Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Katie stared in astonishment at the enormous field hidden beneath the dungeons. When Lee had leaned in at breakfast, whispering conspiratorially about a secret Quidditch fan meet-up, she’d been ready for anything—except this. The space resembled a vast underground burrow, if such things even existed. A thin shaft of moonlight filtered through a narrow opening in the ceiling, while most of the light came from torches mounted along the perimeter of the field.

There was plenty of seating: a small group of students sat near the edge of the field, while others, including Katie and Lee, stood on balconies at the same height as the Quidditch hoops.

Lee Jordan, practically vibrating with excitement, gently nudged her toward the railing to secure the best view.

“When did you say this league was started?” Katie asked, still dazed by the sight before her.

Lee had mentioned the event on the way, but she’d brushed it off as a joke. Sneaking through Hogwarts’ dark corridors, Jordan had led her to one of Professor Sprout’s greenhouses. There, he’d revealed a trapdoor hidden beneath a tangle of plants, guiding her down a narrow, overgrown passage.

The closer they got, the more people appeared. Katie had been baffled—how had they passed through deserted hallways, only to find themselves suddenly surrounded by dozens of students?

“It was started by a Hufflepuff,” Lee explained as they weaved through the crowd toward a balcony. “About 150 years ago. He didn’t make the school team and was so furious, he decided to organize his own underground matches. Back then, they played near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, but after one of the players got lost, they figured it wasn’t worth the risk anymore.”

Katie gaped at him. “What happened to the player?”

“They found him a couple of days later,” Lee replied, smirking, his eyes glued to the field. “Half-alive, wrapped in webs, and surrounded by giant spiders.”

Katie followed his gaze to the center of the field, where Abraxas Wimus, a tall, portly sixth-year Hufflepuff, strode out like an actor stepping onto a stage. He surveyed the area with an air of authority, hands planted firmly on his hips.

“Wimus?” Katie whispered, incredulous.

“The one and only,” Lee said, grinning. “By tradition, a Hufflepuff always runs the game.”

Katie shook her head, still struggling to process what she was seeing. “How is this even a thing? An underground Quidditch league at Hogwarts? You’ve got to be kidding me. Dumbledore and the professors must know about this!”

At that moment, the crowd erupted in a deafening roar. Katie instinctively clutched the railing and looked down. From small tunnels on either side of the field, six players from each team shot into the air, their brooms slicing through the space like arrows. The spectators cheered wildly, their voices echoing off the stone walls as they greeted their “fighters” with unrestrained enthusiasm.

“There’s no way they aren’t hearing this up there!” she shouted, struggling to make herself heard over the din.

Lee opened his mouth to respond, but a voice from behind her interrupted.

“Nobody upstairs will hear a thing, even if a dragon lands right in the middle of the field.”

Katie spun around, startled, and found herself face-to-face with Fred Weasley, who was pointing lazily at the ceiling.

“Strong silencing charms,” he added with a smirk, clearly enjoying her surprise.

“Oh, Fred,” Lee greeted him with a grin. “Where’s George?”

“Down there,” Fred said, jerking his thumb toward the lower level. His grin widened into something sharper. “Still taking bets. He’s cleaning up tonight.”

Katie let out a sharp sigh, rolling her eyes. “Bets? Seriously?”

Fred gasped theatrically, putting a hand to his chest as if deeply wounded. “What? Don’t tell me you’re against a little healthy gambling. It’s a brilliant way to earn a few extra Galleons.”

Before Katie could retort, he took a step closer, slinging one arm around her shoulders with a casual familiarity that was impossible to shake off. Leaning in with mock seriousness, he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Katie, do you know why these students risk everything to play here?”

She frowned skeptically.

“For what?”

Lee, grinning, cut in before his friend could respond. “For the money, obviously.”

“And eternal glory,” Fred added, raising a finger with mock solemnity, as if declaring a great truth.

“Eternal glory in a league no one even knows exists? Sure, that’s a solid plan,” Katie muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she glanced back at the field. What was she even doing here?

Her eyes followed the players as they streaked across the pitch, met by deafening cheers. The crowd roared with every sharp turn and dive, the players moving like comets, their robes snapping in the wind. Familiar faces flashed past her, but she couldn’t quite place who they were.

Her confusion only deepened when she noticed a curious detail. One team, clad in sharp uniforms with gleaming gloves, was entirely made up of girls. The other team, equally polished, consisted only of boys.

Even stranger, their uniforms didn’t resemble any house colors. That meant the teams weren’t bound by house rivalries. But the oddest thing of all? There were six players per team instead of seven. No Seekers.

Katie turned to the boys beside her, who were engrossed in some animated discussion.

“Why are there only six of them?” she asked.

Fred raised an eyebrow at Lee. “You didn’t tell her?”

Lee offered a helpless shrug. “I didn’t really get the chance.”

Fred threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “This is why you can’t trust anyone these days. I told you to get her ready!”

“Ready for what?” Katie asked, unease creeping into her voice.

Fred sighed dramatically, throwing an arm around her shoulders as if preparing to deliver a grim confession. His voice dropped to a theatrical whisper.

“Do you know why being here, and them playing this match, could get us all expelled?” He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. Then, with a smirk that didn’t match the seriousness of his tone, he added, “Because here, Quidditch isn’t about winning. It’s about surviving.”

Katie froze, her eyes locked on Fred’s face, searching for any hint of a joke.

“Survival?” she repeated, her voice wavering between disbelief and unease.

“Exactly,” Fred replied with an unnerving calm, as though he were discussing something as ordinary as the weather. “It’s tougher here. No Seekers. No Golden Snitch. The winner is decided by points or…”—he paused, letting the tension build—“when one team can’t keep playing.”

“That’s insane!” Katie exclaimed, stepping out from under his arm. “And you’re telling me everyone here just thinks this is fine?”

“Fine? Not even close,” Lee cut in, his grin as casual as ever. “But that’s what makes it brilliant.”

Katie stared at the two of them, her mouth slightly open, as if trying to comprehend how they could possibly believe this.

“You seriously think this is worth it?” she demanded, waving a hand toward the field. On the pitch below, the girls in gleaming gloves had begun forming a razor-sharp attacking line, their movements precise and deadly.

Fred’s smile deepened, and there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“It’s worth it,” he said quietly but with unmistakable conviction. “Because this isn’t just a game, Katie. It’s a legend. The ones who win here are remembered forever—even if no one dares to speak their names.”

“Or lose,” Lee chimed in, his voice light but with an edge that sent a chill through Katie. “Sometimes the best legends are written in blood.”

And that’s when she noticed it. The gleaming details on the girls’ gloves weren’t ornaments at all. They were spikes—sharp, vicious spikes that caught the torchlight and glittered like malevolent stars. A cold shiver ran down her spine as the reality of the game finally sank in.

“There she is!” Lee suddenly shouted, his voice breaking through the tension as he clapped with wild enthusiasm. “Come on, Rolanda!”

Katie followed Lee’s gaze and spotted Rolanda Abbott, a sixth-year Slytherin renowned for her broad, imposing build. She sat on her broom with the poise of a royal guard, exuding calm authority. The crowd erupted in cheers as her name rippled through the cavern.

Rolanda responded with a confident flourish, raising her bat high in the air. Katie’s stomach turned as she noticed the bat was adorned with vicious, gleaming spikes, just like the ones on the gloves.

“That’s not a bat—it’s a weapon!” Katie whispered, her voice trembling as she turned to Lee.

“Welcome to underground Quidditch, Katie,” he said with a sly grin, his gaze never leaving Rolanda as she soared toward the center of the field. “Here, we play by our own rules.”

George Weasley appeared beside them, flashing Katie a friendly smile before speaking to Lee.

“Keep an eye on her,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “After what happened to Alicia last time, I’m not sure Katie’s ready for this.”

“Alicia was here?” Katie asked, her voice sharp with surprise. Her expression quickly darkened. “Traitor,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

George chuckled, clearly amused by her reaction.

“Don’t be too hard on her. Rules are rules—no one’s supposed to know about the league.”

Katie let out a heavy sigh, her eyes sweeping over the field below. The players were gathering in formation, and the tension in the air was almost suffocating.

“Alright,” she said finally, straightening her posture and turning back to the boys. “What else do I need to know before this starts? If I’m going to risk getting expelled, I’d at least like to understand what I’m risking it for.”

Fred gave her an approving nod, his grin widening as though she’d passed some unspoken test.

“Alright, here’s the deal. There aren’t many rules, but they’re non-negotiable. Rule one: no Seekers, no Snitch. The game’s won by points—simple as that. Rule two: no magic. None. Not even so much as a Lumos.”

He paused, letting the gravity of his next words settle. His tone dropped, and his grin faded.

“And rule three—the most important one: never, ever talk about the league. To anyone. Not even us, once you leave this place. Break that rule, and you don’t get a second chance.”

Katie’s lips tightened, her arms still crossed. “Understood. But what I don’t get is why you brought me here. What’s so special about me?”

Fred and George exchanged a quick glance, a wordless conversation flashing between them. Finally, Fred shrugged, his grin returning with a spark of mischief.

“Let’s just say we think you’ve got… potential.”

“Potential?” she echoed, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

“Exactly,” George said, leaning in slightly, his expression earnest but with an edge of excitement. “You’ve got fire, Katie. You’re competitive. You like taking risks. And we figured it was time you saw what a real game looks like—without all the house nonsense holding you back.”

“Or you’ll chicken out and pretend this never happened,” Lee added, his grin widening.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Katie replied dryly, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Don’t be like that, Katie,” Fred chimed in, giving her a playful wink. “If you like what you see, maybe one day you’ll even make the team yourself.”

“The team?” Katie’s frown deepened, and she crossed her arms defensively. “You mean the team with spiked gloves and bats? That’s not a game; that’s a death wish!”

“Welcome to the league,” George cut in, smirking. “If it’s not extreme, it’s not worth doing.”

Katie opened her mouth to argue, but a sharp whistle from Wimus sliced through the noise, silencing the arena in an instant. His stern gaze swept across the players like a hawk surveying its prey. They were practically vibrating with tension, ready to spring into action.

Behind Wimus stood a scrawny, nervous-looking boy, barely visible in the torchlight. Katie squinted and immediately recognized him—Darryl, a fourth-year Hufflepuff who always looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hufflepuffs,” she muttered under her breath, her tone dripping with disbelief.

It didn’t add up. To Katie, Hufflepuffs had always been the picture of wholesome dedication and quiet kindness—not underground leagues, spiked bats, and games that seemed one wrong move away from disaster.

“I never thought they’d be the masterminds behind something this… feral,” she said, louder this time, throwing a skeptical glance at Lee.

“That’s why they’re perfect,” Lee replied, his voice low and almost admiring. He leaned forward against the railing, his grin sharp as a blade. “Nobody ever sees them coming.”

Katie shook her head, still grappling with the bizarre reality of what she was seeing. Her thoughts were interrupted by another shrill blast of Wimus’s whistle.

And then, chaos.

The players exploded into motion, their brooms tearing across the pitch at reckless speed. The roar of the crowd was deafening, their cheers echoing off the stone walls. Katie’s heart raced as two players streaked past each other, so close their bats nearly collided. Another player dived sharply to avoid a brutal collision, missing the wall by inches.

It was brutal and mesmerizing all at once. The game didn’t feel like Quidditch—it felt like a battle. The Quaffle barely seemed to matter; the players were more focused on forcing their opponents off their brooms, and the spikes gleaming in the torchlight only added to the danger.

Katie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the chaos unraveling before her. One of the boys from the men’s team lunged at an opponent with raw, unrestrained aggression, but she twisted out of the way at the last second, her sharp maneuver nearly colliding with a teammate. Every move on the pitch was punctuated by the deafening roar of the crowd, their shouts filled with a bloodthirsty hunger that seemed to care less about points and more about pain.

“Is this… normal?” Katie finally asked, her voice tinged with disbelief as she turned to Lee.

“There’s no ‘normal’ here,” Lee said, smirking as his gaze stayed locked on the game. “The only thing that matters is staying on your broom for as long as you can.”

Before Katie could respond, one of the girls in glittering gloves swung her bat in a wide arc. The spiked weapon connected with brutal force, and a player from the opposing team tumbled from his broom, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

The crowd erupted in approval, the sound reverberating off the walls like a thunderclap. Katie’s hands clenched the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as the realization hit her—this wasn’t Quidditch. This was a fight.

Her eyes darted to the boy on the ground, lying eerily still. A shadow moved quickly toward him, and Katie recognized Darryl, the wiry Hufflepuff who had been hovering in the background earlier. Despite his slim build, Darryl moved with a surprising determination, dragging the fallen player out of the way with efficiency and surprising strength.

Once the injured player was clear, Darryl dropped to his knees, his expression calm but intensely focused. He gestured toward a younger student standing nearby, who immediately darted off into the shadows without hesitation. Daryl’s hands moved with practiced precision, pulling a small vial from his bag as though this were something he did every day.

Katie felt her stomach twist. She leaned closer to Lee, her voice tight with worry.
“What’s he doing?”

“Darryl’s the healer,” Lee replied, his tone disturbingly casual. “Anyone who’s taken out of the game goes to him.”

“But he’s only a fourth year!” Katie exclaimed, her voice louder than she’d intended. Her wide eyes flicked between Daryl and the still-unconscious player.

“There aren’t any other options,” Fred said, shrugging. “If we brought in someone older—or, Merlin forbid, an actual adult—the league would be shut down in seconds.”

Katie swallowed hard, her gaze returning to Daryl, who was murmuring something to the player as he worked with the vial. His movements were impossibly steady, almost mechanical. Whatever he said to the younger student must have been important, because the boy bolted into the shadows without hesitation.

Katie forced her eyes away, her chest tight with unease, and turned back to the field. Instantly, her attention locked onto Rolanda.

She was mesmerizing. Her large frame and commanding presence on her broom made her impossible to ignore, the undeniable queen of the chaos below. Even in the storm of spikes, bats, and bodies flying around her, Rolanda didn’t just hold her own—she owned the pitch.

Rolanda streaked across the pitch like a predator on the hunt, her bat swinging with lethal precision as she zeroed in on her next target. Every movement was sharp, deliberate, and calculated—a master in complete control, striking with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how to dominate the game. The crowd roared with unrestrained delight every time one of her attacks hit its mark.

Katie found herself unable to look away. There was something spellbinding about Rolanda—a whirlwind of raw power, unshakable confidence, and reckless audacity. It wasn’t just impressive; it was breathtaking.

“She’s like a storm, isn’t she?” Lee said, his voice almost reverent as he caught Katie staring.

“Is she always like this?” Katie asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her gaze still fixed on Rolanda.

“Always,” Lee replied, nodding solemnly. “That’s why everyone fears her. But they respect her just as much.”

At that moment, Rolanda swung her bat in a perfect arc, knocking the Quaffle out of an opponent’s grip and sending it hurtling toward her teammate. The crowd erupted in deafening cheers, their voices shaking the walls of the cavern. Katie’s hands clenched the railing, her knuckles white. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she watched.

She couldn’t tell if she admired Rolanda—or feared her.

“Why isn’t she on Slytherin’s team?” Katie muttered, half to herself. She couldn’t shake the uneasy thought: she would never want to face Rolanda on the pitch.

“Because Flint—and every captain before him—is a complete idiot,” Lee said bitterly, though his admiration for Rolanda remained obvious.

Katie turned to him, raising an eyebrow at his sharp tone. Lee’s enthusiasm was unmistakable; he practically radiated fandom. If the league weren’t illegal, Katie could picture him wearing a shirt with Rolanda’s face and the words Queen of Quidditch in bold letters.

“You’re completely obsessed with her,” Katie teased, crossing her arms.

“Damn right I am,” Lee said without hesitation, his grin unapologetic. “She plays the game the way it’s meant to be played. No fluffy house rules. No politics. Just real Quidditch.”

Katie looked back at Rolanda just as she deflected a Bludger with a single, powerful swing. The ball shot across the pitch, missing two opponents by inches. The force behind the move made it clear: she wasn’t just playing—she was commanding the game.

Fred’s voice cut through the tension with a casual observation. “You forgot—Slytherin doesn’t take girls on their team.”

Katie frowned, her mind drifting to the unwritten rules she’d heard about from older students.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head as she watched Rolanda pivot mid-air, her broom responding to her every movement with uncanny precision. She was already charging after the next Bludger, her focus unshakable.

“Completely ridiculous,” Fred agreed, his smirk wry. “But try explaining that to someone like Flint.”

“That’s why she’s here,” George added, his tone more thoughtful as he leaned against the railing. “The league gives her what Slytherin never could. Freedom to prove she’s better than all of them.”

Katie stayed silent, watching as Rolanda intercepted the Quaffle again, hurling it forward with such precision that her teammate caught it effortlessly mid-air. For a moment, the crowd seemed to hold its breath—and then erupted in wild applause.

The game seemed to be nearing its conclusion—or so Katie thought. Rolanda’s team, the Dungeon Furies, an all-Slytherin squad of fierce, battle-hardened girls, was dominating with a score of 90 to 30. Even the loss of their Keeper, who was now being frantically patched up by Daryl on the sidelines, hadn’t weakened their control of the match.

Rolanda guarded the hoops with ferocity, batting away Bludgers and slamming any opponent daring enough to come near. Her movements were so precise, so commanding, it was as if she wasn’t just controlling her bat but the entire game itself.

Their opponents, the Star Forgers, a team made up mostly of Ravenclaw fifth-years, were down to just three players. Those who remained barely clung to their brooms, their faces pale and their movements sluggish. The Quaffle was almost always in the Furies’ possession, with Rolanda and her team controlling the pitch like a pack of wolves closing in on weakened prey.

“This isn’t a game,” Katie muttered, her voice tight as she watched one of the Forgers swerve to avoid a Bludger that came inches from their head. “It’s a slaughter.”

“They knew what they were getting into,” Lee said calmly, his eyes fixed on the field. “There’s no room for mercy in this league.”

Fred and George exchanged a knowing glance, their expressions unreadable before George spoke.

“Still, you’ve got to respect them. They’ve lasted longer than most. Usually, teams call it quits once there’s a 60-point gap.”

“Not this lot,” Fred said with a crooked grin, nodding toward one of the Forgers. The player gritted their teeth and lunged for the Quaffle, even though one of the Furies was already closing in. “Either they’ve got nerves of steel, or they’ve got absolutely no sense of self-preservation.”

Katie stared, transfixed. The raw brutality of the league was on full display. The dirty tricks she’d seen earlier—intentional collisions, Bludgers aimed for faces, players shoved off their brooms—were bad enough. But now, something had shifted.

Two of the Star Forgers locked eyes mid-air, then suddenly dove straight toward Rolanda, their brooms cutting through the air like knives.

It wasn’t a desperate play. It was an ambush.

Rolanda, with her signature ferocity, prepared to strike, her attention locked on the lower attacker who seemed determined to break through to the hoops. Every muscle in her body was coiled, ready for the perfect counterattack. But in a split second, the second opponent veered sharply upward, looping directly over her.

The next moment unfolded as if time itself had slowed. While Rolanda swung her bat to deflect the lower player’s approach, the one above dove straight down, grabbing a fistful of her hair.

“What the—?!” Katie gasped, gripping the railing so hard it dug into her palms. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

With a violent yank, the player dragged Rolanda off her broom. He struggled to keep control of his own broom, but it was too late. Rolanda, even as she fell, grabbed his arm and yanked him down with her. Her face was a mask of pure rage, and before gravity could claim them both, she lashed out, striking him across the face with her spiked glove.

The blow was vicious. Blood splattered across the air, painting crimson streaks on his already pale face.

Both of them crashed to the ground with a sickening impact. Gasps and shouts rippled through the crowd, followed by an eerie silence. Katie held her breath as she watched Rolanda, impossibly composed despite the fall, use the player’s arm to slow her descent. She hit the ground first but rolled fluidly, absorbing the impact before springing to her feet with predator-like grace.

Her opponent wasn’t so lucky. He lay sprawled on the ground, stunned and bleeding. The crowd exploded in a cacophony of cheers and horrified shouts. Katie felt frozen, her thoughts an incoherent jumble as she tried to process what she’d just seen.

“It’s a slaughter,” she muttered, her voice shaking. Her eyes stayed glued to Rolanda, who, even now, looked like she was ready to rip through anyone who dared cross her.

George’s hand clamped around Katie’s wrist, tugging her closer. His voice was low but urgent.

“We need to leave. Now.”

Before Katie could respond, the crowd erupted even louder. She whipped her head around just in time to see Rolanda, her face contorted with fury, kicking her opponent repeatedly as he struggled to shield himself on the ground.

“Lee, what is she—?” Katie began, but Lee grabbed her other arm and started pulling her toward the exit.

“Trust me,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t want to see how this ends.”

Katie stumbled after him, her protests lost in the chaos. The shrill blast of Wimus’s whistle tore through the air, signaling the end of the game. But if the whistle was meant to stop anything, it failed. The crowd only grew louder, surging toward the action.

Fred, already several steps ahead, turned and barked at them.

“Move it! We need to get to the common room now before someone catches us!”

Caught in the storm of noise and adrenaline, Katie followed, her body moving on instinct. Her mind, however, was trapped in an endless loop, replaying Rolanda’s fall, her fury, and the sheer brutality of the match. As the sound of the crowd faded behind them, one thought rose above the rest, echoing like a drumbeat:

“How did I ever get myself into this?”

***

They weaved hurriedly through the dark, narrow corridors, their footsteps uneven as they stumbled in the half-light, doing their best to stay silent. Finally, they reached the small door they had entered through.

Fred was the first to slip outside. His movements were quiet but purposeful as he scanned the area, his eyes darting into the shadows for any sign of professors or prefects. After a tense moment, he waved the others forward.

Katie climbed out next, her legs shaky and her mind still reeling. Her heart pounded so loudly she swore it could be heard for miles. She tripped on the threshold, but George’s hand shot out, catching her elbow and steadying her before she fell.

The air outside the dungeons hit her like a splash of cold water, crisp and refreshing—but it wasn’t enough to clear her head. Her thoughts churned relentlessly, a jumbled mess of images: Rolanda’s wild fury, the brutal tactics, the crowd screaming for blood. Every instinct told her to say something, to ask anything—but the league’s first rule rang clear in her mind: Don’t talk about the league.

Lee, noticing the blank look on her face, gave her a reassuring clap on the shoulder.
“You survived, Katie. That’s what matters. Welcome to a world where rules are made to be broken.”

Fred cast a glance over his shoulder at her, his face unusually serious—a rare and unsettling expression on him.
“We’re trusting you,” he said quietly, his voice carrying more weight than usual. “Don’t make us regret it.”

Katie nodded, her throat tight. Words felt impossible, too fragile to hold the enormity of what she’d seen. She hadn’t yet figured out how to process it, let alone respond.

But one thing was crystal clear: this was a night she would never forget.

***

“Are we… never going to talk about this again?” Katie asked quietly, her voice barely steady as they crept through the dark, twisting corridors toward the tower.

George smirked, his pace unfaltering. “Why? Got something on your mind?” He glanced back at her with a gleam of mischief in his eye. “Or… maybe you’re interested?”

Katie scowled but said nothing. How could she explain what she was feeling when she didn’t even know herself? Fear and a strange, inexplicable thrill warred inside her, leaving her unsettled. Everything she’d seen tonight felt too surreal to be real. And yet, the fact that she had been part of it was even harder to process.

“You’re hooked,” Lee said with a knowing grin, his voice just loud enough to reach her. “Trust me, Katie. This game has a way of crawling under your skin. Even if you don’t want it to, you’ll find yourself thinking about it.”

“Oh, come on,” Katie hissed, trying to keep her tone low and even. “I’m just trying to figure out how I got roped into this mess in the first place!”

Fred, walking ahead of them, glanced back, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“If you think you’ll just forget about it, you’re kidding yourself. Underground Quidditch either pulls you in—or it never lets you go.”

“Fantastic,” Katie muttered, rolling her eyes. Her sarcasm was sharp, but deep down, she suspected he might be right.

They pressed on, moving carefully through the shadows. At one point, Filch passed so close that Katie could feel her pulse pounding in her throat, certain he would hear it. She couldn’t stop wondering how the rest of the crowd still lingering at the field would make it back unnoticed. But given how long the league had lasted, she figured they must have their own routes back to safety.

When they finally reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, they all ducked into the corner, their breathing tense. Katie’s stomach twisted as she remembered how nosy the Fat Lady could be. It would take more than a simple password to get past her without a string of suspicious questions—especially since she and Lee had left the common room hours ago.

But the twins were, as always, prepared. Moments later, the portrait cracked open just enough for a second-year to poke his head out. Garrett, one of Fred and George’s most loyal “associates,” grinned at them.

“Quick, get in before she wakes up,” he whispered.

Katie didn’t hesitate, slipping through the gap with the others close behind. As soon as the door shut, she exhaled deeply. Her legs wobbled beneath her as the adrenaline began to wear off, and she realized she wasn’t ready for another night like this anytime soon.

The twins and Lee smiled, clearly satisfied with their smooth escape, and started toward their respective staircases. But Katie, gathering her courage, stopped them mid-step.

“So… this team you mentioned,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing to hide her curiosity. “What’s that all about?”

Fred paused, his expression shifting into a sly, almost triumphant grin.
“I was starting to think you’d never ask,” he said, his voice laced with playful challenge.

George leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his grin mirroring his brother’s.
“Well? Are you going to tell her, or should we leave her to figure it out on her own?”

Fred’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he turned fully to face her.
“You could always find out… if you decide to come back.”

Katie narrowed her eyes at him, her silence loaded with unspoken thoughts. But she didn’t respond.

She already knew the truth: this wasn’t going to be her last night in the world of underground Quidditch.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Katie headed down to the Great Hall, hoping for a quiet breakfast, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the previous night. Taking a seat across from Angelina and Alicia, she poured herself some pumpkin juice, but her gaze wandered around the hall, unable to settle. Strangely, everything seemed perfectly ordinary: Fred, George, and Lee were at the table, laughing and chatting as if the world hadn’t tilted on its axis.

Then Rolanda walked in.

She was as composed and confident as ever, not a single scratch or bruise in sight. She didn’t look like someone who’d spent the previous night dodging Bludgers and throwing punches. No, Rolanda strode to the Slytherin table like she’d spent her evening revising Charms essays instead of surviving a brutal underground match.

Katie’s gaze shifted to the other players scattered throughout the hall. It was the same story—no bruises, no bandages, not even a limp. Whatever "Daryl’s been giving them", Katie thought with a dry smirk, "he should really share the recipe with Madam Pomfrey". After a normal Gryffindor practice, she’d look like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.

“Katie, who are you staring at?” Angelina snapped her fingers in front of Katie’s face, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“No one,” Katie mumbled, quickly looking away.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Angelina drawled, narrowing her eyes with a teasing smirk. “You’ve been acting strange all morning. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Katie replied quickly, waving her off and pretending to focus on her toast.

Angelina gave her a suspicious look, but before she could press further, Alicia cut in.

“You know we’re playing Hufflepuff right after the winter break? Oliver’s already drawn up the training schedule.”

“When?” Katie asked, surprised, lifting her head.

“While you and Lee were off disappearing somewhere last night,” Alicia replied lazily, her tone so casual it only made her teasing more obvious.

Katie felt heat rush to her face.

“Whatever you’re thinking, I hope you’re wrong,” she shot back, trying to sound stern.

Angelina and Alicia exchanged a glance, smirking in perfect unison before turning back to their breakfasts, radiating innocence.

Katie sighed in defeat, rolling her eyes as she focused on stabbing at her eggs. Anything to avoid their knowing gazes.

***

The day crawled by, but the strangeness clung to Katie like a shadow.

In classes, in the corridors—everywhere she went, she kept crossing paths with people she’d seen at the arena last night. Some glanced at her with a flicker of recognition before quickly looking away, while others deliberately avoided her gaze. Most, though, acted like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

How can they pretend it didn’t happen? Katie wondered, her eyes following one of Rolanda’s teammates as they strolled by, laughing as if they hadn’t spent the night in a brutal underground match. No teasing, no whispers, no post-game banter. Nothing.

It was baffling. After a Gryffindor match, the mornings were always loud and chaotic—recaps of every play, exaggerated jokes, and spirited arguments over what could’ve been done better. But here? Absolute silence. The absence of any acknowledgment was almost as unsettling as the game itself.

By the time her last class—Muggle Studies—rolled around, Katie’s focus had completely unraveled. She stared at her parchment, absentmindedly scribbling whatever the professor was saying, while her thoughts drifted back to the arena.

She could see it all so vividly: the sharp swish of brooms cutting through the air, the thunderous roar of the crowd, the cold, unyielding expressions of the players. This wasn’t Quidditch—not the way she knew it. It was something darker, something rawer, like a duel where wands had been swapped for bats and brute force.

"Even Oliver wouldn’t last a second in that", she thought, frowning as her quill scratched across the parchment.

A light kick under the table snapped her out of her reverie. She glanced over to see Alicia smirking at her.

“You’re totally spaced out,” Alicia whispered.

“Just tired,” Katie said quickly, forcing a neutral smile to hide her real thoughts.

But it wasn’t just exhaustion. Deep down, Katie couldn’t ignore the truth: what she’d seen last night didn’t feel as alien as it should have. The difference between her and those players wasn’t in their courage or their determination—it was in the rules she’d always taken for granted.

Yes, the night had left a mark, but if she were being honest, Katie couldn’t deny it. There was something about that wild, reckless version of Quidditch that drew her in. It was terrifying, but it was also intoxicating.

One thing was certain: she couldn’t leave it alone. She needed answers to the questions that refused to let her go.

***

By the end of the day, Katie finally managed to corner Lee.

She waited for him near the corner of the corridor like a predator stalking its prey, her patience stretched thin. When Lee Jordan finally appeared, strolling casually toward the Great Hall, Katie pounced. Grabbing his robes, she hauled him into the nearest storage closet without so much as a warning.

“Oi, Katie!” Lee protested with a laugh, straightening his robes. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “What happened to manners? If you fancied me, you could’ve just said so, yeah? No need to drag me into a dark cupboard for all of Hogwarts to see.”

“What?” Katie sputtered, her face instantly going crimson. “That’s not—no!” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down as she waved her hands in frantic denial. “I just need you to tell me everything.”

Lee’s grin widened as he adjusted his sleeve, clearly enjoying her flustered state.

“Everything about what?” he asked innocently, brushing off imaginary dust from the spot where she’d grabbed him.

Katie glared at him, narrowing her eyes.

“You know. About the lea—”

She didn’t get to finish. Before she could say the word, Lee clapped a hand over her mouth, his expression transforming into one of exaggerated panic.

“Shhh!” he hissed, his eyes darting around like Filch himself might pop out of the shadows.

Katie froze, baffled. Then, to her utter dismay, the storage door creaked open, revealing Angelina standing on the other side, her arms crossed and a smirk firmly in place.

“What exactly are you two doing in here?” Angelina asked, her tone as sharp as the edge of a broomstick.

Without missing a beat, Lee lunged forward and slammed the door shut in her face.

“Nothing!” he shouted, leaning against the door with all his weight to keep it closed.

Katie arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“This nothing looks incredibly dodgy,” she whispered, crossing her arms.

“Trust me, Katie, ‘dodgy’ is the best explanation she’s getting,” Lee muttered under his breath, pressing his ear to the door as if to listen for footsteps. “Now, if you don’t mind, keep it down. Unless you want half the school to find out you’re nosing around about—” He waggled his finger dramatically toward the ceiling.

“The league?” Katie whispered, completing his sentence.

Lee groaned, throwing his head back like she’d just shouted the word across the castle.

“Brilliant, Katie. Why don’t you just write it in flaming letters across the sky while you’re at it?”

“Oh, calm down,” Katie shot back, her voice an irritated hiss. “No one’s here. We’re in a room no one even remembers exists. Relax!”

Lee sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like a teacher dealing with an unruly first year.

“You really don’t get the concept of rules, do you?”

Katie rolled her eyes.

“Says the guy who dragged me into this in the first place, made me watch, and then clammed up like a complete git. So don’t lecture me about rules!”

Lee’s grin faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. He tilted his head, studying her, before finally speaking.

“These rules exist for a reason, Katie,” he said quietly. “I found out about the league two years ago.”

“And?” Katie pressed, her patience running thin.

Lee hesitated, glancing toward the door as if Angelina might still be standing on the other side. Then, lowering his voice even further, he said,

“There are watchers. People who make sure no one breathes a word about the league outside the arena. If you break the rule…” He trailed off ominously.

“What? Something bad will happen?” Katie asked, narrowing her eyes in skepticism.

“It’s not a threat,” Lee said firmly. “It’s a warning. You noticed, didn’t you? None of the players from last night said a single word about it today. Not one.”

Katie frowned, her mind flashing back to breakfast—the eerie normality, the unsettling silence.

“That’s because they know what happens if they don’t stay quiet,” Lee continued, holding her gaze. “So if you’re planning to keep asking questions, you’d better be sure you’re ready for the answers.”

Katie met his stare head-on, her jaw tightening in determination.

“I’m ready,” she said simply.

Lee sighed, shaking his head as if she were a particularly stubborn child.

“Well, I’m not ready to lose my head because of your curiosity,” he said. “Here’s the deal: I’ll take you to the next game. You can ask all the questions you want then. But until that day, zip it. Got it?”

Katie exhaled sharply, knowing she didn’t have much of a choice.

“Fine,” she muttered, pretending to sound more annoyed than she actually was.

Lee’s smirk returned in full force, and his tone shifted back to its usual teasing.

“And now,” he said, leaning closer, “when we leave, act like we’ve been snogging passionately in here. It’ll save us both a lot of trouble.”

“WHAT?” Katie hissed, her eyes widening in disbelief.

“Relax,” Lee said, rolling his eyes as he grabbed the hem of her robes and deliberately ruffled them. “Angelina’s outside. She’s got a sharp tongue, and you don’t want her poking around.”

Katie swatted his hands away, her face flushing even more.

“This is completely mental!” she whispered furiously.

“Trust me,” Lee said with a smirk, “she’ll believe that far more than she’d believe we were talking about you-know-what.”

Before Katie could protest, the sound of footsteps outside silenced her. She bit her lip, glaring at Lee as he gestured toward the door.

“Fine,” she muttered, her voice low and defeated. “But only because I have no other choice.”

Lee grinned, straightened his own robes to look artfully disheveled, and threw open the door.

Angelina was, predictably, still standing there, arms crossed and eyebrows raised in suspicion.

“Well?” she demanded, her tone dripping with accusation.

Katie hurried out of the room, fidgeting with her robes like someone caught red-handed. Lee strolled out after her, beaming as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Don’t blame us,” he said smoothly, cutting Angelina off before she could say anything else. “It was a moment of… passion.”

Katie nearly choked.

“A moment of WHAT?!” she yelped, spinning to glare at him. But she froze when she saw the smirk tugging at the corners of Angelina’s mouth.

“Oh, really?” Angelina said, her tone loaded with amusement. “Is that so?”

“Exactly,” Lee said, draping an arm around Katie’s shoulders with shameless confidence. “But if you tell anyone, it’ll ruin the magic.”

Angelina snorted, clearly unconvinced but entertained all the same. Katie groaned inwardly, her face burning as she desperately wished to disappear.

The moment was broken by a loud voice from down the hall.

“Oh, look!” Montague bellowed, his voice carrying far too well. “Gryffindor’s getting frisky! Johnson, love, if Jordan runs out of steam, you know where to find me!”

Katie felt her face flame with humiliation, but Angelina’s expression darkened, her glare sharp enough to pierce armor.

Montague didn’t notice. Striding alongside him was Bletchley and Pucey, with Flint trailing at the back, his face etched with irritation.

When Flint spotted Katie’s furious blush, he shoved Montague’s shoulder roughly, making him stumble.

“Pipe down,” Flint snapped, his tone icy. He shot Katie a brief glance before walking on.

Montague opened his mouth, likely to make another crude comment, but Bletchley and Pucey dragged him away before he could embarrass himself further.

Lee, still standing next to Katie, scratched his head in confusion. “What’s up with them?” 

Angelina, her arms still crossed, replied coolly,

“Maybe Flint finally figured out that yelling insults in the middle of the hall isn’t the smartest idea. Especially with professors lurking around.”

Katie said nothing, her ears still burning with embarrassment. Lee just shrugged, his grin returning.

“Or maybe it’s their weird way of saying sorry. Not that I’d believe it for a second.”

***

“Your knight in shining armor, Flint, strikes again,” Angelina whispered to Katie, her voice laced with laughter as they headed toward the Great Hall.

Katie spun around, her eyes wide with indignation.

“Are you serious?” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down.

Angelina just grinned, the picture of innocence.

“What? You saw how he looked at you. That’s not exactly Flint’s usual behavior, is it?”

Katie huffed, planting her hands on her hips.

“It was a coincidence,” she snapped. “He didn’t want Montague’s shouting to get anyone in trouble, that’s all.”

Her reasoning sounded feeble even to her, but she refused to give Angelina the satisfaction of admitting it.

Angelina’s grin only widened.

“Right. And how about the greenhouse? Or have you conveniently forgotten how he caught you before you went headfirst into that pot of fertilizer?”

Katie felt her cheeks flush.

“That was an accident,” she muttered, turning her face away in hopes Angelina wouldn’t see how red she’d gone.

“An accident he could’ve ignored,” Angelina pressed, clearly relishing the moment. “But he didn’t, did he?”

Katie groaned, the memory flashing unbidden in her mind.

It had all happened in seconds. They’d been in Greenhouse Three for a mandatory safety lecture with Professor Sprout. A group of students, mostly younger years, had gathered in a tight circle around the massive pots and vats of fertilizer. Katie had leaned down to adjust her gloves when someone—probably Bletchley, if she remembered correctly—shoved a first-year straight into her.

The impact sent Katie stumbling backward, teetering dangerously close to one of the foul-smelling vats. Just as she thought she was about to take a dive, a strong hand grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

She’d looked up, startled, and there he was: Marcus Flint, his expression unreadable as always, like saving her had been as mundane as picking up a quill.

“Careful, Bell. Next time, no one’s going to bother saving you,” he’d said curtly before walking off, leaving her standing there, stunned.

Katie had dismissed it as nothing—a random, fleeting moment of decency. She hadn’t told anyone, but somehow, Angelina had sniffed out the story like a bloodhound.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Katie said, snapping back to the present.

“Of course not,” Angelina said, her voice dripping with mock sincerity. “And now this thing with Montague? Starting to see a pattern here?”

“You’re making things up,” Katie shot back, quickening her pace toward the Great Hall.

Angelina smirked but let it drop, though the smug look on her face told Katie she wasn’t done teasing her just yet.

Still, Angelina’s words lingered. Flint had been acting strange lately. Whether it was because it was his final year at Hogwarts or something else, Katie didn’t know, but the change was impossible to ignore.

Flint, usually loud and brimming with biting sarcasm, was known for his sharp tongue and relentless jabs at anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. But recently, he’d grown quieter, keeping his remarks short and, surprisingly, free of his usual venom.

Katie didn’t think of herself as someone who paid attention to Marcus Flint, but even she couldn’t help noticing the shift. And the more she thought about it, the more it set her on edge.

“This isn’t normal,” she thought, watching him during dinner as he sat at the Slytherin table, his usual crew of Montague, Bletchley, Warrington, and Pucey hanging around him. They looked restless, like a pack of dogs waiting for their leader to throw them a bone. Flint, meanwhile, was quiet, staring at his plate as though lost in thought.

What struck her most was the way he’d handled Montague. Normally, Flint would’ve been the first to egg him on, maybe even join in the taunting. But this time, he’d shut Montague down with a single word.

“Well,” Katie thought, tearing her gaze away from him and focusing on her food, “let’s see how long this little transformation lasts.”

***

Two weeks later, Lee kept his promise.

He caught Katie in the Gryffindor common room when it was especially crowded and discreetly slipped a small coin into her hand. It wasn’t much bigger than a Knut, but as soon as her fingers closed around it, she felt its peculiar texture.

Katie frowned, turning the coin over in her hand. Strange symbols she’d never seen before were etched into its surface, catching the firelight in a way that made them shimmer faintly.

“What’s this?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lee leaned in so close that his whisper was barely audible, even to her.

“As they say in Somerset,” he murmured, his tone laced with mystery, “not even a Knut’s worth the blood of a Snidget.”

Then, standing upright, he added with cryptic flair, “The second time, you’ll have to chase the dream yourself.”

Katie blinked, her mouth opening to demand an explanation, but Lee had already melted into the crowd, leaving her standing there with more questions than answers.

She stared down at the coin, flipping it over in her palm as curiosity and frustration warred within her.

"Why does he always have to speak in riddles?" she thought with a sigh, her fingers tracing the odd symbols.

Then it clicked.

This wasn’t just some random trinket. It was a ticket. A ticket to the next match.

That night, when the dormitory finally fell silent, Katie pulled the coin out from its hiding place. Moonlight spilled across its surface, making the strange etchings glimmer faintly. Turning it in the dim light, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before—the symbols seemed to shift, aligning into a clear pattern: “2.2.11.”

Frowning, Katie grabbed the small calendar from her bedside table and ran a finger over the dates.

“February 2nd… that’s a Friday,” she muttered to herself. “And eleven… eleven o’clock.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. The whole thing was so meticulously planned, it was almost absurd.

Slipping the coin into the secret compartment of her trunk, Katie sank back onto her bed. Her thoughts churned as excitement, curiosity, and nerves battled for control.

The vivid memories of the last match flooded her mind: the roaring crowd, the dangerous speed, the raw, chaotic energy of a game that felt more like survival than sport. This time, though, she felt different.

“Well, Lee,” she thought, her lips curving into a determined smile, “let’s see what this ‘dream’ of yours looks like. This time, I’ll handle it my way.”

Switching off her lamp, Katie pulled her blanket over herself, though she knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. Her thoughts were too loud, and February 2nd was already etched in her mind.

Chapter Text

Katie’s plan was simple: wait out the evening in the library, knowing it would be mostly empty on a Friday night. It was the perfect place to avoid awkward questions and prepare for whatever lay ahead.

She sat at one of the farthest tables, pretending to read a book, though her thoughts were miles away from the text. The coin, tucked safely in her robe pocket, felt almost warm, as if it were pulsing with anticipation, reminding her of its presence.

“The rest is easy,” she thought, tapping her fingers nervously on the table. “Slip into the dungeons the same way Lee took me last time. I just need to get there unnoticed.”

Katie mentally retraced every step from before—each twist and turn, every door and hidden path they’d crossed. But then her thoughts stumbled over a new question: What happens when the match is over?

She sighed, the faint hum of nerves turning into a quiet shiver down her spine.

“Hopefully, Lee and the twins will be there. They always know what to do. And if they’re not…”

The thought lingered, unfinished, as she quickly pushed it aside.

Katie glanced at the clock. Not long until eleven. Snapping the book shut, she carefully returned it to the shelf and headed for the door.

“This time, I’ll handle it myself.” The thought strengthened her resolve as she stepped into the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps echoing in the silence.

Reaching the greenhouse was easier than she’d expected. The castle was cloaked in its usual nighttime stillness, and neither Filch nor Peeves crossed her path. But now came the real challenge—finding the hidden door.

Standing in the cool air outside the greenhouse, Katie’s heart raced as she scanned the shadows. Every rustle of leaves and creak of wood set her on edge.

Katie paused at the entrance to the greenhouses, her eyes scanning the rows of glass structures as a flicker of unease crept over her.

“How could I not remember which one we were in last time?” she thought irritably, clenching her fists.

Taking a deep breath, she slipped into the first greenhouse, carefully navigating around pots of toxic plants dangling precariously from the shelves. The coin in her pocket seemed to grow heavier, as if it were reminding her that time was slipping away.

“Get it together, Katie,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes darting to the floor, the walls, and every shadowy corner. But there was no sign of the trapdoor.

Frustrated but determined, she ducked back out and headed for the second greenhouse. This one felt more familiar, but the door she was searching for still refused to reveal itself. Katie huffed quietly, her fingers brushing the edges of the tables as she inspected the ground and the walls.

“It has to be here. I remember Lee opening something on the floor… but where?”

It wasn’t until her third attempt that she finally struck gold. Beneath a small table of gardening tools, she spotted faint marks on the floor—traces of a rug recently shifted out of place.

Her heart began to race as she knelt down and gently lifted the edge of the rug. There it was: the trapdoor she’d been searching for.

“Yes!” she whispered, a rush of relief mingling with the rising excitement in her chest.

Carefully, Katie gripped the edge of the door and began to lift it, doing her best to keep the hinges from creaking. The dark opening beneath yawned up at her, as familiar as it was unnerving.

“Now all I have to do is get to the dungeon,” she thought, steeling herself.

Taking one last glance around to ensure no one was watching, she slipped inside, ready to descend into the shadows.

***

The second time, Katie noticed something she’d missed before: the corridor was alive with venomous ivy. Its tendrils hung from the ceiling and crept along the walls, their glossy leaves glinting faintly in the dim light. Every so often, they quivered, as if sensing her presence.

“How did Lee get me through this so quickly last time?” she thought, her steps careful and measured.

She moved slowly, winding her way through the vines, keeping her breaths shallow and her eyes fixed on the path ahead. The corridor twisted and turned, and the silence was so heavy it made her own heartbeat seem deafening. One wrong move, and she dreaded to think what the ivy might do.

Reaching a familiar turn, Katie paused, resting her hand against the cold stone wall to steady herself.

“Almost there,” she whispered to herself, though the tension in her chest only grew.

Faint voices echoed down the corridor, muffled and distorted by distance. Students already gathering for the match, no doubt—or so she hoped.

Then again, maybe she was imagining them.

The shifting shadows didn’t help. The swaying ivy cast eerie shapes across the walls, making her glance over her shoulder more than once. But every time she looked, there was nothing. Just the restless vines, swaying as if in time with her pulse.

Gritting her teeth, Katie pushed forward, her hand trailing along the wall for guidance. The coin in her pocket felt heavier with each step, a silent reminder of where she was headed.

When she finally emerged into the arena, she froze. The crowd was larger this time, and the energy in the cavern was electric.

Balconies were filling fast, with spectators jostling for the best spots. Others gathered at the edge of the field, their excited murmurs rising into a low, constant buzz that seemed to vibrate through the stone walls.

Katie’s gaze swept across the growing crowd. Her tension gave way to something else—a mix of anticipation and adrenaline. The same heady feeling she’d had the first time she’d stood here.

She took a deep breath, letting the charged atmosphere wash over her.

Reaching the same balcony where she’d stood the first time, Katie scanned the crowd, her eyes darting from face to face in search of Lee, the twins, or anyone remotely familiar. But there was no sign of them.

“Brilliant,” she muttered under her breath, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Her irritation flared, and she bit her lip in frustration.

"Merlin, if Lee doesn’t show up tonight, he’s dead meat", she thought darkly, glancing around once more.

Katie shifted her weight, trying to appear calm despite the growing unease twisting in her stomach. She leaned forward, forcing herself to focus on the pitch. The players hadn’t appeared yet, but the preparations were in full swing. The murmur of the crowd swelled around her, punctuated by bursts of laughter and animated gestures as spectators placed bets and whispered predictions.

“They’ll come,” she reassured herself, though the knot in her chest refused to loosen. “Lee wouldn’t leave me to figure this out on my own… would he?”

In an attempt to distract herself, Katie took a closer look at her surroundings. She quickly noticed that most of the spectators were older students. The few exceptions were fourth-years, hovering at the edges of the crowd, clearly trying not to draw too much attention.

Her gaze wandered to the pitch and then drifted upward, catching on a banner hanging across the balcony opposite hers. A crest was emblazoned there, serving as what she realized was a tournament scoreboard. Six team names were listed, neatly ranked by their current standings.

Her gaze wandered to the pitch and then drifted upward, catching on a banner hanging across the balcony opposite hers. A crest was emblazoned there, serving as what she realized was a tournament scoreboard. Six team names were listed, neatly ranked by their current standings.

Katie let out a low whistle as the scale of the competition hit her.

“This isn’t your standard Hogwarts Quidditch match,” she thought, shaking her head in amazement.

In second place was a far more ridiculous name: “Filch’s Gargoyles.” Katie snorted, the absurdity breaking through her tension.

“If Filch ever found out about that, I bet he’d lose his mind,” she thought with a smirk. “Or worse, take it as a compliment.”

Third place went to “The Dungeon Furies,” the team she’d already seen in action. The name stirred conflicting feelings in Katie—admiration mixed with a sharp twinge of fear. The memory of their brutal, relentless gameplay was still fresh in her mind, as was the image of their spiked gloves.

The bottom three spots belonged to “The Yellow Pride,” “The Star Forgers,” and “The Hound Dogs.”

Katie studied the list, her fingers lightly drumming on the railing as she mulled over the competition. This wasn’t just a game. This was a full-blown underground league, and she was standing in the middle of it.

Katie couldn’t stop wondering how the teams were formed. Where did they find the players? What were the rules? And how had none of this been discovered by the staff? Her mind churned with questions as she leaned over the railing, hoping the answers might somehow be written on the pitch below.

“What are you doing here, Bell?” a low, familiar voice drawled from behind her.

She spun around, startled, and came face-to-face with Marcus Flint. He stood there in his usual careless slouch, arms folded across his chest, an amused glint in his eyes.

Her gaze dropped to his outfit: a white T-shirt emblazoned with a massive black leech and black Quidditch trousers that looked worn from overuse.

“And what are you doing here?” Katie shot back, her eyes narrowing as she gave him a once-over.

Flint chuckled, tilting his head in that annoyingly smug way he always did.

“Take a guess,” he said, his smirk widening.

Katie stared at him as realization dawned, her thoughts catching up with what she was seeing.

“You… you play?” she asked, the words slipping out in a mix of surprise and disbelief.

Flint raised a brow, clearly unimpressed by how long it had taken her to catch on.

“And who did you think runs The Deathly Leeches?” he said, jerking his chin toward the scoreboard hanging across the arena. “The top team doesn’t just make itself, Bell.”

Katie glanced back at the leaderboard, her brain scrambling to piece it together. Flint wasn’t just part of the underground league—he was leading the number one team.

“Don’t you get enough from proper Quidditch?” she asked, crossing her arms as she tried to mask her surprise.

Flint’s smirk widened, his gaze steady as he leaned casually against the railing.

“Trust me,” he said, his voice dripping with lazy confidence, “if I didn’t have this, you lot would’ve had a much harder time on the pitch.”

Katie raised a brow, her irritation bubbling to the surface. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gotta burn off some of the edge somewhere, don’t I?” he replied, his tone as nonchalant as ever.

Katie snorted, refusing to let him have the upper hand. “Burn off some edge? Or maybe you just can’t hack it in proper matches, so you’re hiding out here where there are fewer rules?”

His grin didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened, a spark of challenge flashing in them.

“Oh no, Bell,” he said smoothly, his voice dropping. “I don’t lose here. Not ever.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with self-assurance. Katie felt a twist in her stomach as she watched him, her own words caught somewhere between irritation and intrigue.

“Not ever?” she thought, the phrase echoing in her mind.

Katie barely had time to process Flint’s last words before he, as if to hammer their point home, grabbed a nearby broom and shot into the air with effortless precision.

The crowd erupted in an explosion of cheers, their voices echoing through the cavern as they celebrated their favorite.

Katie’s frown deepened as she leaned against the railing, watching Flint circle the pitch with an infuriating air of ease. He waved boldly to the spectators below, his movements crisp and deliberate. He wasn’t just flying—he was performing, and the crowd was eating it up.

“Of course he’s basking in it. Flint and modesty are like oil and water,” she thought, her jaw tightening as the chanting grew louder.

What irritated her more, though, was how much the crowd genuinely seemed to adore him.

“Does he actually win every time, or is that just part of the act?” she wondered, her eyes following him as he banked sharply and then straightened out, exuding confidence with every move.

With a sharp exhale, Katie forced herself to look away, sweeping her gaze across the growing crowd. She needed a distraction, and more importantly, she needed to find Lee or the twins.

But they were nowhere to be seen.

Katie’s shoulders tensed as she turned back to the field, the weight of irritation pressing down on her. “They’d better have a bloody good reason for not being here,” she thought, her fingers tapping impatiently on the railing.

The crowd roared again, drawing her attention back to the pitch. Flint was diving now, pulling up at the last second in a move so sharp it sent a ripple of excitement through the spectators.

Wimus, ever the showman, sauntered onto the center of the pitch with his usual flair. Despite his stocky build, his movements were surprisingly light, almost theatrical. He raised his hands to quiet the crowd, his deep voice booming over the echoing cavern:

“Friends! Tonight’s match promises to be unforgettable!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, their excitement shaking the air, but Wimus held up a hand, waiting patiently for the noise to subside.

Katie narrowed her eyes as she watched him. Just like last time, he carried himself like a seasoned performer, completely in command of his audience.

“The Deadly Leeches versus the Hound Dogs!” he declared with gusto, and the cavern exploded with a fresh wave of enthusiastic roars.

Then, without warning, Wimus blew a sharp whistle, and from two tunnels on either side of the pitch, players shot into the air. Katie leaned forward over the railing, her heart pounding as she strained to get a better look.

Her gaze immediately landed on the captain of the Hound Dogs: none other than fourth-year Cormac McLaggen. His broad, self-satisfied grin and exaggerated gestures were impossible to miss, radiating his usual overconfidence.

“Of course it’s McLaggen,” Katie thought, rolling her eyes. “Who else would lead a team with a name like that?”

As her eyes scanned the players, she noticed something surprising. Compared to the ferocity of the last match, tonight’s players looked… tame. There were no spiked gloves, no intimidating gear or bloodthirsty posturing. Everyone was dressed as if they were about to play an ordinary game of Quidditch.

But Katie knew better.

“No way would this many people gather to watch a regular match,” she thought, her gaze shifting from one player to another.

Her attention lingered on Flint. He hovered lazily above the field, his posture relaxed yet exuding quiet control. The confidence in his expression spoke volumes, and Katie’s stomach twisted.

“I know exactly who Marcus Flint is,” she thought grimly. “That swagger, that smirk… he’s not here to play fair. This game isn’t going to be anything like it looks.”

She tightened her grip on the railing, the sense of calm on the pitch unsettling her more than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t natural—it was the kind of calm that came right before chaos.

McLaggen, true to form, was barking commands at his team, flailing his arms so wildly it was a miracle he didn’t topple off his broom. His movements were chaotic, disorganized, but his teammates seemed resigned to following his unpredictable lead.

Flint, by contrast, barely moved. He observed everything with sharp, calculating eyes, his demeanor calm and composed—like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

In the center of the pitch, Wimus approached with a heavy case in hand. His steps seemed slower than usual, and Katie noticed a faint pallor on his face as he struggled to set the case down. Straightening, he cast a tense glance at the players.

Then he shouted something, but the crowd’s deafening roar swallowed his words. Katie frowned, watching him closely. There was something off about him—his usual theatrical ease seemed dimmed, replaced by a subtle edge of unease.

“What’s wrong with him?” she wondered, her fingers curling tightly around the railing. “Let’s hope he didn’t just say something like, ‘Try not to kill each other tonight.’”

Wimus took a deep breath, flipped open the case, and released the Quaffle into the air. It shot upward like a rocket, followed by two black Bludgers streaking into the sky like wild beasts unleashed.

And just like that, the match began.

As if on command, the pitch erupted into chaos. Players from both teams hurtled toward the Quaffle, their brooms colliding almost immediately. Katie’s eyes followed Flint, who was already weaving through his opponents with practiced ease, using his bat to clear paths for his teammates.

Cormac McLaggen, however, went straight for the Quaffle, barely managing to stay steady on his broom. His aggressive, clumsy style caused a series of jolting collisions, but somehow, he managed to grab the ball. The crowd responded with a low rumble of approval.

Katie’s grip on the railing tightened as the game quickly descended into madness. This wasn’t Quidditch—not the kind she knew. There was no elegance, no carefully plotted tactics. This was an all-out brawl.

Within two minutes, Katie understood why Flint’s team was called The Deadly Leeches. Their strategy was relentless. They clung to their opponents like true leeches, grabbing onto robes, brooms—anything to pull them off balance or out of play.

“That’s why they’re top of the leaderboard,” Katie muttered under her breath, wincing as another Hound Dogs player lost their balance and nearly tumbled off their broom.

Still, the Hound Dogs weren’t giving up. Even when knocked off their brooms, they scrambled back into the game with surprising speed. McLaggen was in full command, his booming voice cutting through the chaos as he barked orders at his team. 

The pace was relentless. The Quaffle changed hands every few seconds, but the Leeches dominated, their tactics more cunning and coordinated. They didn’t just steal the Quaffle—they did it in ways that maximized their opponents’ confusion and frustration.

Katie’s gaze shifted to Flint, who stood out against the chaos below. Unlike McLaggen, Flint didn’t throw himself headfirst into the action. He hovered higher, observing the game with a predator’s calm. He only intervened when it was absolutely necessary, letting his team handle the rougher parts of the match.

“Interesting,” Katie thought, watching him deflect a Bludger aimed at one of his players with almost casual ease. “Is that just his style, or is he waiting for something?”

Her thoughts shifted as she glanced around the arena, once again searching for Lee or the twins. They were still nowhere to be seen, and the absence was beginning to bother her more than the game itself.

Leaning further over the railing, Katie scanned the spectators below, hoping to spot a familiar face.

That’s when she saw it—or rather, sensed it. A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye.

A Bludger, which had been pursuing one of the Hound Dogs, suddenly veered off course. Its trajectory shifted sharply, almost unnaturally, as if someone had deliberately sent it flying her way.

Katie barely had time to react. The Bludger hurtled toward her at terrifying speed, a blur of black against the torchlight.

She saw it just in time to duck.

The ball streaked past her head, missing by mere inches, before slamming into the stone wall behind her with a deafening crack.

Katie staggered back, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst.

“Merlin!” she gasped, cold sweat breaking out across her skin. She clutched the railing to steady herself, her breath coming in short, shaky bursts.

The crowd roared, oblivious to her near miss, as the chaos on the pitch continued to escalate.

A few people on the nearby balconies glanced over to see what had happened but quickly returned their attention to the game.

Katie scanned the arena, trying to figure out if it was an accident—or something deliberate. Her eyes landed on Flint, still hovering over the pitch. He glanced in her direction, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips before he returned his focus to the match.

“Did he see that?” she wondered, still struggling to steady her breath.

She gripped the railing, her hands trembling, and took a cautious step back. No way was she leaning that far forward again. But a nagging voice in the back of her mind whispered that coincidences didn’t happen here.

Suddenly, Wimus’s voice, amplified by a Sonorus charm, boomed across the arena:

“Just a reminder—spectator areas are not protected by enchantments! If a Bludger takes your head off, your body will stay here to rot forever!”

The crowd erupted in a mixture of laughter and nervous murmurs. Most seemed to take his comment as another of his dramatic jokes.

Katie, however, felt the blood drain from her face.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, her voice shaky as she tried to calm her racing heart. “Just what I needed to hear.”

Glancing around, she saw that no one else seemed particularly concerned. Some spectators even leaned farther over the railings, as if testing their luck against Wimus’s grim warning.

Katie took another step back, deciding the wall was a far safer place to stand.

“If I survive this and make it back to the common room,” she thought darkly, her jaw tightening, “Lee Jordan is going to regret leaving me here alone.”

Her gaze flicked back to the pitch, where the game had escalated into sheer chaos. Players collided midair, Bludgers flew in unpredictable arcs, and the roaring crowd seemed to thrive on every brutal moment.

Finally, Katie’s eyes caught a flash of red hair weaving through the crowd below. One of the twins—she couldn’t tell which—was clearly in his element, darting effortlessly between the spectators. He dodged flailing arms and overly enthusiastic gestures from those waving coins at him, a small box tucked securely under one arm.

She smirked as she watched him work, his face the picture of calm confidence. With a practiced grin, he accepted money from eager bettors, scribbling notes on a scrap of parchment balanced atop the box.

“Of course. They wouldn’t miss a chance to turn a profit,” Katie thought, shaking her head in bemusement.

For a moment, the twin’s eyes flicked upward, scanning the balconies. When he spotted her, he paused just long enough to give her a quick, knowing nod—a silent reassurance that everything was under control. Then, without missing a beat, he went back to work, moving seamlessly through the crowd like a seasoned professional.

Katie let out a small sigh of relief. “At least one of them is here.”

But the feeling was fleeting. There was still no sign of Lee or the other twin, and the match on the pitch was growing fiercer by the second.

The scoreboard read 70–40 in favor of the Leeches, but Flint’s scowl suggested he found the scoreline utterly unacceptable. His movements grew sharper and more aggressive as he barked commands to his team, his tone growing harsher with every passing moment.

Katie watched as Flint viciously smashed a Bludger, not toward an opponent’s body but directly at their broom. The impact sent the player lurching, barely managing to stay airborne.

“70–40, and he’s still losing it?” Katie thought, her eyes narrowing as she studied his expression. Flint didn’t just want to win—he wanted to dominate.

Meanwhile, the Hound Dogs were holding their ground. Though behind on points, their determination remained unshaken. Cormac McLaggen, their captain, seemed to relish pushing Flint’s buttons, intercepting his passes whenever possible and tossing smug remarks his way. Katie couldn’t hear what McLaggen was saying, but the sharp look in Flint’s eyes left no doubt that the comments had struck a nerve.

Katie found herself unable to look away from the brewing tension between the two captains.

“If Flint’s already this angry, what happens if the Hound Dogs start catching up?” she wondered, the rising tension on the field settling uneasily in her chest.

And then it happened—the moment she’d both feared and anticipated.

As McLaggen swept past Flint, he muttered something under his breath. Whatever it was, it was enough to push Flint over the edge.

With a sharp turn of his broom, Flint spun and lunged at McLaggen, delivering a solid punch to his jaw.

The crowd erupted into a frenzy.

McLaggen, caught completely off guard, wobbled precariously on his broom before spiraling downward. He managed to steady himself at the last moment, avoiding a full-on crash, but the blow had clearly rattled him.

Flint, utterly unbothered, had already turned away. His voice rang out across the pitch as he barked a single command to his team:

“Now!”

The Leeches sprang into action as though they’d been waiting for this signal all along. Two players darted toward the Quaffle while the others set about blocking the Hound Dogs, deliberately interfering with their attempts to regroup.

Katie’s breath hitched as the pitch descended into pure chaos.

“Here we go,” she thought grimly, her hands cold against the metal railing.

The Leeches were relentless. Their movements were precise, calculated, and merciless. They didn’t just outmaneuver their opponents—they actively shoved them off their paths, clearing the way for their Chasers.

Within moments, the Quaffle landed in the hands of a Leeches player, who expertly dodged an incoming Bludger and sped toward the opposing team’s goalposts.

McLaggen, meanwhile, was still struggling to regain control of his broom. His face was a storm of fury and pain, but he clung to his broom with grim determination, clearly unwilling to back down.

“What does he think he’s doing?!” Katie hissed aloud, unable to hide her frustration as Flint shouted yet another order to his team, completely ignoring McLaggen’s state.

The crowd’s noise was deafening. Some were chanting Flint’s name, while others hurled insults at the Leeches, their voices blending into a cacophony of chaos.

Katie spotted one of the Hound Dogs trying to break through the Leeches’ line to get to the Quaffle, but a Bludger struck them squarely, sending them spinning out of position. It was almost too coordinated to be accidental.

“This isn’t just rough play—they’re systematically taking out anyone who gets in their way,” Katie thought, her stomach twisting as the Leeches pressed their advantage.

Seconds later, the Quaffle soared cleanly through the Hound Dogs’ goal. The scoreboard lit up: 80–40.

McLaggen finally rejoined the fray, his face twisted in anger as he shouted orders to his team. His hand shot up in a signal to attack, and the Hound Dogs charged forward with renewed aggression.

The match was spiraling into something far uglier than Katie had ever witnessed. The players weren’t just clashing—they were colliding with full-force intent to injure.

Katie gripped the railing tighter, the tension on the field pressing down on her like a physical weight. She cast a quick glance toward the crowd below, her eyes scanning desperately for a flash of red hair.

But neither Lee nor the second twin was anywhere to be seen.

The match ended abruptly. Flint’s calculated, relentless attacks had paid off: the remaining Hound Dogs, disoriented without clear orders from McLaggen, failed to regroup and mount any resistance.

The final whistle blew. The scoreboard flickered, displaying the final score: 100–40 in favor of the Deadly Leeches. The crowd erupted—some cheering wildly, others booing loudly in disapproval.

But Katie wasn’t looking at the scoreboard.

Just as the game ended, McLaggen—bruised, furious, and seemingly running on pure adrenaline—launched himself upward, his broom slicing through the air. He aimed straight for Flint, who hovered nearby, clearly savoring the victory.

The collision was brutal. McLaggen slammed into Flint with enough force to send both brooms spinning out of control. A second later, the two captains plummeted to the pitch in a violent crash, raising a cloud of dust around their impact.

The crowd roared again, half standing to get a better view of the chaos.

Katie froze, her hands gripping the railing. Her heart thudded in her chest as she stared down at the field, where players from both teams were already rushing toward their fallen leaders.

“Merlin,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise.

Players from both teams rushed onto the field. Some went straight to their captains, others seemed to argue, gesturing wildly as they tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Flint lay flat on his back, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He wasn’t unconscious, but the fall had clearly knocked the wind out of him.

McLaggen, however, wasn’t done. He shakily pushed himself to his knees, his face twisted with pain and seething rage. Even as his body swayed unsteadily, his eyes locked on Flint.

"Oh no", Katie thought, her breath catching.

McLaggen staggered to his feet, his legs shaky but determined, and began moving toward Flint. His gaze burned with unrelenting fury, and his clenched fists trembled with barely contained rage.

Flint’s team looked ready to intervene—some even started toward him—but Flint, propped up on one elbow, made a subtle motion with his hand, stopping them in their tracks.

The crowd began to quiet. The air in the cavern shifted, heavy with anticipation. It was as if everyone sensed they were on the verge of something explosive.

Flint smirked, his expression lazy and infuriatingly smug. Even from her spot on the balcony, Katie could see the mocking glint in his eyes.

McLaggen stumbled to a halt in front of him, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His face twitched, every muscle in his body coiled with rage.

Then, before anyone could react, McLaggen leaned forward and spat directly into Flint’s face.

The crowd froze.

Katie instinctively covered her mouth, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and disbelief.

Flint wiped his face slowly with the back of his hand. The smug smirk that had been his trademark all game vanished, replaced by a glacial fury that sent a chill through the air.

“Oh, Cormac,” Katie whispered, her voice barely audible over the electric tension building in the crowd. “What have you done?”

Flint straightened to his full height, his movements slow and deliberate, radiating a menace that seemed to ripple through the arena.

The crowd fell into a stunned silence, every eye glued to the scene unfolding before them.

Players from both teams hesitated in mid-air, their gazes darting between the two captains. None of them moved to intervene; it was as if some invisible boundary had been drawn, one no one dared to cross.

Despite his bulk and bluster, McLaggen suddenly seemed diminished. Flint towered over him, his imposing frame casting a long shadow both figuratively and literally. His broad shoulders and piercing gaze gave him the presence of a predator sizing up wounded prey.

Cormac held his ground, though his labored breaths betrayed the effort it took. Anger burned in his expression, but in his eyes flickered something else—uncertainty, as if he were realizing too late that he had pushed too far.

Flint leaned in closer, their faces now mere inches apart. His voice, when it came, was a low, cutting murmur meant only for Cormac.

“Is that the best you’ve got?”

Cormac’s jaw clenched, his fists trembling at his sides, but before he could retort, Flint took a single, deliberate step forward. The movement forced McLaggen to shift back, a tiny motion that might have seemed insignificant to some but spoke volumes to everyone watching.

The crowd remained frozen, the silence so palpable Katie could hear her own heartbeat hammering in her chest. A few spectators whispered in hushed tones, their heads craning forward, desperate not to miss a moment.

Flint raised his hand slowly, and the entire arena seemed to hold its breath. His piercing gaze locked onto Cormac’s, dissecting every inch of him with a cold, calculating intensity.

Despite his best efforts, McLaggen’s mask of defiance cracked, leaving him exposed. His shoulders tightened, and for the first time that night, he looked small.

Then Flint did the unexpected.

Instead of delivering the blow everyone was bracing for, he clapped McLaggen on the shoulder. The gesture wasn’t one of camaraderie; it was mocking, an almost lazy pat that carried the weight of an insult sharper than any strike.

“You’ve already lost, McLaggen,” Flint said, his voice steady and icy, every word cutting deep. “Why humiliate yourself further?”

Cormac’s fists tightened, his knuckles blanching as he struggled to contain the rage burning inside him. He looked ready to retaliate, but the weight of Flint’s words—and the judgmental silence of the crowd—seemed to paralyze him.

Flint stepped back, his smirk slipping back into place as if he’d never lost control. With a casual shrug, he spread his arms wide, gesturing to the crowd like a ringmaster concluding a spectacle.

“We’re done here,” he said over his shoulder to his team.

The players of the “Deadly Leeches” immediately began to relax, lowering their brooms and pulling back from their opponents, though they kept a watchful eye on the “Hunting Dogs.”

Cormac stood frozen in place, his face a mask of rage and humiliation. His flushed cheeks and tightly clenched fists made it clear he was seconds away from exploding, but he didn’t move. The crowd, which had been holding its breath, erupted into murmurs and snickers, some openly laughing at McLaggen’s defeat.

From her vantage point, Katie shook her head, leaning slightly against the balcony rail.

“Flint didn’t just win the match,” she thought. “He made sure everyone knew it.”

The noise from the field grew louder as one of the “Dogs” players muttered something to Cormac, clearly trying to calm him down. But McLaggen only threw his broom to the ground with a loud clatter, storming off the field without saying a word. His shoulders were stiff, his movements jerky with barely restrained anger.

Katie’s gaze shifted back to Flint. While his team celebrated—embracing, laughing, and soaking up the praise of the audience—Flint had already turned away, striding toward the tunnel leading to the players’ area.

His posture was straight, his steps deliberate, but there was no triumph in his expression. It wasn’t the look of a captain reveling in a hard-won victory.

Students swarmed him as he moved, some clapping him on the shoulder, others cheering loudly or thrusting their hands out for a handshake.

“Brilliant game, Flint!” someone shouted from the crowd.

Flint gave polite nods and half-smiles, but he didn’t stop. He seemed untouched by the adoration, his focus fixed ahead.

Katie frowned, her arms crossing as she watched him disappear into the shadows of the tunnel.

“It’s like he doesn’t even care that he won,” she thought, unable to shake the feeling that something else was gnawing at him.

Whatever had just happened on the field, she was sure of one thing: this wasn’t the end of it.

The “Deadly Leeches” were reveling in their triumph. Their players mingled with the crowd, soaking up praise and laughter, every bit the stars of the underground. The energy on the field was electric, with fans eagerly crowding around the team.

Katie’s eyes, however, were drawn to the dark tunnel where Flint had disappeared.

“He’s definitely not one for celebrating,” she thought, frowning. There was something off about the way he carried himself, like he wasn’t just walking away from the match, but from something heavier.

Turning her attention back to the field, Katie quickly spotted a familiar flash of red hair weaving through the dispersing crowd. One of the Weasley twins, unmistakably, and—of course—busy. He darted between clusters of spectators, deftly avoiding flailing arms and grabbing hands, his small box of winnings securely under one arm.

He looked busy, likely distributing winnings to those who had bet on the match. His quick movements and self-satisfied grin suggested that the night had been profitable for him.

Katie smirked. “Of course. Leave it to them to turn chaos into a business opportunity.”

In the center of the field, a new scene caught her attention. Abraxas Wimus was in a heated conversation with a Ravenclaw sixth-year, whose animated gestures suggested frustration. The boy kept pointing first to the pitch, then toward the spectators, his arms slicing through the air as if to emphasize every word.

Wimus, in contrast, remained stoic. His sharp nods and occasional interjections gave the impression that he was carefully weighing his response, but the tension in his posture was impossible to miss.

“What’s that about?” Katie wondered, leaning on the railing to get a better view. Whatever the topic, it was clear that this wasn’t a casual chat.

Around her, the crowd began to thin, students trickling toward the exits. Despite the dispersing noise, the atmosphere felt heavy, as if the match had left something unresolved. Wimus’s furrowed brow and clipped responses only reinforced Katie’s sense that the night wasn’t over yet.

She glanced back at the Weasley twin below.

“Maybe it’s time to corner him and finally get some answers,” she thought, taking a step back from the railing and heading for the stairs.

Katie glanced around the balcony, her frustration growing with each passing moment. She had entered through the curved corridor leading from the secret tunnel beneath the greenhouse, but now, staring at the smooth walls and lack of obvious exits, she realized a glaring oversight: she had no idea how to leave.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, pacing the perimeter. “Of course, no one thought to explain the logistics. Thanks for nothing, Lee.”

She leaned over the edge, cautiously peering down. The drop was steep—too steep to jump—and even considering a cushioning charm made her palms sweat.

Turning back, Katie scanned the walls and floor for some hidden clue. Nothing. The walls were smooth, and the balcony seemed like a dead end. Nearby spectators were descending from their sections, but their routes remained hidden from view, only adding to her irritation.

“Fantastic. Do I just wait for someone to notice I’m stranded up here?” she grumbled, exhaling sharply. With the crowd thinning and her anxiety growing, the last thing she wanted was to be left behind in the underground maze.

“Okay, Bell. Focus,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. “There’s got to be another way.”

She retraced her steps into the narrow corridor she’d used to reach the balcony. The passage twisted unpredictably, the shadows stretching and shifting as the faint glow of her wand illuminated the path ahead. The oppressive silence was only broken by the occasional sound of distant voices echoing through the stone walls.

Every so often, a student passed her, heading in the opposite direction. Katie tried asking for directions, but the responses were less than helpful—dismissive shrugs, cryptic “you’ll figure it out” remarks, or outright laughter. Clearly, no one was interested in playing guide.

Her irritation turned to unease as she continued through the dark, winding passageways. The air felt heavier, and the lack of clear direction gnawed at her confidence.

At last, she emerged into a larger cavern. The space was vast, its shadowy edges barely discernible under the faint glow of her wand. Far in the distance, a soft light flickered, its pale glow outlining what appeared to be an exit.

“Finally,” Katie murmured, relief washing over her.

Katie froze as a bright light suddenly flared behind her, casting her shadow long and sharp against the cavern wall. She spun around, nearly letting out a yelp of surprise.

“Lost?” a familiar low voice drawled, calm and disinterested.

She turned fully, squinting into the glow of Marcus Flint’s wand. Any biting retort she had prepared fizzled out as she took in his appearance. He leaned casually against the wall, but his face was different—tired, maybe even resigned. The usual smirk that made her blood boil was absent, replaced by a distant, neutral expression.

“Yeah,” she admitted begrudgingly, irritation still bubbling under the surface.

Flint nodded curtly, his gaze slipping away. Without another word, he pushed off the wall and turned, throwing over his shoulder, “Wait here.”

Before she could protest or ask why, he strode away into the shadows. Katie heard the creak of a door opening, followed by muffled voices and faint laughter drifting through the air.

Katie huffed, crossing her arms and tapping her foot impatiently. She debated just leaving when the door opened again, and Flint reappeared.

His hair was slightly damp, and he’d thrown on a school shirt over his white T-shirt, buttoned sloppily at the middle. A towel hung lazily over one shoulder, and he carried a bag slung across the other.

Without a glance in her direction, he ruffled his hair with one hand and walked past her.

“Come on,” he said quietly, stopping a few steps ahead to wait for her.

Katie blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. “All that just to take me ten feet to the exit?” she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes as she reluctantly trailed after him.

When they stepped out of the tunnels, the sudden brightness of the open space made Katie squint. It took her a moment to adjust, but as she looked around, recognition dawned.

“Of course,” she thought, exhaling sharply. “The player entrance. I’ve been under the field this whole time.”

Flint had already moved ahead, his long strides purposeful but unhurried. He stopped when he noticed her lagging behind.

“You coming, or planning to camp here all night?” he asked flatly, his voice tinged with the exhaustion he was no longer trying to hide.

Katie’s boots crunched softly against the dirt as she stepped onto the now-deserted field. Her eyes darted around, searching for any sign of the Weasley twins, but the crowd had vanished, leaving behind an almost eerie silence.

The field wasn’t entirely empty, though. Wimus stood dead center, striking his signature pose—head tilted, hands on his hips, his face etched with what could only be described as permanent disapproval. Across the pitch, the “Hounds” huddled together, their slumped shoulders and stiff movements betraying their frustration and defeat.

Not far from them, a lanky figure Katie vaguely remembered from earlier stood with Darryl, the Hufflepuff healer. Darryl’s frustration was palpable as he gestured wildly with a rolled-up parchment.

“It’s obvious!” Darryl snapped, jabbing a finger at the paper before waving it under the tall boy’s nose like a sword.

The lanky boy, entirely unfazed, shook his head with a calm that only seemed to further infuriate Darryl. Katie couldn’t hear much more, but the tension between them was evident.

Katie’s attention shifted when Wimus suddenly broke into a wide smile, a stark contrast to his earlier grim demeanor. His gaze was fixed on Marcus Flint, who strode toward the center of the field, his movements deliberate but not hurried.

“Ah, there he is, our star of the night!” Wimus announced, throwing his arms out theatrically as if welcoming an old friend.

Flint didn’t share his enthusiasm. His face remained stoic, though there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes.

When Wimus extended his hand, Marcus clasped it firmly, gripping his forearm in a gesture that seemed more meaningful than a simple handshake.

“Abraxas,” Marcus greeted evenly, his voice calm but carrying a thread of exhaustion.

Wimus’s grin widened, a sly glint in his eye as he reached into his pocket. From it, he produced a small, weighty pouch that jingled faintly. Tossing it lightly in his hand, he passed it to Marcus with a flourish, his tone suddenly formal.

“Your share,” Wimus said, inclining his head slightly. “A fine game tonight.”

Marcus barely glanced at the pouch, weighing it briefly in his hand before slipping it into his pocket without a word.

Katie, standing just off to the side, raised an eyebrow in surprise. Her eyes lingered on the pouch, now hidden away, and her thoughts churned.

“So that’s why he’s doing this. It’s not just for the adrenaline—this is a business,” she mused, marveling at how seamlessly the whole operation seemed to run.

“Right,” Marcus finally said, his tone even. He tilted his head slightly toward Wimus. “Hope everyone else is satisfied.”

Wimus’s grin widened, his arms spreading theatrically.

“‘Satisfied?” he repeated with a laugh. “Try ecstatic. After a game like that, you lot are practically untouchable. You’ve cemented your spot at the top, mate.”

Marcus responded with a faint nod, the kind of acknowledgment that screamed disinterest. But when he turned, his sharp gaze landed on Katie. For a moment, he just looked at her, and then his lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer.

“You’re still here?” he asked, his voice cool, tinged with a faint note of amusement.

Wimus glanced over Marcus’s shoulder, his sharp eyes catching on Katie like a hawk spotting prey. His lips curled into a sly smile.

“Your girlfriend?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock curiosity.

Marcus opened his mouth, likely to shut the idea down, but Katie was faster. Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave Wimus a flat look.

“Fortunately, no,” she said curtly, her tone daring him to push further.

Wimus chuckled, clearly entertained by her quick retort. But Katie wasn’t finished.

“Seen the twins?” she asked, cutting straight to the point.

Wimus shook his head, his grin still firmly in place.

“Fred left ages ago,” he replied smoothly.

Katie muttered something under her breath, throwing a glance toward the exit.

“Of course, they’ve already disappeared. And I’m still here, wandering around, nearly getting flattened by a Bludger, and watching Marcus Flint get his grand payday,” she thought irritably.

Wimus shot a glance at the lanky lad storming toward them, his voice rising with every step. With a heavy sigh, he muttered, “Nearly forgot the cherry on top—MacLaggen wants a rematch.”

Marcus, who had been lounging with the air of someone utterly unbothered, raised an eyebrow slightly.

Wimus shook his head, his eyes flicking back to the approaching figure.

“The issue,” he said, nodding toward the boy, “is Crass.”

Marcus frowned, shifting his gaze to the lanky figure. Crass looked like he was ready to tear the place apart. His face was flushed with anger, and his movements were jerky and aggressive.

“What now?” Marcus asked lazily, though there was already a hint of annoyance in his tone.

“He’s saying we’ve gone over the limit with the matches,” Wimus explained, folding his arms. “Now he’s shouting to anyone who’ll listen that there won’t be any more games.”

Crass was getting closer, his voice booming across the empty field, amplified by sheer rage.

“I warned you!” Crass bellowed, flinging his arms wide. “Four matches in a month! FOUR! Do you lot even know what restraint looks like? Or is breaking the rules just a hobby for you now?”

