lomonaaeren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lomonaaeren) wrote2022-07-01 09:57 pm
lomonaaeren) wrote2022-07-01 09:57 pm
Entry tags:
[From Litha to Lammas]: Blame It on the Firewhisky, Marcus/Harry, R, 1/2 or 3
Title: Blame It on the Firewhisky
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Rating: R
Content Notes: AU starting in sixth year, angst, drunkenness, drinking, underage (Harry is 16)
Pairings: Harry/Marcus Flint
Wordcount: This part 4100
Summary: Although he left Hogwarts several years ago, Marcus still keeps up with the Slytherin Quidditch team. Lately, all of Draco Malfoy’s whiny owls blame Potter for their misfortunes. While drunk, Marcus comes up with the brilliant idea to seduce Potter and get him to throw a game, so he doesn’t have to listen to Malfoy’s whining.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “Litha to Lammas” fics, chaptered stories being posted between the summer solstice and the first of August. It will have either two or three parts to be posted over the next few days.
Blame It on the Firewhisky
Draco Malfoy really is a whinging little wanker, Marcus thought, curling his lip as he watched the eagle owl come to a stop on the table next to him.
He had been drinking Firewhisky and had a warm glow in his belly, but it soured at the sight of the owl. Marcus considered going to hide in the bathroom, but the owl knew him. It spread its wings aggressively and stared at him.
“Fine, give it here,” Marcus muttered, and all but tore the letter from its leg.
Opening it, he read the first few lines and snorted. The Slytherin team had lost to the Gryffindor team; of course they had. Malfoy blamed it on Potter; of course he did. This time, it was something about Potter cheating in a way that no one except Malfoy had noticed, and how Marcus should “do something.”
Marcus tossed the letter on the table next to him and reached for his glass. He had a snug little flat not far from Diagon Alley where he could look out an enchanted window at the view of a raging storm he preferred and listen to the fire and drink when he wasn’t working at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It was perfect.
Or it would have been, if not for the owl reaching out and nipping Marcus’s ear with a beak like a pair of shears.
“Ouch!” Marcus roared, and swatted at the annoying thing. The owl flew straight up in the air and then landed on him, with its talons positioned tauntingly near Marcus’s groin. It hooted, low and menacing.
“Get off me, you bloody bird,” Marcus warned.
The owl clicked its beak and turned its head to look at the letter. It wanted him to reply right away, Marcus knew. Malfoy had probably trained it to wait for a response and to take it out of the recipient in blood and flesh if they didn’t send one.
But Marcus was still a human, and it was still an owl, and this was his bloody flat.
“One,” Marcus warned the owl.
It hunched.
“Two.”
It launched itself at his face.
In the ensuing struggle, Marcus and the chair both went over, the owl ended up on the fireplace mantel still hooting, and Marcus’s glass spilled. He was far angrier about that than about the fresh scratch on his forehead, and stood up with his wand in hand and his glare narrowed on the owl.
It stared at him.
“Fine,” Marcus muttered, because he was too drunk right now to think of a curse that would deter the stupid thing, and went to find parchment. He scrawled out Taking care of it, Malfoy, which was a complete lie but which Malfoy wouldn’t bother following up on for at least a fortnight, and took the letter back to the owl. It didn’t wait for him to attach the message to its leg, instead snatching it in its beak and swooping out the window. Marcus rolled his eyes and went to find more Firewhisky.
*
Later that night while he was drinking, around the fifth glass, it occurred to Marcus that Malfoy would probably never stop writing to him until the Potter problem was taken care of. And that seemed intolerable, right now, the idea of that ruddy owl showing up and making him spill more Firewhisky and spoiling more evenings.
So what can I do?
Marcus thought about it. He knew little about Potter other than what rumor said and what Malfoy was reporting in his letters. He was in his sixth year at Hogwarts now; he was Captain of the Gryffindor team; he spent a lot of time practicing; he still had a Firebolt; he was still Seeker; he was fast as fuck.
How can I understand Gryffindors? I never understand Gryffindors. Even when I’m sober.
But the more he thought about it, the more Marcus thought there must be a way. When he was a sixth-year, Quidditch had mattered the most to him and he had wanted to win, but right after that came sex. He’d had an informal arrangement with Adrian where they’d suck each other off in a cupboard a night or two a week, and sometimes Miles was up for letting Marcus fuck him. Potter might have that, too, but Marcus rather doubted it. Malfoy would probably have said something, or there would be rumors in the press. Or Potter might be afraid that anyone who approached him would try to use him.
So if Marcus seduced him, and convinced a Gryffindor like Potter, who would certainly be sappy and romantic, to throw a game for his lover…
Marcus grinned. He wasn’t smart, but he understood the basic desires most people had. And the base ones.
He immediately started writing a letter that he actually wanted to write, to Potter, so that he would meet Marcus at the Hog’s Head. Marcus had no idea what kinds of things Potter would find flattering, especially when he probably heard flattery from other people all the time. So Marcus kept it as simple as possible.
Potter,
I’d like to meet you in the Hog’s Head to talk to you about Gryffindor and Slytherin Quidditch plays and offer you some other information that you’d probably like to hear.
Marcus Flint.
