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rosie_rues) wrote2005-09-11 06:42 pm
rosie_rues) wrote2005-09-11 06:42 pm
Entry tags:
There's Something in the Heir Tonight (fic)
Insane crack!fic in response to the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
perposterice ficathon.
Title: There’s Something in the Heir Tonight
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rosemaryandrue
'Summery' or 'summeries' it's based on: # 180 - Marcus Flint is one-quarter troll and cannot bear heirs
Summary: Mild Marcus Flint/Millicent Bulstrode. Set during Prisoner of Azkaban
Rating: PG
Marcus Flint could not bear heirs. This was no mere whim but a long-standing quirk of his nature, related perhaps to the deep misfortunes of his unhappy childhood.
One evening, late in November, he felt the urge to unfold his heart to his most bosom companions, Warrington and Baddock Major.
“Can’t bloody bear heirs,” he muttered.
Baddock Major, who was a pallid gentleman of nervous disposition, laughed nervously and said, “Not really a surprise there, old chap, what? You being a bloke.”
Flint slowly turned his head and looked upon Baddock Major who grew suddenly more pale. At last Flint rumbled, “Can’t bear heirs. Bloody well hate them.”
“Oh,” said Baddock Major with breathy relief and sank back into his chair.
“Why not?” Warrington asked, his heavy brow furrowed with thought.
“Six brothers,” Flint said savagely. “Six blinking half-brothers. You’re not an heir, are you, Warrington?”
“Second son,” said Warrington, who despite his hirsute appearance, was possessed of some basic instinct of self-preservation.
“Baddock Major?”
“Oh, oh, me? Oh, no. Father’s in trade, y’know. Exotics. Not much to inherit in this day and age, what? No market for the more, ah-”
“Shut up,” Warrington said and Baddock Major nodded urgently and fell silent.
Flint glowered across the common room to where Draco Malfoy was posturing by the fireplace. The flickering light gleamed on the younger boy’s pale hair and limned his cheekbones. Flint scowled and imagined that pale head thrust down a toilet bowl. It was one of his fondest fantasies and if it wasn’t for the Quidditch team he would make it a weekly treat. Bloody heirs.
“You could, y’know, deal with, your half-brothers,” Baddock Major suggested brighty.
“Thought of that. Goes to my cousin.” At Warrington’s puzzled look he clarified, “Mother. Gardener. Troll reserve.”
Warrington nodded and elbowed Baddock Major before he could say something stupid.
“Just hate heirs. Hate. Hate. Hate.”
“Could be worse,” Baddock Major said with a titter. “You could be a Muggle.”
There was a loud sob from behind them.
All three turned to see a girl squashed into the alcove behind them. She was a very large girl, almost as tall as Flint, with beetling brows and broad shoulders. Her face was flushed and blotchy with tears and her nose was dripping. As they gaped she surged out of the alcove, her fists clenched and advanced on Baddock Major. “My Mum’s a Muggle.”
“Don’t hit me!” Baddock Major squeaked, demonstrating once more the sterling qualities which had kept him off the Quidditch team. “Didn’t mean it. Don’t cry. Have a hanky.”
He proferred a rather grubby rag but Flint shouldered him aside to stare at the girl. From her coarse black hair to her bulging ankles she was sublimely beautiful. He couldn’t stand the usual run of Slytherin girls with their pointy hips and sneers and little lists of eligible suitors. But this - this was a real woman. With a clumsy flourish he produced his own handkerchief and offered it with a hesitant smile. “Don’t mind him,” he said. “Inbred.”
“I say!” Baddock Major protested.
She accepted the handkerchief and blew her nose with a honk. It was the most beautiful sound Flint had ever heard. Gently, he ushered her to his chair and then took Warrington’s for himself. Warrington and Baddock Major squeezed into the last chair.
“What’s your name?” Flint asked awkwardly.
She sniffed and gave his dirty handkerchief back. “Millicent Bulstrode. And you’re Flint. I know all about you. Malfoy – Malfoy....” And her lip quivered again.
“Don’t cry!” Baddock Major and Warrington yelped in chorus, almost popping out of their chair.
“What’s Malfoy done?” Flint demanded, tensing his biceps threateningly.
“He laughed at me because I’m a h-half-blood. He keeps going on about my people and how he’s not surprised I’m u-ugly cause I’m not pureblood and they all laugh.”
