lomonaaeren

Thank you for all the reviews! This story will have one more part, to be posted tomorrow.

Part Two

For some reason, Potter wanted to meet again in Hogsmeade after Marcus sent him the owl telling him that Tolliver had said the object Lestrange was guarding was a cup. He also ignored Marcus’s inquiry about Galleons in the letter, but on second thought, Marcus felt stupid for having sent it. Potter had said himself that he wouldn’t be able to give Marcus any money until after he got to Gringotts at Christmas.

The Hogsmeade weekend in December was a week before Christmas. Marcus peered into the windows of the shops as he walked by, to see if he could find gifts for his parents, but Hogsmeade didn’t have much compared to Diagon Alley. He would probably just have to get the usual books and perfume for them and ignore his mother complaining about when Marcus was going to ‘settle down.”

When Marcus stepped into the Hog’s Head, Potter was already waiting for him. He stood up, a Gryffindor-red scarf wrapped around his neck, and bustled over to Marcus.

“Come on, let’s go to the Shrieking Shack,” he said, and took Marcus’s arm.

Walking with Potter was nice, if somewhat confusing. Marcus noticed more than one person staring at them. At this point, he thought, rumors about him dating Potter were probably the best ones to get out there. Better than the idea that he might have talked to Tolliver and gone running to Potter.

When they were close to the Shrieking Shack, Potter took out his wand and flicked it hard at the path behind them. Marcus raised his eyebrows as a powerful, wordless Silencing Charm sprang up.

“Nice one,” he said.

Potter tucked his wand away and grinned at him. “Isn’t it? I remembered what you said about imposing my will on a spell, and it worked.”

Potter’s grin was infectious. Marcus let himself smile back and leaned against the fence around the Shack. “What did you want to ask me about?”

“Did your cousin say anything about where Lestrange was guarding it? Did she have a house, or was she keeping it in the Voldemort’s house?”

Marcus flinched at the name, then shrugged. “No, he didn’t, but it’s not like it would make sense to keep it in the Dark Lord’s house, does it? Then there would be no point in giving it to Lestrange to guard. She presumably has a secure place elsewhere that the Dark Lord doesn’t.”

Potter frowned and paced in a circle, scuffing up snow with his boots as he did so. Marcus watched him critically. The scarf was nice enough, but Potter’s boots were pretty worn. Marcus wondered if he thought little of footwear and wanted to spend his Galleons on something else. Hopefully they would include owl wards soon.

“Do you know anything about ancestral Lestrange houses?” Potter asked, tilting his head back to stare at Marcus. “I know Malfoy lives in some kind of manor. Do the Lestranges?”

Marcus blinked. “The manor house was sold after Rabastan and Rodolphus went to prison. They had to use the money for legal bills.”

“Damn it.” Potter kicked up a small spray of snow and looked to be sulking.

“Why not Gringotts, though?”

Potter glanced at him. “What?”

“Why not in a Gringotts vault?” Marcus repeated calmly. “That would be a secure place, and Lestrange must have had one before she went to prison. She wasn’t on the run then. And the Dark Lord probably doesn’t have one, or the Ministry would have taken it over after he was supposedly destroyed, because people thought he was dead. The goblins care about death, not about people being fugitives.”

Watching the light dawn on Potter’s face was amusing, although Marcus didn’t think it needed to be that extreme a reaction. “Flint,” Potter breathed. “You’re a genius.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “It’s not polite to make fun of me when I’ve helped you.”

“No, I meant it.” Potter hurried over and clasped his arm, beaming up at him. “I couldn’t think of another place that would be that secure, but of course Gringotts makes sense.”

Then he sighed, and the animation seemed to drain from his body. His hand slipped off Marcus’s arm. Marcus found that he missed it. “But how am I going to break into Gringotts and get the cup? I have no idea.”

“Why do you need to break into Gringotts?”

“To get the cup.”

And Potter was looking at him like he was stupid again, not a pleasant sensation. Marcus scowled at him. “There are other ways to claim something from someone’s Gringotts vault, though. What you need to do is get something on Lestrange. Some blackmail, or challenge her to a duel and win. Then you can claim something from her Gringotts vault as forfeit. You don’t need to say what it is in advance.”

Potter’s mouth had fallen a little open. He swallowed and asked, “How did you know that?”

“Everyone knows that.”