Marcus crossed his arms over his chest and regarded him with the patience of someone watching a temperamental toddler throw a tantrum.

“Oh, calm down, Crass,” Abraxas sighed, rubbing his temples. “We’ll handle it.”

“Handle it?” Crass stopped a few steps away, his eyes blazing. “You’ve already turned this into chaos! Students sneaking around at all hours, half the bets unaccounted for. And now MacLaggen’s whining about his bloody rematch!”

“Bets unaccounted for?” Marcus interjected, one eyebrow arching slightly. “Who’s supposed to be managing that?”

Crass waved a hand dismissively, as if that question wasn’t worth his time.

“Not the point!” he snapped. “The point is, we’re breaking our own bloody rules. If the professors catch wind of this—if even one of them starts sniffing around—”

“And then what?” Marcus interrupted, his tone colder now, his gaze hard as steel.

Crass hesitated for just a moment, but his face flushed even redder as he growled,

“Then it’s all over, Flint! The league, your precious "Leeches"—the whole bloody thing, gone!”

“If we get caught,” he said lightly, “Wimus will be the first one in the frying pan. It’s his mess to clean up.”

Wimus rolled his eyes, muttering, “Cheers for the vote of confidence, Marcus.”

Turning back to Crass, Wimus adopted a more conciliatory tone, his hands raised as if to calm a spooked hyppogriff.

“Alright, listen. I’ll sort out the schedule. We’ll slow things down, take a breather. That good enough for you?”

Crass glared at him for what felt like a long, tense moment before snapping,

“You’ve got one week. Get this sorted, or I’m pulling the funding.”

With that, he spun on his heel and stalked off, his muttered curses trailing behind him.

Katie, who had been silently watching the scene unfold, couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Seriously? You have sponsors?”

Flint let out a low chuckle, turning to face her.

“We have everything, Bell. Just not always the patience to deal with them.”

Darryl, who had been lingering awkwardly in the background during Crass’s tantrum, finally worked up the nerve to step closer. His gaze was fixed on the ground, and his shoulders were slouched as if bracing for a scolding.

“I tried explaining it to him,” he said quietly, but Wimus cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Crass doesn’t do explanations,” Wimus muttered, giving Darryl a tired yet good-natured pat on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”

Darryl looked up, his face still clouded with worry.

“He said he’d pull the funding if we don’t fix this,” Darryl mumbled, sounding like he’d just delivered particularly bad news.

Wimus snorted, as though he’d just heard a mildly amusing joke.

“He says that every time,” Wimus replied with a shake of his head. “And every time, he comes crawling back. The man can’t survive without the league, no matter how much he wants to throttle us all.”

Katie, standing nearby and absorbing every word, finally couldn’t keep quiet.

“You’re acting like this is normal,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s the point,” Wimus shot back, turning to her with a faint smirk. “It is normal. For the league, anyway. If you can handle these… minor headaches, then you’re part of the system.”

Katie snorted in disbelief.

“The system? It feels more like chaos.”

“Get used to it, Bell,” Marcus interjected lazily from where he leaned against the wall, casually tossing the pouch of coins from one hand to the other. “Or don’t. Here, you either put up with it, or you make sure they put up with you.”

Katie ignored Flint’s comment, her brow furrowing as she turned to Wimus again.

“But what’s the point of this funding?” she asked, trying to wrap her head around why anyone would invest in an underground league.

Wimus spread his arms theatrically, as if inviting her to take in the entire arena.

“It might not look it,” he began, his tone light but laced with practicality, “but keeping this place running costs a fortune. Lighting, protective charms, repairs after every match… it all adds up.”

He nodded toward the dark tunnels leading into the pitch.

“Even the entrances and secret passages—those need upkeep. Then there’s equipment, prizes, the occasional bribe to keep certain people quiet. And let’s not forget the little ‘extras’ for the players, to make sure they’re eager to come back.”

Katie raised an incredulous eyebrow, but Wimus continued, grinning as if she’d just asked the most obvious question in the world.

“Crass, for all his whinging, is one of the few stewards willing to pony up from his own Gringotts vault for the league fund.”

He smirked wider, his tone turning sharp with mockery. “And let’s all raise a butterbeer to dear old Borden Senior—rest his miserly soul—who left his darling son enough gold to make a goblin blush. Without that, we’d be in a right pickle.”

Katie shook her head in disbelief, her gaze snapping to Marcus.

“All this,” she said slowly, “just so you lot can bash each other senseless with brooms in some dodgy underground league?”

Flint didn’t miss a beat. His eyes gleamed with something between pride and disdain as he offered a careless shrug.

“It’s about winning, Bell,” he said, smirking. “Everything else? Just background noise.”

Katie fell quiet for a moment, letting everything Wimus had said sink in. But her curiosity wasn’t anywhere near satisfied.

“How do you manage spells this advanced?” she asked finally, crossing her arms. “I mean, no offense, but I doubt even the brightest seventh-years could pull off enchantments like these. And let’s be honest, the only adults here are the professors and… Filch.”

Wimus chuckled, clearly entertained, and leaned back slightly.

“You’d be surprised how much talent is buried in these halls,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the pitch. “Most of the spells here? They were put in place by people who were once part of the league themselves.”

“Graduates?” Katie frowned, trying to connect the dots.

“Exactly,” Wimus confirmed, his tone brimming with pride. “The ones who leave Hogwarts but never truly leave the league. They still support it from the outside. Some even drop by from time to time to leave their… contributions.”

“That’s… actually impressive,” Katie admitted begrudgingly, though her voice betrayed a hint of doubt.

“And a bit terrifying,” Darryl piped up from where he’d been awkwardly hovering nearby.

Katie ignored him, zeroing back in on Wimus.

“Alright, so who put these enchantments here in the first place?”

Wimus smirked, leaning forward like he was about to share a particularly juicy secret.

“Some of the strongest protections were done by a group of Ravenclaw graduates,” he said in a low, conspiratorial voice. “No one knows how they managed it, but this arena? It’s hidden so well even Dumbledore wouldn’t spot it unless he was specifically looking.”

Katie raised her eyebrows, despite herself. That was… impressive.

“What about the rest of the spells?” she pressed, her curiosity growing by the second.

Wimus’ grin widened, his tone turning almost amused.

“The rest? Those come from volunteers. Every now and then, an upper-year with… particular skills turns up. We let them prove themselves.”

Flint, who’d been leaning against the wall looking completely uninterested, finally spoke up. His voice was dry, almost dismissive.

“And if they mess it up, Wimus just waits for someone better to come along.” 

“Oh, how motivational,” Katie shot back, rolling her eyes. “You lot really know how to inspire teamwork.”

Wimus chuckled, entirely unfazed. “Motivation’s for school prefects. Here, you either pull your weight or you don’t belong. Simple as that.”

Suddenly, a loud voice boomed from one of the balconies.

“Still hanging around? Wimus, shut it down, or I’ll start clearing them out myself!” Crass shouted, his frustration echoing sharply across the space.

Abraxas sighed heavily, rolling his eyes like someone who’d seen this act far too many times. Turning to the group nearby, he said:

“You might want to leave before Crass starts throwing whatever he can get his hands on. Trust me, he’s got a talent for it.”

Marcus smirked faintly but didn’t argue. Without bothering to ask, he grabbed the back of Katie’s robes and started pulling her along.

“Let’s go, Bell,” he said over his shoulder, his voice calm but tinged with impatience.

Katie opened her mouth to protest but clamped it shut just as quickly, knowing full well it wouldn’t make a difference. Instead, she shot a glare in Crass’s direction, watching as he prepared to make good on his threats, then reluctantly followed Marcus.

“Great bunch of people you’ve got here,” she muttered, trying to keep up.

“You haven’t seen us at our best,” Flint replied, his tone so flat it was impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic or serious.

Just as they reached the corridor, Katie stopped and glanced back—and froze at the sight unfolding behind her.

Standing in the middle of the pitch, Wimus raised his wand, murmuring an incantation under his breath. The air around him seemed to shift as the enchanted ivy clinging to the walls and ceiling began to move, curling like serpents coming to life.

The vines moved quickly, spreading across the balconies, swallowing the pitch and tunnels in thick layers of green. Katie watched in stunned silence as the space was completely overtaken, the leaves shimmering faintly with residual magic.

In mere seconds, the underground Quidditch arena disappeared. What remained was an overgrown cavern, untouched and silent, as if no one had been there in years.

Katie stared, unable to hide her surprise.

“That’s it?” she asked quietly.

“That’s it,” Marcus replied, still walking without looking back. His tone was so casual it made the transformation feel almost mundane. “Now it’s just another cave until we need it again.”

He gave her a small nudge forward, encouraging her to keep moving.

“You’ll get used to it, Bell,” he added with a shrug, as if this sort of thing was entirely normal.

Katie followed him into the dark corridor, her thoughts racing with unanswered questions. She cast one final glance at the now-hidden cavern, a strange mix of awe and unease settling over her as the world they’d just left behind vanished completely.

Chapter Text

Marcus led her through a corridor Katie didn’t recognize. The narrow, dim passage was strewn with fragments of old stone columns, their jagged edges hinting at the grandeur they once supported. Marcus moved with ease, his steps confident, as though he’d walked this path a hundred times. Katie, on the other hand, stumbled over loose debris, struggling to keep up.  

Her mind was still preoccupied with the image of the Quidditch pitch vanishing as if it had never existed. Thoughts of Jordan and the twins had been replaced by an endless stream of questions about the secrets these corridors might hold.  

Without breaking stride, Marcus suddenly spoke, his voice breaking the silence:  
“What time is it?”  

Katie glanced at her watch, and her eyes widened in alarm.  
“Merlin’s beard…” she muttered, feeling a rush of panic.  

Marcus stopped and turned to face her, one eyebrow raised in mild curiosity.  
“What?” he asked, his tone as casual as if she’d just commented on the weather.  

“It’s three in the morning,” she whispered, staring at the watch as though it might be lying to her. Four hours. She’d spent four hours at the pitch without realizing it.  

Marcus shrugged, his expression annoyingly indifferent.  
“Big deal,” he said, as though midnight excursions were completely routine.  

Katie gaped at him, struggling to wrap her head around his nonchalance.  
“Are you serious?” she asked incredulously.  

“You’ll make it back,” he said, brushing off her concern. “If the Fat Lady asks, just say you fancied a walk. Or, you know, get creative.”  

Katie rolled her eyes, her frustration bubbling to the surface.  
“Right, a casual stroll. At 3 a.m. That’s a perfectly normal explanation,” she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm.  

Marcus smirked, clearly enjoying her annoyance. Without another word, he turned and resumed walking.  
“The only real problem, Bell, is how fast you can think up a good excuse,” he called over his shoulder. “Might want to hurry unless you’re keen on bumping into Filch.”  

Katie let out a heavy sigh and followed, the ache in her legs only adding to her irritation. Exhaustion was beginning to weigh her down, but it was nothing compared to the sheer exasperation of having Marcus Flint as her guide.

Marcus stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor, his gaze darting around as though searching for something just out of reach.

“It’s got to be here somewhere,” he muttered under his breath before making a sharp turn to the right.

Katie shot him a doubtful look but reluctantly followed. She didn’t have much of a choice, after all.

They soon came across a heavy wooden door, its surface scarred with age. Marcus shoved it open with considerable effort, and a sudden rush of cold air hit them, making Katie shiver involuntarily.

“Something’s off,” she thought, just as Marcus muttered a curse under his breath.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice laced with unease as she tried to peer past him.

Marcus stepped aside, his expression dark, and gestured toward the doorway with a jerk of his head.

Katie moved closer, and her eyes widened in shock. The door didn’t lead to a familiar Hogwarts corridor—it opened onto the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Before them stretched a dense, foreboding wall of trees, their branches swaying ominously in the chill night air. The faint light of the moon barely penetrated the thick canopy, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the ground.

“The Forbidden Forest?!” Katie exclaimed, her voice trembling with equal parts fear and disbelief. “Is this some kind of joke?!”

Marcus let out a heavy sigh and slammed the door shut, as if that might somehow correct the mistake.

“No, not a joke,” he replied irritably. “Someone’s botched the enchantments. This door’s supposed to lead to the west wing of the castle, not out here.”

Katie stared at him, her disbelief only growing.

“And what now?” she asked, doing her best to keep the rising panic out of her voice.

Marcus gave the door another experimental shove, as though hoping it might miraculously recalibrate itself. Nothing happened.

“Now?” he said, a dry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he folded his arms. “Now we walk back to the castle.”

“Walk?” Katie repeated, her tone a mix of incredulity and frustration. “Through the Forbidden Forest?”

Marcus simply shrugged, his expression maddeningly calm.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” he said, arching a brow. “Feel free to share.”

Katie groaned, her gaze flitting between the dark, foreboding edge of the forest and the stubbornly unresponsive door.

“This is insane,” she muttered, pressing her fingers to her temples.

“Probably,” Marcus agreed, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “But if we stand here arguing about it, dawn will break before we even make it halfway.”

Katie opened her mouth to protest but stopped short, catching the composed—and annoyingly smug—look on his face. She knew arguing was pointless.

“You’re really used to this kind of thing, aren’t you?” Katie shot at him, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she followed close behind.

“Used to it,” Marcus replied coolly, stepping into the shadows of the forest. “You’d better get used to it too, Bell.”

She trailed after him, clutching her robes tighter as the cold night air bit at her skin. But it wasn’t the chill making her uneasy—it was the oppressive stillness of the Forbidden Forest. The trees loomed like dark sentinels, and every rustle or crack in the underbrush felt like a warning.

“Please tell me you actually know where we’re going,” she muttered, her eyes flicking nervously toward the gnarled shapes of the trees, each looking more menacing under the dim moonlight.

“Of course I do,” Marcus said, his tone so casual it bordered on dismissive.

Katie rolled her eyes.

“If we get caught, it’s on you,” she grumbled, quickening her pace to stay close.

“Relax, Bell,” he called over his shoulder, his voice carrying a faint note of amusement. “If anyone finds us, it won’t be the professors.”

His confident stride betrayed no hint of hesitation, and it irritated her how easily he navigated the dark forest. Every step he took was deliberate, as if he’d walked this path a hundred times before.

Katie, meanwhile, was on edge, her senses heightened by the faint crackling of branches and the mournful whistle of the wind. The silence of the forest felt almost alive, the trees watching with an unnerving intensity.

Out of nowhere, a flock of birds erupted from a nearby tree, their frantic wings slicing through the stillness. Katie jumped, stifling a yelp as her heart slammed against her ribs.

“Merlin’s beard,” she muttered, clutching the edge of her robe and willing her pulse to calm down.

Marcus turned at the commotion, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

“What, afraid of birds now?” he drawled, his tone teasing.

“No,” she snapped, her voice sharper than intended. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“Sure,” he said with exaggerated disbelief, before turning back and continuing through the woods.

Katie glared at his retreating figure, but the silence closing in around her pushed her to keep moving. After a few moments, she broke the quiet again.

“And how exactly do you know where you’re going?” she asked, her voice tinged with skepticism. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a map of the Forbidden Forest lying around.”

“Something like that,” Marcus replied vaguely, still not slowing his pace.

Katie’s brow furrowed.

“That’s not an answer,” she pressed.

He finally stopped, turning halfway to look at her. His expression was calm, but there was a faint glint of annoyance in his eyes.

“Bell, if I told you I’m decent with orientation charms and maps, would that shut you up?”

“Maps,” Katie repeated incredulously, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Marcus shrugged, his indifference as infuriating as ever, and started walking again.

“Feel free to turn back if you’re not happy,” he called over his shoulder, his tone daring her to make a decision.

Katie groaned, biting back another retort. Arguing with him was clearly pointless. Instead, she quickened her steps, falling into pace behind him despite her growing frustration. The sound of her own footsteps felt louder than it should have in the oppressive quiet, but at least she wasn’t alone.

“Go on then, ask your questions,” Marcus said suddenly, his tone so casual it was almost mocking. He kept walking but then came to an abrupt halt, turning to face her with a sharp, knowing look.

“Actually, no,” he added, smirking faintly. “Let’s start with mine. I saw your face back there when Wimus was banging on about the wards. You looked like you had a hundred things you wanted to ask. But first, how’d you even end up at the pitch? And don’t tell me it was an accident.”

Katie sighed, already resigned to the fact that he wasn’t letting this go.

“Well?” he prompted, his smirk widening as he tilted his head. “You were alone, so it must’ve been your second time. Who brought you along the first?”

“Lee,” she muttered, clearly annoyed.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, his smirk stretching into something closer to amusement.

“Jordan?” he repeated with a low chuckle. “Figures. So, what did you see the first time?”

Katie frowned, arms crossing defensively.

“What does that even mean?” she shot back. “I saw what everyone else sees—people playing dirty, whacking each other senseless on broomsticks.”

Marcus shook his head, his expression shifting to something more serious, almost curious.

“No, Bell,” he said, his voice quieter but more deliberate. “Not everyone sees the same thing. The real question is—what did you take away from it?”

Katie blinked, momentarily thrown. She hesitated, searching for the words.

“It was…” She faltered, the memory still vivid. “Ruthless. Chaotic. Nothing like a proper match.”

Marcus’s smirk returned, softer this time.

“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “You’re already figuring it out—it’s not just about the game.”

Katie opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand, cutting her off.

“Think about it,” he continued, his voice calm but pointed. “Why do you think Jordan brought you in the first place? And more importantly, why did you come back?”

The question stopped her in her tracks. She frowned, her mind racing for an answer she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.

“I… don’t know,” she said finally, quieter this time. “Maybe I was curious.”

Marcus chuckled and started walking again, his tone laced with quiet satisfaction.

“Or maybe,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder, “it’s because you want to be part of something bigger.”

His words hit her like a Bludger, making her pause mid-step. For a moment, she faltered, realizing he might be closer to the truth than she wanted to admit.

“And why are you in the league?” Katie shot back, her voice sharper now as she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him.

Marcus stopped again, his expression going unreadable for a moment. He turned to her slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if deciding how much of the truth he wanted to share.

“Good question, Bell,” he said finally, his voice calm, almost thoughtful.

Katie raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“The league…” Marcus began, shrugging slightly, “is about doing what you can’t in official matches.”

“Like hitting people?” she asked with a sarcastic tilt of her head.

Marcus smirked, but there was no mockery in his expression—only a quiet weariness.

“No,” he said, his voice unexpectedly soft. “It’s a place where you can stop pretending. No rules, no whistles stopping you before you’ve even begun. It’s not just about brute strength—it’s about testing yourself. What you can give, what you can take... when no one’s telling you how to play.”

Katie stared at him, unsure how to respond. She was taken aback by how seriously he spoke about the league—something she’d initially dismissed as chaotic and purposeless.

“And you think that’s worth all the risk?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more tentative.

Marcus met her gaze, his eyes steady.

“Do you think anything that matters comes without risk?”

The question caught her off guard. She glanced away, her thoughts a tangled mix of unease, irritation, and—deep down—a flicker of curiosity she couldn’t quite ignore.

“It still seems like an odd choice,” Katie said, shaking her head as she worked to keep up with him. “Your team’s doing well, scouts are lining up to watch your games, and yet you’re risking your neck in some underground league. Doesn’t exactly add up.”

Marcus vaulted over a fallen tree with ease, then turned, offering her a hand.

“It’s not like that, Bell,” he said simply.

She hesitated, then begrudgingly took his hand, letting him steady her as she climbed over the trunk.

“I’ve been playing in the league since long before I was on the Slytherin team,” he added once she was over, releasing her hand and continuing forward without missing a step.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“What?” she asked, her voice edged with disbelief. “You mean you were playing before you even made the team?”

Marcus nodded, not bothering to glance back at her.

“Exactly,” he said matter-of-factly. “The league taught me what no official practice ever could. Out there, you adapt or fail. You create strategies in the heat of the moment. On a field without limits, you discover what you’re truly capable of.”

Katie slowed her pace, his words unsettling her.

“But it’s still…” She faltered, choosing her words carefully. “It’s reckless. Dangerous.”

“Every game is dangerous, Bell,” Marcus replied evenly, casting a brief glance over his shoulder. “Even the official ones. The difference here is that you either win, or you lose in a way that no one will ever forget.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly inspiring,” Katie remarked dryly, struggling to grasp how he could speak so calmly about it all.

“For me, it was,” Marcus replied with a faint smirk. “The league gave me the chance to become who I am now. And despite all the risk, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Katie’s skepticism softened as she studied him. There was something raw and unflinching in his words that she couldn’t quite argue with.

For now, she let the silence settle between them, trailing after him as her thoughts swirled, louder than the forest around them.

***

Every so often, Marcus would pause, almost absently rolling his left shoulder. At first, Katie assumed he was just adjusting the strap of his bag.

But as they walked, the motion became too frequent to ignore. It wasn’t a casual adjustment—it was a habit.

She narrowed her eyes, studying him as he stopped again, rubbed his shoulder, and winced slightly, as if the movement brought more pain than he cared to admit.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked at last, unable to keep her curiosity in check.  

Marcus shot her a quick glance, his face composed, almost indifferent.  

“Nothing,” he said curtly, resuming his pace.  

But Katie wasn’t letting it go.  

“It doesn’t look like ‘nothing,’” she pressed. “You keep holding your shoulder.”  

“It’s just an old injury,” he said over his shoulder, his tone sharper than usual.  

“Injury?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “From what?”  

Marcus slowed for a moment, then shrugged, as if to suggest it didn’t matter.  

“The league,” he said simply.  

Katie froze for a beat, her expression shifting to a mix of surprise and concern.  

“You’re saying you seriously hurt yourself in one of those matches?”  

Marcus smirked faintly, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes.  

“Bell, if you’re not ready to take the hits, you’re not ready for the league,” he replied, rubbing his shoulder again. “It’s part of the deal.”  

Katie frowned, the weight of his words sinking in. She didn’t press further, but as she walked behind him, her gaze lingered on his shoulder. For the first time, she saw him not just as the self-assured, unshakable captain, but as someone who bore the scars of the risks he had chosen to take. 

"How old were you when you started playing in the league?" Katie asked, her gaze narrowing. "Most of the players seem barely fourteen."

Marcus grimaced but didn’t stop walking.  

"Yeah, and fourth-years shouldn’t be there either," he muttered. "Some people can’t take a hint."

Katie immediately caught the subtext.  

"McLaggen?" she guessed, exhaling sharply.  

Marcus smirked but didn’t confirm it.  

"You still haven’t answered my question," she pressed.  

He glanced over his shoulder, his tone clipped.  "Thirteen."

Katie’s jaw dropped.  "Third year? You were a kid!"

"Old enough to know what I was doing," he replied, his pace unfaltering.  

Katie shook her head, struggling to imagine someone that young in the chaos of the league.  

"And they just let you play?"

"They let me prove myself," he corrected.  

"How?"

Marcus hesitated before offering a vague response.  

"Long story."

Katie frowned, unsatisfied, but let it slide.  

"So by fourth year, you were on the official team and already captain?"

"League," Marcus replied curtly.  

Katie raised an eyebrow, expecting more.  

"Corky saw me play, saw I could lead, and handed me the reins," he added, referencing the former Slytherin captain.  

"And you didn’t waste the chance," Katie noted, studying him.  

He chuckled softly, but his expression hardened.  "Not in the league. Not on the team."

Katie fell silent, realizing just how much both roles clearly meant to him.  

After a moment, Marcus stopped, glancing around as if surveying the area.  

"Break?" he asked, his tone neutral but not unkind.

Katie let out a heavy sigh, nodding in reluctant agreement. Only now did she realize just how cold she’d become. The brisk wind, which had gone unnoticed while they were walking, now cut straight through her like a knife.  

Her school robe was pitifully thin for this kind of nighttime excursion, and the jumper underneath wasn’t much help either. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, trying to suppress the shivers creeping up her spine.  

Marcus, however, seemed entirely unaffected. Draping his robe over his shoulders with careless ease, he looked perfectly comfortable in just his school shirt. As he dropped his bag to the ground and perched on a nearby stump, Katie noticed him absently rubbing his shoulder again.  

She tilted her head, watching him curiously.  

“Don’t tell me you’re not cold,” she said, pulling her robe tighter and eyeing him in disbelief.  

Marcus glanced at her with a faint smirk.  

“You get used to it,” he replied, his tone annoyingly nonchalant. Though he brushed off her question, his hand still worked at his shoulder, the movement almost reflexive.  

“Not me,” Katie muttered, tightening her grip around herself as she tried to stave off another shiver.  

Marcus chuckled softly but didn’t bother responding.  

Her gaze lingered on his shoulder. The repetitive motion was too deliberate to ignore.  

“It’s still bothering you, isn’t it?” she asked, nodding toward him.  

He flicked his eyes to hers briefly, then looked back without answering, his fingers still kneading at the same spot.  

Katie exhaled sharply, her irritation bubbling over.  

“Well, if you’re not careful, you’ll catch something and be stuck in the hospital wing for a week,” she said, setting off to scavenge for kindling.  

Marcus watched her with a faint smile.  

“Don’t worry about me, Bell,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’ve walked off worse.”  

“Oh, fantastic. Sarcasm. Just what I needed,” she muttered, stooping to collect another branch.  

When she returned with an armful of sticks, Marcus hadn’t moved from his spot. He was still perched on the stump, his expression a mixture of mild amusement and curiosity.  

“And what’s your grand plan for that?” he asked, nodding toward the bundle of twigs in her arms.  

Katie rolled her eyes.  

“What do you think? We’ll start a fire — unless you’d rather sit here and freeze.”  

“Go ahead,” Marcus replied with a shrug. “But do you even know the spell?”  

Katie raised a brow at him, incredulous.  

“Obviously.”  

Pulling out her wand, she muttered a quick incantation. Moments later, a small fire flickered to life among the branches. She sat down near the flames with a triumphant smile.  

“See? Easy,” she said, casting him a smug look.  

Marcus leaned closer to the fire, stretching his hands toward the warmth. He didn’t say anything, only gave her a small nod of approval.  

After a beat of silence, Katie glanced across the fire at him, her curiosity bubbling to the surface.  

“Be honest,” she began. “Do you even care about anything? Or are you always this... unshakable?”  

Marcus looked at her through the flickering light, his expression unreadable. Slowly, a faint smirk tugged at his lips.  

“Sometimes,” he said, tossing another twig into the fire. “But I don’t let people see it.”  

Katie turned her gaze back to the fire, letting his words sink in. She wasn’t sure why, but they unsettled her in a way she hadn’t expected.  

Marcus raised an eyebrow, studying her for a moment.  

“Why do you ask?”  

She shrugged, feigning indifference.  

“No reason,” she said quietly. “Just curious.”  

In truth, she wasn’t sure why she’d asked. As she stared into the flames, she couldn’t help but wonder: Why am I even asking these stupid questions?

The crackling of the fire was the only sound breaking the stillness as they sat in silence. Katie stole a glance at Marcus, who looked utterly at ease, as though their earlier exchange hadn’t left the slightest impression on him.  

“He’s just one of those people who never show their hand,” she thought, irritation bubbling up inside her at his unflappable calm.  

“Does it bother you?” Marcus asked suddenly, his voice low and calm, his eyes never leaving the flames.

Katie stiffened, caught off guard. “Does what bother me?” she replied, sharper than she intended.

“That I don’t always answer questions,” he said, his tone casual, almost lazy. He finally turned his head slightly to look at her, his expression unreadable.

Katie huffed, folding her arms defensively.

“It doesn’t bother me,” she said flatly. “But it’s definitely annoying.”

Marcus smirked faintly, as if her answer had been entirely predictable.

“Get used to it, Bell. I’m not the type to lay everything out for people.”

She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair.

“Not much to lay out anyway, is there?” she muttered, shooting him a pointed look.

Marcus leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression was a mix of serenity and faint amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse.  

“If Jordan and the twins trusted you enough to bring you to a match,” he began, his tone steady, his gaze fixed on her, “it means one thing.”  

Katie narrowed her eyes, waiting for him to elaborate. But Marcus paused, deliberately drawing out the moment.  

“Our paths are going to cross a lot more often than you think,” he finished, his voice calm but brimming with certainty.  

Katie’s eyes widened briefly before she quickly masked her reaction.  

“You say that like it’s inevitable,” she retorted with a scoff, trying to sound unimpressed.  

“It is,” Marcus said, his smirk deepening.  

“In this castle, a lot of things are inevitable, Bell,” he added, tossing another stick into the fire with a casual flick of his wrist.  

Katie sighed, rolling her eyes again as she turned her attention to the flames.  

“You sound like you know something I don’t,” she muttered, but didn’t press further.  

Marcus didn’t respond, though his smile lingered as he watched her.  

For a while, neither of them spoke. Marcus occasionally flexed his shoulder, his movements unhurried, while Katie seemed utterly absorbed by the night sky above them. The stars shimmered brightly, their light dancing across her face as she gazed upward with a quiet, almost childlike wonder.  

Unaware of his gaze, Katie’s expression softened, her earlier irritation melting into quiet awe as she watched the stars twinkle against the inky blackness.

Marcus observed her in silence, his sharp features lit by the flames. For a moment, the edge in his demeanor dulled, replaced by something almost... contemplative.

***

Marcus finally broke the silence.

"We've gotten off track. What other questions do you have?"

Katie snapped out of her thoughts, tearing her gaze from the stars to look at him in surprise.

"Are we even supposed to be talking about this?" she asked cautiously, uncertainty in her voice.

Marcus smirked, leaning back slightly.

"I take it someone already told you about the three main rules," he said, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Katie sighed and nodded.

"Yeah," she replied, crossing her arms. "Especially the third one: 'Don't tell anyone. Don't discuss it with anyone.'"

"A good rule," he acknowledged calmly. "But as you can see, there are exceptions."

"So this is an exception?" Katie narrowed her eyes, her tone more curious than accusatory.

Marcus met her gaze, his eyes serious but not unkind.

"While we're out here, yes," he answered. "So if you have questions, now's the time to ask."

"Alright," Katie exhaled, choosing her words carefully. "What's the minimum age to start playing? How do people even find out about the league? How many people are involved? Can you form teams outside your house?"

Marcus chuckled softly, clearly amused by her rapid-fire questions.

"Do you always fire off questions that quickly?" he asked lazily, adjusting the strap of his bag.

Katie folded her arms tighter, giving him a pointed look.

"You told me to ask. So, answer."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of Marcus's mouth. His gaze shifted to the fire between them, as if he were thoughtfully considering his responses.

"Minimum age? Technically, fourth year," he began, finally looking back at her. "But that's more of a guideline than a strict rule."

“How do people even find out about the league?” Katie asked, pushing the conversation forward.

“Different ways,” Marcus replied casually, shrugging one shoulder. “Some hear about it from older students. Others get invited. But an invite doesn’t guarantee you’re in.”

“How many people are in the league?” she pressed, watching him carefully.

Marcus paused, tossing a pebble between his hands as he thought. “Depends how you count. Active players? About forty. Throw in the spectators, and it’s closer to a hundred, maybe more.”

“A hundred?!” Katie’s eyes widened. “That’s, what, one in six students?”

“Who said it was some exclusive club, Bell?” Marcus smirked. “The league’s been around for years. Newbies join every term, and veterans move on. But they all keep the secrets.”

“What about teams?” Katie leaned forward slightly. “Can you form them regardless of house?”

Marcus nodded, his expression sharpening with interest.

“Exactly. House affiliation doesn’t matter. You can build a team from anyone—as long as they trust you and are willing to follow your lead.”

Katie squinted, considering his words.

“So, the league’s built on trust?”

Marcus chuckled, his gaze softening briefly.

“Trust and the ability to keep your mouth shut. Everything else is just details.”

“And what happens if someone runs off to the professors?” Katie asked, her tone sharper now. “I’m guessing it’s the Stewards’ job to make sure that doesn’t happen?”

Marcus leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. He stared into the fire, letting the question linger in the air for a moment.

“You guess right,” he said at last, his voice calm, almost detached. “The Stewards keep everything under wraps—make sure the league stays hidden and no one steps out of line.”

Katie frowned, her curiosity flaring.

“And if someone does step out of line?” she pressed, leaning forward slightly.

Marcus let out a low chuckle, but there was no warmth in it. A flicker of something dark crossed his face, enough to make Katie tense.

“No one steps out of line,” he said smoothly.

“That’s not really an answer,” she shot back, her tone edged with frustration.

Finally, Marcus turned his gaze to her. His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried a weight that made her sit back.

“Bell,” he said, his words clipped and deliberate, “if someone breaks the rules, it’s the last mistake they ever make.”

Katie’s breath caught, the quiet finality in his tone sending a chill down her spine. It wasn’t a threat—it was a certainty.

“You’re saying… what exactly?” she asked cautiously, her voice quieter now.

“I’m saying it never comes to that,” Marcus said firmly. “The Watchers know who they can trust. And anyone in the league knows exactly what’s at stake.”

“And what is at stake?” Katie asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Everything, Bell. Absolutely everything.”

His words lingered in the air, and Katie felt the tension settle over her like a heavy cloak. For a moment, the only sound was the soft crackling of the fire.

“How many Watchers are there?” she asked after a pause, her tone steady but curious.

Marcus smirked faintly, shaking his head.

“Do you really think I’m going to tell you that?” he said, amusement flickering in his voice.

He turned his gaze back to the fire, but the corners of his mouth tugged downward.

“Wimus shouldn’t have mentioned Сrass,” he added, irritation creeping into his tone. “Big mistake.”

Katie tilted her head, replaying that earlier conversation in her mind.

“Why was it a mistake?” she asked, frowning. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Сrass practically screams ‘in charge.’”

Marcus let out a short, dry laugh, his tone laced with weariness.

"Bell, whether it’s obvious or not doesn’t matter," he said with a shrug. "Rules are rules. The Watchers stay in the shadows, even if people think they’ve figured it out."

"So, no one’s supposed to know who they are?" Katie leaned forward slightly, her curiosity unmistakable.

"Exactly," Marcus replied, his voice steady. "That’s their protection—and the league’s survival plan."

"And you know who they are?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing with sly determination.

Marcus met her gaze, the firelight catching the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression.

"Even if I did," he said with quiet certainty, "I wouldn’t tell you. Go ahead, ask all the questions you want, but that’s a rule I’m not breaking."

Katie exhaled sharply, her shoulders sagging in mild frustration.

"Fine," she muttered, clearly annoyed but unwilling to let the conversation drop entirely. "Is it true the games used to happen here?" She gestured vaguely at the shadowy trees surrounding them, her tone curious.

Marcus tossed another branch onto the fire, the flames flaring briefly as he nodded.

"Yeah," he admitted casually. "Back in the day, this was the spot. Then someone found the hidden corridor under the Herbology classroom. Everything changed after that."

Katie’s brows knit together as she mulled over his words.

"When did that happen?" she asked, her voice tinged with intrigue.

Marcus smirked, a faint, teasing glint lighting up his eyes.

"Back when McGonagall was still crawling under tables," he quipped, his tone dry as ever.

Katie snorted, rolling her eyes with practiced ease.

"Very clever, Flint," she deadpanned. "But seriously—how long ago?"

"A century, give or take," Marcus said after a pause, his tone more thoughtful now. "Nobody knows for sure. But if the old stories are true, this was where it all started."

Katie glanced around, her eyes darting between the shadowy shapes of the forest’s towering trees.

"It’s kind of amazing they haven’t shut it down," she mused, her voice quieter now, almost reverent.

"Who says they didn’t try?" Marcus shot back, his tone calm but tinged with something darker.

Katie stiffened slightly, catching the weight in his words. She didn’t press further, though; there was something in his tone that warned against it.

"How much do players actually make?" Katie asked, trying to sound casual but failing to mask her curiosity.

Marcus smirked, tilting his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Finally getting to the important stuff, I see," he said with a dry chuckle.

"Well?" Katie pressed, crossing her arms. "If I’m already knee-deep in this, I might as well know everything."

Marcus tossed another branch onto the fire, the flames briefly flaring up. He seemed to mull over her question before finally answering.

"Depends," he said, meeting her gaze. "On your team, how often you play, and—most importantly—the bets."

"Bets?" Katie repeated, her curiosity immediately piqued.

"What, you thought this place was funded by magic alone?" Marcus replied, his tone edged with mockery. "Borden’s old family money can’t cover everything. The matches aren’t just entertainment—they’re a business."

"So how much can someone make?" Katie leaned forward slightly, her interest palpable.

"Top teams can earn dozens of Galleons a match," Marcus said, his voice calm and even. "More if the stakes are high enough. For some, it’s just extra spending money. For others? It’s a small fortune."

Katie stared at him, her eyes widening as the sheer scale of the league’s operations dawned on her.
"You’re telling me students are making more than their parents?"

Marcus chuckled, his expression softening just a fraction.
"Some already do, Bell."

Katie sat back, stunned into silence. The league, already an enigma, now seemed like an underground empire.

"And what does it take to form a team?" she asked after a pause, her voice measured but brimming with intrigue.

Marcus leaned back slightly, his face unreadable.
"Form a team," he said simply.

Katie rolled her eyes, unimpressed.
"Very helpful, Flint. You know what I mean."

A faint smile tugged at Marcus’s lips as he shifted, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Alright, fine. If you want specifics, it’s simple: find people who trust you and are willing to take risks. A team has to be tight-knit."

"That’s it? Just find people who trust you?" Katie raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

"What, were you expecting an initiation ceremony?" Marcus smirked. "No, Bell, it’s tougher than it sounds. You’re asking people to break the rules, to stick their necks out—and to keep their mouths shut. That’s the real challenge."

"And who decides if they’re good enough?" Katie asked, her voice steady but insistent.

"The Stewards," Marcus replied, his tone clipped. "If you can prove your team is solid, they’ll let you into the league."

Katie frowned, turning over his words in her mind.

"And how do you prove that?"

Marcus leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers.

"You prove it on the field," he said, his voice low and firm. "That’s the only thing that matters."

Katie fell quiet, her eyes drifting to the fire. She was deep in thought, weighing his words, while Marcus watched her from across the flames, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Marcus finally broke the silence with a lazy drawl.

"What's the matter, Bell? Pondering something profound for the first time in your life?"

Katie shot him an irritated look, her brows furrowed in both annoyance and thought.

"I'm trying to understand," she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. "Why anyone would willingly get involved in all this."

Marcus chuckled, leaning back as if he had all the time in the world.

"Because it gives you more than you think," he replied, his tone steady. "The adrenaline, the freedom, the chance to prove you're better than anyone else."

Katie frowned, her thoughts racing.

"But the cost is too high," she countered, almost to herself.

"Only if you're afraid of it," Marcus replied smoothly, his dark eyes holding hers. "Are you afraid, Bell?"

Katie straightened, her expression hardening.

"I'm not afraid," she said firmly, lifting her chin in defiance.

His grin deepened, and for a moment, she thought she saw approval flicker across his face.

"We’ll see," he said cryptically, his tone suggesting he already knew how this would end.

Without another word, Marcus stood and brushed the dirt off his robes, stretching slightly.

"Time to move, Bell," he said, his voice now back to its usual nonchalance.

Katie blinked, then glanced at the sky. The inky black of the night had given way to the soft gray of dawn. Her heart sank as she checked her watch.

"Five in the morning?!" she exclaimed, her voice rising with disbelief. "How has it been that long?"

Marcus laughed, offering her a hand to help her up.

"Because you overthink everything," he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Katie, still annoyed, accepted his hand and got to her feet, swiping leaves off her robes.

"And now?" she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the chill of the early morning air.

Marcus adjusted the strap of his bag and started walking, his steps light and deliberate, as though the long night had barely affected him.

"Now," he called over his shoulder, "you’ll make it back just in time for breakfast."

Katie let out a long sigh and trudged after him, her mind still churning with unanswered questions.

***

They walked back to the castle in silence. The wind had picked up, cutting through the night air, and Katie pulled her robe tighter around herself, trying to keep warm. Marcus walked ahead, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at her, but he said nothing.

Katie was too lost in her thoughts to notice. Her mind churned with questions and fragmented impressions of the night, none of which seemed to fit neatly together. She followed him blindly, her feet moving automatically over the uneven path.

Why did I even go? Why do I need to know all this? What am I trying to prove—to him or to myself?

The thoughts looped endlessly in her head as she trudged forward, barely aware of her surroundings.

Marcus seemed to sense her distraction and didn’t attempt to draw her out of it. Instead, he focused on the path ahead, occasionally glancing back to make sure she hadn’t fallen behind.

When the first spires of the castle came into view, he stopped and turned to face her.

“Well, we’re here,” he said, his tone softer than usual.

Katie looked up, startled, as though she’d just been pulled from a dream.

“Already?” she mumbled, blinking in confusion.

Marcus smirked, shaking his head slightly.

“Lost track of time again, Bell?” he teased, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Katie straightened, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face as the looming silhouette of Hogwarts came into focus. The sight was both a relief and a reminder of everything she would have to process once this long night was over.

“Well, good morning to you, Bell,” Marcus said, giving her a slight nod before turning to veer off the main path.

Katie blinked, caught off guard by his words, and quickly called after him.
“You’re not coming back to the castle?”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he replied with a casual wave, his tone dismissive.

Katie frowned, watching him walk away. She knew better than to press him for answers, but she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he was hiding something—something more than just a preference for solitude.

Is he always this cryptic, or is it just me? she thought with a weary sigh.

Turning back toward the castle, its warm lights glowing against the early morning sky, Katie adjusted her robe and headed for Gryffindor Tower. The thought of slipping into her bed, even for a few hours before breakfast, was the only comfort she could cling to as the night’s events replayed in her mind.

Chapter Text

To Katie’s frustration, her dormmates were already up and about by the time she returned to the dormitory. The room was its usual state of organized chaos: neatly made beds offset by robes and textbooks draped over chairs and trunks.

The moment Katie stepped inside, Angelina looked up from the mirror where she was perfecting her hair. Her eyes narrowed, and a sly grin spread across her face.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our late-night wanderer,” she drawled with mock suspicion.

Alicia, sitting cross-legged on her bed with a book open on her lap, glanced up and raised an eyebrow.

“Where’ve you been, Bell?” she asked, her tone more curious than accusatory.

Katie rolled her eyes, exhaustion hitting her like a tidal wave.

“Out walking,” she said curtly, hoping that would end the interrogation before it began.

Angelina smirked, swiveling in her seat to face her.

“Out walking? And you’re only just getting back now? Come on, Katie, at least put some effort into your alibi.”

Katie collapsed onto her bed, keeping her gaze fixed on the ceiling as she tugged off her cloak.

“I don’t have to tell you everything,” she muttered, her voice muffled by her growing irritation.

“You should,” Angelina shot back with a pointed look.

“Was someone walking with you?” Alicia asked, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Katie stiffened ever so slightly before forcing a casual shrug.

“No one. I was on my own,” she said, her tone deliberately flat.

Angelina and Alicia exchanged knowing glances, their skepticism written all over their faces.

“Alright, Bell,” Angelina said as she got to her feet and headed for the door. “Keep your little secrets. But you know I’ll figure it out eventually.”

Katie sighed, flopping back against her pillows as the door clicked shut behind Angelina. For now, sleep was the only thing that could save her from their relentless curiosity.

***

Katie didn’t make it to breakfast, crashing into bed the moment her head hit the pillow. She didn’t wake up until nearly two in the afternoon, groggy but feeling at least a little better.

Glancing at her watch, she sighed.

“Well, so much for lunch,” she muttered, catching sight of her messy hair in the reflection of the window.

She rummaged through her bedside table and unearthed a single chocolate frog. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

“Better than starving,” Katie mumbled, breaking off a piece of the frog and nibbling on it.

As she unwrapped the rest, the collectible card fell out. This time, it was Herbert Hoffield, a wizard famous for his research on rare magical plants.

Katie rolled her eyes and tossed the card back into the drawer.

“Right, because what I really need is someone who grows fungi for a living,” she muttered, finishing the last bite of chocolate.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring out the frosted window as her mind wandered. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t shake thoughts of the previous night. The chaos of the underground match, Flint’s sharp comments, and, most of all, Lee’s frustrating absence swirled around in her head.

“Brilliant move, Jordan,” Katie thought bitterly. “You drag me into this, then disappear when it all goes pear-shaped. And now I’m left piecing it together while Flint, of all people, is the one who keeps things from falling apart.”

The memory made her scowl. Spending a night in Flint’s company should have been a nightmare, but instead, it had been... strangely tolerable.

“At least he didn’t make me feel like an idiot or like I didn’t belong,” she admitted grudgingly to herself, though the thought annoyed her.

There had been something about his calmness—his quiet confidence—that had been almost reassuring in the chaos of the night. If only he weren’t so infuriating with his smug little comments.

Katie let out a frustrated sigh and rubbed her face with both hands.

“Sort yourself out, Bell,” she muttered under her breath.

She looked back out at the wintry sunshine and decided a walk might do her some good. Maybe the fresh air would clear her head. She threw on her warmest robe, pulling it tightly around her sweater, and slipped her hands into her pockets for extra warmth.

When she descended into the Gryffindor common room, she found it unusually quiet for that time of day. A few students sat near the fireplace, murmuring over their textbooks, while a pair of first-years appeared to be squabbling over homework.

Katie glanced around, hoping to spot Lee Jordan so she could finally confront him. But, of course, there was no sign of him.

“Figures,” Katie thought, her irritation bubbling back up. “Lee bloody Jordan, the king of vanishing acts.”

Strolling through the corridors of Hogwarts, Katie tried to shift her focus to her surroundings. The castle, as always, buzzed with life: groups of students laughing and chatting as they passed, professors hurrying by with stacks of parchment, and the occasional ghost drifting through walls with their usual air of detachment.

Despite her simmering irritation at Lee’s vanishing act, the vibrant atmosphere helped ease her tension. Last night’s events lingered in her mind, surreal and fragmented, but the occasional nod from familiar faces—faces she recognized from the underground league—served as an undeniable reminder of its reality.

Some of them even greeted her with subtle nods as she passed. It left Katie with a complicated tangle of emotions.

She tried to brush it off, but each small acknowledgment felt like a thread pulling her deeper into the web of secrets and risks. The unspoken bond among the league’s participants was palpable, granting her a sense of belonging she hadn’t asked for yet couldn’t entirely reject.

As she walked past the library, Katie stopped. A thought struck her—maybe she could dig through the library’s collections on protective charms or Quidditch history. Perhaps there’d be some obscure mention of underground leagues or defensive spells like the ones Wimus had hinted at.

“Maybe this’ll help me make sense of what I’ve gotten myself into,” she muttered, stepping inside.

As Katie approached one of the shelves, she was already running through potential topics in her mind. Her train of thought, however, was abruptly interrupted by a sudden bump from behind. She nearly dropped the book she had been reaching for and spun around, ready to deliver a sharp remark, when a familiar low voice cut through the silence.

“This is becoming a bit of a habit, Bell.”

Katie’s eyes widened as she turned fully. Marcus Flint stood before her, one hand braced casually on a nearby table, his expression calm and faintly amused.

It was the third—or was it fourth?—time they’d crossed paths unexpectedly, and it was starting to feel less like coincidence and more like inevitability.

Her eyes couldn’t help but take him in. Not a single trace of fatigue, no visible signs of last night’s game or their long walk through the Forbidden Forest. Even his shirt was perfectly pressed, without so much as a wrinkle, as if he were preparing for a formal event rather than wandering into the library.

“What are you doing here?” Katie muttered, irritation evident as she stepped back slightly.

Marcus smirked, his composure as unshakable as ever, his tone tinged with mild amusement.

“I could ask you the same,” he replied, tilting his head slightly. “Though I’d wager you’re here digging through books, trying to piece together answers to last night’s questions.”

Katie scowled but kept her response measured. No point giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hit the mark.

“And you?” she shot back, folding her arms. “What’s your excuse?”

“Let’s just say I’m keeping an eye on who’s researching what,” he said cryptically, his smirk deepening.

“You’d be better off revising for your N.E.W.T.s,” Katie quipped, her tone sharp.

Marcus chuckled softly, his smirk widening. “Right back at you, Bell. Your O.W.L.s aren’t going to pass themselves, and Quidditch won’t vanish overnight.”

Her eyes narrowed, frustration bubbling as he effortlessly turned her remark against her.

“I’ve got it handled,” she retorted, her voice cool but firm.

“Of course you do,” he said smoothly, his smirk maddeningly smug. “Why would I think otherwise?”

Katie rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin. Their exchanges always seemed to turn into verbal sparring matches, and she wasn’t in the mood to let him win this one.

Gathering the books she’d chosen, she turned toward the staircase leading to the library’s upper floor, determined to leave him behind.

She could feel his gaze following her, heavy and deliberate, but she didn’t look back, keeping her steps purposeful.

“Good luck with your research, Bell,” Marcus called after her, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.

Without breaking stride, Katie raised a dismissive hand in acknowledgment, her back straight as she stifled the urge to snap back. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her ruffled.

Reaching the second floor, Katie found a quiet corner by a window overlooking the snow-dusted hills beyond the castle. The peaceful view seemed to mock her restless mind.

She laid out her books on the small table, letting out a long sigh as she tried to shift her focus away from Flint and back to the task at hand.

But concentration wasn’t coming easily. It wasn’t just his smugness or the infuriating way he always seemed one step ahead in their conversations—it was how much space he was taking up in her thoughts.

Pull yourself together, Bell. You’re here for answers, not for him, she scolded herself, flipping open a book on protective charms with a bit more force than necessary.

The neatly printed words beckoned her to dive in, to find clarity in the magical theory she’d come searching for. But even as her eyes skimmed the page, her mind wandered back to Flint’s casual confidence, the way he could both irritate and intrigue her with a single glance.

Katie shook her head sharply, sitting up straighter in her chair. No. She wasn’t about to let Marcus Flint occupy any more of her mental space. This was her time, and she wasn’t going to waste it.

***

Two weeks later

Katie sat at the Gryffindor table, half-heartedly chewing on her toast while the chatter around her buzzed like background noise. Routine had pulled her back into its grasp, burying the memories of that night in the Forbidden Forest and her brush with the underground league under layers of homework and Quidditch practice.

Her exhaustive research in the library yielded nothing—no mention of secret leagues, no hidden notes in Hogwarts: A History, not even a whisper in obscure magical texts. Frustrated, she'd abandoned the topic altogether, telling herself it wasn’t worth the energy.

Katie’s gaze drifted to Angelina, who was recounting something amusing enough to make Alicia burst into laughter. The familiar hum of the Great Hall—clinking silverware, the aroma of toast and pumpkin juice, the casual banter—felt oddly comforting, a reminder of normalcy. For a moment, it was easy to forget about secret games, Marcus Flint, and the uneasy excitement that came with it all.

But something deep inside whispered that it wouldn’t be that simple to let it go.

She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the Slytherin table, her eyes landing—of course—on Flint. He looked entirely unbothered, finishing his breakfast with that same infuriating air of calm he always seemed to carry. Katie quickly averted her gaze, heat prickling the back of her neck.

Get a grip, she scolded herself, stabbing at her toast with unnecessary force.

Across the table, Lee Jordan was picking at his oatmeal, his attention fixed somewhere far off. He hadn’t looked her way once all morning.

Katie’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t forgotten how she’d cornered him two weeks ago, dragging him behind a suit of armor to demand an explanation.

“Where the hell were you, Jordan?” she’d hissed, keeping her voice low enough not to attract attention. “Do you have any idea what I went through last night?”

Lee had leaned back against the wall, raising his hands in surrender.

“Keep your voice down, Bell,” he murmured. “You trying to get us both caught?”

“I don’t care!” she shot back, her frustration boiling over. “You didn’t show up!”

Lee sighed, the usual humor draining from his face. He looked serious—more serious than she’d ever seen him.

“It’s tradition,” he said after a moment, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “The first time, someone takes you. The second, you go on your own. And you make it back on your own.”

Katie blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in his tone.

“And what’s that supposed to prove?” she asked, folding her arms.

“That you can handle it,” Lee said simply, meeting her eyes. “That you’re not going to lose your nerve. And you didn’t, Bell. You made it.”

His words caught her off guard, his quiet pride leaving her momentarily speechless.

“Well… I mean…” she started, then hesitated. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him how she’d actually gotten back to the castle—how Flint had guided her every step of the way, smirking at her unease, but never letting her falter.

It doesn’t matter, she’d decided then. Lee had already made up his mind, and there was no point complicating things.

Now, as she watched him absently prod at his breakfast, Katie felt a flicker of unease. For all his reassurances, she wasn’t sure she believed him.

“So, Bell,” Lee finally said, breaking the silence as he glanced up at her with a crooked grin. “Congratulations. You’re officially one of us now.”

Katie forced a small smile, though her stomach twisted.

“One of you,” she echoed, lifting her teacup to her lips. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” Lee replied, his voice mock-serious, “you know too much.” He winked, the teasing glint back in his eyes.

***

Chapter Text

They turned toward a more secluded balcony, and Katie was surprised by how much smaller it was compared to the others she had stood on during previous matches. It was compact, barely big enough for three people, but with just the two of them, it felt spacious enough.

The silence between them stretched on. Marcus leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on the arena below, where the crowd was slowly gathering. His expression was calm, almost detached, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that made it clear his thoughts were far from idle.

Katie lingered behind him, debating whether to break the quiet. The silence wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Flint was turning something over in his mind.

“Who’s playing tonight?” she asked lightly, breaking the spell.

Marcus didn’t answer immediately, his focus still on the arena.

“Pride versus the Gargoyles,” he said after a moment.

“Ah, Filch’s Gargoyles,” she replied with a small smirk, remembering how much the name had amused her during the last match.

“That’s the one,” he said, a faint huff of amusement escaping him, though his tone remained cool.

It was clear Flint wasn’t feeling particularly talkative.

Katie didn’t mind. She hadn’t asked for his company, and if her being here annoyed him, he was perfectly free to leave. Still, since he hadn’t made a move to go, she decided to push with another question.

“Why schedule another match so soon after the last one? I thought Wimus was supposed to revise the calendar.”

“Сrass and others couldn’t resist the payout this match promised,” Marcus replied smoothly.

Katie raised her eyebrows, curiosity sparking.

“How much are we talking about?”

“Enough to make them turn a blind eye to all the chaos from the last few games,” he replied, his voice clipped but matter-of-fact.

She nodded thoughtfully, her gaze shifting back to the arena below. Voices carried up from the stands—excited shouts, bursts of laughter, and the hum of conversation as the crowd began to swell, anticipating the night’s spectacle.

“Look, Marcus,” Katie began hesitantly, watching him carefully, “if you’d rather leave, you can. You don’t have to stick around.”

Flint turned his head toward her, his expression calm but tinged with amusement.

“Trying to get rid of me, Bell?” he asked, one eyebrow arching lazily.

“No!” Katie protested, a little too quickly. “I just thought… you seem like I’m bothering you.”

Marcus chuckled softly, the sound low and easy, as he leaned back against the railing.

“If you were, I’d already be gone,” he replied smoothly. “Right now, I’d rather be here than back there.” He tilted his head toward the VIP box, where voices and laughter still echoed.

Katie blinked, caught off guard by his frankness. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss for words.

“And besides,” Marcus continued, turning slightly to meet her gaze, his tone casual yet pointed, “you’re one of the few people who doesn’t get on my nerves.”

Katie froze, staring at him in stunned silence. The words hung in the air, startling in their simplicity. Marcus didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care—because he’d already turned back toward the pitch, his attention seemingly elsewhere.

Her cheeks warmed despite herself. “Doesn’t get on his nerves? Was that supposed to be a compliment?” The thought sent an unbidden jolt of something undefinable through her.

“Well… thanks, I guess,” Katie muttered, her voice quieter than she intended.

“Don’t mention it,” Marcus replied offhandedly, not even glancing at her. His focus was back on the arena, his posture easy, almost too relaxed.

The unexpected ease of his movements unnerved Katie. This wasn’t the usual Marcus Flint she’d grown accustomed to seeing—sharp, guarded, always ready to snap. Here, he seemed… lighter, as though some invisible weight had been lifted, if only for a moment.

“Bell,” he said suddenly, cutting through her musings.

“What?” she asked, startled.

Marcus turned his head slightly, smirking.

“Quit gawking at my back,” he teased lightly. “You’ll miss the best part.”

Katie flushed, her stomach flipping as she realized he’d caught her staring. Scrambling for composure, she stepped closer to the railing and followed his gaze toward the arena. Just as she did, two teams shot into view from opposite ends of the pitch. The crowd roared in unison, their cheers reverberating through the space like thunder. 

Chapter Text

Katie sprawled on her bed, sinking into the pile of clothes she'd scattered everywhere like some unhinged magpie constructing a nest. Tuesday mornings were blissfully hers, free of classes and distractions, making it the perfect time to tackle her wardrobe. Or so she’d thought.

Nearly three days had passed since the last game, yet fragments of it still haunted her at the worst moments. She could handle the chaos of the match, the roar of the crowd, even the sight of Lucian Bole barreling through his opponents like a rogue bludger. What she couldn’t handle was him.

Flint. The perpetual thorn in her side. The memory of his low whisper against her ear—"Quiet"—made her toes curl. Not in a good way. At least, she hoped it wasn’t in a good way.

Her traitorous thoughts dragged her back to that night at the pitch. His arm, slung over her shoulders with maddening ease, had left her frozen, her cheeks burning like a Charm that backfired.

She rolled onto her back, glaring at the canopy of her bed as if it were responsible for his infuriating presence in her thoughts.

“Bloody Flint,” she muttered into the sleeve of a discarded jumper, which promptly reminded her it didn’t fit anymore. Groaning, she hurled it toward the floor where it joined the ever-growing mountain of rejects.

The Wicked Sisters crooned a cheerful melody from the magical radio, completely at odds with the storm brewing inside her. March had barely begun, and Katie had ambitiously decided to reorganize her wardrobe for spring. Instead, she’d been met with the horrifying realization that last year’s clothes were too snug, her savings were nonexistent, and her hormones were staging a full-scale rebellion.

“Could’ve saved for new robes,” she muttered darkly, tossing another too-small blouse aside. “But no, I just had to bet it all on a bloody game.”

Her thoughts veered off-course and crashed headlong into Marcus Flint. Of all people.

Katie Bell, pragmatic to a fault, was now being ambushed by the most absurd daydreams about a boy who couldn’t even spell “subtle”. She slapped her cheeks, as if that might slap some sense into her.

"Honestly, Bell," she huffed. "The day you spend another thought on Flint is the day Quidditch introduces synchronized flying."

She grabbed a shirt and held it up accusingly, like it was somehow responsible for her spiraling thoughts. With a dramatic toss, she flung it into the discard pile.

The radio chirped on. The pile grew. And Katie, determined to claw back control of her day, turned back to the mess with newfound resolve.

“I have better things to do than pine over Flint,” she announced to no one in particular.

Though, annoyingly, the back of her mind whispered, Don’t you?

***

Katie hadn’t seen Marcus since the last game. The seat he usually occupied between Pucey and Montague at the Slytherin table sat conspicuously empty. He wasn’t in the corridors either, where their paths occasionally crossed, leaving an absence that somehow felt louder than his presence.

Instead, she occasionally locked eyes with Adrian Pucey or Cassius Warrington. They either looked away too quickly or pretended not to see her at all, like children avoiding trouble. It felt... deliberate, as though they knew something she didn’t. Marcus had vanished, leaving a silence that crackled with tension.

Quidditch practice for Slytherin had fallen to Montague. His leadership style was a mess of barking orders and short tempers, a far cry from Flint’s controlled authority. The team looked increasingly ragged, with arguments breaking out more often than drills.

Katie told herself not to care, but her thoughts betrayed her. Marcus’s absence lingered in her mind like an unsolved riddle, resurfacing at odd moments—when she passed the Slytherin table, spotted his teammates, or replayed scenes from the last game.

Every time, it felt as if the people around her could hear her thoughts. The twins’ glances seemed to linger, a touch too curious. Lee occasionally raised an eyebrow at her without asking any questions. Her teammates, too, prodded gently with questions that felt casual but carried a faintly knowing edge.

"Get it together, Bell," she muttered under her breath, trying to bury the thoughts under mundane tasks. But the moment she convinced herself it was just curiosity, fragments of his voice or the faint curl of his smirk would resurface. And the whole cycle of frustration would start again.

"It’s nothing," she reasoned, attempting to banish him from her mind. "I’m just curious about where he went."

But it didn’t sound convincing.

On Thursday, she finally spotted him outside the Potions classroom.

He stood near the door, talking quietly with Snape. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, his expression intense but calm. It felt like catching sight of a figure in a half-remembered dream.

Katie approached slowly, her steps quieter than intended. As she neared, fragments of their conversation slipped into her ears.

"I trust your trip home went smoothly," Snape said, his voice clipped and measured. His piercing gaze didn’t waver from Flint’s face.

Marcus opened his mouth to respond but faltered as his eyes landed on her. For a moment, his expression softened, something flickering in his gaze before it hardened again.

The air felt charged, taut with something unspoken.

"Miss Bell," Snape barked sharply, his dark eyes snapping to her. "Inside. Now."

She startled, mumbling a quick, "Yes, Professor," before darting into the classroom. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she barely resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder.

His gaze lingered on the door she’d disappeared through before he turned back to Snape, his jaw tightening.

"Very well, Mr. Flint," Snape said, his tone icy but final. "We will discuss this later."

Katie sat at her station, the lecture a faint buzz in the background. She stirred her potion absently, her movements mechanical.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, seeing Marcus had lifted an invisible weight off her chest. Relief mixed with a strange giddiness, one she tried to suppress by biting her lip and focusing on her bubbling cauldron.

"Not now, Bell," she scolded herself silently. "You’re here to brew, not... think about him."

But the image of him standing there, his expression unreadable, kept surfacing in her mind. And as much as she hated to admit it, a small part of her was glad he was back.

***

Marcus lingered outside the closed door of the Potions classroom, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the strap of his bag. The muffled sounds of students settling into their seats drifted through the heavy oak, but he remained rooted to the spot, his jaw clenched as if bracing against some unseen force. After a moment, he exhaled sharply, pivoting on his heel and striding away, the echo of his boots ricocheting off the stone walls.

The trip home had gone as disastrously as he had expected—if not worse. He hadn’t been naive enough to anticipate anything different, but the familiar frustration churned in his gut all the same. Now that he was back, the pressures he had momentarily escaped were waiting for him, larger and heavier than before.

The Quidditch match against Ravenclaw was looming, and his team still needed sharpening. The rematch with MacLaggen’s Hounds had been postponed yet again, fueling whispers and speculation. Meanwhile, the underground league semifinals demanded not just strategy but perfection—an outcome far from guaranteed given the tension within the league.

Then there were the NEWTs. Snape had wasted no time reminding him, in his usual dour tone, of the exams he couldn’t afford to neglect. And as if that wasn’t enough, Jonas Lantaner’s relentless maneuvering for dominance in the league was becoming unbearable. It grated on Marcus in a way few things could, each move by Lantaner feeling like an attempt to chip away at his authority.

And, of course, there was home—an unrelenting source of duty and expectation that Marcus could no more outrun than the shadow he cast.

Grinding his teeth, he shook his head, forcing the swirling thoughts into the back of his mind. He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, muttering under his breath, “Later. Not now.”

Straightening his spine, Marcus stepped through the concealed entrance to the Slytherin common room. The green-tinged light bathed the stone walls, the familiar chill in the air embracing him like an old adversary. For a fleeting moment, the quiet, shadowed space felt like a reprieve—before reality settled over him once more, as heavy as ever.

***

Cassius and Adrian waited in their dorm, lounging among stacks of parchment with the kind of ease that said they hadn’t done much work.

Marcus entered at an unhurried pace, tossing his bag onto the nearest chair with a practiced indifference. His gaze swept over the room, landing briefly on each of them with a hint of weariness.

“How was it?” Adrian broke the silence, his tone carefully neutral as he watched Marcus.

“Exactly as rubbish as I expected,” Marcus replied shortly. He ran a hand through his hair, a telltale sign of frustration. “So, what’s been happening here while I’ve been stuck in that pit?”

Despite their frequent letters, Marcus knew there were always things his mates left unsaid.

“MacLaggen made a right spectacle of himself,” Cassius said, smirking. “Stormed up to Lantaner during dinner and started mouthing off about the postponed match.”

Marcus sighed through his nose, his jaw tightening.

“A Gryffindor fourth-year having a pop at Lantaner? How’d that go down?” His brow arched, sceptical.

“Badly,” Adrian cut in, his lips twitching with amusement. “Jonas handled it sharpish, though. Don’t know what he said, but it was enough to shut everyone up.”

“Typical Lantaner,” Marcus muttered, rolling his eyes. “Only gets involved when it’s his name on the line.”

Cassius grinned, leaning back against the wall. “Oh, and don’t think we forgot your little favour.”

Marcus stilled for a moment, remembering. That night in the common room after the game, when he’d told them to keep an eye on Bell, he hadn’t thought it through. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, meant to stop trouble before it started. Whatever it was, he regretted making it sound like a priority.

“Good,” he said simply, his tone betraying nothing.

The two exchanged a glance that Marcus deliberately ignored. Adrian, after a beat, added, “She was looking for you.”

Marcus froze for a fraction of a second before continuing to loosen his tie. “Looking how?” he asked, voice steady despite the faint tension coiling in his chest.

“Not in so many words,” Adrian admitted, lips twitching with restrained amusement. “But it was obvious.”

Marcus’s frown deepened. He turned away, focusing intently on the task of freeing himself from the now-irritating tie.

Cassius tilted his head, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You gonna tell us what’s going on with her, or should we just keep guessing?”

Marcus shot him a side-eye. “What’s going on with who?”

Adrian snorted, folding his arms. “Bell, you prat. You’ve got us keeping tabs on her like she’s Ministry property.”

“Yeah, or maybe you’ve just decided you’re Gryffindor’s personal guardian angel,” Cassius added, his smirk widening.

Marcus huffed, finally yanking the tie loose and tossing it onto the bed. He paused before answering, weighing his words.

“I asked because I made a mistake,” he said evenly. “She got too much attention because of me.”

Cassius raised an eyebrow and glanced at Adrian, who shrugged again. “That almost sounded like you care, Flint,” he teased.

“Get stuffed, Cass,” Marcus muttered, rolling his shoulders.

Adrian chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “If you’re so keen on keeping her out of trouble, maybe stop dragging her into it.”

Marcus didn’t bother replying. Instead, he dropped onto his bed, laced his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.

After a moment, he broke the silence. “How’s training going?”

Cassius frowned, settling on the edge of his bed. “You really think leaving Montague as captain is a good idea after you’re gone?”

Marcus didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “I offered it to Adrian first. He said no.”

Adrian smirked, pushing off the wall. “Not so much ‘no’ as ‘I’m not juggling the league and the school team.’”

Cassius shook his head in mock disappointment. “Or maybe you’re just being lazy about finding a proper replacement.”

Marcus cracked one eye open, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “No, Cass. I just know no one wants to deal with Malfoy.”

Laughter rippled through the room, lightening the tension for a moment.

Cassius stood, nudging Adrian with his shoulder. “Come on, let’s leave him to his brooding.”

Marcus waved them off without a word, his gaze drifting back to the ceiling.

Once they’d left, the silence pressed in, and his thoughts started circling again. Bell. Lantaner. Semi-finals. Captain.

He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Another day in bloody paradise,” he muttered to himself, pushing off the bed. There was always something demanding his attention. Always.

***

Marcus made his way toward the Great Hall for dinner, his face set in a stony scowl. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t help but notice the way spring was wreaking havoc on the castle’s hormones. Everywhere he looked, someone was whispering in a corner, exchanging shy smiles, or—worse—holding hands like they were in some ridiculous romance novel.

“Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant,” he muttered under his breath, rounding a corner only to nearly collide with yet another giggling couple blocking the corridor.

“Flint,” a familiar, overly cheerful voice called from behind him.

Marcus didn’t stop, though his shoulders tensed briefly.

“Back already, are we?” Abraxas Wimus fell into step beside him, his trademark smirk firmly in place.

“Miss me that much?” Marcus shot back, his tone dry, without even glancing at him.

Abraxas chuckled, unfazed. “Not quite, but your grim mug being out of the picture did make things suspiciously quiet. Almost boring, really.”

Marcus grimaced, his pace never slowing.

“You need a better hobby, Wimus. Watching people’s faces isn’t it.”

“Oh, come on, Flint,” Abraxas grinned, tilting his head toward yet another lovestruck couple standing by a window. “Maybe you just need someone to improve yours. It’s spring, mate. Time to catch the bug.”

Marcus snorted, though the irritation was plain in his voice.

“Don’t start.”

“Fine, fine,” Abraxas waved a hand dismissively, his grin widening. “Though I will say, the castle’s buzzing with it. Maybe you’re the one immune to it all.”

Marcus shot him a warning glare, but Abraxas plowed on.

“Look, I won’t push my luck. I actually needed to talk to you.”

“About what?” Marcus asked, finally stopping in the middle of the corridor, his tone clipped.

“The meeting,” Abraxas said with exaggerated patience.

Marcus frowned, the realization hitting him like a Bludger to the head. The monthly steward meetings—how could he have forgotten? Not that he’d ever enjoyed those tedious gatherings, but now, with only couple months left until graduation, they felt even more like an unnecessary chore.

And, of course, the looming expectation that the graduating stewards would name their successors only added to the pressure.

“Perfect,” Marcus muttered under his breath. “Just what I needed.”

“If it makes you feel better, Lantaner’s probably just as thrilled,” Abraxas quipped. “Though I’d bet my best broom he’s already got some rich little fourth-year sycophant lined up. You know, someone who’ll hand him whatever he wants without asking questions.”

Marcus let out a short, humorless laugh.

“That does sound like him,” he admitted as they reached the doors to the Great Hall. “When’s the meeting?”

“Tomorrow evening. Same spot,” Abraxas replied, leaning casually against the wall. “Oh, and Borden’s expecting you to announce your candidate.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

“Tomorrow? Subtle as ever, isn’t he?”

“Borden hates loose ends,” Abraxas said with a shrug. “And to be fair, people are getting restless. They want to know who’s taking your place.”

Marcus fell silent, his gaze hardening. He weighed his options for a moment before replying, his voice low and firm.

“They’ll have to wait. I’m not done yet.”

With that, he pushed open the door to the Great Hall and strode toward the Slytherin table, leaving Abraxas behind.

The steward shook his head, watching his friend’s retreating figure with an amused grin.

“Stubborn as a herd of trolls,” Abraxas muttered under his breath before following him inside.

***

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual evening chatter. Marcus, seated at his usual spot at the Slytherin table, scanned the room with a scowl. Bole and Montague leaned in close, murmuring about something that looked far more serious than it likely was. Warrington gave him a brief nod from down the table, but there was no need for words. Everything was running as it should, and yet Marcus felt... off.

Not the room—himself.

His gaze wandered, almost unwillingly, to the Gryffindor table. She was easy to spot. Katie Bell, dark hair catching the flickering light of the enchanted candles, sat surrounded by Jordan and the Weasley twins. She laughed, loud and unrestrained, her voice cutting through the noise of the Hall like a firework. It was the kind of laugh that demanded attention without asking for it.

Marcus frowned, stabbing his fork into his food with unnecessary force. Why was he even looking? Her laugh irritated him in ways he couldn’t quite explain. Was it the energy she carried, so blithely unaware of everything around her? Or the fact that she hadn’t spared a single glance in his direction since he’d returned?

"Careful, Flint," drawled a familiar voice at his side. "If you glare any harder, her head might actually explode."

Marcus turned to find Adrian Pucey watching him, his smirk as irritating as ever.

"What are you on about?" Marcus muttered, his voice low.

Adrian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes darting between Marcus and the Gryffindor table with deliberate slowness.

"Let me guess," Adrian said finally, his tone infuriatingly casual. "Thinking of transferring to Gryffindor? Might suit you."

Marcus fixed him with a cold stare, one brow arching.

"Keep dreaming, Pucey," he replied, his voice flat as he returned to poking at his dinner.

Adrian hummed, clearly unimpressed with the dismissal.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "that glare of yours is starting to feel... personal. You look like you’re weighing up whether to hex someone—or yourself."

"Or you," Marcus shot back, his words clipped.

Adrian chuckled, unbothered.

"Sure it’s me?" he teased, leaning back lazily. "Because from where I’m sitting, it’s starting to look like someone’s really gotten under your skin."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Marcus growled, slamming his fork down just hard enough to make the nearby students glance over. He lowered his voice. "It’s just bloody annoying when people are that loud about being... happy."

Adrian’s grin widened, and he raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Right. That must be it. Bell’s laughter is a personal attack on your delicate sensibilities."

Marcus rolled his eyes, wrenching his attention away from the Gryffindor table. He forced himself to focus on the plate in front of him, but it was no use. His thoughts were already circling back—back to that laugh, back to the way she shouted during matches, as if her voice alone could will her team to victory.

With an exasperated sigh, Marcus reached for his goblet and took a long, deliberate sip of pumpkin juice.

"Just eat your dinner, Flint," Adrian said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair.

Marcus shot him a glare before focusing on his food with exaggerated determination.

"Prat," he muttered under his breath, but there was no real venom behind it.

***

"Have you decided yet?" Cassius asked suddenly, breaking the heavy silence.

"What?" Marcus snapped, caught off guard.

"Your successor," Cassius clarified, studying him intently. "Borden will definitely want an answer. And you look like you still haven’t made up your mind."

They walked side by side through the dim dungeon corridor, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Marcus had been mulling it over for weeks. Choosing a new captain for the official Slytherin team had been straightforward enough, but picking someone for the Leeches was proving far more complicated. He could count on one hand the people he trusted.

Warrington was in the same boat as Flint—both of them were graduating this year. Adrian, however, had another year ahead of him at Hogwarts. Cassius had joined the league a year after Marcus and had quickly secured his spot on the Leeches, while Adrian had come in even later. When it came to leadership, though, Adrian seemed like the obvious choice.

"Most likely Pucey," Marcus finally said, slowing his pace slightly.

Cassius smirked, something thoughtful flickering in his gaze.

"Adrian will be pleased. Though, honestly, I thought you’d drag it out a bit longer—keep everyone guessing. You do enjoy the theatrics."

Marcus snorted dryly, his lips quirking upward for a fraction of a second, but his expression remained clouded.

"This decision’s been harder than I expected," he muttered under his breath.

"No argument there," Cassius replied. "But what’s got you second-guessing? Adrian’s more than capable. The lad’s sharp, and he knows the league like the back of his hand."

Flint nodded absently, his thoughts far from Cassius’s reassurances. After a long pause, he admitted, almost reluctantly, "I don’t know... Lately, it feels like I’m second-guessing everything. Every call, every move. It’s... off."

Cassius, rarely hearing such admissions from Marcus, stopped in his tracks and turned to face him.

"What rubbish are you on about? You’ve never doubted yourself like this before," he said, his voice softer but still edged with curiosity.

Marcus met Cassius’s gaze for a brief moment, his expression a stoic mask, though there was a flicker of something raw in his eyes. Without elaborating, he turned away and resumed walking.

"Forget it. Just tired," he said curtly.

Cassius hesitated, watching Marcus stride ahead, before catching up. As they walked, he reached out and gave Marcus’s shoulder a firm but brief squeeze—a small, steadying gesture.

"If there’s something, you can tell me. You know that, don’t you?" Cassius said quietly.

"I know," Marcus replied, his voice low and even.

But the flat tone left no doubt that whatever weighed on him, he wasn’t about to share it.

Cassius let the silence hang between them for a moment before breaking it.

"Well, for what it’s worth," he said, his tone turning lighter, "Pucey’s the right choice. He’s got the smarts and the guts for it. And, unlike us, he’ll still be here next year to deal with whatever fresh chaos comes their way."

Marcus gave a short nod, his jaw tightening.

"That’s the idea," he muttered, though his thoughts remained elsewhere.

Cassius smirked, his usual levity returning.

"And if he messes it up, you can always come back and haunt him," he teased, earning a dry chuckle from Marcus.

"Haunt him? Might not be a bad idea," Marcus said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

For a brief moment, the tension eased, and they continued their path through the dungeon, the weight of their impending departures hanging in the background, unspoken but deeply felt.

***

Lying on his bed, listening to Bletchley’s steady snoring, Marcus stared at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight. His thoughts darted and spun like rogue Bludgers, slamming into one another and refusing to settle. His gaze drifted to the stack of letters on his nightstand, neatly piled yet full of chaos.

After a moment’s hesitation, he reached for the top letter, unfolding it with the same sense of dread he always felt. The handwriting was sharp and precise, but it carried the chill of obligation, not care.

As his eyes scanned the lines, a familiar tension coiled in his chest, tightening with every word. He didn’t need to reread it to know its contents, yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he dropped the letter back onto the stack.

“Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant,” he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

The once-proud Flint family had crumbled long before Marcus truly understood what that meant. The wealth, the estate, the house-elves—all of it had vanished three years ago when his father was sent to Azkaban. What remained was a tattered legacy, a frail mother who needed constant care, and a web of parasitic relatives who were quick to demand and slow to contribute.

The responsibility for this mess had fallen squarely on Marcus. At seventeen, he wasn’t just a student; he was the reluctant caretaker of a broken dynasty, the weight of which grew heavier with each passing day.

Every letter from home was the same: complaints, demands, and endless reminders of the burdens he couldn’t escape. His mother, with her worsening health and misguided loyalty to the family, sent the money he scraped together to the same relatives who refused to lift a finger for her. Her sense of duty eclipsed her own well-being, and it made Marcus’s blood boil.

His recent trip home had been a disaster, just as he’d expected. The decision to place his mother in St. Mungo’s had been the only logical choice, but it had ignited a firestorm among the relatives. They accused him of abandoning her, of tearing apart the family, all while conveniently forgetting their own failures.

He’d stood there, jaw clenched, listening to their self-serving tirades before doing what needed to be done. But even now, the memory left a bitter taste.

Worse than their words, though, was the ticking clock in his mind. Time was slipping away faster than he could grasp. Graduation loomed, and with it came questions he couldn’t answer. What came next? Where would he go? How would he support himself, let alone his mother?

His savings were gone, spent on hospital bills. Offers from Quidditch scouts had come in, but Marcus knew better than to pin his hopes there. The professional leagues didn’t pay well for rookies; they demanded years of grinding before even the hint of a payday. Marcus didn’t have years. He needed income now.

One more year. That’s all he needed—one year to stay in the underground league, to earn enough to stabilize things. But the system didn’t care about his needs. Graduation would cut him off from the league, and with it, his most reliable source of income.

Grinding his teeth, Marcus shoved the thought aside, only for it to be replaced by the infuriating image of Jonas Lantaner. That smug manipulator had turned the league into his personal power play, twisting it into something that served his ambitions rather than the sport.

Abraxas could have his theatrics, Borden could count his piles of galleons, and Lantaner could scheme to his heart’s content. Marcus had no patience for their games. He had a broomstick, two friends, and a body that was already starting to feel the strain of years spent pushing it too far.

His gaze flicked back to the letter before he shoved it away, as though banishing it from sight might silence his thoughts.

One year. One bloody year, and everything would be different.

And then there was Bell.

The thought of her brought a fresh wave of irritation. Her sudden involvement in the league was too coincidental for his liking. The Weasley twins were clearly preparing to debut their own team next year, and Katie was obviously their ace in the hole.

It wasn’t her talent that annoyed him—her skill was undeniable. It was her presence. She was too bright, too open, too unguarded for the cutthroat nature of the league. Her sincerity made her both an asset and a liability.

He clenched his jaw, recalling Abraxas’s offhand remark about her.

If the twins want her to survive, they’d better teach her quickly, he thought grimly. The league didn’t forgive mistakes, and it certainly didn’t coddle anyone unprepared for its demands.

At least Lantaner would be gone next year. That thought brought a flicker of relief. Jonas’s graduation would strip him of his hold over the league.

But the relief was fleeting. Marcus knew Jonas too well to believe he’d leave quietly. No doubt he was grooming someone to take his place, ensuring his influence lingered even after he was gone.

Marcus turned onto his side, but sleep still refused to come. His mind kept circling back—to Bell, to the league, to the ever-mounting problems at home.

Round and round it goes, he thought bitterly.

But Marcus Flint wasn’t the type to sit idly by. He had a plan, rough and incomplete as it was. He knew what needed to be done, even if it meant making sacrifices.

Reputation? It could be rebuilt. Pride? Irrelevant. Honor? Overrated.

The opinions of others didn’t matter. In the league, survival was the only currency that counted. And Marcus knew his goal: one year.

One year to set things right.

He stared at the ceiling, his eyes cold but resolute.

“Things are going to change,” he murmured, his voice low but unyielding.

For the first time that night, the tension in his chest loosened—just slightly.

Chapter Text

Despite being a Friday, Katie’s day had started in spectacularly disastrous fashion. She’d overslept her Transfiguration class and arrived late, earning one of Professor McGonagall’s legendary scowls.

