. Her hair still swung between her shoulder blades in a long plait that she more often than not swung over one shoulder to keep it out of the way, as she was now.

Katie was wearing a thick grey jumper and a ratty old t-shirt that said “The Beatles” across the chest. Whatever those were. Marcus had learned long ago that Muggles had very strange names for things.

Katie didn't look up as the bell on the door rang, but kneeled down to place a bolt of fabric on a lower shelf. “Welcome to Madame Malkin's, how can I help you?” she called.

“Didn't figure you for a seamstress, Bell.”

The loud thump accompanied by a muffled curse told him she'd knocked her head against the shelf. Katie appeared a moment later, rubbing her head and giving him a glare any basilisk would be envious of.

“I'm not a seamstress. I keep the appointment books and take the measurements.”

Marcus could not imagine a more boring summer job, and told her so.

Katie shrugged. “We can't all be Quidditch stars with big fat trust funds, now, can we? Anyway, how can I help you?”

“I'm here for my fitting.”

She blinked at him for a moment, looking for all the world as if a personal nightmare of hers was coming true. “Right. 'Course you are. Madame Maxine will be back in a moment, she can take your-”

Marcus folded his arms, grinning at her. “I thought you took the measurements.”

She glanced away. “Well, I do, usually, when Maxine isn't in the shoppe-”

“Well, I don't see her. Do you?” asked Marcus, pretending to look around. He'd forgotten how fun it was to get her riled up.

Katie grit her teeth. “Please step onto the podium. And you'll have to remove that jacket for an accurate measurement.”

Marcus stepped up and tossed his jacket onto a nearby chair.

“Lose the jumper, too.”

Underneath the grey jumper, Marcus wore a simple black vest, rode up as he peeled the outer garment off. Kate looked pointedly away.

“Arms up, please, and stand up straight.” Obligingly, Marcus spread his arms out. Katie took a moment to glance up at him and noted two things; one, the difference in their heights was even more pronounced, now, and Witch Weekly had not exaggerated Marcus's physique in the slightest in its latest coverage of 'Quidditch Hunks', an article Alicia took great pleasure in reading aloud, as it covered both Flint and Oliver Wood.

Clearing her throat, Katie walked around the counter and took out her wand from a belt at her hip. She also grabbed a clipboard.

With a flick of her wand, a strip of measuring tape ribboned up to wrap around his arm. Tightly.

“Your teammate Blake was already here this morning,” said Katie, scribbling something down on the clipboard. She was apparently determined not to look at him. “He mentioned you might be looking into some underclothes for rainy conditions.”

Their eyes met for a moment, then Katie abruptly walked away. And then Marcus understood- she was pissed at him. It explained the returned Quidditch tickets he'd sent her- the envelope had a 'return to sender' stamp, with 'sender is a prat' written below it. And it all had to do with the Yule Ball. They'd been dancing around that stupid little kiss since he walked in. He'd had one-night stands with less fucking fanfare, but of course with Bell it had to mean everything. She couldn't just forget about it and make his life easier.

But he remembered it too.

Her icy little hands inside his cloak, fingertips lightly resting against his abdomen, lips soft as he gripped the back of her head, opening his mouth against hers. She'd been kissed before, he could tell, but not much, and he'd been enjoying the sensation, leading her along, until suddenly, she was kissing him back. Her hands had fisted in his cloak to pull him down, pull him closer, her teeth on his lips, body flush against his, and he had to keep telling himself that she was sixteen fucking years old, and a Gryffindor-

“What do you recommend?” asked Marcus, blinking away the memory and craning his head to look at her. The tape wrapped around his waist, then the inside of his thigh. He could hear Katie's quill scratching in the background.

“Ernalad's Ever-Dry Underarmor has been pretty popular. Keeps out rain, sleet, most kinds of minor hexes-”

“How long does the charm last?” he interrupted, trying to get his body under control.

“Six to eight months, give or take. Should last you the season, and you can get it re-charmed by post.” Katie ripped off a sheet of paper from her clipboard and slapped it into his hand. “This is your receipt. The robes will be delivered to the Falcon's office before the start of the season.”

“You're pissed,” said Marcus, taking the receipt.

Katie shrugged, walking back around the counter. “Why would I be?”

“Good fucking question. What is it, because I kissed you and didn't fucking marry you?” he asked her.

“No, it's because you're the world's biggest fucking arse,” she snapped, tossing the clipboard onto the counter. “But since we're on the subject, why'd you do it in the first place?”

Marcus shrugged into his cloak, not looking at her “Because I could.”

“Try again.” she snapped.

Marcus turned back to face her, glaring. “Look, why don't you make up whatever childish bullshit you want for an answer, and we'll call it even?”

Katie's cheeks colored. “Like I said, Flint, you're an arse.”

“Which makes you what, for liking it?”

“Why don't you make up whatever answer you want, and we'll call it even?” she said, throwing his earlier words back at him.

Marcus threw up his arms and stalked towards the door. “You're fucking crazy, you know that?”

“Better that than a coward,” muttered Katie.

Marcus paused with his hand on the door, curling it into a fist. He stalked back to the counter, slamming his hands on the counter. To her credit, Katie did not flinch, just narrowed her eyes at him.
“What, Bell, you think I'm afraid of you? Because that's a fucking laugh.”

“You tell me, you're the one walking out the door.”

“That's right, I'm exiting the building. That's what happens when business is concluded.”

“And is that what happened after the Yule Ball? Was our business 'concluded'?” taunted Katie.

“Trust me, you wouldn't have liked it if I'd concluded our business,” said Marcus.

She lifted her chin. “I'm not a bloody child.”

“Damned near.”

She leaned towards him now, her palms flat on the counter. “Then why'd you kiss me?”

To shut you up.

To stop me saying something stupid.

Because you were standing in the snow, in that dress, and I couldn't not kiss you-

They stared at one another for a moment before Marcus looked away. “I don't know,” he said seriously.

Instead of yelling at him, Katie took a step back and sighed. Which told him it wasn't the right answer, but it wasn't the wrong one, either.

“Well, can't argue with that one. Are we...” she paused. “Are we friends, Marcus?”

“I don't know,” said Marcus, walking to the door. “Be careful, Katie.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I'm not scared.”

You really should be, thought Marcus, remembering Olivanders and Fortesque's.

“Be careful anyway, Gryffindor.”

“You too, Slytherin.”

This time, when Marcus sent her tickets to the game, she didn't send them back.

…..
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The girls had a long-standing tradition. Friday nights, they'd gather in the dormitory, armed with butterbeer, candy (courtesy of Fred and George), and the latest trashy magazines, wherein they would attempt to solve the world's problems (or at least their own.)

Two boxes of chocolate frogs, a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and a half case of butterbeer later, Katie, Alicia, and Angelina law sprawled out on Angelina's bed, surrounded by empty wrappers and bottles.

Angelina lay on her back, arms sprayed out about her head. “Hmmm...Terence Higgs?”

Alicia considered. “Shagable,” she decided, shoving an entire chocolate frog into her mouth.

“You utter slag!” laughed Angelina, throwing a handful of fizzing whizbees at her friend.

“This from the girl who labeled Adrian Pucey as the best thing to happen to a Quidditch uniform, you traitor!” laughed Alicia. “Right, then...Oliver Wood. Hexable, shagable, or hitchable?”

“Decidedly shagable,” said Angelina.

“Not hitchable?” asked Katie, smiling.

“Is no one in this game hitchable?” asked Alicia, frowning.

“Oliver's already married to Quidditch,” said Angelina. “It's a complicated relationship. I wouldn't want to add to his burden.”

“That it is,” agreed Katie, thinking of the foul mood and deep depressions that had usually accompanied most of their early matches.

Angelina rolled over. “All right, Katie next. How about...Marcus Flint?”

Katie thought there was a rather knowing look in Alicia's eyes when she said it. “Detestable.”';

“Ah, ah! That's not an option,” said Angelina.

“Then hexable,” replied Katie, thinking of the Yule Ball. “Definitely hexable.”

…..
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Dear Katie,
I hope you received the package of sweets and the sweater I sent last week. The shop is very busy at the moment, with a sudden rush in orders for ornate dress robes for the eldest Greengrass daughter's wedding. There are four daughters in that family in total, I think, so it's good to know we can expect future business.

News from school tells me of your activities in the group known as DA. Though many may disagree with Umbridge's methods, she is of the Ministry, and it is in Dumbledore's best interest (and yours) to lay low until the Ministry loses interest in whatever it hopes to accomplish at Hogwarts. You are young, and you are idealistic, but Katie...the right thing is a fine thing, but it is not the only thing. Remember that.

There is a lot of your father in you, Katie, and I worry it will turn out for you as it did for him. Be careful.

With love,
Mother

Crumpling the note, Katie tossed it into the fire.

She was not afraid. She was her father's daughter, and she would face whatever consequences came.