Marcus nodded. It didn’t have the things like “Sincerely” that he would normally put in a letter, but that would probably only have made Potter think he was lying anyway. And he wrote better when he was drunk than when he was sober.
Sometimes I’m pretty smart, Marcus thought, and went to find his owl, Persephone, so she could take the letter to Potter right away.
*
Mornings sucked. Not like Adrian, either.
Marcus groaned and rolled slowly out of bed, aiming at the cabinet attached to the wall where he kept the Sobriety Potions. His hand was shaking so badly that it took him a few tries to get the vial’s lip lined up with his mouth.
At least the pounding hangover vanished the moment he swallowed. Marcus leaned back with a long groan and glanced around his flat.
There was Draco’s whiny letter lying on the table. And there was the dirty laundry he supposed he would have to do today, since he couldn’t afford a house-elf. And Persephone was missing from her perch for some reason—
Marcus groaned again as the memory of the letter to Potter hit him. Potter was probably going to think he was lying, or playing a prank, or being ridiculous.
Then again, those were good things. They all meant that Potter wouldn’t contact him and would probably throw the letter away. Marcus’s plan had been stupid, but that was what you got when you were drinking.
Less Firewhisky next time, Marcus told himself sternly, and started getting ready for work. There was sure to be another debate today about regulation of amateur Quidditch leagues in mixed magical-Muggle villages. Marcus would argue the way he always did, for letting them go on. You could just Memory Charm the Muggles who got out of hand.
*
Persephone was waiting for Marcus when he got home. Marcus smiled at her and went to fill her water dish. There were cubes of frozen mouse waiting inside the icebox, too, but Persephone usually preferred to hunt her own food.
Persephone hooted at him in an unusually obnoxious manner—one reason Marcus had got a Great Grey owl was because they were calmer than some of the others—and held out her leg. Marcus frowned when he saw a letter there.
“Potter wrote back?”
Persephone gave him a look that seemed to say obviously. Another reason Marcus had bought her was because how much one glance reminded him of his mother.
Marcus took the letter and opened it. He was a little surprised that, since Potter had written back at all, it was a regular message, instead of a Howler.
Flint,
Fine, I accept your invitation, but the information had better be important. Two-o’clock on Saturday at the Hog’s Head. It’s a Hogsmeade weekend. I’ll come alone. You better do it, too.
Harry Potter.
Marcus blinked, and then swore. Persephone gave him a stern look and pulled at the empty food dish. She probably hadn’t had time to hunt what with flying back and forth to Scotland, Marcus decided, numb, and went to get the frozen mouse cubes.
He warmed them up with a flick of his wand and dropped them in the dish. Persephone picked up the first one and began to eat happily, while Marcus was still staring blankly at the letter in his hand.
This was absurd.
But then Marcus thought about where his plan had come from in the first place, and grinned. No, all it meant was that he’d guessed right. Potter was probably desperate for sex, and at least he had to know that someone outside school would be more discreet than someone inside it. And maybe he liked older men, and what kind of choice did he have there?
Marcus shuddered at the thought of someone willingly sleeping with Snape, and went over to stare thoughtfully at his robes. He would have to pick the best set he owned that weren’t actually dress robes, which might intimidate Potter. But there was some question as to which was the best set for the situation.
*
By the time Potter stepped into the Hog’s Head, Marcus was comfortably seated at a large table not far from the door, sipping his ale. It couldn’t compare to Firewhisky, but not much could. And his neat blue robes that showed off his broad shoulders and thick thighs to best advantage were a little out of place in the pub, but it didn’t matter. Marcus was here to show off to Potter, not old Aberforth.
Potter swept his head back and forth. His eyes widened when he saw Marcus, and he seemed to be squinting at his arms. Marcus smiled smugly. It had been a good choice to leave them bare to show off his muscles, then.
Potter strode over and dropped into the seat across from Marcus. “Flint,” he said.
“Potter.” Marcus let his eyes travel over Potter. He hadn’t grown as much taller as Marcus would have expected, but then, if he became too tall or heavy, he wouldn’t have been a good Seeker. He had the same wild, untamable black hair, and the same wild green eyes Marcus remembered gleaming at him across the Quidditch pitch.
But he had more muscles, too, and the expression on his face was wary and guarded. Marcus thought it would be a pleasure to sleep with him.
“You said you had important information,” Potter snapped. “Let’s hear it.”
Marcus glanced sideways. The old barman was watching them, and Marcus snapped his fingers and nodded. “We’ll get you a butterbeer and put up a Silencing Charm first,” he said. “And then we’ll talk.”
He let his voice descend into a purr on the last words. It was time to tell Potter that he found him attractive and would like to sleep with him. But Potter didn’t react, other than looking at him oddly.
Aberforth shuffled over and lowered the mug of butterbeer onto the table. He gave Marcus an ominous scowl that made Marcus shift to make sure he was able to draw his wand, but then he gave Potter a look that wasn’t much better. It was probably just down to the old man’s legendary ill temper.
Once Aberforth was back behind the bar, Marcus flicked his wand and raised the charm. Potter’s eyes widened. Marcus paused. “It’s not a harmful spell,” he said, a little insulted that Potter thought Marcus would lure him here and curse him.