"You’ve got talent, Miss Bell," McGonagall said, her lips pressed into a disapproving line. "If only you could manage to arrive on time to demonstrate it."

Katie mumbled a half-hearted apology, her cheeks flaming, before slinking into her seat. It wasn’t the first time she’d been late this term, and judging by the glint in McGonagall’s eyes, it wouldn’t be the last time Katie was reminded of it.

Her day spiraled downhill from there.

She was late for all her classes, spilling pumpkin juice on her blouse at lunch (and somehow turning the stain an embarrassing shade of blue when Alicia tried to fix it), and as the cherry on top, Quidditch training—her one chance to blow off some steam—turned into a spectacular mess.

At first, training had seemed promising. The drills were straightforward, the team focused, and Katie allowed herself a glimmer of hope that the day might finally redeem itself.

Naturally, that hope didn’t last long.

"Katie!"

Oliver Wood’s sharp voice sliced through the air, startling her mid-flight. Racing toward the hoops, Katie whipped her head around to face him, irritation prickling at her neck.

"What?" she snapped, her tone just shy of insolent.

"You were supposed to pass the Quaffle to Spinnet, not barrel toward the hoops like a rogue Bludger!" Oliver barked, his expression a mix of exasperation and reproach.

Katie gritted her teeth, frustration bubbling under her skin. She’d seen the perfect opening—why shouldn’t she have taken the shot herself?

"I was in a good position," she said defensively, though she tried to keep her voice steady.

"That’s not the point!" Wood shot back, flying closer to meet her glare head-on. "We’re practicing a set play, not improvising! If everyone does their own thing, the team falls apart."

Katie exhaled sharply, lowering her gaze to the Quaffle in her hands. She knew he was right, but it didn’t make it any less infuriating. The rush of adrenaline from spotting that perfect scoring chance still thrummed through her veins, making it hard to let go of the moment.

"Fine," she muttered, the annoyance unmistakable in her voice.

"Good," Oliver replied, though his stern tone made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced. He gestured for her to reset. "Again, from the top."

Katie flew back to her position, gripping the Quaffle tightly, but the desire to prove herself simmered just beneath the surface. She could follow the plan—she knew that—but a stubborn part of her refused to believe she was only as good as her next pass.

Why didn’t Wood trust her? She and Alicia had joined the team in the same year, and yet it felt like Alicia always got more freedom on the pitch. More respect. Katie had worked just as hard, practiced just as long, and was every bit as skilled. She was tired of feeling like she had to prove herself over and over again.

By the end of training, the frustration bubbling inside her had reached a boiling point. Her teammates’ cheerful chatter only added to the sting, each laugh and easy conversation making her feel more isolated.

Katie didn’t even glance toward the locker room. Instead, she stormed off toward the clearing behind the Quidditch pitch, her steps quick and uneven. Hidden by the thick cluster of trees, she clutched her old, battered broom tightly, her knuckles white with frustration.

Without a second thought, she hurled the broom to the ground and let out a raw scream, her voice echoing through the still evening. The sound hung in the air, a sharp, unfiltered expression of everything she’d been holding in.

Breathing heavily, she snatched the broom back up, swung it violently at the nearest tree, and let the dull thuds reverberate through her arms. It wasn’t about the broom or even Wood anymore—it was about all of it. The impossible expectations, the constant need to prove her worth, and the gnawing frustration of never quite feeling enough.

Each strike felt like a release, an outlet for the anger bubbling under her skin. But mid-swing, something caught her attention—a faint flicker of movement in the corner of her eye.

She froze, her arm still raised, the broom poised to strike. Slowly, she turned her head, her breath catching as her gaze landed on a figure sitting casually in the shadows beneath a nearby tree.

Marcus Flint. A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, the faint orange glow illuminating the sharp lines of his smirk.

Next to him, Cassius Warrington was leaning over, caught mid-motion as he reached for the cigarette Marcus held out to him. Both of them froze in the moment, Marcus’s fingers still outstretched with the cigarette, Warrington’s hand halfway toward it.

Katie’s heart raced, a mix of embarrassment and anger burning through her. Marcus exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his dark eyes locking on hers with infuriating calmness. His lips curled into a smirk as he spoke, his voice low and dripping with amusement.

“Well,” he drawled, the cigarette still perched between his fingers. “Don’t stop on our account.”

Katie froze for a heartbeat, her emotions warring between fury and humiliation. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her broom before she forced herself to stand tall.

“Go to hell, Flint,” she bit out, her voice sharp enough to cut.

Marcus leaned back against the tree trunk, utterly unfazed. The cigarette smoldered between his fingers as his smirk widened.

“Already there, Bell,” he shot back lazily.

Katie didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. With a jerk of her arm, she slung the broom over her shoulder, turned on her heel, and marched away. Her footsteps echoed with determination, but the heat prickling at her neck betrayed her frustration.

Marcus watched her go, his smirk slipping slightly as he straightened, his dark eyes narrowing. For a moment, he seemed genuinely surprised, his gaze lingering on the sharp determination in her steps. A flicker of curiosity crossed his face, but he quickly masked it behind a veil of indifference.

“Whatever pissed her off – her broom didn’t deserve it,” Cassius muttered, breaking the silence as Katie’s figure disappeared into the shadows.

Marcus smirked, exhaling a slow puff of smoke. “Reckon it’s had worse. Girl’s got a temper, though.”

Cassius sighed and finally took the cigarette from Marcus’s hand, fumbling with his wand to light it. The tip sputtered uselessly, the glow fading before it could properly catch. Marcus, watching his friend’s efforts with thinly veiled amusement, let out a low chuckle.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, battered Muggle lighter. The metal was scratched, the edges worn smooth from years of use, but it still sparked to life with a flick of his thumb.

“Here,” Marcus said, holding the flame out toward Cassius with a knowing smirk. “Try not to set yourself on fire.”

Cassius rolled his eyes but leaned forward, letting the cigarette catch. He took a drag, only to immediately cough, a harsh, spluttering sound breaking the silence. He winced, his face twisting in discomfort as he quickly pulled the cigarette away from his lips.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he waved a hand in front of his face like it would help. “How do you smoke this muggle stuff without choking to death?”

Marcus chuckled, a low, amused sound as he leaned back against the tree.

“Practice,” he said with a smirk, watching Cassius’s struggles with evident satisfaction. “And maybe not inhaling like you’re trying to drain the thing in one go.”

Cassius shot him a glare, still coughing slightly, before taking a much more tentative drag. The smoke still burned, but this time he managed not to choke, though his expression remained one of clear disdain.

Suddenly Cassius leaned out from behind the tree, noticing a familiar figure cautiously walking along the path toward Hogsmeade with a group of friends, and called sharply, “OI, CORNELIA!”

The group of girls startled, turning toward the sound of his voice. Marcus, intrigued, leaned his head slightly out from behind the tree, glancing in their direction with mild curiosity.

Cassius, his irritation evident, shouted again, this time louder and with a commanding edge. “Get back to the castle, NOW!”

Cornelia, his younger sister, stamped her foot in defiance, her face flushed with frustration. “I’LL GO WHEREVER I WANT!” she retorted, her voice shrill with indignation. Then, noticing Marcus, she paused, her defiance faltering. Her gaze shifted to him, her expression softening into one of pleading, as if silently begging for his intervention.

Marcus simply smirked, shaking his head slowly in a silent but firm refusal.

Cornelia’s shoulders slumped in defeat. After a moment of glancing between her brother and Marcus, she let out an exasperated sigh and turned around, trudging back toward the castle with her friends trailing reluctantly behind.

Cassius, still glaring after her, muttered under his breath, “She doesn’t listen to her own brother, but you? Oh, she listens to you, doesn’t she?”

Marcus exhaled a lazy puff of smoke, his smirk growing as he leaned back against the tree.

“Can you blame her?” he replied casually, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ve got a certain… authority.”

Warrington shook his head, taking another drag from the cigarette before speaking, his voice edged with irritation.

“I still have questions for you—why the hell did you bring her to that match? You know how Crass looks at her.”

He coughed again, harder this time, and grimaced in disgust. “Ah, to hell with it. Take this.” He shoved the half-smoked cigarette back toward Marcus, his expression twisted in a mix of frustration and discomfort.

Marcus snorted, plucking the cigarette from Cassius’s hand with a smirk. “You’re hopeless,” he said, flicking ash to the ground as he took a slow drag, clearly unbothered. “And for the record, I didn’t bring her anywhere. She wanted to come, and who am I to tell her no?”

Cassius narrowed his eyes, studying him intently. “Yeah, but why the hell did you have to leave her to fend off Crass? Practically threw her into his arms.”

Marcus sighed, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate puff before speaking. “If I tell you it was necessary, would that make you feel better?”

Cassius glanced away, his jaw tightening. Anything involving Cornelia always managed to throw him off balance, his protective instincts overriding everything else.

Marcus watched him for a moment, his expression shifting from amused to serious. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice quieter, but firm.

Cassius hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. Marcus pushed himself off the tree, dusting off his hands before resting one on Cassius’s shoulder.

“Then you know I’ve got it under control,” Marcus said, his tone calm but resolute. “Crass won’t get near her again. I’ll make sure of it.”

Cassius glanced at him, his irritation ebbing slightly as he took in the certainty in Marcus’s voice. Finally, he gave a small sigh, nodding again.

“You’d better,” Cassius muttered, his tone half a warning, half a grudging acceptance.

They both sat in silence for a while, Cassius gazing at the evening sky while Marcus finished his second cigarette. The calm was interrupted when they spotted a familiar figure approaching—the person they’d been waiting for.

Adrian Pucey, as usual, looked far too polished for the occasion. Dressed in a sleek black cloak with a deep navy sweater peeking out from beneath, he carried himself with the air of someone arriving at a gala rather than a students gathering.

Cassius raised an eyebrow as Adrian stopped in front of them. “What’s with the getup? You look like you’re heading to the Ministry Gala.”

Adrian grinned and spun in place with an exaggerated flourish, showing off his ensemble. “And you look like you’re heading for detention. Honestly, Cass, still rocking the school uniform? Were you planning to party like that?”

Cassius shot him a withering look before shifting his gaze to Marcus. That’s when he noticed Marcus’s outfit: a black turtleneck paired with an elegant black cloak—distinctly not the standard school robes.

Cassius groaned, muttering a quiet curse under his breath as realization struck. Of course. He’d forgotten the unspoken tradition: steward meetings were often followed by impromptu drinking sessions.

Marcus caught his expression and couldn’t help but grin. “Figured it out, did you?”

“Brilliant,” Cassius muttered, rolling his eyes. “Let me guess, I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo.”

Adrian clapped him on the shoulder, barely containing his amusement. “Don’t worry, mate. No one’s judging—well, except everyone. But I’m sure you’ll survive.”

Marcus flicked away the remnants of his cigarette and stood, his grin widening. “Might want to consider an upgrade next time, Cass. Unless you enjoy looking like a prefect.”

Cassius glared at both of them but eventually sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with. And if anyone makes a crack about my uniform, I’m blaming both of you.”

“Deal,” Adrian said cheerfully, though his smirk suggested otherwise.

***

They walked the familiar path toward the Shrieking Shack, their footsteps light on the well-worn trail. Friday night excursions had long been a cherished tradition among the older students at Hogwarts. It was the perfect time to slip away unnoticed.

Professors, eager to enjoy a break from their students and classes, were more lenient on Friday evenings, often retreating to their own quarters or gathering in the staff room for a quiet drink. The older students had quickly caught on to this trend, using it to plan their own late-night escapades.

Some groups booked discreet spaces at the Three Broomsticks, convincing Madam Rosmerta to lend them the upstairs rooms where they could indulge in smuggled firewhisky and clandestine conversations. 

The Stewards’ meetings had also found their home in this sweet spot of time and location. By tradition, they were held in the Shrieking Shack—a place so infamous for its eerie reputation that no one would think to check it. If anyone did stumble across them, they’d find what appeared to be nothing more than an innocent gathering of “Quidditch enthusiasts.”

Thanks to Wimus’s meticulous preparation, the disguise held strong. The meeting room inside the Shack was covered in layers of convincing clutter: Quidditch posters adorned the walls, old playbooks were scattered across tables, and snippets of articles from the Daily Prophet were pinned like trophies of fandom. Everything about it screamed harmless obsession, masking the more calculated undercurrents of their gatherings.

“Looks authentic, doesn’t it?” Wimus had once joked, gesturing to his handiwork. “Enough to fool even McGonagall herself if she ever came sniffing about.”

That attention to detail, combined with the Shack’s remote location, made it the perfect spot for the Stewards to meet—and for their secrets to stay hidden.

When they stepped inside, they saw the room was already alive with conversation. The gathering had grown far beyond what it used to be. Meetings that were once exclusive to Stewards had, under Lantaner’s influence, expanded to include team captains as well.

The old, narrowly focused structure had dissolved. With Jonas’s changes, the lines between Stewards, Watchers, and captains had blurred. Now, instead of holding separate Captain Meetings when needed, everyone gathered here. The agenda for these sessions was determined by the so-called “Chief Stewards,” which included Crass Borden and Abraxas Wimus. Marcus, who had been appointed Order Steward two years ago, barely had a chance to settle into the position before Jonas restructured the league to suit his vision.

Now, Marcus’s title carried little weight—it was reduced to that of a regular Steward, a role hardly distinguishable from a Watcher. The only real difference was that Watchers operated anonymously, their identities known only to Lantaner. At least, that’s what Jonas thought. But Marcus, with his years of experience in the league, had pieced together the identities of most Watchers without much difficulty.

Despite the league's growing attendance—nearly 100 students at each match—the administrative structure remained small, consisting of around 20 to 30 individuals, including the elusive Watchers.

Cassius nudged Marcus as they weaved through the room, his voice low and tinged with amusement.

“Looks like Lantaner decided to give this one a miss.”

Marcus glanced around, his sharp eyes scanning the attendees. Sure enough, Jonas Lantaner and Crass Borden were conspicuously absent.

Aside from Marcus, Cassius, and Adrian, all five team captains were accounted for, except for McLaggen. His absence was unsurprising; at fourteen, he was far too young for this crowd. One of his older teammates had taken his place, filling in with an air of awkward seriousness.

The remaining Stewards had shown up as expected, their expressions ranging from bored to vaguely attentive. Wimus, standing at the front with a stack of notes in hand, was already working to bring a semblance of order to the room, his furrowed brow betraying his efforts to wrangle the uncooperative energy of the attendees. Everyone began settling into their seats, the low murmur of conversation fading as the room prepared for the meeting to start. Marcus scanned the room, his gaze landing on Ivar Brennan. With a subtle nod, Marcus acknowledged him, and Ivar responded in kind, a quick, easy smile flashing across his face before he took his seat.

The door creaked open, and Crass entered, prompting an immediate scowl from Cassius and an unspoken wave of irritation from everyone else. Crass had that effect on people.

Tall, rail-thin, and perpetually jittery, his snub-nosed face carried the kind of self-importance that made you want to avoid him entirely. He shuffled into the room with his signature anxious energy, making a beeline for Wimus as though the seat beside him was a throne.

Clearing his throat with theatrical flair, Crass puffed up his chest and addressed the room, his tone dripping with self-importance. “Jonas conveyed his deepest regrets,” he began, the words slow and deliberate, as if delivering groundbreaking news. “He will not be able to attend today’s meeting. However, he has entrusted Wimus and myself with the authority to oversee proceedings in his stead.”

His eyes flicked briefly to Marcus and Cassius, lingering just long enough to add a smug edge as he continued, “I trust you understand that preparation for the NEWTs is now Jonas’s top priority.” The insinuation was clear—he wanted to provoke them.

Cassius rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder he didn’t fall out of his chair.

Marcus, on the other hand, leaned back, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How noble of him,” Marcus drawled just loudly enough to be heard.

Crass stiffened slightly, his attempt at smug superiority faltering for a moment. Cassius, catching Marcus’s tone, leaned closer and muttered with a grin, “Maybe Crass should prep for basic social skills while Jonas studies NEWTs.”

Marcus chuckled under his breath but didn’t respond, content to watch as Crass tried—and failed—to assert control over the room.

“First things first,” Abraxas started, his voice carrying easily over the quiet room. “The semifinals matches will begin next week, with three games for each team, as always. Now we’ll decide the pairings.”

“Was it really necessary to drag all the captains here for this?” Anna Sprout interjected, her tone dripping with annoyance. Her team hadn’t even made it to the semifinals, and the bitterness in her voice was palpable. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, making it abundantly clear she’d rather be anywhere else.

Abraxas didn’t so much as glance at her. “The second item on today’s agenda,” he continued, undeterred, “is for our graduates to announce their successors. Let me remind everyone of the procedure—you’ll hand me a slip of parchment with the name written on it.”

“And lastly,” Abraxas added, pausing for effect, “we have a discussion—less an announcement—regarding Jonas’s proposals for new rules.”

He glanced around the room briefly, gauging the varied reactions. Marcus’s expression remained unreadable, though Cassius and Adrian looked like they were already bracing themselves for the inevitable chaos the last item would bring.

Abraxas stepped forward, a battered drawstring bag dangling from his hand. He shook it theatrically, the sound of clinking name tags drawing the room’s attention.

“Alright, let’s settle this properly, shall we?” he announced, his smirk firmly in place. “The pairings for the semifinals will be decided by the most unbiased method available—me randomly pulling names from this bag.”

A few groans and chuckles rippled through the room. Cassius muttered something under his breath about Abraxas loving any excuse to put on a show, while Marcus remained silent, his sharp gaze fixed on Wimus.

Abraxas reached into the bag, swirling the contents around for dramatic effect. “First team up…” He pulled out a name tag, holding it high. “Deadly Leeches!”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“And their opponents will be…” Abraxas dove back into the bag, pausing just long enough to milk the anticipation. “Star Forgers!”

A murmur of interest spread through the room. Adrian Pucey, seated a few rows back, exchanged a glance with Marcus, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Looks like we’re kicking off with a classic,” Abraxas said, tossing the name tags onto the table in front of him. “Now for the next matchup.”

He reached into the bag again, this time drawing out another name. “Dungeon Furies!”

Several heads turned toward Rolanda Abbott.

“And their unlucky opponents…” Abraxas pulled the final name tag with a flourish. “Filch’s Gargoyles!”

A few stifled laughs echoed through the room, while Lucian Bole rolled his eyes. “Brilliant. We’re up against the league’s resident wrecking crew,” he muttered.

Abraxas ignored the commentary. “Well, there you have it, folks. Deadly Leeches versus Star Forgers, and Dungeon Furies against Filch’s Gargoyles. Should be entertaining, if nothing else.”

His words hung in the air, a deliberate mix of challenge and mockery, before he stepped back, tossing the empty bag onto the table. “Good luck, everyone. Try not to embarrass yourselves—or do. Makes it more fun for me.”

Marcus seized the moment to speak, his tone measured. “Before we move on, why not jump to the third point you mentioned earlier? I’m guessing these proposed rule changes concern the final matches?”

Abraxas exchanged a quick glance with Crass, who cleared his throat nervously before answering. “That’s correct.” He hesitated, shifting slightly in his chair, then continued, “Jonas is suggesting we reconsider the ban on accepting bets during the final.”

A ripple of murmurs swept through the room, the low hum of surprise and skepticism buzzing like an invisible current.

Marcus’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as his brows furrowed. The betting ban was one of the league’s most sacred inner rules, a cornerstone that reminded both players and spectators of the league’s true purpose. It wasn’t about money or manipulation—it was about the game itself.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice low but firm. “Reconsidering, is he?” His tone carried a sharp edge, though his words were calm. “I’d be very interested to hear why he thinks dismantling the foundation of the league is a good idea.”

The murmurs grew louder, players exchanging glances that ranged from confused to concerned. Crass shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the room’s collective attention. “It’s… well, Jonas believes it could generate more excitement,” he offered weakly, avoiding Marcus’s piercing stare.

Marcus let out a short, humorless laugh. “Excitement,” he repeated, his voice heavy with disdain. “Right. Because what we really need is for the finals to devolve into chaos.”

Abraxas raised a hand, cutting through the rising tension. “We’ll discuss it properly when Jonas is here to explain himself. For now, let’s stick to the agenda.”

Marcus leaned back, his expression still stormy, but he nodded. “Fine,” he said curtly. “But this discussion isn’t over.”

Ivar cast a wary glance at Marcus, his unease clear in his furrowed brow. Marcus, unfazed, simply shook his head, a silent gesture that seemed to say, not now. The murmurs quieted, but the unease lingered, like a shadow cast over the meeting.

Wimus sighed heavily, then plastered on a grin in a clear attempt to lighten the tension. "Alright, everyone! In the spirit of tradition, let’s make the most of this Friday evening and have a drink!" With a flourish of his wand, the tablecloth on a nearby table vanished, revealing a tempting spread of bottles: firewhiskey, mulled mead, and a few mysterious-looking options that promised something far stronger.

Marcus rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed by the theatrics. Rising from his seat, he walked over to Wimus.

"Shall we get on with it?" he said pointedly, his tone leaving no room for debate, a clear reminder of one of the night's critical agenda points—the announcement of successors.

Abraxas met Marcus's gaze, giving a small nod of acknowledgment before gesturing for him to follow. Together, they headed toward a smaller, adjacent room, leaving the rest of the group to their impromptu celebration.

***

The smaller room smelled damp and stale. Wimus turned to Marcus with a grin, extending his hand. Marcus reached into his trouser pocket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment, but he didn’t hand it over. Instead, he fixed Abraxas with a probing look.

"I thought all graduates were supposed to announce their successors today," Marcus said evenly. "Or do the rules conveniently not apply to Lantaner?"

Abraxas dropped his hand and rolled his eyes, his grin slipping into a resigned smirk.

"Ask his private secretary," Abraxas said, tilting his head toward the door in an obvious jab at Crass.

"For fuck's sake," Marcus muttered, rolling his eyes as he turned the folded parchment in his hands. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he held it out toward Abraxas. But just before placing it in his hand, Marcus fixed him with a sharp look.

"Don’t announce it until Lantaner names his successor. And not a word to anyone," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Abraxas nodded solemnly, taking the parchment. Yet as he unfolded it and read the name, his eyes widened in disbelief. He looked back at Marcus, his voice low and incredulous.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

Marcus’s expression remained completely serious.

"No joke. And if you value your life," he added with quiet intensity, "you’ll keep it a bloody secret."

Abraxas stared at him for a moment longer, clearly unsettled, before nodding reluctantly and tucking the parchment safely into his pocket.

***

When Marcus returned, he immediately noticed Adrian and Cassius both nursing glasses of firewhiskey and poorly hiding their amusement, their eyes fixed on something across the room. Following their gaze, Marcus spotted Ivar Brennan standing awkwardly behind Anna Sprout, who was deep in conversation with Rolanda.

“What’s this about?” Marcus asked, raising an eyebrow at his friends.

Adrian, barely containing his smirk, replied, “Just watching Ivar make a proper mess of flirting with Anna.”

Sure enough, the tall, broad-shouldered Ivar looked painfully out of place. He lingered behind Anna, trying to look nonchalant as he leaned against the wall. Rolanda glanced over her shoulder, arching a skeptical brow at him. Ivar, catching her look, offered a weak, lopsided smile.

Trying to recover, he shifted his weight and accidentally knocked a candelabra off its bracket on the wall. The metallic crash echoed through the room. Cassius and Adrian doubled over with laughter, barely containing themselves as Ivar fumbled to pick up the fallen candelabra, his face reddening.

“Ah, bloody hell,” Ivar muttered under his breath, his accent thick with frustration. He glanced at Anna, who, fortunately for him, seemed too engrossed in her conversation with Rolanda to notice. Straightening his shoulders, he muttered to himself, “Didn’t mean fer that to happen.”

Marcus sighed, shaking his head. “He’s been mad for her for years. Does he ever actually say anything to her?”

Cassius grinned. “No, but he’s getting quite good at destroying the decor.”

Adrian added, “At this rate, he’ll end up knocking down the whole shack before she even knows he fancies her.”

Apparently, Anna heard the commotion behind her and finally turned, her brow furrowed slightly in confusion.

“Oh, um… hi, Ivar,” she said, her voice polite but distant. She offered him a brief, cordial smile, clearly unsure what to make of him clutching a candelabra like it was a precious heirloom.

Before Ivar could muster a reply—his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water—Anna turned back and walked off, rejoining Rolanda without a second thought.

Ivar stood there, frozen in place, still gripping the candelabra like a lifeline. His face was a mix of mortification and defeat, his broad shoulders slumping under the weight of the moment.

Across the room, Marcus, Adrian, and Cassius couldn’t contain themselves any longer, bursting into fresh peals of laughter.

"Poor lad," Adrian said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Didn’t even get a full sentence out."

Cassius raised his glass again, shaking his head. "That might’ve been the saddest thing I’ve ever seen."

Marcus smirked, watching as Ivar gingerly set the candelabra back in its place before slinking toward them, muttering under his breath.

"At least he’s persistent," Marcus quipped, earning another round of laughter from his friends.

As Ivar drew closer, Marcus raised his glass toward him in a mock toast.

"To bravery," Marcus said dryly, his tone laced with amusement. "Though maybe next time, mate, skip the candelabra."

Ivar glared half-heartedly, his ears burning red as he plopped into an empty chair beside them.

"Feck off," he muttered, his Irish brogue thicker than usual in his embarrassment. "It’s not like I planned to bloody redecorate while tryin’ to talk to her."

Cassius chuckled, clapping Ivar on the shoulder. "Well, mate, you definitely left an impression. Just maybe not the one you were aiming for."

Ivar groaned, burying his face in his hands while Adrian poured him a glass of firewhisky.

"Here," Adrian said, sliding the glass toward him. "You’ve earned it."

"Cheers," Ivar grumbled, lifting the glass and taking a generous sip, though his scowl never quite left his face.

The evening carried on as if nothing had happened. Cassius managed to hand over the parchment with the name of his successor, following suit with the other graduating captains and Stewards. No one asked any questions—it wasn’t the custom.

The tradition dictated that the names would remain sealed until the final meeting, where the announcements would be made all at once. Until then, the parchments sat as silent promises, their secrets known only to Wimus.

Wimus, for his part, seemed to take the role of keeper of secrets a bit too lightly. By the time the second bottle of mead was passed around, he was already flushed and unsteady, slurring his words in an attempt to make a toast.

“To… to the league!” Wimus declared, swaying slightly as he raised his goblet. “And to… to all of you for being... uh, brilliant or something!”

Adrian snorted into his drink, whispering to Marcus, “Two goblets in, and he’s already half-pissed. Impressive, even by Hufflepuff standards.”

Marcus smirked, shaking his head. “He’ll be under the table before the end of the night.”

As if to prove him right, Wimus tripped over his own feet while trying to sit back down, narrowly avoiding a tumble by grabbing onto the edge of the table. A few muffled laughs rippled through the room, but most ignored the display, too busy chatting or pouring themselves another drink.

Meanwhile, Cassius leaned toward Marcus, a wry grin on his face. “At least he won’t remember half of what’s been handed to him tonight. Not exactly reassuring, is it?”

Marcus rolled his eyes but said nothing, letting the chaos unfold. For all the pretense of formality earlier, the evening was devolving into the usual Friday night spectacle—a blur of firewhisky-fueled debates, off-key singing, and a few brave (or foolish) souls trying to outdrink each other.

For the graduates, this was one of their last Fridays to enjoy the game, the chaos, and the company—before the weight of the outside world claimed them.

***

For Katie, Friday evening was far from enjoyable. Still red-faced and fuming after that awkward encounter with Marcus and Cassius, she made a firm decision: once she stepped into the Gryffindor common room, she wasn’t leaving. Not for dinner, not for anything.

Avoiding the usual post-dinner chatter, she climbed the spiral staircase to her dormitory, grateful that most of her roommates were still at the Great Hall or elsewhere. The silence was welcome, though it didn’t do much to calm the storm brewing inside her.

Throwing herself onto her bed, Katie buried her face in her pillow with a muffled groan. The anger she felt wasn’t directed at anyone else—it was firmly aimed at herself. The embarrassing pumpkin juice incident, the disaster at training, and, of course, her outburst in the clearing—all of it churned inside her like a bubbling cauldron. 

Why couldn’t she just let things roll off her back? Why did she have to let her temper get the best of her? Her mind kept replaying the scene in the clearing: the broom, the tree, and—ugh—Flint and Warrington. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory away, but it clung to her like a stubborn charm.

She skipped dinner entirely, too irritated to face anyone, and instead pulled out her Charms textbook. It was a half-hearted effort; she stared at the same page for nearly an hour without registering a single word. Eventually, she snapped it shut and flopped onto her back, staring at the canopy above her bed.

The hours dragged on, her frustration ebbing into exhaustion, but sleep eluded her. The dormitory filled gradually with the sounds of her roommates returning, whispers and laughter fading as the night wore on. Katie rolled over, pulling the covers tightly around herself, but her mind refused to quiet.

Some time after midnight, she finally drifted off, her dreams restless and fragmented.

But her peace didn’t last long.

At around five in the morning, Katie was jolted awake by a loud crash echoing from the common room below. Her heart pounded as she sat up, disoriented. The muffled sounds of voices and hurried footsteps followed, accompanied by more clattering.

“What in Merlin’s name?” she muttered groggily, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

The noise didn’t stop, and her curiosity won out over her sleep-deprived irritation. Grabbing her wand from the nightstand, she wrapped herself in a thick blanket and padded to the door, cracking it open to peek down the staircase.

When Katie finally descended the stairs, the scene that greeted her was nothing short of astonishing.

Lee Jordan, looking thoroughly disheveled and unmistakably, disastrously drunk, was slumped between the surprising support of none other than Marcus Flint and a Ravenclaw she didn’t recognize.

For a moment, Katie just stood there, gripping the banister, blinking at the absurdity unfolding in the common room. Marcus looked marginally better than Lee but still had a slightly crumpled appearance—his neat black turtleneck askew, his hair a bit ruffled. Ivar, on the other hand, seemed far less affected, though the way he grimaced every time Lee’s weight shifted suggested he was regretting every decision that had led him to this point.

"Oi, steady, Jordan," Marcus muttered, adjusting his grip as Lee sagged further into him, his legs wobbling like a newborn foal’s.

“‘M fine,” Lee slurred, his words spilling out in a garbled mess. He tried to wave his hand dismissively but ended up swiping the air. “Totally fine. Just... jus’ need t’ sit... right here…”

Instead of heading for the couch, as everyone probably hoped, Lee made an attempt to sink to the floor, pulling both Marcus and Ivar down with him.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Marcus groaned, hauling Lee back up with a huff. He shot a pointed look at Ivar. “Your turn.”

Ivar sighed dramatically, shifting his grip under Lee’s arm. “I told you not to let him have that third—what did he even call it? ‘Phoenix Firebomb’?!”

Katie finally found her voice, though it came out sharper than she intended. “What in the name of all that’s magical is going on here?”

Three pairs of eyes turned toward her. Well, two pairs—Lee’s barely managed a bleary half-focus.

“Oh, brilliant,” Marcus muttered under his breath, his lips curling into a wry smirk. “Good morning, Bell”

Chapter Text

“Oh, brilliant,” Marcus muttered under his breath, his lips curling into a wry smirk. “Good morning, Bell.”

It was only then that Katie realized just how drunk Marcus was. Both he and Ivar were swaying precariously, their combined effort to stay upright as shaky as a badly built tower. Marcus’s grip on Lee Jordan was tenuous at best, and Ivar looked like he was one misstep away from joining Lee in unconsciousness.

Katie sighed and stepped closer, only to freeze as the sharp, overpowering smell of alcohol hit her like a Bludger to the face. Wrinkling her nose, she immediately took a step back.

"Right," she said briskly, her hands on her hips. "Dump him on the sofa. Details later."

Marcus chuckled at her commanding tone, his smirk deepening. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled mockingly, shifting Lee’s weight to let him go.

But before he could, Lee suddenly jolted awake, his body lurching as he clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Merlin’s sake,” Katie exclaimed, backing up further. “Is he going to—”

“Oi, not on me!” Marcus barked, panic flashing briefly in his eyes as he jerked away from Lee, leaving Ivar to scramble and steady the poor boy.

“Do somethin’!” Ivar called helplessly, half-catching Lee as he doubled over again.

Katie groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose before striding forward. “Get him to the sofa now, before he—”

A retching sound cut through her words, making all three of them freeze.

“—does exactly that,” Katie finished grimly, glaring at Marcus and Ivar.

Marcus froze, his expression souring as he turned his head away in disgust. “Brilliant,” he muttered, this time without any trace of humor.
Lee’s stomach promptly emptied itself on the floor.

Dumping Jordan unceremoniously onto the sofa, Ivar muttered something about needing air and bolted for the exit, leaving Katie and Marcus alone in the chaos.

Katie glared at the mess Lee had left behind—a disgusting puddle on the common room floor that seemed to mock her from its vile existence. Her fists clenched at her sides as she felt the simmer of anger rise.

Meanwhile, Marcus staggered toward an armchair and dropped into it heavily, the overwhelming stench finally hitting him. He pressed a hand to his temple, closing his eyes tightly as his stomach churned.

“You alright there, Flint?” Katie asked sarcastically, her tone cutting.

“Peachy,” he muttered without opening his eyes, waving a hand dismissively. “Though the smell might kill me first.”

Katie rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the mess. Without a word, she pulled out her wand and began cleaning it up with sharp, efficient flicks. The foul puddle vanished bit by bit, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender as her cleaning charm did its work.

From his seat, Marcus cracked one eye open, his gaze drawn to her without intention. He hadn’t noticed before, but now, in the dim light of the common room, it was impossible to ignore. Katie Bell stood before him in a pair of short pajama bottoms and an oversized t-shirt, her hair slightly messy from what had clearly been an attempt at sleep.

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek, torn between looking away and letting his drunken thoughts wander. He settled for propping his chin on his hand, watching her work in silence.

Katie, too focused on her task and too irritated to care, didn’t notice his scrutiny. Finally, she let out a frustrated sigh, tucking her wand into her pocket as she surveyed the now-clean floor.

“You’re not seriously planning to sleep there, are you?” she asked, gesturing toward the chair.
“Why not?” Marcus murmured, shifting to make himself more comfortable. “It’s surprisingly cozy.”

Her patience stretched thin, Katie sighed. “Fine. Do whatever you want,” she said, turning to leave. “Just don’t burn the place down while you’re at it.”

“Sweet dreams, Bell,” Marcus called lazily. “And, uh… nice legs.”

She froze, spinning around with a sharp glare, ready to snap back—but he’d already slumped deeper into the chair, his head tilting to the side as sleep overtook him.

Katie huffed, her cheeks burning as she stormed up the stairs. "Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath. "Absolutely bloody unbelievable."

Still, as she crawled back into bed, pulling the covers over her head, the words replayed in her mind, much to her irritation.

***

Whether it was the lingering irritation from his comments or an inexplicable itch for mischief, Katie found herself heading downstairs an hour later. It was barely 6 a.m., the common room silent save for the faint crackle of the dying fire.

She’d hastily thrown on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair still tousled from restless sleep. Half of her expected the room to be empty, but as she rounded the corner, she froze.

Flint was still there.

Sprawled across the armchair like he owned the place, his long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His head lolled to the side, his face relaxed in a way she hadn’t thought possible. He looked utterly unbothered, as though for him sleeping in the Gryffindor common room was the most natural thing in the world.

Katie blinked, unsure whether to laugh, yell, or just leave him there. But curiosity—and maybe a sense of responsibility—got the better of her.

She stepped closer, cautiously giving his shoulder a light shake. “Flint,” she said quietly. No reaction.

Her frown deepened as she shook him again, harder this time. Still nothing.

By the third attempt, she was smacking his arm with increasing frustration. “Flint!” she hissed. “Wake up!”

Nothing. His breathing remained deep and steady, his head rolling slightly with her efforts. Katie crossed her arms, glaring down at him like he was doing this on purpose.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. His ability to sleep through her attempts was almost impressive. Almost.

After a moment of hesitation, Katie leaned forward and gently patted Marcus’s cheek. He stirred, his brow twitching slightly. Emboldened, she went for broke, cradling his face with both hands and giving each side a light but determined tap.

Marcus groaned, a gravelly sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, and his eyes cracked open. Bleary and unfocused, his gaze landed on her face, hovering far too close for comfort.

“Katie?” he mumbled, voice hoarse and low. “What the hell are you doing?”

Katie froze, suddenly all too aware of how absurd the scene looked.

“What do you think I’m doing?” she snapped, quickly dropping her hands.“Saving your sorry arse.”

Marcus blinked sluggishly, sitting up with the energy of a sloth. He dragged a hand down his face, trying to piece together his surroundings. “Didn’t realize I needed saving,” he said dryly, voice rough.

Katie folded her arms, fixing him with a pointed look. “Right. Well, if you’d rather explain to McGonagall why you’re passed out drunk in a common room that isn’t yours, be my guest.”

The weight of her words hit him slowly. He groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “Merlin’s bloody beard,” he muttered. “Fair point.”

“Glad we agree,” Katie said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Now, are you going to get up, or do I have to levitate you out of here?”

Marcus leaned back in the chair, smirking faintly. “You’d actually try that, wouldn’t you?”

“Try me,” Katie retorted, her expression daring him to test her patience.

With a heavy sigh, Marcus finally pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly but managing to stay upright. Katie moved ahead, opening the way for him to follow.

She glanced back at him, her brow furrowed with a mix of concern and exasperation. “You need to either sleep or eat something. Maybe both. You look awful.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Bell,” Marcus muttered, rubbing his eyes. Then, after a pause, he added, “Wanna join me for breakfast?”

Katie blinked, caught off guard by the question. Her stomach growled in response, the sharp reminder of her missed dinner making her sigh. She crossed her arms, debating.

“Breakfast doesn’t start for two hours,” she pointed out. “What’s your plan until then?”

Marcus shrugged. “The elves are probably already cooking. We could sweet-talk them into throwing us something.”

Katie hesitated, but the grumble of her stomach made the decision for her. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Marcus grinned lazily, already heading toward the door. “Try to keep up, Bell.”

Rolling her eyes, Katie followed, muttering under her breath about bad decisions and even worse company.

***

Somehow managing to charm the elves into parting with a plate of food, Katie and Marcus found themselves sitting on the grass in the Middle Courtyard.

They were quietly eating warm scones slathered with butter—the only thing the elves could offer at such an early hour. The morning air was crisp, the sun barely peeking over the castle walls, casting a soft golden glow across the courtyard.

Marcus had tossed his cloak onto the grass without hesitation and plopped down on it. Katie winced at the sight—it was clearly expensive, the kind of fine material that screamed “dry clean only,” and yet here it was, doubling as an impromptu picnic blanket.

"You know," Katie said finally, breaking the silence as she glanced at the cloak beneath them, "that thing’s probably worth more than my broom."

Marcus shrugged, unbothered. "It’s a cloak. It’ll survive."

Katie shook her head in disbelief, tearing off a piece of her scone. "You Slytherins and your nonchalant attitudes toward luxury."

He quirked an eyebrow at her, his tone light but amused. "And you Gryffindors with your constant need to point it out."

Katie smirked, but didn’t reply. Despite herself, she was starting to relax. It was oddly easy, sitting here with Marcus Flint, sharing scones as the castle slowly came to life around them.

After a moment, she hesitated, then asked, "So… are you going to tell me what happened?"

Marcus finished the last bite of his scone, brushing crumbs off his hands. "Not much to tell. We found him—" he gestured vaguely toward Gryffindor Tower, referring to Lee Jordan— "staggering around like a drunken troll. Poor bloke was halfway to kissing the cobblestones."

Katie arched an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied.

"He insisted on a stop at the Three Broomsticks," Marcus continued, his tone casual but carefully void of specifics. "Said it was ‘necessary.’ Seemed easier to go along with it than listen to him try to explain why. One thing led to another, and, well…" He waved a hand in the air, as though that explained everything. "You already know how it ended."

Katie rolled her eyes. "Right. Because dragging a half-conscious Lee into Gryffindor Tower and passing out yourself was the natural conclusion."

Marcus leaned back on his palms, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. "Admit it—it makes for a decent story."

Katie gave a dry laugh, brushing crumbs from her hands. "Sure. It’s hilarious. Truly legendary."

Marcus glanced at her as he reached for another scone. “Speaking of legendary stories… are you going to tell me what that whole broom-against-tree episode was about?”

Katie shot him a sharp look. “Do I look like someone who needs to explain myself to you?”

He smirked, unbothered by her tone. “Not to me, no. But that was quite the show. Let me guess—Wood? He’s got a knack for pushing buttons.”

Katie didn’t flinch, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “And you’ve got a knack for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Marcus chuckled, unruffled. “I was just impressed. You nearly took that tree down. If it wasn’t Wood, though, I’d hate to meet the poor soul who actually set you off.”

Katie’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You’re still in the running.”

He let out a genuine laugh at that, shaking his head. “Touché. But come on, Bell, let me have this. It’s got to be Wood. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘master of subtlety.’”

Katie tilted her head, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “And what would you know about subtlety? You’re about as subtle as a Bludger to the face.”

Marcus raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair point. But for what it’s worth, I don’t actually have anything against Wood. Lad just takes Quidditch a bit too seriously, that’s all. You’ve got to separate life from the pitch.”

Katie gave him a long, considering look before replying, her voice laced with irony. “Coming from you, that’s rich. I thought Wood was your number one enemy.”|

Marcus smirked. “On the pitch? Sure, he’s a pain in the arse. But ‘enemy’? Nah. He’s just one of the few players who actually makes a match interesting.” He paused, his tone turning a touch more serious. “Honestly, I don’t make it personal. It’s just a game. I couldn’t care less about the whole ‘Slytherins hate Gryffindors’ thing. That’s your lot’s fixation, not mine.”

She raised a brow, her expression thoughtful but cutting. “So all those years of digs and insults were just… what? Character-building exercises? Or was it your way of making friends?”

“Maybe,” he said with a lazy grin. “Or maybe it’s just fun to watch you lot lose it. Your reactions are always worth it.”

Katie leaned in slightly, her gaze sharp but amused. “Careful, Flint. One might think you actually enjoy the attention.”

His smirk widened, clearly unbothered. “Maybe I do, Bell. Maybe I do.”

Katie studied Marcus curiously as he tilted his head back, eyes closed, clearly reveling in the warmth of the sun.

Despite his gruff, almost menacing demeanor, Marcus Flint was… interesting. Intriguing, even. He was a contradiction, she thought, as her gaze lingered on his relaxed form. Sometimes, he could be downright venomous, spitting insults with a precision that felt practiced, calculated. Other times, he acted like a typical teenage boy—eager to unwind, share a joke, and let the world fade away for a bit.

Katie let out a small sigh, tucking her arms across her chest. Perhaps that kind of inconsistency wasn’t unusual for boys their age. Everyone was still figuring themselves out, navigating the strange, uncharted waters between childhood and adulthood. But with Marcus, it felt sharper, more pronounced—like he was constantly walking a line only he could see, teetering between opposites without losing his balance.

The strangest thing, though, was how he seemed to reveal new facets of himself every time they crossed paths. It was unsettling, if she was honest. She’d expected Marcus Flint to be one thing—arrogant, self-centered, and insufferable. And yet, time and again, he surprised her. Marcus Flint was a puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve—but she couldn’t deny that she found herself puzzling over him all the same.

Finally finishing her modest breakfast, Katie stood and dusted off her jeans, brushing away stray crumbs.

Marcus, still lounging on his cloak, lifted his head and squinted slightly. The sun had risen higher now, and its warmth was starting to chase away the morning chill. Despite being a drunken mess only a few hours earlier, he looked like he was doing better—maybe the food had worked some kind of magic.

As Katie turned to leave, Marcus tilted his head lazily, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

“Leaving already, Bell?” he drawled.

Katie paused, glancing over her shoulder with a sly smile. “Can’t let you have all the fun being mysterious, Flint.”

Marcus let out a low laugh, leaning back on his palms as he watched her go.

***

Katie practically skipped her way back toward the Gryffindor common room, her spirits noticeably lifted after the morning’s unexpected escapade. The crisp morning air and the absurdity of sharing scones with Marcus Flint had, against all odds, put her in a surprisingly good mood.

She felt a faint smile tugging at her lips, and for once, she didn’t bother trying to suppress it. The self-pity and frustration that had weighed her down the night before seemed distant now, like an unpleasant memory she could barely recall.

Her thoughts shifted to Lee Jordan, and her pace quickened. She needed to check on him, assuming he hadn’t already been dragged off to the boys’ dormitory to sleep off the aftermath of whatever chaos he’d gotten himself into. A part of her was bracing for the worst—maybe Lee snoring like a troll or sprawled out dramatically across the common room furniture.

But another part of her, the part still reveling in the sheer absurdity of the morning, couldn’t help but find the whole thing amusing.

Finally stepping into the common room, Katie was immediately greeted by muffled laughter and Angelina’s exasperated voice. A small crowd had gathered around one of the sofas, where Lee Jordan was sprawled out in what could only be described as a dead sleep.

Angelina, catching sight of Katie, crossed her arms and shot her a questioning look. “Was he like this when you got up?”

Katie smirked, strolling over to join them. “Worse. I saw him being carried in.” Her tone was light, teasing. “But I think it’s only fair he gets to explain himself when he wakes up.”

Behind them, one of the younger students sniffed the air curiously and wrinkled their nose. “Why does it smell like lavender in here?”

Alicia raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Carried him? By who?”

Katie, smiling softly, pressed her lips together, choosing not to answer. The fact that Marcus had been involved could easily land him in trouble, and for reasons she didn’t quite understand, Katie had already decided she wouldn’t spill that secret to her friends. She was confident that even Lee wouldn’t remember who had helped him back to the common room—not with the state he’d been in.

Angelina groaned, rubbing her temples. “Honestly, can we get him out of here before McGonagall catches wind of this?”

She grabbed Lee by the shoulders and shook him violently, hissing, "Wake up, Jordan!"

Fred and George exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting into identical grins. Taking the chance, George sidled up to Katie and tapped her on the arm.

“Meet us by the greenhouses at ten tonight,” he murmured, keeping his voice low.

Katie tore her gaze away from Angelina’s increasingly aggressive attempts to wake Lee, blinking at George. Then it clicked. The league. It had to be about the next match.

Alicia shot Katie a suspicious look, clearly noticing her brief aside with George. She opened her mouth as if to ask something but decided against it, her curiosity evident.

Meanwhile, Angelina, fed up with her fruitless attempts to wake Lee, turned sharply to the twins and jabbed a finger at Jordan’s limp form. “You two—get him out of here. Now.”

Fred and George exchanged another quick look, sighed dramatically, and obeyed without a word, each grabbing one of Lee’s arms and hauling him off the sofa like a sack of potatoes.

***

Katie spent the rest of the day in unusually high spirits—even the looming final Quidditch practice before tomorrow’s game couldn’t dampen her mood. She spent the afternoon with her friends, who couldn’t help but notice the shift in her demeanor—especially after the previous evening's turmoil.

By mid-afternoon, she and Alicia were walking together toward the pitch when Spinnet decided to broach the subject that had clearly been on her mind.

“I think I’m starting to piece together the reasons behind your late-night escapades and all this extra time you’ve been spending with Jordan,” Alicia said, her voice casual but laced with curiosity.

Katie frowned slightly, her steps faltering. “If you’ve figured it out, then you must understand that I don’t have a choice,” she said evenly, though her tone carried a defensive edge.

Alicia stopped, turning to face her, shaking her head. “Do you have any idea how risky this is?”

Katie exhaled sharply, glancing around to make sure no one else was nearby. “Of course, I do,” she said in a low voice. “But if you know what’s at stake—”

“That’s just it, Katie,” Alicia cut her off, her tone firmer now. “These games aren’t what they seem. The risks you’re taking? They’re not the same as Fred and George’s antics, or even Lee’s. They’re dangerous. And you need to remember that.”

Katie stared at her friend, her expression flickering between defiance and unease.

“I get it,” Alicia continued, softening slightly. “It’s easy to get caught up in the rush of it all—the excitement, the secrecy. But this isn’t just a game, Katie. You need to be careful.”

For a moment, Katie didn’t respond, her mind racing. Then she nodded, her jaw tightening. “I hear you,” she said quietly.

Alicia studied her, clearly uncertain whether Katie truly understood the gravity of her words. Finally, she sighed, falling back into step beside her as they continued toward the pitch.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” Alicia said after a moment, her tone more pleading than stern.

“I will,” Katie replied, though the edge of determination in her voice left Alicia unconvinced.

***

Marcus tore through the castle corridors, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls. In his hand, he clutched a knut so tightly it left an imprint on his palm, as if the small coin could somehow make sense of the chaos unfolding. The dull haze of his morning hangover, which had been clouding his mind just an hour ago, evaporated the moment he received the notification about today’s game.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Their rematch against the Hounds was scheduled for next Friday when his team would have had time to rest and prepare. But now, thanks to someone’s interference, the match had been moved up. This was no coincidence.

“Lantaner,” he growled under his breath, rounding another staircase two steps at a time.

If anyone could shed light on this mess, it would be Abraxas. As Professor Sprout’s favorite, he had weekend duties tending to the plants, and Marcus knew he’d likely be there—if he’d managed to pull himself together after last night’s revelry.

The morning sun was already climbing higher, casting warm streaks of light across the castle grounds, but Marcus was in no mood to admire it. He shoved open the creaky door of Greenhouse Two, scanning the space for the familiar face of Abraxas.

Instead, his gaze landed on a nervous-looking Darryl, who jumped slightly at the sudden intrusion.

"Where’s Abraxas?" Marcus demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.

Darryl, clutching a watering can, blinked wide-eyed at him. "I—I don’t know," he stammered. "He left me a note this morning, told me to keep an eye on things here."

Marcus swore under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as frustration bubbled inside him. "For fuck’s sake," he muttered.

Darryl shifted awkwardly on his feet. "I—I can try to help, if—"

Marcus cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Forget it," he snapped. "I’ll deal with it myself."

Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the greenhouse.

Marcus’s jaw tightened as his thoughts turned to Ivar. Their previous conversation replayed in his head, a reminder of the delicate balance he’d struck in their agreement.

***

Everything had gone downhill after that cursed match against the Hounds. Life had never been simple for Marcus, but after that day, it became outright unbearable. Cormac’s accusations weren’t entirely unfounded. No, there hadn’t been a Confundus Charm involved, but the deception was of another sort—subtle, calculated, and undeniably unethical.

And Marcus hadn’t orchestrated it alone. He’d had help from Ivar Brennan.

Until that point, Marcus had been aware of whispers about the league’s betting system being manipulated. Rumors of fixed matches circulated, but he’d kept his distance, trusting Crass Borden’s assurances that everything was “under control.” Marcus knew the system was flawed, but he had no interest in meddling—until Ivar Brennan came to him with an offer that was impossible to ignore.

Ivar, a Muggle-born orphan and Crass’s trusted steward, had long been a self-reliant figure. Though not a player himself, Ivar understood the league’s workings better than anyone. Unfortunately, that insight came with more frustration than satisfaction.

“We all know Lantaner’s got his claws in the league,” Ivar said, spreading a stack of meticulously annotated parchments across the table. “He’s makin’ bank by riggin’ bets. The whole thing’s a bloody scam, just dressed up pretty to look fair.”

Marcus frowned as he scanned the figures, his sharp eyes narrowing at the damning evidence. The figures showed that a significant portion of the winnings somehow ended up in Lantaner’s pocket.

“If this doesn’t boil your blood, you’re a saint,” Ivar added, his tone equal parts sardonic and frustrated.

“Maybe,” Marcus muttered. “But why show this to me?”

Ivar leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Because we can turn it to our advantage.”

Marcus’s frown deepened. He scrutinized Ivar’s expression as if searching for hidden motives.

“You want me to do the same thing Lantaner’s doing?” Marcus’s voice was low, restrained, but the anger behind it was evident.

Ivar shook his head calmly.

“Not quite, Flint. We’re not cheatn’. We play fair—but smart.”

Marcus crossed his arms, skepticism written across his face.

“And what’s your grand plan?”

Ivar’s grin was sharp, his eyes glinting with anticipation.

“Cormac’s the perfect mark. Cocky as a rooster in a henhouse. One good, humiliatin’ loss, and he’ll be screamin’ for a rematch. Lantaner will give it to him. Cormac’s his boy—his pet project.”

Marcus sighed heavily, the mental image already forming: Cormac seething with rage, the crowd roaring and Lantaner looking smug as ever while granting the Hounds their rematch.

“And then what?” Marcus asked, his tone icy.

Ivar leaned back, his confidence unshaken.

“Then we bet on the Hounds to win the rematch. They’ll win. You stay in the semifinals, and they stay at the bottom of the pile where they belong. It won’t change the standings.”

“But it’ll change something for us,” Marcus muttered, shaking his head slowly.

The plan was straightforward: provoke Cormac with a devastating loss, let him demand a rematch, and while Lantaner smugly allowed it, place bets on the Hounds. The extra game would mean more bets—a loophole, since league rules strictly prohibited wagering on semifinals and finals.

But there was a darker side to the plan: to make it work, Marcus had to lose. Deliberately.

He stepped back, unease curling in his stomach.

“You’re asking me to lose on purpose,” he said, his voice low but simmering with anger.

“I’m askin’ you to see the bigger picture,” Ivar replied evenly. “Lantaner’s been usin’ this league as his personal piggy bank. Why can’t we use it to level the field? It’s not against the rules, and a rematch is legitimate.”

“It’s against everything I stand for,” Marcus shot back, his fists clenching at his sides.

Ivar gave a half-shrug, his tone maddeningly calm.

“Think of it as strategy. It’s not losin’. It’s a calculated move. One step back to take two forward.”

The words struck a nerve. Marcus turned away, trying to tamp down his rising anger.

“Even if it works,” he said quietly, “nobody can know.”

“They won’t,” Ivar said firmly. “If we do it right, it’ll look like just another game.”

Marcus stood there for a moment, weighing the risks. Finally, he exhaled sharply and gave a single, reluctant nod.

“Fine, Brennan. Once. Just this once.”

Ivar’s expression remained serious, though relief flickered in his eyes.

“We’ll do it right, Flint. You’ll see.”

Marcus glanced back at the incriminating parchments and muttered a silent curse under his breath. He knew he was compromising his principles, but there didn’t seem to be another way.

***

Marcus trudged toward the Slytherin common room, his mind racing with a storm of thoughts. Everything was spiraling out of control. He’d thought he had more time—time to plan, to weigh his options, and maybe even confide in Cassius and Adrian. Now, it seemed like he was being forced to act on impulse, to take the plunge before he’d even braced himself for the fall.

On one side stood his mother, his family, and the fragile lifeline they clung to. The money he could gain from this gamble wasn’t just a payday—it was a chance to hold onto the scraps of stability he had left. But on the other side stood his team, his friends, the people who had fought beside him in every game. The ones who trusted him.

He couldn’t tell them.

Not about the deal he’d made. Not about the match they would have to lose on purpose.

The weight of it all pressed against his chest, constricting every breath. Marcus clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as if the physical sting might ground him.

What choice do I have?

He knew the answer. None.

His boots echoed against the cold stone floors as he made his way through the dungeons. The air felt heavy, damp, like it was conspiring to weigh him down further. His mind flickered back to Cassius and Adrian—their sharp wit, their fierce loyalty.

How the hell was he supposed to face them when the time came?

Marcus had thought he could buy himself more time, craft a way to explain everything. Adrian would probably punch him, Cassius would stare at him with that infuriatingly unreadable expression—but they’d eventually understand. At least, he hoped they would.

Now, there was no time to explain. No room for discussions or justifications.

You’ll just have to screw it up yourself, Flint, he thought bitterly. Miss the shots, fumble the Quaffle. Lose the match all on your own.

The idea made his stomach churn.

Marcus Flint didn’t play to lose. Not ever.

But now, he’d have to sabotage his own game, unravel everything he’d worked for, all while keeping his teammates from realizing what was happening.

His jaw tightened as the familiar green light of the Slytherin common room came into view. He needed to find Adrian and Cassius. He needed to gather the team, prep them for the rematch, and start planting the seeds of doubt in their minds.

They couldn’t know the truth. Not yet.

Not while the weight of everything still crushed him from all sides.

***

Katie gripped the railings of the balcony, her knuckles whitening as she leaned forward. She was back at her usual spot with the twins and Lee Jordan, the three of them brimming with anticipation. The arena buzzed with energy, the sound of the crowd rolling like thunder through the air.

It felt bigger than usual—more students, louder cheers, and an electric tension that promised a spectacle. Rematches were rare, and everyone remembered the chaos of the last Leeches vs. Hounds game.

Everywhere she looked, students were decked out in team colors, faces painted in stripes of filthy green for the Leeches or vibrant orange for the Hounds. Others wore banners draped across their shoulders like cloaks or waved makeshift flags that flapped in the cool wind.

And then there were the neutral spectators—those who weren’t loyal to either team but had come purely for the drama. Their voices rose above the others in a loud, taunting chant that echoed across the arena:

"Leeches slide, Hounds can’t hit,
Both are shite—let’s call it quits!"

Katie cringed at the chants but couldn’t suppress a small laugh.

The Slytherins below booed loudly, waving their fists at the chanting crowd, while a group of Hufflepuffs rolled their eyes and laughed it off. A Ravenclaw near Katie snickered, whispering to her friend, "That’s going to stick. Someone should start printing it on shirts."

Katie turned her head to glance at the VIP box, the one she’d had the chance to visit during the last match. Wimus was nowhere to be seen, but Crass Borden stood there, flanked by a vaguely familiar blond boy she’d passed a few times in the castle corridors. 

On the field, the players were already circling in the air, as they awaited the start of the match. 

In the middle of the pitch, Darryl stood awkwardly, his usual timid demeanor on full display as he hovered by the ball crate. His wide eyes flicked nervously between the players, clearly waiting for the signal to begin. 

But the whistle never came. 

Instead, the blond boy in the box smiled and waved casually, almost dismissively. The moment he did, Darryl startled, fumbling as he opened the chest and released the balls. The Quaffle shot into the air, followed swiftly by the Bludgers.

Something about the whole exchange felt... off. The usual precision of the start was missing, and Darryl’s reaction had been far from composed. But as her eyes flicked to the field, it seemed no one else had noticed. 

***

The game kicked off with chaos, Cormac McLaggen snatching the Quaffle right away. His face was twisted in anger and determination as he shot across the pitch, moving like a man with something to prove.

Marcus Flint was right behind him, his expression serious and focused. He was pushing his broom hard, staying close on McLaggen’s tail.

From the balcony, Lee Jordan leaned over the railing, frowning. “Is Flint playing Chaser today?” he asked, sounding confused.

George Weasley chuckled, crossing his arms. “Looks like it. Maybe he’s fed up with Higgs and shoved him into Beater duty.”

Lee shook his head, his confusion growing. “Nah. Warrington and Levitsky are Beaters tonight. Higgs is guarding the hoops”

The lineup didn’t make much sense. Terence Higgs, who’d been kicked off the Slytherin team when Malfoy muscled his way in, had been trying to find his place in the underground league. The problem? Higgs was a Seeker, and in this league, there was no Snitch—just strategy, brute strength, and skill.

On the pitch, Marcus leaned into his broom, closing the gap between himself and McLaggen. He looked like he was gearing up to block a pass or take the Quaffle. Katie stood quietly beside the boys, her eyes fixed on him. There was something off about the way he was playing. He wasn’t bad—his movements were sharp and precise—but he lacked the usual energy and confidence she’d seen before.

Marcus darted forward, closing in on McLaggen, but before he could knock the Quaffle from his grip, Cormac managed to hurl it clean through the hoop. The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and jeers rattling the arena.

Moments later, McLaggen scored again, his smug grin visible even from the highest balconies.

Pucey, his expression thunderous, shot through the air like a cursed Bludger, making a beeline for the goalposts where Higgs hovered in visible distress. Though the crowd’s roar drowned out his words, Adrian’s sharp gestures and jabs toward the hoop left no doubt he was tearing into Higgs’s defense—and not kindly.

Marcus, meanwhile, circled nearby, his expression unreadable. He barely acknowledged the chaos unfolding between his teammates, his focus elsewhere. Katie couldn’t tell if he was lost in strategy or simply uninterested, but either way, the tension on the field was palpable.

An hour in, the scoreboard stood at 90-90, with half an hour left to play. As Lee had explained to Katie, rematches were strictly limited to 90 minutes of game time—no exceptions.

Katie watched the match with growing frustration—not because it lacked excitement, but because the Leeches’ performance was far from their best. The Chaser trio of Flint, Pucey, and Jacknife managed some solid plays, though Flint’s form was unusually sloppy. He lost control of the Quaffle several times, his typical precision giving way to an unsteady effort that, while contributing points, lacked his usual finesse. Pucey, on the other hand, seemed possessed—hurling the Quaffle through the hoops with a ferocity that bordered on obsessive. In sharp contrast, Cormac McLaggen exuded calm confidence, his team working together with a seamless synergy that made their dominance look effortless.

The game suddenly shifted into overdrive, both teams fighting tooth and nail to break the deadlock. The Quaffle darted from hand to hand, each Chaser pushing harder, faster, more recklessly. In a desperate scramble, Pucey snatched the Quaffle mid-pass and sent it hurtling toward Flint.

Marcus caught it cleanly, but his momentum faltered—just for a moment—as if anticipating something. That hesitation proved fatal. A Bludger, fired with ruthless precision, veered off course from its original target and slammed into Adrian’s side.

The impact was catastrophic. His broom spun out of control, careening toward the edge of the pitch. Spectators gasped as Adrian’s limp figure collided with one of the wrought-iron torch brackets lining the field, the sharp metal tearing into his shoulder with a sickening crunch.

For a moment, he clung to the bracket, blood dripping onto the pitch below, but his grip slipped. He fell hard and fast, hitting the ground chest-first. The dull thud of his landing was wrong—bone-chillingly wrong.

Silence rippled across the stands like a cold wind. Every player froze mid-air, eyes fixed on Adrian’s motionless form sprawled at the edge of the field. Then the whispers began to spread like wildfire, horrified and urgent.

Katie’s heart clenched as she realized. The ground wasn’t enchanted. Pucey had fallen onto cold, unforgiving earth. And from the unnatural angle of his arm, the spreading pool of blood, and the eerie stillness of his body, it was clear he wasn’t getting up anytime soon.

Marcus hurled the Quaffle away without a second thought and dove straight down, his focus solely on Adrian’s crumpled form at the edge of the pitch. Below, Darryl was already sprinting toward Pucey, a medical kit clutched tightly in his hand. Cassius followed Marcus, landing beside Adrian and immediately dropping to his knees to assess the damage.

Blood seeped steadily from the jagged wound in Adrian’s shoulder, staining the grass in a dark crimson. His robes were torn where the torch bracket had ripped through, exposing the mangled flesh beneath. Cassius grimaced as he examined the injury—at least three or four bones were clearly broken.

Adrian’s breathing was shallow and uneven, his chest rising and falling with labored effort. His eyes were shut tightly, his face pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

Marcus knelt on the other side, his hands trembling as he reached for Adrian’s. His voice came out in a low, desperate whisper. “Bloody hell, Pucey, stay with us. You hear me? Stay with us.”

Darryl arrived and dropped to his knees, his wand already out. He muttered diagnostic spells in quick succession, then, without a word, he snapped open his medical kit.

For a moment, he froze, his movements becoming frantic as he rifled through the supplies. Bottles and vials flew from the case, some shattering on the ground as he tossed them aside.

“No… no, no, no!” Darryl’s voice cracked with rising panic. His face was pale when he turned to the others. “It’s empty. There’s nothing here—nothing left!” he stammered, his hands clutching the empty compartments as though willing them to refill.

Cassius didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Darryl by the collar of his robes and yanked him close, his voice a dangerous growl. “What the hell do you mean—nothing left?”

Darryl’s wide eyes darted between Cassius and Marcus, his voice trembling. “I swear it was fully stocked before the game—I-I swear!”

The sharp, unmistakable clang of a Quaffle hitting a goalpost and slipping through shattered the tense silence. Marcus’s head snapped up, his fury immediately finding its target. Above them, Cormac McLaggen hovered with a smug grin, lazily bouncing the Quaffle between his hands. The game hadn’t stopped—there was no whistle, no pause. McLaggen had seized the moment, driving the Quaffle cleanly through the Leeches’ undefended hoop.

The scoreboard glowed ominously: 100-90. Twenty minutes remained.

Marcus’s jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though his teeth might crack. Fury and helplessness radiated off him as he shot a glare toward the grand balcony. Lantaner leaned over the railing, watching the scene below with a satisfied smirk. Beside him, Borden stood pale and visibly shaken, his eyes fixed on Pucey’s bloodied, motionless form.

Gripping his broom tightly, Marcus turned to Darryl, his voice low and venomous. “Do something. Now. If he doesn’t make it, neither do you.”

Darryl swallowed hard, his face pale as he gave a jerky nod. Without hesitation, he began casting charms to stem the bleeding, his hands trembling as he worked.

Warrington, still crouched by Adrian’s side, said nothing. He only watched as Marcus mounted his broom, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark with unspoken fury.

Marcus soared upward, his movements sharp and precise, fury propelling him faster than thought. Snatching the Quaffle mid-flight, he veered sharply toward the VIP box. Without hesitation, he hurled the ball with every ounce of strength in his body.

Crass barely managed to duck, the Quaffle whistling past his head before slamming into the stone wall with a deafening thud. It rolled limply across the floor, forgotten.

Marcus didn’t stop. He closed the distance in a flash, skidding to a halt midair before leaping off his broom in one fluid motion. He strode toward Jonas Lantaner, his broom clattering to the ground behind him, discarded like an afterthought.

Jonas didn’t flinch. His calm, unbothered expression only stoked Marcus’s fury as he approached, each step radiating barely restrained rage.

“What the hell are you playing at, you idiot?” Marcus hissed through gritted teeth. “Stop the game,” he demanded, his voice low and trembling with anger.

Jonas raised an eyebrow, his composure as cold and measured as ever. Folding his arms, he replied, “And how exactly do you expect me to do that? Only the Pitch Steward can stop play, and as you can see, Abraxas isn’t here.”

Marcus’s fists trembled at his sides as he took another step forward, his voice dropping to a growl. “Don’t give me that crap, Lantaner,” he snarled. “You’ve bent the league’s rules every way you wanted for years. Twisted them to suit yourself. And now, when a student’s life is hanging by a thread, you suddenly can’t do a damn thing?”

Jonas shrugged, his casual indifference cutting deeper than any retort. “I thought you understood the risks when you decided to play here,” he said, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant.

Marcus’s rage boiled over. “Risks?” he spat, his voice sharp and venomous. “You moved the match. You pushed my team into this disaster, and now Pucey might die because of it. Don’t you dare talk to me about risks, Lantaner. Stop the bloody game!”

Jonas’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smirk. “We all face the consequences of our choices eventually, Marcus. Maybe it’s time you faced yours.”

The words landed like a blow. Marcus froze for a split second, his fury clashing with the weight of Jonas’s calculated provocation. His thoughts flickered to Adrian, lying broken on the pitch, and to everything that had led to this moment—the deals, the compromises, the lies.

Jonas stepped forward slightly, his gaze piercing. “So what’s it going to be, Marcus? Your team? Or your family?”

For a moment, the noise of the crowd faded into the background, replaced by the thunder of Marcus’s heartbeat. He felt the weight of Jonas’s words settle over him like a shroud. But the choice wasn’t new. It had been haunting him for weeks.

Without another word, Marcus turned sharply, grabbing his broom and vaulting into the air, leaving Jonas and his chilling smirk behind.

Marcus’s eyes flicked to the scoreboard. Fifteen minutes remained. His gaze dropped to the pitch, where Adrian was being carried off on a stretcher by older students. Blood still stained the grass where he had fallen.

Cassius looked up at Marcus, his face tight with concern, silently asking for orders. Marcus gave a sharp nod. “Stay with him,” he said firmly.

Without hesitation, Warrington followed after Darryl, disappearing into the tunnel beneath the stands.

A shadow loomed overhead. Cormac McLaggen hovered lazily nearby, a smirk plastered across his face. “Well?” he called out, his voice dripping with mockery. “Are we playing or not? Or do you want to forfeit and go hold Pucey’s hand?”

The crowd erupted in noise, their excitement feeding off the tension crackling between the players.

Marcus’s glare was like a dagger, cutting through Cormac’s smirk, but before he could respond, his eyes caught sight of Crass. The Coin Steward stood awkwardly on the pitch, holding the Quaffle with unsteady hands, clearly uncertain about what to do.

The choice before Marcus seemed simple at first glance. He could abandon the plan, crush McLaggen, and take the victory his team deserved. Or he could stick to the plan, let the Hounds win, and secure what he and his family so desperately needed.

His thoughts spiraled, the weight of every decision he’d made crashing down on him. A win would destroy the plan and likely ruin Brennan, who had risked everything—every last Knut—on the Hounds pulling ahead. Ivar’s words echoed in his mind: One step back to take two forward.

But then there was Adrian—lying broken on a stretcher because Marcus had let things get this far. If he threw the match, everything they’d endured, everything Adrian had sacrificed, would feel meaningless. His instincts screamed at him to fight, to win, to shut McLaggen’s smug taunts for good and remind everyone that Marcus Flint never backed down.

And yet, somewhere beneath the fury, a cold, calculated voice reminded him of what was at stake. This isn’t just about you. It never was.

Then, in the stands, he saw her. Katie’s face stood out amidst the chaos, pale and tense, her wide eyes filled with fear. For a moment, the world seemed to still.

Unbidden, memories surfaced. The league before the lies, the manipulation, the deals. Back when playing meant something. Back when it had been about pride and camaraderie, not survival.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. Sentiment had no place here. The decision had already been made.

Marcus’s grip tightened on his broom. His face was a mask of determination, his expression unreadable. The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, drowned out by the hammering of his heart.

He turned to face Cormac, his voice cutting through the noise like steel. “Let’s finish this.”

Chapter Text

After the game, Katie found him exactly where she expected—lurking in the shadowy corners of the dimly lit tunnel near the locker rooms. It was the same spot she’d stumbled across him once before, back when she’d been searching for a way out and accidentally found him instead.

She had hesitated before coming. There wasn’t much tying them together, and she wasn’t even sure if “friend” was the right word for what they were. But the gnawing unease inside her wouldn’t let her leave him alone. It pushed her forward, despite the voice in her head telling her she didn’t owe him this.

Marcus sat slumped against the wall, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. The faint orange glow of a cigarette flickered weakly in his hand, its ember casting fleeting shadows across his face.

He looked terrible. His uniform was crumpled, smeared with dirt, and streaked with a dark patch of dried blood—Adrian’s, most likely. Against the dark green of his robes, it stood out like an accusation, a stark reminder of everything that had gone wrong.

He didn’t even glance her way when she approached. For a moment, she stood there, hesitating, the silence between them stretching uncomfortably. Finally, she gathered her courage and sank down beside him, the cold stone floor seeping through her robes.

Marcus didn’t react. He kept his gaze ahead, the cigarette in his hand burning slowly as thin tendrils of smoke curled upward, fading into the dimness above.

For a long time, the silence between them lingered, broken only by the distant hum of voices from the pitch and the faint hiss of Marcus’s cigarette. Katie sat still, her nerves coiling tighter with each passing second. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“How are you?” she asked softly.

Marcus didn’t look at her. “Don’t start,” he muttered.

“Adrian’s strong, Marcus. He’ll get through this. You don’t have to—”

Marcus’s head snapped toward her, his eyes blazing with fury. “Stop talking,” he snarled, his tone sharp enough to cut stone. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Katie flinched but didn’t back down. “I’m trying to help—”

“Help?” Marcus barked, his voice dripping with derision.“You think your comforting little platitudes mean a damn thing right now? Do you even realize what’s going on here, Bell? Do you have the faintest idea what it takes to play in this league?” He crushed the cigarette against the stone floor with a sharp, angry motion, the ember snuffing out under his hand.

Katie bristled, anger rising in her chest. “Then explain it to me, Marcus! Don’t just sit there and lash out because you’re too much of a coward to say what’s on your mind!”

Marcus stood abruptly, towering over her as his voice rose. “You want me to explain? Fine. Quidditch here isn’t some happy little game about teamwork and ‘doing your best.’ It’s a rigged system run by bastards like Lantaner, where every match is a goddamn gamble with people’s futures on the line. It’s blood and dirt and politics. People like Adrian get hurt because people like me are forced to make choices you can’t even begin to understand!”

Katie stared at him, wide-eyed, but Marcus wasn’t finished.

“You think you know what it’s like out there? To play knowing that if you lose, it’s not just points or pride—it’s your life falling apart? You stand up in the stands, cheering, thinking it’s all about glory, and you don’t have a clue. None of you do.”

His words hit like a physical blow, but Katie refused to let him see her falter. “Maybe I don’t understand everything, Marcus, but at least I’m trying. All you do is push people away. You don’t even give anyone a chance!”

Marcus let out a bitter laugh, his eyes dark. “Give people a chance? To do what? To fix the mess I’m in? Don’t kid yourself, Bell. You don’t belong in this conversation, in this league, or anywhere near this. You’re just some naive little girl trying to play at being a hero.”

Her chest tightened, fury rising in her throat. “I’m here because I care, you arrogant prick! But clearly, you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Marcus’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Care? You think caring is enough? Go back to your comfortable little world, Katie. This isn’t for you.”

Her eyes burned with tears she refused to let fall. For a moment, she stood there, trembling with anger, before forcing herself to speak. “You’re right, Marcus. I don’t understand. But one thing’s clear—you’re so consumed by your own bitterness, you wouldn’t recognize help if it hit you in the face. Enjoy being alone, Flint.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode away, leaving him standing in the dark. Marcus didn’t move, his fists clenched at his sides as her words echoed in the silence. “You’re so consumed by your own bitterness…”

But instead of softening, his anger hardened further, burning in his chest like a furnace.

***

Marcus sat in silence, finishing yet another cigarette—he’d lost count long ago. Snapping at Katie hadn’t been part of the plan, and a flicker of regret gnawed at him. But his mind was already drowning in problems he couldn’t afford to dwell on. He shoved the thought aside. Later, he told himself.

Footsteps echoed through the tunnel. Marcus lifted his head, his expression hardening as a familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

Ivar approached, a cigarette already in his hand, and stopped in front of Marcus. Without a word, he extended a small pouch.

Marcus didn’t take it at first. He just stared at it, his expression blank but his jaw tight.

“Our winnings,” Ivar muttered, his tone dull.

Marcus exhaled heavily, the sound rough in the stagnant air. Finally, he took the pouch, gripping it tighter than necessary. He didn’t open it.

Fucking money.

The weight of it felt heavier than it should have, as if the coins inside carried the cost of everything they’d done. It should have felt like a victory. Instead, it felt like a chain.

He stared at the pouch for a long moment, his mind drifting back to the pitch, to the moment he’d made his choice. The game had been his to win—one shot, one chance to crush McLaggen and take back control. But he hadn’t taken it. Instead, he’d fumbled the Quaffle on purpose, just enough to give the Hounds the edge they needed.

The crowd’s roar still echoed in his mind, but not for him. Not for his team. It had been for McLaggen, for the Hounds, for Lantaner’s goddamn victory.

Ivar sat down beside him with a thud, flicking his lighter to ignite his own cigarette. Smoke curled lazily between them. “How’s Pucey?” he asked after a moment.

Marcus dragged a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Darryl found some Essence of Dittany. They patched up the worst fractures and stopped the bleeding.” He let his hand fall and added, quieter, “Cassius and Terence are with him.”

Silence settled again, the faint crackle of Marcus’s cigarette the only sound. Then, he let out a bitter laugh, his eyes fixed on the pouch.

“And was it worth it? Any of it?”

The words lingered, heavy with resentment, as Marcus tightened his grip on the pouch. The faint clink of coins inside felt like mockery.

Ivar took a long drag before breaking the silence. “Lantaner knows about everything.”

Marcus didn’t react immediately. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes as if shutting out the world. “I already figured that out.”

He opened his eyes again, fixing them on the ceiling as if searching for answers in the cracks above. “The game being moved up, Wimus vanishing, the Featherlight charms cut, Darryl’s empty vials—that was all him.”

Ivar let out a short, humorless laugh. “Aye, classic Lantaner, that. Keeps his hands clean but makes sure we feel the squeeze.” He flicked ash to the ground, watching it scatter across the stone. “You think this was punishment for trying to outplay him?”

Marcus snorted quietly, though there was no humor in it. “No. Punishment would’ve been letting us fail outright. This is worse.”

Ivar frowned, the ember of his cigarette flaring as he took another drag. “How’s letting us win worse?”

Marcus turned the pouch in his hands, the leather rough against his calloused fingers. “Because now he owns us. The win isn’t ours—it’s his. And when he comes to collect, we won’t be able to say no.”

The words hit like a lead weight, sinking into the space between them.

“This was supposed to be clean,” Ivar muttered, his voice bitter. “One gamble, one shot to make things better.”

Marcus rubbed a hand over his face, his exhaustion bleeding into his words. “It wasn’t supposed to be clean. It was supposed to be over. And now?” He glanced at the pouch one more time before dropping it onto the ground between his feet. “Now we’re stuck in his game, deeper than ever.”

Ivar leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the ground. “So, what’s the plan, Flint? You know he’s not just going to let us slide.”

Marcus’s voice was flat but steady. “I don’t know yet.” He paused, the silence stretching like the smoke between them. “But whatever it is, I’ll make sure he doesn’t take anyone else down with us.”

Ivar glanced at him, skepticism flickering in his eyes. “You really think you can stop that?”

Marcus stubbed out his cigarette on the wall beside him, the ember snuffing out with a faint hiss. “No,” he admitted, his voice hard. “But I’m going to try anyway.”

Ivar leaned back, letting out a long sigh as he stared down the tunnel, the faint echoes of the pitch still audible in the distance. “Hell of a plan.”

Marcus didn’t answer. He lit another cigarette and leaned his head back against the wall, the weight of their choices pressing down harder than ever.

***

Katie stormed toward the balcony, her footsteps sharp and echoing through the corridor. Her anger and irritation churned, each step failing to cool the fire Flint had ignited inside her.

How dare he? His words replayed in her mind, cutting deeper each time. “You don’t belong in this.” The memory made her stomach twist, a sick mix of fury and hurt she couldn’t shake.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she almost missed the figures stepping into her path.

“Whoa, Bell,” Fred said, raising an eyebrow as he blocked her way. “Where’s the fire?”

“Or should we ask—who lit it?” George added with a faint smirk.

Katie snapped back to the present, glaring at both of them. “Not now,” she muttered, trying to push past them, but Fred grabbed her arm gently, keeping her in place.

“We need to talk,” he said, his tone unusually serious.

“Can it wait?” Katie replied sharply, yanking her arm free. “I’m not in the mood.”

Before Fred could answer, George stepped in. “It might not be something that can wait, Bell.”

Katie let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tried to keep her emotions in check. “Fine. I’m listening.”

The twins exchanged a look, their usual playful confidence replaced with something more focused.

“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” Fred started. “We didn’t just bring you into underground Quidditch for fun.”

Katie crossed her arms, her expression guarded. “I’ve guessed.”

Fred nodded, glancing at George. “We want to join the league next year. Start our own team.”

Katie sighed, the weight of their words pressing against her already frayed nerves. Today had been too much—Adrian’s injury, Flint’s sharp-edged tirade, the lingering tension of a match that felt more like a battlefield. And now this.

Alicia’s warning echoed in her mind: “These games aren’t what they seem.” She didn’t need the reminder. She’d seen it firsthand.

She looked at them, exhaustion heavy in her voice. “Are you sure about this?”

Both twins nodded, their confidence unshaken.

“You’re our ace, Katie,” George said with a grin, though there was a sincerity in his tone that surprised her.

“We’re not blind like Oliver,” he continued. “You’ve got talent, and it’s time for you to show it off.”

Fred chimed in, his tone lighter but still determined. “Seriously, how long are you going to be okay with just being the ‘supporting player,’ setting up Johnson and Spinnet so they can score off your perfect passes?”

Katie hesitated, their words tugging at something buried deep inside her. They weren’t wrong—she’d felt that itch to do more, to be more. But the shadow of today’s match loomed over her, Flint’s cutting words keep echoing in her head. “You don’t belong in this.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. “I need to think about it.”

Fred and George exchanged another glance but didn’t push her further. Instead, George gave her a lopsided grin. “Don’t take too long, Bell. We’ve got big plans.”

Katie nodded faintly and walked away, their words lingering alongside everything else she couldn’t seem to shake.

***

Two months had passed since that fateful match, and Katie Bell hadn’t spoken a word to Marcus Flint. Their last conversation still lingered in her mind, sharp and raw, but she’d pushed it aside, channeling her energy elsewhere.