She gripped her necklace, watching as the flames consumed the crumpled letter and wishing, more than ever, her father was there.
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Year Seven

Katie remembered the Jobberknoll from her Care of Magical Creatures class. A small, speckled bird that is silent its entire life- that was, until it died. At that moment, it let out a long scream that consists of every sound it has ever heard in its life, backwards.

And for Katie, it was the same thing- from the moment her finger glanced the cursed necklace, every awful, terrible memory that lived inside her seemed to flare to life, wrapping gleeful fingers around her heart and trying to crush it to dust.

The physical pain was terrible, a current strong as lightening arcing up her arm, but it was background noise compared to-

-falling off her broom, the ground coming up fast, fast, the impact like a punch in the gut, and a pain blooming in her arm, alone in the field, scared, calling for her father-

-the sight of her father's body, withered in the hospital bed, her mother signing the death papers with shaking hands-

-Marcus, standing by the hippogriff pen, his expression hard, his words worse-

-Roger Davies standing with Fleur Delacour, his gaze cutting through her, past her-

Dad's eyes, glassy, dull, staring up at the ceiling, his broad chest rising and falling in time to the respirator-

-holding his cold hand as the heart monitor went down, watching the remains of life fade down to a single flat line-

Mother, turning her back, turning away-

Cracking her eyes open to see Severus Snape, his wand point digging hard into her arm as he murmured under his breath, a chant that almost sounded like music, a chant that chased the sound of the screaming away, pulled her up, up into the soft air, into sleep-

-and then nothing.

Though she was assaulted with questions from Aurors when she first awoke, Katie remembered few things about being cursed. She remembered walking into the bathroom, arguing with Leanne....there was a face in that bathroom, but she could not make it out. It swam like a reflection in a muddled pool, far out of reach, and after awhile, Katie stopped reaching for it, because it lurked at the bottom of those painful memories that had pooled at the opal's touch.

The Healer shooed the Aurors away after awhile, and gave her a sleeping draught. Katie happily sank back into the darkness.

Mother had been there at her bedside when she awoke the second time, her normally pretty face shadowed by sleeplessness.

“Katie, Katie, thank Merlin,” she sobbed, pulling her daughter into her arms with crushing force. “I thought...like your father....thank Merlin....thank Merlin....”

“'m okay, Mom,” Katie manged, gingerly patting her mother's back. “....'m fine....”

Morwenna Bell pulled back, tears streaming down her face. “What if I had lost you? What if those were our last words to each other, those horrible letters? All these years...missed time...missed Christmases...”

“I thought...” managed Katie. “I thought you didn't want to see me.”

Her mother sat back, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. “I didn't...at first. Oh, Katie, you look so like him...like your father. It hurt so much to look at you....to see him...to remember...”

“Oh,” said Katie, looking away.

“You were such friends, the pair of you. Attached at the hip, always, since you were in nappies. He always knew just what to say to you to cheer you up, whereas I...I always said the wrong thing. All these years, I thought....I thought how much you must have wished it was me instead.”

Katie's eyes widened, and she turned back to face her mother. “No, Mum. I just wished it hadn't happened at all.”

“After your father died, things were so...so hard. I had left my family for a future with a man who no longer had one. For the first time in my life, I was poor. I was alone. And I was...angry. Angry at the world, I suppose...angry at myself for making your father the world to me. Angry at myself for not being stronger.” Morwenna took her daughter's hand and squeezed, smiling through her tears. “You are like him, Katie. So brave, so irrepressible. I....I am sorry, for so many things, most of all, for the time we have missed.”

“I'm sorry too, Mum,” said Katie, and her mother enfolded her in her arms once again.

Katie hugged her mother back, knowing that not everything was fixed between them-

-but not everything was broken now, either.

…..
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.

Katie glanced down at her hand, flexing the fingers and trying not to wince. The finger that had touched the necklace bore a small black mark the size of a pinhead....which had branched out the length of her arm like an old, gnarled tree, the branches dark like veins, flaring across her shoulder, stopping just short of her heart. The Healers had said she would probably have the markings for life. And though Katie had never considered herself a vain person, she found herself rubbing at the marks with disgust, as if they were pen marks that would wash away given enough soap and friction.

Scars were good things to have, said Dumbledore, when he stopped by to see her. For an old man, he looked even more so than usual- the lines on his face more pronounced, his blackened hand tucked inside his robes.

“Useful reminders or our strength...and our frailties,” he'd said, then presented her with a large bag of lemon drops.

Greatest wizard of our time, thought Katie, smiling, popping one of the lemon drops in her mouth. They were quite good.

It felt good to know she was not forgotten at St. Mungos. The Gryffindor Quidditch team had sent a big basket of chocolate frogs, along with a crude drawing of Zacharias Smith being eaten by a dragon and a note telling her to come back soon. Fred and George had sent along a big basket of Wonder Witch products, complete with 2 patented daydream charms which Katie was saving for when she got out of the hospital. Leanne had sent her the latest Wicked Witch romance novel in the series, which featured a handsome wizard on the front with a rather impressive wand. Angelina and Alicia had sent a vase of beautiful singing orchids, with a note promising to visit the next day. Mason had sent her a potted gumdrop plant and a puzzlebox, which she hadn't figured out yet and was on the verge of smashing against the wall. Mox and Kiran had sent a basketful of homemade fudge and cookies, a dream-catcher made with hippogriff feathers, and a rather friendly pink Puffskein she had named Wink, who sat happily beside her on the bed and hummed as it scavenged for crumbs, spiders, and Merlin-knew-what else.

Hermione had sent along a hand-knitted scarf, which was a welcome accessory in the drafty hospital, and someone had also sent her an enormous arrangement of daisies which changed colors daily. There was no note attached to the arrangement, but a newspaper clipping reading PROFESSIONAL QUIDDITCH TRYOUTS ON FOR LATE SPRING had been clipped and taped to the vase.

Rolling her eyes, Katie smiled and sank back against the pillows. There was no name attached to the card.

But she could guess.

…..
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…
..
.

Angelina and Alicia were as good as their word; they came to visit every week, bringing bags of sweets, reading material, and of course, the latest gossip.

Angelina distributed the usual chocolates and butterbeers, while Alicia dug for something in her bag. “And look who's on the cover of Witch Weekly- Top 10 Most Eligible Bachelor's Edition, can you believe it?”

Angelina shook her head. “Full of surprises.”

“They'll print anything these days,” sighed Alicia.

And there, dressed in only his Quidditch padding and a pair of uniform pants, bare-chested and holding a 3rd-edition Firebolt, ash handle gleaming, was Marcus Flint, grinning at the photographer with a set of uncannily straight teeth. Still broad-shouldered, professional Quidditch had streamlined his physique into a trim figure with muscles tightly sculpted to bone- knots of muscles trailed down his stomach, hip bones clearly defined and disappearing into his low-slung pants-

Katie could remember bracing her hands against those muscles as he kissed her, how they shifted under her fingertips, starting under her touch like a skittish colt-

“Go on, read it aloud!” said Alicia, sitting back.

Katie cleared her throat and turned the page.

“Marcus Flint is an imposing figure, on and off the pitch. Dark hair and stormy grey eyes and a chest you could eat chocolate frogs off of-”

Katie rolled her eyes.

“Go on, then,” said Angelina, shoving an entire chocolate frog in her mouth.

“But, lest this reporter forget why she's here, let's get down to the muscular- er, meaty details! Marcus Flint's flat is surprisingly bright and airy- tall windows and large white pieces of furniture spread across colorful Persian rugs. He offers me a cold beverage, but what this reporter really craves is the scoop on his delectable young Quidditch star. You've got to be kidding me,” said Katie.

“Read it!” insisted the girls.

“I'm not reading this aloud. It's ridiculous,” said Katie, and began to read for herself.

“Marcus Flint, you're the youngest Chaser that the Falcons have signed in over fifteen years.”

Marcus smiles and shrugs. “If you say so. I only pay attention to our current record.”

“Then you must be very pleased! Seven wins, two losses-”

“Well, there's always room for improvement.”

“And what keeps you busy in the off-season?”

“I've got a little place in Lampedusa. It's a nice place to relax.”

“Any women joining you there?”

“Just the cat. She runs the place.”

Lucky cat!

Rumor has it that the famous Flint may soon be off the market, however- Selwyn's Society page reports seeing him on several occasions with the lovely Acantha Greengrass, and the two looked very cozy at the latest Quidditch Gala, which raised funds for St. Mungos Hospital for the-”

Katie closed the magazine, sinking back against the pillows. “Thanks, guys.” she said dully. The excitement she had been feeling earlier felt as flat as if it had crossed paths with the Whomping Willow.

“What's wrong, Kate?” asked Angelina.

“I-nothing. I just got sort of tired, all of a sudden.” Looking up, she forced a smile onto her face.

“Well, we'll leave you, then,” said Alicia, looking confused.

“But we'll come again tomorrow,” added Angelina.

“Thanks for visiting, you two!” said Katie, hugging them both.