“Not ugly,” Flint mumbled and she stared at him wide-eyed. He blushed.
“You’re the only nice person in the whole of Slytherin,” she declared, her chins wobbling.
“We’re not so bad,” Baddock Major chipped in modestly.
She ignored him. “I hate this house. I hate this school. I wish I’d never come here. It’s all people like M-Malfoy going on about their families and how important they are and what they’re going to inherit. Acting like that makes them entitled.”
“Or just titled,” Baddock Major said. “Hur. Hur. Hur.”
Flint was smitten. Here she was, the perfect woman, and she too could not bear heirs. He patted her hand gently and said, “Anyone says things to you, come and tell me. I’ll beat them up for you. Beat Malfoy up.”
“Oh, no,” she said but she was smiling. “His father will get you expelled. You mustn’t risk that for me.”
He was in love.
~*~
Over the next week Flint became a stalwart defender of his lady’s honour. On Monday he kept Malfoy back after Quidditch practise for further drills. Flint sat comfortably in the commentators’ stand, out of the rain, and kept Malfoy in the air until the pointy git turned blue.
On Tuesday, he submerged Pansy Parksinson’s face in her porridge after she deliberately spilt pumpkin juice down his Millicent’s robes.
On Wednesday, Percy Weasley dared to take ten points from his darling for loitering in the corridor. Flint hit, Weasley hexed and the resulting fracas pulled in the entire Quidditch teams of both Gryffindor and Slytherin, a few passing Hufflepuffs and Professors Snape, McGonagall, Lupin and Flitwick (who was merely trying to get back to the staffroom without being accosted by Hermione Granger).
On Thursday, Peeves, attempting to provoke further altercations, squirted Millicent with custard. Flint, who was on rather good terms with the Bloody Baron (said disembodied gentleman also being a younger son), initiated a sequence of events which ended with Professor Dumbledore having the coax a weeping poltergeist down from the ceiling of the Great Hall.
On Friday, to Flint’s delight, Justin Finch-Fletchley, absorbed in a detailed discussion of his plans for Christmas at the ancestral seat, stepped on Millicent’s foot. As Flint attempted to feed the Hufflepuff his own tie he reflected happily on how wonderful his life had become.
By Saturday Slytherin had lost three hundred points and Flint was summoned to Professor Snape’s office.
Snape stared at Flint from behind his desk as if he was observing a particularly interesting reaction to a bungled potion. Flint sighed and shuffled his feet.
“Mr Flint,” Snape said at last. “Do you ever intend to leave this school?”
Flint brightened. If he kept failing his N.E.W.Ts he could stay here and look after Millicent until she left.
“Let me rephrase that, Mr Flint. You will be leaving this school in July, if not sooner. What if anything do you intend to do with your life after that auspicious day?”
“I’m going to get married.”
“Married?” Snape repeated slowly.
“Yes, Professor.”
“And do you have a spouse in mind, Mr Flint.”
“Millicent Bulstrode, sir.”
Snape blinked. “Mr Flint, Miss Bulstrode is a third year. Such sentiments are highly inappropriate.”
“Waiting for her to grow up, sir,” Flint said earnestly. “Looking after her.”
A slight tic appeared in Snape’s cheek. “Is that your explanation for the fracas of the past week, Mr Flint?”
“The heirs are bullying her, sir.”
“The heirs,” Snape repeated and pinched his nose. Flint knew Snape understood about the heirs. He’d explained it many a time before, usually after some catastrophic loss of house points. At last Snape took a deep breath and said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Flint, but do you not have a contract with the Falcons for next season?”
“If pass my N.E.W.T.s, sir.”
“Mr Flint, has it occurred to you that you may need a career in order to support a family? I cannot suggest strongly enough that you focus upon passing your exams. I’m sure Miss Bulstrode will look far more favourably on a successful Quidditch star than on a delinquent layabout who has been expelled for fighting during his eighth year of education.”
That sounded reasonable. There was just one small problem. “But the heirs, sir?”
Snape sighed. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. Flint who had never seen Snape smile, found this deeply disconcerting. Cautiously, he began to scan the study for escape routes.
“Mr Flint,” Snape said, his eyes bright with glee. “I have a mission for you. Have you heard of Sirius Black?”