The only exception to their silence came the very next day.Gryffindor had a match against Hufflepuff, and to Katie’s surprise, Marcus was in the stands. He sat quietly beside Warrington, his expression unreadable as he watched her play.

Meanwhile, Adrian Pucey was still recovering in the Hospital Wing. His injuries, far more severe than initially reported, had resisted even the most advanced magical treatments. He spent two weeks under Madam Pomfrey’s care, with an official story circulating to explain his condition: Adrian, they said, had been injured while attempting a late-night solo training session. It was a simple enough explanation, but those who had been at the match knew the truth.

Something had shifted in Katie after their conversation. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, but it was undeniable. The sting of Marcus’s words and the weight of everything she’d seen on the pitch seemed to spark something in her—a determination, a fire.

When Katie mounted her broom for the match against Hufflepuff, it was like watching a different player entirely. Gone was the cautious, team-focused Chaser who hesitated to take risks. Instead, Katie took charge, playing with a boldness that caught everyone off guard.

The Quaffle rarely left her hands unless she was scoring herself. That day, Katie wasn’t just part of the team—she was its heart.

Katie was relentless, a force of nature on the pitch. She moved with such speed and precision that the Bludgers seemed to miss her entirely, their sluggish attempts to track her an almost laughable contrast to her agility. She scored goal after goal, driving Gryffindor’s victory with her sheer determination.

By the time the match ended, there was no doubt about who the star was. Katie Bell wasn’t just a player anymore—she was a storm, unleashed and unstoppable.

After the game, Marcus tried to catch up to Katie. Spotting her retreating figure, he quickened his pace, calling after her.

“Oi, Bell!”

She didn’t turn, her steps stubbornly determined.

“Bell, stop!” he barked, his voice sharp with frustration.

Finally catching up, he reached out instinctively and grabbed the back of her Quidditch robes. Katie spun around in a flash, and with all the strength she could muster, swung her broom into his side.

Marcus staggered back, clutching his ribs as a hiss of pain escaped him.

“For Merlin’s sake, Bell!” he growled, glaring at her. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“Take a guess, Flint,” Katie snapped, her grip tightening on her broom as she glared at him, her eyes blazing.

Marcus straightened, still rubbing his side, his expression flickering between frustration and something softer. “Look, Bell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it—what I said. I was just—”

Katie cut him off, her voice sharp and laced with disdain. “Save it. I’m not interested, alright?” She jabbed the broom’s handle into the ground for emphasis. “I don’t give a toss about your apologies, Flint.”

She stepped closer, her glare icy. “You know what your problem is? You push people away like it’s some bloody sport. Anyone who cares, anyone who tries—you shove them off the second they get close. Well, congrats. You’ve made it real easy for me. I don’t want anything to do with someone like you.”

Marcus opened his mouth as if to respond, but her words had landed harder than he expected. He froze, his jaw tightening as she turned on her heel.

Katie stormed off, leaving him standing alone, clutching his side and watching her go, the sound of her angry footsteps echoing in his ears.

***

Katie told herself she didn’t regret anything. Not the argument, not walking away, not the way she’d snapped at Marcus Flint and left him standing there.

And yet, maybe she regretted it just a little.

The truth she didn’t want to admit—not even to herself—was that she’d grown used to him being around. His presence, as irritating as it could be, had started to feel oddly… constant. Predictable in its unpredictability. Flint wasn’t easy to like—he was arrogant, abrasive, and frustratingly stubborn—but somehow, in the strangest way, he’d become part of the rhythm of her days.

She hated it. Hated that she’d let him worm his way into her life without realizing it.

Katie clenched her fists, frustrated with herself. How could she miss someone who drove her mad half the time? Who made everything feel heavier just by being there?

But it wasn’t just irritation she felt when she thought of him. Beneath the anger, there was something else—something more complicated.

There was a flicker of guilt. She hadn’t exactly given him a chance to explain himself, had she? Not that he deserved one, she reminded herself sharply. Marcus Flint had burned bridges before, and he’d do it again without a second thought.

And yet…

Katie shook her head, trying to banish the thoughts. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need his apologies, his presence, or the way he made her feel like she mattered more than just as a player on the pitch. She’d told herself to forget him, and she was determined to do exactly that.

Even if, every now and then, she caught herself glancing around the castle corridors or scanning the Great Hall, half-expecting to see him there. And when their paths did cross, he never looked her way, as if ignoring her was easier than acknowledging the tension between them.

Even if she hated how much it bothered her that she noticed at all.

For Marcus, things were far more complicated. He still couldn’t figure out how to explain to Katie why he’d snapped at her after that awful match. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her—Merlin knew he had enough regrets without adding her to the list.

Katie had become something of a bright spot in the haze of his worries, though he wasn’t sure he fully realized it himself. She had this uncanny way of cutting through the noise in his head, grounding him in a way he didn’t know he needed. But now, with her gone from his life, the weight of everything felt a little heavier, a little harder to carry.

Life trudged on, as it always did. Marcus still hadn’t been able to tell Cassius or Adrian the real reason behind his abysmal performance in the match against the Hounds. He’d dodged their questions, brushing it off with excuses about an off day or bad luck. But the truth weighed on him, heavy and unspoken

As for Wimus? He’d reappeared three days later, full of apologies and excuses. Apparently, Abraxas had spent the weekend bedridden, suffering from a nasty case of food poisoning after drinking mead at the stewards’ post-meeting gathering.

Something about it didn’t sit right with Marcus. The timing was too convenient, the circumstances too precise. No matter how he turned it over in his mind, everything pointed to one conclusion: it had been orchestrated. And there was only one man cunning enough to pull the strings—Jonas Lantaner.

What unsettled Marcus the most, though, was Lantaner’s silence. Despite all the obvious signs of interference, Jonas hadn’t said a word. Not a smug comment, not a thinly veiled threat—nothing. It was as though he was waiting, biding his time.

And so, the semifinals began.

The Leeches were back in full swing—finally, Adrian Pucey, fully recovered, had rejoined the team. Their semifinal series against the Star Forgers was a rout. The Leeches crushed their opponents with such precision and dominance that the Forgers barely had a chance to score.

Marcus Flint, too, seemed to have found his rhythm again. He was relentless on the pitch, his performance nothing short of extraordinary. He moved with calculated ferocity, orchestrating plays and scoring goals like the captain everyone knew him to be. It was as if the chaos of the previous weeks had never happened.

Everything seemed to be back to normal—or close enough.

But Katie was gone.

She didn’t come to the games anymore.

The usual crowd in the balcony remained—the twins, Lee, their boisterous cheers echoing through the stands. But Katie’s absence hung heavy in the air, a noticeable void in the familiar lineup of Gryffindor supporters.

Marcus noticed, though he never mentioned it. He’d glance toward the balcony during warm-ups or between plays, his gaze lingering for just a second too long. When he saw the empty space where Katie should have been, something in his chest tightened.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, or so he told himself. There were games to win, a season to finish, and a mounting unease about Lantaner still lurking in the back of his mind.

But no matter how hard he tried to push it away, the absence of one particular stormy-eyed Gryffindor was harder to ignore than he cared to admit.

***

May crept in quietly, the days growing longer and warmer as the term hurtled toward its end. Katie and Marcus still stubbornly ignored each other, as if the distance between them was the only way to keep their emotions in check.

Their friends, however, couldn’t help but notice the tension that lingered whenever one of them entered the other’s orbit. Katie would stiffen imperceptibly, her focus sharpening as if to block him out. Marcus, on the other hand, grew quieter, his usual sharp-edged confidence dulling just slightly. It was subtle, but to those who knew them well, it was glaringly obvious.

Meanwhile, the final games of the Underground League loomed, coinciding with the last matches of Hogwarts’ school league. The Gryffindor team was set to face off against Slytherin in their final match—a game that always promised intensity and drama. At the same time, the Leeches, having clawed their way into the finals, were preparing to face the Furies. The Furies had crushed the Gargoyles—Bole’s team—in a ruthless semifinal series, cementing their reputation as a team to be feared.

The Underground League finals would consist of three matches, a grueling test of endurance and strategy.

Jonas Lantaner’s suggestion to lift the ban on betting during the finals had sparked heated debates. At the April meeting of stewards, the proposal was shot down in a landslide vote. The decision was influenced heavily by Marcus, whose fiery speech dismantled the idea with cutting precision. He didn’t hold back, his words sharp and unapologetic as he tore apart the concept.

Lantaner, notably absent from the meeting, hadn’t shown his face at any of the stewards’ gatherings since the chaos of the Hounds match. His silence was almost more unnerving than his schemes.

As the finals approached, tensions simmered just beneath the surface, ready to erupt both on and off the pitch. And while Katie and Marcus avoided each other, the overlapping paths of their lives seemed determined to draw them back into the same orbit.

Chapter Text

Katie stood in front of the mirror, her hands moving frantically as she tried—and failed—to tame her hair into something halfway presentable. She huffed in frustration, yanking at a particularly stubborn strand.

Behind her, Alicia was hopping around on one foot, a single shoe in her hand as she rummaged through the mess of clothes and accessories scattered across the room. “Where is it?” she muttered to herself, tossing a scarf onto an already overflowing chair. “I swear it was right here five minutes ago!”

In the background, the muffled roar of laughter and cheers from the common room filtered through the walls. The party was already in full swing, and the excitement in the air was infectious.

The door creaked open, and Angelina stuck her head in, her expression equal parts amused and impatient. “You’re not ready yet? Honestly, it’s a miracle you lot make it to the pitch on time. Move it!”

Katie shot her a half-hearted glare through the mirror. “We’re almost done!” she called, though the mess around them told a different story.

Angelina rolled her eyes but didn’t leave. “Hurry up. If I have to fend off Fred and George by myself for one more minute, I’m hexing someone.”

Katie grabbed Alicia by the arm and yanked her upright just as her friend managed to fish the elusive second shoe from the mountain of discarded clothes she’d collapsed into.

“Found it!” Alicia exclaimed triumphantly, holding the shoe aloft like a trophy before hastily shoving it onto her foot.

Katie rolled her shoulder slightly, wincing as a dull ache flared up in her side. It was a persistent reminder of the hit she’d taken during the match—Montague’s ruthless attempt to wrest the Quaffle from her grip. His shoulder had slammed into her ribs with enough force to send her spinning, but she’d held onto the ball.

The bruise was nothing compared to the thrill of victory.

Tonight, the pain didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the fact that they had done it—they’d won the Quidditch Cup. After months of grueling practice, injuries, and narrow victories, Gryffindor stood on top.

Katie glanced at Alicia, who was now stuffing her wand into a small bag. “Ready?”

Alicia grinned, her eyes alight with the same giddy excitement Katie felt bubbling beneath her skin. “Born ready.”

Katie turned toward the door, the muffled cheers from the common room growing louder. The pain in her side faded into the background, replaced by the warm glow of triumph. Tonight, they were champions, and nothing else mattered.

Making their way down the staircase, Katie, Alicia, and Angelina stepped into the common room to a roaring welcome. The crowd erupted, students cheering and clapping as they caught sight of the day’s heroes—the Chaser trio who had secured Gryffindor’s hard-fought victory.

Katie couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face, a flush of pride warming her cheeks as the applause washed over them. Angelina raised her arms triumphantly, milking the moment, while Alicia blew an exaggerated kiss to the crowd.

In the far corner of the room, Oliver Wood was unmistakable, clutching the coveted Quidditch Cup like it was the Holy Grail. His face was flushed, and his stance unsteady, a clear sign that the night’s celebrations had already gotten the better of him.

“He’s finally snapped,” Alicia muttered with a smirk, nudging Katie as they watched Oliver sway slightly, his arm slung protectively around the Cup.

“At least he’s happy,” Katie replied, laughing softly as she glanced around the room. It was impossible not to feel the infectious joy that filled the space—Gryffindor was celebrating not just a win, but a moment of unity, pride, and pure triumph.

***

The Gryffindor common room wasn’t the only place alive with celebration. Deep in the dungeons, hidden behind layers of stone and enchantments, a private room buzzed with laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses. The Leeches were celebrating their latest triumph, and the mood was electric.

It was the second week of May, and the team had just claimed their 11th championship, a record that ensured their legacy in the underground Quidditch scene. The victory had come at the end of a grueling season, and now it was time to relax.

Marcus Flint sat sprawled in a worn but comfortable armchair, a glass of Firewhisky in hand. Across from him, Cassius Warrington was in a similar state, looking blissfully at ease as he nursed his drink. The room wasn’t fancy—rough stone walls and a mismatched assortment of furniture—but it had a cozy, lived-in feel that suited them just fine.

“Sod the school league,” Cassius muttered, breaking the comfortable silence. “We’ve already got what we came for.”

Marcus snorted softly, swirling his drink. He couldn’t argue with that. Months of planning, practice, and pressure had led them here, and now they had their victory. The school league had felt like a distraction in comparison, one he’d wisely avoided by stepping down as captain before the finals.

The faint hum of laughter and chatter carried from the next room, where Adrian Pucey had made himself the center of attention. Marcus didn’t need to look to know what was happening—Adrian’s voice was unmistakable, his exaggerated storytelling always a crowd-pleaser.

Cassius raised an eyebrow, nodding toward the sound. “Pucey again?”

Marcus sighed, setting his glass down on the table between them. “What do you think? Shirt off, scar on full display, and a crowd of girls falling over themselves to dote on him.”

Cassius chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Let him have his fun. It’s better than him moping.”

Marcus didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the swirling amber liquid in his glass. It was nice to have a quiet moment, tucked away from the noise and chaos. For now, at least, they could sit back, breathe, and enjoy the spoils of their victory.

“Bloody hell,” Cassius muttered, spotting a familiar figure weaving through the room.

Crass Borden, oblivious to their presence, was heading straight toward Cornelia, who was chatting with her friends a few feet away.

Cassius sat up slightly, throwing Marcus a pointed look. “Didn’t you say Borden wouldn’t go near Cornelia again?”

Marcus sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes as he stood with exaggerated laziness. “I did. Guess he’s testing his limits.”

He sauntered over, taking his time. Borden, facing Cornelia, had no idea Marcus was approaching. Cornelia, however, noticed him immediately. Her gaze flicked to Marcus, her brow quirking in silent acknowledgment. Marcus raised an eyebrow in return, silently asking, Need help?

Before she could respond, Borden turned and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Marcus standing behind him.

“Oh, Flint! Didn’t see you there,” Borden stammered, plastering a nervous smile on his face.

Marcus folded his arms, looming over him. “Really? Because you looked pretty cozy over here. Didn’t realize you had time to chat up Cassius’s sister.”

Borden chuckled nervously, glancing back at Cornelia as if she might come to his rescue. “We were just talking! Right, Cornelia?”

Marcus smirked coldly, leaning in slightly. “Talking, sure. You know, I heard Gringotts is looking for goblins’ assistants to count Galleons. Sounds like the perfect gig for someone with your… talent. Why don’t you go apply and leave the girls alone, yeah?”

Cornelia stifled a laugh as Borden’s face turned crimson. Muttering something about needing to find someone, he scurried off into the crowd.

Cornelia exhaled, glancing at Marcus with mock annoyance. “I could’ve handled that myself, you know.”

Marcus raised a skeptical brow. “Oh, really? Because I was starting to think it was mutual.”

Cornelia frowned, confused. “Mutual? With him?” Then she scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “With that scrawny, twitchy nerd? Please.”

Marcus chuckled as he turned and strolled back toward Cassius, who was watching the whole exchange from his seat. Cassius gave him a slow nod of approval, muttering under his breath, “About time.”

Marcus dropped back into his chair with a heavy sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Cassius shook his head, swirling the Firewhisky in his glass. “Seriously, who’s going to keep an eye on Cornelia next year?”

Marcus shrugged, picking up his drink. “She’ll be sixteen, Warrington. She’s more independent than you think.”

Cassius threw his head back dramatically, letting out an exaggerated groan. “Have you already forgotten what we were like at sixteen?”

Before Marcus could respond, Ivar strolled up behind them, leaning casually against Marcus’s chair with a grin. “Drinking yourselves stupid in Hogsmeade and snogging girls in dark corners,” he answered smoothly.

Cassius shot him a look, exasperation flickering in his eyes. “Exactly! Which is why someone has to keep an eye on her. Do you know how many idiots like Borden there are running around?”

Ivar took a sip from the drink he was holding, then patted Cassius on the shoulder with mock sympathy. “Better start sharpening your Bat-Bogey Hex skills, mate. Sounds like you’re going to need them.”

“Maybe I should just set her up with Pucey,” Cassius muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

Marcus turned to him, staring like he’d just sprouted a second head. “Are you thick? Better she ends up with Borden—at least he’s got money.”

Ivar, still leaning on Marcus’s chair, snorted into his drink. “This conversation’s really hitting rock bottom, lads.”

Cassius groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re both useless.”

“Not as useless as you,” Marcus shot back lazily. “You’re the one trying to play matchmaker with your own sister.”

Cassius glared at him but didn’t argue, mumbling something under his breath about how Cornelia was going to be the death of him. Marcus just chuckled, shaking his head.

After some time, Jonas entered the room with his usual flair, the kind that made people turn their heads without even realizing why. He moved like he owned the place—because, in some ways, he probably did.

Spotting Flint, Jonas gave a brief, almost dismissive nod before leaning over to whisper something to Borden, who immediately perked up like a trained house-elf and scurried toward Marcus.

Marcus, sprawled in his chair between Cassius and Ivar, watched the whole scene unfold with growing disbelief.

“Jonas wants to talk to you,” Borden announced, puffing up his chest as if delivering some grand decree.

Marcus stared at him for a long moment, then let out an exaggerated groan, running a hand down his face. “You’re joking, right?”

Cassius snorted, raising an eyebrow at Borden. “What, his legs stopped working?”

Ivar leaned forward, smirking. “Maybe Jonas is allergic to walking. Should we fetch a stretcher?”

The three of them turned their gaze to Jonas, who was now standing leisurely on the other side of the room, clearly eavesdropping with a faint smirk.

Marcus raised his voice, loud enough to carry over the noise. “Jonas, you couldn’t waddle over here yourself? What, did you pull a muscle being dramatic?”

Jonas, ever unbothered, tilted his head and offered a lazy shrug. “Why should I, when I’ve got someone to handle the small tasks for me?”

Cassius groaned loudly, slumping back in his chair. “Merlin’s beard, he even makes asking a question look pretentious.”

Ivar chuckled, shaking his head. “Go on, Flint. Don’t keep royalty waiting. Maybe he’ll knight you while you’re over there.”

As Flint made his way toward Jonas, Borden looked after him, still standing awkwardly like a messenger who wasn’t sure if his job was done.

Cassius waved him off. “You can go now, mate. Your master doesn’t need you for this part.”

Ivar snorted into his drink as Borden scowled and slinked back into the crowd.

***

But all the visible cheer drained from Flint’s face the moment he followed Lantaner into another room. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the noise of the party outside.

Marcus’s usual smirk was gone, replaced with a hardened expression. He didn’t need to guess what this conversation was about—he already knew.

Jonas leaned casually against the edge of a table, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his sharp eyes fixed on Marcus like a predator sizing up its prey. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows that only seemed to amplify the tension.

Marcus crossed his arms, standing stiffly a few feet away. “Get on with it, Jonas. We both know why I’m here.”

Lantaner smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Straight to the point, as always, Flint. You’re nothing if not efficient.”

Marcus said nothing, his jaw tightening as he waited for Jonas to speak. The silence stretched uncomfortably, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Finally, Jonas broke it with a soft chuckle, the sound as grating as nails on a chalkboard.

“I have to admit,” he began, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, “I always thought your high principles and moral stance about the league were unshakable. A true paragon of virtue.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, his skepticism plain.

Jonas continued, his smirk widening. “But now? Now it all makes sense.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t react. He simply stood there, arms crossed, waiting for Jonas to get to his point.

Jonas chuckled softly. “I know you don’t like me, and that’s putting it mildly. Most people here don’t, if I’m honest. Even Borden, who brought me into this mess, would happily stab me in the back the moment I turn around.”

Marcus folded his arms, his glare unwavering.

“But you,” Jonas continued, his tone growing sharper, “you hate me for a different reason. It’s not about power or control. It’s because, in your eyes, I’ve tampered with something sacred. I’ve poked at Quidditch itself. And for that, you’ll never forgive me.”

Jonas began pacing again, his footsteps echoing softly in the small room. “You see, Flint, for all your righteous speeches and holier-than-thou attitude, it turns out you’re just like the rest of us. No, actually—worse. At least we’re honest about what we are.”

Marcus finally broke his silence, his voice low and cold. “If you’ve got something to say, Lantaner, spit it out.”

Jonas stopped pacing, turning to face Marcus with a faint chuckle. “Oh, but I am saying something. I’m saying I’ve been watching you for a while, Flint. Keeping an eye on your little crusades for integrity, your loyalty to this league.” His tone shifted slightly, sharper now. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered your arrangement with Brennan. A throwaway match. From you.” He tilted his head, studying Marcus. “And then, to top it off, when I found out you’d written your own name as your successor? Well, let’s just say I was impressed.”

Marcus’s fists clenched at his sides, his thoughts a whirlwind of anger and guilt. Every word from Jonas felt like a direct hit, stripping away the justifications Marcus had clung to for weeks. He hated how easily Jonas saw through him—how he made Marcus confront the cracks in his carefully constructed armor.

The truth was undeniable: Marcus had sacrificed his values. He had thrown the match, jeopardized Pucey’s health, and tied his future to a choice he wasn’t even sure he believed in—all for his family. For their survival. For something that felt bigger than himself.

But now, standing here with Jonas dissecting his actions like a chessboard, Marcus could feel the weight of those decisions pressing down on him. It wasn’t just the compromises that stung—it was knowing that he’d made those choices alone, and that he’d be the one to carry their consequences.

Jonas leaned in, his voice turning to a cruel whisper. “What’s the issue, Flint? I even helped you. I made it easier for you. Took Pucey out of the game, sidelined Warrington too. Without your precious friends getting in the way, you had all the room you needed to do what you wanted—lose.”

Marcus’s eyes burned with anger, but Jonas kept going, his tone light, almost conversational.

“For everyone watching, it was seamless. Logical. No questions asked. And you got exactly what you needed.”Jonas tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “So why does it feel like you’re still blaming me?”

Jonas leaned back against the edge of the table, his gaze fixed on Marcus. “We’re not so different, you and I. Our motivations? Sure, they’re different. But the lengths we’re willing to go to get what we want? That’s the same.”

Marcus clenched his fists, but before he could respond, Jonas stepped back, his smirk returning.

“And that’s why,” Jonas continued, “my choice for a successor is obvious.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before Jonas delivered the blow. “You, Flint. I want you to take my place. When I step down, the league will need someone who knows how to play the game—someone who understands both the rules and when to break them.”

Marcus’s expression darkened, his voice filled with disbelief. “You’ve lost it, Jonas. There’s no way—”

Jonas chuckled, holding up a hand. “Spare me the protests. We both know you’re the best choice. You’ve proven that you’re loyal—to the league, to your family, to your friends. You’ve sacrificed everything to protect them. That’s the kind of leader this place needs.”

Marcus’s thoughts whirled, a storm of defiance, guilt, and reluctant understanding. He hated how much Jonas seemed to see through him, to predict his moves before even he could.

Jonas took a step closer, his tone softening. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘I don’t need your handouts, Lantaner.’ But this isn’t a handout, Flint. This is recognition.” He met Marcus’s gaze, his voice steady. “I’m recognizing you, Marcus Flint, as a worthy opponent.”

He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “The game’s over, Flint. The board is set, the pieces are in place. I’m leaving. The rest is up to you.”

Jonas turned to leave, pausing briefly at the door. “I’ll be watching with great interest, Flint. Don’t disappoint me.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Marcus standing alone. The weight of Jonas’s words pressed down on him like a storm. For once, he had no sharp retort, no snide comment—just the realization that Jonas had been right about one thing. The game had changed, and whether Marcus liked it or not, he was the one left to play it.

***

Marcus returned to the party, his expression unreadable as he walked straight to the table and grabbed a bottle of Firewhisky. Under the puzzled gazes of his friends, he turned and left without a word, his posture stiff, his intent clear—he needed to be alone.

The echo of his footsteps followed him as he wandered the empty castle corridors, the Firewhisky swinging loosely in his grip. He didn’t bother trying to avoid being seen; the late hour and his own simmering thoughts made the idea of being caught seem trivial.

He leaned his head back against the cold stone wall, the bottle dangling from his fingers as his mind churned. Jonas had admitted to orchestrating everything—the injuries, the sabotage, the perfect setup to make losing not just possible, but inevitable. And yet, instead of crushing him, Jonas had handed him the reins of the league with that smug, condescending smirk.

Outplayed. That’s what it boiled down to. Marcus had been maneuvered into a corner so expertly that, even now, he couldn’t figure out how to hate the offer. Becoming head of the league should’ve felt like victory—should’ve meant something.

But no matter how he turned it over in his mind, the weight of it didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like chains. Jonas’s recognition, his so-called respect, didn’t erase the fact that Marcus had been nothing more than a piece in someone else’s game.

And now? Now he was the one meant to take over. To hold the pieces together. To deal with the mess Jonas had left behind. It wasn’t power Jonas had handed him—it was a prison disguised as an opportunity.

Marcus let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the empty corridor. Head of the league. Successor to Jonas Lantaner. And still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was playing a role Jonas had written for him all along.

And then he saw her.

A familiar figure sat by the window, one leg dangling casually over the ledge, her outline illuminated by the pale moonlight streaming through the glass. Katie.

Marcus froze, his grip tightening on the Firewhisky bottle. For a moment, he debated whether to turn back the way he came, but his feet remained rooted to the spot. She hadn’t noticed him yet, her gaze fixed on the grounds outside, seemingly lost in thought.

The tension in his chest shifted, though he couldn’t quite name the feeling. Annoyance? Relief? Something else entirely? All he knew was that the storm in his head didn’t quiet when he saw her—it only changed direction.

Marcus cleared his throat, forcing an air of nonchalance as he leaned against the stone archway. “Oi, Bell. Can’t sleep?”

Without turning her head, Katie’s voice came sharp but calm. “Oi, Flint. Still trying to drown your troubles in Firewhisky?”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Marcus’s mouth as he approached her, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Not drowning, just… pacing myself.”

Katie didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still fixed on the grounds outside. Marcus took that as permission to sit, settling himself a few feet away on the ledge. He set the Firewhisky bottle between them, the glass clinking softly against the stone.

“What, Gryffindor’s grand celebration already fizzled out?” he asked, tilting his head toward her.

Katie finally turned to look at him, her expression unreadable. “No. I just needed some air.”

Marcus nodded slowly, his fingers idly drumming against the bottle.

It had been two months since they’d spoken—two months of avoiding each other, of stolen glances and lingering tension. He could feel it now, thick and unspoken, but for the first time in weeks, Marcus found himself unwilling to walk away.

She didn’t say anything, but there was an edge to her posture that told him she’d rather be alone. Still, he stayed.

He missed this—missed her. Their easy conversations, her sharp wit, the way she somehow always made the chaos in his life feel a little less suffocating. It was a realization he hadn’t let himself dwell on before, but sitting here now, he could finally admit it to himself.

“So,” he said lightly, breaking the silence. “How’s it feel, being Hogwarts’ new golden hero?”

Katie shrugged. "Doesn't feel like much," she answered honestly, her tone as casual as her posture.

Marcus pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, the faint glow illuminating his face in the dim corridor. He took a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled lazily upward.

Without a word, Katie reached for the Firewhisky bottle sitting between them and took a swig.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Help yourself, why don’t you?"

Katie set the bottle back down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I just did."

Marcus chuckled softly, the tension between them easing ever so slightly. Despite everything—it felt strangely normal. For a moment, it was almost like old times.

For a fleeting moment, the silence reminded Marcus of that night in the Forbidden Forest—the two of them sitting by the fire after making their half way through the dark woods toward the castle after a game.

He could still see her face lit by the flickering flames, her gaze fixed on the stars, her usual sharpness replaced by a rare, quiet wonder. Back then, the silence had felt peaceful. But tonight wasn’t like that.

Tonight, the quiet felt heavier, weighted by everything they weren’t saying.

Katie finally broke the silence, her voice low but sharp. “You’re acting like nothing happened.”

Marcus took a final drag of his cigarette, snuffing it out against the windowsill. "What do you want me to say, Bell? That everything’s fine?”

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. "No, but maybe start with why you’re sitting out here instead of basking in your league victory? Doesn’t feel very ‘Flint’ of you."

Marcus’s chuckle lacked humor. "Maybe the Flint you think I am doesn’t exist."

Katie smirked faintly, tilting her head. "Oh, so now you’re a philosopher? What’s next, tutoring first-years?"

"Hardly. I’m not a saint, Bell. Never claimed to be."

Katie’s expression softened slightly, her teasing replaced by something gentler. "So what’s going on, then? You’ve been acting strange since… well, since everything."

He glanced at her, the words clearly caught in his throat. After a moment, he looked away, his voice quieter. "It’s complicated."

Katie folded her arms. "You don’t say."

Marcus straightened, his expression darkening slightly. "You really want to know? Fine. Let’s just say things didn’t exactly pan out the way I thought they would. The league, school, all of it.”

"And?" Katie prompted, her voice softer now.

Marcus shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it, Bell. It’s not worth getting into."

Katie’s brow furrowed, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Flint. Stop deciding what I can and can’t handle. Maybe I’m not as clueless as you think."

Marcus turned to her, his eyes locking onto hers. "Clueless? Bell, you’ve got no idea what it’s like to deal with this mess. To screw things up so badly you don’t even know how to fix them."

Katie’s mouth opened, a sharp retort ready, but she stopped short. The exhaustion in his face, the way his shoulders sagged, said more than his words ever could.

The vulnerability in his voice surprised her, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Instead of pressing further, she leaned back slightly, her hands bracing against the windowsill as the silence between them grew heavier.

Her voice softened. "I wasn’t trying to... I just wanted to help."

Marcus looked at her for a moment, something unspoken flickering in his expression. Then, as she slid off the windowsill and turned to leave, he reached out, catching her wrist gently.

“Bell,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than before.

Katie turned back to him, her brow furrowing. “What?”

Instead of answering, Marcus pulled her into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around her. It wasn’t smooth or practiced—there was something raw about it, something unspoken.

“I fucked up,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

Katie stood frozen, her mind racing. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted her arms and hugged him back. The sharp edges of her frustration melted away as she felt the rawness in his grip, the weight of emotions he hadn’t dared to show before.

His black hoodie smelled like cigarettes, Firewhisky, and something else—something faintly familiar that she couldn’t quite place. It was grounding in a strange way, as if this messy, broken version of Marcus was somehow more real than the one she’d known before.

“You didn’t ruin everything, you know,” she said softly, though she wasn’t sure if he believed her.

For a long moment, they stood there in silence, the tension between them softening into something almost fragile.

Then, as quickly as it had happened, Marcus pulled back. His expression was guarded again, his walls firmly back in place. Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving Katie standing in the dim corridor, her arms still hanging loosely at her sides as she watched him disappear into the shadows.

***

The last rays of sunlight streamed through the castle windows, casting the corridor in a warm amber glow. Katie stood near the entrance to the Great Hall, where the remnants of the end-of-year feast were being cleared away. The buzz of chatter and laughter still echoed faintly, but she stayed back, lingering in the quiet of the corridor.

Her OWLs were behind her now—a grueling marathon of parchment and sleepless nights. The relief of finishing them was palpable, yet it left an unexpected void. For the first time in weeks, she had nothing to occupy her hands or her mind.

She thought about the season that had passed—the matches, the victories, the bruises that were finally starting to fade. She thought about Marcus. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night in the corridor, and while his public demeanor hadn’t changed, there was a distance now, a silence that neither of them seemed willing to break.

The sound of footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. Turning, she saw Fred and George approaching, their faces alight with mischief as always.

"Oi, Bell!" Fred called, tossing an arm around her shoulder. "Ready to ditch this place for a few months?"

Katie smiled faintly, shrugging off the weight in her chest. "More than ready."

"Good, because we’ve got plans," George added, winking. "Big plans."

Fred leaned in conspiratorially. "We’ll tell you all about it on the train. Let’s just say, next year’s going to be... explosive."

Katie laughed despite herself, letting them lead her toward the carriages. But as they descended the stone steps, she cast one last glance over her shoulder.

She thought of Marcus again—wherever he was now, probably brooding in some quiet corner of the castle. She thought of the way he had looked at her that night, the crack in his usual defenses, the weight of his words.

"Next year," she murmured to herself, the words both a promise and a challenge.

***

Marcus leaned against the railing of the Astronomy Tower, the castle grounds stretching out below him in the fading light. The chatter and laughter of the feast were distant now, muffled by the cool evening air.

In the distance, he could just make out the line of carriages heading toward the train station. Soon, the castle would fall silent, emptied of its chaos, its expectations, and the people who made it unbearable and unforgettable all at once.

He exhaled, the cigarette in his hand glowing faintly as he took another drag. Jonas’s words still echoed in his mind, twisting and turning no matter how many times he tried to shove them away. The league. His choices. Katie.

It all felt like a weight he wasn’t ready to carry—but couldn’t put down, either.

He leaned forward, the cool stone pressing against his forearms as he let out a bitter chuckle. "Next year," he muttered to himself. "Yeah. Sure."

***

The Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station, steam curling into the summer sky. Katie leaned against the window of her compartment, her reflection overlapping with the rushing countryside.

Far above in the castle, Marcus flicked his cigarette into the night, the glowing ember spiraling downward before vanishing into the dark.

Neither of them knew what the next year would bring. But for better or worse, their paths were set to cross again. And this time, nothing would be the same.

Chapter Text

Marcus stood outside the Leaky Cauldron, barely managing to suppress the urge to retch after Apparating. The only upside to finishing his seventh year had been earning his Apparition license—and, of course, finally being of age to perform magic freely. That, at least, made the nausea worth it.

He’d spent the summer with Ivar in some remote Irish village, tucked away in the middle of nowhere, sharing a house with Ivar’s half-deaf grandfather. Marcus couldn’t complain. After admitting his mother to St. Mungo’s, he hadn’t had anywhere else to go. Ivar, in his typical straightforward way, had offered him a place to stay for the summer.

Clearing his throat a few times, Marcus exhaled sharply, trying to summon the will to step inside the pub. The letter had arrived just last night, delivered by a sharp-clawed owl that he half-expected was trained to draw blood. It was from Lantaner, as brief and infuriating as ever. “Your turn to handle this.”

Attached was another letter, this one bearing the bold scrawl of Ludo Bagman. Marcus hadn’t been surprised. Bagman had been an active player in the league’s shadowy circles for years. Despite having left Hogwarts what felt like a century ago, he still kept close ties to the league, offering his “help” whenever it suited him.

Stepping inside the dimly lit pub, Marcus spotted him immediately. Bagman was impossible to miss: loud, boisterous, and entirely out of place in the subdued atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron. Ludo was seated at a corner table, nursing a pint of Butterbeer like it was the finest ale in wizarding Britain.

When Bagman caught sight of Marcus, his eyebrows shot up in surprise, a grin spreading across his ruddy face. “Well, well, Marcus Flint! Never thought I’d see you here, lad.”

Marcus approached with measured steps, pulling out a chair and sitting without a word. “Pleasure to see you too, Ludo,” he said coolly, crossing his arms on the table.

Bagman leaned back, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Didn’t think you’d stick around Hogwarts after seventh year. And Lantaner trusting you with his position?” He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Well, that’s a twist I didn’t see coming.”

Marcus arched a brow. “Let’s get to the point, Bagman. I’m not here for small talk.”

Bagman chuckled, lifting his pint in mock toast. “Straight to business, eh? Fine, fine. But I’ve got to say, this is a bit of a downgrade. Meetings with Lantaner used to be at his family estate—oh, the place was a marvel. Velvet chairs, golden goblets, and wine that could knock you flat. And here we are, in this quaint little hole.”

Marcus exhaled sharply, his patience thinning. “Bagman.”

“Alright, alright,” Bagman relented, setting his pint down and leaning forward. “Here’s the deal: people weren’t thrilled about how the league wrapped up last season. All the drama, the injuries, the, uh… questionable decisions.” His grin widened as if the chaos amused him. “But you’ve got a chance to clean up the mess. Turn things around, you know?”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping slightly. “And by ‘people,’ I think you know exactly who I’m talking about.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. Of course he knew who Bagman meant. Graduates. Those who’d left Hogwarts but hadn’t truly left the league behind. They supported it from the shadows, in their own ways—donating funds, offering equipment, or occasionally slipping players a bit of strategic advice. Some of them, like Bagman, even used their influence to help league players break into the professional Quidditch scene.

Bagman, for all his irritating mannerisms, was one of the league’s more active alumni. His name carried weight, and he often used it to nudge talented players into the spotlight. It wasn’t charity, Marcus knew—it was an investment. Bagman liked being the man who “discovered” rising stars, especially if their success made him look good in return.

Marcus’s expression darkened. “And?”

Bagman’s voice dropped, conspiratorial. “Word is, they’re planning to bring back the Triwizard Tournament.” He paused, clearly expecting a reaction.

Marcus blinked, unimpressed. “What does that have to do with the league?”

Bagman smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Opportunities, Flint. If the rumors are true, they’re talking about canceling the school league entirely. And you know what that means, don’t you? All those eager little players with nowhere to go—they’ll come flocking to your underground league instead.”

He let the words hang for a moment before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and there’s talk Viktor Krum might want in.”

Marcus raised a skeptical brow. “Krum? He’s a Seeker, not a Chaser. What the hell would he do in our league?”

Bagman shrugged, his tone breezy. “I’ve heard—strictly rumors, of course—that Krum’s been itching to try his hand at being a Chaser. Wants to ‘broaden his horizons,’ they say. Now, imagine what it’d do for your league to have someone like him on board. The crowds, the bets, the prestige…”

Marcus narrowed his eyes, his mind racing despite himself. “And you think we can just convince Krum to join us?”

Bagman leaned forward again, his grin never faltering. “Convincing’s not my job, Flint. That’s on you. But if you pull it off, it could be exactly what your league needs to bury the mess of last season and come out stronger than ever.”

Marcus’s fingers drummed harder on the table as he mulled it over. It sounded absurd, but he couldn’t deny the potential impact.

Bagman’s grin widened as he watched Marcus wrestle with his thoughts. His jovial demeanor never faltered as he downed the last of his pint in one smooth motion and stood, wiping his hands on his robes.

“Oh, by the way, I can arrange some tickets for the World Cup finals. You’re interested, right?”

Marcus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bagman, you know damn well I’m not in a position to throw money around.”

Bagman clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Who said anything about selling them? I’m giving them to you! A gift.”

Marcus shot him a suspicious look. “And the catch?”

“No catch!” Bagman said, though the glint in his eye suggested otherwise. “Think of it as an opportunity. You rub elbows with the right crowd, drop a word or two about the league… maybe even run into Krum. Win-win, isn’t it?”

Marcus exhaled heavily, muttering under his breath, “Relentless bastard.”

“That’s why you like me!” Bagman declared with a wink before sauntering off. “I’ll send the tickets by owl. Don’t thank me all at once!”

Marcus watched him go, shaking his head. Bagman’s “gifts” always came with strings, no matter how shiny they seemed at first glance.

Suddenly, a familiar face appeared in one of the pub’s windows—pressed against the glass, arms full of shopping bags, and looking thoroughly exasperated.

“For Merlin’s sake, Flint, let’s leave already!” Ivar called, the strain in his voice palpable as he struggled to balance his purchases.

Marcus rolled his eyes, finally rising from his seat. Sometimes, Ivar was insufferable—especially when it came to places he claimed “reeked of Brits.”

***

Bagman had kept his word about the tickets, sending them by owl the next morning. Naturally, they were nowhere near the first row, but they’d do.

Marcus hesitated over the tickets for longer than he cared to admit. He didn’t trust Bagman’s so-called “gifts,” and the thought of wading into the chaos of the World Cup crowd didn’t exactly fill him with excitement. But Ivar, wide-eyed with curiosity and almost childlike wonder at the magical world, had badgered him relentlessly.

“Flint, are you daft? It’s bloody Ireland versus Bulgaria!” Ivar had exclaimed, practically shoving Marcus toward their makeshift Floo station. “You don’t just sit this one out! We’re goin’, whether you like it or not!”

Marcus rolled his eyes but relented, mostly to shut him up. The thought of Ivar dragging him through the endless debate wasn’t worth the fight.

Their journey to the Cup was a whirlwind of magical checkpoints, Portkeys, and the sprawling campsite, alive with a sea of enchanted tents and wizards in colorful robes. Marcus moved through it all with his usual air of detached irritation, but Ivar was practically glowing with excitement.

“Bloody hell, look at this place!” Ivar said, his Irish brogue thicker in his enthusiasm as he took in the sights. “It’s like Glastonbury—if Glastonbury were run by lunatics with wands!”

Marcus gave him a pointed look, but Ivar wasn’t fazed. He dragged Marcus forward, weaving through the crowd like a man possessed, occasionally stopping to gawk at some particularly ostentatious magical display.

By the time they reached their seats—decent enough, though far from the “front row” Bagman had promised—the stadium was already buzzing with energy. The pitch stretched out before them, pristine and gleaming under the enchanted lights.

“Not bad, I’ll give ya that,” Ivar said as he dropped into his seat, glancing around at the crowd. “Still too many Brits here, though.”

Marcus smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You’re at a World Cup in England, Ivar. What were you expecting? Leprechauns serving drinks?”

Ivar shrugged, grinning. “Ah, maybe a bit less red and a lot more green, eh?”

Marcus chuckled. “Just wait till the game starts. Krum’s going to wipe the floor with Ireland.”

Ivar frowned. “Who’s Krum again?”

Marcus sighed, shaking his head. “You’re hopeless.”

He leaned back, letting the roar of the crowd wash over him. As much as he hated to admit it, the buzz of excitement was contagious.

It didn’t take long for them to spot a familiar face. In one of the opulent VIP boxes sat Abraxas Wimus, looking as polished as ever in his tailored robes. Seated beside the Minister for Magic himself, Wimus exuded the effortless confidence of someone whose family name carried weight in every corner of the wizarding world.

The Wimus family had built their reputation over generations as master potion-makers and herbologists. Their elixirs were sought after across Europe, and their greenhouses were said to rival even the most well-stocked apothecaries in Hogwarts.

Ivar nudged Marcus with his elbow. “Look who’s living the high life.”

Abraxas caught sight of them and broke into a wide grin, excusing himself from the Minister with a quick word. He descended toward their section with a brisk efficiency that spoke of someone used to balancing propriety with practicality.

“Flint! Brennan!” Wimus greeted, his tone warm but tinged with his usual precision. “Didn’t expect to see you two here. Enjoying the spectacle?”

Marcus shrugged. “Couldn’t resist the charm of overpriced tickets and screaming fans,” he deadpanned.

Ivar grinned. “And you? Rubbing elbows with the Minister? Moving up in the world, mate.”

Wimus chuckled lightly. “Family obligations, mostly. You know how it is. The Ministry’s always keen to keep our family name tied to their little displays of unity.” He gestured toward the VIP box with a faint smirk. “Though I can’t say the company’s terrible.”

After a brief pause, Wimus looked back at Marcus, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “We’ll need to talk soon—there’s a lot to discuss.”

Marcus gave a measured nod. They did have plenty to talk about, especially with Bagman’s cryptic remarks still fresh in his mind. The upcoming school year was shaping up to be anything but ordinary, and whatever changes lay ahead, Marcus knew they wouldn’t be simple.

The sudden blare of enchanted trumpets echoed through the stadium, cutting through the hum of the crowd and signaling the start of the pre-game festivities. Wimus straightened, adjusting his immaculate robes with his usual exaggerated flair. As he turned to leave, a wide grin spread across his face.

“Flint,” Wimus said, his tone a blend of amusement and sincerity, “you’ve no idea how delighted I am that you’ll be with us this year.”

Marcus smirked faintly, inclining his head. “You’ve no idea how delighted I am,” he muttered under his breath as Wimus swept back toward the VIP box. 

***

As the game concluded and the roaring cheers of the crowd began to die down, Marcus and Ivar navigated their way through the throng of departing fans. The air buzzed with post-match energy, with wizards and witches animatedly debating key plays and close calls.

Ivar, as usual, kept his running commentary going. “That Bulgarian Seeker’s got some serious moves, but their Chasers? Useless. Might as well have handed Ireland the Quaffle on a silver platter.”

Marcus rolled his eyes, muttering, “You’re an expert now, are you?”

They were just nearing the exit when Ivar nudged Marcus sharply with his elbow, leaning in conspiratorially. “Oi, Flint, isn’t that your bird? Bell, over there?”

Marcus blinked, his attention snapping to where Ivar was gesturing with a subtle nod. Sure enough, standing near one of the magical food stalls, was Katie Bell. She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, her Gryffindor scarf loosely draped around her neck. Her hair caught the golden glow of the lanterns strung across the bustling area.

“She’s not my—” Marcus began, his tone defensive, but Ivar cut him off with a sly grin.

“Sure, sure, whatever you say, mate,” Ivar teased, smirking.

Marcus considered ignoring her and just continuing toward the exit. It wasn’t like they were on speaking terms. But something made him hesitate. Maybe it was the sight of her smile, unguarded and carefree, or maybe it was the memory of their last conversation still weighing on him.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Marcus changed course, heading toward her. Ivar followed a step behind, clearly enjoying the unfolding scene.

Katie noticed him just as he approached, her laughter fading into a look of surprise. “Flint?” she said, her tone tinged with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Marcus shrugged, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. “Same as everyone else. Watching the game.”

Katie nodded, her posture stiffening slightly. “I thought you’d be busy… you know, sorting your life out after graduation.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Marcus replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “How’ve you been?”

Katie hesitated, clearly debating whether to engage. Finally, she answered, her tone clipped but polite. “Fine. Busy.”

Marcus tilted his head slightly, studying her. “Good to hear.”

Katie’s friends called her name from a few feet away, and she turned toward them, clearly eager to make her exit.

“Well,” she said, glancing back at him briefly, “good seeing you, Flint.”

“See you at school, Bell.” Marcus said, his tone casual but carrying an edge of finality. 

Katie froze, her brow furrowing. “At school? You’re—”

But Marcus was already walking away, his jacket catching the breeze as he melted into the crowd.

Ivar, following after him, let out a low whistle. “Well, that’ll leave her guessing.”

Marcus didn’t respond, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as they made their way out of the stadium.

***

Katie stood in the sea of departing Quidditch fans, her eyes trailing after Marcus Flint’s retreating figure. She couldn’t quite place why she lingered, but something about seeing him here—out of all places—felt… off.

Their last conversation had ended on a note she hadn’t seen coming. His arms around her, that raw admission slipping through his defenses, and then—just as suddenly as it had happened—he was gone. No explanation, no follow-up, no chance to make sense of it. She’d replayed the moment in her mind more times than she cared to admit, and yet, standing here now, she felt as uncertain as ever.

Maeve’s voice broke her trance. “Come on, Katie!” she called, nudging her sharply. “We’re heading back to the tent. Grandpa’s still arguing with that bloke about Ireland’s win.”

Katie forced a smile and nodded, falling in line with her large, boisterous family as they made their way through the bustling crowd. Her younger cousins waved miniature Irish flags as they ran ahead, while her father carried her grandfather’s enchanted shamrock hat, which had finally stopped singing.

The match had been electrifying, and being surrounded by her family should have been enough to keep her grounded. But the sight of Marcus Flint had thrown her.

For two months, she’d pushed him out of her mind, determined to leave everything about him in the past. She’d promised herself that whatever tension or connection they’d shared was buried, left behind with the school year. That hug—unexpected, uncharacteristic, and haunting—was supposed to be the final page of a closed book. She’d assumed she’d never see him again, that their worlds would remain separate. She’d made peace with it.

Or so she’d thought.

And yet, here he was, walking away like he hadn’t just upended everything she’d worked to forget.

“See you at school,” he’d said, and the words rattled in her mind. Was it a mistake? A habit? Or did he actually mean it?

Maeve nudged her again, pulling her from her spiraling thoughts. “Oi, Katie, you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Katie muttered, forcing herself to focus. “Just… tired.”

Maeve arched a brow but didn’t press, her attention shifting to their cousins as they darted ahead.

As they neared their tent, her aunt called out, struggling to corral the younger kids. “Maeve! If you see your uncle, tell him not to buy any more cursed souvenirs!”

Katie followed along, her expression carefully neutral, but inside her thoughts churned. She didn’t want to admit it, but she still felt the ghost of his presence. The way he’d held her, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders—and for that moment, she’d been the only thing keeping him upright.

It was easier to think of him as arrogant and infuriating, the way he usually was. It was easier to dismiss him as someone who pushed people away before they could get too close. But that version of Marcus wasn’t the one she’d been left with.

Her heart twisted in frustration. She’d been ready to let go, to forget. Now, with just a handful of words and the sight of him in the crowd, he’d managed to unsettle her all over again.

Maeve called out to her, laughing as she chased one of their cousins. Katie shook her head, forcing herself to catch up with her family.

It was over, she reminded herself. Whatever had passed between them, whatever fragile connection they’d shared—it didn’t matter anymore. She was going back to Hogwarts to finish what she’d started, and Marcus Flint was just a ghost from last term.

Even if her heart stubbornly refused to believe it.

Chapter Text

The train ride back to Hogwarts was quieter than Marcus had expected.

Not in the literal sense—the corridors were their usual chaos of shouting first-years, squawking owls, and clattering trunks—but in his compartment, at least, it was blessedly silent.

He shoved his trunk under the seat with more force than necessary and dropped into his spot, stretching his legs out in front of him. The glass door offered glimpses of the usual gawking students passing by, their whispers just audible over the noise.

Marcus smirked faintly as some younger Slytherins darted glances at him, their wide-eyed stares betraying just how unexpected his return was. Of course, he knew what they were saying. The most popular theory would undoubtedly be that Marcus Flint had failed his N.E.W.T.s so badly that he had no choice but to repeat his final year. The idea should’ve bothered him, but it didn’t.

Because, in truth, that’s exactly what he wanted them to think. If people wanted to believe he was a dumb troll barely scraping by, so be it. The reality—that Marcus had deliberately failed his exams to stay at Hogwarts—was something no one needed to know. Let them whisper. It kept them from asking real questions.

He leaned back in his seat, propping his head against the window. His mind flitted briefly to Katie Bell—specifically, the look on her face at the World Cup when he’d thrown out, “See you at school.” The flash of confusion, quickly masked with indifference, had been satisfying in ways he wasn’t ready to admit. His smirk deepened slightly at the memory.

But the moment didn’t last long. Just as he began to enjoy the quiet solitude of his compartment, the door slid open with a loud clang.

“Piss off, Greengrass, we’ll talk later!” Adrian Pucey barked as he stumbled in, slamming the door shut behind him. A muffled huff of indignation could be heard from the other side as Daphne Greengrass stormed away. 

“Subtle,” Marcus drawled, raising an eyebrow at Pucey.

Adrian flopped onto the seat across from him, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Merlin, all it took was one drunken kiss, and now she won’t leave me alone. You’d think we were engaged or something!”

Marcus snorted but didn’t reply, watching as Adrian grabbed his tie and loosened it, his irritation still simmering.

“Anyway,” Pucey continued, apparently deciding he’d had enough venting for now. He sat up straighter, fixing Marcus with a curious look. “How was your summer with the Irishman? Let me guess—he talked your ear off, and now you’ve forgotten how to cast Accio.”

Marcus gave him a flat look. “It was quiet, which is more than I can say for you.”

Adrian grinned, unfazed. “Bet you didn’t even pick up your wand the whole time. Probably came back here a proper Muggle, didn’t you?”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “If you’re done, you can leave.”

Pucey was still watching Marcus, his gaze sharp and probing. Marcus tried to ignore him, focusing on the blurred countryside outside the window, but Adrian’s persistence was relentless.

Finally, Marcus sighed, leaning back against the seat. “What?”

Adrian didn’t blink. “Just wondering when you’re planning to stop being such a stubborn arse.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He knew exactly where this was headed. Adrian’s pointed stares had been a constant since he’d told his friends he was staying on for another year.

Their initial reactions hadn’t been pleasant, to put it mildly. When Marcus had finally explained the real reason behind his decision—the debts his father had racked up with Gringotts, the financial strain on his family—things had only escalated.

Adrian had been the first to lose his temper.

“Marcus,” Adrian had growled, his voice shaking with frustration, “I never thought I’d say this, but you’re an idiot. We could’ve helped you!”

Marcus had scoffed at that, his tone bitter. “Help me? Pucey, your father ran off with some muggle and the family vault’s been empty for years. You’ve got enough on your plate already.”

Adrian had flushed red, his fists clenching, but Marcus had already turned his attention to Cassius. “And you—you’ve already got enough grief just for being seen with me. I had no right to drag you into my problems.”

Cassius’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. His usual cool demeanor was strained, his shoulders tense.

Marcus pushed on, his tone sharp but edged with something close to regret. “You think I don’t know what people say about us? About you? ‘The boy from the proud Warrington family slumming it with a Flint.’ I’ve heard it all before. Your father doesn’t need another excuse to hate my guts.”

Cassius had stayed quiet during the argument, his expression unreadable, but his silence had stung more than Adrian’s outburst.

Back in the present, Adrian broke the silence again, his tone still edged with irritation. “You didn’t even give us a bloody chance to try.”

Marcus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Because it wouldn’t have made a difference. I’ve already made my decision. Let it go, Adrian.”

But Adrian didn’t. His frustration was clear in the set of his jaw, the way his hands fidgeted against his knees. “You don’t get it, do you? We’re your friends, Marcus. You didn’t have to do this alone.”

Marcus looked away, his voice quieter this time. “Yeah, well. I did.”

The tension hung heavy between them, neither willing to push the conversation further. Marcus leaned his head back against the window, willing himself to ignore Adrian’s lingering glare.

Suddenly, the compartment door burst open again, crashing against the wall with such force that Marcus winced. In stumbled Abraxas, Ivar, and Darryl, each looking like they’d been chased by a herd of Hippogriffs.

“For the love of Merlin,” Marcus groaned, sinking further into his seat. “Can none of you knock like civilized people?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Abraxas quipped, brushing imaginary dust from his robes as he sauntered in.

Meanwhile, Pucey leapt up from his seat with the energy of a child on a sugar high. “Darryl! Look at you—taller, scruffier, and still somehow managing to look like you’ve never seen a comb.” He yanked Darryl into a headlock, ruffling his hair until it stuck out in every possible direction.

“Get off me, Pucey!” Darryl grumbled, flailing. “You’re just jealous I’ve almost caught up to you!”

“Caught up?” Adrian snorted, stepping back. “Look at this little squirt—grows a few centimeters and suddenly thinks he’s my equal.” He smirked. “Don’t get too cocky, or I’ll remind you who’s still running this show.”

Darryl huffed, smoothing down his hair, while Adrian laughed, clearly enjoying himself.

Meanwhile, Ivar threw himself onto the bench opposite Marcus, slinging his legs over it like he owned the place. “Bloody hell, Flint. Why do you look like someone’s just hexed your kneecaps? You’ve spent the whole summer with me—I thought I’d rubbed off on you.”

Marcus shot him a withering look. “Exactly. That’s why I’m already tired of you.”

“Oi, that’s no way to treat your gracious host,” Ivar replied, grinning. “You’d have been bored stiff without me. Admit it.”

“Or dead in some swamp,” Abraxas added, clearly amused. 

Before Marcus could retort, Abraxas turned his attention to Adrian. “Pucey, didn’t you once say you had a thing for French girls?”

Adrian tilted his head, squinting as if in deep thought. “That… sounds like me. Yeah, probably. Why?”

“Well, then,” Abraxas said, stepping into the compartment and closing the door with a flourish, “you’re going to love this. The Triwizard Tournament’s coming back this year.”

The chatter stopped instantly, the room going eerily silent as everyone stared at Abraxas.

Ivar frowned, sitting up properly for once. “Wait, what’s that? And what does it have to do with French girls?”

Abraxas rolled his eyes dramatically, clearly enjoying his role as bearer of news. “Beauxbatons, my friend. One of the competing schools. They’re sending their best students here, and trust me, they’ve got a reputation.”

Adrian’s eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Beauxbatons? You’re joking. French witches and Durmstrang lads? This year’s already looking up.”

Ivar whipped around to glare at Adrian. “Durmstrang lads? You really need to raise your standards, mate.”

Adrian smirked. “Says the guy who got dumped by Anna Sprout.”

Ivar turned beet red. “For the last time, that wasn’t a real—oh, sod off!”

Marcus rolled his eyes as Darryl burst into laughter. “This is going to be brilliant,” Darryl said, barely able to contain himself.

Ivar pointed an accusatory finger at Marcus. “You knew about this, didn’t you?Ah, now it makes sense why you were hanging around with that Bulgarian bloke after the game—what’s his name? Kroom? Kreeem? like that. ”

Marcus shrugged, clearly unfazed. “Figured you’d find out sooner or later.” 

Ivar groaned, slumping back in his seat. “If you’d told me earlier, I could’ve started learning French over the summer. Now I will be stuck sounding like an idiot in front of actual French people.”

“Doesn’t seem to stop you with English,” Marcus quipped, earning a snort from Adrian.

“Oh, shove it, Flint,” Ivar muttered, though his lips twitched with the hint of a smile.

Adrian, clearly not done with his mischief, leaned toward Ivar. “But seriously, mate. Be careful. Last time you fancied someone, she left you for her Herbology textbook.”

“That’s it!” Ivar lunged at Adrian, and the compartment erupted into chaos as Darryl cheered them on.

Marcus leaned his head back against the window, letting out an exaggerated sigh as Abraxas chuckled beside him. “If this is what the year’s starting with, someone please hex me now.”

Abraxas smirked, tilting his head toward Marcus. “You’re stuck with us, Flint. No hex will save you.”

***

Katie barely made it onto the train, her heart still pounding from the mad dash across Platform 9¾. She’d slept horribly the night before, thanks to her house being overrun by her extended family. Ever since the World Cup, her relatives had decided to extend their visit, turning the Bell household into a circus of noise and chaos.

She’d spent most of the night trying to block out the sounds of her younger cousins stomping through the house, only to wake up surrounded by them, sprawled across her bed like kneazles on a sunlit patch of grass. Katie groaned at the memory of waking up to sticky hands tugging on her hair and loud whispers of, “Katie, can we play with your wand?”

The morning had been a blur of rushing to pack, dodging half-eaten toast, and prying her trunk out of the clutches of her curious uncle, who’d decided it was an “excellent piece of craftsmanship.”

By the time she’d found her seat on the train, Katie was equal parts exhausted and relieved. She let out a sigh of relief as she sank down between Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, who had already claimed their usual spots.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” Angelina remarked, arching an eyebrow at her disheveled friend.

Katie groaned, leaning her head back against the seat. “You have no idea. My entire family decided to stay for another week after the Cup. I haven’t had a moment of peace since.”

“Let me guess—your cousins?” Alicia asked, smirking knowingly.

“Little demons,” Katie muttered, closing her eyes. “I woke up with at least three of them on me this morning. I think one of them tried to steal my wand.”

Angelina chuckled, handing Katie a Chocolate Frog. “Here. You need this more than I do.”

Katie accepted it gratefully, tearing off the wrapper. “Thanks. If anyone tries to talk to me about cursed souvenirs or enchanted shamrocks, I might lose it.”

“Fair enough,” Alicia said, exchanging an amused glance with Angelina.

The twins burst into the compartment, hauling an oversized trunk that clearly should’ve been in the luggage car.

“If that thing explodes, Weasley, take it somewhere else,” Angelina said dryly, not even looking up from her magazine.

Fred grinned innocently as he plopped down beside her, throwing an arm casually over her shoulders. “Explode? Angie, I’m hurt. It’s all perfectly harmless. Mostly.”

George smirked, setting the trunk down with a loud thud. “We’re calling it ‘harmless,’ are we? Bold move.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming this ‘perfectly harmless’ thing can’t actually go near fire?”

“Fire, steam, prolonged sunlight—” Fred waved his hand dismissively. “Minor details.”

Alicia groaned, leaning back in her seat. “Merlin help us. Just don’t blow up the train before we get there, alright?”

“Your faith in us is truly inspiring,” George deadpanned.

Katie smirked, glancing at the twins. She’d agreed to join their underground Quidditch team at the end of last term, just before heading home for the summer. At the time, it had felt like a reckless, spur-of-the-moment decision. Now, sitting across from them, she couldn’t help but wonder what she’d gotten herself into.

When Alicia and Angelina excused themselves to the loo, Katie seized the moment. “So,” she asked, raising an eyebrow, “what’s the name? Or are we still stuck with ‘The Weasley Wonders’?”

Fred grinned, leaning back like he’d been waiting for the question. “Why mess with perfection?”

Katie snorted. “Because I’d rather not be caught dead playing for a team with that name.”

George chimed in, his tone light but teasing. “Relax, Bell. We’ve got it under control. You’ll love it.”

Katie leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “We still need to submit an application—or however this works, right?”

The twins exchanged knowing grins, Fred speaking up first. “Don’t worry about that. We wrote to Wimus over the summer, got it all sorted.”

Katie nodded, relieved. “Good. So, I take it you’ve finalized the lineup, then?”

Fred and George shared a quick glance, an unmistakable flicker of hesitation passing between them.

“Ehhh… about that,” George started, scratching the back of his neck. “Not exactly. But don’t worry, we’ll find the rest of the players. No problem.”

Katie’s eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms, her tone sharp. “You two told me at the start of summer that you already had a team and just needed me to complete it!”

Fred flashed his most disarming smile, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Technically, we said we had most of a team. And that’s still true!”

George nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, Bell, don’t overthink it. We’ve got the two most important parts: us and you.”

Katie groaned, rubbing her temples. “Merlin help me, I’ve joined a circus, not a team.”

The twins barely had a chance to start their inevitable string of excuses before the compartment door slid open, and Angelina and Alicia stepped back in. Their arrival cut Fred and George’s explanations short as the two quickly plastered on their most innocent expressions.

Katie raised an eyebrow at them, but said nothing, letting her annoyance simmer in silence for the moment.

The rest of the journey was spent in a lively chatter. The compartment filled with laughter and easy conversation as they reminisced about the summer, particularly the chaos and excitement of the Quidditch World Cup.

Katie smiled faintly, listening to her friends with half an ear while her thoughts wandered briefly. The World Cup had been dazzling, but now that summer was behind them, a new chapter loomed ahead. She couldn’t help but wonder what surprises this school year—and the Underground League—might bring.

As the train chugged closer to Hogwarts, the buzz of excitement in the compartment only grew, their voices mixing with the hum of the wheels on the track.

***

Katie shifted nervously in her seat as Dumbledore’s voice echoed through the Great Hall, explaining the details of the Triwizard Tournament. Her hands fidgeted with the edge of her robes, and she tried to focus, but her thoughts kept drifting to the implications of such a dangerous event.

The announcement itself wasn’t unexpected—there had been whispers all week about the foreign delegations arriving—but hearing it officially still sent a ripple of tension through the hall. The Hogwarts students buzzed with excitement, and Katie could feel the energy crackling in the air.

Her attention snapped back as the doors of the Great Hall opened dramatically. The Beauxbatons delegation entered, their graceful movements drawing the eyes of nearly everyone present. The boys at her table—Fred and George included—seemed to lean forward in unison, practically craning their necks to get a better look.

“Merlin’s beard,” Fred muttered under his breath, his eyes wide as he watched the Beauxbatons students glide past.

Katie rolled her eyes, jabbing him lightly in the side. “Subtle, Weasley. Really subtle.”

Fred didn’t even glance at her, his gaze still glued to the procession. “What? It’s called appreciating foreign talent.”

“Yeah, right,” Katie said dryly, though her lips quirked into a smirk.

The Beauxbatons students took their seats, and the buzz in the hall only grew louder as the Durmstrang delegation entered next. Their arrival was no less dramatic, with heavy boots echoing against the stone floor and Viktor Krum unmistakably at the front.

“Is that—?” Angelina started, but she didn’t need to finish. The Hall erupted into hushed whispers, everyone craning to catch a glimpse of the world-famous Seeker.

Katie, however, froze in her seat, her gaze locking onto a figure walking just behind Krum.

No. That couldn’t be.

But it was.

Marcus Flint strode in with the Durmstrang delegation, his expression unreadable as always. He moved in step with Krum, his sharp features as familiar as ever, though he wore no trace of a Durmstrang uniform.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Katie muttered under her breath, her mind racing.

“Who?” Angelina asked, leaning closer.

Katie didn’t answer, her eyes narrowing as she tracked his movements. Marcus walked with Durmstrang just long enough to appear part of the group, but as the delegation moved further into the Hall, he slowed his pace, subtly veering off. By the time the Durmstrang students had taken their seats, Marcus had quietly slipped into his old spot at the Slytherin table, his movements casual, as though he’d never been gone.

He picked up a goblet, taking a sip as if he hadn’t just strolled in with a delegation of foreign students, completely ignoring the stares from around the room.

Katie clenched her jaw, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and frustration. He’d barely looked her way, but that brief glance had been enough to set her on edge.

“What’s going on?” Alicia whispered, noticing Katie’s reaction.

Katie shook her head quickly, forcing her attention back to the Durmstrang students. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she muttered.

But it wasn’t.

Her heart pounded in her chest, though she wasn’t sure if it was from shock, confusion, or something else entirely.

One thing was certain—this school year was shaping up to be far more complicated than she’d imagined.

***

Only halfway through the feast did Katie’s friends notice Marcus’s presence. Alicia Spinnet squinted in his direction, then turned to the others. “Isn’t Flint supposed to have graduated last year?”

George nodded, his mouth half-full of mashed potatoes. “He was, but rumor has it he failed his N.E.W.T.s. Oliver wrote to me over the summer—said when they were taking the exams, Flint just sat there, doing nothing.”

Alicia tilted her head, her expression sharp. “Maybe he’s so thick he’s forgotten how to write.”

Fred snorted, shoving a roll into his mouth. “Or maybe he’s here for another year of terrorizing first-years. Can’t leave without a proper encore.”

Angelina rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile on her lips. “Who cares? Let him rot in the dungeons for all I care.”

Katie stayed quiet, her gaze flickering toward Marcus before quickly turning back to her plate. She didn’t dare let her thoughts linger too long on him, not with her friends talking so freely. But the memory of his words at the World Cup echoed in her mind: “See you at school.”

So, he hadn’t been joking.

Lee, noticing Katie’s uncharacteristic silence, grinned mischievously and waved his fork in her direction—nearly launching a piece of pie across the table in the process.

“And what about you, Katie?” he asked, his voice light and teasing. “Any theories on Flint’s grand return?”

Katie blinked, startled out of her thoughts. She forced a small smile, nudging her plate to give herself something to do. “Maybe he’s just really attached to Snape’s dungeon decor,” she said dryly.

Alicia smirked. “Makes sense. Can’t imagine Flint surviving in the real world.”

George leaned forward, grinning. “Let’s be real. He probably got lost trying to find his way out of the castle and just decided to stick around.”

Katie chuckled along with the others, though the knot in her stomach didn’t loosen. Her gaze flickered back to the Slytherin table for just a second, catching the faintest trace of Marcus’s smirk as he leaned back in his seat.

Whatever his reasons for staying, Katie had the unsettling feeling she’d find out soon enough.

***

To Katie, Hogwarts—never exactly a bastion of peace—had officially descended into chaos with the arrival of the foreign delegations. The castle, already prone to its fair share of mayhem, now felt like a full-blown circus.

The first week of term was barely underway, but the halls buzzed with a chaotic energy. Students whispered in hushed tones about the upcoming Triwizard Tournament, speculating wildly about tasks, champions, and, of course, the Goblet of Fire.

Beauxbatons students glided through the corridors with an air of ethereal detachment, their flowing blue uniforms catching the light in a way that seemed almost magical in itself. Durmstrang, on the other hand, moved in packs, their heavy cloaks and sharp gazes making them seem more like an invading force than visitors.

Katie rolled her eyes as a pair of fourth-year Hufflepuffs practically walked into a wall, too busy gawking at a group of Beauxbatons girls to pay attention to where they were going. “It’s like they’ve never seen a girl before,” she muttered under her breath, sidestepping the chaos on her way to the common room.

Even the Gryffindor common room wasn’t immune to the frenzy. Every night, it was the same: endless debates about who would enter their name into the Goblet, who might be chosen, and what the tasks could possibly entail. 

Katie had plenty of other things on her mind—things far more pressing than the chaos of foreign guests. For one, there was the matter of choosing her N.E.W.T. subjects. It wasn’t just about classes anymore; these choices would practically dictate her future career.

And then there was Quidditch—or the lack of it. The announcement that the school league had been canceled for the year had thrown everything into disarray. It wasn’t just about missing the matches; Quidditch had been her constant, her outlet. Without it, she felt untethered. The horizon ahead wasn’t much clearer either. The idea of stepping into the underground league loomed larger now, its risks and unknowns gnawing at her more than she’d admit.

Not that the Weasley twins seemed particularly concerned.

Fred and George, who had been the driving force behind getting her to agree to their rogue Quidditch team, now seemed far more interested in scheming ways to enter the Triwizard Tournament. Katie had expected at least some progress on their plans for the underground league—maybe a finalized roster, or at least a list of potential players. Instead, every conversation seemed to veer back to age lines, loopholes, and various experimental potions.

“You know,” Katie said one evening in the common room, watching as Fred squinted at a bubbling cauldron, “if you spent half as much energy on putting together the team as you do on trying to cheat your way into this tournament, we’d actually have a lineup by now.”

Fred looked up, his grin entirely unrepentant. “Patience, Bell. Greatness takes time.”

“Yeah, well, so does putting together a winning Quidditch team,” Katie shot back, crossing her arms. “Unless you’re planning to draft Viktor Krum, I’d suggest you get moving.”

George, lounging on the sofa with a bottle of Butterbeer, snickered. “Krum’s busy with the Durmstrang lot. But we’ll have a team, don’t you worry. Might even find you a partner in crime.”

Katie groaned, leaning back against her chair. The twins’ boundless optimism was infuriating at times, but she couldn’t exactly argue with their enthusiasm. “I’m holding you to that,” she said, narrowing her eyes at them.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Fred replied cheerfully.

But even as Katie tried to focus on the twins’ ridiculous antics, her thoughts kept drifting back to that first night at the feast. To the surprise of seeing Marcus Flint striding in with the Durmstrang delegation, only to slip unnoticed into the Slytherin table as if nothing had changed.

At first, she’d chalked it up to a mistake—or a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But as the first week of classes passed, and she spotted him at meals, in the halls, and during their shared free periods, it became clear that Marcus Flint was very much still a part of Hogwarts.

***

Finally, after a week of avoiding the inevitable, Marcus crossed paths with Katie as she was making her way to the library. Or rather, she walked straight into him.

“Watch where you’re—” Katie started, her words trailing off the moment she looked up and saw Marcus.

He was walking alongside Wimus, who raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing, his usual smirk firmly in place.

“Well, if it isn’t Bell,” Marcus drawled, crossing his arms as he stopped in her path.

Katie straightened, clutching her books a little tighter. “Flint,” she said flatly, her tone guarded. “Didn’t expect to see you outside your usual haunts.”

Wimus grinned, clearly amused by the tension. “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he said, giving Marcus a pointed look before stepping around them and disappearing down the corridor.

The silence that followed was heavy, but Marcus broke it with a faint smirk. “Still running to the library, I see. Some things never change.”

Katie bristled, narrowing her eyes. “And you’re still lurking in corridors. Guess you didn’t pick up any new hobbies over the summer.”

Marcus chuckled under his breath, unfazed. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your charm.”

“Is there a point to this, Flint, or are you just here to waste my time?” Katie snapped, stepping to the side to continue on her way.

But Marcus shifted, blocking her path again. “Relax, Bell. Just wanted to check in. See how Hogwarts’ newest underground star is holding up.”

Katie’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Marcus said, his smirk sharpening. “Or have you already forgotten the deal you made with the Weasleys?”

Katie’s grip on her books tightened. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but it is,” Marcus said smoothly, leaning slightly closer. “Considering I’ll probably be seeing you a lot more often than you think. Seriously, Bell, if you lot haven’t changed your minds, I’d suggest submitting your player roster by the end of next week. Deadlines are a thing, you know.”

Katie didn’t blink, her gaze steady. “Noted. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Marcus stepped aside this time, his smirk never faltering. “See you around, Bell.”

Katie didn’t look back, walking briskly down the hall. Despite her outward composure, her thoughts churned as she tried to push aside the irritation—and something else—that always seemed to surface whenever Marcus Flint was involved.

***

That evening, Katie cornered the twins in the common room, leaving them no room to wriggle out of the confrontation. She quite literally pinned Fred against the wall, glaring at him with a level of intensity that even George couldn’t joke his way out of.

“Alright, Bell, calm down,” Fred said, holding up his hands in surrender. “No need to get physical.”

“We need to talk about the team,” Katie snapped. “You’ve been dragging your feet on this all week. Enough’s enough.”

The thought of quitting the league entirely had crossed her mind more than once. It would’ve been easy—no roster headaches, no dealing with Flint’s constant smugness, no pressure. But the idea of giving up Quidditch altogether, of letting Flint laugh at how quickly they folded, was unbearable.

George, sitting on the arm of a chair with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. “You’re looking awfully intense, Bell. Flint got under your skin already?”

Katie shot him a look, then turned her attention back to Fred. “We need players. Now. You two were supposed to have this figured out by the end of the summer, remember?”

Fred winced slightly, clearly caught off guard by her urgency. “We did have ideas…”

“Yeah?” Katie crossed her arms. “Like what?”

“Well,” George began, looking uncharacteristically sheepish, “we thought we’d start with the old Gryffindor team. You know, you, us, Alicia, Angelina…”

Katie frowned. “Alicia didn’t seem particularly impressed by the league last year. And Angelina—”

“She’s too responsible,” Fred interrupted, his voice a little too loud and firm.

Katie arched a brow. “Responsible? Or are you just afraid she’ll call you out for every stupid decision you make?”

Fred opened his mouth, then shut it again, his expression guilty. “Alright, maybe a bit of both.”

George snickered. “You’ve got to admit, mate, she’s terrifying when she wants to be.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “So you’ve crossed off two of the best Chasers Gryffindor’s had in years, and now we’re down to… what? Us three?”

The twins exchanged a glance, clearly not thrilled about how little progress they’d made.

“Alright, so maybe our ‘plan’ wasn’t exactly foolproof,” Fred admitted, scratching the back of his head. “But we’ve got time, don’t we? We’ll find people.”

Katie pinched the bridge of her nose, willing herself not to lose her temper. “We have until the end of next week. And if we don’t have a full roster by then, we’re finished before we even start.”

“Plenty of people would kill to be part of this,” George said optimistically.

“Then start finding them,” Katie retorted.

Fred sighed, finally pushing himself off the wall. “Alright, Bell. Message received. We’ll get on it.”

“Good,” Katie said firmly. “Because I’m not letting Flint have the satisfaction of watching us fail.”

George smirked. “Now there’s the motivation we needed.”

Katie didn’t bother responding. She turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving the twins to figure out how they were going to pull a team together in just over a week.

***

By Friday evening of the following week, the team roster was finally complete—though, in Katie’s opinion, it left much to be desired. Not everyone, as George had put it, was willing to risk life and limb for the league. But there was no other choice. Katie had decided to play, and once she’d made that decision, retreating simply wasn’t an option. At least not in this newer version of herself.

The twins, however, seemed to have other priorities. “No time to waste, Bell!” Fred had said, practically shoving a rolled-up parchment into her hands.

“You’ve got this, Katie. Just charm them with that winning personality of yours,” George added with a grin, steering her toward the portrait hole.

“What?” Katie turned, glaring over her shoulder. “You’re not coming?”

“Busy, busy,” Fred said, feigning an exaggerated yawn. “Places to be, chaos to plan.”

“And the stew’s gone cold,” George added, smirking.

“Unbelievable,” Katie muttered, clutching the parchment tighter.

Before she could protest further, they gave her one last friendly shove out the door. “Knock ’em dead!” Fred called after her, laughing.

Katie rolled her eyes, stomping off down the corridor. “Unbelievable,” she repeated under her breath. As if walking into the lion’s den of league stewards was something she wanted to do alone.

Descending into the familiar chill of the dungeons, Katie realized with a sinking feeling that she had no idea where she was supposed to go.

The parchment clenched in her hand suddenly felt heavier, and she slowed her pace, glancing around the dimly lit corridors. The twisting passageways seemed even more labyrinthine at this hour, shadows pooling in every corner.

“Great,” she muttered to herself, clutching the rolled-up roster tighter. “Leave it to the Weasley twins to send me into the depths of the castle without so much as a map.”

She paused at a fork in the hallway, squinting at the identical stone walls on either side. The sound of distant laughter echoed faintly through the corridor, but it did little to guide her. For all she knew, the stewards could be anywhere—meeting in some hidden room or sitting smugly in plain sight while she wandered aimlessly.

Katie sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Maybe I should just leave this on Flint’s lap in the Great Hall,” she muttered darkly, though the idea of handing the list directly to him made her stomach churn.

She took a tentative step forward, deciding to follow the distant sound of voices, and hoped for the best.

Finally, Katie made her way through the dark corridors, her steps echoing softly against the cold stone walls. She turned down a familiar path that led to the players’ locker room—a space she knew all too well. It was here, after all, that Marcus had once unleashed his anger on her.

Katie shook her head sharply, brushing off the memory before it could take hold. Her eyes scanned her surroundings, and for the first time, she noticed a narrower corridor branching off further down. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped toward it cautiously.

The faint smell of cigarettes drifted through the air, unmistakable and familiar. Flint.

He had to be nearby.

The scent grew stronger as she moved closer, and finally, she spotted a door slightly ajar at the end of the corridor. Voices spilled out faintly, low and measured, though she couldn’t make out the words.

Katie approached the door, her steps careful, and peeked inside.

There he was.

Marcus stood over a large wooden table, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips as he leaned over a mess of parchment, maps, and charts spread out before him. His sharp features were lit dimly by a nearby lantern, the glow highlighting the tension in his jaw as he studied the documents.

Next to him, Abraxas stood with a quill in hand, gesturing animatedly to one of the maps. The lines of his expression, though calm, held a sharp intensity as he pointed out something to Marcus.

Further off to the side, leaning against the wall with crossed arms and an unmistakably sour expression, stood Crass. He didn’t bother hiding his irritation, his brow furrowed deeply as he stared at whatever the others were discussing.

Finally, Marcus noticed her. Without even removing the cigarette from his mouth, he muttered through gritted teeth, “Come in, Bell.”

Katie wrinkled her nose as the thick scent of smoke hit her like a wall. Stepping cautiously into the room, she muttered under her breath, “You could at least use a charm to clear the air. It reeks in here.”

Marcus smirked faintly, finally taking the cigarette out and exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Didn’t think you’d be this delicate, Bell.”

Abraxas glanced up from the table, his quill pausing mid-air. “She’s got a point, Flint. This place already smells like it hasn’t been cleaned in decades. You’re just making it worse.”

Borden snorted from his corner. “If she thinks this is bad, wait till she sees the locker room  after Bole’s been in there. That’ll really make her regret signing up.”

Katie crossed her arms, glaring at Marcus. “I’m here to drop off the roster, not to listen to your hygiene issues.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, gesturing for her to approach the table. “Roster, huh? Let’s see what you managed to scrape together.”

Taking the parchment from her hand, Marcus and Abraxas scanned it quickly before exchanging glances. Then they both turned their eyes to Katie.

Abraxas, barely suppressing a laugh, raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious with this?”

Katie straightened her back, trying to appear confident, though she wouldn’t have minded pulling out another, better-prepared list. Unfortunately, there wasn’t one. There wasn’t another option, either. “Yes,” she said firmly.

Marcus sighed, shaking his head as he folded the parchment back up. “Alright, then. Who’s the captain?”

Katie blinked, momentarily thrown. “It’s not written there?”

Marcus’s smirk deepened. “Nope. And since you’re out of time to decide, congratulations—it’s you.”

Katie opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. She swallowed her words, forcing herself to nod.

Wimus squinted at the parchment again, his brow furrowing. “And your team’s name is… Flying Nifflers?”

Katie kept her expression perfectly neutral, refusing to give him or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing her falter. “Yes.”

There was a beat of silence before Borden let out a loud snort, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. “Flying Nifflers? That’s rich.” He barely managed to choke out the words between stifled laughs.

Marcua raised an eyebrow, smirking as he leaned back against the table. “Bold choice. Very… creative.”