However, after Alicia had left, Angelina hung back.

“You like him, don't you?” she asked.

“Who?” asked Katie, deciding to play dumb.

Her friend was having none of it. “Katie...”

“Nothing's happened. Not really.” Katie looked away. “...how'd you know?”

“We're your friends. It's our job,” said Angelina. At Katie's dubious look, she sighed. “You're not a very good liar, Katie.”

“You're not mad? You're not going to lecture me?”

Angie rolled her eyes. “'Course not. You can't help that sort of thing. If he hurts you though, I'll have to kill him. It's in the best friend contract.”

“I'm fine, Ang,” said Katie. “Just...just an idiot, I guess.”

Her friend shook her head and smiled. “Everyone's an idiot about this kind of thing, Katie. It's part of the adventure...you sure you're all right?”

Katie forced a smile. “Fine. I'm fine, Ang.”

Angelina raised an eyebrow, but she smiled. “All right then,” she said, leaning over and kissing Katie on the forehead. “See you tomorrow, Katydid.”

After her friends left, Katie simply sat and stared at the curtains surrounding her hospital bed, feeling, despite what Angelina had said, like the world's biggest fool.

…..
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.

After nearly two months at St. Mungo's, Katie was ready to break out. She'd already concocted a plan that involved some candy floss, a dungbomb, and Wink the fearless Pygmy Puff. It was a stupid plan, when you got down to it, but Katie had found out that absolute boredom tended to lower one's IQ in the interest of increasing the scope of one's entertainment.

Her anonymous gift-giver had sent along a retired snitch to keep her busy, which had half a bum wing and tended to fly tilted to one side. Despite its wing, however, it was still quite speedy, and though Katie was a Chaser, not a Seeker, the snitch provided excellent practice for her arm. Sitting up, Katie released it again from its small wooden box, and with a soft, trilling hum, the golden orb took to the air, whizzing back and forth, winking in the light. Sometimes she just let it out to watch it move around the room.

As it zoomed in closer, Katie made a grab for it and missed, wincing. Moving her arm still caused her pain, but it was the kind of harsh static sensation that came from moving a limb that had fallen asleep, not the horrible, crushing pain that had greeted her when she first awoke.

The exercise provided a necessary diversion, but it was also extremely frustrating. The lag in her arm served as a serious reminder that Katie might not be able to rejoin the school team, never mind professional Quidditch.

Sighing, Katie shook her arm and made a grab for the snitch again, which once again zoomed out of reach.

A knock sounded on her door. Katie quickly stuffed Wink underneath her pillow and hoped the snitch would stay out of range of sight for awhile. She wasn't sure what St. Mungo's policy was concerning Snitches and Snitch-size creatures, but she was pretty sure it wasn't friendly.

“Yes, come in,” she called. Her former roommate, a somewhat strange man that had managed to curse his kneecaps off, had been discharged last week, leaving Katie with a room to herself. She certainly didn't miss the late-night muttering.

Her Healer for the day, an older witch named Marma Malady, parted the curtains. “Katie, you've got a visitor, if you're feeling up to it.”

“Of course,” said Katie, smoothing her sheets.

The door opened again, and Katie heard Marma say “-again for the autograph. My grandson will be so excited!”

“-no problem,” said a familiar voice, one that made Katie sit up even further and, for some crazy reason, try to fix her hair.

“She's just there, go on back,” said Marma.

The curtains parted, and none other than Marcus Flint stepped inside. He was dressed simply in a dark jumper and slacks, and carried a large parcel under his arm.

“What are you doing here?” blurted Katie, by way of a greeting.

“Doing my philanthropic duty as a member of the International Quidditch community,” said Marcus, scraping up a chair. “Visitng the infirm, incapacitated, and the mentally disturbed. Or, in your case, all three.”

“A man of the people and a comedian to boot,” replied Katie, removing Wink from under the covers and setting him back in her lap. “No wonder Witch Weekly put you in the top 10 Eligible Wizards.”

“Witch Weekly is a rag,” replied Marcus.

“And yet, there you are, page 17, giving an 'exclusive interview',” teased Katie.

“Our manager's bright idea,” said Marcus, scowling. “Some crap about promoting a positive image and widening our demographic.”

“You mean, beyond lovers of violence and brainless slags?”

“Yeah, something like that,” said Marcus, sitting down. “What the hell is that thing, anyway?”

“That,” said Katie, petting Wink. “Is a miniature pygmy puff. Mox and Kiran gave him to me, since Sophie's not allowed in the hospital...why are you here, really?”

“You realize you ask me that every time you see me, don't you?” he asked, folding his arms.

“I'll stop asking it when I figure it out.”

Marcus just shook his head. “So, when do they let you out of here?”

“Another week or so,” said Katie..

“And you're going to go back on the team, right?” asked Marcus.

“If they'll have me,” said Katie. “Dean's replaced me, and he's a fair flier. And I'm...well, I'm not exactly at my best.”

“You'll go real fucking far with that attitude,” said Flint.

“I've been cursed, if you haven't noticed,” snapped Katie.

“And no team is going to sign you on out of pity, so you'd better start training as soon as you're out. Ask McGonagall for permission to practice between periods. And this summer you're going to have to work your arse off.”

“But-”

“Do you want to play Quidditch, or don't you?”

Katie frowned. “Well yes, but-”

“But nothing. Owl me when you get your head out of your arse, and we'll talk about your training this summer. I have an idea.”

“I-what- wait!” But he'd already gone.

Katie sat back against her pillow, frowning.

What exactly had just happened?
…..
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.
After being discharged from St. Mungo's, Katie's brothers insisted on throwing a celebration before she went back to school, complete with a big dinner, streamers, and a giant Quaffle cake. Mox and Kiran had decorated the ranch from top to bottom in fairy lights and streamers, and a roaring fire was blazing in the hearth. Katie had insisted on helping prepare dinner, so Mason opened a bottle of mulled wine he'd brought and the four huddled in the kitchen, relegated to specific tasks by Kiran depending on what he considered to be their skill level.

“Mum's seeing someone,” said Mox, tossing a potato into the sink and glancing at Katie. “He'll be at dinner tonight.”

“Yeah, I know.,” said Katie, peeling the garlic cloves. “ Astrovik Chadov. Chief textile supplier to Madam Malkin's and Twitter's.”

“How'd you know?”

“Mum writes,” said Katie simply.

“You okay with it?” asked Mox, raising an eyebrow.

Katie shrugged and set the cloves aside. “Dad would've wanted her to. It's been over six years. It's like Mason says, I guess- can't expect her to stay boarded up forever.”

Mox spit butterbeer all over the counter. Kiran shot him a dirty look and handed him a dish towel.

“That's horrible.” said Mox, wiping his mouth and glaring at Mason, who held his hands up defensively.

“Then change the subject,” replied Katie mildly, chopping the garlic.

“All right then,” said Kiran, grinning. “Let's have an update on that love life of yours.”

Mason promptly stuck his fingers in his ears- Mox glared at Kiran before pounding the potatoes as loudly as possible with the masher.

“Nothing to report, I'm afraid,” said Katie, dumping the garlic into the pot.

Mox and Mason looked relieved; Kiran, however, huffed a sigh of disappointment. “Not even a little?”

“There was....” Katie began. Only Kiran knew about the disaster of Roger Davies in her fifth year- she'd told no one about Marcus. And what was there to tell, really? One kiss and six years of snark? Six years of advancing and retreating, or dancing around feelings that might or might not be there in the first place?

“There was...an idea of someone, I suppose..”

“How much of an idea?” asked Kiran, raising an eyebrow. “Small idea? Medium idea? King-sized bed idea?”

“Kiran!” laughed Katie.

“Did you kiss him?” persisted Kiran.

Katie's cheeks bloomed- Mason began fake-vomiting into the sink and Kiran swatted him with a kitchen towel.

Mox shoved the bowl of newly mashed potatoes at Kiran, giving him a warning look. “So, how about the Cannons this year?”

After that, much to Kiran's disappointment and the Bell sibling's collective relief, the talk turned to Quidditch until Morwenna Bell and her new 'friend' arrived. Katie surprised herself by liking Astrik Chadov- he was polite, courteous, and had brought thoughtful gifts for everyone. He even joined in a few games of Exploding Snap, chuckling when his beard caught fire. He was not her father, and as long as he didn't try to be, Katie reckoned they would get on fine.

Much later, after many mugs of cider, everyone said their goodbyes for the evening, hugging and shaking hands. Katie would be spending the night, and Mox had agreed to take her to Hogwarts in the morning. As he was leaving, Mason reached into his pocket and held out a key. “I'll be gone over June and July- we're excavating a pretty nasty crypt in Cairo.”

Katie gave him a wry smile. “Is 'crypt' a code for Order business?”

Mason gave her a look that told her she was too smart for his own good. “You can crash at my place anytime while you're flat-hunting. Water the plants, raid the fridge, whatever-” He held the key just out of her reach. “-but no blokes. Got it?”

