A/N: This fic is COMPLETELY the fault of Akasha and Ravyn, two ebil ebil people. That is all. It's the side story of "Secrets and Shadows". Except this was one of the couples that WASN'T focused on in S&S. In fact, they weren't mentioned as a couple at all. Anyway, Marcus Flint and Penelope Clearwater's story follows. God save us. But read and tell me what you think anyway.
Dedicated to all Flint-lovers out there.
Disclaimer: If I owned the Slytherins, they would be far less cardboard-cutouts-of-evil-ish than they are portrayed in the books. But then, unlike JKR, I am no Gryffindor and I do not own them. That is all.
~*~
"What do you MEAN you don't know what happened to Bransford!?" The tall, powerfully-built young man roared. "Did you speak to the mediwizards at ALL!?"
The boy cringed. "She... didn't make it very clear, what exactly it was... I'm really not sure why don't YOU talk to her?"
Marcus gave a growl of disgust. They were in the middle of a game, and the top Chaser of the Falmouth Falcons was incapacitated. And his assistant was, as per usual, a complete imbecile. Snarling and roughly shoving his dark hair out of his eyes, he strode into the mediwizard tent. The blasted commentator was STILL blathering on about how Chaser Patricia Bransford was injured, suspected foul play from the fans of the Wimbourne Wasps, the game would be on hold until blah blah blah...
"What the deuce happened to her?!"
The mediwitch who was in the middle of titrating a greenish potion swivelled around in surprise at the loud exclamation by the door of the tent, but her small hands were steady and she finished titrating the drink, before she turned to face him. "Er, hello."
Flint noticed that she looked vaguely familiar. A woman of medium height, with a somewhat serious expression on her face, with a quantity of curly brown hair and wide brown eyes. The shock in her face was quickly replaced by slight disapproval, likely at his unceremonious and abrupt entrance, and it was with that slight frown that Flint recognized who she was.
"I'm---" she started, her voice soft but firm.
"Penelope Clearwater," he finished for her. "Marcus Flint. I'm the spokesperson for this team, and it seems as though Trish is a bit injured."
He hadn't changed much from their school days, though of course, she had not known him all that well. He had hated Percy, that much was for sure. But then, Percy had been everything that he was not, and vice versa. And then again, so many Gryffindors and Slytherins were never able to get along, anyway. At the moment, though, he wasn't looking at her with a sneer, or with outright hatred. Exasperation, perhaps, but he seemed more interested in knowing what had befallen the girl on the bed.
"Ms. Bransford needs some rest, and I am afraid that she cannot return to the game. See, the Exoculo Caligo curse was what that person hit her with, and though she's all right now and Mr. Derrick managed to catch her before she fell and thus spared her from any other injuries, it's going to be several days before her vision returns to normal."
"A blinding curse?" Flint muttered in disgust, "That's IT? Why the hell was Capper not able to explain the damned... bleeding idiot..."
Penny gazed at him in slight confusion, before clearing her throat. "Mr. Flint, is there anything else, or...? Ms. Bransford needs some rest to recover her vision. I assume the referees have caught the perpetrator of the deed?"
"They effin' better have," Flint growled, "Her husband'll have everyone's head if no one was caught for hurting her. Then he'd make a nasty scene and I'd have to deal with it all..."
She shook her head slightly. "Well. I hope things will be all right," she told him vaguely.
"They will be, Miss Perfect Prefect," he jibed, smirking slightly, "Well, time to face the music... the music of the saboteur's screams, that is. Ta-ta!"
And with that cheerful greeting, the burly young man strode back out of the tent, every bit as unceremonious as he had come in, earlier. Penelope sighed, thanked the stars fervently that their paths would no longer cross as soon as she'd finished the field training here today, and went back to tending the unconscious Quidditch player on the cot.
Funny for him to talk about making saboteurs suffer when she recalled that Quidditch match where he, Malfoy and a few other Slytherins tried to sabotage Harry.
~*~
It was late evening when Patricia Bransford opened her eyes, her vision a bit blurry but at least existent. Almost before Penelope had finished her checkup of the wounded Quidditch player, her tent was rapidly crowded with the entire Falcons' team, Marcus Flint, and Bransford's frantic husband, all of whom had been lounging outside by the tent flap and avidly listening for her voice.
"We WON!" April Summerby, the Seeker, chimed out in jubilant tones as soon as she'd entered. The young woman was rubbing a bruise on her arm, "Got knocked by Partridge when he tried to push me out of the way of the Snitch, but it didn't work."
Bransford smiled in the general direction of her teammate, as all the Falcons started talking at once about the parts of the game that she had missed. Penelope stepped away to give them some space.
Flint followed her outside.
"What're you doing?" she asked him before she could stop herself. "Following me?"
He snorted, "Not precisely. More like don't want to watch John Bransford slobbering all over his wife. She isn't even that pretty."
"You're terribly superficial."
"And you've no right to judge me," he retorted. She shrugged, then changed the subject.
"So, what happened, after you left?"
"The usual," he said succinctly, "The referee found out who did it, Bransford the male threw a testosterone fit, and the game went on. Used a reserve, etc. Won 500:290."
She nodded slightly. He was looming over her. The top of her head reached no higher than his mouth. "I'm... going to go back in and check on her."
"Suit yourself," he watched her leave, ever the responsible, perfect...
The next day, upon receiving a concise little report on the Chaser's condition, fully suitable for direct submission to the waiting press, written in a tiny, careful script and signed 'P. Clearwater', Flint shook his head wryly. He had to hand it to the Nerdy Weasel. This girl was perfect for him.