Katie clenched her fists but stayed composed. “It’s memorable.”

Wimus pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about how this year would be the death of him. “Alright, Captain Bell and her Flying Nifflers. Trial match details will be sent by the weekend.”

Katie nodded curtly, shooting Marcus a glare as his smirk grew even wider.

“Flying Nifflers,” he repeated, his voice dripping with amusement. “Making waves already, Bell. Impressive.”

Katie didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, she turned on her heel and marched out of the room, the sound of Borden’s muffled laughter following her down the corridor.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Wimus turned to Marcus, shaking his head. “What do we even do with that lineup? I mean, who do I send against them for the trial game?”

Marcus shrugged, pulling his cigarette from his mouth and tapping the ash onto the floor. “Pick whoever you want. It’s a trial, after all.”

Crass leaned in closer, smirking. “They might surprise us. Or they’ll be an absolute disaster. Either way, it’ll be fun to watch.”

Wimus muttered something unintelligible before moving to add Katie’s parchment to the pile. Marcus, meanwhile, exhaled a slow puff of smoke, his smirk lingering. “Flying Nifflers,” he muttered. “Merlin, this year’s going to be a circus.”

Chapter Text

Marcus stood in the middle of the pitch, his gaze sweeping across the empty arena. The expanse of it felt both vast and suffocating, the silence only broken by the faint rustling of wind through the banners above.

From behind, Wimus approached, clapping a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Surveying your kingdom?” he asked with a smirk.

Marcus flinched slightly, shrugging off the hand. “Don’t start with that nonsense. None of this belongs to us.”

Wimus chuckled, stepping up beside him. “Oh, of course. Nothing at all. And here I thought you’d follow in Jonas’s footsteps and declare a totalitarian regime.”

Marcus gave him a tired look, his shoulders visibly tense. “Merlin’s sake, Wimus, could you be serious for once?”

“Serious? With you? Never,” Wimus shot back, though his tone softened slightly. “Lighten up, Flint. You’re not exactly inspiring confidence with that funeral procession look.”

Marcus let out a sharp exhale, crossing his arms. “Just trying to figure out how to make this work. Everything’s barely holding together as it is.”

Wimus glanced around the empty stands, his smirk fading. “It always looks like this at the start of the year, doesn’t it? A mess of broken pieces. But it’ll come together. It always does.”

Marcus didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the pitch ahead. Wimus studied him for a moment, his usual air of levity replaced with something quieter.

“You’re not Jonas, Marcus,” Wimus said after a pause, his voice low. “And that’s not a bad thing.”

Marcus stayed silent, unsure how to respond to Wimus’s words. Instead, he turned to face him and said flatly, “We’re meeting again tomorrow. Same time.”

Wimus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine, but can we do it without Borden this time?”

Marcus shook his head. “No. We need him there—tomorrow’s all about the budget. We have to stop relying on Borden’s money. The more he pours into the league, the more he thinks he owns the place.”

Wimus let out a low whistle, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Careful, Flint. Talking sense might ruin your reputation.”

Marcus ignored the jab, turning back to the pitch as Wimus walked off, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He had thrown himself into a whirlwind of activity since the start of the term. There was too much to fix, too many things to bring up to standard—from the hidden passageways that kept the league under wraps to the state of the equipment that was, frankly, an embarrassment. The stewards had found themselves gathering nearly every evening, caught in his relentless drive to reshape the league into something… functional.

Just yesterday, Katie had stumbled across one of these meetings. Marcus was already pushing boundaries, laying out plans that felt almost too ambitious to be practical. But that was Flint—always one step from tipping over into arrogance, yet somehow managing to walk the line.

Tonight was no different. He stood in the middle of the arena, head tilted slightly back, watching as a sliver of moonlight streamed through a tiny crack in the ceiling above. The air was damp and cold, the kind of chill that seeped into the bones, but Marcus barely noticed.

His plans were ambitious, maybe even impossible. But if anyone could drag the league from its half-chaotic, half-patchwork state and turn it into something worthy of the risk it carried, it would be him.

They just had to get through the grind first. The meetings, the repairs, the arguments—it all had to come before the vision. And Marcus, for all his flaws, was nothing if not relentless when it came to seeing things through.

***

The Flying Nifflers received their trial match invitation late Saturday evening, just as Abraxas had promised. The match was set for the night of the following Friday—less than a week. That was all the time they had to prepare.

Katie sighed, staring at the scrap of parchment handed to her during lunch. The note was maddeningly sparse, containing only the terse message: Friday, 11:00 PM. No mention of the opposing team, no hint of what to expect.

Sitting cross-legged on the grass in the middle of the deserted Quidditch pitch, Katie twisted the parchment between her fingers. The cool breeze rustled her hair, but it did little to ease her nerves.

The team’s lineup was far from ideal, and Katie couldn’t exactly blame stewards for scoffing when she’d delivered the roster. The reaction had been instant—Flint’s smirk practically burned into her memory, and Borden’s half-choked laughter had made her grit her teeth harder than ever.

The truth was, putting the team together had been a nightmare. The twins had assured her they’d handle the lineup, but by the time she’d pinned them down for an actual list, it was clear they’d over-promised and under-delivered.

If Matlock had been the easiest recruit—already a regular spectator at underground matches and more than willing to play for a share of the winnings—convincing Katie to let Ron Weasley join the team had been a challenge.

Fred and George had insisted Ron was their best option for Keeper. They’d gone on about his reflexes and his desire to prove himself, but the reality was less inspiring. Ron didn’t even know about the underground league until the twins had roped him in, and Katie doubted he fully understood the risks involved.

Voices carried through the air, pulling her from her thoughts. Katie glanced over her shoulder, spotting Fred and George approaching with their brooms slung over their shoulders. Trailing behind them was a pale and distinctly nervous Ron, clutching his broom as though it might fly out of his hands at any moment.

Further back, she caught sight of Angus Matlock, striding with his usual hesitancy, and Lee Jordan, whose expression practically screamed reluctance. Matlock had been a quick sell; the forbidden allure of money had been enough to secure his place. Lee, on the other hand, had required endless persuasion.

The twins had decided they were done being Beaters and wanted to try their hands as Chasers, leaving Katie to scramble for replacements. She’d initially been reluctant to even ask Lee, knowing he valued his neck far more than Fred and George ever seemed to. But desperation had overridden caution, and after days of nagging, he’d reluctantly agreed—though not without plenty of complaints.

“See, Bell? We’re not late,” Fred called out as they drew closer, his grin as casual as ever. “In fact, we’re fashionably on time.”

Katie raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Fred, it’s six o’clock, and you’ve brought a Keeper who looks like he’s about to pass out, a Beater who doesn’t know how to hit, and a commentator who’s never played in his life.”

Lee let out a dramatic sigh. “For the record, I was dragged into this against my will. Peer pressure. Very unethical.”

“And you’ll thank us when we win,” George chimed in, nudging Lee playfully. “Team spirit, mate.”

Ron cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Er… not to interrupt or anything, but do we actually have a plan? Or are we just, you know, winging it?”

Katie inhaled sharply, forcing down the wave of frustration bubbling up. “We start by figuring out who can hold their own on a broom, and we go from there.”

Fred threw an arm around her shoulder, his grin undeterred. “See? Captain Bell’s got it all under control.”

Katie shoved him off, fixing him with a pointed glare. “You’re right, I do. And if anyone here doesn’t take this seriously, they’ll be staying after practice to polish every broom we’ve got.”

Fred and George exchanged a look, clearly delighted, while Ron swallowed nervously. Katie rolled her eyes, her gaze drifting toward the setting sun. It was going to be a long week.

***

If anything drew more attention than the sheer number of foreign students at Hogwarts, it was the unexpectedly close camaraderie between Viktor Krum and Marcus Flint.

The two were often seen together, either on their own or in the company of the other Durmstrang students. The Durmstrang crowd, as a whole, seemed to have a certain affinity for the Slytherins.

People glanced their way and whispered behind their backs. Flint, despite the seemingly shameful fact that he’d stayed on for a second year, didn’t appear remotely bothered.

But Katie had little time to concern herself with that. They had been practicing all week under the curious gaze of Madam Hooch. When the flying instructor finally asked what they were doing, Katie surprised even herself with a passable excuse—that Ron and the others didn’t want to lose their edge and wanted to practice for next year, and she and the twins had agreed to help.

It was a believable enough explanation, especially since it wasn’t entirely untrue. Their practices often devolved into chaos, with Katie barking orders while the twins cracked jokes. Most of the time, it was Lee sending a bludger wildly off course, nearly knocking Ron off his broom.

By Thursday evening, with the trial match just a day away, the pitch was awash with the golden hues of the setting sun. Katie stood in the middle of the field, clutching her broom as she tried to wrangle her team into something resembling order.

“Fred! George! Stop showing off and pass the Quaffle already!” she shouted, her patience wearing thin.

Fred, who had just spun dramatically in midair, tossed the ball to George with a cheeky salute. “Yes, Captain Bell, ma’am!”

Katie rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at her lips. At least they were trying—sort of.

Ron, stationed near the goalposts, shifted nervously. “Er… Katie? What’s the plan if their Chasers are, you know, better than me?”

“You stop their shots, Weasley!” Katie called back, exasperated. “That’s literally your job!”

Lee, hovering nearby with his bat, muttered under his breath, “Great motivational speech.” He ducked just in time to avoid a wayward Bludger.

“Less talking, more hitting, Jordan!” Katie snapped, her attention already shifting to Angus, who was teetering precariously on his broom.

They were a mess, but they were her mess. And, despite herself, Katie felt a flicker of stubborn pride.

***

From the shadows near the edge of the pitch, Marcus Flint stood watching silently, arms crossed. He said nothing as Katie’s shouts echoed across the field, though his expression gave little away.

“I hope this isn’t your strongest team,” Viktor Krum remarked dryly, his tone edged with faint amusement.

“They’re rookies,” Marcus replied evenly, not taking his eyes off the pitch. “But you see it, don’t you? They push themselves like this just for a chance to join us. That’s what this league does.”

Krum didn’t reply, though his sharp gaze lingered on the players below, particularly Katie as she darted between her teammates, her determination evident even in the chaos.

After a moment, Marcus turned to him, his voice almost casual. “So? What do you think? Ready to take a shot at this?”

Viktor smirked faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said before turning to leave.

Marcus watched the chaos of the Flying Nifflers’ practice for a moment longer before finally making a decision. Instead of leaving, he called out, his voice cutting through the din like a whip. “Oi, Bell!”

The team immediately tensed, turning toward the source of the voice. Everyone except Katie, who didn’t flinch. She seemed almost too accustomed to the sound of Marcus Flint barking her name, which only added to her teammates’ silent confusion.

Katie steered her broom toward Marcus and landed with practiced ease. “What do you want, Flint?” she asked, tone casual, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.

Marcus crossed his arms, his smirk as sharp as ever. “You’ll need to get to the pitch early on game night,” he began, his tone matter-of-fact. “We’re swapping your brooms.”

Katie blinked. “Swapping them? Why?”

“Because,” Marcus drawled, nodding toward the motley assortment of brooms her team was riding, “with those, you won’t last the first few minutes against your opponents.”

Katie’s chest tightened, unease creeping in as her grip on the broomstick grew firmer. Her palms felt damp, and her thoughts began to spiral in every direction. What team could we be facing? The Furies?

Her breath hitched at the thought, memories flooding back unbidden. She could still see Rolanda Abbott, the Furies’ infamous captain, barreling through players with an almost brutal efficiency. The way Abbott had flattened three opponents in one game was seared into Katie’s memory, a chilling reminder of the risks in this league.

Katie forced the thought aside, shaking her head. No point in worrying about it now. Whoever it is, we’ll find out at the game.

“Fine,” she said tersely, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

Marcus, however, wasn’t fooled. His eyes caught the flicker of unease on her face, and he let out a low chuckle, stepping forward to clap her on the shoulder. “Relax, Bell. You’re not dead yet.”

Katie rolled her eyes, shrugging off his hand. “Thanks for the reassurance, Flint. Really inspiring.”

Marcus just smirked, turning on his heel. “Come on. We’ve got things to sort out. Leave your broomstick—you won’t need it.”

Katie frowned, gripping her broom tighter. “What? Now?”

“Yes, now,” he said, glancing back briefly. “Unless you’d rather walk into your trial match looking like a complete amateur.”

She glared at his retreating figure, then looked down at her broom, hesitating. Tossing it aside didn’t sit right with her, but Marcus was already halfway across the pitch. Huffing, she threw the broomstick toward the team with more force than necessary. “Someone grab that!” she barked.

Fred saluted mockingly, while Lee sighed and walked over to pick it up.

Katie ignored them, jogging to catch up with Marcus. “You could give me a little more notice next time, you know,” she muttered as she fell into step beside him.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Marcus shot back, his smirk widening.

Katie shook her head, muttering under her breath. This was going to be a long evening.

***

Marcus led the way at his usual brisk pace, leaving Katie to follow without a word. She glanced back briefly at the Quidditch pitch, now just a distant silhouette against the fading light, then returned her gaze to Flint’s determined stride. She didn’t bother asking why he’d brought her along—Marcus had a habit of dodging direct answers, and she doubted this time would be any different.

The sun had slipped below the horizon by the time they arrived at a clearing Katie recognized from past ventures. Marcus stopped at an unremarkable tree stump, its surface smooth and weathered. Without hesitation, he drew his wand and cast a silent spell.

The stump shifted aside, revealing a narrow opening in the ground. She stepped closer, peering into the shadowy passage.

“That’s where we’re going?” she asked, her tone uncertain but not unwilling.

Marcus didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back to her and gave a small tug on the edge of her Quidditch robe, gesturing her forward.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” Katie muttered, following his lead.

The air from the passage was cooler, carrying a faint earthy scent. Katie hesitated for just a moment, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, before stepping carefully after Marcus into the hidden entrance.

The descent was steeper than she anticipated, and her foot slipped on the uneven surface. She let out a startled gasp, trying to steady herself, but the momentum was already pulling her forward.

Marcus, having let go of her robe, reacted swiftly. His hand shot out, gripping her arm firmly as he turned his head to look at her.

“We haven’t fixed this passage yet,” he said matter-of-factly, his voice calm but slightly annoyed. “The incline’s too steep, and the footing’s rubbish.”

Katie tried to regain her balance, still gripping his arm for support. “You don’t say,” she muttered under her breath, eyeing the precarious path ahead.

Marcus ignored the comment, his grip unwavering. “Lean on me,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Katie hesitated for half a second before nodding, resting her free hand lightly on his shoulder as they continued their descent. “This better not be some elaborate excuse to toss me into a pit, Flint,” she quipped, more to cover her unease than anything else.

Marcus didn’t bother to respond, only tightening his hold on her arm to ensure she wouldn’t slip again.

“Where are you taking me?” Katie muttered, her voice low but carrying an edge of impatience.

“You’ll see,” Marcus replied with a faint smirk, his tone as cryptic as ever.

Katie rolled her eyes, biting back a retort as they continued down the dimly lit path. The air grew cooler, heavier with moisture, and the faint echo of their footsteps only added to the eerie atmosphere.

***

Finally, the passage leveled out, opening into a wide corridor. A flick of Marcus’s wand and a muttered “Lumos” brought the space to life, illuminating rows of doors stretching into the distance. Katie blinked, adjusting to the light as she took in the warped wood and faint sheen of dampness on the stone walls. The air smelled faintly of mildew, heavy and earthy.

“This is…” she began, trailing off as she tried to piece together the right words.

“Just a hallway,” Marcus replied, his tone flat as he gestured for her to follow. “Keep up. We’re almost there.”

She exhaled through her nose, biting back the urge to pester him with more questions, and trailed behind. 

Finally, he stopped at an unmarked door, pushing it open without ceremony. He stepped aside, gesturing her in with a small tilt of his head.

Katie hesitated briefly, then crossed the threshold. Her breath hitched as she stepped into the room, her eyes widening at the sight before her.

The walls were lined with brooms, each one a sleek masterpiece of design. The polished wood gleamed in the faint light, and even from a distance, Katie could see the intricate craftsmanship that had gone into each one.

“I thought we were supposed to come tomorrow to get our brooms,” she said, her brows knitting together as she turned to face him.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, smirking in that infuriating way of his. “These aren’t for your team,” he said, his voice low and steady. “These are for you. Consider it an exclusive perk.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the declaration. “For me?”

Marcus stepped further into the room, his fingers brushing over the smooth handle of one broom. “These are prototypes. New models that haven’t hit the market yet. The league’s got partnerships with broom manufacturers. They send us their latest designs to test out.”

Katie moved slowly, her hand hovering over one of the brooms. She didn’t touch it, not yet. The polished surface seemed almost too pristine to disturb. “Why me?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

“Because you’re the captain,” he said, his tone casual, as if that explained everything. “And let’s be honest—that broom of yours isn’t exactly made for tomorrow’s match. Not saying you’ll take your frustration out on a tree again,” he added, smirking when her jaw tightened, “but why risk it?”

Katie’s jaw tightened, and she shot him a sharp look. “That was one time.”

He shrugged, clearly unimpressed by her defense, and gestured for her to look around. “Pick one. See if anything feels right.”

Her annoyance simmered, but curiosity quickly won out. She stepped further into the room, her eyes scanning the rows of brooms until one in particular caught her attention. It was sleek, with a minimalist design and subtle etchings along the handle that hinted at both elegance and functionality.

“That one’s called the Serendipity,” Marcus said from behind her, his tone softer now. “I tested it—it’s a good fit for someone your size.”

Katie ran her fingers lightly over the broom’s handle, feeling the smooth grain of the wood. “It’s beautiful,” she admitted, almost to herself.

“It’s yours,” Marcus said, his voice still quiet.

She turned to him, her expression caught between disbelief and suspicion. “Mine? Like… for good?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. “Well, if you survive tomorrow and don’t snap it in half, then yeah.”

Katie turned back to the broom, her fingers brushing lightly over its smooth surface. “Feels a bit too generous,” she muttered, half to herself.

Marcus, still standing just a little too close behind her, didn’t respond immediately. He smiled faintly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he watched her.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said, his tone laced with mockery. “You’re still the one who has to prove herself out there.”

Katie swallowed, her heart beating faster than she wanted to admit. She kept her gaze on the broom, pretending she didn’t notice how near he was.

Marcus drew in a quiet breath, catching the faint, clean scent of her hair. The silence stretched between them, shifting into something almost too intimate to ignore.

And yet, neither of them moved to break it.

Katie’s fingers lingered on the broom, her focus steady, though her shoulders were taut as if she could feel the weight of his gaze. Marcus, still standing just behind her, didn’t step back.

Finally, she spun around so suddenly that Marcus flinched ever so slightly. Her sharp gaze locked onto his, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Why are you here?” she demanded, her tone clipped.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a pretty broad question, Bell. Care to narrow it down a bit?”

Katie blinked, caught off guard by his evasiveness. She hesitated for a moment before rephrasing. “Why are you still at Hogwarts?”

The smirk lingered, but something flickered in his expression—too quick for her to catch. “Couldn’t stay away from the place,” he replied smoothly, his tone edged with sarcasm. “Or maybe I just love the food in the Great Hall.”

Katie crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Cut the crap, Flint.”

Marcus sighed, leaning back slightly against the doorframe. “Does it really matter, Bell?”

“It does to me,” she shot back, her voice firmer now.

His smirk faltered for a brief second before he shrugged. “Guess I’ve got unfinished business.”

Katie tilted her head, studying him. “Unfinished business?”

“Something like that,” Marcus said vaguely, brushing past her question as he stepped back toward the doorway. He gestured to the broom in her hand. “Focus on the game tomorrow. That’s what matters.”

Katie opened her mouth to press further, but Marcus was already moving, his footsteps echoing faintly as he walked out of the room.

***

She hurried after him, quickening her pace to match Marcus’s long strides as he moved purposefully down the corridor, leaving the passage they’d come from far behind. She glanced around, her eyes scanning the dimly lit walls and the dozens of doors lining them.

“This is a new passage, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice slightly breathless. “Why are there so many doors? What are they for?”

Marcus didn’t slow down or turn around as he answered, his tone clipped. “The corridors have been here for ages. We just never had much reason to use them. The entrance? That’s new. We finished it a few days ago.”

Katie frowned, still eyeing the doors curiously. “And all these doors? Where do they lead? Storage rooms?”

For a moment, Marcus didn’t answer, and she thought he might ignore the question entirely. But then he shrugged, his voice almost indifferent. “Honestly? No idea. Seems like nobody’s bothered to check them all yet.”

The doors varied wildly in size and shape, as though they had been built for entirely different purposes—or entirely different creatures. Some were large enough for a person to walk through with ease, while others were oddly narrow or barely reached her knees, resembling doors made for house-elves. Katie’s eyes caught on one peculiar door affixed to the ceiling, its brass handle glinting faintly in the flickering wandlight.

“What’s the point of a door no one can reach?” she muttered to herself, earning no response from Marcus, who kept his focus ahead.

As they ventured deeper into the corridor, the air grew cooler and heavier, the faint echo of their footsteps the only sound. Katie’s instincts told her they were far below the castle now, deep in its hidden underbelly. She glanced uneasily at the damp walls, patches of moss creeping along the stone.

“We’re under the castle now, aren’t we?” she ventured, her voice bouncing off the narrow passage.

Marcus gave a small nod, still not looking back. “We’ve been under the castle for a while. You’re just now noticing?”

Katie pressed her lips into a thin line, choosing to ignore his jab. "This place feels... different. Like it’s been here forever."

"It probably has," Marcus replied, glancing briefly at one of the larger doors they passed. "The castle’s full of places no one remembers—or cares to remember. We just happened to stumble across this one when we needed it."

Marcus, still not turning back, said, "We're almost there. We need to go over a few more details about your game."

Katie didn’t reply, instead slowing her pace as they passed one of the doors. This one was different—a faint outline of a cat was carved into its surface. All the other doors they had encountered had been plain, completely devoid of markings.

Marcus glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "What are you doing?"

"Doesn’t this make you curious?" Katie asked, still staring at the door.

"Not particularly. Come on," he replied flatly, stepping toward her. He reached out, intending to grab her by the sleeve and pull her along, but before he could, Katie pushed the door open.

The door creaked loudly on its hinges, and before Katie could process what was happening, she felt a strange pull, as if gravity itself had shifted.

“Bell!” Marcus barked, reaching for her, but it was too late. The force yanked her forward, and by some inexplicable magic, it pulled him along with her.

***

The sensation was disorienting, like tumbling headfirst through space. Katie let out a startled cry as she fell, her surroundings spinning into a blur. Moments later, she landed with a thud on a hard surface, Marcus crashing down right on top of her.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his voice muffled by her shoulder.

Katie groaned, trying to sit up despite the weight of him pinning her down. “Get off me, Flint,” she hissed, wriggling in an attempt to free herself.

Marcus, still slightly dazed, shifted his weight and rolled off her with a low grunt. “You’re the one who opened the door,” he grumbled, propping himself up on his elbows.

Katie pushed herself upright, brushing dust from her robes. “How was I supposed to know it’d do that?” she shot back, glaring at him.

“You’re in a magical castle, Bell,” Marcus said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Maybe next time, don’t open random doors like you’re at a Muggle carnival.”

Before she could retort, her gaze darted around the room they’d landed in, and her breath hitched. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered with strange, dusty objects—jars filled with suspicious substances, yellowing papers, and an alarming number of rusty chains. A single dim lantern hung from the ceiling, casting flickering light across the space.

“What is this place?” Katie murmured, her voice almost inaudible.

Marcus, now on his feet, scanned the room with narrowed eyes. His expression darkened as recognition set in. “No,” he said flatly.

Katie turned to him, frowning. “No what?”

“No way,” he clarified, his jaw tightening. His gaze landed on a familiar, tattered mop leaning against the far wall, and a heavy sigh escaped him. “We’re in Filch’s office.”

Katie’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Marcus pointed to a dusty corner, where a stack of confiscated Zonko’s products sat beside a grungy old filing cabinet labeled “Detention Records.”

“Oh no,” Katie breathed, her voice a mix of disbelief and dread.

She instinctively glanced upward, searching for the door they’d fallen through, but the ceiling was solid stone. Her heart sank. “Where’s the door? It was right there!”

Marcus ran a hand down his face, muttering a string of curses under his breath. He strode to the only visible door in the room and gave the handle a firm twist. It didn’t budge.

“Of course it’s locked,” he said grimly. “Filch wouldn’t leave his office unsecured.”

Katie’s mind raced. “Maybe there’s a spell—Alohomora?”

Marcus snorted, already pulling out his wand. “You think I didn’t try that?”

He flicked his wand and muttered the incantation, but the door remained stubbornly shut. “Anti-charm measures. Typical.”

Katie ran her hands through her hair, her frustration mounting. “Great. What now? Do we just wait for Filch to come back and catch us?”

Marcus shot her a look. “Not if I can help it. Start looking. There’s gotta be another way out.”

They spread out, searching the cluttered room for anything that might help. Katie opened drawers, her fingers brushing over strange trinkets and what she could only describe as “evidence of student mischief.” Marcus rifled through a pile of old ledgers, his movements brisk and methodical.

It wasn’t long before Katie’s attention was drawn to a peculiar set of newspaper clippings pinned to a corkboard. They all featured the same saccharine-sweet smile: Dolores Umbridge. Her pink cardigan and pearls were unmistakable. Katie grimaced.

“Why does Filch have a shrine to Umbridge?” she asked, her voice tinged with disgust.

Marcus glanced up, his expression unimpressed. “I’m not unpacking that. Keep looking.”

Minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity. Just as Katie knelt to peer under a dusty table, they heard the unmistakable jingle of keys and the shuffle of footsteps outside the door.

Panic surged through her. “He’s back!” she whispered urgently, whipping around to Marcus.

He didn’t hesitate, grabbing her wrist and dragging her toward the largest cabinet in the room. “Get in.”

Katie barely managed to squeeze inside before Marcus followed, yanking the door shut behind them. 

The cabinet was impossibly small, forcing Katie and Marcus so close she could feel the heat radiating from him, stronger than the stifling air around them. Her back pressed against the rough wooden wall, and his arm braced just above her shoulder. Everything smelled faintly of mothballs and dust, but it was his presence that overwhelmed her senses.

She tried to shift her weight, moving as quietly as possible, but her shoulder brushed against his chest. The warmth of the brief contact made her freeze, her breath catching as her cheeks flushed. It was too cramped, too close, and far too distracting.

Filch muttered to himself as he entered, his footsteps heavy against the floorboards. “Sneaky little devils… always leaving a mess…”

The sound of jangling keys sent a fresh jolt of panic through her, and Katie’s foot slipped against the uneven floor. The creak of wood beneath her shoe might as well have been a thunderclap. Before she could stumble, Marcus’s hand shot out, steadying her by her hip.

The touch was firm, grounding, but it sent a jolt through her that left her dizzy. “Stop moving,” he whispered, his voice low, the rough edge of his words softened by their closeness.

Katie nodded quickly, afraid to make another sound. Her gaze flicked upward instinctively, but she miscalculated. Her forehead bumped against his chin, and he jerked back slightly, his hand tightening on her hip.

The movement left their faces impossibly close—so close she could feel his breath against her cheeks, warm and uneven. Her chest tightened as she dared to look up at him. His dark eyes met hers, sharp and steady, and for a moment, everything outside the cabinet faded.

Katie could see the faint curve of his lips, the tension in his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones in the dim light. Her heart was racing now, a drumbeat she couldn’t silence, and she was sure he could feel it too.

“Do you always make this much noise?” Marcus murmured, his voice low, teasing but soft enough that it sent a shiver down her spine.

Katie opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, pinned in place by the tension in the air.

The sound of footsteps retreating finally broke the moment. Filch muttered something under his breath as Professor Trelawney’s voice called him away from the room.

Marcus exhaled, his hand still resting on her hip, though his grip loosened slightly. For a second, neither of them moved. The room felt impossibly small, and the weight of his gaze made Katie’s cheeks burn even hotter.

Finally, he leaned back just enough to whisper, “Stay quiet until we’re sure he’s gone.”

Only when the muffled sound of Filch’s footsteps faded completely did he finally speak again, his tone firm but quiet. “Let’s go. Now.”

Katie’s hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve before he could move. “What about the cat?” she whispered, her words rushed.

He gave her an incredulous look, then shook his head, his voice deadpan. “I don’t care about the cat. Let’s go.”

They slipped out of the cabinet, moving with painstaking caution. Marcus peered through the cracked door, ensuring the hallway was empty before stepping out. Katie followed on his heels, her steps quieter than she thought possible, though her pulse was still hammering.

Once they were safely away, Marcus glanced over his shoulder, his voice low and laced with exasperation. “Next time,” he said, “don’t open random doors.”

Katie rolled her eyes, unable to suppress the slight curve of her lips. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, her voice light but edged with her usual defiance.

***

The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by their echoing footsteps as they made their way back toward the main castle. Katie caught herself glancing at Marcus, the faint tension from their earlier closeness lingering stubbornly in her chest.

He, on the other hand, seemed completely unaffected. His expression was as unreadable as ever, his strides confident and unbothered, as though the cramped, heart-stopping moment in the cabinet hadn’t even happened. It was maddening, really.

“You said you wanted to talk about tomorrow?” she finally asked, breaking the quiet.

Marcus stopped walking, turning toward her with his usual expression. “Yeah. Tell your team to focus on three and seven.”

Katie frowned, confused. “Three and seven?”

He shrugged, as if the meaning should be obvious. “Attack patterns. If you’ve been practicing at all this week, those should be doable. Don’t overthink it—just trust the timing.”

She blinked, surprised by his sudden willingness to offer advice. “You’re giving me tips now? What happened to letting us crash and burn?”

Marcus smirked. “Consider it a favor. Or maybe I’m just curious to see if you lot can manage something halfway decent.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Thanks. I’ll let the others know.”

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, and she couldn’t quite read the flicker of something—amusement? Curiosity?—in his expression. 

They resumed walking, the quiet settling back over them. Katie’s gaze flicked ahead, her mind already running through the possibilities of what—or who—tomorrow would bring.

As they reached the staircase leading to the upper levels, Katie paused, resting her hand on the bannister. She glanced back at Marcus, his face partly shadowed by the dim corridor light.

“Goodnight, Flint,” she said, her voice calm, steady.

Marcus nodded once, already turning to leave. “Goodnight, Bell. Try not to embarrass yourself out there.”

Her lips twitched again, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she ascended the steps, the sound of his retreating footsteps fading behind her.

Marcus watched her retreating figure for a moment, then let out a quiet huff of amusement. Running a hand down his face, he muttered under his breath, “Get a grip, for Merlin’s sake,” before turning and heading back into the quiet depths of the castle.

Chapter Text

Katie nervously counted the minutes until the game. Her fingers fidgeted endlessly with the sleeve of her robe as her eyes darted around the room, taking in the others. Lee and the twins had settled near the fireplace, whispering quietly among themselves. Ron, looking pale as a ghost, stood off to the side, clutching his gloves as if they were a lifeline. To Katie’s surprise, Matlock seemed the calmest of them all, lounging in an armchair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

When the clock hands finally ticked to 10:30, Katie stood abruptly, her nerves hidden behind a mask of determination. She gave Lee and Ron a quick nod, and the two hurried to follow her. They had agreed earlier to split into two groups: the twins and Matlock would take a separate, less obvious route to the arena, while Katie, Lee, and Ron would stick to the familiar path through the greenhouses.

Ron kept glancing over his shoulder the whole way like he was expecting Filch to jump out at any moment. Lee threw him an amused look but didn’t say anything. Katie, on the other hand, was unusually quiet. Her expression wasn’t exactly calm, but she looked focused, like she was determined not to let nerves get the better of her.

When they reached the hidden door that led into the underground passage, Ron suddenly stopped short, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his cloak.

Katie stepped closer, lowering her voice so it wouldn’t echo. “Breathe, Ron. We need you tonight, okay? Don’t worry about your friends. If this works out, they’ll have plenty of chances to come watch.”

They slipped into the passage, the air immediately cooler as the ivy-covered walls seemed to close in around them. The vines shifted lazily out of the way when their wands lit up, leaving just enough space for them to squeeze through. Ron muttered something under his breath about how creepy it all felt, but Katie ignored him, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

Eventually, the corridor opened up to the familiar set of locker room doors. Fred, George, Angus, and Wimus were already there, waiting for them. 

Katie exhaled deeply, her nerves teetering on the edge despite her outward calm. Wimus, as smug as ever, stretched his arms out theatrically. “And here she is—the star captain,” he said with a smirk.

Katie nodded stiffly. “Abraxas.”

He wrinkled his nose at her flat tone, muttering just loud enough for her to catch, “You greet people like Flint.”

Ignoring the jab, Katie crossed her arms, glancing past him toward the locker rooms. Wimus clapped his hands loudly, turning to address the group. “Right, listen up! Your equipment and brand-new brooms are waiting for you in the locker room. Now, before you ask,” he added, looking pointedly at Katie, “I’ll warn you in advance, dear captain—there are no separate changing rooms for women. We’re not exactly running the World Cup here.”

Katie raised an eyebrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I’ll survive,” she said dryly, brushing past him and heading toward the door. Behind her, Fred muttered under his breath, “World Cup treatment would’ve been nice, though,” earning a chuckle from George.

***

Inside, they were greeted with a surprise. No, the brooms provided were perfectly decent—not exactly new, but functional enough. The real shock came in the form of their uniforms, which were an almost offensively loud combination of orange and violet.

Katie grimaced, picking up a robe between her thumb and forefinger as if it were something foul. “I’m curious,” she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Which team did we inherit this… masterpiece from?”

Lee grinned, leaning against the lockers. “Don’t tell me you don’t love it, Captain. The twins worked all night repainting them.”

Katie shot the twins a sharp look. “You’re kidding me.”

Fred raised his hands defensively, a shameless grin plastered across his face. “What? They needed some Gryffindor flair. Consider it… team branding.”

George nodded solemnly. “It’s unforgettable. Like us.”

Katie nearly groaned out loud, silently cursing herself for what felt like the hundredth time for getting involved in all this madness. With a long-suffering sigh, she shrugged off her black school robe and pulled the garish uniform over her head, her face twisting into a grimace of utter disdain.

She had anticipated the lack of a separate changing room and, thankfully, had dressed in her Quidditch gear back in the dormitory. Small mercies, she thought as she adjusted the fit of the obnoxiously bright robe. It was almost as if the uniform was mocking her with its offensiveness.

Grabbing her sleek, new broom—a lone beacon of hope in this otherwise humiliating situation—Katie glanced at the rest of her team, all of whom were still laughing or bickering as they reluctantly changed. “Five minutes,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “Get dressed, grab your brooms, and meet me on the pitch. We need time to test these things out.”

***

Wimus stood casually by the doorway of the changing rooms, arms crossed as if he’d been waiting there for hours. When Katie emerged, he gave her a quick once-over, his sharp eyes lingering on the broom in her hand. With a faint smirk, he remarked, “Not a bad choice of broom.”

Katie shifted it to her other hand, her expression neutral. “I’ll let you know once I’ve had the chance to test it out.”

He nodded, falling into step beside her as they headed toward the field. The muffled sounds of chatter and movement echoed faintly from the corridors behind them, but ahead, the arena loomed vast and quiet under the flicker of dimly lit torches.

Katie glanced up at the balconies above the field, her brow furrowing slightly. “So… just you watching tonight?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual.

Wimus’s grin widened, his round face alight with amusement, only adding to his smugness. He turned to her slightly as they walked, voice laced with mock innocence. “Why, Bell, looking for Marcus?”

Katie nearly tripped over her own feet, shooting him a sharp glare. “I’m just asking,” she said briskly, her grip tightening on the broom.

Wimus chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Right. Just asking.” He winked and walked ahead, leaving Katie to roll her eyes and shove down the sudden warmth creeping up her neck.

Despite her best efforts, Katie had barely managed to fall asleep the night before. Her mind kept circling back to the incident in Filch’s office, replaying it like a broken record. Every time she thought she’d finally pushed it out of her thoughts, the memory of Marcus’s face so close to hers or the press of their shoulders in the cramped space would creep back in, sending a fresh wave of embarrassment through her.

Her attempts to rationalize it hadn’t helped much either. It wasn’t a big deal, she told herself over and over. Just bad timing. Tight space. Nothing more.

But her subconscious clearly didn’t agree, because even now, standing on the edge of the pitch with her team slowly gathering behind her, she could feel the tension still sitting in her chest. Katie shook her head sharply, forcing her focus back to the present. She couldn’t afford distractions. Not tonight.

She mounted her broom and kicked off the ground. The moment her feet left the earth, a strange weightlessness took over, as though the broom wasn’t just carrying her—it was anticipating her every move.

Katie tightened her grip on the smooth handle, testing it with a slight lean to the left. The broom responded instantly, slicing through the air with an ease she hadn’t expected. It was fast—faster than anything she’d flown before—and for a second, she felt almost giddy.

She tilted forward, accelerating, the wind rushing past her face. The balance was perfect, the control effortless. For a moment, she let herself forget the nerves gnawing at her and simply enjoyed the freedom.

But the joy was fleeting. She glanced down at her team below, awkwardly testing their own brooms. A pang of guilt crept in—hers was a custom pick, leagues better than the ones handed out to the rest of them. Shaking the thought away, she turned back toward the ground, spiraling neatly into a landing.

***

Meanwhile, up on the balcony, hidden from view of the pitch, Marcus, Crass, and a few other stewards watched the new team take flight. Crass narrowed his eyes, glancing at Marcus. “That’s the new broom we received at the start of the month, isn’t it? Seems like a pretty generous gift for a rookie who hasn’t even made it into the league yet.”

Marcus didn’t look away from the pitch, his expression unreadable. “She’s the captain,” he said simply, arms crossed over his chest.

Crass let out a low chuckle. “Right. And that has nothing to do with the fact that it’s Bell?”

Marcus finally turned his head, shooting him a flat look. “It has to do with the fact that I don’t want a team flying around on matchsticks and embarrassing the league. You think I’d hand over a prototype to someone who can’t handle it?”

Crass smirked, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the balcony railing. “She’s holding up better than I expected,” he admitted as they watched Katie glide effortlessly across the field, adjusting to the broom’s responsiveness.

One of the other stewards, a wiry Slytherin seventh-year named Alden, let out a short laugh. “We’ll see how long that lasts. Let’s not forget who they’re up against tonight.”

Marcus didn’t reply. His gaze stayed fixed on Katie as she pulled into a sharp turn, her form steady, her movements instinctive. For a brief second, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—but he wiped it away just as quickly.

“She’ll manage,” he muttered. And for some reason, he almost believed it.

***

Wimus whistled sharply from the field. “Time’s up!”

Katie reluctantly descended, casting a glance back at her team. They still looked rough around the edges, but there was no time left to fix it now.

Abraxas, standing with his usual air of amusement, caught the silent plea in her expression and smirked. “Your turn’s over. Now it’s time for your opponents.”

And that’s when Katie saw her.

A familiar blonde figure stepping onto the field with the kind of effortless confidence that made it clear she belonged there.

Anna Sprout.

Yellow’s Pride.

Katie wanted to jump from relief. Yellow’s Pride wasn’t a weak team by any means, but from what she’d seen last year, they played a structured, textbook style of Quidditch—disciplined, predictable. And now, Marcus’s vague hint about attack patterns 3 and 7 suddenly made perfect sense. Against a team like this, those strategies would work. They had to.

But then she met Anna Sprout’s gaze.

Cold. Assessing. Unwavering.

As Anna walked past, she deliberately bumped Katie’s shoulder, the movement subtle but intentional. Katie blinked, momentarily thrown off, glancing back at her.

Anna barely acknowledged her, just clicked her tongue in mild irritation. But before Katie could brush it off, she caught the hushed whispers from Anna’s teammates.

“That’s her, right? The one who shouted during the Gargoyles game?”

Katie’s jaw tightened. Oh. So that’s what this was about.

She turned her head back and kept walking. So she shouted. So what?

Katie shot a glare at Abraxas, who stood near the tunnel entrance, arms crossed with his usual air of amusement. “You know why she’s acting like that?”

Wimus’ smirk widened ever so slightly. “Let’s just say… Anna blames you for her loss.”

Katie’s frown deepened. “What? That’s ridiculous.”

Abraxas only shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t expect her to see it that way.”

***

Twenty minutes later, just as Katie was giving her final instructions to the team, a sharp whistle from the field signaled their time was up.

“Alright, that’s our cue,” she muttered, shaking off the last of her nerves. She glanced around at her teammates—Ron still looked a little pale, but at least he wasn’t shaking anymore. The twins were grinning like they were about to pull off the prank of the century, Matlock just gave her a thumbs-up, as if that alone could ease the tension, and Lee—Lee was bouncing on the balls of his feet, spinning his bat in one hand like he was getting ready for a show.

***

Wimus stepped forward, standing between the two teams as they faced each other. The underground arena was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustling of robes and the distant dripping of water from somewhere in the tunnels. No roaring crowds, no excited whispers—just two teams standing across from each other, waiting.

“This is a trial match,” Wimus announced, his voice carrying easily through the cavernous space. “You’ve got sixty minutes. No magic, no outside interference. Other than that—” his smirk widened slightly, “—there are no rules.”

Katie tightened her grip on her broom, her knuckles whitening. No rules. Just pure, unfiltered Quidditch.

“The game is won by points,” Wimus continued. “Score as much as you can before the time runs out. That’s it. Understood?”

The teams nodded, muscles tensed, waiting for the call.

Wimus glanced between them, then took a step back, raising his wand.

“In the air!”

With a rush of movement, both teams kicked off the ground, shooting upward in a flurry of robes and bristles. The moment they stabilized in the air, Wimus tossed the quaffle high.

The game had begun.

Katie surged forward, fingers outstretched, but Anna was just as fast—if not faster. She caught the quaffle mid-air, twisting her broom with sharp precision as she veered toward Niffler’s goalposts.

“Jordan! Matlock!” Katie barked.

The two beaters were already in action. Jordan smashed a bludger straight toward Anna, forcing her to drop low to dodge it. Matlock sent the second bludger at her teammates, disrupting their formation.

George zipped ahead, intercepting the now-loose quaffle, passing it to Fred, who immediately shot toward the opposing goal. The game was fast—faster than Katie had anticipated.

Anna was on him in seconds, pressing aggressively. The Yellows Pride were organized, and they moved in tight formations, blocking and redirecting passes like clockwork.

Katie clenched her jaw. They weren’t just playing Quidditch—they were following rigid, practiced patterns. That meant they were predictable.

She darted ahead, eyes flicking between their positions, remembering what Flint had hinted at before—attacking patterns three and seven.

Fred faked a pass to her, drawing one of their Chasers out of position. Katie immediately cut in, grabbing the quaffle and swerving past another defender.

Anna was on her again, their brooms nearly colliding mid-air.

Katie gritted her teeth. Judging by the way Anna’s gaze lingered, this was getting personal—fast.

***

Katie shot forward, gripping the quaffle tightly as she wove through the air. Anna was right behind her, mirroring her every move with sharp precision. Katie could feel her presence—the way she sliced through the air, relentless and unyielding. Yellows Pride played like a machine, their passes seamless, their formation airtight.

A blur of movement caught her eye—a bludger hurtling straight for her. She yanked her broom into a sharp dive, the iron ball whizzing past her ear by inches.

“Matlock, a little warning next time!” she shouted, twisting back up.

“Consider that your warm-up, Bell!” Matlock called, already winding up for another hit.

Up on the balcony, hidden behind protective wards, Marcus watched in silence, arms crossed. Beside him, Crass leaned lazily against the railing.

“She’s quick,” Crass admitted. “But quick isn’t enough.”

Marcus said nothing, his gaze never leaving the field.

A few seats away, Ivar was watching with an expression dangerously close to adoration.

“Look at her,” he sighed.

Marcus glanced over, confused. “Who?”

“Anna,” Ivar murmured, practically dreamy. “Merlin’s beard, isn’t she something?”

Marcus stared at him, incredulous. “You do remember she shut you down last year, yeah?”

Ivar waved a dismissive hand. Marcus rolled his eyes and turned back to the game just as Katie signaled to Fred and George.

Attack Pattern Three.

Fred faked a hard pass to George, drawing two defenders his way. At the last second, he flicked the quaffle backward to Katie, who barreled through the gap. George, anticipating the move, cut in to block the last remaining chaser.

Katie swerved right, dodging Anna’s last-ditch attempt to intercept, and hurled the quaffle straight through the hoop.

10-0.

A few underground league regulars, hiding in the shadows near the pitch, let out muffled cheers.

Crass scoffed. “Cheap tricks. Pride won’t fall for that twice.”

Marcus smirked. “They don’t need them to.”

The game shifted. Katie wasn’t just reacting anymore—she was adapting.

The next few minutes were brutal. Pride pushed back hard, their beaters hammering bludgers at breakneck speed. Lee was tested immediately, forced to dive left and right to keep up.

Then Anna was back on Katie, but this time she wasn’t just chasing—she was pressing, cutting into her flight path, forcing her toward the sidelines.

A sharp whistle rang through the air.

Attack Pattern Six.

George suddenly shot upward, dragging a Pride’s chaser  with him. Fred dropped low, pulling the second chaser out of position.

Katie saw her opening. She cut left, slipping through the gap, just as Lee sent a bludger rocketing toward the keeper.

Clear shot.

She took it.

20-0.

From the balcony, Marcus muttered under his breath, “Now they’re playing.”

Crass exhaled through his nose. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Ivar, still fixated on Anna, tilted his head. “She’s getting annoyed.”

And she was.

Katie saw it—the slight twitch in Anna’s jaw, the fire burning in her eyes. The blonde’s usually ice-cold composure cracked, just for a second.

The next time they crossed paths in midair, Katie felt the full force of it.

Anna didn’t just block her—she slammed into her.

Katie’s breath hitched as her shoulder took the hit, her broom shuddering from the impact. But instead of backing off, she pushed right back, ramming her shoulder into Anna just as hard.

On the balcony, Marcus raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s new,” Crass muttered.

Marcus’s lips twitched.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”

Anna wasn’t backing down. If anything, the hit energized her. She leaned in harder, their brooms nearly colliding. Their eyes locked, a silent dare passing between them.

Katie gritted her teeth, grip tightening. If Anna wanted a fight, she’d get one.

They twisted through the air, neither willing to break. Below them, the game raged on, but for those few seconds, nothing else mattered.

Then Anna smirked.

Katie barely had a second to react before Anna suddenly pulled back—just enough to throw her off balance.

Shit.

Her broom wobbled dangerously before she righted herself, jaw clenching. Anna was already gone, streaking toward the quaffle with perfect precision.

Ivar let out a low whistle. “She’s got moves.”

Marcus didn’t respond. His focus was locked on the pitch, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Crass nudged him with his elbow, smirking. “Your girl’s getting rattled.”

“She’s not my—” Marcus started, then stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “She’ll handle it.”

Crass hummed knowingly but let it drop.

Down on the field, Katie shook off the stumble. Pride was closing in fast, pushing toward their goal.

Attack Pattern Seven.

A sharp whistle. Fred and George split instantly, forcing Pride to adjust. Katie darted through the break in their formation, cutting directly into Anna’s lane.

The moment Anna went for the shot, Katie was there—her arm colliding with Anna’s just enough to throw off her aim.

The quaffle wobbled.

Ron snatched it out of the air with a triumphant yell.

“Nice try, sweetheart!” George called mockingly.

Anna’s expression barely changed, but Katie saw the fire in her eyes burn just a little brighter.

Ron hurled the quaffle downfield, and Katie took off after it, the wind whipping past her ears.

Up on the balcony, Marcus leaned against the railing, watching her go. His smirk was back—but this time, something else lingered behind it.

Maybe Crass was right.

This was different.

***

The last ten minutes of the match were nothing short of ruthless. Yellows Pride was closing in, their strategy shifting into pure offense. Katie barely had time to think—Anna was on her every second, pressing harder, pushing faster, making every pass a struggle.

50-50.

They were dead even, and exhaustion was creeping in on both sides. Lee and Matlock were barely keeping up with the bludgers, and Ron had made two near-impossible saves - each one looking like it had taken a few years off his life. 

Then, in a blur of movement, Fred intercepted a pass meant for Anna and, without missing a beat, launched the quaffle straight at Katie. She caught it, breath hitching, and shot forward.

Anna was right there.

Katie didn’t hesitate—she dropped into a feint, swerving hard to the right before cutting back at the last second. Anna was fast, but she hadn’t expected that.

That half-second was all Katie needed.

She pulled her arm back and hurled the Quaffle straight through the hoop—just as Pride’s keeper dove for it, fingertips grazing the ball but failing to stop it.

60-50.

The whistle blew.

Katie let out a sharp exhale, her chest rising and falling as she wiped the sweat and dirt from her face. Above her, Anna hovered, grip tight on her broomstick, her expression thunderous.

Then, after a beat, Anna scoffed, tilting her head just slightly. “Well, at least this time you managed to keep your mouth shut.”

Katie froze, her boots hitting solid ground as they both landed.

Her exhaustion vanished in an instant, replaced by a sharp, hot spark of anger. Oh, hell no.

She took a step forward, barely thinking. “Oi.”

No response.

Katie’s eye twitched. “What the fuck is your problem? You’ve been on my arse all night—what’s your deal?”

Still nothing.

Katie let out a sharp breath and grabbed her shoulder. “Hey, I’m talking to y—”

Anna whipped around, shoving her hand off with an almost disgusted motion. “Don’t touch me.”

Katie scoffed. “Merlin, relax. You act like I killed your bloody cat—”

That was it.

Anna shoved her—hard.

Katie barely registered the sting of it before she lunged, grabbing her jersey and yanking her down with her. They hit the ground with a heavy thud, rolling once before—

Pain exploded in Katie’s scalp as Anna fisted a hand in her hair and yanked.

“You lunatic!” Katie snarled, blindly reaching out and grabbing a fistful of hers in return.

Someone shouted, but she barely registered it.

Anna’s nails dug into her skin, and Katie, fueled by sheer rage, swung her leg, knocking them sideways. Dust and dirt kicked up around them as they twisted, arms tangling, hands grabbing at whatever they could reach—jerseys, hair, anything.

“Oi, oi, OI—what the hell?” someone yelled.

“Get them off each other!”

More voices. More footsteps.

Then suddenly—strong arms ripped Katie backward.

“Let go of me!” she spat, still thrashing, but George had her in an iron grip, barely managing to keep hold of her while Fred grabbed her wrist before she could lunge forward again.

“Yeah, no,” Fred barked. “We’re done with that.”

On the other side, Matlock and another player had a struggling Anna restrained. Her ponytail was half-undone, her face was flushed, but she was grinning.

Katie, still fuming, tried to jerk forward again. “You psycho—”

“Merlin’s sake, Bell, chill,” George hissed.

From the sidelines, Wimus was staring at them, absolutely aghast. “What. The. Fuck.”

Up on the balcony, Marcus exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face to hide the grin threatening to break through.

Crass, still gaping, turned to him. “This your golden recruit?”

Marcus didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed locked on Katie as she spat onto the ground, chest heaving, fists still clenched like she wasn’t entirely done fighting. His lips twitched, the corner of his mouth threatening to curl upward despite himself.

He shook his head, voice low. “Hell of a debut.”

Down below, Anna, still wiping blood from her cheek, grinned at Katie, breathing just as heavily.

“Welcome to the league, Bell,” she said, voice laced with amusement. Then, tilting her head, she smirked.

“Next time, I’m going to fucking end you.”

***

On the balcony, Ivar was practically hanging over the railing, watching Anna like she was some kind of divine warrior goddess rather than a girl who’d just tried to rip Katie Bell’s hair out. Down on the pitch, both teams had been dragged apart, standing on opposite ends of the field, but neither Anna nor Katie looked remotely ready to let it go. They were still glaring at each other, red-faced, breathless, and thoroughly disheveled.

Pucey, catching Ivar’s expression, let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Unbelievable. Weren’t you supposed to be getting over her? Something about moving on, chasing after a lovely Beauxbatons girl, broadening your horizons—”

Ivar, still transfixed, waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, forget all that.”

Pucey rolled his eyes but turned to Marcus, ready to make another jab—only to pause.

Because Flint? Flint was staring at Katie with the exact same lovesick, awestruck expression Ivar had while looking at Anna.

Pucey nearly choked. “Oh, you too? This is pathetic.”

Marcus didn’t even hear him. He was watching Katie with something bordering on delighted fascination, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, lips twitching upward like he’d just seen the most spectacular thing in the world.

Pucey groaned, running a hand down his face. “Merlin help me, I’m surrounded by absolute idiots.”

Chapter Text

Irony, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.

Marcus found Katie sitting on the ground outside the locker room—almost exactly like the way she had once found him after his infamous match.

She looked thoroughly pissed off, her hair a tangled mess, her uniform covered in dirt, and a fresh scratch from Anna’s nails standing out against her cheek. Her broom lay discarded beside her, and the way she was aggressively yanking at the laces of her gloves made it clear that she was still fuming.

Marcus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as he watched her. “You look like hell.”

Katie didn’t even glance up. “Fantastic. Thanks, Flint.”

He smirked but didn’t reply immediately, just watching her for a moment before pushing off the frame and walking over. “So?”

Katie let out a slow breath through her nose, still tugging at the laces of her gloves. “She started it.”

Marcus huffed a quiet laugh and crouched in front of her, resting his arms on his knees. “And you finished it?”

She finally looked at him, jaw tight, and muttered, “Damn right I did. Hysterical bitch.” Then, with a sharp tug, she yanked off her last glove and tossed it aside.

Marcus exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head. “Didn’t expect that from her.” His gaze flickered over her face. “Didn’t expect that from you either.”

Katie scoffed, dragging a hand down her face. “Yeah, well. Glad I could provide tonight’s entertainment.”

Marcus shook his head slightly. “It happens. Don’t let it get to you.”

Katie let out a dry laugh, finally leaning back against the wall, exhaustion creeping into her limbs. The last of the adrenaline had worn off, leaving her sore, drained, and still a little on edge.

She didn’t register the silence at first—how Marcus wasn’t teasing, wasn’t making some offhand remark. And when she glanced at him again, she froze.

He wasn’t smirking. There was no smug amusement, no usual sharpness in his expression. Instead, there was something else—something thoughtful, something almost… impressed.

Her stomach twisted. Heat crawled up her neck.

Flustered, she quickly looked away. “Doesn’t matter. This isn’t over.”

Marcus let out a quiet chuckle, nudging her knee with his before settling beside her. He stretched his legs out, flicking open a cigarette tin and lighting one with a lazy flick of his wand. “Want one?”

Katie barely spared it a glance before shaking her head. “I’ll pass.”

Marcus exhaled a slow curl of smoke, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “Anna’s not gonna let this go.”

Katie groaned. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“She holds a grudge.”

“I figured, thanks.”

He smirked faintly. “You gonna be able to handle that?”

Katie turned to him, expression flat. “You do remember I just tackled her to the ground, right?”

His lips twitched. “Oh, I remember.”

He gave her a once-over, then frowned slightly. Without thinking, he reached out and wiped his thumb across her cheek.

Katie flinched. “Oi—”

“Relax.” Marcus tilted her face slightly, inspecting the cut. “It’s just a scratch. You’ll live.”

She pulled back, narrowing her eyes. “Good to know, Healer Flint.”

“Shut up.” He flicked ash off his cigarette, smirking. “Still. Hell of a first game.”

Katie huffed, rubbing a hand over her face. “More like a disaster.”

“Nah.” Marcus leaned back against the wall. “You held your own. That’s more than I can say for half the people who try to get into this league.”

Katie studied him for a second before shrugging. “Thanks. And… for the advice earlier. The attack patterns.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t do much. You lot figured it out on your own.”

She snorted. “Try telling that to Weasley. He looked ready to pass out before we even got started.”

Marcus smirked. “Builds character.”

Katie let out a tired laugh, finally letting the tension drain from her shoulders.

The locker room door creaked open, and the rest of her team spilled out, still laughing amongst themselves.

Lee Jordan stepped out, arms crossed, raising a brow at the sight of Katie still sitting on the ground. “Alright, you done with your dramatic moment?”

Katie groaned, rubbing a hand down her face. “Give me a second, Jordan. I’m still recovering from almost getting my face clawed off.”

Lee smirked. “Must’ve been a tough loss for Sprout. Though, from where I was standing, looked like she got a couple of good hits in.”

Marcus flicked away the last of his cigarette. “She did.”

Katie shot him a glare before pushing herself to her feet. “Fine. I’m going.”

“Good.” Lee stepped aside. “And maybe try not to start another brawl before next match, yeah?”

Katie waved him off, muttering something under her breath as she disappeared into the locker room.

Lee watched her go, then turned back to Marcus, who was still sitting on the ground, looking far too entertained.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Marcus smirked. “You have no idea.”

***

The morning started off surprisingly peaceful. Katie sat at the Gryffindor table, absently poking at her breakfast, while behind her, at the Slytherin table, Marcus sipped his tea, his gaze drifting between her and Anna at the Hufflepuff table.

Both girls looked like they’d spent the night wrestling a pack of angry kneazles—scratched up, slightly disheveled, and very much worse for wear. Marcus wondered whether their feud would spill beyond the pitch, but judging by their calculated indifference, the answer was likely yes. That didn’t mean it was settled, though. Not even close.

The rest of the Flying Nifflers kept their distance, sneaking wary glances at their captain. If any of them had previously questioned whether pissing off Katie Bell was a bad idea, they certainly had their answer now.

Pucey spent several unsuccessful minutes trying to pull Marcus into a conversation, receiving nothing but distracted nods in return. Eventually, he gave up and wandered over to the Ravenclaw table, where Ivar and Crass were already seated.

Flint didn’t even notice.

Late Saturday breakfast was winding down, students trickling out of the Great Hall in twos and threes. By the time Marcus slid onto the bench beside Katie, she was alone. Without preamble, he pushed a small glass vial toward her.

“For the scratches,” he said simply.

Katie barely had time to react before she felt it—the subtle shift in the air. No one was outright staring, but the Gryffindors around them had slowed their conversations just enough for it to be noticeable.

She narrowed her eyes, lowering her voice. “Are you insane?”

Marcus, already reaching for toast, didn’t even glance at her. “Relax. It’s not poison.”

Meanwhile, at the Ravenclaw table, Pucey dropped himself onto the bench across from Ivar and Crass.

Crass barely spared him a glance. “You sure you’re in the right place?”

Adrian shrugged, unbothered. “It’s boring over there.”

Ivar smirked. “Boring? Or are you just nosy?”

Adrian stole a piece of bacon from Crass’s plate. “Can’t it be both?”

Crass rolled his eyes but said nothing, already half-distracted by something else.

“What, exactly, are we supposed to be so interested in?” he muttered, though his gaze had already drifted toward Katie and Marcus.

Adrian grinned, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, come on. Flint making a move in broad daylight? That’s worth watching.”

Wimus, who had been striding past with his usual air of self-importance, suddenly veered off course. He dropped himself onto the bench next to Crass, effectively wedging him between his broad frame and Ivar’s equally solid build.

Crass let out a strangled noise, attempting to shift but finding himself entirely trapped. “For Merlin’s sake, Wimus, personal space exists.”

Wimus, paying him no mind, leaned forward with a wicked grin, eyes darting between Marcus and Katie. “Well, well, what do we have here? Hogwarts’ new favorite couple—or is it something else entirely?”

Back at the Gryffindor table, Katie exhaled sharply, rolling the vial between her fingers.

“I appreciate the gesture, really. But don’t you think you’re overstepping a little? I thought the whole point was that no one was supposed to know about the league.”

Marcus, entirely unbothered, poured himself a cup of tea. “And what does this have to do with the league?”

Katie frowned. “You handing me this. In the middle of breakfast. In front of half the school.”

Marcus took a slow sip, clearly unimpressed with her argument. “Right. Because a healing salve is obviously a direct link to underground Quidditch.”

Katie narrowed her eyes. “Then why?”

Marcus set down his cup. “Why what?”

“Why give it to me?”

A flicker of amusement. “Maybe I’m just generous.”

Katie scoffed. “Yeah, sure. That sounds like you.”

Marcus took another slow sip, then said, almost lazily—“We could be connected through other things.”

Katie folded her arms. “Like what, Flint?”

Before he could answer, a voice—not one, but two—chimed in from the next table.

“Yeah, Flint, like what?”

Katie stiffened. Marcus stilled. Both of them turned their heads toward the Ravenclaw table.

There, seated among increasingly agitated Ravenclaws, were Abraxas Wimus and Adrian Pucey, leaning forward with identical expressions of excessive interest.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Abraxas, elbowing an increasingly irritated Crass as if they were watching a live performance, added, “Go on, don’t leave us hanging.”

Pucey nodded. “Yeah, mate, don’t be selfish.”

Katie wanted to scream. She had already brawled with one person in the past twenty-four hours; she was not about to let these idiots get under her skin too.

Marcus, still maddeningly unbothered, took another sip of his tea.

The Great Hall was quieter than usual—most students were either still asleep or enjoying their weekend elsewhere. But even with fewer people around, Katie could feel the lingering stares.

Marcus, however, looked suspiciously like he was enjoying himself.

Katie clenched the vial in her hand. She should’ve known better than to expect a simple interaction with him.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words—though none of them were as loud as the barely restrained amusement radiating from the Ravenclaw table.

Marcus finally broke it, glancing lazily in their direction. “Since when do you two eat at the Ravenclaw table?”

Wimus grinned. “What can I say? The view from here is fantastic.”

Pucey smirked, gesturing lazily over his shoulder. “Breakfast and a show. Who could resist?”

Katie exhaled sharply. “Oh, sod off.”

Pucey only grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. Wimus, meanwhile, had settled in quite comfortably, watching the scene unfold with open curiosity.

Crass, who had been trying to ignore them all, finally set down his fork with a bit too much force. “You know what’s really fascinating?” he said flatly. “Eating breakfast without getting crushed between two oversized idiots.” He threw a pointed glare at Wimus and Ivar, who were still pressed in on either side of him.

“You could leave,” Ivar said absently, sneaking glances at Anna Sprout.

“Or,” Crass snapped, “you could all go back to your own damn tables.”

No one moved.

Katie sighed and turned back to Marcus, who was now pouring himself more tea, looking suspiciously like he was about to make the morning even worse.

“Can we focus?” she muttered. “What was that about other things?”

Marcus met her gaze, completely unfazed. Then, with the same infuriating calm, he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough so only she could hear.

“Nothing, Bell. Just pointing out that not everything we do has to be about the league.”

There was something unreadable in his expression, but before Katie could even process it, Wimus, who had clearly been listening, perked up.

“Not about the league, you say?”

Katie groaned. “Oh, for—”

“I mean, what else could it be about?” Pucey added, turning slightly in his seat, eyes glinting with amusement. “Care to elaborate, Flint?”

Marcus merely shrugged, far too pleased with himself.

Katie, however, had had enough. She pushed herself up from the bench, fixing him with a glare.

“You’re a menace.”

Marcus took a slow sip of tea. “You’re welcome for the salve.”

Katie exhaled sharply, looking as though she was this close to launching the vial at his head, before spinning on her heel and marching off.

Behind her, Wimus let out a low whistle. “Bold move, Flint,” he remarked. “Bold move.”

Marcus just smirked into his tea.

Finally, he drained the last of his tea and stood, stretching lazily. As he turned to leave, he called over his shoulder—just loud enough for Katie to hear—

“Seven tonight. I’ll pick you up.”

As the words left his mouth, a school owl swooped overhead, wings flapping loudly enough to drown out half the hall. Katie didn’t slow, didn’t turn—just raised a hand over her shoulder, middle finger up.

Marcus grinned. 

The boys hollered. Wimus banged his fist on the table, Pucey whistled, and Ivar smirked into his cup.

Crass, still trapped between them, groaned. “I hate this day.”

***

Katie stormed out of the Great Hall, vial still clenched in her fist. The amused whistles and jeering voices faded behind her, but the lingering embarrassment did not.

She wasn’t even mad at Marcus—he was a menace, but that was hardly news.

No, the real problem was that she was too tired to untangle whatever the hell he meant by that.

“We could be connected through other things.”

Maybe a few months ago, she wouldn’t have let that slide—would’ve pressed, demanded an actual answer instead of letting him get away with another one of his cryptic lines.

But this was Flint. He never explained anything. He just said things, let them linger, then walked away like it didn’t matter.

She’d spent enough time around him to know better than to chase answers he wasn’t going to give.

And now half the castle probably thought—

She groaned, rubbing her face. Whatever. Let them think what they wanted.

Her feet carried her toward Gryffindor Tower on autopilot. She had no real plan beyond getting as far away from that table as possible, but by the time she reached the dormitory stairs, exhaustion was pulling at her bones. Between the match, the fight, and now that ordeal at breakfast, she felt like she’d been dragged through the Forbidden Forest and back.

A nap. A nap was exactly what she needed.

***

By the time Katie pushed open the door to the girls’ dorm, Angelina was already mid-rant, her voice full of disgust.

“I’m telling you, he smells like a troll’s armpit after a rainstorm,” she declared, pacing near her bed.

Alicia, lounging on Katie’s mattress like she owned it, rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic. He’s just got that… rugged, outdoorsy thing going on.”

Angelina shot her a look. “Rugged? Alicia, the man reeks of wet fur.”

Katie, still half-dead from exhaustion, let the door swing shut behind her. “Who reeks?”

Both girls turned, finally noticing her. Angelina’s eyes immediately narrowed at the mess of scratches on Katie’s face. “Forget that. What the hell happened to you?”

Alicia propped herself up on one elbow, smirking. “Yeah, you look like you lost a fight with a pack of hungry pixies.”

Katie exhaled, dragging herself toward the bed. “Something like that.”

Spinnet patted the space next to her. “Alright, spill. What happened to ‘just sneaking into the forest for some harmless sketches of moonlit fairies’?”

Katie froze for half a second before remembering. Right. That had been their excuse for last night.

“Yeah,” Angelina added, crossing her arms. “Did the fairies fight back, or did you trip over a root and faceplant into a thorn bush?”

“Definitely the fairies,” Katie muttered, kicking off her shoes and crawling onto the mattress. “Vicious little things.”

Alicia snorted, but before she could pry further, Angelina groaned and flopped back onto her bed. “Whatever. All I know is, no matter how desperate you are, no bloke is worth it if he smells like the inside of a Quidditch locker room after practice.”

Alicia hummed. “Okay, but let’s say—hypothetically—he was devastatingly handsome.”

Angelina scoffed. “Hypothetically, he’d still stink.”

Katie barely heard them. Her body had already melted into the mattress, her limbs heavy, her eyelids drooping.

Alicia nudged her. “Don’t you fall asleep, Bell. It’s already 12:00.”

Katie made an incoherent sound of protest, shoving her face deeper into the pillow.

Angelina huffed. “Merlin, she’s useless.”

“Let her sleep,” Alicia said, ruffling Katie’s hair before finally rolling off the bed. “The fairies kicked her ass.”

Katie, too exhausted to argue, let sleep pull her under.

***

Through the haze of sleep, fragments of the past day drifted through Katie’s mind.

Anna’s cold glare.

The sharp whistle of a Bludger.

The twins shouting.

Marcus smirking.

The vial sliding across the table.

Laughter from the Ravenclaw table.

Marcus again—his voice carrying over the Great Hall.

“Seven tonight. I’ll pick you up.”

Marcus. I’ll pick you up at seven.

Or… was that what he said?

Settle the fight?

What?

Her eyes snapped open just as the door swung open with a bang.

Spinnet yanked her up by the arm, nearly pulling her out of bed. “Katie, what the hell—Flint just stopped me outside the common room and told me to tell you he’s waiting.”

Still half-asleep, Katie mumbled, “What? What time is it?”

“Seven in the evening,” Alicia shot back, then narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Is this about that underground league again? Is that why you look like you got tossed off a cliff today? Katie, I told you to stay out of that mess!”

Katie huffed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and grabbing the nearest piece of clothing. “I don’t know, Alicia. And as for the league… I won’t explain why, but I hope you can just trust me on this.”

Alicia exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed, but didn’t push further. Instead, she crossed her arms, watching Katie scramble. “Fine. But hurry up before Angelina catches you. She doesn’t suspect anything yet, but I’m not covering for you.”

Katie shot her a quick look, stuffing her arms into her jacket. “I’m off.”

Alicia sighed, flopping onto Katie’s bed. “Merlin help you.”

***

Katie, hastily lacing up her boots, half-hopped toward the exit, barely managing to shove her arms into her jacket as she stepped through the portrait hole.

Flint was already there, leaning casually against the wall, looking as unbothered as ever.

Katie wanted to slap herself. Had yesterday’s game really thrown her off that badly? She’d spent the entire day walking around like a bloody zombie, barely registering anything—including Flint’s words. And really, how had she not noticed? He hadn’t exactly been subtle.

Straightening her jacket, Katie exhaled sharply and crossed her arms. “Alright, Flint. I’m here. What do you want?”

Marcus pushed off the wall, slipping his hands into his pockets as he gave her a once-over. “Took you long enough.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe if you’d been a little clearer, I wouldn’t have needed a messenger.”

His smirk deepened. “You seemed busy flipping me off.”

Katie groaned, running a hand over her face. Right. That. In her defense, she’d genuinely thought he’d shouted something else—though, in hindsight, she probably should’ve questioned why Marcus Flint would ever demand she settle a fight.

“Can we just go?” she muttered.

Marcus let out a low chuckle, glancing at her. “What, so used to following me without question now?”

Katie shot him a dry look. “No, Flint. I’ve just learned there’s no point in asking—you never give a straight answer anyway.”

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself, but said nothing.

They walked in silence for a few moments, the halls mostly empty, the low hum of the castle settling around them. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of burning torches and old stone. Katie kept her pace steady, eyes fixed ahead, but she could feel Marcus’s gaze flickering toward her now and then, as if still mildly entertained by her presence.

“Are you going to tell me what this is actually about?” she finally asked, glancing at him.

Marcus hummed like he might drag it out, but then—surprisingly—he just said it outright. “We’re going to the first meeting of the year. The stewards and team captains.”

Katie blinked, caught slightly off guard. She had expected some cryptic non-answer, maybe a smirk and a “you’ll see” just to annoy her. Instead, he’d just… told her.

“Huh,” she muttered, adjusting her pace to keep up. “Guess that explains the theatrics.”

Marcus smirked. “What, me showing up at your door? Thought I’d make a statement.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “You just like messing with people.”

“Not denying that.” He shot her a sideways glance. “You ready for this?”

She scoffed. “I just survived a trial match and a fistfight in the same night, Flint. I think I can handle a meeting.”

Marcus chuckled, leading her down another corridor. “Hope so. Because this won’t be any less of a bloodbath.”

***

Katie followed Marcus without a word as he led her toward Hogsmeade. There was no need to ask why—he’d explain things at his own pace, and by now, she had learned to just let him. Somewhere along the way, between casual remarks and offhand comments, he had laid it all out: why these meetings mattered, what usually went down, and—most importantly—where they were held. It wasn’t just about strategy or rules. It was about keeping the league together, making sure the right people stayed in control.

The castle behind them still buzzed with the lingering energy that came with the arrival of foreign students, but the initial excitement had worn off. Hogwarts was settling back into its usual rhythm. Katie, however, felt strangely detached from it all. The past week had blurred together—training, getting used to her team, the trial match—and somewhere in the chaos, she had stepped over a line she hadn’t even realized was there.

She was in now. Fully.

There was no going back to how things were before.

That thought should have been satisfying, but instead, it left a strange, unsettled feeling in her chest. She had expected the league to be ruthless, but she hadn’t expected how much it would change things. How much it would change her.

For the first time, she understood what the others had always said: once you were in, you were in. The game was different now.

Her jaw clenched as her mind flickered back to Anna. The fight. The adrenaline. The sharp sting of nails against her skin.

Damn Sprout.

Katie had never had real conflicts before—not like this. Sure, there were rivalries on the pitch, heated arguments, moments of frustration. But she had never hated an opponent. She had never thrown down in the middle of a match like that. It wasn’t her. Or at least, it hadn’t been.

But something about that girl got under her skin.

The realization irritated her more than it should have.

She exhaled sharply, shaking off the thoughts. Focus.

And yet, even as she tried to center herself, another distraction kept creeping in at the edges of her mind.

Not Anna. Not even the league.

Marcus.

Her eyes flickered to him as they walked—completely at ease, hands shoved into his pockets, the faintest hint of amusement playing at his lips.

Like he was enjoying some private joke.

What the hell was his deal, anyway?

She had been so sure that whatever strange push-and-pull had existed between them had burned out over the summer, lost in the space between their separate lives.

But now?

Now he was just there.

All the time. Sitting too close. Watching too closely. Acting as if none of it meant anything—and maybe it didn’t. Maybe she was just imagining it.

Except—she wasn’t.

She wasn’t blind. She noticed the way his attention lingered a second too long. The way he never seemed particularly bothered when she challenged him. The way he had a habit of getting just close enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.

It was infuriating.

And worse—it wasn’t new.

She just hadn’t thought about it before. Or maybe she had, but never like this. Never with the nagging sense that it wasn’t just him pulling her into this game—she was playing it too.

Katie scowled, dragging a hand through her hair in frustration.

They weren’t friends. Hell, they’d never even played on the same pitch as teammates.

He was two years ahead. A Slytherin.

And yet—somehow, their paths kept tangling together, pulling them into the same orbit over and over again.

Like neither of them knew how to break away.

And now, this meeting.

Her stomach twisted slightly. She had made her debut—an impression, at the very least. Whether it was the right one, she wasn’t entirely sure. Would they take her seriously after what happened with Anna? Would they even care?

She hadn’t realized just how deep she’d gotten into her own head until Marcus’s voice broke through the quiet evening air.

“I see you didn’t bother using the salve,” he mused, tilting his head slightly as he glanced at her.

Katie blinked, her thoughts scattering as she was pulled back to the present. She raised a hand to her cheek on reflex, only now remembering the scratches were still there.

“Guess I forgot,” she muttered.

Marcus smirked. “Typical.”

Ahead of them, the faint outline of the Shrieking Shack loomed against the darkening sky.

***

Katie hesitated for only a second before stepping further inside. The room was loud—conversations overlapping, the occasional burst of laughter, the scrape of chairs shifting against the floor. The walls, covered in layers of old Quidditch posters and torn-out newspaper clippings, made the space feel even more cramped than it was.

She scanned the room, taking in the faces around her. Out of everyone here, she only really knew two—Abraxas Wimus and Adrian Pucey.

A movement caught her eye—a broad-shouldered Ravenclaw waving at her with a casual grin. It took her half a second to place him. Right. The guy from breakfast. And before that—

Last year. That one night she’d rather not remember, when he and Flint had dragged a completely wasted Lee Jordan back to Gryffindor Tower. He’d been there, helping keep Lee upright while Katie tried not to lose her patience. They hadn’t been introduced then, and they weren’t introduced now, but judging by his expression, he clearly already knew who she was.

Great.

Before Katie could sit, a voice cut through the chatter.

“Well, well. The woman of the hour.”

She turned to see Adrian Pucey sprawled comfortably in one of the chairs, smirking over the rim of his goblet. His tone was easy, almost lazy, but there was an edge beneath it—like he was watching a particularly interesting play unfold.

Katie nodded. “Pucey.”

“Bell.” He gestured toward the rows of chairs facing the long table at the front of the room, where the three senior stewards usually sat. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“Didn’t think I had a choice.”

Pucey chuckled. “Smart girl.”

From somewhere to her left, Abraxas Wimus let out a low whistle, giving her a once-over. “Well, you’re looking better than you did at breakfast. Thought you might pass out in your porridge.”

Katie arched a brow, unimpressed. “Good to know you were so concerned.”

“Concerned’s a strong word,” Wimus mused, but before Katie could fire back, another voice cut in.

“Interesting’s one word for it,” came a drawl from a few seats away. The broad-shouldered Ravenclaw stretched his legs out in front of him, looking entirely too relaxed.

“Ivar Brennan.” He leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees. “Since we’re pretending we don’t already know who everyone is.”

Katie arched a brow but shook his outstretched hand. His grip was firm, steady.

“Nice to finally meet you,” she said dryly.

Ivar smirked. “Likewise. Though after this morning, I half-expected Sprout to get here first.”

A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room, but there was an underlying tension now—an unspoken understanding that this wasn’t over.

Wimus, elbowed Ivar with a knowing look. “Flint must be proud. Someone finally outdid him in public spectacle.”

That got a few more chuckles, though some of the older stewards exchanged glances, clearly wondering how long this little feud would stay on the pitch.

The door creaked open again. Anna Sprout stepped inside, giving the room a slow, deliberate once-over. The shift was immediate—conversation quieted, attention pulling toward her like a ripple in still water.

Katie kept her expression neutral, fingers drumming once against her knee before stilling.

Oh, great. 

Before anything could be said, another voice cut through the room.

“All right, let’s get started.”

Katie turned as Crass slipped into the room, all nervous energy and self-importance, like he was arriving at something much grander than a hidden meeting in a half-ruined shack. He moved straight for the front, shoulders squared, chin lifted just a little too high—as if taking his usual seat beside Wimus was some kind of privilege rather than habit.

Marcus walked in after him.

And that’s when it hit her.

She’d always known Marcus had pull in the league. That much had been obvious from the start. But this? Standing at the front of the room like he was the one running the show?

Katie felt something drop into place, a realization so obvious she almost felt stupid for not seeing it before.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Flint wasn’t just some loudmouth who threw his weight around. He was one of the people who decided how things worked in the first place.

Abraxas clapped his hands together with a wide grin. “Merlin, I’ve missed all your ugly mugs.” Then, with an exaggerated glance around the room, he added smoothly, “Present company excluded, of course,” throwing a wink at the few girls in attendance.

A wave of sighs and dissatisfied murmurs rippled through the room. Abraxas rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on. Enough of that. I won’t keep you waiting too long,” he drawled, waving a dismissive hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our new Order Steward—Marcus Flint.”

A few scattered claps broke the silence, but just as many people crossed their arms in clear discontent. The mixed reaction was impossible to miss, and Katie quickly realized that his appointment hadn’t been met with universal approval.

Her fingers instinctively curled into fists. Unfinished business.

The words echoed in her head, dragging her back to that conversation. To the way he had sidestepped her questions, the way his smirk had flickered just enough to betray something underneath. “Guess I’ve got unfinished business.”

Was this what he had meant all along?

Her gaze snapped to Flint as he stepped forward, the usual air of easy confidence surrounding him. He didn’t look the least bit surprised by the room’s reaction—if anything, he seemed to have expected it.

Marcus let his gaze sweep over the room, taking in each face before he finally spoke.

“One way or another, I’ve crossed paths with most of you. We’ve met on the pitch, played against each other, and some of you, I’ve stood beside as teammates. You know who I am. You know how I play. And you know I don’t waste my time on things that don’t matter.”

His voice remained steady, but there was an unmistakable edge to it, a challenge woven into every word.

“This league—our league—was built on something more than just reckless games in the dark. It was about skill. Strength. Respect. And somewhere along the way, we lost that. So here’s where I stand: I don’t care about grudges, rivalries, or whatever personal bullshit you lot bring into the room. I care about one thing—bringing this league back to what it was meant to be. Strong. Feared. Respected.”

His gaze hardened as he glanced over the crowd.

“If any of you have a problem with that, well… you know where the door is.”

A beat of silence followed Flint’s words, thick with unspoken challenges and wary glances exchanged across the room. Then, a voice cut through the tension.

“And how, exactly, do you plan on restoring this so-called former glory?”

Rolanda stood with her arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral, but there was no mistaking the sharp edge in her tone. She wasn’t impressed—not yet.

Marcus gave a small nod, his face giving nothing away. “Let’s start with the first step.”

Then, without missing a beat, he turned to Abraxas. “Go ahead.”

Wimus let out a short huff, pushing himself up from his seat. “First and foremost, we’re looking at a lot of changes this year,” he began, scanning the room. “Starting with the basics—arena logistics. Since the start of the term, four new passages have been added to the underground pitch. Equipment has been updated. And, most importantly, the Featherlight Charms have been reinforced. No more dangerous falls.”

A ripple of mixed reactions spread through the room—some murmurs of approval, others of clear discontent.

Katie caught a few exchanged glances, quiet scoffs from the ones who thrived on the brutality of the game. Clearly, not everyone was thrilled about making things safer.

Abraxas continued without pause.

“The second major change concerns the teams,” he announced. “As Order Steward, Marcus Flint is no longer eligible to play, which means his role as captain had to be passed down. And after some deliberation… the new captain of Deathly Leeches will be Adrian Pucey.”

A brief pause. Then Pucey let out a slow, satisfied hum, stretching lazily in his seat. “Well, well. Guess that means I finally get to boss you lot around.”