Katie sighed and held out her hand for the key. “Like you didn't have about a bird a week trailing out of your dorm at Ravenclaw.”

“Where'd you hear that?” asked Mason, frowning at her.

“I have my sources,” said Katie airily.

“Not the point,” replied Mason. “You're my little sister. You're a nun. That's the deal. Yes or no?”

“Fine,” sighed Katie. “I can have the girls over, though, right?”

“Right. Take pictures if they decide to have pillow fights, won't you?”

Katie rolled her eyes and pocketed the key. “Be careful,” she told Mason seriously.

“You too,” replied her brother, hugging her tight.

After the glasses had been cleared away and the dishes done, Katie, Mox, Kiran and Mason sat around a crackling fire, each with their own mug of mulled cider. But no one spoke.

All their attention was for the wireless in the center of the room.

“These are dark times, there is no denying. Our world has perhaps faced no greater threat than it does today. But I say this to our citizenry: We, ever your servants, will continue to defend your liberty and repel the forces that seek to take it from you! Your Ministry remains, strong.”

Mox flicked his wand at the wireless, silencing it. He chuckled, but it was without humor.

"What?" asked Katie.

"It's a lie. The Minstry's been infiltrated at all levels, is what." said her brother, tossing his wand down on the table.

Kiran got up and went into the kitchen, presumably refilling his cider and getting the popcorn.

Katie turned from her sitting position in front of the fire. "You know for sure?"

"That's the point, Katydid. No one knows anything for sure," said Mox. "Which is exactly what 'he' wants. There's no cohesion in the Ministry anymore- anyone that would rise up against him has no idea where his enemies and allies are. Even the Aurors're infiltrated."

"Which is what we have the Order for," said Kiran, carrying a bowl of popcorn and sitting down next to Katie on the rug. Lancelot wagged his tail hopefully at the appearance of food, thumping the forked appendage against Katie's side. Katie relented and fed him a piece of popcorn.

“Assuming the Order hasn't been infiltrated as well,” said Mox.

"What's happened now?" asked Katie.

Mox and Kiran shared a look. "Better if you don't know." said Mox.

Katie rolled her eyes, scooping out a handful of popcorn from the bowl Kiran offered her. "One of these days, I'll be in the Order, and then you'll have to tell me."

Mox sighed. "By the time you're old enough to join, little sister, I hope we won't need the Order anymore."

Katie said nothing as she sipped the rest of her cider. However, she had the feeling that by the time she was old enough to join the Order, they'd need members more than ever.

…..
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Quidditch

Marcus,

Have extricated cranium from arse. What's this now about your grand idea?

-Katie

Bell,

Meet me at Celdwyn's Pitch, 6am this Saturday. Bring your broom. Don't be late.

-M

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Drinks at the Hag's Den had become a standing order for Terrence and Marcus after graduating from Hogwarts. Sometimes Adrian joined them, but he was often busy with work at Twigs and Tassels, his father's second-hand broom store. Higgs, who now worked at the MOM as an Unspeakable, kept highly irregular hours, so their meetings were almost always late at night. This suited Marcus fine, as he could put in a hard second practice and come directly from the pitch.

Higgs had usually ordered drinks by the time Marcus arrived, and this time was no exception. In fact, his friend seemed to be well into his second.

“How's Quidditch?”

“For absolute shite,” replied Marcus, taking a seat. “Muggleborn Registration act's wiped out half the team. We're pulling reserves, but there's not much point. At this rate, we won't beat the Cannons.”

Terence shook his head. “Whole world's going to shite, I suppose Quidditch wouldn't be any different, would it?”

Marcus shrugged.

“By the by, your girl's in a bit of trouble, mate,” said his old friend, sliding him a his usual.

“What?”

“Katie Bell? Gryffindor? Newest Cannons chaser?”

Marcus took a long drink of his glass. “She isn't my girl.”

“If that's what you're telling yourself these days, fine,” replied Terrence. “But Bell's a known member of the DA, and she's on the List of Muggle sympathizers to boot. And then there's the fact that she's probably in the fucking Order.” Terence took a long sip of his drink. “Once the Dark Lord looses the strings on those Death Eaters, her family will be one of the first wiped out.”

“Where'd you hear all this, anyway?”

“Rookwood,” replied Terrence grimly, taking a drink. “Blood traitor's not far off from mudblood in a Death Eater's book, you know. Just look at the Weasleys. And you can bet Yaxley hasn't forgotten Morganna.”

Marcus frowned at his friend. “What's Katie's mother got to do anything?”

“Just that Morganna and Yaxley were intended, back when she was a Selwyn.”

“So what?”

“So she broke it off to marry that muggle, didn't she? Made Yaxley look like a pillock. Well, more of a pillock, anyway. He was furious about it. Still is.”

Marcus gestured. “Again, so? What's it got to do with Katie?”

“So what's a lion do when he takes over a pride? He kills the cubs, first.”

Terence leveled his gaze at Marcus, and raised his glass. “If you care about her, you'll watch her ass. Because it's coming, Marcus. It's coming for all of us, one way or another.”

…..
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.
It was amazing. No matter the number of years, Marcus still felt his stomach clenched when summoned to his father's study. He took a minute to walk though the old mansion, greeting Maisey and walking up to the old living quarters.

The room was at the end of the hall. Marcus waited at the door for a moment before walking in.

For a moment, he saw his mother hanging there, her hands slumped at her sides, her eyes open-

Marcus blinked it away.

The crib was at the back of the room, the bars of the bed laced with spiderwebs. Marcus approached it slowly, looking down at the same pink sheets that had graced the mattress on the day his sister died.

Approaching the crib, his head no higher than the top, grabbing the bars and leaning in. She was curled up like a little shrimp, her breath heavy with sleep.

Floooorrrraaaa-

And then his sister opened his eyes and smiled at him, spreading her tiny starfish hands and wanting to be picked up-”

Marcus blinked again, and his sister was gone.

They were both gone.

Standing for another moment, Marcus turned and walked down to his father's study.

“The hell have you been boy?” said the old man, turning from the fireplace.

“Saying goodbye to old ghosts.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Now, I can't say I ever approved of Quidditch,” said the Senior Flint. “But you seem to not be creating too much of a stain on the Flint name tossing balls around for a living.”

Marcus stared at the wall behind the old man, waiting for him to finish. He'd found through experience that was was safer not to interrupt his father until he had finished.

“Pygmus Greengrass came by the manor yesterday, wanted to discuss cementing a permanent alliance between our families. I need hardly say that the merger would be of great benefit to Flint Industries, and his daughter is agreeable. You may make the arrangements yourself in the off season. Argelia will arrange for an announcement in the society section. I shall have Maisey fetch your grandmother's ring from the family vault tomorrow.”

“And if I refuse?”

His father sat back in his chair. “What was her name. Bell, wasn't it?”

Marcus's heart dropped like a stone into his stomach.

The old man smiled.

“Did you think I was ignorant of what went on at that old school of yours, boy?” said Atticus. “You are as obtuse as your mother.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Marcus, gazing into the fire.

“You'll remember who you're speaking to, boy.”

“Forgive me. I don't know what you're talking about, Father,” quipped Marcus.

Blinding pain in his temple, and Marcus's head jerked to the side- Atticus loomed over him, his hand balled into a fist.

“The Yule Ball, stupid boy, the training grounds. Wrack your brains. Did you think I wouldn't find out?”

Marcus didn't answer, still staring into the fire, his right eye throbbing.

“Your indiscretion with this little girl-”

“She's eighteen,” muttered Marcus, before he could stop himself.

“She's a half-blood, is what she is, and a fucking muggle-lover to boot,” spat his father.

“Her mother-”

“-no respectable house will acknowledge her mother, pure-blood or not.”

“When you are married, boy, what mistresses you keep are your business. Until then, it's mine. Like it or not, you're the only heir of the Flint fortune, and you'll make a good marriage if I have to drag you into it by the balls. After you've done your duty to this family, you can keep as many pets as you like.”

“She's not a pet,” snarled Marcus.

Atticus looked at him with loathing. “You're your mother's son, boy. Not an ounce of sense in that woman's fool head, either. Not a single idea of her duty to the Flint name-”

“Mother gave more than anyone, wouldn't you say, Father?”

Marcus could see the edge of the altar, where his sister lay. She was not laughing now, she was screaming, and his mother was screaming.

“It is an honor,” his father was saying, his expression blank. “An honor to make this sacrifice for the Dark Lord-”

They were holding his mother back as she fought them, holding Flora down, and then the knife came, and he blacked out, screaming-

“She was a necessary sacrifice.”

Marcus glared at him. “She was my sister.”

His father dashed away Marcus's words like a persistent insect with a swipe of his hand. “We are talking about the future of the Flint bloodline. Our name. Or legacy. We can build it, together, Marcus. We can make it great again.”

Years ago, he would have given his arm to have his father say his first name, to talk about a future together. Now, hearing it made him sick.