“It’s not that. It’s that you cast silently. I’m struggling with it this year, and you—”
Marcus rolled his eyes as he put his wand away. “I’m not Granger, Potter, but casting wordless magic isn’t about intelligence. It’s about raw strength. Now—”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to impose your will on the magic. It’s just a spell, and you’re a wizard. You have to think that it is going to obey you, and then the spell obeys you.”
Potter sat back in his chair with a long whistling breath. “Wow. I never thought of that. That makes more sense than the way any of our professors have tried to explain it. Even Snape. I know he was your favorite, but he’s the Defense professor this year and he still acts like just one explanation works for everybody.”
“He’s not my favorite,” Marcus said, and knew he was staring, a little blankly.
“Oh, come on. Head of Slytherin House? Tormentor of Gryffindors? Of course he was.”
“No, because Potions was a hard subject and his monologues made it hard to concentrate. I had to take my Potions NEWT on my own.”
“Oh,” Potter said, very softly. His brow was wrinkled, and he studied Marcus like he was some new and interesting specimen of Kneazle.
Then again, that could work to Marcus’s advantage. The more interesting and new he seemed, the more likely Potter would be to agree that Marcus could give him what no one else would. Marcus half-flexed his left arm as he picked up his ale, and Potter’s eyes were drawn to it like a Sticking Charm to a wall.
Smiling smugly, Marcus began, “Okay, here it is. You know all those pictures of you that keep appearing in the Daily Prophet?” Potter nodded slowly, still looking confused. “Well, thing is, you’re bloody attractive, and I know that you probably can’t find people to date at Hogwarts who don’t just want to jump into bed with you because you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. I’m three years out—”
“And five years older than me.”
Marcus shrugged. “True enough, but not much of a gap when you consider that people marry when there are thirty or twenty years between them.”
“We are not—getting married—”
“Well, no,” Marcus had to concede. He doubted Potter would want something that lasted that long. Merlin knew Marcus wouldn’t have, even during the times that he was the most desperate for sex when he was a teenager. “But I thought we could have some fun.”
Potter gaped at him some more. Then he snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. His hand clenched on the table. “And to think I came here because I thought you had important information about the Death Eaters.”
That was random, Marcus thought indignantly. Just because he had been a Slytherin—
But Potter was standing up, obviously ready to leave, and all Marcus could think about was the next whiny letter that would come from Malfoy. And that he had taken the risk and come here, where someone could see him, like Rita Skeeter, and he would be going away with nothing to show for it.
“Wait!” he blurted. “I do have—I mean, I didn’t want to talk about it in such a public setting, but I do have some.”
Potter whirled back around, his lips compressed and his eyes hard. “All right. What was all that telling me that you found me attractive? Just a ploy to see what I would do?”
“An excuse,” Marcus said, his brain whirling. He would have to plan as fast as he had the first time he saw Wood fly and realized that Gryffindor finally had a Keeper who was worth something. “Did you know that old Aberforth there can read lips? I knew I couldn’t get you to meet me in private, so I proposed the meeting in public, but I don’t want to discuss this anywhere in public.”
There. That ought to buy him at least a few minutes.
Potter cast Aberforth a dubious glance. The old man sneered at him and went back to polishing the bar. “Even with a Silencing Charm?”
“You can’t be too careful with news like this.” Especially since Marcus was about to make some bits of nothing sound important.
“All right.” Potter turned and stared at Marcus, and he blinked. Suddenly Potter seemed to stand taller than his unimpressive height, and his eyes were hard enough to be frightening. “Just remember that I have a wand and I’ll cast anything I can to get you to back the bloody hell off if you threaten me, Flint.”
“I have no intention of threatening you,” Marcus said, and spread his hands in token of peaceful intentions. Then he stood up, thinking so hard that it felt like the beginnings of another hangover.
He had a few minutes, until he and Potter could reach the Shrieking Shack—where he would insist on going—to think about information that would capture Potter’s attention and make him agree to keep talking to Marcus. And to think about how to revise his seduction plan so he could eventually convince Potter to throw a Quidditch game.
It wasn’t easy, but it would have to be done. So Marcus would do it.
*
Potter seemed tired of walking by the time they got to the Shrieking Shack. He was the one to set up the Silencing Charm this time, and he turned around with his arms folded. “All right, Flint, do your worst.”
Marcus sighed. “Fine. I have a second cousin named Tolliver.” That was true enough. “You don’t know him. Lot older than me. He was going on and on about how he couldn’t wait to take the Dark Mark and he was going to prove himself worthy of the Dark Lord. Apparently, there’s something Bellatrix Lestrange was guarding for him, and Tolliver wanted to prove that he was worthy to guard it, instead.”
It was true that Tolliver had said those things, but he had said them two months ago when he was ragingly drunk. Marcus didn’t think there was anything to it, or that the Dark Lord would be Marking Tolliver any time soon. He was so stupid that Marcus had been able to feel superior to him when he was only a little kid and Tolliver was a teenager.
Potter leaned forwards, his eyes wide. “What’s the thing Lestrange is guarding?”
“I have no idea,” Marcus said irritably. “Tolliver wasn’t drunk enough to tell me that.”