“I didn’t!”

“Well, fine,” Marcus said after a moment’s consideration. “Everyone who grew up in the magical world.” He waved a hand. There must be some truth to those stories of Potter growing up with Muggles, which probably explained the boots, too. “It’s just a thing. Lestrange probably wouldn’t be even be informed by the goblins, because they would assume she knew. And she probably wouldn’t be worried, because she must think no one knows that cup is there.”

Potter went back to pacing around in a circle. Marcus admired the lean muscles of his back. It was a pity that it didn’t look like the seduction thing was going to work out, because Potter really was fit.

“What happens,” Potter asked at last, lifting his head, “if she murdered someone close to me? And was never brought to trial for it?”

Marcus blinked. “That would work. Who did she murder?”

“My godfather,” Potter whispered, and his eyes grew harder still, until Marcus thought he could have started an Incendio just with the look in them. “In the Department of Mysteries at the end of last term.”

Potter had led a much more interesting life than Marcus had known about, associating with mass murderers and all. Marcus nodded. “Yeah. Go to the bank and explain the situation. Then say that you want to claim the forfeit from Lestrange’s vault. And go in and take something else as well as the cup, because the price of a death would be higher than just winning a duel. People shouldn’t think it’s special.”

Potter looked up at him with extremely flattering respect. “You really are smart.”

“Cunning, maybe. Remember my House.”

“Yeah.” Potter flashed him a smile. “It was almost my House, too, you know.”

“What?”

Potter grinned, seeming to enjoy the flustered way Marcus stared at him. “Yeah. The Hat told me I could be great there, and that I had a ‘thirst to prove myself.’” Potter rolled his eyes as if he’d never heard anything more ridiculous. “But I’d already met Malfoy, and, well. Plus people told me Slytherin was the House where my parents’ killer had been.”

Marcus ticked up another grudge that he could carry against Malfoy. They could have had the best Seeker Marcus had ever seen on the Slytherin team and won the Quidditch Cup at least three years in a row. “I never knew.”

“Almost no one does,” Potter said, and stared at him evenly. “Except you.”

Marcus inclined his head in recognition of the compliment. He wondered why Potter had wanted to tell him, but, well, he didn’t need to disrupt the bond that was flowing between them, whether it was based on friendship or attraction or cup-hunting or something else. “Thank you.”

Potter lingered as if he wanted to say something more, but in the end, he shook his head, said, “I’ll let you know how it goes,” and went down the path towards the village.

Marcus sighed, walked a few meters away, and Apparated. And swore when he got home and realized that he still hadn’t talked to Potter about Galleons for owl-wards.

Probably another whiny letter was winging towards him with Malfoy’s owl even as he stood there.

*

“Flint!”

Marcus turned around, blinking in surprise. He was in the middle of Diagon Alley, shrinking the books he’d bought for his parents, when he heard that voice. And Potter was walking up to him right there as if he didn’t give a fuck about who saw them together.

“Potter,” Marcus said, and managed to incline his head and flick his eyes around at the same time. A few people were looking in their direction, but they didn’t seem to have realized that Potter was, well, Potter yet. On a closer look, Marcus saw that Potter’s fringe was flattened over his scar, and relaxed a little. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting Galleons from Gringotts,” Potter said, and reached into a pouch hanging from his belt. “How many do you need for the Firewhisky?”

“I told you that you didn’t have to pay for that.”

“I said that I would get Galleons for you and do it.”

Marcus sighed. Potter’s jaw was set in that stubborn look that meant no Gryffindor was going to yield. He’d seen it often enough across the pitch when he was playing Wood. “All right, fine. Ten Galleons.” That was at least a start on the payment for the owl-ward.

Potter nodded and rummaged in the bag, then handed Marcus the coins. Marcus dumped them into his pocket, absently put a ward over them that would burn a thief’s fingers if they reached in, and wondered at his own reluctance to ask Potter about more money for the owl-wards.

He’d got another whiny letter from Malfoy the other day, just as predicted. But for some reason, he hadn’t thought about the money.

And he didn’t want to now.

“What was that?”

Marcus blinked and looked down. Potter was studying the pocket he’d put the money in, so he must have been talking about the spell. Marcus shrugged a little. “Anti-theft spell,” he said. “Burns someone’s fingers if anyone else but me reaches in.”