Marcus knew he could play his father's game. It was in his blood- he had been intended for it since he was an infant. He could follow in the Flint footsteps with the same bloody shoes his father had, and carve an empire with wealth and blood.

And he, like his mother, could look out at the world from the windows of this beautiful old mansion, and he would never want for wealth, or prestige, or comfort.

But if it was a life without asperity, it was also a life without affection, without laughter...and without hope.

It was a life without her.

And for the first time, when he looked at his father, he did not see a powerful man worthy of fear. He saw a fool worthy of nothing.

“I don't need your fucking money,” said Marcus. “And I don't want it.”

“The Flint legacy-”

“-can die with you,” finished Marcus, turning.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing, boy?” shouted Atticus Flint, rising to his feet.

“Something I should have done a long time ago,” said Marcus, and with that, he walked out.

His father died two months later of what Marcus could only assume was spite, as he knew the old man didn't have a heart to break. As his father had no other living relatives and had been too lazy to change his will, Marcus found himself back at Flint manor, seeing to his father's personal effects and taking care of the body, neither of which he found he cared much about. If it were up to him, he would have left the old man in his study and set the manor on fire.

But there were appearances to maintain.

The usual Pure-blood circles attended- and with them, of course, came a group of people Marcus would like to have avoided forever. Among them, the Lestranges.

Coffee was being served by Maisey in the parlour. After this, the elf would be coming to live with him in his apartment, and they could both be rid of this place forever. From across the room, Bellatrix Lestrange smiled at him, and he was reminded of a wolf at the fringes of an elk herd. Alert, and very hungry.

“Your father gave generously to the cause. There is...curiosity to see whether you will prove to be as free-handed.”

“So tap the family vaults. I have no use for his gold.”

“The Dark Lord has no need of gold. He has need of loyal followers.”

“The key to the vault-”

“The Dark Lord will be wanting your arm, little Flint, not your pocket,” continued Bellatrix, her dark eyes narrowing.

“I throw balls for a living,” said Marcus dully. “I'm not sure my area of expertise will be particularly helpful to the cause.”

“Tsk tsk. If I didn't know better, Marcus, I'd say you weren't interested in our little cause.”

And though he knew it was foolish to bait her, in that moment, he really didn't fucking care.

“Given the sacrifices my family has made in the past, your accusation rings a bit hollow, doesn't it?” replied Marcus dully. “Tap the vault and leave me alone.”

Lestrange's smile widened. “Everyone has a weakness, little Flint. Take Frank Longbotton. Could take an astronomical amount of pain, but you know what finally broke him? Watching wifey bite off half her tongue squirming around on the floor under the cruciatus curse. It was marvelous. We broke them against each other like rocks.”

Marcus's eyes flickered to the wand on the table. Lestrange's elevator might not go all the way to the top, but it definitely dropped all the way to the bottom.

And what about you, little Flint? What snaps your tether?” she smiled at him, patting his shoulder. She leaned in close, her breath hot on his neck.

“Ah, nevermind. We'll see.”

Terence was right. The war would come to them all, in time, whether they welcomed it or not.
…..
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“Pull up harder after you dive, or they're going to box you in!” shouted Flint, as Katie zoomed past him. “And accelerate harder!”

The two had been practicing on the Falcon's reserve pitch for the past six weeks, and Katie was showing marked improvement. Flint surprised her by being a decent teacher, if harsh, and unlike the others, he didn't cut her any slack because of her injuries. As the professional Quidditch season was over, he and Katie met every day when the sun came up, and trained well into the afternoons.

“Won't she miss you?” asked Katie, early in their training.

“Who?” asked Marcus, thinking of the cat.

“Your girlfriend.”

“My what?”

“Your girlfriend. Astoria? I thought...the interview-”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “No.” While it was true that Astoria Greengrass was on his arm, she was also on the arm of several other single wizards as well. A gambling person would call it 'hedging ones bets'. “Now, can we play some fucking Quidditch, or do you want to talk some more.”

“No, I-” said Katie, and mounted her broom.

For his part, Marcus found Katie to be an apt student. She listened, didn't argue, and most of the time, actually took his advice. The first few weeks were the hardest. Katie hadn't needed to push herself much for the rest of the Hogwarts Quidditch season, but this was on a whole other level. She was trying different maneuvers, pushing her brooms to its limits, and she'd thrown herself more than once making a sharp turn that her cursed arm couldn't hold, landing hard on her side. Marcus said nothing as she picked herself up, (some times more slowly than others), and got back on her broom. By the end of an average practice, she was usually covered in sweat, blood, and dirt, or a combination of the three, and Marcus wasn't usually any better.

“Try it again,” said Marcus, holding the Quaffle, “And this time, don't lean so hard into your turn, you're overcompensating and it's costing you time.”

Katie nodded and whipped around, zooming down the pitch and executing another turn.

The selfish part of him reasoned that Bell would be in trouble regardless of his presence, but the realistic part of him knew it was only a matter of time before she'd be knee-deep in the Order, and he'd be getting a very fashionable tattoo in exchange for being allowed to live.

She was a Gryffindor. He shouldn't be giving her lessons. He should be staying the fuck away from her. Far away.

But...he was an idiot. Apparently.

“Better,” said Marcus, when she returned. “You're still lagging on the acceleration.”

“That's not deliberate,” said Katie. “That's my broom.”

“Then you need a better fucking broom.”

A clap of thunder rolled above them, causing them both to look up- and then the skies seemed to open up, loosing a heavy downpour. The air was warm, and the rain was only slightly cooler Katie pushed her hair out of her eyes. “How about a one on one match?”

Marcus wiped at his eyes. “You're on.”

Despite the years separating them, they were fairly evenly matched. Marcus had better accuracy, but Katie was faster, which made for an interesting game. Neither one pulled punches- Marcus slammed into her side, making her drop the Quaffle. When he recovered it, she sped ahead of him, blocking his shot and then turning to intercept him, reaching to block his shot when he moved to score.

It went on that way for over an hour. It was a pleasure to watch Katie fly- she reminded him of a Peregrine Falcon, all graceful lifts and sharp, lunging dives. He was used to playing with blokes that were sometimes twice his size in highly physical games that involved a lot of contact. With Katie, it was a matter of trying to catch her.

Finally, the two met in the middle of the pitch, both soaked to the bone and breathing hard.

“You lose again, Bell,” said Marcus, holding the Quaffle. He peeled his goggles off, letting them fall to the grass below.

“You cheat, Flint.” replied Katie, pushing her own goggles up to rest on the top of her head.

“Cheat? Surely you jest.”

“You're right,” said Katie, taking out her ponytail and wringing her hair. “Slytherin's don't cheat. I'm sure that was a particularly legitimate elbow you threw in my gut just now.”

“What's that muggle saying? If you can't take the heat, get out of the library?”

“It's the kitchen.” said Katie, shocked that Marcus had tried to use it in the first place. Darting her hand out, she snatched Quaffle from his grip. “Asleep on the job, Flint!” she said, grinning.

He made a lunge for her, but she moved back, laughing. “And Flint misses! He's too slow for the great Katie Bell, greatest Chaser since Wilda Griffiths!”

Grabbing the end of her broom handle, Flint jerked her forward, but Katie reached her arm back, extending the Quaffle just out of his reach. “He misses again! And it's Bell! Bell for the win, and-” Katie trailed off, distracted by the intent look in Marcus's eyes. “-and...”

It was impossible to say who moved forward first, only that their lips met in the middle. Katie's eyes slid shut as his mouth slanted over hers. The Quaffle slipped from her hands and plunged to the ground, forgotten.

Somehow, they reached the ground, though Katie had no idea how it had happened, only that she was sprawled out in the wet grass, Marcus's body shielding hers from the downpour.

It was frenzied, hurried. She pulled him down against her, their wet bodies a wonderful friction as he ground his hips against hers. Kissing her neck, he reached underneath her t-shirt to cup her breast, she moaned and rose to meet him. Instead of the smart remark she expected, he hissed and yanked both her shirt and the bra down, exposing her breast to the pelting rain. And then his mouth was on her, and Katie closed her eyes and lost herself to sensation, tangling her fingers in his wet hair and pressing his head down, holding him to her as he sucked at her skin.

Thunder rolled over them again, closer now, and louder, and his hand was at her denims now, undoing the button and working his hand inside, shoving his fingers inside her underwear. The grass was becoming muddy beneath them, her trainers slipping on the slick surface, but she didn't care. She squirmed beneath him, trying to get enough leverage to get her hand around his pants, feel the hardness there, and when her palm met the drenched material, the hot skin beneath it, Marcus turned his head and grunted. It took a minute to rid her of her pants, soaked as they were, but soon those were gone and it was only her plain white cotton knickers between them, nearly translucent in the downpour.

She removed her hand from the bulge in his pants and tugged at the end of shirt. He ducked and shrugged out of it, tossing it into the grass. His hair, spiked with raindrops, dripped into his face, wetting his lips, and his chest and arms were slick and shining in the half-light of the storm, and her body clenched painfully for want of him.