“Could you get him drunk again? Pump him for details? You have access to all sorts of Death Eater and Slytherin circles I don’t, Flint.”
Marcus blinked. Well, that was true, wasn’t it? And keeping Potter interested would maintain a sort of connection. Perhaps enough that Marcus could get Potter to think about attraction and sex sooner or later. “I could try. He doesn’t usually respond to invitations. He just shows up whenever he wants to.” And Marcus’s Firewhisky suffered for it.
“What would make him more likely to show up?”
“If I told him I got a new bottle of Ogden’s Finest.”
“Could you do that, Flint?” Potter seemed to think of something, and stepped back a little. “And I’ll be happy to pay you what it costs. Although I’ll have to owe you for a while since I can’t get to Gringotts until Christmas.”
“I could do that,” Marcus said. Huh. It was going to be simple to keep Potter’s attention, then. “And don’t worry about the cost. As long as you don’t tell anyone what I’m doing.”
“Don’t want to be seen as on the side of the righteous for once, huh?”
Marcus rolled his eyes at Potter. “Don’t want to have anyone see me betraying my family or the Dark Lord, more like.”
Potter’s face paled a little, and then he nodded. “Sorry, Flint. I didn’t think…”
Yeah, obviously, Marcus thought, but he wasn’t really upset. At least this plan meant there would be a connection between him and Potter. Who knew? Maybe he could even convince Potter to throw a Quidditch game because of friendship, instead of seduction.
Marcus did flex his arms one more time before he and Potter went their separate ways. Potter looked at him attentively, but he just seemed relieved about something.
Oh, Marcus realized. He was probably looking for a Dark Mark.
It was kind of disappointing to think about. But Marcus had lots of other things to think about, so he went home.
*
“This is really good.”
Tolliver’s voice was all soft and drawling, which meant he was probably drunk enough. Marcus was only sorry that he couldn’t drink as deeply as he wanted himself, since then he would get drunk and forget what he was here for. He leaned back in the squashy, comfortable chair closest to the fire and grinned at his cousin. “So how close are you to getting into the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle, do you think?”
Tolliver tried to pull himself upright, but it was a futile effort. He sagged sideways on the maroon couch he was sitting on—a couch Marcus had never liked and didn’t mind if Tolliver got vomit on—and wagged a finger at Marcus. “It doesn’t. Doesn’t work like that. First you’re jes an ordinary follower. Then you get to be in the Inner Circle.”
“Okay,” Marcus agreed, and thought he could take at least one more pull, if only to stand this insipid conversation. “But then how do you think you’re going to take Lestrange’s place and start guarding what she’s guarding? What is she guarding, anyway?”
Tolliver grinned and beckoned at him. Marcus stood up and bent down, enduring the fumes that were practically rolling off his cousin. Firewhisky was not meant to be drunk like this, he thought despairingly.
“I heard her say,” Tolliver whispered, giggling. “When she thought I wasn’t there. Whoosh!” He waved a hand and probably meant to indicate that he’d sneaked up behind Lestrange, but instead, he ended up diving face-first into the pillows and lying there, still giggling.
Marcus pinched his nose with his fingers and wondered if this was really all worth it. But then he remembered the essay-length letter that Malfoy’s owl had delivered to him two days ago, and nodded. It had to be. He had to stop the whining. “What was it?”
“A dinnerware set,” whispered Tolliver.
Marcus stared at him. “The Dark Lord has Lestrange guarding the family china?” That wasn’t at all what he’d thought it would be.
“She talked about a cup,” Tolliver said, and sat up, and hiccoughed, and swilled some more Firewhisky, spilling at least half down the front of his robes. Marcus closed his eyes in pain that was almost physical. “What else could it be/”
“A Quidditch Cup?” Marcus muttered, but he had to admit he would probably have made Tolliver’s guess, too. A cup was a fairly random thing for the Dark Lord to want, for Lestrange to be guarding.
“We have that china cabinet that Great-Grandmother Estelle enchanted,” Tolliver bragged, trying to get his goblet near his mouth and failing. “The one that keeps everything in it safe and no one can touch it except family. The Dark Lord will have to give the cup to me once he hears about that!”
Marcus stepped back, shaking his head a little. He supposed he’d learned all he could. He hit Tolliver with a Sleeping Charm, and Tolliver’s giggles became snores immediately.
Marcus pried the goblet out of his fingers and cast a few careful charms that would squeeze the whisky out of Tolliver’s clothes and into the glass. He was putting this aside to give to Tolliver the next time the berk decided to come over and waste Marcus’s good Firewhisky.
Marcus did wonder if the information was going to be valuable enough for Potter. A cup, of all things. It sounded like Tolliver had either misheard, or Lestrange had known he was there and had made up something random and stupid to throw him off the trail.
But Marcus would send the message to Potter with Persephone tomorrow. And maybe that would get him on the road to the seduction part of the plan sooner. Or else Potter would declare that he owed Marcus, and Marcus could ask for the thrown Quidditch game as a repayment of the favor.
Or, if Potter wouldn’t do that, enough Galleons to pay for the specialized owl wards that would keep out Malfoy’s messages about Quidditch without keeping out anyone else’s birds or requiring Marcus to approve all the letters that passed through the wards. Paying for those sorts of things to be attached to a flat rather than a house was devilishly expensive.