“Wicked,” Potter said. “What’s the incantation?”

“You sure you want to learn?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Potter’s jaw was set—it had relaxed for a little while—and Marcus half-laughed. “It’s a not a nice spell that good little Gryffindors should know.”

“I told you about why I’m not exactly a normal good little Gryffindor.”

True enough, and Marcus had taught this spell to Adrian when he asked. He nodded and made the motion with his wand in the air first, a jagged Z, and watched intently until he was sure Potter had it. At one point, he did have to put his hand on Potter’s wrist to guide him through the motion, since he was making it too sharp. Potter caught his breath in a little gasp.

“You all right, Potter?”

“Yes. Fine. Um. What’s the incantation?”

Potter was flushing. Marcus shrugged and spoke the incantation slowly. “Furem uror.”

A flash of fire appeared in the air and was gone. Potter grinned, not taking a step back the way Marcus had thought he would, and flicked his wand through the sharp motion. “Furem uror,” he said, casting it on his moneypouch.

The same flash of fire appeared in the air, and Marcus nodded in approval. “There you are, Potter. Just don’t hand it to Weasley or something and forget to take the spell off.” Marcus grinned at the thought.

“Potter!”

Potter’s answering grin died a swift death, which Marcus found himself mourning for some reason. Potter turned to face Malfoy. “Malfoy,” he said softly, in a voice that would have made Marcus back off if he was the same age.

But Malfoy just kept stomping towards them, and his shouting of Potter’s name had attracted some attention. Potter grimaced and ducked his head, shaking his fringe over his scar again. “Sorry, Flint.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Marcus said, and eyed Malfoy. Maybe he could break the git’s writing hand. That ought to stop the owls for at least a little while. Malfoy didn’t have the precision of magic that would permit him to hold a Dicta-Quill.

“What are you doing here?” Malfoy demanded, folding his arms, and then caught sight of Marcus. His eyes widened. “With Flint?”

“We were arguing about Quidditch strategy,” Potter said, and gave Malfoy a sneer that made Marcus want to applaud. “And why the Slytherin team can never win since Flint left the school.”

Marcus coughed. Malfoy stared at them with his mouth open, probably because Marcus hadn’t leaped to his defense. But unfortunately, just as with the time between the letters, the silence didn’t last long enough.

“I’ll have you know that you only win because you’re cheating, Potter,” Malfoy said in a low, impassioned voice. “And because you have a fast broom.” He turned his head and sneered a little. “In fact, I don’t think you need to carry that much money around, do you? Why don’t you donate some to me? I’ll take better care of it than Weasley.”

And he reached out and tried to dig his hands into Potter’s moneypouch, which was still open.

There was another flash of fire, a brighter one this time, and the smell of cooking flesh. Marcus whistled. For someone casting the spell for the first time, Potter had made it bloody powerful.

Malfoy began to shriek louder than ever, clutching his burned and blackened hand. Marcus watched in interest as a few blisters appeared. “Nice one,” he told Potter, who blinked at him.

“Flint! Do something! He burned me!”

“I’m the one who taught him that spell,” said Marcus, before he could think carefully about the consequences.

Malfoy froze, his eyes widening. Then he coughed and backed away, keeping his eyes on both of them as if he assumed they would curse him in the back. Marcus snorted. He didn’t have the moral scruples that would keep him from doing that, the way Potter probably did, but he didn’t need to.

Malfoy turned away, finally, and marched stiff-legged down the middle of the alley. Marcus smirked after him. His Malfoy problem might just have solved itself. Malfoy wouldn’t be sending him casual owls after this.

Potter coughed himself. Marcus glanced at him and found him smiling, his eyes bright and his hands clasped in front of him as though he was going to spread them apart and show a web of magic the way that some people wove for their wards.

“That was one of the best moments of my life,” Potter said reverently.

Marcus laughed, and noticed Potter eyeing him sideways. Hm. Maybe the seduction plan was back on the menu.

He put a hand on Potter’s shoulder, and noticed with pleasure the way Potter shivered and moved towards him rather than away. “I know that you always had a rivalry,” Marcus agreed. “It was off the Quidditch pitch, too, right? Not just on it?”

He and Potter walked together for half an hour or so more, while Potter chattered about how annoying Malfoy was and how he thought the git was probably Marked, but no one would listen to him about it. Marcus shook his head a little as he listened. Malfoy was young for the Mark, but he probably did have it, and the people refusing to listen to Potter were idiots.