A few scattered chuckles. Someone muttered, “Like you weren’t doing that already.”

Abraxas smirked. “Try not to let it go to your head, Pucey.”

He shifted the parchment in his hands. “Now, as for Filch’s Gargoyles… they won’t be returning this season. Half their roster graduated, and their replacements? Well, let’s just say they didn’t quite make the cut.”

That got a bigger reaction. Some surprised murmurs, a few exchanged glances.

“So what, we’re just down a team?” someone called out.

Abraxas shrugged. “Looks that way. Unless anyone fancies reviving them?”

Silence.

Yeah. No one was volunteering for that.

“If you’re looking for full team roster changes,” he continued, holding up a parchment, “they’re all listed here.” He tossed the paper onto the table, inviting anyone interested to take a look.

Katie shifted slightly in her seat, glancing at Marcus.

She wasn’t sure why it bothered her. It wasn’t like she had expected to play against him—but now that the possibility was gone, she realized some small, stubborn part of her wouldn’t have minded the challenge.

Not that it mattered.

She exhaled, shaking the thought off as Wimus carried on.

“As for new teams…” He paused, his tone turning dry. “Well, to be honest, this year’s lineup wasn’t exactly promising. Three teams applied, but only one managed to scrape through the trial match. And even that was a close call.”

Abraxas smirked, unable to resist a jab as he cast a pointed glance in Katie’s direction.

“The Flying Nifflers are officially joining the league.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and Katie caught more than a few skeptical looks thrown her way.

Abraxas barely acknowledged the murmurs rippling through the room and moved on.

“And now, let’s get to the most interesting part,” he announced, sweeping his hands wide with a dramatic flourish. Then, ever the performer, he added, “You lot are about to lose your damn minds.”

And then… silence.

A long, drawn-out, painfully self-indulgent silence.

MacLaggen let out an exaggerated sigh, tipping his chair back on two legs. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Wimus, if you’re gonna drag this out any longer, at least pour us a drink first.”

Laughter rippled through the room, but before Abraxas could respond, Anna raised a hand.

“I have something to say.”

The shift was immediate.

A few people groaned, already sensing the incoming bullshit. Someone muttered, “Oh, here we go.”

Katie tensed. Across the room, Crass cast a wary glance at Marcus, who still leaned lazily against the table, completely still.

Anna got to her feet, letting the moment stretch just a little too long, soaking up the attention.

“I have doubts about the legitimacy of the Nifflers joining the league.”

A wave of noise crashed over the room—groans, scoffs, an exaggerated ‘fuck me’ from somewhere in the back. Ivar, who had been half-listening, suddenly sat up straighter.

“Oh, come the fuck on,” Adrian groaned. “You’re still on about that?”

“Shut it, Pucey,” Anna snapped, but her eyes never left Katie.

Wimus raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Oh?”

Anna crossed her arms. “They didn’t just win their trial match—they tore through it. And we’re supposed to believe that happened naturally?”

That got the room’s attention. The murmurs shifted, curiosity creeping into the mix.

“Most of them don’t even have proper quidditch experience,” Anna continued, her gaze flicking to Wimus. “And yet, somehow, they played like they’d been training together for months. So tell me—if they weren’t handpicked by certain… connections, would they have even needed a trial?”

“Bloody hell,” someone muttered.

Katie felt something coil tight in her chest. Breathe. Don’t take the bait.

Abraxas arched a brow, tilting his head slightly. “What exactly are you getting at, Sprout? You saying they cheated? Used magic?”

Anna shrugged. “Just that Bell conveniently ended up with the best broom out of all the recruits—the very best your lot had in stock. That’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? And, of course…” She let the words hang for a moment before adding smoothly, “Everyone knows about her… relationship with our new Order Steward.”

The reaction was instant.

“Oi, what the fuck?”

“Seriously?”

A loud, exaggerated whistle cut through the noise. Someone banged their fist against the table.

Katie’s stomach dropped.

Laughter, hushed whispers. Someone muttered, “Knew it.”

Heat crawled up her neck.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she bit out.

Anna tilted her head, lips twitching like she’d already won. “Just making an observation.”

“Yeah?” Katie shot back, hands curling into fists. “Well, maybe next time, try making one that isn’t complete bollocks.”

The room erupted.

“Oh, she’s fuming now—”

“Should we be listening to this, or are they about to start shagging on the table?”

“Shut the fuck up, McLaggen!”

Marcus let out a slow breath through his nose but didn’t say anything. Which was worse.

Wimus let out a slow, tired sigh, rubbing his temple. “And what exactly are you suggesting now, Sprout?”

Anna didn’t hesitate. “Another match.” She glanced toward Katie, then back to Wimus. “Let’s see if they can pull it off again. Say… against Rolanda’s team. Tomorrow.”

That got a reaction. Chairs scraped. Someone let out a low whistle. A few heads turned toward Rolanda, waiting.

Rolanda’s arms remained crossed, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of interest in her eyes.

Anna let the tension settle before continuing, letting her gaze sweep across the room. “Tell me I’m wrong. You all know we’re not the weakest team in the league. We’ve held our own. And yet, the Nifflers—who came together in a week—ran right through us.”

Anna spread her hands, letting the weight of her words settle. “So either they’re that good… or something doesn’t add up.”

Katie’s patience snapped.

“Oh, fuck off,” she said flatly. “I’m not proving anything to you.”

The room reacted instantly. A few quiet gasps, a muttered “Here we go,” someone shifting in their seat like they were settling in for a show.

“You lost. We won.” Katie’s voice was steady, but her pulse was hammering. “Or are you just pissed because deep down, you know your failure last year had nothing to do with me—and everything to do with your own bad decisions?”

Katie hadn’t meant to bring it up, but she didn’t regret it.

She remembered that match—Pride playing it safe, Gargoyles tearing them apart, Anna refusing to adjust until Katie, frustrated beyond reason, had yelled at her to fight back.

Maybe Anna had listened. Maybe she hadn’t. But they’d lost, and somewhere in Anna’s head, that loss belonged to Katie.

A beat.

Anna exhaled through her nose, as if deciding whether it was even worth responding.

Then, smoothly, she tilted her head. “Funny. You had plenty to say back then too, didn’t you? But words don’t mean shit on the pitch.”

She let the challenge hang for a second before adding, almost lazily—“What’s wrong? Scared of the Furies?”

Someone chuckled. A few exchanged glances.

“Or maybe,” Anna continued, gaze flicking to Marcus for just a second before returning to Katie, “you’re worried you won’t have someone whispering the right strategy in your ear this time?”

That got the reaction she wanted.

A short burst of laughter, not loud but enough to set Katie’s nerves on edge.

Marcus moved before Katie even registered it. One second, he was behind the table. The next, he was beside her, fingers wrapping around her elbow. Not rough. Not forceful. Just there.

“Bell,” he said, voice low.

A warning.

Katie yanked her arm free without looking at him.

“What is your problem?” she snapped at Anna. “Why are you acting like this?”

But Anna wasn’t looking at her anymore.

Her focus had shifted—straight to Marcus.

And she was smiling.

Not a smirk. Not the smug, know-it-all expression she usually wore when she thought she was winning.

This was different.

She took a step back, slow, like she was giving him space—not out of caution, but as if she’d just seen something she hadn’t fully recognized before.

And now she did.

“Oh, Bell,” she said, her voice almost sweet. But she wasn’t talking to Katie anymore.

Her gaze dragged over Marcus, lingering. Measuring.

“You know,” she mused, tone light, too light, like she was working through a thought as she spoke. “I wasn’t sure at first. I really wasn’t. But now?” A breathy little laugh. “Now it’s just obvious.”

Katie’s stomach twisted. What the hell was she talking about?

“Obvious what?” she demanded.

Anna didn’t even glance at her.

“You play such a long game, don’t you, Flint?” she murmured, eyes still locked on him. “So patient. So careful. Must’ve thought you’d get away with it forever.”

Something in the air shifted.

People weren’t just listening anymore. They were paying attention.

Katie could feel it.

Marcus didn’t react.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

And that was the problem.

Katie had seen him irritated. Seen him amused. Seen him outright furious.

But this?

This was stillness.

Like something waiting to happen.

Anna tilted her head, her voice dropping lower.

“Lantaner was right about you,” she said.

Silence.

Then—Marcus smiled.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t anything like what she’d seen before.

No—this was something else.

Something that made Katie’s skin prickle.

Anna, clearly not getting the explosion she expected, turned to Wimus instead.

“Correction,” she said crisply. “This year, the league won’t just be missing one team.” She straightened. “Yellow’s Pride is withdrawing from the tournament.”

A beat of absolute chaos.

“Wait, what the fuck?”

“You can’t just—”

“This is bullshit—”

Rolanda, who had been silent this whole time, snapped her head up.

“What the hell happened at the trial match?” she demanded, looking at the other captains.

They didn’t answer.

Not because they didn’t want to—but because they had no idea either.

Most of them just sat there, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

Flint shrugged. “Makes the tournament easier for us.”

Then, without missing a beat, he nodded at Abraxas. “Go on.”

His gaze flicked back to Anna. “You know the rules. If you’re not in the league, you shouldn’t be here.”

Anna, seemingly satisfied, gave a small shrug and turned on her heel.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t argue. Just walked out, calm and collected, like she hadn’t just set the entire room on fire and left it to burn.

***

The room didn’t go back to normal—not right away. Conversations sparked up in pockets, but they were quieter now, heavier. A few people exchanged glances. Some looked toward Marcus. No one said anything to him, but the weight of their attention lingered.

He didn’t react.

Katie barely had time to process that before she felt someone move behind her.

Crass leaned in just enough for only her to hear. 

“I hope you weren’t expecting sympathy,” Crass murmured. “People aren’t wondering if Flint helped you, Bell. They’re already sure he did. Now they’re just waiting for you to prove it.”

Katie spun around, but Crass was already stepping away, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

Without another word, he slipped toward the wall, positioning himself on the outskirts of the room—watching, waiting, as if he wanted nothing more than to disappear from whatever came next.

Katie sat frozen.

Frustration churned in her chest, tangled with something heavier, something she wasn’t ready to name. She didn’t understand half of what had just unfolded—what Anna had implied, what Marcus had refused to deny.

But one thing was clear.

No one was going to forgive her for being too close to Flint.

It didn’t matter what she did from now on—every win, every accomplishment, every step forward would be met with doubt. With whispers, with suspicion, with people wondering if she had truly earned it… or if Marcus Flint had simply paved the way.

But had he?

The thought struck her like a slap, sharp and unrelenting.

Because if she was being honest—really honest—Marcus had helped her.

He was the one who picked out the best broom for her. The one who offered tactical advice when he didn’t have to. The one who, whether she wanted to admit it or not, had been pushing her forward this entire time.

So maybe Anna’s words weren’t as baseless as she wanted them to be.

And that realization left a bitter taste in her mouth.

***

Marcus watched her. Carefully.

Even as he leaned back, arms crossed, posture loose—like he was barely paying attention—he was.

Katie sat still, unusually quiet, her fingers toying with a loose thread on her sleeve, pulling at it absentmindedly. A small, restless movement. A tell.

She wasn’t looking at anyone. Not at Abraxas, who had already moved on as if the past ten minutes hadn’t unraveled half the room. Not at the empty space Anna had left behind—because even though she was gone, her words still sat heavy in the air.

Not at him.

Marcus exhaled slowly through his nose, shifting his weight just slightly.

He should’ve expected this.

Katie Bell didn’t shut up when she was angry. She fought, snapped back, met every challenge head-on. But this? This silence, this stillness—that meant something.

His jaw tensed.

Across the room, someone muttered a joke, trying to ease the tension. A few quiet chuckles followed, but they were forced, thin, lacking any real amusement.

Marcus didn’t look away from Katie.

Because she was thinking.

And thinking too much never led anywhere good.

***

Abraxas tried to lift the mood in the room, but—for once—it wasn’t working. The energy had shifted, and even he couldn’t quite drag it back.

Wimus pressed his lips together, exhaled sharply, then clapped his hands once. Loud.

“Right. If we’re all done sulking over Pride’s departure, let’s move on to the actual big news.”

Wimus didn’t wait for the room to settle. He picked up a parchment, barely glanced at it, then said loud enough to cut through the lingering tension—

“This year, we’re changing things up.”

That got people’s attention.

“For the first time in league history, we’re bringing in outside competition.”

Silence. Then—chaos.

“What?”

“You’re joking.”

“Like hell we are!”

Someone banged a fist against the table. A chair scraped. Cormac shot to his feet.

“You’re telling me we’re letting outsiders into our league?”

Abraxas, still standing at the front, spread his arms like he’d been waiting for this exact reaction.

“International division,” he corrected, grinning. “Durmstrang. Beauxbatons. Their best teams. Against us.”

More noise. A few muttered curses. A mix of outrage, disbelief—and maybe, just maybe, excitement.

Wimus let the noise settle on its own. No one was going to like this right away, but that didn’t change a damn thing.

“I know you’ve got questions,” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the tension. “And you’ll get your answers. Monday evening, we’re holding a full meeting on the pitch—with every player from every team.”

That got another reaction—some muttered complaints, a few sharp glances exchanged across the room.

“All details will be laid out then,” Wimus continued. “We figured it’s only fair to do it in front of our foreign guests, seeing as they’re part of this now.”

Silence. No one liked it, but no one argued.

Wimus let it sit for a beat, then clapped his hands together.

“Right. Now that we’re done with the dramatics—time for the usual post-meeting tradition.”

A collective shift ran through the room. A mix of groans, cheers, someone loudly banging their goblet against the wall.

“Drinks are here, so settle in,” Wimus continued. “And for fuck’s sake, let’s try to go one night without someone throwing a punch, yeah?”

Laughter. A few sarcastic “good luck with that” comments. The energy in the room finally started to shift back to something familiar.

Katie didn’t feel it.

Her head was still too full, her body too tense, the weight of everything that had happened pressing at the edges of her mind.

She wasn’t staying.

She stood, moving quietly toward the door while most people were distracted pulling chairs closer and reaching for drinks.

She was almost out when she felt it—the shift of someone else moving too.

“Bell.”

She stopped, exhaled through her nose.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

“I’m tired.”

A pause.

Not long. Just enough for her to feel the weight of it.

Then, finally—

“Yeah,” Marcus muttered. “I bet you are.”

She pushed open the door and stepped into the night.

She knew the conversation with Flint would happen eventually.

Just not tonight.

Chapter Text

The parchment was slightly crumpled from how long he’d been holding it. Marcus ran a thumb over the edge, eyes scanning the lines again, even though he already knew every word by heart.

The letter from Gringotts wasn’t unexpected—he’d been waiting for it, dreading it—but that didn’t make it any easier to read.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the cool stone wall. His mind wasn’t even on the letter anymore. Too many other things were clawing for space.

Anna.

He knew people would talk about him staying another year, about him taking over the league. That was inevitable. But Anna had done more than just stir the pot—she’d thrown the whole damn thing into the fire. And now, thanks to her, the wrong people were thinking too hard, asking too many questions.

Not that it really mattered what they thought. The problem was that now they were paying attention.

Which meant this wasn’t the last surprise Jonas had left for him.

Marcus’s fingers tightened around the letter. He’d let himself believe—stupidly, apparently—that things might settle now that Lantaner was gone. That he could just get through the year, hold the league together, figure out what the hell came next.

But that was never how this worked.

And now there was this damn letter.

Across the room, Adrian, stretched out on the couch like he had nowhere better to be, glanced up. “You good?”

Marcus shook his head once, still staring at the letter. “I need to start making money.”

Pucey let out a low hum. “We all do.”

That much was true. No one stuck around the league without a reason. Some played for glory, some for the thrill of it, but for a lot of them—Marcus included—there was more at stake.

His gaze drifted toward the arena below. Six months ago, the plan had been simple—stay in school, keep playing, use the league to make enough money to get by. It wasn’t a long-term solution, but it was something. A way to hold things together.

But now? Now he was Order Steward.

The title should’ve meant control. Instead, it had just cut off his best source of income.

He ran a hand over his face, tension settling deep in his shoulders. Was this Lantaner’s plan all along? To leave him with just enough rope to hang himself? To hand him the league on a silver platter, just to smash it over his face the moment he reached for it?

His jaw tightened. Jonas never just walked away from anything.

Marcus dragged his gaze away from the pitch and caught sight of Crass Borden watching the preparations below, his usual look of vague displeasure even sharper than usual.

Since Lantaner’s departure, Borden had—at least on the surface—become his own person. No longer a lapdog on a leash, but someone with actual thoughts, actual opinions. Still an insufferable, irritable snob, but at least now he was an independent one.

Not that it made him any easier to deal with. If anything, Borden having a spine was almost worse. Before, Marcus could count on him to follow orders, to fall in line without question. Now? Now he was unpredictable.

Marcus exhaled through his nose, dragging his gaze away. Crass could sulk all he wanted—he wasn’t the problem right now.

The real problem was that Marcus needed money, and fast. And every solution he came up with led him right back to the same place.

Back to the kind of choices that had landed him in this mess to begin with. 

And then there was Katie.

Marcus had known their too-visible, too-frequent interactions would turn into something—but not this. Never this. He should’ve seen it coming, should’ve kept his distance. Instead, he’d handed them all the perfect excuse to tear her apart. And after last night? After the way she acted? She wasn’t letting this go.

Pucey’s voice from last year surfaced in his mind, half-amused, half-serious:

“If you’re so keen on keeping her out of trouble, maybe stop dragging her into it.”

Marcus dragged a hand down his face, resisting the urge to bash his head against the stone wall.

Why the hell did trouble never come alone?

Adrian stretched his arms over his head, letting out a yawn. “Well, if you’re looking for career advice, I’d say you’ve got three options—Quidditch, crime, or throwing yourself at Borden’s feet and praying he takes you on as his sugar baby.”

Marcus shot him a flat look. “Helpful.”

Adrian smirked. “I try.”

Marcus didn’t respond. His fingers drummed against the letter once before he folded it and shoved it into his pocket. There was no point dwelling on it now.

Below, the arena buzzed with movement. Darryl was overseeing the last of the new banners, directing a few fourth-years like he was leading a bloody military campaign. A group of stewards had gathered near the goalposts, casting spells—probably reinforcing the enchantments after last night’s meeting had ended in half the league wanting to murder each other.

Marcus exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. He should be down there, overseeing things, but his head was too full, too fucking damn loud.

Pucey was still watching him, too perceptive for his own good. “You really that worried about money?”

Marcus let out a slow breath. “I’m worried about a lot of things.”

Pucey hummed. “Lemme guess—Lantaner’s one of them.”

Marcus didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Adrian let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You know, for someone who’s not even dead, he sure left one hell of a ghost behind.”

Marcus tensed—just for a fraction of a second—but forced himself to relax. He didn’t look at Adrian. Didn’t let his gaze drop to the shoulder that had never quite healed right.

Ghost was the right word.

Jonas never truly left anything behind without a reason.

“Yeah. No shit.”

***

Katie leaned back against the stone bench, tilting her face toward the sun. The almost-healed scratches on her face were now accompanied by something even more telling—dark circles under her eyes, a clear sign of how badly last night had gone.

She’d barely slept. Not for lack of trying.

The second she’d stepped into the Gryffindor common room, the twins and Jordan had been waiting. Arms crossed, faces expectant—clearly, they’d been hoping for some juicy details from the meeting.

“What happened?” Fred asked immediately.

“Don’t say ‘nothing,’” George added before she could even open her mouth.

Lee, sprawled across the armchair, smirked. “You took off pretty quick. That bad?”

Katie had held out longer than expected, dodging their questions. She hadn’t wanted to talk about Anna. But exhaustion and frustration had chipped away at her resolve. Eventually, she cracked.

And it had been worth it. Because their reactions? Exactly what she needed.

Fred had nearly fallen off the arm of the couch laughing. George let out a low whistle. Lee just blinked before muttering, “Bloody hell.”

“Sprout really went for it, huh?” Fred said, still grinning. “That’s bold, even for her.”

“More like desperate,” George muttered. “That’s what you pull when you know you’ve already lost.”

Katie exhaled sharply. “That’s great. Really. Fantastic analysis. Meanwhile, I have to deal with the fact that half the league thinks I’ve been—” She stopped herself, scowling.

Lee arched a brow. “What? Sleeping your way to the top?”

The second the words left his mouth, George smacked him on the back of the head.

“Oi!” Lee yelped.

George let out a sharp, unimpressed laugh. “Merlin’s sake, Lee.” His expression darkened as he turned to Katie. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Wish I was,” Katie muttered.

Fred’s grin had faded. “That’s a load of shite. No one with a brain actually believes that.”

Lee, rubbing the back of his head, had the decency to look mildly guilty. “I mean—come on, it’s Flint.”

“Exactly,” Katie snapped. “It’s Flint. Which means it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. People will talk.”

Silence. A different kind of silence than before—one that carried unspoken agreement, simmering frustration.

Then George exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Well, that’s just bloody fantastic.”

Fred, expression unreadable, leaned forward. “You know we’re not letting this slide, right?”

George nodded. “Not a chance.”

Lee tilted his head. “Okay, but… what did Flint say?”

Katie hesitated.

Because that was the part she hadn’t figured out yet. Flint hadn’t denied anything. He hadn’t scoffed, hadn’t called it ridiculous—hadn’t even looked remotely bothered. Just let it happen.

That had stuck with her more than she wanted to admit.

“…Nothing,” she finally muttered. “He didn’t say anything.”

That made them pause. 

Now, sitting in the courtyard, Katie frowned at the memory, flicking a small stone across the pavement.

Why the hell had he stayed quiet?

They’d won the match fair and square. No cheating. No favors. There was nothing to defend, nothing to prove.

And yet, he let them doubt anyway.

Flint wasn’t the type to let people run their mouths without a reason. If something didn’t serve him, he shut it down—fast.

So why not this?

Katie pressed her lips together.

More than anything, she wanted to step out of the shadow—to be seen for what she was, not what people assumed. The league was supposed to be her chance to prove herself. No Gryffindor team, no school rules, no expectations—just her, her skills, and the game.

And if Flint was the one standing between her and that recognition?

Then she’d shake him off like any other obstacle.

And with that thought, Katie rose to her feet, dusting off her robes with deliberate ease. No rush. No frustration. Just quiet certainty.

She had work to do.

***

Monday arrived fast.

For Katie, for Marcus, and for everyone in the league, this day carried more weight than most.

They hadn’t crossed paths once in the past twenty-four hours. Katie had spent most of Sunday catching up on sleep, trying—and failing—to fix her ruined schedule. Meanwhile, Marcus had his own problems to deal with.

Classes passed in a blur, the usual routine of lectures and homework doing little to distract those in the league. Because tonight wasn’t just another meeting. Tonight, they would face the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons teams.

The underground arena had been prepared—every passage secured, every charm reinforced, every last adjustment made. There was nothing left to do but show up.

And as the sun dipped behind the castle, they did.

One by one, players and stewards slipped away from the main halls, taking the familiar hidden routes that led deep beneath the school. By the time Katie arrived, the arena was already alive with quiet, restless movement—banners being checked, last-minute discussions unfolding in hushed voices.

Marcus stood near the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, gaze steady. Watching.

Katie flexed her fingers, rolling her shoulders as she walked. The twins flanked her, a step behind, their presence a silent declaration—whether of solidarity or just nosiness, she wasn’t sure.

People were staring. Some outright, some from the corners of their eyes, whispers barely muffled.

The fallout from the Sprout-Bell-Flint debacle hadn’t died down. If anything, it had settled in, lingering like the smoke of a fire that had burned just long enough to leave a mark.

Katie ignored it. Or tried to.

Marcus, however, wasn’t ignoring anything. Even as Wimus spoke to him, gesturing with sharp, urgent movements, he wasn’t listening. His attention remained fixed, steady.

Let him look.

Behind her, Fred clicked his tongue.

“This is fascinating.”

George nodded. “Truly.”

Katie sighed. “Do I even want to ask?”

“Well,” Fred said, “we were just wondering if we should address the massive, suffocating tension in the room—”

“Pitch,” George corrected.

“—or let you continue pretending it doesn’t exist.”

Katie shot them a look. “There’s a literal international tournament about to start. Maybe focus on that?”

Fred hummed. “Seems less entertaining.”

“Much less.”

Katie groaned, increasing her pace as they reached the benches near the pitch. The other Hogwarts teams had already gathered—some standing, some sitting on the ground, conversations low and expectant.

Lee, sprawled out beside Ron and Angus, raised an eyebrow at her.

“So,” he drawled, “are we preparing for complete humiliation, or do we have a fighting chance?”

Ron, who had been staring into the distance, suddenly tensed.

“…Does this mean we might play against Krum?”

A beat.

Then, with full realization—

“Against Krum?”

Angus sighed. “Relax, Weasley. There aren’t any Seekers in the league. He’s not playing.”

Ron visibly deflated.

And then—movement.

The shift was instant. The hum of conversation cut, replaced by the quiet weight of expectation.

Then, emerging from the tunnels, came the foreign teams.

More than Katie had expected. At least twenty. They moved in fluid formation, scanning the underground pitch with quiet calculation.

Two figures stood out in front—a tall, pale-haired Durmstrang student wrapped in heavy furs, and beside him, a stocky Beauxbatons player whose face was frustratingly good-looking despite his build resembling a particularly well-fed gnome.

And at the back of the group, closing them in, was Viktor Krum.

Someone exhaled sharply.

Someone muttered, “Well. Shit.”

Katie had to agree.

The foreign players moved through the underground pitch with the air of people thoroughly unimpressed. Their gazes swept over the space—not with curiosity, not even with interest, but with something closer to quiet disdain. Like they had expected more. Like this wasn’t worth their time.

Marcus was already moving to meet them, his pace unhurried, easy. Too easy. Like this was just another ordinary night, like the air wasn’t thrumming with unspoken tension.

Katie flicked her eyes around. The shift in atmosphere was impossible to miss. No one had said a word, but the message was clear enough.

She leaned slightly toward George, keeping her voice low.

“Is it just me, or does this feel like it could turn into a brawl without the Quidditch?”

George exhaled sharply through his nose, gaze still fixed ahead.

“Oh, definitely.”

Yeah. The locals weren’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat either.

Marcus threw his arms wide. “Welcome to our home!”

Krum stepped forward first, clasping Flint’s hand in a firm shake. Katie watched, arching a brow. Well. They got friendly fast.

The tall blond—who, despite his lanky frame, had an unexpectedly deep voice—rumbled with perfect articulation, “Thank you for the invitation.”

Then, after another slow glance around the pitch, he added, “We are… happy to be here.”

The pause didn’t go unnoticed.

The stocky Beauxbatons student strode forward, extending a hand to Flint. His voice, unexpectedly high-pitched and laced with a thick French accent, cut through the air.

“I do ‘ope zis will be worth our time.”

Marcus, ever the diplomat, barely reacted. He simply gave a slow nod, his grip firm as he shook the Beauxbatons student’s hand.

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” he said evenly.

The air in the arena remained tense, the kind of silence that wasn’t really silence—just a charged pause, filled with the weight of unspoken judgments.

Wimus planted his hands on his hips, flashing a grin in a clear attempt to smooth over the tension.

“Well then! Let’s get acquainted, shall we?”

The Durmstrang students remained impassive. The Beauxbatons players exchanged glances—some amused, some unimpressed.

Marcus, unfazed, turned to Wimus. “You’re the host. Go on.”

Wimus straightened. “Abraxas Wimus, Pitch Steward. I make sure the games run smoothly and that none of you lot die before the final whistle.” He grinned. “No promises after that.”

A few chuckles rippled through the Hogwarts side, but the foreign players remained stone-faced.

Unbothered, Wimus gestured toward the group behind him. “And these are our stewards—the people who keep this whole operation running. You’ll get to know them soon enough.”

“And, of course,” Wimus added, “you’ve already met our Order Steward.”

Marcus gave the smallest nod. “Marcus Flint.”

That was it. No extras. Just his name, sharp and certain.

Wimus clapped his hands. “Right. Now your turn.”

The tall Durmstrang blond stepped forward first, his heavy furs shifting as he moved. His deep, steady voice carried effortlessly across the pitch.

“Nikolai Rotkov,” he said. He turned slightly, gesturing to the players behind him—most of them built like him, tall and broad-shouldered, their expressions giving away little. “These are the Iron Stags.”

A second figure stepped up beside him, a sharp contrast to Nikolai. She was lean, with piercing dark eyes and a self-assured stance that made it clear she wasn’t one to be overlooked.

“Nina Kaspar,” she introduced herself. Her voice carried a cool authority as she motioned toward the players behind her, their uniforms slightly darker, their movements crisp and disciplined. “Frost Serpents.”

Katie had to admit—those were solid team names. Intimidating, sure, but they had a nice ring to them.

Then the Beauxbatons student stepped forward. The stocky one with the unfairly handsome face. He flashed a dazzling smile—clearly the type who enjoyed attention—and spread his arms wide, as if presenting something grand.

“Louis Moreau,” he announced, his French accent thick. “And this,” he gestured dramatically toward the group behind him, “is L’Éclair.”

A beat of silence.

“…The Lightning,” he clarified with a pointed look, as if daring anyone to comment.

Katie glanced at Fred and George, who were already fighting grins.

Louis’s expression didn’t falter. “We are fast. Precise. Unpredictable.” His dark eyes gleamed with confidence. “And we are here to win.”

Marcus, still standing with his arms crossed, finally spoke. “That’s the spirit.”

Wimus glanced at the Hogwarts players, his expression screaming, Well? Don’t just stand there like a bunch of idiots.

The unspoken cue worked.

Adrian stepped forward first, arms loosely crossed. “Adrian Pucey. Pew-see, not Pussy.” He let that hang for a second before adding, “Deadly Leeches.”

Next, a Ravenclaw with an easy grin gave a two-fingered salute. “Dickie Grey. Star Forgers.”

Rolanda rolled her shoulders, smirking. “Rolanda Abbott. Dungeon Furies.”

Cormac strode forward like he was expecting applause. “Cormac McLaggen. The Hound Dogs.”

Katie inhaled. Braced herself.

“Katie Bell.” A pause. A grimace. And then, with the same energy as ripping off a bandage, she forced it out—

“Flying Nifflers.”

Silence.

No laughter, no immediate mockery—just a few exchanged glances, a couple of barely concealed smirks. Someone shifted uncomfortably.

Wimus let the moment stretch before exhaling through his nose. “You know, I expected more of a reaction.”

Still, no one spoke.

He gave a half-hearted shrug. “Guess we’re all just pretending that’s a normal name, then. Fine by me.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Can we move on?”

Wimus smirked, clapping his hands together. “Alright, now that we’ve all respectfully processed Bell’s team name—”

“Oh, fuck off,” she muttered.

“—let’s get to the reason we’re actually here,” he continued, entirely unbothered. He turned to Marcus with a pointed look. “Flint, you’re up.”

Marcus, who had been watching the whole exchange with thinly veiled amusement, finally straightened. He took an easy step forward, looking over both groups—their own players, the foreigners, the stewards lingering at the edges.

And then, with that infuriating, confident ease of his, he grinned.

“The format’s simple,” Marcus said, his voice carrying easily over the gathered players. “Hogwarts teams go up against each other first—five teams enter, two teams move forward. Once that’s settled, we move into inter-division play.”

He cast a glance at the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons players, lips curling slightly.

“So you lot get the luxury of sitting back and watching us beat the shit out of each other before you join the fun.”

A few snorts and chuckles rippled through the crowd, but the weight of the announcement still sat heavy.

Marcus rolled his shoulders, continuing as if this was all just another routine match. “Once we’re down to two, it’s straight into inter-division play. That means our two teams, Durmstrang’s two, and Beauxbatons—who, lucky for you, only have one—will go head-to-head. Top three teams make it to the finals.”

His gaze swept the crowd before tilting his head slightly.

“Any questions? Or are we all clear on the fact that, one way or another, we’re all about to make each other miserable?”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a voice drawled, “Yeah. When do we start knocking heads?”

Marcus huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Matches begin next week. You’ll get the full schedule tomorrow. For now—” he turned to Wimus, who immediately perked up, “—I believe our dear Pitch Steward had something planned for tonight.”

Wimus grinned. “That I do.”

He spun on his heel, gesturing broadly to the gathered players. “Since we’re all just one big, happy, totally functional group now, I figured—what better way to kick things off than with a little, ah… friendly chaos?”

The way he said it made Katie immediately suspicious.

Wimus spread his arms. “Mixed-team scrimmage.”

That got a reaction. A few sharp laughs. A few incredulous groans. Someone muttered, “You’ve got to be joking.”

Wimus, undeterred, grinned wider. “You lot want to see how you measure up, don’t you? Think of it as a preview—a warm-up. No stakes, just two teams. Get out there and prove you belong in this league.”

The idea of a warm-up match hung in the air, met at first with indifference—until Krum simply shrugged and said, “Why not?”

And that was it. There was no backing out now.

Rotkov and Kaspar exchanged glances, Louis raised an eyebrow, and Wimus looked like Christmas had come three months early.

“Well then, gentlemen,” he drawled, grinning. “Since Krum himself has given his blessing, who are we to refuse?”

Rolanda cracked her neck, then—because of course she did—pulled out her signature bat, the one with actual spikes embedded in the wood. She gave it a casual twirl. “I’m in.”

Ron shot up from his seat. “Me too.” His voice was steadier than his complexion, which had gone deathly pale.

A few more voices followed. Pucey was in. So was Dickie Grey.

Abraxas scanned the growing group, then lifted a hand, fingers tapping against his chin. “Still need two more.”

He didn’t hesitate—he reached straight for Katie, grabbing her wrist and yanking her forward. “Bell’s in.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Pucey drawled from the side, eyes glinting as he turned toward Marcus. “And what about our esteemed Order Steward? Surely you wouldn’t let me have all the fun.”

Marcus exhaled slowly, leveling Pucey with a flat look. The corner of his mouth twitched—half annoyance, half amusement. “Fine.”

***

And just like that, the teams were set.

Katie, Rolanda, Dickie, Viktor, the Durmstrang sixth-year, and Cormac.

Marcus, Louis, Adrian, Ron, Nina, and another Beauxbatons player on the other.

With the lineup settled, the crowd wasted no time clearing the pitch. Students hurried toward the upper levels, climbing onto the balconies overlooking the field. The buzz of anticipation crackled in the air, conversations mixing with the distant clatter of movement.

Below, Darryl was already waiting in the center of the pitch, standing over twelve sleek brooms laid out in neat rows.

The teams huddled together, sorting out positions. Strategies were whispered, nods exchanged, and unspoken challenges simmered between opponents.

Katie, Viktor, and Dickie were placed as Chasers. Rolanda and Cormac took up Beater positions, while the Durmstrang player—who still hadn’t bothered to introduce himself—was made Keeper.

Katie barely had time to process that before Rolanda’s spiked bat caught her eye.

“You sure that thing’s a good idea?” she asked warily.

Rolanda just rolled a shoulder. “The only person we can’t afford to injure is Viktor.” She tossed the bat between her hands, a sharp grin tugging at her lips. “And he’s on our team.”

Katie cast a wary glance toward the other team.

From the way they were gearing up, it looked like Marcus, Nina, and Adrian had taken Chaser positions. Louis and the other Beauxbatons player were Beaters. And, to her mild horror, Ron stood at the goalposts, looking determined but still slightly green in the face.

Katie took a slow breath.

She hadn’t planned on playing today—hell, she hadn’t even planned on staying this long. But instead of resting up for whatever nightmare McGonagall had in store tomorrow, here she was.

She tightened the straps on her gloves, glancing sideways as Krum flexed his fingers, adjusting his own.

“Have you ever played Chaser before?” she asked hesitantly.

Krum’s face split into an uncharacteristically bright grin. “Only in training. They never let me play more than five minutes.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“They were afraid I’d injure my hands.”

Katie nodded in understanding. As she finished fastening her gloves and adjusting her gear, she allowed herself a small moment of relief—at least she’d had the sense to wear trousers today instead of her usual skirt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement.

Nina.

The Durmstrang student stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her posture composed—but there was something just barely off. A flicker of hesitation in the way she shifted her weight, the way her hands twitched slightly at her sides.

Katie’s gaze flicked downward. Skirt.

Before she could fully process it, Marcus reappeared, a pair of spare trousers in hand. He didn’t say anything, just held them out.

Nina blinked, clearly caught off guard, then let out a short laugh—half amused, half uncertain. “Oh. Right.” She hesitated, then took them. “Thanks.”

Marcus barely acknowledged her, already turning away.

Katie turned back to her gloves, tightening the last strap with more force than necessary.

Not that it mattered

Wimus’s voice boomed across the pitch, amplified by Sonorus.

“Right, here’s how it goes—thirty minutes on the clock. After that, if any of you lot think you can do better, we’ll swap players.” He paused, then snorted. “Funny, isn’t it? Spent all evening loitering, twiddling your thumbs—and now everyone’s gagging for a game.”

A few chuckles. Someone whistled.

Katie exhaled slowly, rolling out her shoulders as she adjusted her grip on her broom. Beside her, Krum gave his own a quick test spin, looking far too at ease for someone who was about to play an unfamiliar position.

Across the field, Marcus stood with his team, scanning the pitch with that cool, assessing look he always had before a match.

Their eyes met.

Katie didn’t look away.

Players kicked off, brooms slicing through the air as they shot upward.

At the center of the pitch, Darryl stood poised, hands steady over the crate. His expression was calm—focused—waiting for the signal.

The whistle blew.

The lid snapped open.

Bludgers rocketed out first, whirling into the air like unleashed beasts. The Quaffle was next, shooting straight up before gravity could even think about pulling it down.

And just like that, the game was on.

***

The game was fast. Messy. Katie had played scrappy matches before, but this was different—less like a structured game, more like a fight on broomsticks.

But Katie was off her game.

Her flying was fine—passable, even—but nothing about her movements felt natural. Passes came a second too late, turns were just a little too sharp or not sharp enough. It was like her body wasn’t quite syncing with her brain, and it was pissing her off.

But somehow, miraculously, she, Viktor, and Dickie had started to click. Krum, unsurprisingly, played like he had all the time in the world. He moved with an ease that made it clear just how much better he was than the rest of them, even out of position. When she lagged behind, he filled the space. When she hesitated, he surged forward without missing a beat. It should’ve been frustrating, but instead, it felt like he was pushing her forward, keeping the momentum from slipping through her fingers.

Rough around the edges, but working.

Meanwhile, the Beaters were having the time of their lives. Cormac and Rolanda were like two rabid wolves, sending Bludgers hammering toward the opposing Chasers without an ounce of hesitation. Katie barely dodged one as it ricocheted past her ear.

Across the pitch, Marcus, Nina, and Adrian were just as brutal. If Krum was good, Nina was sharp—all reflexes and fast turns, cutting through the air like she was made for it.

Katie gritted her teeth, diving as she spotted Adrian sending a long pass toward Marcus. She caught up to it at the same time he did, the Quaffle gripped between their hands, bodies knocking together as they fought for control.

For a few seconds, they were locked together—her forearm pressing against his, both of them leaning into the struggle midair.

Then, suddenly—Nina.

She cut through the space between them, too fast, too close, forcing Katie to swerve out of instinct.

She barely caught herself before colliding into Viktor, nearly knocking them both off course.

Somewhere above, a voice rang out—

“Bell, what the fuck was that?”

“Shut up,” she heard Lee snap.

She ignored them, inhaling sharply. Focus.

***

The next play came fast—Viktor, clean and direct, sent the Quaffle her way again. This time, no interference. No obstacles. Just her and the goalposts.

Katie gripped the ball tight and bolted.

Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

And then—

Instead of shooting, she panicked. Twisted her wrist. Did… something.

The Quaffle sailed up and out, completely missing the posts.

A dull thunk as it landed somewhere in the stands.

A pause.

Then, from the balconies—

“Maybe Sprout had a point. She doesn’t even look like she can fly.”

Katie’s stomach twisted. A dull, sinking feeling.

Her breath came uneven, fingers fumbling with the strap of her glove, tugging at it even though it was already loose. The pitch had fallen into momentary stillness, the Quaffle lost somewhere in the stands. From the balconies, a few spectators scrambled to find it, their voices overlapping in a mix of laughter and impatient shouts.

A shadow shifted beside her.

Marcus.

“Everything alright?”

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to.

Her fingers curled around the edge of her glove. Then, without thinking, she ripped it off and let it drop.

“In perfect,” she muttered flatly.

And then, before he could say anything else, she shot forward, leaving him behind.

***

From that moment on, Katie stopped trying to lead.

No more reckless solo plays, no more desperate rushes. She let Viktor and Dickie take point, slipping back into the role she knew best—support. It was safe. Familiar. And that was the problem.

Then—

A sharp whistle through the air.

Before she could react—wham. A Bludger slammed into her ribs, knocking the breath clean out of her lungs. Not just any Bludger. A French one. Which, as she was quickly realizing, came with extra spite.

She reeled, grip tightening on her broom, vision flickering. Across the pitch, Louis and his fellow Beauxbatons Beater watched, smug satisfaction written all over their faces.

Fantastic.

But there was no time to dwell. Flint’s team was relentless—he, Nina, and Adrian moved like they’d been playing together for years. Precision, speed, control. Every pass seamless, every opening exploited.

They scored. Once. Twice.

And then—Nina.

Katie could only watch as she cut through the air, dodging a near-hit from Rolanda’s bat before twisting in a way that should have been impossible, slipping past the last line of defense and launching the Quaffle straight through the leftmost hoop.

The whistle blew. Another goal.

Flint was already beside her, grinning as he lifted a hand. Nina, breathless but triumphant, slapped her palm against his.

Katie’s grip on her broom tightened.

Not from frustration. Not from anything irrational.

It was just—her ribs still hurt from that damn Bludger. That was all.

Keep pushing through and risk embarrassing herself further—or admit defeat and sub out?

Neither option was appealing.

But luckily, fate seemed to take pity on her.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, Wimus’s voice ringing loud—

“Time’s up! Swap out! If you’re staying in, hold your position. If you want a sub, get your ass over here.”

Katie exhaled, tension draining from her shoulders.

Finally.

***

Katie landed on the balcony with a sharp exhale, ribs aching as she handed her broom off to Fred.

Wimus barely glanced up. “Go see Darryl. He’s got salve for delicate flowers like you.”

Laughter followed. Katie ignored it, making her way down to the lower level.

Darryl was already elbow-deep in his supply bag when she approached. “Figured I’d be seeing you.”

Katie huffed, lifting her shirt just enough to show the bruise. “Just give me whatever makes breathing easier.”

Darryl scooped out a generous amount of salve. “Hold still.”

The second it touched her ribs, she flinched. “For fuck’s sake, Darryl—”

“Oh, quit whining.” He barely spared her a glance, eyes flicking to the pitch. “It’s just bruising. You’ll live.”

Katie clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay still.

Above them, the match raged on.

Her gaze drifted up—just for a second.

Fred was already making an impact, all reckless enthusiasm and little regard for self-preservation.

Then her eyes found Marcus.

Still playing. Still composed.

She watched as he passed to Pucey, seamless and confident, his usual air of control effortlessly intact. He played like someone who didn’t doubt himself—not even for a second.

Katie was exhausted, frustrated, aching in more ways than one, and somehow, watching him—watching how easily he fit into this, how nothing ever seemed to shake him—made it worse.

Darryl hummed knowingly. “Oh no.”

Katie snapped back to him. “What?”

He smirked, wiping his hands off. “Nothing.”

She scowled, straightening. “Can I take some with me?”

Darryl snorted. “You’ll just forget to use it. Come back if it still hurts.”

Katie pressed her lips together but didn’t argue.

She wasn’t leaving yet anyway. 

***

Katie dropped onto the bench beside Lee and George, her ribs aching, but her pride stinging even worse. She clenched her jaw, staring out at the pitch, willing the frustration to settle—but it didn’t. It sat heavy in her chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe.

She’d played like shit. Absolutely, embarrassingly, unforgivably shit. And the worst part? She’d given them all the perfect excuse to doubt her even more.

Lee nudged her shoulder. “Hey. You good?”

Katie exhaled through her nose. “Brilliant.”

George, reading her too easily, leaned forward. “Bell, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

She gave him a sharp look. “It wasn’t good either.”

“That’s because you weren’t ready,” George said simply. “You’ll be next time.”

Katie let out a slow breath, rolling her shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on her. Just yesterday, she’d been irritated that she and Flint hadn’t gotten the chance to play against each other. She’d wanted it—to see where she stood, to prove herself.

And now? Now she wished she had never stepped on that damn pitch at all.

Lee stretched his arms behind his head. “Look, Bell, everyone screws up. Even Flint.”

“Not like that,” she muttered.

George scoffed. “Oh, please. I’ve seen Flint crash into his own teammates. And Pucey once threw a Quaffle straight into his own goal. You really think one bad game is the end of the world?”

Katie clenched her fists. “It’s not just one bad game, George. It’s this game. With everything else going on—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Now they have even more reason to doubt me.”

Lee frowned. “Who gives a shit what they think?”

“I do,” Katie snapped, then shut her mouth, shoulders tight.

Silence stretched for a beat.

Then George, softer this time, nudged her again. “Bell. You’ll get another shot.”

Katie didn’t answer. She just leaned forward, elbows on her knees, exhaling slowly.

***

Katie stayed until the very end.

Even though every part of her wanted to leave.

Walking away would’ve been easier. Ignoring the rest of the match, pretending like none of it mattered. But if she left now, it would feel like running. Like admitting something had gotten to her.

So she sat there, back straight, chin high, forcing herself to watch—because she didn’t quit. Because she didn’t back down.

At least, that was the idea.

But she wasn’t really watching the game.

She wasn’t tracking the Quaffle, wasn’t even keeping count of the score. Her mind was still circling, stuck in the loop of her own mistakes, frustration twisting tight in her chest.

And somehow, without meaning to, her eyes kept landing on the same two players.

Flint and Kaspar.

They played like they’d been on the same team for years. Effortless, precise. One move bled seamlessly into the next—passes that didn’t need second-guessing, positioning that came instinctively, adjustments made in perfect sync.

It was just good Quidditch.

That’s all it was.

Katie’s fingers curled against her sleeve.

She told herself it didn’t bother her.

And when the final whistle blew, she told herself she was relieved.

***

But the feeling didn’t stick.

The second the game ended, the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. If anything, it sat heavier. The murmurs around her, the casual commentary on who played well, who didn’t—it grated against her skin. She didn’t need to hear it. Not tonight.

She exhaled sharply, rolling out her shoulders. The ache in her ribs was still there—duller, but stubborn.

Darryl had told her to come back if it still hurt.

At the time, she’d scoffed, figuring she’d just walk it off. Now, standing near the tunnel entrance, arms crossed, foot tapping against the stone, she wasn’t so sure.

She wasn’t planning on asking to take any salve with her. She’d just have him reapply it and be done with it. Quick. Simple.

If she ever managed to get his attention.

Darryl was still swamped, tending to the fresh batch of bruised idiots who got hit worse than she did. And she wasn’t about to push her way to the front.

So she waited.

The arena was clearing, voices fading as players and stewards filtered out. She could’ve left with them. Should’ve, maybe.

But she stayed.

And then—movement.

Someone stepping up beside her, deliberate, close.

Marcus didn’t call her name, didn’t move to block her path—just stopped next to her, hands in his pockets, gaze steady.

“You alright?”

Katie hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the last few lingering players. Not quite nervous, not quite avoidant—just… wary. Like she knew she should walk away but couldn’t quite make herself move.

Marcus caught it immediately. His jaw twitched, but he only let out a quiet sigh.

“Don’t let Sprout’s stunt get to you.”

Katie let out a short, humorless breath. “Tell that to everyone else.”

He studied her carefully. “You really care that much about what they think?”

“Yes,” Katie snapped, finally turning to face him. “Because you didn’t bother stopping them before they could make up their own damn conclusions.”

Marcus’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture tightened. “Katie, I can’t control what people think. If it crossed their minds, then nothing I say would’ve stopped it.”

She exhaled sharply, gaze dropping. “So you didn’t even try?”

“It’s not that I didn’t try,” he said evenly. “I just didn’t see the point in throwing more fuel on the fire.”

Her fingers curled into fists. She didn’t respond, just pressed her lips together, eyes fixed somewhere past him.

Marcus watched her for a moment, then tilted his head. “You sound like you’re starting to believe them yourself.”

A slow breath. A flicker of something bitter in her chest.

“Aren’t they right?”

Marcus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright, let’s try some logic. Katie, why do you think it’s true?”

She hesitated. “…Because you did help me.”

Marcus huffed a dry laugh. “Right. And now, let’s apply a little more logic.” He crossed his arms. “Did I force that broom into your hands?”

Katie frowned. “No, but—”

“I pointed it out because it was the best fit for you. You chose it. And as for my so-called strategic coaching—tell me, Bell, if I hadn’t mentioned patterns three and seven, what would you have used?”

Katie pressed her lips together, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t know exactly who we’d be playing, so I kept three, six, and seven in mind… just in case I needed to throw something unpredictable at them.”

She stopped.

Marcus arched a brow. “So?”

Katie clenched her jaw, looking away.

“…That’s not the point.”

Marcus exhaled sharply, patience fraying. “Then what is?”

She still didn’t look at him. Just stared at some distant point, fingers tightening at her sides.

“It’s just… someone’s always been leading me through life,” she murmured. “At school, Alicia and Angelina took me under their wing. In Quidditch, it was Oliver. I was always in their shadow.” She swallowed. “And I’m tired of it.”

Marcus didn’t say anything.

Katie let out a bitter chuckle, voice quieter now. “When I joined the league, it took me a while to realize it, but this was it—my chance to finally prove myself. To stand on my own.” Her throat felt tight. “And now, no matter what I do, people are going to question it.”

Marcus exhaled slowly. “Because of me.”

Katie didn’t nod, didn’t say yes.

She didn’t have to.

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, looking away for the first time. Then, after a beat, he rested a hand on her shoulder.

“How do I fix it?”

Katie stiffened.

And then—slowly—she stepped back, just enough to break the contact.

It wasn’t a sharp movement, not a rejection, not really. But Marcus felt it.

Katie swallowed. “We need to… I think… maybe we should—”

Marcus exhaled through his nose.

He got it.

“I understand.”

She finally looked up at him, bracing herself for the inevitable mockery. Some offhand remark—Bell, don’t flatter yourself—or maybe just a scoff, a shrug, a look that said fine, who cares?

But none of that came.

Instead, his face was unreadable. No frustration. No amusement. Not even irritation.

Just quiet, resigned understanding.

“We keep our distance,” Marcus said simply. “At least for now. Let things settle.” A half-shrug, voice lighter than his expression. “Then you decide what happens next.”

Something ached inside her.

It was the right decision.

So why did it feel like a loss?

Katie forced a small smile. “Thanks.”

Marcus shook his head, stepping back. “Don’t thank me. I’m the reason you’re in this mess.”

Before she could respond, he reached into his pocket. Then, without a word, he took her hand and pressed something into her palm.

Katie glanced down. Tin of salve.

Marcus met her eyes, expression unreadable. “This time, actually use it. Your rib’s not going to fix itself.”

Then, with something like a bitter smirk, he turned and walked away.

Chapter Text

Sleep refused to come.

Marcus lay flat on his back, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling, arms folded stiffly behind his head. The dormitory was quiet, filled only with faint murmurs drifting in from next door—noise he’d stopped noticing ages ago.

His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind refused to shut down.

Three days.

Three days since the meeting with the foreign teams. Three days since that conversation with Katie. Three days since she’d stood in front of him, eyes uncertain, trying to force out the words—

“We need to… I think… maybe we should—”

And he’d stepped in, made it easy for her, nodded quietly and finished the thought for her.

“I understand.”

At the time, he’d thought he did.

Katie had seemed braced for a fight—for pushback, anger, something. Instead, he’d nodded and stepped aside, let her have the space she clearly wanted.

But he hadn’t expected this silence.

It wasn’t like before—not awkward avoidance, no pointed ignoring. She was simply gone. Like he’d never existed in her orbit at all. Like they’d never happened.

And he hated how much it bothered him.

Marcus pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, exhaling sharply.

The worst part was, he understood. Maybe too well.

He’d done exactly the same thing last year, cutting her off because everything had felt like too much—too much chaos, too many fires to put out. He’d told himself she’d be one less complication in the mess he’d called his life.

He’d been wrong. And he’d regretted it since.

Now she’d done the same thing, only worse—because she’d faced him, honest and open and steady, and made the choice he couldn’t.

It shouldn’t matter. He’d agreed, after all. He’d given her exactly what she’d asked for—space.

But space had never felt so empty.

He rolled to his side, jaw tight. Maybe she was right. Maybe distance was all they had left.

At least for now.

***

Deciding he needed a distraction—something that burned just as fiercely as the mess with Katie—Marcus reached for the drawer in his bedside table.

Inside, a small stack of unopened letters.

A letter from his mother. One from his uncle.

And then—finally—the one he’d been waiting for.

Gringotts.

For once, it wasn’t another grim update on the Flint family’s dwindling finances.

Marcus cast a glance around the room, his eyes settling on his dormmates, fast asleep and blissfully unaware of the storm in his head.

Gripping the letter, he pushed himself up and made his way to the common room.

The space was dimly lit, empty except for the quiet crackle of the dying fire. He dropped into one of the chairs by the writing desk, the letter clenched between his fingers.

With a deep breath, he unfolded it, eyes skimming past the standard greeting—

And then stopped cold.

What the hell?

His jaw tightened. Without thinking, his hand slipped into his pocket, fingers curling around the enchanted knut. He pressed his thumb against the worn surface, hard.

Somewhere in the castle, in the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff common rooms, a faint vibration stirred in response.

***

Marcus was already there when they arrived.

One of the smaller rooms beneath the arena, cold and quiet at this hour. A single lantern burned low on the desk, casting sharp shadows across the stone walls. Marcus sat behind it, jaw tight, fingers drumming tensely against a folded letter.

Wimus shuffled in first, still half-asleep, his robe haphazardly thrown over rumpled pajamas. His hair stuck out in every direction, like he’d rolled straight out of bed—because he had.

Crass followed closely behind, looking more alert but twice as irritated. His absurdly proper nightshirt and pointed sleeping cap only made the glare he aimed at Marcus more ridiculous.

Marcus didn’t react. Didn’t even move. Just flicked the letter across the desk toward them.

It slid to a stop.

Wimus squinted at it, still bleary-eyed. Crass let out a heavy sigh, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “If you dragged us out here in the middle of the night just to look at a piece of parchment—”

“Read it,” Marcus cut in sharply.

Crass and Abraxas  leaned forward, eyes scanning the letter in tense silence.

Their gazes moved quickly over the formal phrasing, past the polite introductions, straight to the line that mattered.

Then, almost in sync, they both lifted their heads and stared at Marcus.

Wimus frowned, rubbing a hand roughly over his tired face. “How the hell does ‘your balance is now at zero’ make any sense?”

Crass snatched the parchment off the desk, bringing it close enough to his face that Marcus half expected him to inhale it. He squinted at the text, reading it again, as though expecting the numbers to shift into something less catastrophic.

Marcus’s voice was cold. “Well? According to your ledger, we had at least five hundred Galleons left.”

Crass’s eyes darted across the parchment, fingers tightening around the edges.

Wimus exhaled heavily, finally awake enough to grasp the severity of the situation. “Alright, let’s not panic—”

“I’m not panicking,” Marcus snapped, voice dangerously even. “I’m pissed.”

Crass looked up sharply, tension written clearly across his face. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“No shit,” Marcus said flatly. “Unless Gringotts suddenly developed a sense of humor, check your bloody books again.”

Crass didn’t argue, just marched toward the ledger on the far desk. Silence fell thick and heavy, broken only by the scratching of his finger sliding slowly down the parchment.

Then—his hand stopped.

Wimus, now awake enough to realize they had a genuine problem, stepped closer. “What?”

Crass didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ledger, his fingertips drumming tensely along its edge. Finally, he muttered, voice rough, “This… isn’t right.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Meaning?”

Crass exhaled sharply. “Meaning someone withdrew the money. And the only people with access are me, as Coin Steward, you, and—”

Wimus finished the thought grimly. “Lantaner. Unless you idiots forgot to revoke his access at the end of last year.”

A heavy silence.

Marcus’s stomach tightened painfully. His nails dug into his palms.

Crass cursed under his breath.

Wimus blew out a frustrated breath. “Please tell me this is some joke.”

No one answered. Because it wasn’t.

Marcus shook his head sharply, disbelief and anger warring in his voice. “We revoked his access. I was right there with you, at Gringotts—filled out the paperwork, handed it to the bloody goblin myself, and watched him stamp it. So tell me how the hell Lantaner still had access.”

Crass bent down to pick up the letter again, fingers stiff with barely contained frustration as he skimmed the text once more. He let out a humorless laugh. “Because he’s Jonas bloody Lantaner.”

Wimus groaned softly. “Brilliant. Robbed by a ghost. Bloody fantastic.”

Marcus didn’t respond to Wimus’s sarcasm. His jaw tightened sharply, his voice low. “How much is gone?”

Crass flipped through the ledger again, eyes darting over columns of numbers, voice flat. “All of it.”

Marcus went utterly still.

Wimus exhaled, his usual flippant smirk faltering. “Holy shit.”

Crass snapped the ledger shut. “We’re broke.”

Marcus drew in a slow breath through clenched teeth, forcing himself to calm down. Losing his temper wouldn’t change the fact that Jonas had outplayed them. Again.

Wimus leaned forward, breaking the silence. “Alright. Let’s tally this up clearly. Jonas Lantaner—our former Order Steward—somehow retained access to the account, drained it dry, and left us to clean up the mess?”

Crass pinched the bridge of his nose, sounding exhausted. “Essentially, yes.”

Wimus shook his head slowly. “What a bastard.”

He paused, a flicker of humor briefly returning. “We could always summon Jonas back and challenge him to a duel. Loser hands over their vault key. Very old-school, very honor-bound. Wizards love that sort of thing.”

Marcus wasn’t amused. “Not now, Wimus.”

Wimus leaned back, dropping his forced humor. “Alright. But practically speaking—we still have to pay the goblins for carving out those extra passages into the arena. They’ve already done the work, which means we can’t exactly delay payment. And now, we’ve got no funds.”

Marcus turned to Crass, tension sharpening his tone. “Think, Borden.”

Crass’s expression darkened. “I offered money once. You refused.”

Marcus rolled his shoulders back. “Not your money. Your father’s.”

Crass’s jaw tightened visibly. “And that matters?”

Marcus leveled him with a hard stare. “It matters to me.”

Crass exhaled sharply through his nose, drumming his fingers on the desk, frustration evident. “Fine. We could always try contacting some seniors—maybe they’ll throw us emergency funds.”

Marcus shook his head curtly. “They already sent money at the start of term. We used it rebuilding the arena. And Bagman’s too distracted with the bloody tournament to bother with us.”

Crass scoffed. “Great. So you won’t take anyone’s money, you won’t let me use mine, but somehow I’m still expected to fix this?”

“You’re the Coin Steward,” Marcus snapped. “That’s literally your job.”

Crass muttered something darkly under his breath but didn’t argue.

Wimus, sensing things spiraling, quickly stepped in with a grin that felt just a bit too bright. “Look. We still run the league, don’t we? Let’s leverage what we have—high-stakes Quidditch.”

Crass raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re suggesting we fix the bets?”

Wimus gasped dramatically, mock-offended. “Me? Suggest corruption? Never.”

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re not throwing the games.”

“Relax, Flint,” Wimus continued easily. “I mean we push the stakes. Higher buy-ins, tighter odds control, stricter rules for betting. The bigger the risk, the more they’ll throw in.”

Crass hesitated, considering. “And if it blows up in our faces?”

Wimus shrugged. “Then we burn spectacularly. But at least we tried.”

Marcus leaned back, forcing himself to breathe slowly. He hated this—every damn bit of it—but he saw no other options left.

“Fine,” he said finally. “But carefully.”

Wimus grinned, bright and sharp. “That’s more like it.”

Marcus stood, still tense but no longer seconds away from snapping. “And Borden—this time, make sure Jonas bloody Lantaner’s access stays revoked.”

Crass met his gaze, expression grim. “Believe me, Flint, lesson learned.”

***

Katie had always been good at getting what she wanted.

And when she decided she wanted to ignore Marcus Flint, she committed.

Not that they ever interacted much outside the league, but now? She had perfected the art of not noticing him. Passing him in the halls? Eyes straight ahead. Sharing the same class? Desk angled just enough to cut him out of her peripheral vision. If he was at the far end of the Great Hall, she pretended that section simply didn’t exist.

And honestly? It had been easier than she expected.

Until now.

“Okay,” Alicia said, stabbing a piece of pie with unnecessary force. “Are you going to tell me why Flint was standing outside our common room on Saturday, or do I have to start making up my own theories?”

Katie tensed, grip tightening around her fork. She had known this conversation was coming—Alicia had been holding back all week.

“You already asked me that,” Katie muttered. “I told you—I didn’t know why he was there.”

Alicia gave her a pointed look. “And now you do.”

Katie exhaled sharply and jabbed her fork into her potatoes, mashing them more than necessary. “He was there to walk me to a meeting.”

Alicia arched a brow. “A meeting. League-related?”

Katie nodded.

Alicia hummed, chewing on that information. Then, after a beat—“And your whole ‘on edge and brooding’ thing—that’s because of Flint too?”

Katie sighed. “Partly, yeah. Partly, no.”

Alicia narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”

Katie pushed her food around her plate. “We decided not to talk anymore.”

Alicia snorted. “Like you ever talked in the first place.”

Katie shot her a look.

Alicia raised her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.”

She leaned forward, tapping her fingers against the table. “But let me guess—this was your idea?”

Katie hesitated. “…Yeah.”

Alicia hummed, scanning her face. “And you look absolutely thrilled about it.”

Katie scowled. “Can you not psychoanalyze me over dinner?”

“Fine,” Alicia said, shrugging. “I’ll make it simple—you wanted space, and Flint gave it to you. So why do you look like you want to hex something?”

Katie clenched her jaw.

Because it was too easy.

Because Marcus had let her go—like it didn’t matter. Like she didn’t matter.

She shoved a bite of food in her mouth, chewing with unnecessary aggression. “I don’t want to hex anything.”

Alicia tapped her fingers against the table. “Katie, I get that you’re bound by promises and all the other bullshit that comes with the league. But I’d like to remind you—out of all your female friends, I’m the only one who knows about it.”

Katie swallowed, eyes flicking down to her plate.

Alicia leaned in slightly. “So if you need to get something off your chest—tell me.”

Katie lifted her head, meeting Alicia’s gaze. “I know. But let me figure it out on my own. If it gets to be too much, I’ll tell you.”

Alicia didn’t look convinced, but she let it drop. For now.

But Katie could tell—this wasn’t the last time she’d be asked about it.

***

The castle never truly slept.

It only quieted.

The wind groaned against the high towers, the lake whispered against the shore, and deep beneath the stone and centuries, students stirred.

Somewhere in the castle, a door creaked shut. Somewhere else, laughter echoed—quick and stifled, like someone trying not to get caught. The night held all of it, tucking the school between its shadows, letting it breathe in a way it never did during the day.

Above, Gryffindor Tower was restless.

A whispered countdown—then a sharp thud.

Lee ducked just as the bludger whizzed past his head, slamming into the bedpost with a resounding crack. “Merlin’s saggy—Angus, aim.”

Angus, retrieving the slightly deflated practice bludger, grinned. “I did.”

Ron, standing by the window, yanked off the old Keeper’s helmet he’d been testing. “I swear, if I wake up concussed—”

“You won’t,” Lee said absently, eyes still on the bludger.

“Yeah,” Angus added. “Just bruised.”

***

Across the dormitory, soft laughter drifted between the beds, quickly dissolving into breathless giggles.

“I’m serious,” Alicia protested, sprawled dramatically over her quilt. “This one’s special.”

Angelina rolled her eyes. “Special, all right. Alicia, he smells like wet dog.”

Katie hid her grin behind her pillow. “Maybe she likes them furry.”

Alicia gasped, throwing her pillow in Katie’s direction. “You two are terrible.”

“Hey,” Angelina laughed, “we’re not the ones crushing on a werewolf.”

“He’s mysterious,” Alicia insisted.

“So was Roger Davies,” Katie pointed out lightly. “For three whole days.”

“Three very tragic days,” Angelina added.

Katie shook her head, laughter spilling easily from her lips. It felt good—warm and uncomplicated. For now, she let herself lean into it, happy just to laugh and forget everything else.

****

Below, in the empty common room, a cauldron emitted a faint, rhythmic bubbling. Wisps of violet smoke drifted lazily upwards, twisting gently in the candlelit air.

Fred leaned in closer, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Think this’ll actually work?”

George tilted his head slightly, tapping a finger against his chin. “Well, we followed most of the steps…”

Fred raised a brow. “Most?”

George shrugged, suppressing a grin. “Improvisation is key, Fred. Keeps things interesting.”

The potion gave an unexpected fizz, sending up tiny sparks that quickly faded.

Fred glanced warily at his brother. “Interesting or explosive?”

George smiled faintly, his eyes fixed on the swirling, shimmering liquid. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Fred chuckled quietly, shaking his head as they both watched the cauldron, waiting to see what else it might reveal.

***

Further down the castle, past winding staircases and empty halls, Anna sat on the cold stone of a tucked-away alcove, skimming the letter in her hands. The words blurred together, her mind already filling in the blanks. The sender had always been careful with his phrasing—never saying too much, never saying exactly what he meant. But she understood.

A sound pulled her from her thoughts—voices, low but urgent.

Anna glanced up just in time to see Ivar stride past the hall ahead, Adrian beside him, both deep in conversation.

“…not too long…”

“…quietly. No one can know.”

Neither noticed her.

Anna frowned, fingers tightening around the parchment before tucking it away.

***

Somewhere across the castle, Nina moved quickly.

The halls were freezing, the chill seeping easily through her cloak. Every step echoed sharply down the empty corridor.

She hated this place.

Too many corridors that led nowhere, too many staircases shifting without warning. Hogwarts was an overgrown relic, more maze than school.

Durmstrang wasn’t like this. At Durmstrang, things made sense—every corridor deliberate, every staircase reliable. At least there she always knew exactly where she stood.

But here?

Here, nothing was predictable.

She quickened her pace, eager to return to the ship. The castle itself was exhausting—too big, too loud, too disorganized. And yet…

The students fascinated her.

They weren’t what she’d expected. Beneath their house colors and tournament bravado, something sharper simmered. Something intriguing and dangerous.

Something, she suspected, not nearly as predictable as she’d first assumed.

***

Deep beneath the school, another lantern still burned low.

The small underground room was thick with cigarette smoke and tension. Marcus sat heavily in the chair, head tilted back, eyes half-closed. Across from him, Borden and Wimus continued arguing in hushed, irritated voices, endlessly rechecking numbers and tallying figures. Marcus had long since stopped listening—it was the same dead-end conversation on repeat.

He stood abruptly, fatigue weighing down every movement as he pushed away from the desk. He needed air, or at least some illusion of it. Neither Crass nor Wimus bothered to ask where he was going; their quiet bickering didn’t pause, didn’t follow him as he stepped through the narrow stone corridor toward the arena.

The underground arena stretched out before him, empty and silent. Pale moonlight filtered softly through a narrow gap in the ceiling high above, casting a pool of silver onto the worn pitch below.

Marcus moved slowly to the edge of that light, eyes lifted briefly toward the distant sky. Quiet and distant, unreachable—just a sliver of silver against endless black.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke that curled softly upward, fading into shadows.

Then—

A shift.

The temperature dropped suddenly, sharply—an unnatural cold prickling at the back of his neck.

Marcus didn’t turn immediately. He’d expected something like this, eventually.

He waited, took one more long inhale, then slowly glanced over his shoulder.

The ghost hovered silently at the border between darkness and moonlight, robes hanging in tatters, faintly flickering at the edges like candle smoke. His face was expressionless, patient, as though he’d been there a very long time, waiting to be noticed.

Marcus exhaled again, slow and measured. “You’ve got something for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

The ghost said nothing at first, merely watched him from the edge of the shadows. When he finally spoke, his voice drifted softly, colder than the air between them.

“Something you should know.”

Marcus flicked his cigarette away, watching the ember disappear into darkness, and turned fully, meeting the ghost’s steady gaze.

“Tell me.”

Chapter Text

The underground arena buzzed with energy, the carved stone balconies packed beyond capacity. Students pressed shoulder to shoulder, their voices blending into a restless hum. The league always drew a crowd, but tonight, there were more of them—faces that had never been here before.

Strangers.

Even the foreign students had come, scattered among the usual spectators. Some watched with detached curiosity, while others were already caught up in the chaos, swept along by the thrill of something they weren’t supposed to be seeing.

Katie barely noticed them.

Her head moved constantly, tracking the game like a spectator at a high-speed duel. Her gaze flicked between the Forgers and the Furies, following every pass, every feint, every near-miss that sent Bludgers screaming through the air.

Mental notes.

Dickie Gray’s sharp pivots—good for last-minute dodges, but risky at high speed.

The Furies’ brutal formations—relentless pressure, but leaves gaps if broken fast enough.

Rolanda’s aggressive blocks—overcommits. If I were playing against her, I’d cut left and slip past.

She caught herself gripping the railing, shoulders tight with concentration. This wasn’t just a match—this was a blueprint. The kind of game that exposed strengths and weaknesses, the kind that made her fingers itch to grab a broom and try out what she was learning.

She should have been focusing on her own team—on last-minute adjustments, on what they needed to sharpen before tomorrow. But right now, she couldn’t stop watching the Forgers.

They weren’t just keeping up. They were winning.

10–30.

A clean pass. Seamless.

Dickie Gray—Ravenclaw’s captain—cut into a sharp dive, a Furies Chaser hot on his heels. Katie’s eyes tracked his movement instinctively, mentally predicting his next play. At the last second, he twisted, pivoting so sharply it was a miracle he didn’t go flying off his broom.

Shit, she thought, impressed.

A perfect connection. A second later—

10–40.

The crowd exploded.

Rolanda wasn’t going to take that lightly. Katie didn’t need to see her face to know she was already plotting a way to claw the game back in her favor.

Instead, Katie let her gaze flicker across the stands.

The usual crowd was there, but mixed in with them were too many unfamiliar faces. Too many new spectators.

How the hell had Hogwarts not noticed this yet?

Dozens of students sneaking in and out of hidden passages, matches running late into the night, a literal arena operating beneath the school—and yet, the league remained untouched. It didn’t make sense.

Her grip on the railing tightened.

She should have been enjoying this. The first match of the season was supposed to be exciting—every team watching, measuring their competition, the league finally alive again after months of waiting.

But something about tonight felt different.

Before she could dwell on it, a sharp, indignant voice cut through the noise beside her.

“Seven galleons?! Bloody hell, do they think we’re made of money?”

Katie turned just as Lee Jordan threw up his hands, looking personally offended as he glared at Matlock, who stood beside him, arms crossed.

“I was gonna put three galleons on Rolanda,” Lee continued, voice rising. “Three. Reasonable. Manageable. But no—suddenly, the minimum buy-in is seven! Seven, Matlock! Who has that kind of money just lying around?”

Matlock let out a sharp scoff, arms crossing tighter. “Are they out of their bloody minds?”

Katie frowned. Seven?

The league had never been cheap, but that was steep. Even by their standards.

Her gaze flicked to Harry, who stood a few feet away, eyes darting between the match and the steady flow of galleons changing hands. His expression was somewhere between fascination and unease, like he was realizing just how big this whole thing really was.

Katie knew the feeling.

She had stood in this exact spot once—watching, wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it all.

A flicker of movement caught her attention.

One of the bet runners weaved through the crowd, slipping between students with practiced ease. Before he could disappear, Matlock shot out a hand, stopping him mid-stride.

“Oi—hold up,” Matlock muttered. “Did they really raise the minimum bet?”

The runner—couldn’t have been older than fourth year—nodded quickly, already pulling out a scrap of parchment. “Yeah. Seven now. You betting? Who’s it on?”

Matlock inhaled sharply, gearing up for a full old-man rant about the state of finances in this godforsaken school, but—

A sharp whistle split the air.

On the pitch—chaos.

Rolanda had one of the Forgers’ Chasers in a chokehold.

Her grip was iron-tight, the poor Ravenclaw thrashing, legs kicking wildly as he struggled to break free. But Rolanda held fast—an immovable force in midair.

The crowd exploded—some in outrage, others cheering like it was all just part of the game.

“Hold on, Rolanda!” someone bellowed.

“Show ’em how it’s done!” another voice rang out, half-laughing.

Another sharp whistle—louder this time.

On the highest balcony, Wimus finally moved, shoving his wand into his throat and casting Sonorus.

“OI! ROLANDA! Let him go, or I swear to Merlin, I’ll make you play the rest of the match with one arm tied to your broom.”

Rolanda rolled her eyes but released her grip, shoving the Chaser off like she was doing them a favor.

Wimus, unimpressed, waved a hand.

“Game on!”

And just like that, the match surged forward again.

Katie exhaled, shaking her head. For a moment, the crowd noise faded, like the arena itself was waiting for something. Then—she turned back to the stands.

And paused.

Across the balconies, two Ravenclaws had just jumped to their feet, excitement barely contained.

“Yes!” one of them hissed.

A sharp high-five, grins splitting their faces.

Katie frowned.

That was… odd.

She turned to George, nodding toward them. “What’s that about?”

George had noticed too. He squinted slightly, watching them for a beat before exhaling.

“Not sure,” he murmured. “But I’ve got a few suspicions.”

***

The first match of the season had barely begun, and already, things weren’t going as expected.

From his spot on the balcony overlooking the underground arena, Marcus watched as Star Forgers pulled ahead in the opening minutes, their Chasers slicing through the air with practiced ease.

Below, the crowd roared as another goal slipped past Dungeon Furies’ Keeper.

Furies were the clear favorites. The bets had reflected that. But the Forgers? They were moving like they had something to prove.

Marcus shifted his weight onto one foot, rolling a sore shoulder as his gaze tracked the movement below. The large viewing balcony was mostly empty—just him and Ivar, who was hunched over the betting ledger, quill scratching against parchment as he updated the latest figures.

The door creaked open behind them.

Marcus didn’t turn. “Well?”

Crass stepped up beside him, pulling his coat tighter before answering. “Bank’s up to six hundred Galleons.”

“We closed bets before the odds swung too much,” Ivar added, tapping his quill against the page. “People panicked and threw in last-minute money on the Furies.”

Marcus gave a short nod. Not enough, obviously, but at least it wasn’t a disaster. Not yet.

His attention drifted upward and to the right, where Wimus had claimed a prime spot on a higher balcony, nestled among a cluster of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students.

Even from here, Marcus could hear his too-loud laughter over the roar of the match, see the way he gestured dramatically between plays, seamlessly entertaining their wealthier guests like a salesman mid-pitch.

Marcus huffed through his nose.

“He’s enjoying himself,” Crass muttered dryly.

Marcus didn’t respond, just exhaled, watching as Wimus leaned in close to one of the Durmstrang students, grin sharp as he clapped him on the back.

Wimus had called it a genius plan.

“Filling the league’s pockets with foreign gold,” he had said with the kind of enthusiasm that usually meant trouble.

When Marcus had asked why—what the hell was so brilliant about roping in a bunch of tourists—Wimus had rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head.

“Flint, are you blind?” he had said, almost offended. “Did you see the boots on that gnome-shaped bastard from Beauxbatons? Pure dragonhide. And not just any dragon—Ukrainian Ironbelly, probably custom-ordered. You think someone like that doesn’t have money to burn? If he’s that desperate to throw Galleons at something, it might as well be us.”

Marcus had to admit—reluctantly—that Wimus had a point.

And watching him now, surrounded by their new investors, Marcus had to admit something else.

It was working.

***

Katie kept her eyes on the game, but something kept pulling at her attention.

Scattered throughout the balconies, small clusters of students whispered among themselves—some gesturing excitedly, others nodding with quiet urgency. Every so often, she caught glimpses of Pucey, moving through the crowd with purpose. Hands extended toward him—brief, fleeting exchanges.

Something being passed.

Her brows pulled together. What the hell is that about?

She cast a glance at her friends, but none of them seemed to notice. Lee was too busy muttering under his breath every time the Quaffle changed hands, and Ron was gripping the railing like the game was a life-or-death situation.

Maybe she was imagining things.

But the feeling lingered.

Her gaze flicked toward the large balcony—the one reserved for the League’s stewards.

And there he was.

Marcus Flint.

Standing at the edge, arms crossed, his expression tight. Even from a distance, something about him looked… off. Tense.

Then, to her surprise, someone stepped up beside him.

Even from here, Nina was impossible to mistake.

She watched as Marcus turned, his expression shifting. The tension in his shoulders didn’t disappear, but something eased.

And then—he smiled.

Not the usual sharp-edged smirk. Not the unreadable mask he wore so well.

A real smile. Small. Almost easy.

Katie’s stomach twisted.

She didn’t know why.

And she really, really didn’t want to think about it.

***

The final whistle cut through the underground arena, sharp and final.

Dungeon Furies had won—just barely. The match had been brutal, both teams pushing to the last second, but in the end, Rolanda and her squad had clawed their way to victory.

The balconies erupted. Cheers, groans, the chaotic shuffle of students settling bets. Coins clinked between hands, some exchanged in triumph, others with the begrudging irritation of a loss.

Katie rolled out her shoulders, exhaustion settling deep. The match had started at a reasonable hour—ten sharp—but the weight of weeks spent juggling training, classes, and the league clung to her like lead.

She had been running on fumes for a while now.

A heavy hand clapped onto her shoulder, jolting her from her thoughts.

“Tomorrow’s our turn.” Fred grinned, rocking her slightly with the force of his enthusiasm. “You ready?”

Katie snorted, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m always ready. Question is—are you?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” George chimed in.

Hound Dogs. MacLaggen.

The past week had been nothing but brutal training, and in that time, Katie had lost her temper at least six times at her teammates and probably ten at herself. Every missed pass, every botched attack—it gnawed at her like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She was pushing too hard. She knew that.

Didn’t mean she could stop.

Fred and George exchanged a glance—one of those silent twin conversations that never meant anything good.

Fred smirked. “Well, we’re as ready as we can be… just like our new little addition.”

Katie frowned. “What addition?”

George’s grin was far too pleased. “Relax, Bell. We’re not taking notes from Rolanda—no spiked gloves for us.”

“Good,” Katie huffed. “Because I’m not wearing anything that might take someone’s eye out.”

Fred wiggled his eyebrows. “Who said anything about taking eyes out? We believe in controlled chaos. A little bit of violence, sure—but in moderation. Now, bright colors and explosions—those, we’re all for.”

Katie stared.

George clapped her on the shoulder. “You’ll love it. Trust us.”

She sighed. Too late to stop it now.

“Just make sure you tell me—or better yet, show me—before the game,” she warned, leveling them with a look. “Not in the middle of the match.”

Fred placed a hand over his heart. “Bell, you wound me.”

“Yeah,” George added. “Like we’d ever spring something on you without warning.”

Katie arched a brow.

Fred grinned. “Alright, fine. Almost without warning.”

She rolled her eyes but let it go.

***

The underground office was still crowded with stewards, though the buzz of conversation had faded, replaced by the quiet shuffle of sickles and parchment. Crass was finishing the final count, his fingers moving steadily over the remaining coins, tallying the last of the winnings. It wasn’t enough to clear their debt, not even close, but it would keep the goblins from knocking down their door—for now.

Marcus sat back in his chair, rolling an empty cigarette pack between his fingers, watching the final calculations with detached focus. He wasn’t sure why he was still here—everything that needed to be done was done—but one thought had lodged itself in his head, refusing to leave.

The sharp snap of the ledger closing cut through the quiet. Crass let out a heavy breath, rubbing his eyes before pushing the book aside. “That’s it. I’m done.”

Marcus gave a slight nod, still toying with the empty pack.

Ivar, standing nearby, grabbed the ledger and slid it back into place on the shelf before turning to glance at Marcus. “You’re still here?”

Marcus flicked his gaze toward him, blinking once, like he’d only just realized it himself. “I’ll stay a little longer.”

Ivar huffed, stretching his arms behind his back with a quiet pop of his joints. “Try not to pass out in here. Night, Flint.”

He had just reached the door when Marcus spoke again.

“Brennan. You got any left?”

Ivar stilled, then turned back with a long-suffering sigh, already fishing into his pocket. With a muttered curse, he pulled out a cigarette pack and tossed it onto the table. “I swear to Merlin, I should’ve hexed you the first time you bummed one off me.”

Marcus caught the pack, flipping it over in his palm before pulling one out.

Ivar crossed his arms, unimpressed. “You do realize, Flint, these don’t fall out of the sky? A weekly shipment isn’t exactly cheap, and you’ve been burning through them.”