But one way or another, Malfoy’s whiny owls were going to stop.
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Rating: R
Content Notes: AU starting in sixth year, angst, drunkenness, drinking, underage (Harry is 16)
Pairings: Harry/Marcus Flint
Wordcount: This part 4100
Summary: Although he left Hogwarts several years ago, Marcus still keeps up with the Slytherin Quidditch team. Lately, all of Draco Malfoy’s whiny owls blame Potter for their misfortunes. While drunk, Marcus comes up with the brilliant idea to seduce Potter and get him to throw a game, so he doesn’t have to listen to Malfoy’s whining.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “Litha to Lammas” fics, chaptered stories being posted between the summer solstice and the first of August. It will have either two or three parts to be posted over the next few days.
Blame It on the Firewhisky
Draco Malfoy really is a whinging little wanker, Marcus thought, curling his lip as he watched the eagle owl come to a stop on the table next to him.
He had been drinking Firewhisky and had a warm glow in his belly, but it soured at the sight of the owl. Marcus considered going to hide in the bathroom, but the owl knew him. It spread its wings aggressively and stared at him.
“Fine, give it here,” Marcus muttered, and all but tore the letter from its leg.
Opening it, he read the first few lines and snorted. The Slytherin team had lost to the Gryffindor team; of course they had. Malfoy blamed it on Potter; of course he did. This time, it was something about Potter cheating in a way that no one except Malfoy had noticed, and how Marcus should “do something.”
Marcus tossed the letter on the table next to him and reached for his glass. He had a snug little flat not far from Diagon Alley where he could look out an enchanted window at the view of a raging storm he preferred and listen to the fire and drink when he wasn’t working at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It was perfect.
Or it would have been, if not for the owl reaching out and nipping Marcus’s ear with a beak like a pair of shears.
“Ouch!” Marcus roared, and swatted at the annoying thing. The owl flew straight up in the air and then landed on him, with its talons positioned tauntingly near Marcus’s groin. It hooted, low and menacing.
“Get off me, you bloody bird,” Marcus warned.
The owl clicked its beak and turned its head to look at the letter. It wanted him to reply right away, Marcus knew. Malfoy had probably trained it to wait for a response and to take it out of the recipient in blood and flesh if they didn’t send one.
But Marcus was still a human, and it was still an owl, and this was his bloody flat.
“One,” Marcus warned the owl.
It hunched.
“Two.”
It launched itself at his face.
In the ensuing struggle, Marcus and the chair both went over, the owl ended up on the fireplace mantel still hooting, and Marcus’s glass spilled. He was far angrier about that than about the fresh scratch on his forehead, and stood up with his wand in hand and his glare narrowed on the owl.
It stared at him.
“Fine,” Marcus muttered, because he was too drunk right now to think of a curse that would deter the stupid thing, and went to find parchment. He scrawled out Taking care of it, Malfoy, which was a complete lie but which Malfoy wouldn’t bother following up on for at least a fortnight, and took the letter back to the owl. It didn’t wait for him to attach the message to its leg, instead snatching it in its beak and swooping out the window. Marcus rolled his eyes and went to find more Firewhisky.
*
Later that night while he was drinking, around the fifth glass, it occurred to Marcus that Malfoy would probably never stop writing to him until the Potter problem was taken care of. And that seemed intolerable, right now, the idea of that ruddy owl showing up and making him spill more Firewhisky and spoiling more evenings.
So what can I do?
Marcus thought about it. He knew little about Potter other than what rumor said and what Malfoy was reporting in his letters. He was in his sixth year at Hogwarts now; he was Captain of the Gryffindor team; he spent a lot of time practicing; he still had a Firebolt; he was still Seeker; he was fast as fuck.
How can I understand Gryffindors? I never understand Gryffindors. Even when I’m sober.
But the more he thought about it, the more Marcus thought there must be a way. When he was a sixth-year, Quidditch had mattered the most to him and he had wanted to win, but right after that came sex. He’d had an informal arrangement with Adrian where they’d suck each other off in a cupboard a night or two a week, and sometimes Miles was up for letting Marcus fuck him. Potter might have that, too, but Marcus rather doubted it. Malfoy would probably have said something, or there would be rumors in the press. Or Potter might be afraid that anyone who approached him would try to use him.
So if Marcus seduced him, and convinced a Gryffindor like Potter, who would certainly be sappy and romantic, to throw a game for his lover…
Marcus grinned. He wasn’t smart, but he understood the basic desires most people had. And the base ones.
He immediately started writing a letter that he actually wanted to write, to Potter, so that he would meet Marcus at the Hog’s Head. Marcus had no idea what kinds of things Potter would find flattering, especially when he probably heard flattery from other people all the time. So Marcus kept it as simple as possible.
Potter,
I’d like to meet you in the Hog’s Head to talk to you about Gryffindor and Slytherin Quidditch plays and offer you some other information that you’d probably like to hear.
Marcus Flint.
Marcus nodded. It didn’t have the things like “Sincerely” that he would normally put in a letter, but that would probably only have made Potter think he was lying anyway. And he wrote better when he was drunk than when he was sober.