“If you ever need help with him,” he said, when he reached the Apparition point he would need to use, “then owl me.”

Potter eyed him closely. “Can I owl you anyway?”

“Of course,” said Marcus, and didn’t cackle as he Apparated only by sheer force of will.

Maybe he would get to have Potter for more interesting reasons than just convincing him to throw a Quidditch game.

*

Potter’s snowy owl was a beautiful creature who was much more welcome in Marcus’s flat than Malfoy’s eagle-owl. He sat in a chair two days after Christmas and read the first letter that Potter had sent him, along with a package that turned out to contain a small bottle of Ogden’s Finest.

Dear Marcus (it feels weird to keep calling you “Flint” when you’ve helped me so much),

Thanks again for helping with Malfoy, and with the information you gave me. I’m sending you a Christmas gift that I hope Hedwig (that’s my owl) will manage to deliver without breaking. I told her to be careful with it, and she bit me. That’s owls for you.

I absolutely don’t expect a gift back. But you really did help me, and I wanted to say thank you.

Also, you should be proud of me. I’ve managed to cast about half my spells now wordlessly! Mrs. Weasley (I’m staying with my mate Ron Weasley’s family for Christmas) hugged me when she saw me doing it, and I’ve been helping her with some spells around the house. Even casting household charms is fun when you don’t have to speak the incantations aloud.

I told Hermione about your suggestion to impose your will on a spell. I didn’t tell her where it came from, though. Sorry, but I don’t think either of my friends would be happy if they knew that I was speaking to a Slytherin about this, even one who isn’t at school anymore.

Also, I hope that you don’t expect me to go easy on the Slytherin Quidditch team the next time we play them just because we’re friends. It’s the best team that should win, not the one that has Snape scowling over their shoulders.

Happy Christmas,
Harry.

The letter lit a soft fire in Marcus that felt better than any whisky could. But he did have to shake his head at how open the letter was. The only thing that Harry didn’t talk about in detail was the information Marcus had given him, and that was probably to protect Marcus, not himself. Someone else could easily have intercepted Harry’s owl, especially when she was so distinctive. Harry should be better-protected than to talk about details like the ones he did.

Marcus looked up at Hedwig. She hooted softly and looked straight at the drawer where he kept the owl treats. Persephone was looking at her indulgently. At least she didn’t hate her the way she did Malfoy’s owl.

“You’re a beauty,” Marcus said, voice rough with what he was feeling, and stood up to run his hand down her back. Hedwig fluffed up her feathers and hooted again. Marcus fetched her a treat and stood watching her snap it apart with her sharp beak, while he decided what gift he should send Harry.

Because of course he was going to return a gift. If nothing else, it was a matter of honor, and paying a debt.

He turned away to search his shelves for an appropriate book, and smiled when he found one that included spells to ward your owls while they were delivering post. He sat down to write a letter back, while Hedwig tucked her head beneath her wing for a brief nap.

Dear Harry,

You’re welcome. Please don’t tell your friends about me, just because I think it might get you pestered with questions. And I don’t think we’re ready to answer those yet.

I’m sending you a book. Shut up about not needing a gift. You do. There are some spells here that can help keep Hedwig safe, which I’m sure she’ll appreciate. See the pages I’ve put the bookmark on.

Happy Christmas,
Marcus.

He grimaced and shrugged when he was done with the letter. It wasn’t nearly as long as Harry’s, but Marcus was a man of few words, and so far, Harry hadn’t seemed to mind that.

Hedwig wasn’t pleased to be woken up so soon after she’d started her nap and sent on her way, but Marcus placated her with another owl treat.

*

Marcus paced slowly back and forth in front of the fireplace. Harry had owled him a concerningly short letter, just saying that he needed to Floo to see Marcus and could he get the address to Marcus’s flat? Marcus had sent it to him, and now it was two minutes past the time Harry was supposed to arrive and—

The fire flared green.

Marcus backed up a step and poised himself with his wand in his hand, because he wasn’t a fool, but it was only Harry who popped out. He smiled at Marcus and dusted his cloak off. “Hi,” he said breathlessly.