Removing his hand from her denims, he cupped her head and kissed her, working the zipper of his pants with the other. His pace was too slow, however, and Katie's hands joined his frantic movements, helping him divest of his pants. They got as far as his thighs before she pulled him forward, spreading herself for him,

He slipped her knickers aside and thrust forward, kissing her, teeth scraping her lips, and as he worked himself inside she turned her head and gasped, her fingers tightening on his forearms.

“What-” panted Marcus. “Did I hurt-”

“No,” said Katie, touching her forehead to his. “It's just been a very long time. Don't stop.”

He started to pull back, but she raised her knees, digging her heels into him. “Don't stop,” she repeated, pushing him deeper, letting her head fall back as she arched into him. “Please don't stop.”

“Never,” he growled against her neck, moving against her now. Short, shallow thrusts, and the bright, burning pain inside her receded to a hard, longing ache, a kind of current that spread from her core to her head to the tips of her toes.

“Never,” he repeated, and she pulled him down for another open-mouthed kiss.

It felt amazing, this way, their rain-slicked bodies rubbing against one another, the tempo building, and Katie felt her orgasm coiling inside her, tighter and tighter, and she broke the kiss to let out a scream as her entire body shattered with the force of it.

He stilled as she clutched at him, let her ride out the orgasm.

“Fuck.” He buried his face in her neck, breathing hard, and after a moment, he started moving again, and she rose her hips to meet him. He sped up, the strokes becoming harder, faster, until he filled her so deeply it verged on pain. She welcomed the pain- pleasant sense of being stretched, being filled, the sting of raindrops on her exposed skin. She drove her heels into him harder, scored her nails across his back, and his muscles tensed as he fucked her still harder.

He made no noise, just a lengthening of breath that told her he was close, and when he came, he let out a long, shuddering breath as he sank against her, his heartbeat hammering against her skin, her own heartbeat loud in her ears.

They lay there for a moment before he rolled off of her. Reality set in slowly, unpleasantly, and Marcus adjusted his pants, fetching his sopping shirt from the ground and rolling it back over his head.

Katie turned away as she dressed, adjusting her shirt and tugging her pants back on. She waited for him to say something, anything, but he was still facing away from her, one hand on his forehead pushing his sopping hair away from his forehead.

“Same time tomorrow?” Katie managed, turning away.

A nod was her only answer.

Katie picked up her broom and made the short trek back to Mason's apartment. She got immediately into the shower turning the water hot enough to flush her skin pink.

It was no good blaming Marcus. She'd wanted it- hell, she'd probably initiated it, and it was more than satisfactory. It just...wasn't....

What had her father said? In order to fly, you had to forget you could fall?

That part was true, but...

Katie slid down the shower wall, her head in her hands. “Damnit.”

She hadn't planned on falling this hard.
…..
…
..
.
Besides Quidditch, Katie and Marcus now played a new, different game every day: Don't Talk About It. Practices were cordial, and on the surface, everything had returned to normal. Marcus ran drills and gave advice- Katie ran the drills and took the advice. Inside, Katie's mind raced, to say nothing of the traitorous organ in her chest. Despite her best efforts, 'Don't Talk About It' was taking its toll on her.

Having spent most of her 7th year confined to a bed at St. Mungo's, Katie had missed out on several of the Quidditch talent scouts that milled from school to school. She had resigned herself to perhaps auditioning for the reserves later in the season, or to getting a part-time job at the Ministry and joining a rec league for a year to keep fit. She was therefore ecstatic to receive an invite to the first ever commingled Quidditch Tryouts. It was by purely invitation-only, which meant at least one team was interested. She had gotten the owl while house-sitting for Mason, and she and Sophie had danced around the room. Well, Katie had grabbed the cat and danced. Sophie had tolerated it.

The next day, she had owled Marcus.

Katie knew she would have to be at her best for tryouts. Hundreds of talented Quidditch players would be there from all over the world, and she would wager to guess they wouldn't be flying with old curse wounds. Good flying would not be enough- she would have to be exceptional. She would have to make an impression. She'd need a strong reverse pass, a strong showing of the Woollongong Shimmy, and of course, she'd need to make a show of speed. But even that wouldn't be enough. She would have to show them something memorable, something impressive-

Something like Wagman's Cross.

Wagman's Cross was a nearly obscure Quidditch move that had been first attempted by Ern Wagman in 1487 while playing for Puddlemere United against the Harpies. It was an intimidation move against the keeper- two wide sweeps of the pitch were followed up by a full on charge at the Keeper, banking up sharply at the last second with a reverse-arm score to the far hoop. It was noted in “Quidditch Through the Ages” because Wagman had nearly killed himself doing it- after scoring, he'd flown into the goal post and concussed himself into a coma for the next two months.

Wagman's Cross had been pulled off successfully by only two chasers since- Wilmit Brancer and Sonya Argulith. Brancer had been on a 1st edition Firebolt and Argulth had done it on a Nimbus 2000, but she was 5'2 and lighter than Katie could ever hope to be without the loss of a few limbs. No, if Katie was going to pull off Wagman's Cross, she was going to need speed on her side.

She'd tried the maneuver on her Cleansweep 11 and nearly recreated Wagman's famous blunder. No, her beautiful old broom wasn't going to cut it. Marcus had been right. She needed a better broom.

Quality Quidditch Supplies had a Firebolt V: Limited Edition in the window. It was the last one left, as recent goblin strikes had halted production yet again. There were no second-hand Firebolts to be had, for obvious reasons.

Katie had some savings from birthdays and Christmas in the amount of 50 galleons. She'd also spent a fair few summer holidays helping with some commission work for her mother, so that was another 45.

She was still short, and Quality Quidditch Supplies demanded the balance be paid in full.

Her mother did not have that sort of money, and though Katie knew her brothers would have loaned it to her in a second, she could not bring herself to ask.

Which left...

Katie fingered the gold snitch at her throat, her eyes burning.

It was a question of her future or a question of her past, she supposed. She could not reach for one while still grasping the other.

Her father had always understood about Quidditch....

Katie cried the whole way to the pawn shop.

...and the whole way home.

…..
….
…
..
.

The next day, eyes red-rimmed, Katie had shown up at the practice field at the usual time, clutching her new Firebolt and trying very hard not to think of anything except Quidditch.

Marcus whistled when he saw the broom. “Not bad.”

Katie shrugged, throwing her leg over the Firebolt. For the new owner of the world's best broom, she seemed remarkably unenthusiastic.

Katie was wearing her typical practice outfit- a loose fitting zip-up sweatshirt. But something was missing.

“Where's that necklace you always wear?” asked Marcus, gesturing.

Katie tightened her grip on her broom and lifted off with a lunge. “Are we going to practice or not?”

Katie closed her eyes as she ascended. The broom lurched into the air, rocketing up as light as a feather in an updraft. Eyes stinging, she took the broom through its pacing, her heart as heavy as a stone.

Frowning, Marcus took off after her...and spent the next three hours trying to keep up.

Katie always practiced hard, but today, her work ethic bordered on reckless. She banked too hard into turns, nearly unseating herself, and when she threw passes or goals, she hurled them with far more force than necessary.

Finally, after receiving a pass that stung his palm through the leather, Marcus brought his broom to a halt. Katie, waiting for the pass, eventually circled back.

“What the fuck's up with you today?” he asked her. “'Cause whatever this is, it isn't working.”

“What isn't working?” Katie brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Have I missed a single pass? Is my timing off?”

Marcus leaned back, resting his feet against the bipod. “That's not the point.”

“No, that is the point, Flint,” snapped Katie. “I've already got two big brothers. I don't need you breathing down my fucking neck as well.”

So he was back to 'Flint' now.

“You're going to tell me nothing's bothering you? This isn't Quidditch, it's some vendetta. You're a fucking mess out there today.”

“You wouldn't understand,” said Katie, looking away.

“How could I?” snapped Marcus. “When you won't say a damned thing about it!”

“You know what, you were right,” said Katie quietly, wiping her sleeve across her face. “Whatever this is, it isn't working.” With that, she dropped out of the air and stormed off the pitch, dragging her brand new broom behind her like an old rag.

Marcus descended, looking after her.

“Fuck!” he shouted, throwing his broom to the ground.

She was a fool.

She was magnificent.

And she was gone.

…..
….
…
..
.

From across the table, Kiran, Mox, Mason, and her mother stared back at her, all deep in the throes of an expectant hush.

Katie looked down at her hands. “Well, I didn't make the reserve for Puddlemere or Holyhead.”

“Well, there's always next year-” started Mason.

“-more time to practice-” added Kiran.

“-don't know talent when they see it, obviously-” added Mox.

“Well, honey, there was a lot of competition-” began her mother.

“But you're looking at the starting chaser for the Chudley Cannons,” finished Katie, smiling, before she was ambushed by a yelling, laughing mass of people.