Sometimes I’m pretty smart, Marcus thought, and went to find his owl, Persephone, so she could take the letter to Potter right away.
*
Mornings sucked. Not like Adrian, either.
Marcus groaned and rolled slowly out of bed, aiming at the cabinet attached to the wall where he kept the Sobriety Potions. His hand was shaking so badly that it took him a few tries to get the vial’s lip lined up with his mouth.
At least the pounding hangover vanished the moment he swallowed. Marcus leaned back with a long groan and glanced around his flat.
There was Draco’s whiny letter lying on the table. And there was the dirty laundry he supposed he would have to do today, since he couldn’t afford a house-elf. And Persephone was missing from her perch for some reason—
Marcus groaned again as the memory of the letter to Potter hit him. Potter was probably going to think he was lying, or playing a prank, or being ridiculous.
Then again, those were good things. They all meant that Potter wouldn’t contact him and would probably throw the letter away. Marcus’s plan had been stupid, but that was what you got when you were drinking.
Less Firewhisky next time, Marcus told himself sternly, and started getting ready for work. There was sure to be another debate today about regulation of amateur Quidditch leagues in mixed magical-Muggle villages. Marcus would argue the way he always did, for letting them go on. You could just Memory Charm the Muggles who got out of hand.
*
Persephone was waiting for Marcus when he got home. Marcus smiled at her and went to fill her water dish. There were cubes of frozen mouse waiting inside the icebox, too, but Persephone usually preferred to hunt her own food.
Persephone hooted at him in an unusually obnoxious manner—one reason Marcus had got a Great Grey owl was because they were calmer than some of the others—and held out her leg. Marcus frowned when he saw a letter there.
“Potter wrote back?”
Persephone gave him a look that seemed to say obviously. Another reason Marcus had bought her was because how much one glance reminded him of his mother.
Marcus took the letter and opened it. He was a little surprised that, since Potter had written back at all, it was a regular message, instead of a Howler.
Flint,
Fine, I accept your invitation, but the information had better be important. Two-o’clock on Saturday at the Hog’s Head. It’s a Hogsmeade weekend. I’ll come alone. You better do it, too.
Harry Potter.
Marcus blinked, and then swore. Persephone gave him a stern look and pulled at the empty food dish. She probably hadn’t had time to hunt what with flying back and forth to Scotland, Marcus decided, numb, and went to get the frozen mouse cubes.
He warmed them up with a flick of his wand and dropped them in the dish. Persephone picked up the first one and began to eat happily, while Marcus was still staring blankly at the letter in his hand.
This was absurd.
But then Marcus thought about where his plan had come from in the first place, and grinned. No, all it meant was that he’d guessed right. Potter was probably desperate for sex, and at least he had to know that someone outside school would be more discreet than someone inside it. And maybe he liked older men, and what kind of choice did he have there?
Marcus shuddered at the thought of someone willingly sleeping with Snape, and went over to stare thoughtfully at his robes. He would have to pick the best set he owned that weren’t actually dress robes, which might intimidate Potter. But there was some question as to which was the best set for the situation.
*
By the time Potter stepped into the Hog’s Head, Marcus was comfortably seated at a large table not far from the door, sipping his ale. It couldn’t compare to Firewhisky, but not much could. And his neat blue robes that showed off his broad shoulders and thick thighs to best advantage were a little out of place in the pub, but it didn’t matter. Marcus was here to show off to Potter, not old Aberforth.
Potter swept his head back and forth. His eyes widened when he saw Marcus, and he seemed to be squinting at his arms. Marcus smiled smugly. It had been a good choice to leave them bare to show off his muscles, then.
Potter strode over and dropped into the seat across from Marcus. “Flint,” he said.
“Potter.” Marcus let his eyes travel over Potter. He hadn’t grown as much taller as Marcus would have expected, but then, if he became too tall or heavy, he wouldn’t have been a good Seeker. He had the same wild, untamable black hair, and the same wild green eyes Marcus remembered gleaming at him across the Quidditch pitch.
But he had more muscles, too, and the expression on his face was wary and guarded. Marcus thought it would be a pleasure to sleep with him.
“You said you had important information,” Potter snapped. “Let’s hear it.”
Marcus glanced sideways. The old barman was watching them, and Marcus snapped his fingers and nodded. “We’ll get you a butterbeer and put up a Silencing Charm first,” he said. “And then we’ll talk.”
He let his voice descend into a purr on the last words. It was time to tell Potter that he found him attractive and would like to sleep with him. But Potter didn’t react, other than looking at him oddly.
Aberforth shuffled over and lowered the mug of butterbeer onto the table. He gave Marcus an ominous scowl that made Marcus shift to make sure he was able to draw his wand, but then he gave Potter a look that wasn’t much better. It was probably just down to the old man’s legendary ill temper.
Once Aberforth was back behind the bar, Marcus flicked his wand and raised the charm. Potter’s eyes widened. Marcus paused. “It’s not a harmful spell,” he said, a little insulted that Potter thought Marcus would lure him here and curse him.