It was too bad that said Nerdy Weasel didn't deserve anyone nearly so thoughtful, but he shrugged, re-sealed the parchment that she had owled him, and sent it directly off to the Division of Sports and Games of the Daily Prophet. Now that his work had been done for him, he could skive off the rest of the day, go to a pub, and find some reasonably brainless and buxom bird to entertain him that evening.
Dedicated to all Flint-lovers out there.
Disclaimer: If I owned the Slytherins, they would be far less cardboard-cutouts-of-evil-ish than they are portrayed in the books. But then, unlike JKR, I am no Gryffindor and I do not own them. That is all.
~*~
"What do you MEAN you don't know what happened to Bransford!?" The tall, powerfully-built young man roared. "Did you speak to the mediwizards at ALL!?"
The boy cringed. "She... didn't make it very clear, what exactly it was... I'm really not sure why don't YOU talk to her?"
Marcus gave a growl of disgust. They were in the middle of a game, and the top Chaser of the Falmouth Falcons was incapacitated. And his assistant was, as per usual, a complete imbecile. Snarling and roughly shoving his dark hair out of his eyes, he strode into the mediwizard tent. The blasted commentator was STILL blathering on about how Chaser Patricia Bransford was injured, suspected foul play from the fans of the Wimbourne Wasps, the game would be on hold until blah blah blah...
"What the deuce happened to her?!"
The mediwitch who was in the middle of titrating a greenish potion swivelled around in surprise at the loud exclamation by the door of the tent, but her small hands were steady and she finished titrating the drink, before she turned to face him. "Er, hello."
Flint noticed that she looked vaguely familiar. A woman of medium height, with a somewhat serious expression on her face, with a quantity of curly brown hair and wide brown eyes. The shock in her face was quickly replaced by slight disapproval, likely at his unceremonious and abrupt entrance, and it was with that slight frown that Flint recognized who she was.
"I'm---" she started, her voice soft but firm.
"Penelope Clearwater," he finished for her. "Marcus Flint. I'm the spokesperson for this team, and it seems as though Trish is a bit injured."
He hadn't changed much from their school days, though of course, she had not known him all that well. He had hated Percy, that much was for sure. But then, Percy had been everything that he was not, and vice versa. And then again, so many Gryffindors and Slytherins were never able to get along, anyway. At the moment, though, he wasn't looking at her with a sneer, or with outright hatred. Exasperation, perhaps, but he seemed more interested in knowing what had befallen the girl on the bed.
"Ms. Bransford needs some rest, and I am afraid that she cannot return to the game. See, the Exoculo Caligo curse was what that person hit her with, and though she's all right now and Mr. Derrick managed to catch her before she fell and thus spared her from any other injuries, it's going to be several days before her vision returns to normal."
"A blinding curse?" Flint muttered in disgust, "That's IT? Why the hell was Capper not able to explain the damned... bleeding idiot..."
Penny gazed at him in slight confusion, before clearing her throat. "Mr. Flint, is there anything else, or...? Ms. Bransford needs some rest to recover her vision. I assume the referees have caught the perpetrator of the deed?"
"They effin' better have," Flint growled, "Her husband'll have everyone's head if no one was caught for hurting her. Then he'd make a nasty scene and I'd have to deal with it all..."
She shook her head slightly. "Well. I hope things will be all right," she told him vaguely.
"They will be, Miss Perfect Prefect," he jibed, smirking slightly, "Well, time to face the music... the music of the saboteur's screams, that is. Ta-ta!"
And with that cheerful greeting, the burly young man strode back out of the tent, every bit as unceremonious as he had come in, earlier. Penelope sighed, thanked the stars fervently that their paths would no longer cross as soon as she'd finished the field training here today, and went back to tending the unconscious Quidditch player on the cot.
Funny for him to talk about making saboteurs suffer when she recalled that Quidditch match where he, Malfoy and a few other Slytherins tried to sabotage Harry.
~*~
It was late evening when Patricia Bransford opened her eyes, her vision a bit blurry but at least existent. Almost before Penelope had finished her checkup of the wounded Quidditch player, her tent was rapidly crowded with the entire Falcons' team, Marcus Flint, and Bransford's frantic husband, all of whom had been lounging outside by the tent flap and avidly listening for her voice.
"We WON!" April Summerby, the Seeker, chimed out in jubilant tones as soon as she'd entered. The young woman was rubbing a bruise on her arm, "Got knocked by Partridge when he tried to push me out of the way of the Snitch, but it didn't work."
Bransford smiled in the general direction of her teammate, as all the Falcons started talking at once about the parts of the game that she had missed. Penelope stepped away to give them some space.
Flint followed her outside.
"What're you doing?" she asked him before she could stop herself. "Following me?"
He snorted, "Not precisely. More like don't want to watch John Bransford slobbering all over his wife. She isn't even that pretty."
"You're terribly superficial."
"And you've no right to judge me," he retorted. She shrugged, then changed the subject.
"So, what happened, after you left?"
"The usual," he said succinctly, "The referee found out who did it, Bransford the male threw a testosterone fit, and the game went on. Used a reserve, etc. Won 500:290."
She nodded slightly. He was looming over her. The top of her head reached no higher than his mouth. "I'm... going to go back in and check on her."
"Suit yourself," he watched her leave, ever the responsible, perfect...
The next day, upon receiving a concise little report on the Chaser's condition, fully suitable for direct submission to the waiting press, written in a tiny, careful script and signed 'P. Clearwater', Flint shook his head wryly. He had to hand it to the Nerdy Weasel. This girl was perfect for him.
It was too bad that said Nerdy Weasel didn't deserve anyone nearly so thoughtful, but he shrugged, re-sealed the parchment that she had owled him, and sent it directly off to the Division of Sports and Games of the Daily Prophet. Now that his work had been done for him, he could skive off the rest of the day, go to a pub, and find some reasonably brainless and buxom bird to entertain him that evening.