Flint nodded cautiously, as if he was trying to placate a Hippogriff. “Death-Eater,” he said. “Escaped from Azkaban. Trying to kill the Gryffindor Seeker. Keeps trying to break into the Gryffindor common room.”
“We must guard against him!” Snape snapped, his eyes gleaming. “I want you to guard the Slytherin common room, Flint. Protect your House from the madman. Protect Miss Bulstrode.”
“Yes, sir.” Flint imagined the gleam of gratitude in Millicent’s eyes as he defended her from a ravening maniac.
“You must stay in the common room at all times. A sentinel does not leave his post. And there must be no more feuds. Guarding against Black must be your first priority. Constant vigilance!” Snape stopped suddenly and took a breath, his eyes slightly wild.
Flint was beginning to feel a trickle of suspicion. Was this just a plot to keep him away from the heirs?
Snape must have seen his doubt. “Do you know why I’ve chosen you for this task, Flint?” he asked, his voice soft and silken.
“No, sir.”
“Because you’re an expert, Flint. Do you know who Sirius Black is, Flint?”
“A loony, sir.”
“He’s the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The last heir.”
Marcus Flint’s heart thrilled. He set his shoulders and rose from the chair. “I know my duty, sir.”
As he walked away from Snape’s office, he could have sworn he heard laughter from behind the closed door. He ignored it and continued towards the dungeons. He was going to make Snape proud. He was going to make his house proud. He was going to make Millicent proud.
Marcus Flint really could not bear heirs.
perposterice ficathon.Title: There’s Something in the Heir Tonight
Author:
rosemaryandrue'Summery' or 'summeries' it's based on: # 180 - Marcus Flint is one-quarter troll and cannot bear heirs
Summary: Mild Marcus Flint/Millicent Bulstrode. Set during Prisoner of Azkaban
Rating: PG
Marcus Flint could not bear heirs. This was no mere whim but a long-standing quirk of his nature, related perhaps to the deep misfortunes of his unhappy childhood.
One evening, late in November, he felt the urge to unfold his heart to his most bosom companions, Warrington and Baddock Major.
“Can’t bloody bear heirs,” he muttered.
Baddock Major, who was a pallid gentleman of nervous disposition, laughed nervously and said, “Not really a surprise there, old chap, what? You being a bloke.”
Flint slowly turned his head and looked upon Baddock Major who grew suddenly more pale. At last Flint rumbled, “Can’t bear heirs. Bloody well hate them.”
“Oh,” said Baddock Major with breathy relief and sank back into his chair.
“Why not?” Warrington asked, his heavy brow furrowed with thought.
“Six brothers,” Flint said savagely. “Six blinking half-brothers. You’re not an heir, are you, Warrington?”
“Second son,” said Warrington, who despite his hirsute appearance, was possessed of some basic instinct of self-preservation.
“Baddock Major?”
“Oh, oh, me? Oh, no. Father’s in trade, y’know. Exotics. Not much to inherit in this day and age, what? No market for the more, ah-”
“Shut up,” Warrington said and Baddock Major nodded urgently and fell silent.
Flint glowered across the common room to where Draco Malfoy was posturing by the fireplace. The flickering light gleamed on the younger boy’s pale hair and limned his cheekbones. Flint scowled and imagined that pale head thrust down a toilet bowl. It was one of his fondest fantasies and if it wasn’t for the Quidditch team he would make it a weekly treat. Bloody heirs.
“You could, y’know, deal with, your half-brothers,” Baddock Major suggested brighty.
“Thought of that. Goes to my cousin.” At Warrington’s puzzled look he clarified, “Mother. Gardener. Troll reserve.”
Warrington nodded and elbowed Baddock Major before he could say something stupid.
“Just hate heirs. Hate. Hate. Hate.”
“Could be worse,” Baddock Major said with a titter. “You could be a Muggle.”
There was a loud sob from behind them.
All three turned to see a girl squashed into the alcove behind them. She was a very large girl, almost as tall as Flint, with beetling brows and broad shoulders. Her face was flushed and blotchy with tears and her nose was dripping. As they gaped she surged out of the alcove, her fists clenched and advanced on Baddock Major. “My Mum’s a Muggle.”
“Don’t hit me!” Baddock Major squeaked, demonstrating once more the sterling qualities which had kept him off the Quidditch team. “Didn’t mean it. Don’t cry. Have a hanky.”