“It’s not that. It’s that you cast silently. I’m struggling with it this year, and you—”
Marcus rolled his eyes as he put his wand away. “I’m not Granger, Potter, but casting wordless magic isn’t about intelligence. It’s about raw strength. Now—”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to impose your will on the magic. It’s just a spell, and you’re a wizard. You have to think that it is going to obey you, and then the spell obeys you.”
Potter sat back in his chair with a long whistling breath. “Wow. I never thought of that. That makes more sense than the way any of our professors have tried to explain it. Even Snape. I know he was your favorite, but he’s the Defense professor this year and he still acts like just one explanation works for everybody.”
“He’s not my favorite,” Marcus said, and knew he was staring, a little blankly.
“Oh, come on. Head of Slytherin House? Tormentor of Gryffindors? Of course he was.”
“No, because Potions was a hard subject and his monologues made it hard to concentrate. I had to take my Potions NEWT on my own.”
“Oh,” Potter said, very softly. His brow was wrinkled, and he studied Marcus like he was some new and interesting specimen of Kneazle.
Then again, that could work to Marcus’s advantage. The more interesting and new he seemed, the more likely Potter would be to agree that Marcus could give him what no one else would. Marcus half-flexed his left arm as he picked up his ale, and Potter’s eyes were drawn to it like a Sticking Charm to a wall.
Smiling smugly, Marcus began, “Okay, here it is. You know all those pictures of you that keep appearing in the Daily Prophet?” Potter nodded slowly, still looking confused. “Well, thing is, you’re bloody attractive, and I know that you probably can’t find people to date at Hogwarts who don’t just want to jump into bed with you because you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. I’m three years out—”
“And five years older than me.”
Marcus shrugged. “True enough, but not much of a gap when you consider that people marry when there are thirty or twenty years between them.”
“We are not—getting married—”
“Well, no,” Marcus had to concede. He doubted Potter would want something that lasted that long. Merlin knew Marcus wouldn’t have, even during the times that he was the most desperate for sex when he was a teenager. “But I thought we could have some fun.”
Potter gaped at him some more. Then he snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. His hand clenched on the table. “And to think I came here because I thought you had important information about the Death Eaters.”
That was random, Marcus thought indignantly. Just because he had been a Slytherin—
But Potter was standing up, obviously ready to leave, and all Marcus could think about was the next whiny letter that would come from Malfoy. And that he had taken the risk and come here, where someone could see him, like Rita Skeeter, and he would be going away with nothing to show for it.
“Wait!” he blurted. “I do have—I mean, I didn’t want to talk about it in such a public setting, but I do have some.”
Potter whirled back around, his lips compressed and his eyes hard. “All right. What was all that telling me that you found me attractive? Just a ploy to see what I would do?”
“An excuse,” Marcus said, his brain whirling. He would have to plan as fast as he had the first time he saw Wood fly and realized that Gryffindor finally had a Keeper who was worth something. “Did you know that old Aberforth there can read lips? I knew I couldn’t get you to meet me in private, so I proposed the meeting in public, but I don’t want to discuss this anywhere in public.”
There. That ought to buy him at least a few minutes.
Potter cast Aberforth a dubious glance. The old man sneered at him and went back to polishing the bar. “Even with a Silencing Charm?”
“You can’t be too careful with news like this.” Especially since Marcus was about to make some bits of nothing sound important.
“All right.” Potter turned and stared at Marcus, and he blinked. Suddenly Potter seemed to stand taller than his unimpressive height, and his eyes were hard enough to be frightening. “Just remember that I have a wand and I’ll cast anything I can to get you to back the bloody hell off if you threaten me, Flint.”
“I have no intention of threatening you,” Marcus said, and spread his hands in token of peaceful intentions. Then he stood up, thinking so hard that it felt like the beginnings of another hangover.
He had a few minutes, until he and Potter could reach the Shrieking Shack—where he would insist on going—to think about information that would capture Potter’s attention and make him agree to keep talking to Marcus. And to think about how to revise his seduction plan so he could eventually convince Potter to throw a Quidditch game.
It wasn’t easy, but it would have to be done. So Marcus would do it.
*
Potter seemed tired of walking by the time they got to the Shrieking Shack. He was the one to set up the Silencing Charm this time, and he turned around with his arms folded. “All right, Flint, do your worst.”
Marcus sighed. “Fine. I have a second cousin named Tolliver.” That was true enough. “You don’t know him. Lot older than me. He was going on and on about how he couldn’t wait to take the Dark Mark and he was going to prove himself worthy of the Dark Lord. Apparently, there’s something Bellatrix Lestrange was guarding for him, and Tolliver wanted to prove that he was worthy to guard it, instead.”
It was true that Tolliver had said those things, but he had said them two months ago when he was ragingly drunk. Marcus didn’t think there was anything to it, or that the Dark Lord would be Marking Tolliver any time soon. He was so stupid that Marcus had been able to feel superior to him when he was only a little kid and Tolliver was a teenager.
Potter leaned forwards, his eyes wide. “What’s the thing Lestrange is guarding?”
“I have no idea,” Marcus said irritably. “Tolliver wasn’t drunk enough to tell me that.”
“Could you get him drunk again? Pump him for details? You have access to all sorts of Death Eater and Slytherin circles I don’t, Flint.”
