A/N: It's been 2 years (I think?) since I last updated, but I felt that in lieu of all of your wonderful reviews and constant support, I should continue this story. I also felt it was high time that I gave Katie and Marcus a bit of happiness after landing them in the most awkward of situations.

I feel my writing style has changed, and I'm still re-familiarizing myself with my characters, so if this chapter feels choppy, I apologize. I believe that this story will be around 30 chapters in total, so I hope you'll stick around for the rest of this journey!

And as always, none of these characters belong to me except Clarice, Francois, and Sophie.

"And this is the kitchen," Montague waved his hand vaguely at the south-most room in his mansion, "I don't have any servants right now, but I'm sure I can have a few recommended to me if y–"

Katie shook her head adamantly, sending her loose curls flying. "Oh no. No."

"Are you sure?" Montague chuckled at her reaction. He hadn't really expected her to reply in the affirmative, but it was good to know she wasn't going to take advantage of his wealth during her extended stay.

Katie rolled her eyes at him after realizing that he'd been making fun of her, "Positive."

Montague laughed again and tapped his cigarette, sending ashes careening to the floor. "Really though Katie, just think of your stay as a sort of holiday. I will most likely be out most days, but you're free to do whatever you like."

Katie sighed and rubbed her nose, "Listen, Montague, this is really very decent of you."

"Not really. Just doing a favour for an old chum."

Katie peeked up at him through her lashes, "I guess, but it's not like I have the best track record when it comes to being a good houseguest."

Montague sighed and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms deliberately. If they were going to have a go at living together for a few weeks, he needed to clear the air since she was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. "Look, everyone has their bad days. I'm not the type to hold grudges for something like that."

Katie tried to smile with little success. "That doesn't make what I said excusable. I know you and Flint have been good friends for years. I didn't have any right to accuse you of anything."

"I know Marcus well, Katie," Montague took a drag at his cigarette, "And I know firsthand how frustrating he can be, but he means well. He puts his foot in it every once in a while, and I'm not asking you to forgive him, but I'd like for you to at least try to understand. You of all people know how hard old habits are to break. I can honestly say he wasn't trying to hurt you in any way. He's just going through a rough time."

Katie stiffened involuntarily at his defence of his friend but nodded grudgingly. "I suppose you're right. But despite everything, I can't find it in myself to want to see him again, let alone forgive him."

"Well that's your right. And I'm not judging you for it. I just want you to understand: if I resented you for your behaviour yesterday, I would never have agreed to put you up. Anyways" He cleared his throat, " I need to head out and deal with some paperwork. Will you be able to find your room again?"

Katie laughed, "That's a difficult task, but I think I can handle it."

Montague nodded, butted out his cigarette on a silver ashtray and with a parting smile, apparated away.

Katie leaned back against the wall and pressed a cool hand to her forehead. What had she gotten into? It seemed that ever since she had first spotted Flint again, her life had done nothing but spin out of control. She sighed again and trudged back to the polished mahogany staircase.

She slowly dragged her feet up the stairs towards the direction of the west wing of the mansion, far from the guest room she had stayed in the night before. Perhaps Montague had figured that it would be best considering everything that had happened in it. Her new room was simple and shaded by a poplar that waved its branches outside of the floor-length window.

Katie opened the drawers one by one, and ran a hand over the clothes Montague must have filled them with. It didn't bother her that he'd been through her drawers anymore, especially since he had treated the idea of cohabitation as completely normal and platonic. Truth be told, she felt a twinge of annoyance that he hadn't taken even the most tentative step in a more romantic direction.

She sighed and lowered her gaze to the pile of clothes she was rustling through. There was the silk dress she had bought for Angelina's celebratory banquet when their team had won the World Cup, and here was the worn pair of jeans that made her butt look better than any pair of expensive pants she'd bought since then.

She smiled vaguely and closed the drawers firmly. All of a sudden, she remembered the reason for her stay and leapt into the pristine bed, wrapping the covers around her shoulders as she stared passively at the wall, trying to block out all thoughts of anything Flint-related.

"Marcus." He felt a clawed hand dig into his bare shoulder, "Marcus, wake up."

Marcus opened his eyes reluctantly to see what strange breed of bird had latched onto his skin. As he groggily sat up, he met the blazing eyes of his buxom lover.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" Clarice gesticulated harshly at a thick sheaf of newspaper, her hair curlers swaying in disarray.

Marcus rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and let the sheets pool to his waist, "What are you harping on about, Clarice? It's too damn early in the morning for this. Lord, tell me this isn't something about the fruit platters."

"Oh don't pretend you're innocent," she snapped back angrily as she thrust the paper at him, "Look at this."

Marcus raised the paper to his face gingerly and grimly scanned the front page, his jaw tightening as he read onwards. His brows twitched as the photograph of Katie rushing off in tears repeated over and over again. Damned wizard photographs, he swore mentally.

Clarice tapped her foot on the wooden floorboards impatiently, "Did you even think about how shameful this makes me look? Didn't you think about my reputation at all? God, Marcus, I'm in the midst of planning the biggest bash of the year and you go drag my name through the mud."

"Listen, Clarice," Marcus tried to placate her, "This is all a misunderstanding. You know how the Prophet is, especially that Rita Skeeter bitch."

Clarice pursed her lips and leaned closer to him, her fingers digging into the sheets inches from his crown jewels, "I don't want to hear your excuses, and I don't care if that Skeeter woman is a bitch or not. I care about the fact that you let yourself get photographed with that little slut. I'm the laughingstock of wizarding Britain now!"

"God, Clarice," Marcus snapped back, "Pull yourself together. You're beautiful and vivacious and everyone in Britain is smitten with you. Yes, I did just fucking say "smitten. I will, of course, send Smithy to the Prophet to discuss the possibility of suing for slander, but there's nothing I can fucking do about what's already happened. I haven't even snogged Katie, much less shagged her, so stop bloody complaining about this, and get back to harping about place settings."

Clarice sneered at him, her face becoming ugly in her anger. She stormed towards the door and turned round, flinging a thick book precariously near his head. "You think I fucking care about your relationship with this Katie Bell bitch? PAH. Everyone knows you're envied only because I'm on your arm. You go ahead and sleep with any whore that you like, Marcus Flint, but don't you go soiling my reputation."

Marcus stared at the doorway dumbfounded with rage and disgust. Their conversation left a sour taste in his mouth. He'd always been aware of Clarice's avarice and vanity – I mean who wasn't? But he hadn't thought cruelty was in her nature. And he planned to marry this harpy of a woman whose only concern was her reputation! Merlin's beard. He flopped back onto his pillow, his eyes glazing as thoughts of their marriage reminded him of his mother, frail and white in a hospital that was no haven to her.

His fingers clenched against the sheets, crushing the flickering Prophet.

"FUCK!"