“-starting salary is lower than the other teams, but it's enough to go on. Plus there's a good dental plan, as it's Quidditch,” Katie said later at the pub, surrounded by her friends. She was feeling a little tipsy- George and Lee had toasted to her success so many times she'd lost count of the drinks.

Still, even surrounded by her family and friends, she couldn't help but wishing that her father was there to celebrate with her.

...and maybe someone else, too.

…..
….
…
..
.

The lot used to be a storage area for the apothecary downstairs, before the owner decided to move his inventory into the basement and rent the upper space as a flat. And though Katie missed the Cannons, she loved her new flat, which she'd only been able to afford on a Harpy's salary.

The two bedroom flat was effectively a two-story space with a loft upstairs and an open kitchen and living room, complete with fireplace and a cozy reading nook. Katie had set up her bedroom in the open loft, piling on colorful quilts form Nanna Bell. Nampa bell had made her a rocking chair as a gift, and Katie had set it near the single large window in the room, where she read her books and drank her tea, watching the foot traffic come and go.

Sophie loved the place, too, right down to the ceiling beams, which the cat happily stalked. It was not unusual to see her tail twitching from atop the ceiling.

Katie was in high spirits. She had been out shopping; she had Bella Amoria's latest bodice-ripper, “The Pirate King”, and if she was feeling particularly naughty, George had sent a big basket of the latest Wonderwitch products, including a couple of patented daydream charms. She had a roast cooking in the oven with fat yorkies and wild mushrooms, and a bar of Honeyduke's finest chocolate to nibble while reading her book after dinner.

Her bath was running- she could smell the lilac-scented soap bubbles rising from the tub. She had poured herself a big glass of wine and was just dipping a toe into the water when she heard a knock at the door. Probably a package- they could leave it at the door.

She eased her foot in up to the ankle, the hot perfumed water encasing her sore muscle in bubbly, liquid bliss-

The knock sounded again. And again.

Making a huffing noise,Katie shrugged into her fluffy blue bathrobe, tied it tightly, then stalked to the door, muttering.

“What is- oh,” she trailed off, looking up at Marcus Flint, who was drenched to the bone.

“Can I come in?”

“No,” she said, and made to slam the door...but was prevented by the foot thrust in the doorway.

She glared at him.

“Katie-”

“Marcus. Don't. You need a woman that will make things easy on you...and I need a man who isn't a coward.”

This time, when she shut the door, he didn't try to stop her, and she hated herself for wishing he had.

…..
….
…
..
.

Some people drank when they were upset. Others went for a long jog, or spent far too much money on shoes or new robes.

Katie cleaned, and she did it the muggle way, right down to the red bandanna and the yellow rubber gloves. She'd already mopped the kitchen floor, scrubbed the bathrooms, and was preparing to white wash the walls when Angelina's face appeared in Mason's fireplace.

“Are you cleaning? I swear, Katie, you're the only nutter I know that cleans for therapy.”

Katie flicked some soap suds into the fire. They sizzled in Angelina's hair.

“Hey! Stop it!”

“What are you calling on me for, anyway?” asked Katie.

“It's an invitation. Well, actually more of an order. You and I are going for glamours at Madame Cursi's Beauty Boutique, then we're going shopping in Hogsmeade and buying fabulous robes we can't afford. Then, it's off to the Hag's Den for drinks, and we're going to meet up with the others and get royally piss-drunk and make equally piss-poor decisions.”

“Is that wise?”

“Probably not, but Alicia's agreed to be our stone-sober designated hexer if things go arwy.”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Katie, sitting back on her haunches and wiping a stray hair out of her eye with her forearm.

“Well, you can choose to come willingly, or you can choose to be difficult, and Alicia and I will come and frog-march your arse out anyway.”

“Fine,” said Katie, pulling off her bandana. “What time?”

“In an hour. And stop acting like you're going to your own funeral,” ordered her friend before disappearing with a 'pop'.

Angelina and Alicia had always had an eye for what looked good, and through the years, Katie had found it easier to let her friends dress her than to worry about what shirt matched what pants, and what time of the year you could wear white.

Tonight, her friends had dressed her in a black, off the shoulder jumper with a flowy skirt that twirled around her thighs, and a pair of strappy heels at least three inches high. Her nails and toes had been painted a very pretty shade of lilac, and her hair fell in loose curls around her shoulders. Underneath, she had a very pretty new garter, bra, and panty set because Angelina had said if you were going to dress like a slag then you had to do it straight down to the knickers.

There was a kind of desperation in the air at the Hag's Den. Everyone was drinking heavily, and when laughter erupted, it faded back into a kind of pressurized silence that held all the things people weren't saying.

“This may be the last time we're all able to get out like this,” said Alicia grimly, signaling the bartender for another round.

“How can you say that? The Order's ten times as prepared this time-” said Angelina quietly.

“Doesn't seem to have helped Dumbledore much, does it?” said Alicia.

“Let's talk about something else,” said Angelina, glancing at Katie.

“All right. Boys or Quidditch?”

“Quidditch,” said Angelina quickly, glancing at Katie.

Alicia reached into her purse and pulled out a magazine.

“Falcons are trying to clean up their image,” said Alicia. “I read in Quidditch Quarterly that the new manager is trying to expand their fan base.”

“Are you mental?” retorted Angelina, snorting. “They were first in the league for penalties.”

“I said image, not game play,” replied Alicia.

Angelina rolled her eyes. “Well, what's the point, if they aren't going to clean up their game-”

“Public perception carries a lot of weight with the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Besides, this way they can knock people off their brooms with gleaming white teeth,” said Katie.

Angelina turned the page. “Cannons were last in the league for number of penalties-”

“-and for goals, and passing accuracy, and snitch captures, and offensive fouls because, mind you, you have to be able to get hold of the Quaffle to have an offensive foul,” finished Katie glumly.

“You wanted to play Quidditch,” Alicia replied dispassionately. “So play it. Stop focusing on your team's weaknesses and start focusing on their strengths.”

“I would,” sighed Katie, taking a long swig of firewhiskey, “If we had any.”

…..
….
…
..
.

The first game of the season, Katie was the first one in the locker room an hour before the match was supposed to start. Despite the thorough thrashing she was fairly certain awaited her team, excitement hummed in her, and it was with shaking hands that she removed her broom from the team locker and oiled up the handle, pulling on her gloves and flexing each hand.

People were beginning to arrive. She could hear the announcer practicing his amplification charm, and the sound of people ascending the stands. It was almost possible to forget that outside the grand arena, outside the cheering crowds, there was a war going on.

Almost. Katie turned away from the door.

The team uniforms had already been laundered and laid out for the team, each one a violent shade of orange.

Katie saw her own name above the bench, and smiled. Her smile quickly fell, however, when she reached for her robes. On top of her neatly folded uniform, there was a small black box. Katie looked around, but there was no one else in the changing rooms besides herself.

Frowning, she sat down and opened the box, and nearly dropped it when she saw what was inside. There, nestled on a black velvet cushion, was the necklace her father had given her.

Beneath it, there was a small note:

For luck.
…..
….
…
..
.

Muggle London, from what Marcus could discern, was a lot of noise, crowds, and ridiculous contraptions known as cars, which were apparently driven mostly by the blind. Having never been there in his life, and it took him longer than he anticipated to find the tall brick building that was nestled between two identical tall brick buildings, or, as Katie's return address had read “Painsthorpe Road, Stoke Newington, London” on her letter.

It was two hours later that Marcus trudged up the front steps and banged the owl knocker attached to the door.

“Who is it?” called a familiar voice.

“Marcus.”

“Prove it.”

“Your cat's name is Sophie.”

“Even a Death Eater would know that one.”

Marcus thought a moment. “The Cannon's suck.”

“Common knowledge. Try again.”

Marcus smiled despite himself. “That kitten you gave me is a pain in the ass.”

“What's her name?”

“Ceres.”

A pause. “Good enough.”

The door unlocked with a click.

Katie was lying on her stomach, watching a box Marcus recognized from Muggle Studies as a 'tell-a-vision'. A man in a king outfit and a man behind a castle wall were having some sort of debate.

“It's not a question of where he grips it, it's a question of weight-ratios!” shouted the man on the wall. Katie laughed.

Something in Marcus's chest did a kind of half-somersault at the sound. How pathetic was he?

Katie was still in her pajamas- or what apparently passed for Muggle pajamas; a plain white tank top and a pair of blue cotton shorts that had no business being that short. Her hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail which she'd pulled over her shoulder. She was eating some sort of colorful loop cereal, her wand within easy reach next to her bowl.

“This is how you celebrate signing your first Quidditch contract?”

“How was it for you? Greengrass jump out of a cake?”

No, he'd gotten piss drunk and fucked a girl whose name eluded him.

“Something like that.”

Katie rolled over and sat up, clicking a small box that made the tell-a-vision go black. “Actually, I'm recovering from the celebration. My family took me out to the Red Truffle last night, and we finished up at the Three Broomsticks with some friends.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow- the Red Truffle wasn't cheap. “New boyfriend?” he asked.