Marcus blinked. Well, that was true, wasn’t it? And keeping Potter interested would maintain a sort of connection. Perhaps enough that Marcus could get Potter to think about attraction and sex sooner or later. “I could try. He doesn’t usually respond to invitations. He just shows up whenever he wants to.” And Marcus’s Firewhisky suffered for it.
“What would make him more likely to show up?”
“If I told him I got a new bottle of Ogden’s Finest.”
“Could you do that, Flint?” Potter seemed to think of something, and stepped back a little. “And I’ll be happy to pay you what it costs. Although I’ll have to owe you for a while since I can’t get to Gringotts until Christmas.”
“I could do that,” Marcus said. Huh. It was going to be simple to keep Potter’s attention, then. “And don’t worry about the cost. As long as you don’t tell anyone what I’m doing.”
“Don’t want to be seen as on the side of the righteous for once, huh?”
Marcus rolled his eyes at Potter. “Don’t want to have anyone see me betraying my family or the Dark Lord, more like.”
Potter’s face paled a little, and then he nodded. “Sorry, Flint. I didn’t think…”
Yeah, obviously, Marcus thought, but he wasn’t really upset. At least this plan meant there would be a connection between him and Potter. Who knew? Maybe he could even convince Potter to throw a Quidditch game because of friendship, instead of seduction.
Marcus did flex his arms one more time before he and Potter went their separate ways. Potter looked at him attentively, but he just seemed relieved about something.
Oh, Marcus realized. He was probably looking for a Dark Mark.
It was kind of disappointing to think about. But Marcus had lots of other things to think about, so he went home.
*
“This is really good.”
Tolliver’s voice was all soft and drawling, which meant he was probably drunk enough. Marcus was only sorry that he couldn’t drink as deeply as he wanted himself, since then he would get drunk and forget what he was here for. He leaned back in the squashy, comfortable chair closest to the fire and grinned at his cousin. “So how close are you to getting into the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle, do you think?”
Tolliver tried to pull himself upright, but it was a futile effort. He sagged sideways on the maroon couch he was sitting on—a couch Marcus had never liked and didn’t mind if Tolliver got vomit on—and wagged a finger at Marcus. “It doesn’t. Doesn’t work like that. First you’re jes an ordinary follower. Then you get to be in the Inner Circle.”
“Okay,” Marcus agreed, and thought he could take at least one more pull, if only to stand this insipid conversation. “But then how do you think you’re going to take Lestrange’s place and start guarding what she’s guarding? What is she guarding, anyway?”
Tolliver grinned and beckoned at him. Marcus stood up and bent down, enduring the fumes that were practically rolling off his cousin. Firewhisky was not meant to be drunk like this, he thought despairingly.
“I heard her say,” Tolliver whispered, giggling. “When she thought I wasn’t there. Whoosh!” He waved a hand and probably meant to indicate that he’d sneaked up behind Lestrange, but instead, he ended up diving face-first into the pillows and lying there, still giggling.
Marcus pinched his nose with his fingers and wondered if this was really all worth it. But then he remembered the essay-length letter that Malfoy’s owl had delivered to him two days ago, and nodded. It had to be. He had to stop the whining. “What was it?”
“A dinnerware set,” whispered Tolliver.
Marcus stared at him. “The Dark Lord has Lestrange guarding the family china?” That wasn’t at all what he’d thought it would be.
“She talked about a cup,” Tolliver said, and sat up, and hiccoughed, and swilled some more Firewhisky, spilling at least half down the front of his robes. Marcus closed his eyes in pain that was almost physical. “What else could it be/”
“A Quidditch Cup?” Marcus muttered, but he had to admit he would probably have made Tolliver’s guess, too. A cup was a fairly random thing for the Dark Lord to want, for Lestrange to be guarding.
“We have that china cabinet that Great-Grandmother Estelle enchanted,” Tolliver bragged, trying to get his goblet near his mouth and failing. “The one that keeps everything in it safe and no one can touch it except family. The Dark Lord will have to give the cup to me once he hears about that!”
Marcus stepped back, shaking his head a little. He supposed he’d learned all he could. He hit Tolliver with a Sleeping Charm, and Tolliver’s giggles became snores immediately.
Marcus pried the goblet out of his fingers and cast a few careful charms that would squeeze the whisky out of Tolliver’s clothes and into the glass. He was putting this aside to give to Tolliver the next time the berk decided to come over and waste Marcus’s good Firewhisky.
Marcus did wonder if the information was going to be valuable enough for Potter. A cup, of all things. It sounded like Tolliver had either misheard, or Lestrange had known he was there and had made up something random and stupid to throw him off the trail.
But Marcus would send the message to Potter with Persephone tomorrow. And maybe that would get him on the road to the seduction part of the plan sooner. Or else Potter would declare that he owed Marcus, and Marcus could ask for the thrown Quidditch game as a repayment of the favor.
Or, if Potter wouldn’t do that, enough Galleons to pay for the specialized owl wards that would keep out Malfoy’s messages about Quidditch without keeping out anyone else’s birds or requiring Marcus to approve all the letters that passed through the wards. Paying for those sorts of things to be attached to a flat rather than a house was devilishly expensive.
But one way or another, Malfoy’s whiny owls were going to stop.