Marcus could only stare. For once, Harry wasn’t wearing black school robes. He was wearing a green jumper with a huge H on the front, and casual black trousers, and trainers. His hair stood almost completely on end, probably from the Floo travel. His eyes were bright and sparkling and happy behind his glasses.

“Marcus? Is something wrong?”

“I really want to snog you.”

Harry’s face turned as red as the fire was now, and he opened and closed his mouth a few times. Marcus kept watching him hungrily. The only thing that had really changed was the emotions in his eyes, and they were still bright.

Finally, Harry raised his chin with Gryffindor courage and whispered, “Why don’t you?”

That was all the invitation Marcus needed. He dropped his wand on the floor, crossed the distance between them, and grabbed Harry and kissed him.

Harry’s lips were dry and chapped and tasted like coriander seeds, for some reason. He reached up and clasped Marcus’s shoulders, digging his fingers in, sighing and moaning. Marcus felt a sharp pleasure course through him that had nothing to do with the way he was hardening. He had made Harry sound like that.

He was willing to bet that no one else had.

He drove Harry back against the fireplace mantel, just barely remembering to get a hand in place so he wouldn’t dent Harry’s skull, and kissed him again and again. Harry kissed back, and his fingers got deep in Marcus’s hair and pulled on it. Marcus groaned. He loved that.

Finally, Harry tugged his head back and took deep, deep breaths of air. Marcus studied him, prepared to step back if this had been too much, but it seemed Harry had only needed to breathe, because the next second he said, his voice deeper than usual, “That was intense.”

“I really wanted to snog you,” Marcus repeated, and ran his fingers down the wool of Harry’s jumper. It was soft enough that he could almost feel the skin beneath. He itched to take it off, but that would probably be moving too fast. He took a deep breath himself and moved a step back. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Harry’s mouth fell a little open, and he stared at Marcus. Then he said, “You’re going to kiss me like that and then just stop?”

Oh, well, if he insists, Marcus thought gleefully, and leaned in for another round. This time, Harry was more aggressive, pushing away from the mantel to drive Marcus a few steps backwards, and his mouth tasted delicious when he opened it. He ground himself against Marcus for a moment when Marcus’s tongue touched his, and then squeaked and broke away.

Harry was turning to the side, coughing, his face bright red. Marcus could guess well enough what Harry was shielding with a “casually” placed hand. He grinned.

“Um,” Harry said. “I—maybe this is a little too fast.”

Marcus shrugged. He was going to have a good wank later, but yeah, for the sake of taking Harry to bed someday soon, he could wait right now. “Sure.”

Harry flopped into a chair near the fireplace and breathed some more. Marcus sat down across from him and watched him with happy possessiveness. No one else had made Harry look like that, or sound like that, or got him so hard.

And Marcus was going to be the only one who did, if he had anything to say about it.

Harry licked his lips and glanced up, still keeping one hand hovering over his lap. Marcus opened his mouth to say they both knew exactly what Harry was “hiding” and he could reveal it, but Harry blurted, “I went to Gringotts and got the cup from Lestrange’s vault.”

Marcus smiled. “It worked, then?”

“Yeah. I took some other Galleons, like you suggested, but they had to remove a curse from the cup for me. It apparently would duplicate itself endlessly if someone just touched it.” Harry tilted his head back against the chair and swallowed. “I can’t thank you enough. This artifact is one of the keys to defeating Voldemort.”

Marcus stared at him. “What?”

Harry flushed brightly, just as the color had started to recede from his face. “I can’t tell you much more than that.” Marcus promptly resolved to become the sort of person Harry could trust. “I, um, I want to. But not right now.”

Marcus just nodded. He knew Gryffindors and Slytherins both who would have pushed and lost Harry’s trust for good. “Fine. When you can.”

Harry remained and chatted for a few minutes more, but it was clear that his mind was more on what had already happened than what he was saying. When his eyes dropped to Marcus’s lips for the sixth time in two minutes, Marcus grinned, got up, and leaned in.

This kiss was slower and gentler. Harry sighed, stood up, cast him a longing look, and whispered, “I had to wait until all the Weasleys were asleep to Floo over. I should get back before Mrs. Weasley decides to check on me or something.”

“Come back when you can,” Marcus said, and tipped Harry’s chin back for one more firework of a kiss before he went through the Floo again.

Then he went to the bathroom for a wank, and images of touching Harry and making him cry out that were a lot more fun than Firewhisky.