Marcus flicked open his lighter, smirking faintly as he lit up. “Think of it as an investment in my mood.”

Ivar rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Terrible return so far.”

Marcus exhaled smoke, watching it curl upward. “Good thing I’m not paying for it, then.”

Ivar muttered something under his breath as he finally turned and left.

Marcus didn’t move, letting the quiet settle back in around him, the glow of his cigarette flickering in the dim light. They had bought themselves a little time, just enough to keep things from falling apart entirely.

He turned the cigarette between his fingers, thoughts circling back to his last conversation with the ghost.

A ghost.

No—a Watcher.

One of them.

He had been in the league long enough—not one year, not two, but longer than most—to understand exactly who these silent observers were. Ghosts. The ones who had never made it beyond this world, lingering in the castle long after their time had run out. Some drifted aimlessly, lost in memory. Others, like the paintings, had found their place in the league.

Not all of them, of course. Just as not every portrait hanging in Hogwarts served the league’s interests, not every ghost was a Watcher. But those that did? They were invaluable. Spies, messengers, keepers of secrets buried deeper than the underground pitch itself.

Yet despite all their knowledge, their presence in both the seen and unseen corners of the castle—there were limits. They weren’t all-powerful.

And that was what unsettled Marcus.

With a quiet sigh, he reached for the small framed painting on the nearby shelf. As soon as his fingers touched the frame, the man inside the portrait twitched, his once-languid form sharpening into sudden awareness. He frowned, adjusting his robes before leveling Marcus with a look of pure irritation.

Marcus didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Call him.”

The air shifted immediately.

Cold, sharp, unnatural.

Marcus barely had time to exhale before the temperature dropped further, signaling his guest’s arrival. He turned toward the door just as the ghost materialized through it—half-formed at first, edges flickering, before settling into something more solid.

At one point, a long time ago, he had probably been a student.

Now, he was something else entirely.

Marcus let out a slow stream of smoke, watching it dissolve into the air. “Any news?”

The ghost barely moved, only the faintest tilt of his head. “Nothing. No new letters.”

Marcus tapped ash from the cigarette, gaze sharpening. “You’re sure the last one was from Lantaner?”

The ghost’s lips pressed together. “I worked with him long enough to recognize his habits. His writing.” A pause. “It was him.”

Marcus huffed a quiet breath, amusement curling at the edge of his mouth. “Interesting.”

The ghost regarded him for a long moment, then continued, voice as even as ever. “He used to write often. Especially at the start of last year.” His gaze flickered toward the portrait still sitting on the table. “Spent long nights locked in this very room.” Another pause. “And writing.”

Marcus turned his cigarette absently between his fingers.“You remember what he was writing?”

The ghost’s form flickered slightly, his expression unreadable. “Letters. A lot of them. Mostly to Bagman. Some to other alumni.”

Marcus frowned. “And they wrote back?”

The ghost inclined his head. “Often. He was always reading something. And writing more.” His gaze flickered toward the portrait on the desk. “He spent a lot of time here.” A pause. “Looking through old records.”

At that, the man in the painting let out a long-suffering sigh, arms crossed over his chest. “And making a damn mess of it.”

Marcus exhaled smoke, watching the portrait expectantly.

The man huffed. “Check the trunk in the corner. That’s where the old logs are kept. He was always digging through it.”

Marcus didn’t need to be told twice.

Pushing his chair back, he rose to his feet, crossing the room in a few quick strides. The trunk sat where it always had, half-buried under stacks of parchment and dust-covered books. He crouched, flicked open the latch, and shoved the lid back.

Inside, years of league records—notes, schedules, payouts, letters. All piled together, some loose, some bundled.

Marcus reached in, sifting through them with careful fingers.

If Jonas Lantaner had been searching for something here…

Then whatever it was, Marcus needed to find it first.

He let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing slightly as another thought settled in.

“We still need to find out what he was writing to Anna.”

The portrait let out an amused scoff. “Now that’s interesting. Something you’re not telling us, Flint?”

Marcus didn’t react, just grabbed the frame and turned it smoothly against the wall, face-first.

“Your job is to guard the room. Stick to it.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

The trunk was open, the records were waiting, and Marcus Flint was done wasting time.

***

The voice hit him like a hex.

Loud. Sharp. Pissed.

Marcus snapped awake with a sharp inhale, his body jerking upright before his brain caught up. For a second, the room was a blur—paper strewn across the desk, the dim glow of a dying lantern, the stale taste of cigarettes still clinging to his tongue.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face.

His back ached from sleeping hunched over the desk, his arms stiff from where they’d been folded under him. He blinked blearily at the mess of documents spread out before him—old records, scribbled notes, letters that stretched back decades. He barely remembered which ones he’d even gotten through before sleep had ambushed him.

Another sharp noise—this time, a frustrated yell, slightly muffled but close.

Marcus frowned, pushing himself to his feet, his body sluggish with exhaustion. He didn’t bother fixing his wrinkled shirt, didn’t shake off the lingering haze of sleep, just ran a hand through his hair and made his way toward the arena, following the sound.

It was early. Too early. The kind of gray-blue morning that stretched between night and dawn, where the world hadn’t quite decided if it was awake yet. The underground arena was still half-shrouded in shadow, the sky above visible only through small cracks in the stone ceiling where the morning light barely reached.

And there—alone in the air—was Katie Bell.

She wasn’t practicing. Not really.

She was fighting.

Marcus leaned against the railing, watching as she tossed the Quaffle high, shifted into a quick dive, reached for it—

And missed.

The ball slipped through her fingers, plummeting down toward the pitch.

“Fucking hell!”

Her shout echoed through the empty space, frustration clear as she wheeled her broom around sharply, shoulders tense.

Marcus didn’t move, just exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly.

It was too early for this.

But if she was awake and suffering…

Maybe he’d stick around a little longer.

***

Katie still hadn’t noticed him.

She was too caught up in the drill—throw, dive, miss, curse, repeat. Frustration rolled off her in waves, sharp and restless.

Marcus recognized the maneuver immediately. Snatchback. A high-risk move, meant for when a Chaser was boxed in with no clear passing options. The idea was simple—launch the Quaffle forward, force the defenders to react, then outrun them to reclaim it yourself. If done right, it could be the perfect way to break free from tight coverage.

If done wrong? A gift-wrapped turnover.

It had been invented decades ago by Edgar “Snap” McCoy, a legendary Chaser for the Tutshill Tornados. The story went that McCoy, pinned between two Montrose Magpies, had thrown the Quaffle away in desperation—only to double back at full speed and snatch it right before their Keeper. Whether it had been pure skill or a last-second gamble, no one knew. But the move stuck, and Snatchback became a staple of Tornados Chasers for years.

Katie, though? She wasn’t getting it.

She overextended, fingers grazing the Quaffle before it dropped away.

“Don’t bend your wrist so much.”

The words were out before Marcus could stop himself.

Katie startled mid-hover, twisting toward him with a deep frown. For a second, he thought she’d snap at him, tell him to piss off.

But she didn’t.

She just turned back and threw again.

This time, she followed his advice.

And caught it.

Marcus grinned before he could help himself. “There! That’s what you want!”

Katie exhaled sharply, shaking her head, but he caught the smallest flicker of satisfaction before she launched into another Snatchback attempt.

Marcus leaned against the railing, smirking. So much for ignoring each other.

***

Katie made a few more attempts, but eventually, she gave up with a sharp exhale, guiding her broom toward him. She slowed to a stop just a few feet away, eyes flicking over him from head to toe before arching a brow.

“You spend the night out here?”

Marcus ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle back into his bones now that she’d pointed it out. Yeah. Thanks for noticing.

“Something like that,” he muttered. “Fell asleep reading.”

Katie hummed in vague acknowledgment, stripping off her gloves, deliberately focused on anything but him.

Marcus, on the other hand, didn’t take his eyes off her.

“Must’ve been fascinating,” she said dryly, shaking out her fingers.

“Not half as interesting as watching you.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Fuck.

Katie stilled for half a second, then finally met his gaze, unreadable. No embarrassment, no sharp retort. Just a small shrug before she veered away, banking into a quick, clean descent toward the pitch.

Marcus exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. His fingers tightened against his scalp for a second before he shook his head, as if physically trying to dislodge the thought.

Brilliant.

Real subtle, Flint.

***

By the time Marcus made it down to the pitch, Katie had already tossed her gloves onto the grass and was rolling out her shoulders, breath steady, movements deliberate. She still wasn’t looking at him.

The underground arena was quiet at this hour, the usual chaos of the league nowhere to be found. Above, a sliver of sky was visible through the break in the stone ceiling, a dull, gray-blue stretch of morning that barely reached them. The cold air clung to the space, carrying the faint echo of Katie’s earlier curses.

Marcus should’ve kept walking. Should’ve let her train in peace and gone back to real problems—the trunk of old records waiting for him, the missing money, the goblins breathing down their necks.

Instead, he lingered.

“You always train this early?”

Katie exhaled, tilting her head back slightly, her gaze flicking toward the sky.

“Didn’t sleep.”

Marcus hummed. He knew the feeling.

A pause. Then—“You trying to get better at Snatchback or trying to break your fingers?”

That got him a glance, though brief.

“Didn’t know you were the expert,” she muttered, bending down to unlace her boots.

“Well, considering I just watched you butcher it—”

“Piss off, Flint.”

He smirked, but it didn’t last.

He should’ve let it drop. He had enough on his plate—more than enough—but two weeks of silence had stretched too thin, and it was getting under his skin in a way he couldn’t shake.

“Katie.”

She stilled for half a second before straightening up, finally meeting his gaze.

Marcus hesitated, jaw tightening. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. Maybe something about how fucking stupid this was, how she was handling it too well while he barely had the patience for it.

But before he could speak, she beat him to it.

“Thought you’d be too busy to notice,” she said, voice light, but with an edge he recognized.

Marcus frowned. “What?”

Katie tilted her head slightly. “Y’know. With your new little shadow.”

It took him half a second too long to catch what she meant.

Nina.

The Durmstrang girl who had been hovering too close, too often. Marcus hadn’t thought much of it—until now.

“Didn’t realize you were keeping track.” His voice was light, but the edge was there, threading through the words like a hidden wire. 

Katie gave a small, sharp smile. “I’m not.”

A lie. A good one.

She bent down, grabbed her gloves, and slung them over her shoulder before turning toward the exit.

“You gonna keep dodging me, or are we past that?”

It slipped out before he could catch himself.

Katie paused but didn’t turn.

“We agreed.”

Then she walked off, leaving him standing there in the half-light of morning, jaw clenched, fingers itching for a cigarette he didn’t have.

Two weeks of silence.

And somehow, this was worse.

***

Marcus stayed where he was for a moment.

The underground pitch had fallen silent, the only sounds left were the distant creaks of the stands settling. Katie’s footsteps had already disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind a heavy, lingering quiet.

His jaw tightened.

He shouldn’t have said anything.

Not about the Snatchback. Not about watching her. Definitely not how he reacted to Nina.

With a sharp exhale, he dragged a hand down his face, forcing his thoughts back to where they belonged. He didn’t have time for this. The league had enough problems, and he needed his head in the game before tonight’s match.

Nifflers vs. Hounds.

It wasn’t expected to draw high stakes, but if the bets were decent, they might pull in enough to cover the next payout. Assuming, of course, the bank wasn’t already running on fumes.

That thought stuck.

The numbers should have held, even with their debts. He’d gone over Crass’s ledgers himself. Everything had lined up. So why was he starting to feel like they were missing something?

His steps slowed on the way back to the office, the question gnawing at the back of his mind. The moment he stepped inside, his gaze flicked automatically to the betting sheets on the desk, but he barely registered them.

Instead, his attention snagged on something else.

The crate in the corner.

Marcus hesitated. He’d already dug through the trunk, gone through every half-rotted ledger and crumbling scrap of parchment. What were the odds that Jonas had left something behind?

Slim to none.

And yet—

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He crossed the room and crouched down, gripping the edge of the crate and giving it a tug. It barely moved. Frowning, Marcus braced a hand against the floor and shoved harder, dragging it forward a few inches. Dust shifted in the dim lamplight.

And then he saw it.

A small slip of parchment, barely visible, tucked beneath the wooden base.

His stomach tensed.

Reaching out, he pinched the edge between his fingers and pulled. Another page came loose with it. Then another.

A slow, creeping cold curled through his chest, settling deep in his ribs.

Bracing himself, Marcus hauled the crate aside completely.

A stack of parchment lay underneath, pressed against the cold stone floor. Unsorted. Unfiled. Like someone had shoved them there in a hurry and never came back.

He knew what these were before he even picked them up.

Gringotts statements.

From last year.

From Jonas’s time.

His grip on the parchment tightened as he skimmed the first page. He had expected proof of what he already knew—that Jonas had been skimming off the betting pool, adjusting payouts just enough to slip past notice.

But these transactions didn’t match what he had expected.

The numbers were too large, too clean, too frequent. Not stolen winnings.

A slow realization crept up the back of his neck.

Jonas hadn’t just been taking a cut from bets.

He had been pulling money from somewhere else.

The door creaked open.

Marcus looked up just as Ivar stepped inside, balancing a plate of toast in one hand and a stack of ledgers in the other, kicking the door shut behind him with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before.

Without looking up, Ivar muttered, “Did you even sleep, or are you just running on pure bloody spite at this point?”

Marcus didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned the paper in his hands and held it up.

Ivar took a bite, barely glancing at the page—then stopped. His jaw locked mid-chew, eyes flicking back to the paper as if he’d misread something.

A beat of silence.

“…Oh,” Ivar muttered. He swallowed, still staring. “Oh, that’s not fucking good.”

Marcus let out a short, humorless laugh.

“No,” he said, tossing the rest of the stack onto the desk.

“No, it really isn’t.”

Chapter Text

Fifteen Minutes into Hounds vs. Nifflers

30–20. Hounds leading.

Katie was trying not to panic. She really was. But it wasn’t going well.

Her entire strategy—every carefully laid-out plan—had crumbled the moment one of the Hounds’ Beaters nearly took her fingers off with a bat. She’d known they played rough, had studied their tactics, had spent nights breaking down their formations.

Watching them had been one thing.

Playing against them was another.

Ron was holding his ground better, guarding the hoops with more confidence, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the Hounds’ Chasers at bay. They were relentless, breaking through their defense with ruthless efficiency.

Katie whistled sharply, raising two fingers.

Too early to switch to Plan B. They needed to adjust now, shift their approach, and take control of the tempo before the Hounds completely dictated the pace of the match.

The Quaffle was out of bounds after the Hounds’ failed attempt. Nifflers’ possession.

Katie met Darryl’s eyes and gave a sharp nod.

He launched the Quaffle into play.

George shot forward instantly, Angus covering his back. Fred and Katie were already moving, cutting through the air toward the Hounds’ hoops, ready to break their defense.

But before Katie could even glance back, MacLaggen slammed into her side, shoving her off course with brutal force.

The impact sent her broom veering sideways, her grip tightening instinctively as she fought to steady herself. A surge of irritation flared through her—she’d expected rough play, but this was practically a battering ram.

“Oi, watch it!” Fred barked, whipping his head around.

MacLaggen barely spared him a glance, already wheeling his broom back into formation, completely unfazed.

Katie clenched her jaw, forcing herself to shake it off. No time to get rattled. The play was still in motion.

George had possession, dodging a wild swing from one of the Hounds’ Beaters. He spotted Katie breaking free from MacLaggen’s interference and launched the Quaffle her way.

She caught it—barely. The moment it hit her hands, she tucked in, accelerating toward the goalposts.

Hound Dogs were fast. Their defense was tight. But Katie Bell had spent years dodging Bludgers, breaking formations, and outrunning Chasers twice her size.

And she had no intention of losing this match.

The feint was seamless.

Katie twisted her body to the right, her eyes locked on the far goalpost as if lining up the perfect shot. She felt the Keeper shift, the Hounds’ defense reacting just as she wanted—closing in, bracing for a right-side throw.

Then, without breaking stride, she snapped her wrist and let the Quaffle fly—blind, over her shoulder, straight to the left.

Fred was already there.

He caught it effortlessly, barely needing to adjust, and in one smooth motion, sent it soaring through the unguarded left hoop.

The whistle blew.

30–30.

The crowd roared, and Katie allowed herself a sharp, triumphant grin.

Let them play rough.

She could play smart.

***

Meanwhile, on the stewards’ balcony, an unnatural silence had settled.

Crass stood near the exit, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching Marcus with thinly veiled irritation. He looked like he wanted to say something—demand an explanation, throw out a snide remark—but held back.

Marcus, for his part, barely acknowledged him.

He was hunched over the table, Ivar beside him, flipping through parchment after parchment. His fingers drummed against the desk, the numbers burning into his vision as he recalculated—again and again—just to be sure. Just to see exactly how much Jonas Lantaner had stuffed into his own pockets before slipping out the door.

The discovery had thrown the morning into chaos.

Marcus had called them in immediately—no waiting, no second-guessing. By the time Crass and Wimus arrived, the office was already a disaster zone—ledgers cracked open, documents scattered across the desk, and Ivar leaning against the far wall, arms crossed.

Crass stepped inside, arms crossed, already irritated. Marcus hadn’t explained much—just said to get his ass down here. Wimus, on the other hand, strolled in with a yawn, clearly unimpressed.

“Alright,” Wimus drawled, propping himself against a bookshelf, “who died?”

Marcus didn’t bother with pleasantries. Instead, he grabbed one of the loose parchment sheets, crumpled it in his fist, and tossed it at Crass.

Crass barely caught it, frowning as he smoothed it out. His eyes flicked over the page once. Then again.

And then his expression shifted.

“…What the fuck is this?”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the desk. His voice was deceptively even. “Take a wild guess.”

Crass’s grip tightened around the parchment. “These transactions—this isn’t betting money.” He flipped to another page, scanning rapidly. “Where the hell did this come from?”

“Hidden records,” Marcus said flatly. “Gringotts. Last year. Our good friend Jonas.”

Silence.

Wimus let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s not fucking good.”

Marcus didn’t bother responding. He just tossed another parchment onto the pile, watching as Crass picked it up with increasing irritation.

“The numbers don’t match,” Marcus said evenly. “Money was moving. Not from bets.”

Crass barely glanced at the page before flipping it onto the desk with a sharp sigh. “And where was it coming from?”

Marcus didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured at the growing stack of ledgers spread across the desk.

Crass followed his gaze. And his expression finally shifted.

Because there was more. A lot more.

Wimus leaned back against the bookshelf, stretching out with an amused little hum. “So, just to be clear—we’re fucked, yeah?”

Crass clenched his jaw. “You wanna be useful or just stand there running your mouth?”

Wimus grinned. “Bit of both, really.”

Marcus ignored them both. “You were handling the books, Borden. Tell me how you missed this.”

Crass let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, piss off, Flint. You think I had time to cross-check every single withdrawal? I was keeping the league from imploding, not playing detective.”

Marcus didn’t blink. “Maybe you should’ve done both.”

Crass exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Right. Noted. Next time, I’ll add ‘full-time financial auditor’ to my fucking resume.”

Marcus wasn’t interested in his excuses. He flipped open another ledger—the worst one yet—and slid it forward.

“Try again.”

Crass hesitated. And that moment—that second of hesitation—told Marcus more than any excuse ever could.

Wimus caught it too. His smirk sharpened, but his tone was light. “Oh, that’s interesting.”

Crass scowled. “Shut up.”

Marcus tapped a finger against the ledger. “We’re not sweeping this under the rug.”

Crass let out a sharp breath, his fingers tightening against the parchment. “And what’s your grand plan, then? Just sit on this and hope it magically explains itself?”

Marcus didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked back to the numbers. He already had a theory. A suspicion. But until he was certain, he wasn’t saying a damn thing.

Instead, he leaned back and exhaled slowly. “First, we find out where it came from.”

Crass scoffed. “And where it went.”

Silence settled between them.

Then Wimus—still lazy, still stretching like he had all the time in the world—let out a quiet, thoughtful hum.

“Oh,” he mused. “Shit.”

Marcus finally looked at him. “What?”

Wimus sat up, looking slightly more alert. “Bagman’s coming tomorrow.”

The room froze.

Crass shut his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Marcus, for once, didn’t react. Just kept flipping through the ledger.

Then, finally—without looking up—

“I know.”

His voice was calm. Flat.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Wimus studied him, suddenly a lot more cautious. “Alright,” he said slowly, “and do we… care?”

Marcus finally did look up then—straight at Crass.

“If Bagman decides to check the books,” he said, voice smooth as ever, “Borden is the one explaining it.”

Crass tensed.

“So maybe,” Marcus continued, just as easy, “start figuring out what the fuck you’re gonna say.”

Crass muttered something under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

Wimus sighed dramatically, dragging a palm down his face. “Lovely. Really hoping Ludovic doesn’t suddenly feel the need to do a little light bookkeeping, then.”

Marcus still hadn’t looked away from Crass.

“We’ll hope.” His voice was low, measured. “And while we’re hoping—Crass, I expect an update after you check ‘a few things.’”

Crass let out a frustrated breath.

“…Brilliant,” he muttered. “Can’t wait.”

The room had gone quiet. No one argued. No one had a better idea.

Marcus’s mind was still stuck on the documents, the transactions that didn’t make sense, the numbers that led nowhere. He could still see Crass’s face—tension in his jaw, irritation barely masking something deeper. Could still hear Wimus muttering about their odds of making it through the night without a hex between the eyes.

They needed a plan. They needed to get ahead of this.

But that would have to wait.

A deafening roar from the crowd snapped Marcus out of his thoughts, dragging him forcibly back into the present.

Wimus, still propped lazily against the railing, gave him an unimpressed look. “Maybe pull your head out of the damn ledger,” he drawled, nodding toward the pitch, “and actually watch the game?”

Marcus exhaled, refocusing—just in time to see Katie Bell cut through the air, the Quaffle tucked firmly under her arm, moving with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what she was doing.

And then—without hesitation, without looking—she flicked it over her shoulder.

Marcus barely had time to process the play before Fred Weasley swept in, catching the pass mid-flight and hurling the Quaffle clean through the left hoop.

30:30.

The crowd erupted.

Marcus blinked.

That wasn’t luck. Wasn’t reckless improvisation. She had read the field, trusted her instincts, and executed the pass so smoothly it was almost unfair.

Beside him, Wimus let out a low whistle. “Huh,” he mused, smirking. “Maybe you should worry less about the books and more about keeping up with your little Chaser.”

Marcus didn’t respond.

But for the first time that night—he didn’t look away.

***

The scoreboard read 50:30.

The Nifflers had the better strategy, the sharper coordination, the cleaner plays—but none of it mattered against the sheer brutality of the Hounds. They weren’t winning because they were outplaying them. They were winning because they were breaking them down.

Matlock was already out, grounded somewhere on the sidelines while Darryl tried to patch him up after taking a brutal hit to the stomach from a Hound Beater’s bat. Lee wasn’t far behind—his right arm was useless after a midair collision, forcing him to play one-handed. Every pass, every block, every sharp intake of breath made it obvious how badly he was struggling.

Katie scanned the pitch. Even the Weasley twins looked worse for wear—George’s sleeve was torn, and Fred’s balance was off from a hit that had rattled him harder than he’d let on. They weren’t down yet, but the damage was stacking fast.

And she felt it too.

Her ribs throbbed from where MacLaggen had shoved her into the stone railing. Her fingers ached from deflecting Bludgers, from gripping the Quaffle too tight, from twisting away from tackles she couldn’t afford to take. Every movement burned, but stopping wasn’t an option.

This wasn’t about playing smart anymore.

It was survival.

And right now, she was done playing fair.

“Fuck this,” she muttered, bringing two fingers to her lips and letting out a sharp whistle.

Fred and George’s heads snapped toward her.

They’d been waiting for this.

Fred grinned. George cracked his knuckles.

And then—they struck.

The first hit landed on a Beater’s arm—a sharp pop, followed by a thick burst of blue and silver powder. The second exploded dead center on another player’s back. Color erupted across the pitch, swirling like smoke, fine enough to cling to everything—eyes, mouths, noses. Within seconds, the field was a mess of shifting colors, confusion cutting through the chaos.

It was exactly what they needed.

Katie moved.

She ducked past a distracted Chaser, twisting her broom sharply just as MacLaggen came into view, still blinking against the haze. His grip on the Quaffle was tight—but his focus was shot.

She saw her chance.

A feint right. A sharp left cut. MacLaggen reacted too slow.

Katie’s hand shot out—quick, ruthless, precise.

The Quaffle ripped free.

“Oi—”

Too late.

She was already surging forward, cutting through the shifting haze, pushing her broom to the limit.

The Hounds’ Keeper was locked on her, tracking her every move, already bracing for a block.

Good.

Katie sped forward, gripping the Quaffle tight, keeping her flight path straight like she was going for a direct goal. She could feel the Keeper shifting with her, preparing to cut her off, his whole focus locked on stopping her shot—

Perfect.

At the last possible second, she pulled back—and tossed the Quaffle backward.

It was a blind pass, fast and sharp, arcing behind her—right into Lee’s hands.

The Keeper barely had time to register what had happened before Lee reared back, his bad arm tucked close to his side, and hurled the ball straight through the center ring.

A sharp clang.

A roar from the stands.

50–40.

The dust was settling now, revealing the absolute rage on the Hounds’ faces.

Fred and George were grinning like maniacs.

Lee, still breathless, managed a thumbs-up with his good hand.

But Katie wasn’t celebrating.

She was already turning back. Scanning the pitch. Heart pounding.

They were still behind.

And the game was far from over.

***

On the stewards’ balcony, the mood had shifted.

The usual lazy indifference was gone. Now, every pair of eyes was locked on the pitch, tracking the chaos below.

Crass tilted his head slightly, arms crossed. “So, hypothetically—if someone were to ask whether those ridiculous little paint bombs count as magic…” He turned to Wimus, raising a brow. “What’s our official stance?”

Wimus smirked. “I’d say it’s an inventive use of pre-existing materials.”

Crass scoffed. “That’s a creative way to put it.”

Ivar, watching the game with quiet amusement, hummed in agreement. “They’re not technically casting spells,” he mused. “No wands, no incantations—just a bit of strategic sabotage.”

Crass gave him a flat look. “Right. Because enchanting explosives and throwing them into play is just ‘strategic sabotage.’”

Wimus grinned. “Exactly.”

Crass muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue further. The rule was clear—no magic on the field. But loopholes?

Loopholes were part of the game.

On the pitch, Katie swerved to dodge a Hound Chaser—when something cold hit her nose.

A drop of water.

She frowned, glancing up.

The ceiling crack. The storm outside.

Water was seeping through, dampening the air, but the drips were slow, barely noticeable.

For now.

Marcus had noticed, too.

He stood at the edge of the stewards’ balcony, wand turning idly between his fingers, eyes locked on the field.

Wimus caught the movement immediately. “Flint,” he warned.

Marcus only smirked. “What?”

“You know magic’s banned on the field.”

“This isn’t the field.”

Wimus narrowed his eyes. “You trying to drown them?”

Marcus let out a quiet exhale. “Only if they can’t keep up.”

Crass shot him a look. “Flint. Don’t.”

Marcus ignored him.

His grip tightened on his wand, eyes still locked on her.

“…Alright, Bell,” he muttered.

“Show them you don’t need me.”

A flick of his wrist.

A low rumble shook the underground pitch.

Thunder.

And then—

The rain came down in full force.

***

Katie tilted her head up as the downpour crashed over her, ice-cold and relentless.

The crowd roared.

The rain was already washing the color from the Hounds’ faces, streaking away the remnants of the twins’ trick.

Below, the pitch had become a swamp of mud and water, but in the air, the real fight was against the storm itself.

Katie exhaled sharply, pushing wet hair out of her face—then caught sight of the stewards’ balcony.

Marcus.

Standing there. Wand still raised.

Her stomach twisted.

That bastard.

***

The rain changed everything.

What had started as a chaotic, unpredictable battle had now become something even worse—a relentless, grueling fight against the elements. The Quaffle was slick in their hands, the heavy downpour turning every maneuver into a gamble. The pitch, once a battlefield of color and dust, had dissolved into mud and water, a treacherous mess that made every sharp turn dangerous.

But despite the sudden shift, the Nifflers refused to back down.

Even drenched, even exhausted, they kept scoring.

Fred broke through the Hounds’ defenses and landed a clean shot through the left hoop, barely slipping past the Keeper’s outstretched fingers. George followed up minutes later, twisting midair to sink another. Katie, despite the burning ache in her muscles, managed to intercept a sloppy pass and drive the Quaffle through the center hoop before their opponents could react.

90–50.

They were winning. They were still winning.

But the Hounds were far from beaten.

If anything, the rain had only fueled them.

Their brute-force style, which had at times worked against them, was now their greatest advantage. The downpour made it harder to react to their attacks, the slicked-up pitch made dodging nearly impossible, and the mud that weighed down lighter players barely seemed to slow them at all.

Their aggression turned ruthless.

A sharp crack echoed through the pitch as one of the Hound Beaters sent a Bludger straight into Lee’s injured arm, sending him spinning off balance before he managed to steady himself. Fred took a shoulder-check so violent it nearly sent him crashing into one of the goalposts, while George barely dodged a second hit that would’ve knocked him clean off his broom.

And then the goals started coming.

One.

Then another.

90–70.

The Nifflers were still ahead, but just barely.

Katie wiped the rain from her face, forcing herself to focus despite the way exhaustion clawed at her limbs. The Hounds were closing in, the score was too damn close, and if they didn’t finish this soon, they wouldn’t be able to hold them back much longer.

Then she saw it.

MacLaggen had broken past the Nifflers’ last line of defense, gripping the Quaffle like a weapon, his entire body coiled with reckless determination as he tore through the rain toward the hoops. Ron was already bracing himself, but Katie saw the fatigue in his posture, the exhaustion weighing down his stance.

He wouldn’t be able to block this.

If MacLaggen scored, the Hounds would be at 90–80. Too close. Too dangerous.

Not happening.

Katie was already moving.

She dove straight toward him, cutting across the pitch at full speed, water lashing against her face as the downpour grew heavier. Her grip on the broom tightened, every muscle bracing for impact. MacLaggen saw her coming, his expression flickering between irritation and challenge, but he didn’t slow.

Neither did she.

A head-on collision.

Katie waited until the last possible second—until they were close enough that she could see the rain streaking down his face, close enough to see the way his eyes flicked briefly toward the goalpost behind her.

And then, in one sharp motion, she threw her weight forward and struck.

She smashed the paint bomb directly into his face.

The explosion of wet, sticky color was instant, splattering across his skin, running into his eyes, dripping down his nose, coating his mouth before he could even curse. His broom wobbled violently, his grip faltering for half a second.

Half a second was all Katie needed.

She ripped the Quaffle from his hands, twisting midair as he recoiled, still blinded by the paint. The roar of the crowd barely registered—her focus had already shifted, heart hammering as she surged forward, tucking the ball tight against her side.

One more goal.

One more, and it was over.

Katie pushed her broom to its limit, water streaming past her ears, the weight of exhaustion threatening to drag her down, but she refused to slow. The Hounds’ Keeper was already in position, tracking her, bracing for the shot—

She wasn’t giving him one.

At the last second, she twisted her broom in a sharp, stomach-lurching arc and hurled the Quaffle.

The ball sailed through the rain, cutting a perfect path through the storm—

And slammed clean through the center hoop.

A split second of silence.

Then—

A sharp whistle.

100–70.

Nifflers win.

Katie hovered midair, frozen, her chest heaving, rain streaming down her face as the realization settled. The game was over. They had won.

And then the weight of it crashed into her.

Fred was the first to tackle her, nearly sending them both plummeting. George grabbed her arm in a death grip, laughing breathlessly, while Lee, despite his injury, threw his good hand up in triumph. Ron looked like he might actually cry from sheer relief.

The underground arena erupted.

The noise was deafening—cheers, groans, shouts of disbelief. Coins exchanged hands as bets were settled, hands clapped against backs, and the energy of the crowd swelled into something wild and electric.

Katie barely heard any of it.

Because when she finally turned her gaze upward, her eyes locking onto the stewards’ balcony, she found him.

Marcus.

Still standing there.

The rain had drenched him completely, his hair dark and plastered to his forehead, his clothes heavy with water. But he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked away.

Katie exhaled sharply, shaking her head, though there was no real frustration left in it.

Fine.

He threw a storm at her.

She won anyway.

***

The cramped locker room of the underground arena was bursting with celebration—laughter, cheers, the slap of hands on backs. The guys were still hyped up, shoving each other around, half-dressed and riding the high of their win. Katie sat on the bench, still drenched, facing away from them as she wrung water from her sleeve. She could hear them pulling off soaked jerseys and shaking out their hair, but she kept her eyes firmly on the floor. No one cared about modesty in this place—but she had her limits.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She ran a hand through her tangled hair and called, “Yeah?”

Darryl’s voice answered from the hallway, easy and amused. “Wimus is on the pitch. Time to collect your winnings.”

Katie smirked, finally pushing herself to her feet. “Be right there.” She cracked the locker room door open just enough to yell over her shoulder.

“I’m off to grab the money.”

A chorus of whoops and cheers followed. Someone whistled, and she heard Lee shout, “Bring back interest, Bell!”

Katie rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smirking as she pulled the door shut behind her.

***

Wimus stood in the center of the pitch, looking deeply irritated as he waved his wand over the soaked ground, drying it inch by inch. The rain from the match still clung to the underground arena, puddles pooling in uneven patches across the stone.

When he spotted Katie, his frustration vanished, replaced by a sharp grin. He pulled a weighty pouch from his coat and tossed it her way.

She caught it with ease, feeling the satisfying weight of the winnings in her palm.

“Ten Galleons each. A good start,” Wimus said.

Katie hummed, weighing the pouch in her hand. “And the rain? Was that really necessary?”

Wimus’s grin turned downright mischievous. “All complaints go to Flint.”

Katie sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. Of course.

She was about to turn back when she spotted movement near the edge of the field.

Cormac didn’t look thrilled—he still looked half-annoyed, half-impressed—but he strode over and extended a hand.

“Good game, Bell.”

Katie raised an eyebrow, but took his hand. “Likewise, MacLaggen.” Then, smirking, she added, “And… sorry about the paint bomb. Not much of a choice.”

Cormac scoffed, shaking his head with a reluctant grin. “Yeah, well, I’ll probably be sneezing purple for the next two days.”

Katie laughed under her breath. Honestly, she had expected worse—last year, a game like this would have ended with fists flying. But Cormac was handling it, which meant one of two things: either he was learning to take a loss, or the Hounds were already planning their revenge for the next match.

Probably the second one.

***

Katie was halfway down the tunnel, still soaked, still exhausted, but victorious.

Her body ached, the adrenaline was finally wearing off, and all she wanted was a shower and some quiet. She had done what she came here to do. Her team had won. The League had seen her play—really play—and this time, it wasn’t Flint’s name or Flint’s approval keeping her in the conversation.

This was hers.

So when she saw the door, she nearly walked right past it.

A door that hadn’t been there before.

Katie slowed.

It stood at the entrance to the locker room corridor, as if it had always belonged there—but it hadn’t. She had spent weeks training here, had changed in the main locker room only after the guys had left, had pulled her jersey on over her school uniform more times than she could count. There was no women’s locker room.

And yet—

She read the words carved into the wood.

“Women’s Locker Room.”

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t let herself. She pushed the door open.

The space was small but functional—a bench, a few hooks, a washbasin, and her duffel bag, waiting for her like it had been here all along. Next to it, a small tin and a folded note.

Katie knew what this was before she even touched it.

She picked up the parchment, her fingers tightening before she even read the words.

“Nice work out there, Bell. You earned it.

Figured it was about time you had a proper locker room. Consider it a belated upgrade.

P.S. You’re probably out of salve. Left you a new one—use it before you start whining about bruises.

—Flint.”

Katie exhaled, but not sharply.

It wasn’t frustration this time.

More like resignation.

Because of course.

Of course, it was him.

Of course, even now—even after two weeks of avoiding each other, even after she made it clear that she needed space—Marcus Flint had found a way to remind her he was still there.

Still watching.

Still in her life, whether she wanted him there or not.

Her grip tightened around the note.

She should be irritated. She should be rolling her eyes, muttering something sarcastic about how they had all managed perfectly fine without a women’s locker room until now.

She should tell herself it was probably for Nina. That the foreign teams had pushed them into finally fixing the problem.

And maybe she would. Maybe she’d make a comment to Alicia later, shrug it off like it was nothing.

But standing here, alone in a space that shouldn’t exist but now did, she wasn’t sure she believed it.

Because this wasn’t about Durmstrang or Beauxbatons.

This was Flint.

And Marcus Flint never did anything without a reason.

Katie let out a slow breath and tossed the note onto the bench.

It didn’t matter.

She was too tired to think about it, too tired to care. And at the end of the day, the locker room was here now, and she was going to use it..

For the first time in weeks, she let herself take up space.

No waiting for the guys to finish. No rushing to change before someone walked in.

She peeled off her damp jersey, the weight of exhaustion settling deeper as she stretched out her sore muscles. The washbasin was charmed with fresh, warm water—a small detail that shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow did.

She cleaned up slowly, savoring the rare moment of solitude.

And when she finally reached for the tin of salve—when she unscrewed the lid and caught the familiar scent—she didn’t let herself think about it.

Didn’t let herself picture him, tucking it next to her bag.

Didn’t let herself wonder if he had thought about her injuries, about the bruises she’d be hiding by morning.

She just used it.

Like she would have anyway.

By the time she stepped back into the tunnel, freshly changed, her team was still celebrating.

Katie shook herself free of whatever that had been and walked back toward the locker room, her movements lighter, easier.

At the door, she knocked once before slipping her arm through the opening, the pouch of winnings dangling from her fingers.

A moment of silence—

Then, chaos.

Shouts, cheers, the unmistakable sound of someone getting shoved against a locker.

Katie smirked, shaking her head as she let the pouch drop into waiting hands.

At least some things never changed.

***

The underground arena was still alive with movement. Stewards worked to clear the last of the water, casting drying charms over the soaked pitch, their voices low as they moved between puddles and mud. The air smelled of damp stone and spent magic, a lingering echo of the storm Marcus had conjured. 

High above, tucked into the shadows of the uppermost balcony, Ivar Brennan stood alone. Arms crossed, shoulders tense.

He wasn’t watching the cleanup.

He was waiting.

Footsteps finally echoed up the stone staircase, and a familiar figure emerged from the dim light.

Adrian Pucey.

He moved with his usual slow, unhurried ease, flipping a folded parchment between his fingers. Without a word, he pressed it into Ivar’s hand.

“Not exactly what we expected,” Adrian muttered.

Ivar opened the parchment, eyes flicking over the contents. The usual half-smirk he carried wavered. He turned the page over, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“No,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “It’s not.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Below, a steward muttered a curse as he stepped into a puddle, his boots splashing against wet stone.

Adrian shifted. “And the league’s finances?”

Ivar snorted, running a hand down his face. “That’s the million-Galleon question, isn’t it?” He tucked the parchment into his jacket, gaze flicking away. “Nothing’s collapsed yet, but I wouldn’t bet my last sickle on it staying that way.”

Adrian let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “You still think we should keep going?”

That hit differently.

Ivar hesitated, something tightening in his jaw. For weeks, he had pushed forward, never stopping to second-guess. He was good at that—moving fast, talking faster, never looking back. But now, with the numbers stacking against them, with too many eyes in places they shouldn’t be…

He exhaled, shaking his head. “I think we don’t have a choice.”

Adrian’s frown deepened. “We had a choice before,” he pointed out. “You sure we still do?”

Ivar laughed under his breath, though there was no real humor in it. “I think we passed that point a long time ago, mate.”

A pause. The weight of it settled between them.

Adrian looked away first. Then, dryly—“You do realize Marcus is going to fucking kill us if he finds out.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Adrian gave him a flat look. “Not exactly comforting, Brennan.”

Ivar rolled his shoulders, smirking despite himself. “What, you scared?”

Adrian huffed. “Of Marcus? Absolutely.”

Ivar just grinned. “Then we better hope he’s too busy with his own shit to notice.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Adrian sighed, shaking his head. “You better be right about this.”

Ivar just exhaled and tucked the parchment deeper into his robe. “Yeah,” he muttered. 

But deep down, he had a feeling their luck was running out.

Chapter Text

Hogsmeade was alive with its usual weekend chaos—students flooding the streets, wrapped in scarves and thick cloaks, ducking in and out of shops, their laughter and voices blending into the crisp autumn air. The Three Broomsticks was packed as always, steam curling from mugs of butterbeer, while further down the street Zonko’s was swarmed with third-years pooling their pocket money for joke products they probably wouldn’t survive using.

But Marcus and his lot had found somewhere better.

A proper place. One that wasn’t packed to the rafters with shrieking students or dimly lit with the stench of stale beer clinging to the walls.

Myrta’s.

A tiny, tucked-away shop far from the main road, where the pasties were fresh, the fire was warm, and—most importantly—no one was listening.

Crass had taken the corner seat, already half through his meal, while Abraxas leaned back comfortably, grinning like a man who had just won something.

“I just want to take a moment,” Wimus said, dramatically gesturing at the actual table they were sitting at, “to acknowledge the fact that we are not, for once, eating in a damp, smoke-filled underground office.”

Crass snorted. “It’s still a shithole.”

Wimus shook his head in exasperation. “You have no appreciation for the finer things in life, Borden.” He took a huge bite of his Cornish pasty, chewing happily before adding through a mouthful of food, “Besides, no offense to the elves, but Myrta makes the best pastries in Hogsmeade. Possibly the world.”

Crass rolled his eyes. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.”

Ivar, sitting across from Marcus, let out a sharp laugh. “So you drag us all the way out here, and the first thing you want to discuss is the culinary superiority of a half-blind old woman who yells at people for loitering?”

Wimus waved a dismissive hand. “I only respect the best.”

Ivar snorted. “I bet you say that to all your suppliers.”

Adrian returned from the counter with a fresh plate in hand, dropping into his seat next to Ivar. He shot Wimus a tired look. “I hope you’re done professing your love for Myrta, because we have actual things to discuss.”

Wimus stretched out in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Alright, fine. Let’s talk about something else. Like that very expensive, very mysterious new addition to the league.”

Marcus didn’t even glance up. “And what, exactly, are you getting at?”

Adrian smirked, breaking off a piece of his pasty. “Oh, come on, Flint. A brand-new locker room? I thought you were all about keeping things fair.”

Marcus exhaled sharply. “Conjuring a locker room was easy. Didn’t cost a knut. And it was necessary.”

Wimus tilted his head, dragging out the pause just enough to be insufferable. “Right. And that decision had absolutely nothing to do with a certain Gryffindor Chaser joining the team?”

Everyone exchanged looks.

Ivar leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Well, hold on. Let’s be fair. There’s another possibility.”

Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Ivar smirked. “Maybe it wasn’t for Bell at all. Maybe it was for Kaspar.”

Adrian immediately caught on, nudging him lightly. “Ah, good point. Kaspar or Bell, Flint? Because one of them has been hanging around you a lot lately…”

Ivar nodded, his smirk deepening. “And the other one refuses to even look at you.”

A brief pause.

Then Wimus sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening in exaggerated realization. “Wait. Wait just a fucking second. You mean to tell me you pulled this grand romantic gesture just to win back Bell’s favor?” He let out a low whistle. “Yeah, alright, that settles it. Locker room was definitely for Bell.”

Ivar snickered. “What, did Flint get jealous that Bell would be changing in front of the guys?”

Adrian hummed, grinning. “Not that it really matters. If I were Bell, I wouldn’t give a shit either—there’s not a single decent guy on that team anyway.”

Marcus flicked open his lighter, rolling it between his fingers. He could ignore them. He should ignore them.

But then Adrian, still smirking, muttered, “Man, she’s got you on a leash without even trying.”

And that was it.

Marcus let out a slow breath and shut his lighter with a sharp click. Then, finally, he looked up.

“Alright,” he said, tone flat. “Let’s talk about leashes.”

His gaze snapped to Ivar first. “This one—” he nodded at him, “—has been chasing Sprout for years, and she still doesn’t even know he exists.”

Ivar’s smirk vanished.

Marcus shifted his gaze to Adrian, pointing at him lazily. “This one’s got a leash too—except it’s his own dick yanking him around.”

Adrian, to his credit, only shrugged. “Not my fault it’s got places to be.”

Marcus exhaled, then flicked a glance at Crass, lifting a finger in his direction before waving it off without a word.

Finally, he turned to Wimus. “And this bastard? He doesn’t even need a leash. He just sits back and watches the rest of us choke on ours.”

Wimus clutched his chest in mock offense. “And yet, somehow, I remain unappreciated.”

Marcus stood, flicking his lighter shut once more. “This was fun. We should do it again when you all grow a spine.”

Silence.

Then Ivar exhaled first. “Okay. That was brutal.”

Adrian nodded. “Yeah, I’ll give you that one.”

Crass pushed back his chair. “Alright, if you’re done, I propose we move on before Wimus finds another way to derail the conversation.”

Wimus scoffed. “Please. I am a beacon of focus.”

Adrian snorted. “You’re a walking disaster.”

***

The crisp autumn air nipped at their faces as they made their way back toward the castle, the sky a shade of deepening blue as the last remnants of daylight faded.

Up ahead, Adrian and Ivar had pulled ahead, their conversation punctuated by easy laughter.

That in itself was odd.

Adrian could talk anyone’s ear off, but easy camaraderie wasn’t really his thing. Not with people outside their usual circle.

And yet, there he was—falling into step with Ivar like it was second nature.

Marcus frowned.

He’d spent all of last summer with Ivar, and even then, it had taken time to find their rhythm. Time that Adrian hadn’t had.

Beside him, Wimus seized the moment, lowering his voice just enough to keep it from carrying.

“So,” he drawled. “How’d it go with Bagman?”

Crass, who had been walking in silence, tensed ever so slightly.

Marcus let out a slow breath. “Nothing major. Said everything’s fine, though the seniors are curious about why we raised the minimum bets.”

Crass arched a brow. “And what did you tell him?”

Marcus shrugged. “That it was necessary. Restoring the arena cost more than we expected.”

Wimus hummed, considering. “So no one knows how bad things actually are?”

Marcus gave a single nod. “Yes.”

He turned slightly, flicking a glance toward Crass. “You can breathe easy, Borden. Bagman’s not checking the books.”

Crass exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping half a fraction in relief—until Marcus continued.

“But I’m still expecting an update from you.”

Crass let out a quiet curse under his breath. “Flint, I already told you—I don’t know anything about those transactions.”

Marcus barely reacted. Just huffed a dry, humorless breath. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re the Coin Steward. Whether you were involved or not, whether you knew or didn’t—it doesn’t matter. You still need to figure out what the hell that money was.”

Crass’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue.

They kept walking.

The castle loomed closer, dark and hulking against the evening sky. But before they reached the gates, Wimus spoke again.

“What about my proposal?” he asked, deceptively light. “You in?”

Marcus sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

Wimus smirked. “That’s practically a yes.”

Marcus didn’t bother answering. His mind was already elsewhere.

Because there was one thing he hadn’t told them.

***

The first time Marcus had caught Bagman, it had been right after the champions for the Triwizard Tournament had been announced. The whole castle had been buzzing, the air thrumming with excitement, students spilling into the halls to gossip, to speculate, to celebrate.

Bagman had been too distracted, too busy reveling in the tournament’s energy to give Marcus anything more than a half-hearted reassurance—Everything’s fine, no one’s looking too closely, you’re in the clear.

Marcus hadn’t bought it.

So when he found out that Bagman had stayed overnight at the castle, he took his second chance.

Dragging him down to the underground arena was easy. Shoving him into the steward’s office and shutting the door behind them—even easier.

Bagman looked around, unimpressed. “You know, Flint, usually when I get pulled into a dimly lit room, there’s at least some firewhisky involved.”

Marcus ignored him. He grabbed the stack of documents from the desk and threw them down in front of him. Gringotts statements. Betting logs. Transaction records.

Bagman let out a long-suffering sigh, giving the papers a cursory glance before raising an eyebrow.

“Marcus, I appreciate that you think so highly of me,” he drawled, “but if you believe I have any interest in the league’s finances, you’re sorely mistaken. I don’t have a clue what half these numbers mean.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Bagman, do you know anything?”

Ludo grinned—his usual, lazy, charming smile. “You wound me, Flint. I know exactly what I need to know. The rest? Not my problem.”

Marcus let out a short, humorless huff and sat down across from him. “Then I suppose you can at least give me a clear opinion on these numbers.”

Bagman shrugged, taking the top document and skimming it with a practiced, careless glance. He didn’t seem particularly invested—until something caught his eye. His lips curled slightly in amusement as he flipped to the next page.

“Oh, yeah. I recognize this. These are from last year. Interesting times, that was. Full of drama… and some very interesting financial decisions.”

Marcus leaned forward slightly. “Clarify.”

Ludo waved a hand vaguely. “Look, I was just a middleman. The seniors decide how much to invest and when. That’s their business. But last year?” He let out a low whistle. “We pumped a ridiculous amount of money into the league.”

Marcus’s fingers twitched against the edge of the desk. “And that was because…?”

Bagman blinked at him, like he’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Flint, have you lost your bloody mind? You know damn well why. Last year, the league was broke. You lot wouldn’t stop complaining about attendance dropping and bets drying up. You were practically begging for more investment.”

Marcus clenched his jaw.

Bullshit.

The league had been flush with cash. Thanks to Crass Borden.

Instead of funneling money through Gringotts, Borden had been feeding it straight into the pot. Cash. Off the books.

Which meant the only numbers the seniors ever saw were the ones Lantaner wanted them to see.

Bagman noticed the shift in Marcus’s expression—the tightening of his jaw, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He set the papers down and studied him carefully.

“Or is there something I don’t know?” he asked, his tone suddenly lighter, but his gaze sharper.

Marcus exhaled, masking his irritation with a smirk. “Like you said, Bagman. You know exactly what you need to know.”

Bagman let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes but smirking nonetheless. “Clever lad. But if you dragged me all the way down here just to confirm whether these numbers are legitimate—then yes, Flint, they are. Everything here checks out.”

Marcus didn’t look convinced. He held Bagman’s gaze for a long moment before asking, “Then why didn’t you mention any of this back in the summer, when we met?”

Bagman snorted. “Because, Flint, educating you on league history isn’t my job. I assumed Jonas handled that.” He leaned back lazily, stretching out his legs. “Frankly, I wasn’t paying much attention to the league last year. Between the World Cup and, well, certain other… distractions,”—his lips curled in amusement—“I had more than enough on my plate.”

Marcus stared at him, unmoving.

His fingers curled around the edge of the papers.

Fuck.

That was it. That was how it happened.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his grip to loosen. Forcing himself to think.

Bagman, oblivious to the storm in Marcus’s head, let out a content sigh and stood up, stretching his arms like he had just wrapped up a casual chat about the weather. “Well, if that’s all, Flint, I’ll be heading back. Unlike you, I do actually have responsibilities.”

Marcus barely heard him. His thoughts were still whirring, recalculating, reshaping everything he thought he knew about last year.

Bagman turned toward the door, but Marcus called after him.

“Wait.”

Bagman paused, glancing over his shoulder with mild curiosity. “What, more questions? If you’re about to ask me for betting tips, I’m afraid I—”

“One last thing.”

Something in Marcus’s tone made Bagman stop entirely. He turned fully, raising a brow. “Alright. I’m listening.”

Marcus leaned back slightly, studying him, before finally asking the question that had been itching at the back of his mind for years.

“The seniors,” he said evenly. “Who are they? Can you at least give me a hint?”

Bagman chuckled, shaking his head. “Flint, you know the rules. The league’s secrecy applies to everyone—even the seniors.” He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Besides, you’d never guess. And even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

Marcus hummed, but something flickered behind his eyes. He already knew.

Bagman chuckled, shaking his head. “Hell, you’d probably laugh if I said one of them was still in the school.”

Marcus didn’t answer. Just watched as Bagman—still grinning—turned back to the door, pulling it open.

The moment he stepped out, Marcus reached for a cigarette, placing it between his teeth.

By the time the door clicked shut, he had already flicked the lighter, the flame illuminating the knowing curve of his lips.

He took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl lazily through the dim light. Then, exhaling, he murmured—more to himself than anyone else—

“You’d be surprised, Bagman.”

A pause. The ember at the tip of his cigarette glowed as he took another pull, eyes fixed on the door like he could still see through it.

Then, quieter, almost amused—

“Pretty damn easy to believe.”

***

The league thrived, a living, breathing beast that carried on as if nothing was wrong—while Marcus did everything in his power not to drown in his own thoughts. Bets were placed, matches were played, and by mid-November, the foreign students were barely keeping their seats, itching for their turn. Not even the looming spectacle of the first Triwizard Tournament task could kill interest in the league. If anything, it only fueled the hunger for more. People wanted blood. They wanted spectacle. And for the first time in months, the league could actually give them that without completely collapsing.

The debts were covered, the goblins had been paid off, and the betting pool was no longer at risk of drying up. Wimus’s plan was working, and with the influx of foreign money, Marcus could finally pull something out of the pot without sending the whole system into freefall. It wasn’t much, but it was something—something he could send home, something that made staying for this extra year worth it. 

And yet, despite finally being in a position where he wasn’t constantly scrambling to keep the league afloat, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still one misstep away from everything falling apart.

He hadn’t told the others what Bagman had really revealed. That Lantaner had been skimming money right under the seniors’ noses. But as long as the seniors weren’t asking questions, what was the point in stirring the pot?

For the first time in months, the league was steady.

But control never lasted forever.

Not when there was always someone waiting to take it back.

And that was the problem.

Lantaner was gone, but his shadow still stretched over the league, lingering at the edges.

And if anyone knew why, it was Anna.

Marcus knew Lantaner had been writing to her—that much, the ghost had confirmed. He’d even set ghosts to watch her, waiting for something, anything, that would give him a lead. But whatever she knew, she wasn’t acting on it. 

No whispers, no side conversations. Not a single mention of his name.

Anna hadn’t said a word—hadn’t even hinted at knowing anything.

And that was worse than if she’d gone straight to McGonagall.

Marcus stabbed his fork into his food, barely registering how tense his grip had gotten until a splash of pumpkin juice landed across his plate.

 Montague, the unfortunate culprit, paled slightly as he realized what he had done, his mouth opening and closing like he was debating whether to apologize or just run for it. Marcus flicked the droplets off his sleeve with a sharp shake of his hand before leveling Montague with a glare cold enough to make him shrink into his seat.

“Shit—sorry,” Graham muttered quickly.

Across the table, Adrian nudged Marcus’s shin lightly with his foot, drawing his attention. “Alright, what’s with you?”

Marcus exhaled sharply, dabbing his napkin across his plate before setting it aside. “Nothing.”

Adrian wasn’t convinced. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Bullshit. You’ve been acting like someone hexed you with a permanent bad mood for days.”

Marcus set his fork down with a dull clink. “Pucey, you know exactly why I’m in this mood.”

Adrian frowned slightly, lowering his voice. “I get it, but don’t you think you went a little hard on Montague? The poor bastard looked like you were about to curse him into next week.”

Marcus gave him a blank look.

Adrian sighed. “Look, you might not notice it, but people are wary of you. You walked back into Hogwarts like nothing happened, even though you weren’t supposed to be here. And on top of that? You barely speak to anyone from Slytherin except me. It’s making people wonder.”

Marcus ran a hand over his face, already exhausted by where this was going. “Just get to the point, Pucey.”

Adrian pressed his lips together, considering him for a moment before shrugging. “I’m just saying—it’s not exactly normal. People notice.”

Marcus leaned back slightly, unimpressed. “Speaking of things that aren’t normal—you’ve been disappearing a lot yourself lately. Care to share?”

Adrian, completely unfazed, casually poured himself another glass of pumpkin juice. “Training, mate. Hard work keeping up your ‘legacy.’”

Marcus arched a brow. “That right?”

Adrian smirked, lifting his glass in a mock toast before taking a slow sip. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

But Marcus didn’t buy it. Not entirely.

He watched Adrian carefully, but Pucey had already turned his attention elsewhere, easily slipping into conversation with Montague, as if the subject had never even been brought up.

Marcus knew the training schedule inside and out. And sure, Adrian was at practices—most of the time. But the rest? The hours in between? That was another question entirely.

Normally, Marcus wouldn’t have cared. Pucey disappearing wasn’t exactly unusual. He had a habit of making himself scarce when it suited him, usually for reasons involving Quidditch or women—or, more often than not, both.

But that was the problem.

If it had been about a girl, Adrian would have made damn sure everyone knew. If it was about training, he would have thrown in some boast about carrying the entire team on his back.

And yet, now? Nothing. Just a casual excuse and an even more casual smirk.

That wasn’t normal.

Marcus tapped his fingers against the edge of his plate, expression unreadable.

Whatever Adrian was up to, it wasn’t something he wanted Marcus digging into.

Which, of course, only made Marcus more determined to figure it out.

But for now, he let it go. There was something else pulling at his attention.

His gaze flicked toward the Gryffindor table. 

And there she was—another reason his mind had been in a constant state of distraction.

Katie Bell.

Bell, who, even now, looked dead on her feet. She was sitting at dinner, chin nearly dipping into her plate, exhaustion written all over her face. Her shoulders sagged, her movements sluggish, and every few seconds, she blinked herself back to consciousness, as if sheer willpower was the only thing keeping her upright.

Marcus exhaled, something dangerously close to amusement curling in his chest.

Of course she was.

She was running herself into the ground, exactly as he’d expected she would. Overtraining. Overthinking. Trying to fight against something that didn’t need to be a fight.

It wasn’t like he didn’t get it. He did.

But that didn’t make it any less frustrating to watch.

His lips twitched despite himself.

She really was impossible.

***

Marcus had barely pulled his gaze from Katie when a sudden pressure against his back made him tense—just for a fraction of a second. He masked it well, shifting slightly as Nina Kaspar slid into the bench beside him, making herself comfortable at the Slytherin table like she had every right to be there.

Across from him, Adrian stilled, his smirk sharpening. His eyes flicked from Marcus to Nina, then—inevitably—to Marcus’s face, searching for a reaction.

Marcus exhaled slowly. “What?”

Nina, unfazed, gave him a look. “Do you have a minute after dinner?”

Adrian’s smirk widened. “Well, now,” he murmured, just loud enough for them to hear. “This is interesting.”

Marcus shot him a warning glance, but it only encouraged him.

“What’s so urgent?” Marcus asked, turning back to Nina.

She gave a small, unreadable smile. “If it wasn’t important, would I still get my minute?”

Adrian bit back a laugh, covering it with a sip of pumpkin juice. Even Crass, from his place at the Ravenclaw table, was glancing over.

It didn’t help that Nina was still sitting there. The whole interaction felt… deliberate. Not flirtatious, not really, but loaded enough to draw attention. And people noticed.

Marcus could feel it. The shift in the surrounding conversations. The way Adrian, the bastard, was practically vibrating with amusement.

But he didn’t react. “You’re pushing your luck, Kaspar.”

Nina rested her elbow against the table. “Come on, Flint. Relax. It’s not a favor, just an update.”

He sighed. “There’s nothing worth mentioning.”

“Nothing?” she echoed, unimpressed. “You expect me to believe that?”

Marcus gave her a look. “I expect you to be patient.”

Nina hummed, tilting her head. “Patience isn’t my strong suit.”

“That’s a you problem.”

She smiled slightly, as if she enjoyed the verbal sparring. “Fair enough.” She leaned back, reaching for a piece of bread, casual as anything. “Though I did hear some interesting things about the betting pools.”

Marcus flicked his eyes to her, and for the first time, Adrian’s posture shifted—just slightly.

“What about them?” Marcus asked, tone bored.

Nina tore off a piece of bread. “Something about… creative gambling.”

Adrian tapped his knife against his plate—just once, but it was enough.

Marcus didn’t blink. “Still against the rules,” he said lazily. “Still a waste of time.”

Nina let out a breath of amusement. “That’s what I thought.”

She didn’t elaborate, didn’t push, but the statement lingered. A quiet confirmation that she was watching. Paying attention. Maybe more than she let on.

Adrian, meanwhile, forced a smirk back onto his face, shaking his head like the conversation bored him. “So, are we ever going to address the real topic here?” He gestured vaguely at Nina. “Because this is fascinating.”

Marcus ignored him.

Nina, however, turned to Adrian with mild curiosity. “What is?”

Adrian grinned. “You. Sitting here. Cozying up to Flint.”

Nina raised a brow. “We work together.”

“Oh, sure.” Adrian smirked. “Bet that’s what you tell yourself.”

Nina didn’t even flinch. “What exactly are you implying, Pucey?”

“I’m not implying anything,” Adrian said innocently. “Just making an observation. You and Flint—very close. Wouldn’t be surprised if people started talking.”

Marcus sighed, already done with this conversation. “People don’t have enough to do.”

Adrian snorted. “You are the one giving them a show.”

Marcus dragged a hand down his face. “Pucey.”

Adrian grinned. “I mean, be honest—Kaspar gets special treatment, doesn’t she?”

Nina smirked. “It’s not special treatment. I earned it.”

Adrian clicked his tongue. “Oh, I’m sure you did.”

Marcus cut him a sharp look, but Nina only smiled like she was thoroughly entertained. Then, with the same casual ease she always carried, she stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her uniform.

She patted Marcus on the shoulder as she stood—light, but deliberate.

“Don’t forget,” she murmured, amusement laced in her voice. “I’ll be waiting.”

Adrian let out a low whistle as she walked away, shaking his head. “Yeah. That didn’t look suggestive at all.”

Marcus didn’t dignify that with a response. He just exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple like this entire conversation had shaved years off his life.

Adrian leaned back, casting a glance—just once—toward the Gryffindor table.

Marcus didn’t have to follow his line of sight to know where he was looking.

Katie Bell had, at some point, looked up.

Her gaze flicked from Nina’s retreating form back to him—brief, unreadable.

And then, without hesitation, she looked back to her plate.

Like she hadn’t seen a thing.

Marcus clicked his tongue, pushing his plate away.

Fuck’s sake

***

The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty, save for the low crackle of the fire and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Alicia’s fingers kneading into Katie’s shoulders. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Katie hugged a pillow to her chest, barely reacting to the pressure—too used to it, too lost in thought.

“Bell, if you keep this up, you’re going to drop dead before Christmas,” Alicia muttered, pressing her thumbs into a stubborn knot.

Katie groaned into the pillow. “I know.”

Alicia sighed. “You always say that, and yet I keep finding you half-dead by the end of the day. You do realize you’re not supposed to run yourself into the ground?”

Katie waved her off weakly. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

Alicia let out a skeptical hum. “You know, it’s getting harder to cover for you when you sneak out at night and come back looking like you barely survived training, let alone a war.”

Katie exhaled, rolling her head slightly. “Good news, then—Angelina’s started disappearing in the evenings too.”

Alicia snorted. “Oh, I noticed. That just means I have twice the trouble to deal with.” She kneaded at another knot in Katie’s shoulder before adding, a touch quieter, “And if this is turning into a thing, I’m not letting you two have all the fun. I’ll find something for myself.”

Katie smirked, twisting around to face her. “Oh? Does that mean Fur Guy finally asked you out?”

Alicia rolled her eyes but smirked back, grabbing the pillow out of Katie’s arms and tossing it at her. “Spinnet, spill—”

A voice cut in before Katie could press further.

“What exactly is Spinnet supposed to be spilling?”

Katie turned just as George Weasley made his way toward them, Lee Jordan close behind.

Alicia, ever the opportunist, smirked before Katie could say anything. “Nothing.”

George didn’t look convinced. Instead, he plopped down onto the couch, pulling out a rolled-up parchment. “Well, we have something for you, Bell.”

Alicia groaned. “Is this about the league? Do I need to cover my ears?”

George shot her a grin. “Relax, Spinnet. This one’s just information.”

Lee handed Katie the parchment, and as she unrolled it, George grinned. “We’re improving our paint bombs.”

Katie barely glanced up. “You mean the ones that made the arena look like a unicorn threw up a rainbow?”

George huffed. “Okay, first of all, that was a tactical advantage. Second, they worked, didn’t they? We scored twice while the Hounds were still trying to see through the paint.”

Lee smirked. “Would’ve worked longer if Flint hadn’t summoned a bloody rainstorm to wash it off.”

George waved a hand. “Which is why this one is better.” He leaned forward. “Smoke.”

Katie scanned the notes, brow furrowing slightly. “How much visibility loss are we talking?”

Alicia blinked. Since when did Katie take this so seriously?

Lee smirked. “More like controlled disruption.”

George grinned. “Instead of just colour, it’ll mess with visibility for a few seconds. Not enough to be dangerous, but enough to—”

“Cheat?” Alicia cut in.

George looked offended. “Strategise.”

Katie kept reading. “You do realize we’re playing the Furies next, right? And after that, the Leeches? If this backfires, we’ll be the ones flying blind.”

Lee smirked. “Then we just have to make sure it backfires on them first.”

Katie rolled the parchment back up. “I want a test run before match day. Controlled setting. If it works, I’ll think about it.”

Alicia stared at her. “You’ll think about it?”

Katie shot her a look. “I’m not stupid. If they adapt too fast, it won’t do anything.”

George beamed. “Knew you’d come around.”

Lee grinned. “Alright, we’ll set something up.”

Alicia kept watching Katie.

She’d always known her friend was competitive, but this was different. There was no irritation, no exasperation at another one of George and Lee’s wild ideas—just calculation. Cool, measured thinking.

And honestly?

It was kind of impressive.

George and Lee hadn’t even gotten to the real topic yet, but Alicia already knew: Katie had changed.

And she doubted Katie even realised it.

She was about to say something when George exchanged a glance with Lee before lowering his voice.

“Katie.”

She looked up. “What?”

George tapped the parchment against his knee. “We had a very interesting offer the other day.”

She leaned in slightly. “What kind of offer?”

George exhaled. “Something that might finally explain why some of the spectators at our games have been acting weird.”

Katie had noticed it before—the lingering glances, the way some spectators reacted a little too much when a hit landed.

She’d never thought much of it.

But now, she was curious.

George hesitated, then sighed. “Someone wanted me to take out Rolanda in the first few minutes of our match against the Furies.”

Katie’s brows shot up. “Take out how?”

George waved a hand vaguely. “Didn’t specify. Just said ‘get her off her broom.’”

Alicia looked horrified. “And what did you say?”

George scoffed. “Obviously, I told them to piss off. Sure, it’s tempting—the money would’ve been ridiculous—but I like having all my limbs attached. Pretty sure if I pulled something like that, Flint or Rolanda would gut me.”

Katie exhaled slowly. “Good. Because that whole thing reeked.”

Lee, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Oh, it definitely reeks.”

Katie frowned. “What do you mean?”

Lee tapped a rhythm against his knee. “Prop bets.”

Alicia shot him a confused look. “Prop what?”

Lee sighed. “They’re not just betting on wins and losses. They’re betting on incidents—who gets knocked off their broom first, who takes the hardest hit, who screws up a play.” He glanced at Katie. “And if people are willing to pay to make those moments happen…” He let the rest hang.

A flicker of unease settled in Katie’s stomach.

Lee studied her. “People are finally moving on from Sprout’s little stunt. But if prop bets start making noise? If word spreads?” He shrugged. “Flint’s reputation is already shaky. This would finish the job.”

Katie’s frown deepened.

Lee nodded toward her. “Even if he’s not the one behind it, how hard do you think it’d be to convince people he let it slide? That he knew and didn’t care?”

Alicia let out a breath, rubbing her arm. “And would they be wrong?”

Lee tilted his head, like the question wasn’t even worth answering. “Doesn’t matter,” he said simply. “What matters is what people are willing to believe.”

Alicia sighed, rubbing her temples. “I feel like I just learned something I wasn’t supposed to know.”

Katie stayed quiet, staring at the flickering fire as Lee’s words turned over in her mind. 

She hadn’t thought much about what Anna had said at that meeting—not about Flint, anyway. At the time, she’d been too caught up in her own frustration, too focused on the way Anna had called her out in front of everyone. It had been personal. It had been about her team.

Everything else—the insinuations, the little remarks aimed at Flint—had barely even registered.

But now, looking back, she realized maybe she should have paid more attention.

Anna had been so sure. That smug little smirk, the way she’d looked at Flint—not like she was trying to get under his skin, but like she’d already won.

Lantaner was right about you.

At the time, Katie had dismissed it as just another one of Anna’s games. But if even Lee—who barely involved himself in league politics—was seeing something there, then how many others had taken notice, too?

A month ago, she’d been sure she could keep everything separate—her normal school life, and the league. Two halves of her world, running parallel, never colliding.

But the deeper she got, the more impossible that felt.

She wasn’t just playing anymore.

She was in it.

And the more she saw, the harder it was to ignore what was shifting beneath the surface.

George exhaled beside her, his voice pulling her back. “Look.”

Katie followed his gaze.

Snow.

Outside, thick flurries had begun to drift lazily from the sky, settling against the castle grounds in quiet layers of white.

Alicia stretched, rolling her shoulders. “Guess that means winter’s officially here.”

Lee hummed in agreement, but Katie barely heard them.

Outside, the castle settled under a layer of fresh snow. 

Inside, Katie had the unsettling feeling nothing was settling at all.

Chapter Text

1 week before Yule Ball

Alicia let out an exasperated groan, aggressively shaking out a deep blue dress as if the fabric itself had personally offended her. “I specifically asked for emerald green. Emerald green!” She flung the dress onto her bed and threw her hands up. “Is Malkin blind? Or is she just trying to humiliate me on purpose?”

On the neighboring bed, Angelina yawned, lazily stretching before rolling onto her stomach. “Or,” she drawled, smirking slightly, “you could’ve just ordered your dress before the last minute. Instead of this.” She gestured vaguely at Alicia’s ongoing meltdown.

Alicia shot her a glare. “Excuse me for having standards.”

Meanwhile, Katie sat cross-legged on her own bed, staring at the faded pink monstrosity spread out in front of her. It wasn’t just outdated—it looked like it had survived something. Or someone.

The dress—an heirloom lovingly sent by her mother—was a ruffled, lace-covered tragedy. The kind of dress that wouldn’t look out of place in a haunted portrait. The sleeves puffed out ridiculously, the fabric had a weirdly stiff shine to it, and Katie was fairly certain it smelled faintly of mothballs.

She didn’t even need to say anything.

Alicia, still fuming over her own dress disaster, turned toward her—and promptly froze.

“…Bell,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing. “What the hell is that?”

Katie sighed. “Mum’s idea of elegant and timeless.”

Angelina, finally curious enough to look, pushed herself up on one elbow. Her lips twitched. “Timeless is one way to put it.”

Alicia tilted her head. “Be honest. Did you dig that out of someone’s coffin?”

Katie groaned. “It was my mum’s. She wore it to her first ball.”

Angelina hummed, clearly biting back laughter. “And which ball was that? The 1800s Masquerade?”

Alicia, horrified, poked at the dress with the tip of her wand, as if expecting it to bite. “Bell, you can’t wear this.”

“Tell her that,” Katie muttered, flopping onto her back.

Alicia rubbed her temples. “Alright, well, good news—you still have time to get something else.”

Katie made a noncommittal noise, staring at the ceiling.

Alicia paused, eyes narrowing. “Wait. You do have a date, right?”

Katie tensed. “…Why?”

Angelina perked up. “Good question.”

Alicia crossed her arms. “Because you need one, obviously.”

Katie sat up, frowning. “Why?”

Angelina smirked. “Because otherwise, Alicia will die if she doesn’t get to play matchmaker.”

Alicia ignored that. “Come on, Bell. You had to have been asked. Don’t tell me no one—”

“I was asked,” Katie muttered.

Both of them immediately leaned in.

“Who?” Alicia demanded.

Katie groaned. “Not important.”

Angelina grinned. “Oh, but it is.”

Alicia gasped. “Wait. Is it Flint?”

Katie choked. “What?! No! Absolutely not!”

Angelina, watching her reaction, raised a brow. “Huh.”

Alicia studied her suspiciously. “So… if not Flint, then who?”

Katie grabbed her pillow and launched it at them. “We’re not talking about this.”

Alicia caught it, smirking. “A dodge. Interesting.”

Angelina grinned. “Very interesting.”

Katie groaned, burying her face in her hands.

Alicia ruffled her hair affectionately. “Alright, fine. We’ll drop it. For now.”

Angelina huffed. “But we are fixing that dress.”

Katie sighed, looking back at the pink monstrosity.

Yeah. That was probably the more immediate crisis.

For now.

***

4 days before Yule Ball

Katie leaned against the railing of the arena’s upper level, her gaze fixed on the dimly glowing scoreboard in the distance. The underground arena had no seasons, no snowfall or biting winds—just the ever-present scent of damp stone and the flickering torchlight that barely warmed the air. But even without the chill of winter creeping in, the temperature had dropped noticeably over the last few weeks, making the stone beneath her hands feel colder than usual.

She exhaled, shifting slightly as she absentmindedly flipped through the two sets of parchment in her hands—one, a collection of scribbled strategies and formations for their upcoming match, and the other, Alicia’s latest attempt at dress redesigns. Katie had yet to decide which was more of a headache.

Balancing her usual workload had been difficult enough—late-night practices, endless essays on advanced defensive spells, and astronomy homework that never seemed to end. But with the Yule Ball looming, it felt as though an entirely new layer of chaos had been added to her already packed schedule.

Her eyes flicked back to the scoreboard.

Leeches 3-0

Furies 3-1

Nifflers 2-1

Forgers 2-2

Hounds 1-3

One last match. One last chance.

If they beat the Leeches, they’d likely have to play a tiebreaker against the Furies for a spot in the next stage of the tournament. If they lost, they were done.

She pressed her lips together. They had fought hard over the last month, improving with every match, adapting, adjusting—except for that game against the Furies. That one had been brutal. It wasn’t that Katie had expected an easy win, but they had thrown everything they had into that game, and still, it hadn’t been enough.

Rolanda was unstoppable. No clever formations, no well-timed feints, no elaborate tricks—nothing had made a dent in her momentum. She had powered through everything, her iron-clad plays cutting through their defenses like they weren’t even there. The bruises on Katie’s arms had long since faded, but the memory of that spiked bat slamming into her still lingered.

And now, they had to face the Leeches.

It wasn’t impossible. But it was going to be a fight.

She sighed, rolling her shoulders, when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

“Good evening, Katie.”

She glanced over her shoulder. Nikolai Rotkov.

Still as tall as ever, still wrapped in those ever-present Durmstrang furs, still exuding that unwavering calm that made him so damn difficult to read.

Katie managed a small smile. “Hey, Nikolai.”

She still wasn’t entirely used to his presence, let alone his blunt way of speaking. Half the time, she wasn’t even sure if she fully understood what he meant—whether his words were literal, or whether there was something she was missing.

When Wimus had announced his grand idea for “building camaraderie” between the local players and the foreign teams, Katie had been skeptical. No, that wasn’t right—she hadn’t believed it for a second. The so-called team bonding initiative was probably just another one of Wimus’s schemes to make the inevitable inter-division matches even more brutal.

And yet…

Being paired with Nikolai hadn’t been the worst thing in the world.

At first, she had assumed he’d ask a few questions about the league, maybe press for a bit of insider information, and then move on.

Simple.

Except it hadn’t gone that way at all.

Nikolai had questions. Dozens of them. Not just about the rules and the teams, but about the betting system, the financial structure, the way things operated behind the scenes. Katie had quickly learned that simply nodding along and giving vague answers wasn’t going to be enough.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, their meetings had started shifting into something else.

They had trained together more than once—nothing structured, nothing official, but enough that Katie had learned from him.

Because Nikolai wasn’t just the physical powerhouse everyone assumed he was. He was smart. Tactical. He played with a precision that Katie hadn’t expected, knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to step back.

Durmstrang had a reputation for brute force and aggression, but Nikolai? He was calculated. He understood the rhythm of the game in a way that reminded her, just slightly, of—

She shut the thought down before it could fully form.

Either way, she paid attention.

Nikolai’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Am I interrupting? You seem busy.” His gaze flicked to the parchment in her hands.

Katie glanced down, quickly shifting the page of dress sketches under the Quidditch formations, as if that might somehow make them disappear.

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “No, it’s nothing.”

Nikolai studied her for a moment, then said, almost offhandedly, “Whatever you’re planning with your dress, you should leave it as is.”

Katie stiffened, caught completely off guard. How the hell did he notice that?

She turned to him, mouth half-open to respond, but before she could, he added, “I think it suits you. And the Durmstrang formal uniform will complement us well.”

Us.

Katie blinked.

The matter-of-fact way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, left her completely at a loss for words.

When Nikolai had first mentioned the ball, it had been in that same no-nonsense, declarative tone—“I want to go to the ball with you.”

No question, no hesitation.

At the time, she hadn’t been sure how to take it. Was it an invitation? A statement? A casual observation?

And now, hearing him say us with such certainty, she still wasn’t entirely sure.

Her mind scrambled for something to say, but nothing came.

Nikolai, of course, didn’t seem to mind her silence. He simply stood there, completely at ease, like nothing about this conversation required further clarification.

Before Katie could decide whether to press the issue—or just let it be—another voice cut through the air.

“Wimus, move your ass already.”

Katie looked up just as Marcus Flint came into view.

He was heading toward the exit, clearly on his way out, but the moment his gaze landed on them—on her standing there with Nikolai—his stride slowed.

His eyes flicked between them, sharp and unreadable.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.

Then, finally, his gaze settled on Katie.

“Wrap it up,” he said flatly. “Arena’s closing.”

Katie nodded, gripping the edge of her parchment a little tighter.

Nikolai, as always, remained completely unbothered.

Marcus lingered just long enough to make it noticeable before finally turning away. He didn’t look back as he walked off, his voice echoing down the tunnel.

“Wimus, I swear to Merlin, move.”

Katie barely had a second to process before Rotkov spoke.

“See you later, Katie.”

Nikolai gave a slight bow of his head—a small, practiced gesture that all the Durmstrang students seemed to do—before turning and following after Flint.

Katie exhaled slowly, watching him go. She was still standing there when another voice cut through the quiet.

“Oh, our shining star Bell.”

Abraxas Wimus strolled up, his usual smirk firmly in place. His gaze flicked toward Nikolai’s retreating figure, and he let out a low hum. “I see you’ve fully embraced the program. Good. If only the others followed your example—I’m getting tired of prying McLaggen off of Louis.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Should’ve thought of that before you forced everyone into it.”

Wimus grinned. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”

He gestured for her to walk ahead, and with a sigh, she followed.

“So,” he continued, voice casual but sharp, “ready for the Leeches? I’m betting on you, so don’t disappoint me.”

Katie snorted. “I’ll do my best.”

Wimus didn’t miss a beat. “And the ball? Decided on a date yet?”

Katie blinked at the sudden shift. “What?”

He smirked. “You must have options. People talk.”

“In the context of the arena, I assume.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’ve likely received more than a few invitations.”

Katie said nothing.

Wimus chuckled. “Ah. Well, let’s just say… someone’s not thrilled about it.”

Katie shot him a look. “Who?”

Wimus grinned. “Come on, Bell. You’re smart. Figure it out.”

She groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

He winked. “And yet, always right.”

With that, he strolled off, leaving Katie with an uneasy feeling that he was enjoying something she hadn’t quite caught onto yet.

***

2 days before Yule Ball

Hogwarts had turned into a battlefield of hope, stolen glances, and exasperated sighs. Some students practically floated through the halls, giddy with anticipation, dreaming of slow dances under the spell of Celestina Warbeck’s crooning. Others? They stormed about like walking thunderstorms, either dreading the entire affair or nursing the sting of rejection.

It was all anyone could talk about—who was going with whom, who had been turned down, and, most dramatically, who had yet to be asked. Even the professors, usually indifferent to student gossip, seemed mildly entertained by the chaos.

And in the middle of it all, Katie Bell found herself somewhere between excitement and complete exasperation.

Which, honestly, was to be expected when dealing with a laconic Durmstrang boy.

Not that Katie particularly minded going with him—she didn’t exactly have other options. Fred, obviously, was going with Angelina. Alicia would probably hold out until Fur Guy (whatever his actual name was) finally asked her. And as for George and Lee? They had almost certainly set their sights on some Beauxbatons girls.

Perfect.

Except… Katie wasn’t entirely sure about Nikolai’s invitation. Not just because of his blunt, matter-of-fact way of asking, but because—somewhere, buried deep where she refused to look too closely—there was a small, quiet part of her that had been hoping Flint might ask her first.

He, of course, seemed entirely detached from the chaos surrounding the ball.

They still weren’t speaking.

Nearly two months had passed since their agreement to keep their distance, and somewhere along the way, Katie had lost track of why.