“Mum's boyfriend. He's got money,” replied Katie, by way of explanation.

“Owner of Chadov's Textiles, right?”

“That's the one. So,” said Katie, folding her legs underneath her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from Marcus Flint, Quidditch star and part-time philanthropist?”

Marcus held up his hands. “You didn't have to get me anything, you know,” he said.

The gift had arrived by a ruffled-looking barn owl. Inside, between folds of tissue paper, lay a pair of dragon hide Quidditch gloves, supple and soft as butter, bearing the small stamp of Morganson and Sons, the finest purveyor of leather Quidditch gear in England. The little card that came in the box bore Katie's familiar loopy writing, thanking him for all his help. Marcus didn't know whether is was a thank you gift, or an apology, or what, but he saw the return address on the card and followed it.

“I know I didn't,” replied Katie, rolling her eyes. “It's a gift. A thank you, for all your help.”

Silence.

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Haven't you ever received a gift before?”

Marcus thought of piles of presents wrapped by house elves in green and gold leaf left in empty, dark rooms. Perfunctory owls with stacks of galleons. New robes for important occasions.

No, he hadn't. Not really. Not until Katie. But he hadn't realized it until now.

Rolling over and getting to her feet, Katie smiled. “Come on. I'll throw on some clothes and take you out for lunch. It'd be a shame to waste the weather today.”

A minute in regular time turned out to be ten in girl time, as Katie showered and threw on a pair of denims and a cable-knit jumper. Marcus spent that time in the living room with the cat for company, trying to ignore the sound of the shower running. This was difficult, as he already knew what every water-slicked inch of her looked and felt like.

Katie had left her hair down for once as it dried, the ends curling slightly and softening her face. She put on a jacket and led Marcus down the street, talking about the weather or Quidditch or something else Marcus couldn't concentrate on more than a second at a time.

Marcus had never seen anything like it. Small stands had been set up everywhere, and muggles milled from stand to stand, parcels in one hand, money in the other, balancing children and pumpkins and bags against their hips. Some even brought small trolleys to pack their produce into.

Piles of gourdes, baskets of apples, and clumps of mushrooms were laid out on cloth and crates. Flowers of every color and kind sprouted from pots and water baths. One woman had a stand lined with peppers of every color and size lined up in a row, while an old man had a stand with different cheeses laid out on small bamboo boards. Katie zoned in on this one immediately.

A small, skinny old man with an impressive mustache and a thick French accent was cutting slices of cheese. “Ah, Miss Katie, so good to see you! And you 'ave brought a gentleman with you zis time!”

“Yes, yes, this is my friend Marcus,” said Katie, pulling him forward. “Marcus, this is Arnold, the best cheese-maker in the market.”

'My friend Marcus'

Marcus blinked.

“I have an excellent smoked Gouda today, and some goat cheese fresh off the goat. Would you like to try?”

“Oooh, yes!” said Katie, and Marcus watched with horror as the old man took a pocket knife from his shirt pocket and cut a few hunks off the cheese. Other muggles poured forward, picking at the slices like vultures. And Katie, unperturbed the the dozens of hands that had been on what she was about to eat, entered the feeding frenzy and popped a large slice into her mouth.

“We'll take a hunk of the Gouda, Arnold, and some of this provolone, too.”

“Very good, Miss Katie, I shall wrap it up for you and your handsome gentleman, yes!”

Katie's cheeks colored slightly as she dug into her purse. Marcus raised an eyebrow.

Within a few moments, Katie had her cheese wrapped up, and continued on down the lines to purchase apples, cured meats, and a small loaf of bread.

“And we'll take two of these,” said Katie, pointing to two potatoes wrapped in some sort of metal. “With the works.”

“What is this?” asked Marcus, as Katie handed him one.

“Oh, they're just jacket potatoes. You've never had one?”

“No.”

“They're really good. This one's got, well, everything. Try it,” she said, shoving a plastic fork into his hand. Marcus studied it for a moment before giving up and digging in. For a muggle dish, thought Marcus, it wasn't terrible. They finished off their potatoes as they walked, or rather, Marcus finished off his own and half of Katie's.

“Now what?” asked Marcus, who had had enough of Muggle crowds to last several lifetimes.

“The park,” said Katie, swinging her bag as they walked. “It's Clissold Park, it's just a few blocks over, it's got a nice lake and there's a deer enclosure.”

After walking past the pen, Katie picked a place in front of the lake and the two sat down to eat the rest of Katie's market purchases.

“I can't believe I'm playing professional Quidditch,” said Katie, smiling.

“-for the worst team in the league,” said Marcus, and Katie swatted him.

“Buzz kill.”

“You've got two other chasers that are fair fliers, but poor goal stats, one Keeper that's taken one too many bludgers to the head, and two Beaters with the worst stats in the league. And I'm not convinced Gudgeon's not legally blind.”

“What about that other Chaser?” asked Katie. “The new one?”

“You,” said Marcus. “You're the one exception.”

The smile he got in return was staggering.

They watched the deer mill about for awhile in silence before Katie spoke up again.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.

“For what?”

Reaching inside her jumper, Katie took out the little necklace and pulled it over her head. “You know for what.”

“It's nothing.”

“I can't accept this.”

“The hell you can't. I had to go to five different pawn shops to find it. Now put the damned thing back on and shut the hell up.”

Katie watched him for a moment, before putting the necklace back on and tucking it away. “Why'd you do it?”

Marcus looked at the open look on her face and wanted to yell at her. Wanted to crush it. Wanted to ask why it was always why with her, why he was there, why he had done something because with her, he never fucking knew himself.

“You shouldn't have to give up something like that,” he said finally, looking away.

“And why'd you come today?” she asked, determined not to make it easy on him.

Because you weren't afraid of me. Because you were my friend. Because...
“Because,” he said, finally.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“Isn't it enough?” he asked.

Katie was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, as if she was weighing something in her mind. When she kissed him on the cheek, he jumped.

She tried to pull away, but he put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

“Why?” It was his turn to ask, and he wasn't sure what he was asking about, either.

Why'd you kiss me?

Why'd you talk to me?

Why'd you believe in me?

Maybe everything.

“Because,” she whispered.

“Is that it?”

“Isn't it enough?” she retorted, and she let him kiss her.

Eventually he pulled them both down onto the blanket. His hands on her hips, in her hair, running up and down her sides as she twisted above him, her lips never leaving his. He couldn't get enough of her, couldn't ever get enough of her. There was a gap between her denims and her jumper, exposed to the cool air, and he traced it with his fingers. She gasped and rolled her hips against his- he groaned and rolled them over.

“Shall we go back?” she whispered against his lips, smiling.

In lieu of an answer, he took her hand and disappeared back to the flat, where they picked up immediately where they'd left off.

Katie hooked her fingers in his waistband, leading him into the living room. Marcus reached over and tugged the bottom of her jumper up, and she obligingly lifted her arms to accommodate him as he pulled it the rest of the way over her head, tossing it across the room. Katie kicked out of her jeans and stumbled, laughing, and Marcus used that momentum to push her into the nearest chair, kneeling in front of her. He pulled down her knickers, tossing them behind him, then ran his hands along the inside of her thighs, spreading her legs.

“Marcus-” cheeks flushed, she tried to push him away, embarrassed, but he simply leaned over and ran his tongue the length of her, pressing his thumb hard onto her clitoris.

“Marcus!” she gasped again, but the sound entirely different, and when he did it again, her entire body bowed back, chin up, throat exposed, breasts arched as she brought her arms up and gripped the top of the chair, and he wanted to remember her like this, passionate, careless, wrapped up in the way he made her feel.

Past embarrassment, she reached down to spread herself for him, and fuck, it was hot, she was hot-

-she was everything-

She was close now, and he wanted to see her shatter, wanted to be the only one that made her feel like this-

“Marcus,” she panted. “I want...want you-

He nearly froze, but quickly pulled back, allowing her to sit up and pull down his pants, letting her push him back onto the rug in front of the fireplace, letting her straddle him, her body seized in one longer shiver as she sank down against him.

Sitting up together this way, his hands on her hips, her hands splayed across his back, he had never felt closer to her. He was not consumed by the desire to race to completion, but just to hold her, to remember how her eyes looked up close, her voice in his ear, the way she felt next to him, around him.

It was nothing like the time in the rain- it was slow, unhurried, and when she froze, gasping, he followed her over, his lips on her skin, his hands in her hair.

Her name on his lips.

Later, as she stretched out in front of the fire, dozing, he lay and stared into the flames. Light from the fire caught her necklace, setting her face alight in a soft , flickering glow.

No one...no one had ever said they wanted him before.

Not before Katie.

He shifted next to her, and she cracked an eye open, turning to face him. “Stay,” she murmured, putting her hand over his heart.

No one had ever said that, either.

….and so he did.