No, she still remembered the reason. She was still holding onto it.

But with how quickly things were moving in the league, one thing had become painfully clear—Katie had been cut off from Marcus a long time ago.

The Nifflers were a topic of discussion, their matches analyzed and dissected, their flashy plays the subject of both admiration and skepticism. Their tricks—courtesy of the twins—had become legendary, adding an unpredictable edge to their games. And Katie? She had become something else entirely.

A strategist. A playmaker. Someone who could read the pitch as if the game itself spoke to her.

Her name was in everyone’s mouths, but not for the reasons it had been when this all started. Not because of Flint.

And Katie had hoped—maybe foolishly—that Flint would be the one to break the silence first. That, just like last time, he would decide enough was enough and offer some half-assed excuse to start talking again.

But no offer came.

Not for that.

And definitely not for the ball.

***

1 Day before Yule Ball

The underground office was quiet in the way it always got before a big event: low muttering, half-hearted work, and just enough tension to keep anyone from fully relaxing.

Marcus sat at the desk with Crass Borden, the two of them going over the last of the coin logs. Crass looked ready to stab someone — probably because Marcus kept tapping his quill. Wimus, meanwhile, was laid out on a bench like he hadn’t a care in the world, lazily levitating a sickle above his face.

The door creaked open and in walked Pucey, carrying a long, flat parcel under one arm. He dropped it onto the nearest table with a dramatic sigh.

“Well, boys,” he announced. “Crisis averted. The robes have arrived.”

Wimus didn’t even look up. “We were all on the edge of our seats.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Ball’s not till—”

“Tomorrow,” Crass cut in, deadpan.

Marcus froze. “What?”

Adrian tossed the parcel onto a chair and laughed. “Tell me you didn’t forget.”

“I didn’t forget,” Marcus muttered. “I just… thought it was later.”

“Mate.” Wimus sat up finally. “It’s literally tomorrow night. Did you seriously think you had another week?”

Marcus leaned back with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. “Fuck me.”

Adrian was already undoing the parcel. “Honestly, I had a backup plan. If this didn’t show up today, I was going to go in just a tie and a lot of misplaced confidence.”

Wimus snorted. “That’s your usual look.”

Crass grunted. “You have a date, I assume?”

“Viola. Beauxbatons.” Adrian didn’t look up, admiring the lining of his dress robes. “Says she doesn’t dance, which I think is a lie, but I’m willing to find out.”

“Could be worse,” Wimus offered. “At least she’s not trying to hex you.”

“Yet.”

There was a short pause before Wimus casually asked, “So who’s everyone else bringing?”

Adrian smirked, glancing at Marcus. “Flint’s going solo, I assume?”

Marcus didn’t look up. “Didn’t get around to asking anyone.”

“You mean,” Wimus said, stretching his legs, “you didn’t ask Kaspar?”

Marcus’s pen paused slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wimus gave a lazy shrug. “You two had… a visible chemistry .”

Crass looked vaguely uncomfortable and went back to counting.

Adrian grinned. “It’s true. Kaspar’s terrifying. You’re terrifying. Honestly, I ship it.”

Marcus gave them both a flat look. “I’m not bringing Kaspar.”

“Shame,” Wimus said lightly. “You’d be the scariest couple on the floor. Think of the intimidation factor.”

Adrian leaned against the table, still grinning. “Anyway. Everyone’s speculating. You know that, right? It’s a whole thing now—who’s showing up with who, who’s not showing up at all…”

“Who’s getting hexed halfway through the night,” Wimus added.

Adrian held up a finger. “Who’s getting caught sneaking in firewhisky.”

Wimus smirked. “Who’s sneaking out to hook up behind the Herbology greenhouses.”

“Bell’s showing up with Rotkov,” Crass said offhandedly, not looking up from his ledger. “That’s the only pairing I actually wanna see.”

Marcus blinked, but said nothing.

Adrian let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t see that one coming.”

Wimus tilted his head, watching Marcus’s reaction with interest. “Durmstrang’s finest, huh?”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. “Whatever.”

There was a brief silence, then Adrian clapped his hands once. “Alright, pregame. Six. Storage tunnel. Let’s get irresponsibly drunk before putting on fancy clothes.”

Wimus glanced at Marcus. “Come on. Tradition. Last big event before the league goes to shit.”

Marcus muttered, “It’s already halfway there.”

He closed the ledger in front of him and stood. “Fine. But I’m not showing up in funeral robes, so if any of you have an extra suit that doesn’t smell like regret, let me know.”

“You could just owl your aunt,” Wimus offered. “Didn’t she have that navy one you wore to that Ministry thing?”

“That was four years ago and I think it got eaten by moths.”

Crass finally spoke. “If you want, I can ask my elf to dig something up. We’re the same height.”

Marcus blinked, surprised — mostly because Crass rarely offered anything without being asked.

“…Thanks.”

Wimus stood, stretching. “Alright, gentlemen. We’ve got less than twenty-four hours to look respectable and avoid a school-wide scandal. Place your bets now.”

Adrian was already heading to the door. “Five sickles says someone punches McLaggen before the first song ends.”

“Done,” Wimus called. “Double it if it’s a girl.”

Marcus just shook his head, following after them — muttering under his breath the entire time.

He still didn’t want to go.

***

The Yule Ball

Katie stood beside Nikolai like a statue—unsure of where to look, how to hold herself, or what exactly one was supposed to do when escorted into the most talked-about event of the year by a stoic Durmstrang boy in full dress uniform.

He had met her at the entrance of the Great Hall, offering his arm with the kind of cool, efficient politeness that didn’t invite questions. She’d taken it—awkwardly—and allowed him to guide her through the doorway under the scrutiny of more than a few curious eyes.

The Hall itself was stunning, enchanted snowflakes falling slowly from the ceiling, catching the soft candlelight above. Music drifted through the air, elegant and a bit sleepy, as students in carefully pressed robes and shimmering gowns mingled in polished little circles. Professors stood off to the side, trying—and failing—to pretend they weren’t watching everything unfold like a soap opera.

From somewhere across the room, Katie caught the distinct, breathless cadence of Alicia’s voice aimed toward her date. Apparently “Fur Guy” had a name—Rado—and when properly groomed, his hair looked less like he’d been struck by lightning and more like he’d stepped out of a glossy Beauxbatons fashion spread. He’d clearly made the effort.

Nikolai, on the other hand, remained a mystery. He stood beside her, tall and perfectly composed, not a single wrinkle in sight. He might’ve been enjoying himself, or he might’ve been calculating their chances in a war game. It was impossible to tell.

Katie couldn’t stop adjusting her dress. She tried to be discreet, but after the fourth attempt to tug the bodice just a little higher—to make the neckline feel less like an attack—she was fairly sure both Angelina and Alicia had shot her synchronized stop it glares from across the room.

The dress, to be fair, had undergone a miracle. What had once been a pastel disaster from another century had become sleek, modern, and—unfortunately—very, very revealing. Strapless and rose-colored, it clung in all the right places. (And if there was one thing Katie Bell wasn’t prepared for, it was the realization that she apparently had curves.)

She’d worry later about how to explain this to her mother. Or better yet, not explain it at all.

Nikolai had simply given her a once-over when he saw her and commented, with his usual flat delivery, that she looked good—but he would’ve kept the original silhouette.

Katie had responded with a look that said, Thanks, I needed that like I need a broomstick to the face.

The music quieted slightly. People started turning toward the entrance. The champions were about to be announced.

But then the whispers started.

It wasn’t just about the champions anymore.

“Katie,” Lee Jordan’s voice came out of nowhere—low, amused, and far too close to her ear.

She jumped, nearly stepping back onto his foot in her heels.

“Careful,” he chuckled. “You’ll dent the shoes. Also—look who just walked in.”

Katie turned toward the entrance—and blinked.

There, arm in arm with Anna Sprout, was a tall, stupidly good-looking blond guy who moved like he absolutely knew people were watching him.

Her mouth dropped just slightly. “Wait. Is that… Lantaner? Like, the Lantaner?”

“Mmhm,” Lee confirmed, popping the p. “Former league darling. Marcus’s mysterious predecessor. Back from the dead—or, you know, from wherever fallen stewards go.”

Before Katie could fully process that, George Weasley casually appeared on her other side, nudging Nikolai out of the way without even pretending to be subtle.

“Well then,” George said under his breath, grinning. “This night just got a hell of a lot more fun.”

Katie didn’t answer. She was still watching Anna and Lantaner as they moved deeper into the room, perfectly composed, like they weren’t setting the gossip mill on fire.

Lantaner.

That name had been tossed around before—especially when it came to league stuff—but she’d never really connected it to a real person. And now he was here. At the ball. On Anna’s arm.

Katie glanced at George. “You think this is some kind of statement?”

George raised his brows. “Bell, everything Anna does is a statement.”

Katie hummed, not totally sure what to think.

She didn’t know what it meant.

But it definitely wasn’t nothing.

Nikolai, who had clearly taken offense at being casually bumped out of place, stepped back into the circle—just slightly—and leaned down toward them.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, voice as calm and direct as ever.

George, completely unfazed, gave him a lopsided grin. “Nothing serious, mate. Just catching up.”

Then he took a deliberate step back, circling around behind Nikolai. As he passed Katie, he raised his brows and mouthed silently, You came with him? Really?

Katie shot him a sharp look in return—half what else was I supposed to do, half don’t start. No words needed.

George rolled his eyes dramatically, gave the tiniest shake of his head, and muttered under his breath, “Good luck.”

Katie turned—only to nearly crash straight into Lee, who, apparently, hadn’t moved an inch.

“Merlin, Jordan—”

But he was grinning, annoyingly pleased with himself. When Katie gave him a questioning look, he leaned in and said, just loud enough for her to hear,

“Would kill to see Flint’s face right about now.”

Katie blinked.

It took her a second—but then she caught the direction of his glance.

Right.

Nikolai.

Standing tall beside her in his full Durmstrang dress uniform, looking like he belonged on the cover of some Eastern European military recruitment pamphlet.

She rolled her eyes. 

Lee just laughed, throwing her a wink before wandering off toward the refreshment table.

***

If there were three things Katie had hoped to get out of this ball, she’d managed at least two.

She danced. She laughed. And she was definitely drinking.

All thanks to the expertly hidden flask tucked into a secret pocket of Lee Jordan’s formal cloak—filled with what could only be described as a lethal amount of something suspiciously smoky and definitely not school-sanctioned.

The music had picked up. Somewhere between the fourth song and Katie losing track of her own laughter, she’d let Nikolai drag her into a waltz. He was surprisingly good at it, even if he moved like it was part of a military drill. She, in retaliation for his smug straight-faced confidence, had stepped on his foot. Twice.

He didn’t even flinch. Just kept moving, steady and silent, like he was built for this.

Katie could’ve let herself sink into the music. Could’ve let the warmth and movement carry her through the evening without thinking.

But her eyes kept drifting.

To them.

Jonas Lantaner and Anna Sprout stood off to the side like they were made of something more polished than the rest of the room. Occasionally, Jonas would move—shake hands with professors, nod politely to Ministry officials, murmur something to Ludo Bagman, who was also present and laughing far too loudly. Katie wasn’t sure if he even knew what he was laughing at.

And Anna?

She was all sharp lines and cool detachment. Watching everything. Letting Jonas do the talking, but never more than an arm’s reach away.

It made Katie’s stomach turn in a way she didn’t quite understand.

And then there were the others—Adrian Pucey, gliding smugly through the crowd in his outrageously tailored robes, clearly pleased with himself; Crass Borden, pressed and polished, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, but still carrying that tension in his shoulders that said he was scanning the room for potential threats; and, of course, Abraxas Wimus, floating between groups like a glittering social butterfly with a sharp tongue and sharper intentions.

Katie took another sip from the flask and told herself it didn’t matter.

She was having fun.

She was here.

And Marcus Flint wasn’t.

Which, all things considered, should’ve made the night easier.

Should’ve.

But whatever half-thought was starting to form in her head promptly disintegrated the second she caught sight of two figures stepping through the main doors.

Brennan and Flint.

Both looked… good. Annoyingly so. Despite being slightly disheveled—rumpled collars, hair wind-swept from whatever sprint they’d done to get here—they pulled it off in that effortless, arrogant way boys sometimes did when they knew they were cutting it close and didn’t care.

Marcus’s tie wasn’t even straight.

Katie barely had time to register the sight, let alone unpack whatever emotion twisted in her chest, before a high-pitched screech cut through the music.

“KATIE! LOOK!”

Alicia materialized beside her like she’d apparated, clutching Katie’s arm with both hands, eyes wide with something between awe and mania.

“What—” Katie started, blinking.

“LOOK!” Alicia screamed again, pointing with all the subtlety of a firework.

Katie turned automatically—just as the lights shifted and the crowd erupted.

The band had arrived.

And right there onstage, already strumming out the opening chords, was a tall, wild-haired wizard in dark robes who leaned into the mic with a grin that could’ve set half the hall on fire.

“Are you ready, Hogwarts?!”

The hall exploded.

Katie screamed.

Not out of fear. Pure joy.

Her jaw dropped. She spun to face Alicia. “You’re kidding me—”

“Nope!” Alicia yelled back. “They got the actual Weird Sisters!”

Katie stumbled after Alicia, half-laughing, half-screaming, as the first notes of the song roared to life and the crowd surged forward like a wave. The floor of the Great Hall had never seen anything like this—tables vanished, professors backed off, and students absolutely lost their minds.

The Weird Sisters.

At their ball.

Katie still couldn’t believe it. And then—she saw him.

There he was. Kirley fucking Duke. In the flesh. Shirt slightly unbuttoned, hair an absolute mess, guitar slung across his body like it was born there. Fingers flying across the strings with the kind of effortless swagger that made grown witches cry.

Katie shrieked.

“I’M GONNA DIE,” she screamed at Alicia, barely audible over the music.

From somewhere behind them, someone else screamed, “I LOVE YOU KIRLEY!” which was promptly followed by a glittering shoe being launched into the air.

Nikolai appeared at Katie’s side, clearly having been dragged in with the current of the crowd. His expression hovered somewhere between alarm and bafflement.

“What is happening?” he asked over the noise.

Katie spun to face him, beaming, flushed, hair already coming loose from her perfectly pinned style.

“You’re witnessing history, Rotkov!”

“I thought this was a ball.”

“This is a religious experience.”

Nikolai blinked. “He’s not even the singer.”

“He’s the soul,” Alicia barked, not looking away from the stage.

Nikolai said nothing. He simply stepped in, grabbed both Katie and Alicia by the elbows like they were small, mildly confused children, and expertly maneuvered them through the crowd. People moved instinctively—either because of his sheer presence or because Durmstrang uniforms had that effect. Within seconds, they had prime standing room just a few feet from the stage.

Katie barely noticed. Her eyes were glued to Kirley Duke like he might ascend into the air and take her soul with him.

But while chaos reigned at the front of the hall, something else entirely was brewing along the wall—just out of reach of the music’s pull.

Marcus Flint leaned against the far side of the room, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed. His gaze flicked across the hall, taking everything in—the band, the crowd, the students losing their minds—and somewhere in the middle of it, the familiar flash of a rose-colored dress.

And then:

“Well, well,” a voice slurred near his ear.

Marcus didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Abraxas Wimus appeared beside him, looking far too pleased with himself and far too drunk for this early in the evening. His bowtie was already undone, his jacket slightly askew, and he had the kind of grin that usually meant trouble was two steps behind him.

“You’re a ray of sunshine tonight,” Marcus muttered.

Abraxas held up a glass of something that was probably not from the punch table. “It’s a ball, Flint. There’s music. There’s mystery. There’s a Beauxbatons boy sobbing in the hallway over unrequited love. Festivities!”

Marcus didn’t respond.

Abraxas elbowed him, hard. “You’re not even gonna ask who I came with?”

“No.”

“Come on, don’t be boring.”

Marcus shot him a sideways look. “You’re already telling me.”

Abraxas sipped smugly from his glass, then looked out at the crowd. “You know, I had bets going about who’d cause the first scandal tonight. But my money might be on our dear Sprout.”

Marcus stiffened. Just slightly.

Abraxas followed his gaze lazily, and when he caught sight of Anna and Lantaner across the room, his grin only grew.

“Delicious,” he murmured. “And I thought I had dramatic taste.”

Marcus didn’t say a word.

But his jaw had tightened. Just a little.

Wimus caught Marcus’s look and grinned.

“Where’s Brennan? Don’t tell me he saw who Sprout came in with and actually fled.”

Marcus snorted. “Nah. He’s around here somewhere. Very drunk. We barely got through half the bottle before he started moaning about her again.”

Wimus winced. “Rough.”

Marcus shot him a look. “Would’ve been less rough if you and Pucey showed up.”

Wimus shrugged, unbothered. “Plans changed last minute.”

“And Pucey?”

“No clue. Might’ve been otherwise occupied. You know—pre-ball festivities.”

Marcus huffed a laugh. “Classy.”

Abraxas took a slow sip from his glass, eyeing Marcus’s outfit with a raised brow.

“Not bad, actually. Where’d you get the robes? Don’t tell me Borden actually came through.”

Marcus huffed a laugh. “He tried. Forgot that height doesn’t mean build. I looked like I’d stuffed myself into a cursed mannequin.”

Abraxas smirked. “So?”

“Warrington sent one of his old ones—had it delivered by owl this morning.”

Wimus chuckled, shaking his head. “Let me guess—it came with a strongly worded letter and a reminder to keep an eye on Cornelia?”

Marcus didn’t answer right away. His gaze had drifted back to the dance floor, where a familiar blonde head was weaving in and out between clusters of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons boys.

He smirked and gave a small nod.

“Something like that.”

Marcus’s gaze kept drifting—again and again—to Katie.

She looked good. Too good, if he was being honest with himself. And the longer he watched, the more that familiar irritation started bubbling under his skin. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. Not entirely. But it was close. Close enough to sting.

She was out in the middle of the crowd, laughing at something, head tilted slightly—and there was Rotkov, towering beside her in that damn Durmstrang uniform, his hand resting casually on her back as he leaned down to say something.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing overt.

Just… easy. Comfortable. Like he had every right to be there.

And that? That irritated the hell out of Marcus.

Not because he thought she was his. He wasn’t that delusional.

But because Rotkov was acting like she was.

And Katie—Merlin help him—was letting him.

He didn’t know exactly what that stirred in him, only that it twisted sharp and low, something hot and unwelcome.

He didn’t get the chance to name it, though—because a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.

“Flint, my boy!”

Ludo Bagman.

Too old, too drunk, and far too enthusiastic for the setting.

Marcus stiffened as the former Quidditch star leaned in, reeking of brandy and nostalgia, his grin far too wide for comfort.

Abraxas, sensing the incoming disaster like the seasoned escape artist he was, took one casual step back, muttered something that might’ve been “good luck,” and vanished into the crowd with the grace of someone who had absolutely no intention of being part of whatever was about to happen.

Marcus didn’t even turn to stop him.

He just stood there, jaw tightening, as Bagman leaned in closer with the unhinged energy of a man who thought volume and familiarity were the same thing.

Bagman was already half through a rambling, slurred story about “how the French used to throw proper galas back in ’82” when someone stepped up beside them.

Marcus didn’t need to look. The shift in the air told him enough.

But Bagman did look—and lit up instantly.

“Aha! Speak of the bloody devil!” he crowed. “If it isn’t my favorite former steward!”

Jonas Lantaner stood there in crisp, sharp robes, hands clasped behind his back like he was still at a Ministry briefing. Cool, calm, unreadable.

Bagman clapped a hand on both their shoulders like they were old teammates. “Flint and Lantaner. Merlin’s tits. Put you two on a team, and I’d be out of a job!”

Marcus’s jaw twitched. He said nothing.

“Ludovic,” Lantaner said smoothly, “perhaps you should sit down.”

Bagman blinked. “What?”

“You’re swaying.”

Bagman squinted at him, then let out a bark of laughter. “Always so serious! That’s what I liked about you. No nonsense. Unlike some people I could name.” He gave Marcus a sloppy wink, then finally wandered off, mumbling something about tripping over his own feet.

For a moment, silence.

Then Lantaner sipped his drink and muttered, “You’ve gotten moodier.”

Marcus side-eyed him. “You’ve gotten bolder.”

Jonas grinned. “That’s what retirement does to a man.”

A pause.

“You’ve done well with the league.”

Marcus gave him a look. “Thought you didn’t approve of how I run things.”

“I don’t. But you’ve kept it alive.” Another pause. “For now.”

Marcus’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “What, no gold star?”

Lantaner’s gaze drifted toward the dance floor. “That depends. How long do you think you can keep it from falling apart?”

Marcus turned his gaze back to him, sharp and steady.

“Well, since we’re already talking…” he said, voice low. “Anything you feel like telling me?”

Jonas didn’t blink. “Such as?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Cut the shit, Lantaner. The money from last year.”

A flicker of something passed over Jonas’s face—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile.

“Ah,” he said calmly. “So you did find out.”

Marcus tilted his head, jaw tight. “You didn’t think I would?”

Jonas shrugged. “I assumed you’d be too busy patching holes in the league to notice.”

“I notice everything,” Marcus said flatly. “Eventually.”

Jonas laughed, low and amused. “Now that’s not how I remember it. I think you miss more than you let on, Marcus.”

Marcus’s expression darkened. “And what exactly am I missing?”

Jonas lifted his glass, swirling the contents casually. “I think you should see it for yourself. You did just say you notice everything, didn’t you?”

Marcus didn’t blink. “For someone who’s graduated and supposedly left the league behind, you’ve got an unhealthy amount of interest in what goes on here.”

Jonas grinned, leaning in just slightly. “Says the guy who stuck around an extra year to run it.”

Touché.

Marcus turned to face him fully now, the crowd, the music, the lights around them all bleeding into background noise.

“You do realize I’m doing you a massive favor by not telling anyone about your little stunts with the money,” he said quietly, the edge in his voice sharper now. “You should be thanking me.”

Jonas just shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Please. You’re not doing it for me, Marcus. You’re doing it for yourself. If you really wanted to blow this up, you would’ve told Bagman back in October—when he was here, poking around. What, you think I didn’t notice?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “What game are you playing, Lantaner? Seriously. Aren’t you tired of this shit? Don’t you have anything better to do? A personal life, maybe?”

Jonas sipped from his glass. “Oh, I do. But this—” he gestured broadly to the room, to the noise, the people, the chaos—“this is far more interesting.”

Marcus’s hands clenched at his sides.

Jonas tilted his head, voice dropping low. “You’re so busy trying to keep the league from falling apart, you don’t even notice where the cracks are coming from.”

A beat.

“Protect your reputation, Flint.”

Then, quieter: “And maybe start watching your friends.”

He disappeared into the crowd before Marcus could fire back.

But the echo of his words lingered—like a dare. Or a warning. Or maybe both.

Marcus stayed rooted in place, drinkless and stiff, his jaw tight as he scanned the hall. The noise had swelled again—music, laughter, voices layered one over the other in a haze—but all he could hear was Lantaner’s voice playing on loop.

He caught sight of Wimus first—mid-sentence, half-laughing, very obviously trying to pour another drink into the glass of a wide-eyed Beauxbatons boy who clearly hadn’t realized he was being hunted.

Then Pucey, in the center of the floor, dancing with one hand firmly on his date’s lower back, his grin a little too smug for someone who’d supposedly been nervous about tonight. Marcus watched him nudge her closer, murmur something in her ear. She laughed.

And then—nothing.

Because Brennan, who had walked in with him, who’d made some crack about trying not to die of heartbreak before midnight, was nowhere to be seen.

Marcus frowned.

They’d only just gotten through the doors when a Durmstrang player intercepted them—tall, buzzed hair, one of the Iron Stags. Said he needed help with something backstage. Brennan had waved Marcus off, said he’d be right back.

That had been nearly twenty minutes ago.

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. His mind started connecting dots that maybe didn’t even exist yet, but the shape they made left a pit in his stomach.

And then Crass appeared.

He didn’t say anything—just stepped into Marcus’s peripheral vision like a ghost with good posture, clutching a drink he clearly wasn’t drinking. His gaze was fixed somewhere over the dance floor, but his presence wasn’t casual. Not even close.

“Didn’t know you’d actually show up tonight,” Crass said eventually, voice low.

Marcus kept his eyes on the room. “Didn’t know you owned a suit that didn’t look like it belonged to your father.”

Crass gave a small snort. “House-elf dug it up. Still smells like cedar and old magic.”

They stood in silence a beat longer. Someone whooped in the distance. A group of Beauxbatons girls drifted past, laughing too loudly. Crass took a slow sip, then said, almost absently—

“You know, it’s been on my mind lately. Last year. The money.”

That was enough to get Marcus to glance over, just once.

Crass didn’t meet his eye. “I never told you this, but… Lantaner asked me to run numbers once. Just hypotheticals. Like—what would happen to the league if my funds got pulled. Or if the betting limits were raised again.”

Marcus’s voice was quiet. “And you gave him the projections?”

Crass nodded once. “Didn’t think anything of it at the time. He didn’t say what it was for. Just said he was curious.”

Marcus tilted his head slightly, the pieces clicking into place in a way they already had weeks ago.

“He wasn’t curious,” Marcus muttered. “He was casing the league. Seeing what would happen if he pulled the plug.”

Crass looked sideways at him. “You knew?”

Marcus let out a breath through his nose. “Since the night I called you all in.”

Crass blinked. “Then why ask me questions like you didn’t?”

“Because you’re Coin Steward,” Marcus said simply. “Would’ve looked real fucking odd if I didn’t push you about league finances.”

Crass hesitated, then gave a small, resigned shrug. “I guess that’s fair.”

Marcus went quiet again. His jaw flexed once.

“You think he’s still pulling strings?” Crass asked quietly.

Marcus’s eyes scanned the crowd. “I think he never stopped.”:

And then he turned to him more fully this time, surprising them both.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice low but even, “I don’t blame you.”

Crass blinked. “What?”

Marcus shrugged, gaze steady. “I know you. You overthink shit. Probably let it eat at you that you didn’t say something sooner. But it’s done. I never actually thought you were involved.”

Crass opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“…Right,” he said finally, quiet. “Thanks.”

Marcus just nodded and looked back toward the floor, like the conversation had already ended.

They stood in silence, not quite together, not quite apart—two people who didn’t really fit the picture in front of them.

Crass, with his stiff posture and barely touched drink, looked more like someone attending a formal ministry function than a school ball. Maybe that was the point. With his strict sense of order and oddly rigid morals, he’d always seemed more comfortable buried in ledgers than in any student crowd. No wonder he’d found such a strange home in the league—rules, structure, numbers. No surprises.

Marcus, on the other hand, looked like someone who had crashed a party he was never invited to. He’d felt that way since September. Staying an extra year had always been a gamble—one part necessity, one part defiance—and tonight only reminded him just how out of place he was. Too old to blend in. Too entrenched to walk away.

The music shifted. The lights dimmed.

And from the stage, the lead singer leaned into the mic with a knowing smile.

“This one’s going out to all the lovers out there,” the singer’s voice rang smooth and low across the hall, drawing a hush from the crowd. “Hold each other tight, and keep each other warm…”

The lights dimmed slightly, and the music slowed.

“…And dance your final dance.”

Katie turned toward the stage just as the first soft notes filled the room. Around her, couples began moving toward the floor, drawn in as if by instinct. Laughter softened to murmurs. A few students nervously offered their hands. Some didn’t need to ask.

Then she turned back automatically to Nikolai, half-expecting — okay, maybe more than half — that he’d hold out a hand or at least say something.

Instead, he gave her a small nod and said, matter-of-factly, “I’m going to bed now. This was fun. See you.”

“What?” she blinked.

“I have training at six,” he added with a shrug, already stepping back. “Good night.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off, his red Durmstrang uniform disappearing into the crowd like a curtain closing.

Katie stood there for a second, still holding the ghost of a response in her throat.

Well. That was that.

She let out a breath, turned her head slightly — and then stopped.

Across the room, just past the edge of the dance floor, stood Marcus.

He wasn’t dancing. Wasn’t talking. Just… watching.

Their eyes met.

Neither moved.

Katie felt her heart stutter, the kind of beat that didn’t show on the outside but screamed in her chest.

Marcus tilted his head — barely — and then, slowly, took a step.

Her breath caught.

He was walking toward her.

Finally.

Katie stood frozen.

Marcus was moving toward her now, slow but certain, weaving through the edge of the crowd, never taking his eyes off her. The room seemed to blur around him — the music, the lights, the couples pairing off for the final song. All of it faded.

She took a breath, just about to step forward—

—but someone beat her to it.

A figure moved quickly through the crowd and stopped beside Marcus. Darryl. He leaned in, said something low and urgent against Marcus’s ear.

Katie saw Marcus’s expression shift instantly — from focused to tense. He frowned, shaking his head, but Darryl caught his wrist, said something else, firmer this time.

Marcus sighed.

He looked back at Katie.

There was a beat — barely a second — but in his eyes she could read it clear as day.

I’m sorry.

Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd with Darryl, already pulling his sleeves back like he was preparing for something much, much worse than a dance.

Katie stayed still for a few seconds, just long enough to feel ridiculous.

Then she looked away.

Around her, the slow song had brought the Hall into soft focus — couples swaying, hands on waists, foreheads resting together like something out of a Celestina Warbeck album cover.

She spotted Alicia and Rado spinning lazily near the center, laughing about something. Angelina and Fred weren’t even dancing properly anymore, just holding each other and talking like the world had faded out around them.

Even George had found someone. Possibly French. Possibly not.

Katie sighed and turned instinctively toward the last possible source of salvation: Lee Jordan.

Only to see him in the corner, half-hidden behind a pillar, snogging his date like it was a full-contact sport.

She blinked.

The silver flash of the flask tucked into his inner pocket taunted her from ten feet away.

But alas — she wasn’t nearly cruel enough to interrupt.

Katie exhaled through her nose, one last deep breath of fake candle smoke and magical snowfall, then gave a small shrug to no one in particular.

“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “guess that’s my cue.”

Because clearly, the night was over.

At least for her.

***

Katie wandered the dim corridors of the castle, heels in one hand, the other dragging along the cold stone wall for balance. Most people were still in the Great Hall—dancing, drinking, or stumbling their way toward decisions they’d regret by morning. Others, she passed in shadowy corners—some snogging with alarming enthusiasm, others already well past that stage.

She winced and averted her eyes. Nope. Not her business.

Her head buzzed. Her feet ached. And somewhere beneath it all, her heart throbbed with the dull, familiar sting of disappointment.

Because of course it ended like this.

Not that she’d come into the night with grand expectations. She’d had a checklist.

Three items. Two realistic. One stupid.

First: have fun.

Second: get drunk.

Simple. Achievable. Check and check.

The third one?

That was less of a goal and more of a… maybe. A quiet wish she hadn’t even said out loud. Not to the girls. Not even to herself, really.

But it had sat there all night, heavy in the back of her mind like an unopened letter.

And now?

Well. One and two were holding strong.

Three? That one was officially fucked.

She hadn’t expected anything from Rotkov—not really. He wasn’t the grand gesture type, and she’d never confused him for someone who was.

But from Flint… maybe. Just a little.

Maybe she’d thought—maybe she’d hoped—that this would be the night he said screw it and did something.

And he almost had. She was sure of it.

Then he vanished.

Bloody typical.

She was making her way toward the common room, mind foggy and mood steadily deteriorating, when she noticed the trail—crumpled napkins littering the floor like some tragic breadcrumb path.

Katie looked up.

There they were.

Her sisters in disappointment.

A small group of girls sat clustered on one of the wide staircases, every one of them radiating the same kind of energy she was dragging behind her like a torn hem. One was quietly crying into her hands. Another patted her back with the slow, resigned rhythm of someone who’d been through it herself. A third was sprawled across a step, staring blankly at the ceiling. And the fourth just sat there, chin in hand, bottle in the other, looking like she was contemplating life, death, and everything in between.

The contemplative one spotted Katie approaching and—without a word—extended the bottle in silent offering. The others shuffled to the side, making room without being asked.

Katie took the bottle.

She sat down.

Took a sip.

Perfect.

***

Some time had passed. How long—Katie didn’t know. She’d stopped checking.

The warmth from the bottle had fully settled in her limbs now, blurring the sharp edges of disappointment into something softer, fuzzier. The girls still sat in the same quiet cluster, shoulders occasionally brushing, but no one had spoken in a while. They didn’t need to. The silence had become a kind of truce, a collective breath held between them, broken only by the occasional sip or sniffle.

Katie was just starting to lose the last thread of clarity when it happened.

A sudden bump to her shoulder.

She blinked up just in time to see a group of boys pushing past them, moving fast. Not laughing. Not stumbling. Their faces were tight, focused. Like they were heading somewhere with purpose.

Not drunk. Not messing around.

Katie narrowed her eyes.

Something about it felt off.

She stood, swaying slightly as the floor tilted under her feet. The bottle was still in her hand.

One of the girls looked up at her, frowning slightly. “Where are you going?”

Katie just shrugged.

She had no idea what she was walking into.

But it had to be better than sitting her ass on an icy staircase.

***

Katie, still tipsy, followed after the boys with all the grace of a drunk, mildly curious moth. They moved too quickly—determined, purposeful—and far too sober for her liking. By the time she turned the corner into one of the castle’s dim, narrow corridors, she was ready to give up and go back to the stairs.

But then she saw it.

And it was… a scene.

The group she’d been trailing—Durmstrang boys, all tall and serious—had come to a stop. They stood a few feet behind Nikolai Rotkov, who was… not injured. Not bleeding. Not yelling.

Just standing there. Calm. Silent.

Which was a hell of a contrast to Crass Borden, who looked like he’d seen death itself. His hand trembled as he pointed his wand directly at Nikolai’s chest, shoulders rigid, like he was barely holding himself together.

Between them stood Darryl, arms halfway raised like he was trying to mediate a hostage situation. His face said one thing: I deeply regret being here.

Behind Crass, it got even better.

Ivar Brennan was slumped against the stone wall, clearly unconscious and missing one shoe. Marcus Flint knelt beside him, blood pouring from his nose, dripping down his chin and soaking into the collar of his dress robes. He looked like he’d taken a punch—or given one—and not walked away clean either.

Katie squinted, trying to make sense of what she was looking at. Or if she was hallucinating. Entirely possible. She swayed slightly, bare foot digging into the stone floor as her brain attempted to catch up.

Then, slowly, she lifted the half-empty bottle in her hand.

And smashed it against the wall.

The shatter cracked through the tension like a lightning strike.

Every head turned.

She took a step forward, holding the jagged neck of the bottle like a weapon, heels dangling from her other hand, eyes blazing.

“Well,” she said, voice hoarse and loud in the silence. “Who am I supposed to kick the shit out of first?”

A beat of stunned silence.

Darryl blinked at her like she’d sprouted wings. Crass flinched. Marcus opened his mouth, closed it again, then muttered something inaudible and scrubbed at his bloody nose.

Rotkov tilted his head.

And then—

“YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!”

The shout cracked through the corridor like divine punishment.

Katie turned her head just in time to see Argus Filch come barreling around the corner, wild-eyed, swinging a lantern with one hand and gripping Mrs. Norris like a furry grenade in the other.

“Fighting! Drinking! Smashing school property—”

“Oh, fuck me,” Marcus hissed.

He shot to his feet, grabbed Ivar with one arm and Katie by the wrist with the other. “Run.”

“I don’t run,” Katie slurred.

“You do now,” he snapped, already dragging her backward.

Crass spun on his heel and bolted after them. Darryl hesitated for half a second—looked at Filch, at Rotkov, back at Filch—and then wisely took off.

So did the Rotkov and other Durmstrang boys, who didn’t understand the words “Argus Filch” but very much understood the energy.

Behind them, Filch roared something about “chaining them to the walls” and “calling the Ministry.”

And somewhere in the middle of it, Katie—half-dragged, half-sprinting—let out a breathless laugh.

Because honestly?

This was still better than the slow dance she never got.

Chapter Text

At some point during their mad dash away from Filch—somewhere between the buzz and the chaos—Katie realized she was gonna puke.

Not exactly shocking, considering how much she’d chugged in the name of fun and… yeah, disappointment.

Luckily, before she had to make a scene, they tore through a few more corridors and stumbled into one of the castle’s long portrait galleries. Darryl, leading the charge, suddenly skidded to a stop in front of a massive painting.

He whipped out his wand, smacked the frame, and the portrait creaked open like a secret door.

“In, now,” he said, already backing away. “I’ll keep running, try to throw Filch off.”

Marcus was halfway through shoving Brennan—barely conscious—into the narrow passage. Crass hovered near the corner, watching for Filch like his life depended on it.

Katie leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to breathe through the nausea and not throw up on her own feet.

But before she could get herself together, Marcus—true to his annoyingly consistent habit—grabbed her by the edge of her dress and gave a sharp tug.

He always did that. Sleeve, cloak, skirt—whatever was closest. Like she was a particularly mouthy suitcase he had to drag everywhere.

This time, maybe because she was drunk, or maybe because it was him, she let out a short, breathless giggle.

The portrait slammed shut behind them.

***

They landed in the usual kind of narrow secret passage—stone walls, low ceiling, the smell of dust and forgotten rules.

Marcus, still bleeding and looking like he’d lost a fight with a hippogriff, let go of her dress and wiped his nose on his sleeve with zero shame.

Katie stood there barefoot, heels in one hand, the jagged neck of a broken bottle in the other, like the world’s most unhinged party guest.

Somewhere ahead, Brennan was sprawled on the ground, limbs at odd angles, not dead but definitely not doing great.

For a second, nobody said anything.

“You’re gonna have to choose one of those,” Flint finally broke the silence, nodding at her hands. “I’m not dragging this deadweight alone.”

Katie blinked at him, slowly. His words took a second to process.

“…Can’t you just levitate him?”

“I lost my wand somewhere.”

Without hesitation, she kicked off her heels and hiked up her dress, reaching under the fabric to the thigh holster strapped to her leg.

“Thank Merlin,” she muttered, fingers closing around her wand. She pulled it out, letting the skirt fall back into place, then looked up—only to catch Flint staring very determinedly at the ceiling.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

Katie didn’t comment.

Instead, she turned toward Brennan, wobbling slightly as she lifted her wand.

“Mobilicorpus.”

Ivar’s body jerked off the ground like a badly controlled puppet, nearly smacking into the ceiling before Katie wrangled the spell into something resembling coordination.

“Well?” she turned back at Marcus. “Why are you just standing there?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You sure that’s your choice? I feel like the bottle’s gonna be less useful than your shoes.”

“They’re my shoes,” she said, stubborn as ever. “And I decide what I want.”

He gave her a look, half-amused, half-exasperated, then bent down toward her discarded heels.

Without a word, he tied ankle straps together and slung them over his shoulder like he did this every Saturday night.

“There we go,” she muttered, squinting as she guided him forward like a drunk parade balloon.

Marcus trailed behind, the heels still bouncing against his back. “You know, you’re way too confident with that spell for someone who almost vomited five minutes ago.”

Katie gave him a look. “And you’re way too smug for someone covered in blood.”

“Fair.”

***

They were almost there.

“Home sweet illegal med ward,” Marcus muttered.

Katie snorted, adjusting her grip on her wand. Brennan floated peacefully ahead of them, still looking like a corpse on strings.

“Well, at least he’s quiet,” she said.

And that’s when Brennan screamed.

The kind of scream that made your soul flinch. Wild, guttural, full-on banshee mode.

Katie nearly dropped her wand. Marcus stumbled back.

“What the fu—”

Brennan’s body twisted mid-air like he’d been hit with a jolt of electricity, the Mobilicorpus spell snapping like a rubber band. He dropped to the ground, rolled, and immediately started thrashing like a man possessed.

“NO—GET OFF—DON’T TOUCH ME—”

“Shit—he’s feral!” Marcus yelped.

Katie tried to raise her wand again, but Brennan lunged—arms flailing, mouth foaming, one shoe still missing and absolutely not helping the vibe.

“Petrificus— NOPE, MISSED.”

“Do something!”

“YOU do something!”

Marcus dove forward, trying to pin Brennan’s legs. Katie tackled the upper half, jagged bottle still clutched in one hand. Together, grunting, yelling, nearly getting headbutted twice, they shoved him through the door of the impromptu medical alcove.

With one final shove, Brennan hit the floor inside like a sack of bricks. Katie and Marcus slammed the door shut and held it.

Brennan shrieked once more. Then silence.

Beat.

Another beat.

“…You think he’s dead?” Katie asked, breathless.

Marcus blinked at her. “I hope he’s dead. Otherwise I’m gonna kill him myself.”

A long groan echoed from inside.

Katie slid down the wall, wheezing with laughter. “What the hell was that?!”

“No idea,” Marcus managed, still breathless. “Possession? Magical rabies?”

Katie wheezed. “Did he bite you?”

“Almost elbowed me in the face. Does that count?”

She lost it again, laughing until her ribs hurt. The jagged bottle clinked as she dropped it gently to the floor. Marcus joined in a second later, helpless against it.

Inside the room, Brennan groaned like a haunted wardrobe.

***

They sat on the cold stone floor, backs pressed to the door neither of them trusted to stay shut on its own. For a while, neither spoke.

Somewhere nearby, the jagged remains of a broken bottle glinted dully in the low light. Katie’s heels—both pairs—were resting beside Marcus, their straps still knotted together. He was slowly, half-distractedly, working them loose.

Katie leaned her head back against the door, eyes half-closed. Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke.

“So. You gonna tell me what actually happened?”

Marcus didn’t look up right away. Just exhaled.

“Brennan got drunk. Someone told him Anna showed up to the ball with a blond. Tall. So obviously, he sees Rotkov and assumes it’s him.”

Katie groaned. “Brilliant.”

“Started rambling at him. Real emotional. No filter. Darryl saw it happening, ran to find me. I get there, try to pull Brennan away before he causes an incident—and he elbows me in the face.” He gestured vaguely to his nose. “Then he trips and knocks himself out. Which is when Crass walks in. And the rest… well. You saw.”

Katie gave a tired laugh. “Honestly, could’ve guessed most of that.”

“Should’ve put money on it,” Marcus muttered.

They fell quiet again, but it wasn’t tense. Just… worn-out.

Katie picked at a loose thread on her dress. Then, without looking at him:

“At the ball.”

Marcus glanced over, just slightly.

She still wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“You were walking toward me. Right before Darryl pulled you.”

Marcus nodded once. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You were gonna ask me to dance?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then:

“Yeah.”

Katie gave a small, crooked smile.

“Of course you were.”

Another pause. Then, gently teasing:

“You always show up three seconds too late.”

Marcus huffed a quiet laugh. “Story of my life.”

Then he glanced down at himself, grimacing.

“Cassius is gonna hex me for this.”

Katie looked over. “Wait. That’s his suit?”

“Yeah. Had to borrow it.”

“You didn’t have your own?”

“Didn’t exactly plan on going,” he muttered. “Head was full of other things. No time to figure it out.”

“I always figured you had a whole closet full of different kinds of clothings.”

Marcus let out a dry sound. “I had a whole closet of robes and cloaks when I was twelve.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

He went still.

Katie caught the shift and softened.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

He hesitated. Then, quietly:

“My father thought the best way to raise a son was to dress him like a miniature version of himself. Business dinners. Fundraisers. Public appearances.”

A pause.

“Before I hit thirteen, I had ten custom-tailored formal robes and no idea what I liked.”

Katie blinked. “That’s… grim.”

“That’s the Flints.”

She tilted her head, curious. “And now?”

He leaned back against the door, eyes distant. “Now I’ve got two pairs of boots, one old broom, and no backup plan.”

Katie didn’t smile. She didn’t say sorry, either.

Instead, she nudged one of the untangled shoe straps toward him with her foot.

“I like the boots better.”

He looked at her. For once, not guarded.

They sat like that for a while. The air had settled, softer now. Honest.

Then Katie said, almost like an afterthought:

“You know… I’d kill for that kind of silence sometimes.”

Marcus turned toward her, brow raised.

Katie kept her gaze ahead.

“My house? Always packed. Loud. Cousins everywhere. At any given time, someone’s breaking something, screaming, or trying to make a potion out of orange juice and toothpaste.”

Marcus blinked. “That sounds like hell.”

She laughed. “It is. It’s also home.”

A beat.

“I love them, but sometimes I dream about stunning the whole lot and flying off to live in a cave.”

“With your broom and your bottle.”

“Exactly.”

They smiled again—softer, smaller, but real.

Then Katie added, voice quieter now:

“I don’t think anyone’s ever expected me to lead. I was always someone’s something. Someone’s friend, someone’s backup, someone’s little cousin who got in the way.”

She looked at him.

“That’s why the league matters for me. Why all of this matters. It is mine. Not theirs. Not even yours.”

Marcus didn’t argue. 

Just nodded.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt like they were performing.

Just two people. Scraped raw, sitting in the dark, finally not alone in it.

But the silence didn’t last.

A loud bang rattled the door behind them.

Katie jumped. “What the—?”

Another thud. Then shouting. Muffled, furious, and very much alive.

Marcus sighed. “Brennan’s awake.”

Right on cue, Darryl appeared at the end of the corridor, panting, slightly disheveled.

“What the hell—”

Marcus grabbed him by the front of his robes and shoved him toward the door.

“He’s yours now.”

“Wait—”

SLAM.

Door closed. Lock clicked. Brennan roared something about betrayal.

Katie let herself slide down the door, finally sinking to the floor again. One foot absently nudged the broken bottle aside as she stretched out her legs with a sigh.

Marcus stayed standing for a moment longer, arms crossed, like he wasn’t quite ready to sit still again. But then he dropped down beside her without a word—his shoulder just brushing hers as he leaned back, posture loose in that familiar, half-aware way of his. The torchlight above flickered, throwing slow shadows across the stone.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them shifted.

It was the same kind of closeness they’d found once before—pressed into a cupboard, breath shallow, the world trying to break down the door. Back then it had been panic and impulse.

Now it was just… them.

Katie turned slightly, catching him mid-look. There was dried blood along the edge of his nose, trailing faintly down his cheek like he hadn’t even noticed.

“I should check that,” she said quietly.

Marcus didn’t respond. Just kept watching her, gaze steady, unreadable as ever.

She looked nothing like she had at the start of the night. Her hair was tangled with glitter, her mascara smudged at the edges, her mouth still a little too red and too soft from whatever she’d been drinking.

And for whatever reason, that was when he said it.

“You look really beautiful tonight.”

Katie blinked, the corner of her mouth tugging upward— just amused in the way people are when they hear something too real to argue with.

“Only tonight?”

There was no edge in her voice. Just the question.

And Marcus had nothing clever to say back.

He didn’t need to.

Something passed between them—no spark, no heat, nothing dramatic. Just a quiet current. Recognition. The same one from the cupboard. The same one they’d both tried to outrun.

It lingered there for half a breath longer.

And then—of course—the door creaked.

Marcus and Katie both straightened instinctively, tense—until it opened just enough to reveal Darryl, flushed and breathing hard.

“Whatever he drank,” he panted, brushing a hand across his forehead, “he should never drink it again. He had me in a chokehold, shouting something about the Irish uprising for—Merlin knows how long.”

He looked at Marcus, then at Katie, and finally dug into his pocket.

“Oh. Your wand.” He tossed it to Marcus. “Found it before Filch could.”

There was a beat, and then he added, more casually, “Pretty sure Filch grabbed Brennan’s shoe though, so don’t be shocked if he’s wandering around tomorrow like some deranged prince looking for his Cinderella.”

Katie barely managed to stifle a laugh, covering her mouth as her shoulders shook. 

Darryl was already moving on. “I gave him enough cleansing potion to flush out a dragon, plus a calming draught. He won’t be rampaging again, but he’s going to spend the next few hours violently regretting every choice that led him here.”

He looked between the two of them, expression flat.

“Someone needs to stay with him.”

Marcus stood without hesitation. “I’ve got it.”

Darryl nodded, like he expected that, then pointed to the far side of the room. “There’s another cot. You can try sleeping, but between the smell and the noises, I’d give it ten minutes, tops.”

And then he turned to Katie, squinting. “Do I reek?”

She blinked. “What?”

“I left someone waiting out there. If I don’t smell like vomit, I might still have a shot.”

Katie shook her head. “You’re fine.”

Darryl eyed her for a second longer. “You’re swaying.”

“Barely,” she muttered, waving him off.

“There’s sobering potion on the table. Take it before you try walking through a wall.”

He was already heading for the door when he glanced over his shoulder.

“Alright. I’m gone. Good luck. Especially you, Flint.”

Once he left, Katie moved toward the table, opened the bottle, and winced.

“This smells like it’s going to do damage.”

Marcus, still tucking the blanket around Brennan, didn’t look up. “It probably will.”

She drank, coughed once, muttered something rude under her breath, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she looked toward the second cot.

“I’ll stay,” she said, quieter now. “Just going to lie down for a bit.”

Marcus had already dropped back into the chair between them, not looking surprised.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he said.

Katie gave a vague nod, curled up on her side—and was out in seconds.

Marcus stayed where he was, elbows on his knees, head bowed slightly as he glanced between Brennan’s unconscious groaning and Katie’s slow, even breaths.

He watched her for a long moment, shoulders slack, exhaustion finally starting to sink in now that everything else had quieted down.

“You’re a menace,” he said quietly, not expecting a response. “And you don’t even know it.”

She didn’t stir.

Didn’t have to.

She was still here.

And for now, that was enough.

***

Sometime later—though neither of them could’ve said when—Brennan lurched upright with a guttural sound and vomited directly into the bucket Darryl had left beside the bed.

Katie jolted awake, wincing at the noise. Marcus was already at Brennan’s side, steadying him with one hand and muttering something under his breath that sounded equal parts frustration and exhausted instruction.

Katie pushed herself up, rubbing at her eyes as she moved to help—grabbing a rag, conjuring water, mopping his face without needing to speak.

When Brennan slumped back down, soaked in sweat and unconscious again, Marcus sat back with a quiet groan, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Katie watched him for a moment. He looked worse than before—his face drawn, his eyes shadowed, like sleep hadn’t come near him all night.

“You look awful.”

Marcus shrugged one shoulder. “Thanks”

She gestured toward the cot. “Get in.”

He raised a brow. “What, and leave you in charge?”

“You think I haven’t seen worse?” Her voice was rough, but dry. “Go. I’ll keep watch.”

He hesitated, but her tone didn’t invite debate. With a quiet grunt, he sank down onto the bed, stretched out fully for the first time that night, and let his eyes close.

He didn’t sleep. Not really.

After a few minutes, he cracked one eye open—and there she was, slumped in the wooden chair beside him, arms crossed, head slowly sinking forward as her body lost the fight with gravity.

She blinked, once. Tried to sit straighter. Failed.

Marcus watched her a moment longer, then exhaled softly.

“Bell.”

No answer.

“Katie.”

She stirred, blearily opening one eye.

Marcus shifted, preparing to push himself off the cot.

“You should lie down,” he said, already bracing to get up. “Take the bed. I’ll move.”

Katie didn’t answer—at least, not with words. As soon as he started to rise, she moved first, quick and unbothered. She turned and lay down right next to him, curling onto her side with a sigh and leaving him wedged between her and the wall.

He froze.

Then let out the softest, most resigned exhale imaginable.

“…Really.”

But she was already still, arm slung loosely across the space between them, one knee drawn up like she hadn’t even noticed what she’d done.

Marcus stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, unsure what exactly he was supposed to do now.

Then his body—completely done arguing—made the decision for him.

He stayed still.

And somewhere in the heavy silence of the underground, with her warmth pressed lightly against his body, Marcus Flint fell asleep.

***

Marcus woke to a dull ache stretching down his spine and a dead weight in his shoulder. For a second, he wasn’t sure what had woken him—until he caught the sound of footsteps in the hallway and the low creak of the door.

The room was still dark in that way only underground spaces could be—timeless and airless, like the world had forgotten to keep turning.

And Katie was still asleep beside him.

Pressed against him, more like. Her arm lay across his chest, her face tucked under his jaw, warm breath ghosting against his neck. One of her knees rested over his thigh, and the entire length of her body curved into his like it belonged there.

She hadn’t moved. Not once.

And for a long minute, neither did he.

Everything hurt—his back, his neck, his ribs—but it felt far away. Distant. Manageable. He could’ve stayed like this. He would’ve. Hours. Days. Maybe forever, if the world had let him.

But it wouldn’t.

The door creaked open wider.

Soft light spilled across the floor.

Marcus heard a familiar voice pause—half-laughing, half-choked.

“…Well, shit.”

Abraxas.

And Adrian, right behind him.

Marcus didn’t lift his head. Just opened his eyes and said, dryly:

“Walk away.”

A beat. Then retreating footsteps. A muffled laugh. The door closing again.

Silence returned.

Katie didn’t stir.

Marcus looked down at her, the way she’d settled without hesitation, without thinking. Like she trusted him to be there when she woke up. Like the last few months hadn’t happened.

Carefully—too carefully—he lifted her arm, easing it off his chest and back onto the mattress.

She made a soft sound but didn’t wake.

He stayed still for a second longer, then let out a quiet breath and shifted, carefully sliding out.

The cot creaked as he stood, every muscle stiff, the cold settling in fast where her warmth had been.

He stood there for a moment longer, just watching her sleep. Part of him still wanted to crawl back into that cot, let the silence swallow them both again. But that wasn’t the kind of morning she’d signed up for. And he wasn’t going to make it harder.

So he stepped closer, crouched beside her, and touched her arm lightly—just enough.

“Katie,” he said, voice low, almost careful. “Time to get up.”

She stirred, frowning into the mattress, mumbling something that didn’t sound like words.

He waited.

Her eyes opened just a sliver—puffy with sleep, unfocused.

“…’s it morning?”

“Sort of,” he said. “Hard to tell down here.”

Katie blinked, still half-asleep, sitting on the edge of the cot like her limbs hadn’t quite figured out how to be awake yet. Her dress was rumpled, her hair a mess, and she was clearly trying to remember where the hell they were.

Marcus didn’t say anything. He just crouched down in front of her, reached for the heels he’d carried all night, and gently slid one onto her foot.

Katie blinked again, confused.

He buckled the strap.

Then the second shoe. Same quiet care, same deliberate motion. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything at all, and maybe that’s why it meant so much.

She watched him without speaking.

When he finished, he stood, reached behind him for the formal robe still hanging from the chair, and held it out.

She took it slowly, eyes still on him.

“You’ll freeze walking out like that,” he said simply.

Then added, without looking at her:

“I’ll walk you back.”

Katie didn’t argue. Didn’t tease. She just nodded once, quietly, pulling the robe around her shoulders and letting it fall heavy around her arms.

***

They walked in silence, the halls quiet in that early, strange hour where morning had technically begun, but the castle hadn’t caught up yet.

Katie moved slowly, still half-dragged by sleep, her steps uneven. Every now and then, she’d waver slightly to one side, and Marcus would reach out without a word—just a hand to her elbow, steadying her, then letting go.

She didn’t seem fully awake. Her eyes, swollen with sleep and shadowed from the night before, kept drifting closed as they walked, like her body hadn’t entirely agreed to being upright. She didn’t speak. Barely looked around. Just kept moving, one foot in front of the other, wrapped in his robe like she wasn’t entirely sure how she got here.

Marcus glanced over at her from time to time, eyes narrowing slightly, not with frustration but with quiet calculation. Watching her. Keeping pace.

He wondered if she remembered falling asleep beside him—how close she’d been, how her hand had curled into his shirt like something instinctive. Maybe she did. Maybe the mix of alcohol and sobering potion had wiped it all clean. Maybe she’d woken in that cot with only the vague sense that something had happened, but nothing clear enough to name.

Either way, they hadn’t talked about it.

Not yet.

And at some point, they’d have to.

But not now.

Now, they were just two people walking through the half-lit corridors of a castle, dodging yawning prefects and early risers, both of them rumpled, silent, and held together by one borrowed robe and a few steadying touches.

At the portrait, Katie paused.

She turned back toward him, her hand still clutching the front of his robe where it hung loose over her shoulders. Her smile was small—barely there—but it was real. Tired, uneven, but real.

Marcus didn’t return it. Just gave a single nod, steady and quiet.

She held his gaze for a second longer.

Then turned, whispered the password, and slipped through the portrait hole.

He stood there until the wall sealed shut behind her.

Only then did he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

***

The dorm was empty when Katie stepped in—dim, quiet, still carrying the faint perfume of curling irons and last-minute perfume. Alicia’s bed was untouched. So were the others.

Apparently, she was the first to make it back from the ball.

She slipped off Marcus’s robe, let it fall over the back of a chair, then kicked off her heels one by one, not caring where they landed. Her dress was wrinkled, her hair a mess, and all she wanted—desperately—was to sleep.

She collapsed face-first onto the bed with a muffled groan, sinking into the mattress like her body had finally given up.

But sleep didn’t come.

She turned over. Then onto her side. Then back again. Nothing.

Her limbs were heavy. Her brain was fog. But something felt… off. Off-balance. Like the warmth she’d carried with her all the way through the corridors had been peeled away the second she crossed the threshold. Something that had been pressed close against her all night.

And then it hit her.

Her eyes snapped open.

Merlin’s bloody eggs.

Did I fall asleep wrapped around Marcus Flint?

***

Marcus descended back into the underground levels with a mood that could only be described as unreasonably good. Maybe it was Katie. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, things weren’t falling apart at the seams. Either way, he felt… decent. Which, by his standards, bordered on suspicious.

Sure, Jonas was still circling like a vulture, and the whole mess between Brennan and Rotkov hadn’t magically disappeared—but for now, that noise felt far enough away to ignore.

He stepped into the back room where Brennan was still out cold, snoring like a dying beast. Crass sat nearby on a chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like regret had settled somewhere behind his eyes and refused to leave. Abraxas was crouched near the back shelf, rifling through vials and muttering to himself, clearly looking for something he’d probably forgotten the name of.

Marcus paused in the doorway, took in the scene—and smirked.

“Well. Look at this. Didn’t think either of you were the check on Brennan type.”

Crass lifted his head slowly, like every movement hurt. “You’re way too pleased with yourself for someone who survived, like, twelve disasters in one night.”

Marcus shrugged, made his way over, and dropped down onto the same cot he’d shared earlier with Katie. It was still warm. Not that he was thinking about that.

Abraxas finally popped up from behind a shelf, holding an unmarked vial and grinning like a gremlin.

“Oh, right! You haven’t heard.”

Abraxas turned back to Crass, eyes gleaming.

“This morning, Pucey and I walk in—expecting to find unconscious Brennan and maybe some lingering chaos—and instead, we find Flint.”

He made a gesture with both hands. “Fully horizontal. Very much asleep. And very much tangled up with a certain individual whose name starts with ‘K’ and ends with ‘atie’.”

Marcus didn’t open his eyes.

Crass stared at him for a beat.

“…Wait. Are you telling me you shagged Bell in here? While Brennan was doing his best impression of a dying purple toad two feet away?”

Marcus reached for the nearest rag—one they’d used earlier to clean off Brennan’s face—and lobbed it at Crass without even sitting up.

“Choose your words more carefully,” he said flatly. “No one shagged anyone. We fell asleep.”

The rag hit Crass square in the face.

He recoiled instantly, grabbing it between two fingers like it had personally offended him—which, considering the smell, it probably had.

Abraxas, completely unfazed, downed the contents of the vial he’d finally settled on. He smacked his lips dramatically.

“Ah. Liquid salvation. Exactly what the mind and body crave.”

He looked over at Crass.

“You want one?”

“Please,” Crass said without hesitation, rubbing his eyes like the memory of last night was still burning behind them.

Marcus finally sat up, rolling his shoulders, and pulled a slightly crumpled cigarette from his pocket.

“So,” he said, voice still scratchy from sleep, “what’ve you two been up to?”

Abraxas gave a theatrical sigh, clapping a hand on Brennan’s shoulder hard enough to make the unconscious boy grunt in his sleep.

“Well, you missed a decent party. Contraband booze, the Weird Sisters on full blast, a couple of very charming girls—and boys, for balance.” He shot a look at Crass. “Even managed to drag Borden out.”

Crass muttered without looking up, “I wasn’t dragged. I just lost the will to resist after lap three around the castle.”

Abraxas smirked. “Semantics.”

Marcus raised a brow.

Abraxas pointed at the cigarette. “But seriously—Merlin’s tits, Flint. This room already smells like bile, bad decisions, and regret. Do you have to add burnt tobacco to the mix?”

Marcus didn’t blink.

“I absolutely do.”

And with that, he lit it anyway.

Abraxas immediately wrinkled his nose, pulled out his wand, and with an overly dramatic flourish, cast a charm to neutralize the smell.

Marcus ignored him. “So. Party, huh? Sounds… eventful.”

He took another drag. “Where’s Pucey?”

Abraxas tucked his wand away and waved a hand vaguely in the air.

“Somewhere around here. Still trying to convince his date to make poor life choices. Or maybe already did. Hard to say.”

He smirked. “I just hope the locker room survives.”

Marcus froze, the cigarette halfway to his mouth.

“…What do you mean ‘around here’? And what does the locker room have to do with anything?”

Borden and Wimus exchanged a look.

Then Wimus cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that… we might’ve screwed up.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Start talking.”

“After you guys stirred up half the castle, professors started checking every corridor. We had to move the party.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Where.”

Abraxas hesitated. Crass sighed. “Just say it.”

“The arena,” Abraxas admitted. “We moved it down here.”

Marcus went still.

“You brought people—non-league people—into the arena?”

“They didn’t even know what it was!” Abraxas defended. “They thought it was a dueling club. Or storage. It was fine.”

Marcus’s voice dropped.

“How many.”

“…Thirty?”

A long pause.

“Max.”

Marcus didn’t say a word at first.

He just turned, pressed the cigarette into the edge of the cot until it hissed and died—didn’t even glance at the burn it left on the fabric.

Then, voice low and deadly. 

“Have you completely lost your mind?”

He turned to Crass. “Where the hell were your eyes?”

Crass raised both hands. “I walked in and the party was already happening. I thought it was cleared. He—” he jabbed a thumb at Abraxas “—was acting like it was all under control.”

Abraxas stood up slightly, hands half-raised. “Alright, alright. Look. Yeah. It was stupid. I know.”

He let out a breath. “But nothing happened. Most of them were too drunk to even remember how they got here. We cleared them out. Well—most of them. And if it helps, Bagman was here. So was Lantaner.”

Marcus blinked slowly, like he was counting to ten in a language no one else spoke.

“When the hell were you planning on telling me?” His voice was low, sharp. “Do you have any idea how many rules you broke?”

Abraxas raised both hands slightly. “Technically speaking… it was more Lantaner’s idea. I’m just the idiot who agreed to it.”

Marcus exhaled hard and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The high from earlier—the rare, stupid, fleeting sense of calm—evaporated like it had never existed.

Of course.

The second he let himself breathe, everything started falling apart again.

“How many of them knew what this place really is?”

Abraxas winced. “Six? Maybe seven? Including us.”

Marcus let out a slow, heavy breath.

Then, quieter—but with a sharpness that cut deeper than yelling:

“Wimus. If this has consequences—and it will have consequences—you’re the one they’ll land on.”

Abraxas opened his mouth to protest, but Marcus didn’t give him the space.

“So clean it up. All of it. I don’t care how. Use Obliviate if you have to. Invent a new spell for all I care.”

He turned slightly, voice iron-flat now.

“Until then, you’re out. Darryl’s covering your role. You don’t set foot down here until inter-division plays begin. Got it?”

Abraxas didn’t argue. Just nodded once. Silently.

Then Marcus turned to Crass.

“And you. I want a list of everyone who was at that party. Names, house, league affiliation if any.”

Crass gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

“I’ll pass it to the Watchers. Anyone in the league who was there—” Marcus’s voice tightened just enough to make it clear it wasn’t a warning, it was a sentence, “—will face separate consequences.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy.

At that exact moment, the door creaked open and Darryl stepped inside, a tray of potion vials balanced in his hands.

He stopped mid-step, immediately sensing the shift in the air—like he’d walked in on a duel that had already been fought, and someone was still bleeding out on the floor.

“…Did I miss something?” he asked cautiously.

Marcus didn’t even blink.

“You were at the party too?”

Darryl blinked. “What party?”

Marcus didn’t bother explaining.

“Leave the vials. Wake Brennan. I need a word with him.”

Darryl hesitated only a second before nodding. He set the tray down and crossed to Brennan’s cot without another word.

Marcus turned to Abraxas, his tone ice-cold.

“Bring me Pucey.”

Crass, who’d been silent and tense through the entire exchange, watched Abraxas leave with a clenched jaw.

Then, after a pause, he stood up, brushed his hands on his trousers, and stepped closer to Marcus—who hadn’t moved, eyes still fixed on Darryl and the groggy mess that was Brennan.

Crass cleared his throat quietly.

“We need to talk. Later.”

Marcus didn’t look at him, but he gave a single nod.

“There’s something you should know,” Crass added, voice low.

Still, Marcus didn’t turn.

Just said, flat and final:

“Later, then.”

***

That evening, Katie stood on the underground pitch, pale and steadying herself against her broom, eyes fixed somewhere just above the horizon.

The rest of the team was scattered across the field—scuffed, rumpled, clearly recovering from the night before—but still flying. Still training. They were working through one of the new formations she’d sketched out earlier in the week. A rotation-heavy strategy with sharp reversals and fake-outs—hers entirely.

It was messy. Sloppy in places. But they were getting it.

And Katie?

Katie was just trying to keep her legs from shaking under her.

Her head throbbed in dull pulses—remnants of firewhisky, sobering draught, and maybe just… everything. The night. The conversation. The falling asleep with Marcus Flint still wrapped around her like some goddamn heat source.

She squeezed her fingers tighter around the broom handle.

No time for that now. Not here.

Here, she was captain. Or close enough.

“Bell!”

Fred swooped past, looping back around before hovering just above her shoulder.

“Now’s not the time to stand around enjoying the breeze. Get your arse in the air.”

Katie glanced up at him, eyes heavy.

Fred looked her over, grin tugging at his mouth.

“You look like someone who had a very good night.”

Katie groaned and rubbed her temple.

“You have no idea.”

Lee drifted in lazily behind Fred, summoned a flask from somewhere off-field with a smooth Accio, took a long, dramatic sip, and smirked.

“Anyone hear the gossip? Someone from our side allegedly tried to square up with one of the Durmstrangs.”

Matlock, already touching down, chimed in like he’d been waiting all day to say it.

“Yeah, yeah—there was shouting, wand-waving… and someone pulled a broken bottle. Real classy.”

Katie, still leaning on her broom like it was holding her upright, didn’t even open her eyes.

“The bottle,” she said through gritted teeth, “was an accident. And it wasn’t a fight. Just… a big misunderstanding.”

There was a beat.

Then the boys slowly turned to stare at her.

Lee raised an eyebrow. “…And you know this because?”

Before Katie could respond, George coasted down toward them, clearly catching the tail end of the conversation.

“Please. That’s nothing,” he said, grinning. “You lot hear about the party that got moved down here?”

Lee blinked. “Wait—here here?”

George nodded. “Word is, some of the stewards brought non-league students into the arena. Whole crowd of them.”

Lee let out a low whistle. “And Flint didn’t hex them into next week?”

Katie still said nothing, but her grip on the broom tightened just slightly.

Matlock snorted. “Yeah, no way that was Flint’s idea. He treats league security like it’s Gringotts. Someone else must’ve messed up. He’s probably ripping someone apart right now.”

Somewhere behind them, Ron’s voice echoed from near the goalposts:

“Oi! What’re you lot whispering about?”

They all ignored him.

Katie sighed.

“Unimportant. What is important is that none of you are flying. Why are your feet on the ground?”

Matlock blinked. “Team bonding?”

“Get. In. The. Air,” she growled, already pushing off the ground.

***

The match against the Leeches was scheduled for today.

A flood of spectators was expected—not surprising, really. A showdown between the so-called “golden team” and the league’s favorite dark horses was exactly the kind of chaotic entertainment bored upper-years dreamed of during long castle-bound weekends.

Katie sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table, poking absentmindedly at what had once been eggs. They’d gone cold a long time ago. She wasn’t hungry. Not really thinking about food, either.

Her team was scattered, quiet. No one spoke of strategy. No whispers of matchups or play rotations. Because officially, there was no match. Not tonight. Not ever.

Katie’s gaze wandered, scanning the Hall like it might give her something solid to grab onto.

The Slytherin table drew her eye first. Marcus wasn’t there. Pucey, either.

But Nikolai was.

He sat among the Durmstrang delegation, spine straight, shoulders set, staring into nothing. Not speaking. Not reacting. Just… still. Not the usual kind. This wasn’t discipline or control.

It was restraint.

Katie didn’t like it.

Her attention drifted across the Hall. Wimus sat hunched at the Hufflepuff table, listlessly stirring something grey in a bowl, clearly somewhere else in his head.

And Anna—Anna looked untouched by the mood. Hair immaculate, uniform crisp, chin slightly lifted like she already knew how the day would end.

Katie knew that expression.

So when Anna rose and walked across the Hall, steps deliberate, Katie wasn’t surprised.

She kept her gaze forward until Anna sat down beside her, too calm, too close.

“You don’t look particularly focused,” she said.

Katie didn’t turn. “You don’t look particularly welcome.”

“I assumed you’d be sharper than that.”

A pause.

“I meant,” Anna went on, “I’m glad you came to your senses.”

Katie blinked. “Sorry?”

“About Flint.”

Katie shifted in her seat. “You make it sound like I followed advice.”

“You distanced yourself. That was the right call. Whatever he’s told you—whatever version of himself he shows—he’s built that carefully. For a reason.”

Katie still didn’t look at her. She just stared at her plate.

Anna’s voice dropped lower.

“I’m not the only one who sees it.”

Then, after a beat:

“You’re better without him.”

Katie finally turned, expression flat. “Is this your version of friendly?”

Anna tilted her head. “This is me offering a truce.”

A longer pause.

Katie looked at her for a second too long, then back at her plate.

“I’ll let you know after the match.”

Anna gave a soft nod and rose without another word.

As she walked away, Katie caught herself exhaling, slow and steady. The kind of breath you don’t realize you’re holding until it’s gone.

From a few spots down, Lee leaned over the bench, spoon in hand, expression unreadable.

“So… what the hell was that?” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.

Katie didn’t look at him. “No idea.”

“But it’s not nothing,” he added.

She gave a faint nod.

Lee shrugged, flicked his spoon, and let the glob of porridge slap wetly back into the bowl. “And Rotkov’s sitting like someone just insulted his ancestors.”

“I know.”

He waited a beat, then said, “And Flint?”

Katie didn’t answer right away.

Her eyes drifted back toward the Slytherin table, empty space where he should’ve been. She hadn’t seen him once since that night.

And that—more than anything—was starting to get under her skin.

Because that was always how it went with Flint.

Just when they got close enough to start making sense of things, he vanished. Again. Like clockwork.

She didn’t say it out loud.

But the fork in her hand pressed down a little harder.

Chapter Text

The arena was louder than it had any right to be.

It wasn’t just noise—it was pressure. Sound layered on sound, screaming and stomping and chants so guttural they scraped against bone. The air itself pulsed like it was trying to escape. 

If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was the championship. But no. It was worse.

This was Nifflers last chance.

Win, and they’d claw their way into a rematch against the Furies. Lose, and the season ended in smoke. The crowd knew it. The teams knew it. And whatever this was on the pitch—it sure as hell wasn’t Quidditch.

Pucey barely managed to dodge a Bludger that came screaming toward his shoulder like a curse sent with intent. He wasn’t flying—he was flailing, drifting out of formation, eyes glassy as though he didn’t quite know where he was. Someone in the stands yelled, “WAKE UP, PUSSY!” and laughter cracked across the balcony like thunder.

Katie had the Quaffle now, weaving through air thick with charm smoke and the metallic taste of rising panic. A Leech slammed into her side, nearly knocking her off-course, but she held—barely—and shoved the ball forward to Fred, who let out a yell as he was immediately clotheslined mid-pass by a Leeches chaser.

The crowd went rabid. Up in the south section, someone conjured a floating banner that read “PUCEY’S GOT A BANANA, BELL’S GOT THE BALL! WHO’S GONNA BLEED FIRST? WHO’S GONNA FALL?!”” and it danced in the air like a challenge. Another launched a puppet play that now had mini-Katie strangling mini-Pucey while miniature Bludgers exploded overhead.

The air vibrated with tension. Not excitement—something uglier. Foreign students clustered tight on their balcony, faces taut, gazes sharp. No one was smiling anymore. After what happened at the Yule Ball, no one had really relaxed. The Durmstrang lot watched everything like they were waiting for someone to make the first mistake. The Beauxbatons students whispered between themselves, not bothering to hide the way their eyes followed every rough tackle Katie took.

From up high, the steward box was almost empty—stewards too busy scrambling through the stands to stop another brawl from breaking out. A glitter bomb had gone off five minutes ago, showering the west corner in what looked like magical ash. Two Hufflepuffs were nose-to-nose over a call that no one had made.

The score flashed again—20 to 40. Niiflers in the lead, but only barely, and the Leeches were waking up.

The game jerked back into motion. A Bludger missed Katie by a whisper. Pucey swerved like a drunk and miraculously snatched the ball from midair. Gasps rippled through the seats. Leeches surged forward—finally, finally alive—and the crowd roared in response, fists slamming rails, bodies half out of their seats, a living sea of hunger.

***

Crass stood watching Pucey’s sluggish flying with a frown that deepened each minute. Between his fingers, the signal coin spun in slow, tense circles.

Beside him, Darryl’s legs bounced with the jittery energy of a trapped pixie. The game had gone from tense to outright explosive in less than thirty minutes, and this was his first time leading while Wimus was off rotation. Not exactly a soft launch.

Borden didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He understood the nerves, even as his own patience frayed. This wasn’t just chaos on the pitch. It was the kind of match that left scars—on players, on reputations, on the League itself if they weren’t careful.

Wimus, for all his flaws, had learned the hard way when to intervene and when to let the fire burn itself out. That took time. That took instinct. Darryl didn’t have it yet.

With a heavy exhale, Borden dragged his gaze back to the pitch. The game was trudging forward in its own brutal rhythm. Somewhere near the lower sidelines, one of Darryl’s aides was crouched over George Weasley, who looked halfway concussed. Bludger had slammed into his ear, and judging by the way he was blinking, he wasn’t just dizzy — he might not be hearing much either.

A little farther off, a Leeches beater was sprawled on a stretcher, blood trailing from his mouth, his broom splintered in three.

Brilliant, Crass thought grimly, lips pressed to a tight line. Everything was going to hell.

Finally, the coin he had been clutching in his palm gave a faint, pulsing vibration.

Crass leaned forward, gaze sweeping the upper level — not because he didn’t know who sent it, but on the off chance they were close enough to catch his eye.

Nothing.

He let the coin slip back into his pocket. 

Message received. That was enough.

A sharp jolt from beside him broke his focus.

“Look—look at that!” Darryl barked, practically lunging forward.

Borden followed his line of sight just in time to catch it.

After fifteen minutes of disjointed scrambling, the Leeches finally locked in. Gone was the hesitation, the disarray — they moved now with purpose, falling back on what they did best. Pressure.

One by one, they latched on. Not literally, but close enough — Chasers clinging to shoulders, crowding airspace; Beaters forcing awkward angles with no room to breathe. It wasn’t graceful, but it was effective. The Nifflers were pulled into the muck.

Ron, trying to reposition, found himself hemmed in above the scoring line — caught in a slow, deliberate trap as one Beater hovered just out of reach and a Chaser mirrored every twitch of his broom. He wasn’t guarding the hoops. He wasn’t even close.

And that was all the Leeches needed.

The Quaffle passed once, twice — crisp, mechanical — before a sharp toss from midfield cut across the pitch and slipped clean through the left ring.

Another score.

Then another.

80–90.

For the first time all match, the Leeches were ahead.

The Nifflers scrambled to recover, but the tempo had already shifted. The air itself had turned thinner—meaner. A rough tackle near midfield sent Fred into a wild spin, his broom yawing sideways as he fought to stay upright. He barely managed to flick the Quaffle toward a teammate — but Pucey was already there, snatching it clean with a move that looked almost rehearsed.

The same Pucey who’d looked half-asleep twenty minutes ago now flew like he was being hunted.

Crass narrowed his eyes. He was watching Pucey.

The Slytherin’s movements were sharper now. Controlled. Focused in a way that didn’t feel like adrenaline—it felt like calculation. Like he’d been waiting for exactly this moment to strike.

And the Leeches?

They moved around him like a pack with its alpha finally awake.

***

Katie was one of the last still flying.

Out of three Chasers and two Beaters, only she, Fred, and Matlock were left in play—and Fred was bleeding from the nose, white-knuckled and riding like a drunk. Matlock was circling low, swatting at Bludgers with a broken-handled bat, the splinters flaring with every strike.

The Leeches were pressing hard. Faster. Meaner. Smarter.

The Quaffle had just rebounded off Matlock’s shoulder after a blocked pass, and somehow—through sheer luck or instinct—it landed in Katie’s hands. She barely had time to register it before the Leech formation collapsed around her like jaws.

No passing lanes. No clean exits. The others were boxed out, and she was next.

She didn’t shout. Didn’t signal.

Didn’t think.

Snatchback.

The move she’d been drilling for weeks. The one Flint had caught her rehearsing alone.

“You’re bending your wrist too much,” he’d said.

And she’d thought he meant her throwing wrist.

She’d taken it to mean the wrist she used to throw.

And it had worked, hadn’t it? That day she adjusted her release, the Quaffle stuck like it was meant to. Even Flint had looked impressed, in his own infuriating way.

So now, surrounded and flying blind, she trusted that version of the memory.

She hurled the Quaffle forward—not for a goal, but as bait. Low and fast, just enough to force the defenders to lunge.

They bit.

Just as planned, they split formation. Matlock body-checked the first Leech out of the air like a falling stone. Fred, despite the blood and the pain, cut off the second with a sharp cross, arms wide like a net.

The gap opened.

Katie flattened against her broom and shot forward.

The Quaffle spun ahead, wobbling, descending. The air screamed in her ears. The wind stung her eyes. But she didn’t slow. She’d done this in drills a hundred times. Beat the defenders. Reclaim the ball. Score.

Behind her, she heard a second broom kick up hard.

Pucey.

She didn’t dare look. Just flew harder, each breath burning in her throat.

The Quaffle was close now. Spinning slowly. Almost within reach.

She stretched out her right arm, fingers splayed, balance tipping—

And then her broom wrenched down like it had been yanked from underneath her.

No Bludger. No collision. No foul play.

Just her own hand. The left one — wrapped around the shaft — had twisted instinctively in the dive, a motion so ingrained she hadn’t even realized she’d done it.

The wrong wrist.

Flint hadn’t meant her throwing arm at all. He’d meant the wrist that guided her flight. The one that, under pressure, could pitch her trajectory just enough to ruin everything.

And in the split second before the wall hit her shoulder, before her vision blew white with pain, Katie had one last, absurd, furious thought:

“Oh. That’s what he meant.”

The impact rang across the pitch like a crack of thunder. Katie’s shoulder took the full force—bone first, then flesh, then everything else. Her broom jerked sideways and buckled underneath her. She spun, limbs loose, eyes wide, air gone—

And then the ground caught her.

Hard.

The Quaffle hit the grass, and Pucey was already there—scooping it mid-turn, not missing a beat, not even glancing at her.

Then he scored.

80-100

The Leeches had won.

And Katie Bell was still on the ground.

***

For half a heartbeat, the stadium held its breath.

And then—

The crowd erupted.

Leeches fans exploded in wild ecstasy, screaming themselves hoarse as their players shot upward in celebration. Flags waved, spells cracked like fireworks, and fists pounded railings in triumph. The entire upper tier swayed with noise.

But the Niffler side was silent.

Their supporters leaned forward over the balconies, no longer cheering, no longer shouting—just watching. Dozens of heads craned downward, eyes pinned to the girl lying motionless at the base of the pitch.

Katie hadn’t moved.

A cluster of people had already formed around her—teammates and a few of Darryl’s aides with stretchers at the ready. Fred was down on one knee, yelling something no one could hear. Matlock hovered nearby, fists clenched and jaw set.

On the steward balcony, Borden didn’t speak.

He shifted his gaze slowly from Bell to Pucey—still circling midair like a ghost, slow and disoriented, as if the game had ended for someone else entirely. While the rest of the Leeches howled and back-slapped and shouted into the chaos, Pucey looked… detached.

“That look like someone who just won?” Borden said quietly.

Darryl didn’t answer. His hands clenched the railing, knuckles white, lips moving soundlessly like he was counting seconds under his breath.

Crass eyed him, jaw ticking.

Then exhaled through his nose.

“Go,” he said flatly. “I’ll hold the line.”