He proferred a rather grubby rag but Flint shouldered him aside to stare at the girl. From her coarse black hair to her bulging ankles she was sublimely beautiful. He couldn’t stand the usual run of Slytherin girls with their pointy hips and sneers and little lists of eligible suitors. But this - this was a real woman. With a clumsy flourish he produced his own handkerchief and offered it with a hesitant smile. “Don’t mind him,” he said. “Inbred.”
“I say!” Baddock Major protested.
She accepted the handkerchief and blew her nose with a honk. It was the most beautiful sound Flint had ever heard. Gently, he ushered her to his chair and then took Warrington’s for himself. Warrington and Baddock Major squeezed into the last chair.
“What’s your name?” Flint asked awkwardly.
She sniffed and gave his dirty handkerchief back. “Millicent Bulstrode. And you’re Flint. I know all about you. Malfoy – Malfoy....” And her lip quivered again.
“Don’t cry!” Baddock Major and Warrington yelped in chorus, almost popping out of their chair.
“What’s Malfoy done?” Flint demanded, tensing his biceps threateningly.
“He laughed at me because I’m a h-half-blood. He keeps going on about my people and how he’s not surprised I’m u-ugly cause I’m not pureblood and they all laugh.”
“Not ugly,” Flint mumbled and she stared at him wide-eyed. He blushed.
“You’re the only nice person in the whole of Slytherin,” she declared, her chins wobbling.
“We’re not so bad,” Baddock Major chipped in modestly.
She ignored him. “I hate this house. I hate this school. I wish I’d never come here. It’s all people like M-Malfoy going on about their families and how important they are and what they’re going to inherit. Acting like that makes them entitled.”
“Or just titled,” Baddock Major said. “Hur. Hur. Hur.”
Flint was smitten. Here she was, the perfect woman, and she too could not bear heirs. He patted her hand gently and said, “Anyone says things to you, come and tell me. I’ll beat them up for you. Beat Malfoy up.”
“Oh, no,” she said but she was smiling. “His father will get you expelled. You mustn’t risk that for me.”
He was in love.
~*~
Over the next week Flint became a stalwart defender of his lady’s honour. On Monday he kept Malfoy back after Quidditch practise for further drills. Flint sat comfortably in the commentators’ stand, out of the rain, and kept Malfoy in the air until the pointy git turned blue.
On Tuesday, he submerged Pansy Parksinson’s face in her porridge after she deliberately spilt pumpkin juice down his Millicent’s robes.
On Wednesday, Percy Weasley dared to take ten points from his darling for loitering in the corridor. Flint hit, Weasley hexed and the resulting fracas pulled in the entire Quidditch teams of both Gryffindor and Slytherin, a few passing Hufflepuffs and Professors Snape, McGonagall, Lupin and Flitwick (who was merely trying to get back to the staffroom without being accosted by Hermione Granger).
On Thursday, Peeves, attempting to provoke further altercations, squirted Millicent with custard. Flint, who was on rather good terms with the Bloody Baron (said disembodied gentleman also being a younger son), initiated a sequence of events which ended with Professor Dumbledore having the coax a weeping poltergeist down from the ceiling of the Great Hall.
On Friday, to Flint’s delight, Justin Finch-Fletchley, absorbed in a detailed discussion of his plans for Christmas at the ancestral seat, stepped on Millicent’s foot. As Flint attempted to feed the Hufflepuff his own tie he reflected happily on how wonderful his life had become.
By Saturday Slytherin had lost three hundred points and Flint was summoned to Professor Snape’s office.
Snape stared at Flint from behind his desk as if he was observing a particularly interesting reaction to a bungled potion. Flint sighed and shuffled his feet.
“Mr Flint,” Snape said at last. “Do you ever intend to leave this school?”
Flint brightened. If he kept failing his N.E.W.Ts he could stay here and look after Millicent until she left.
“Let me rephrase that, Mr Flint. You will be leaving this school in July, if not sooner. What if anything do you intend to do with your life after that auspicious day?”
“I’m going to get married.”
“Married?” Snape repeated slowly.
“Yes, Professor.”
“And do you have a spouse in mind, Mr Flint.”
“Millicent Bulstrode, sir.”
Snape blinked. “Mr Flint, Miss Bulstrode is a third year. Such sentiments are highly inappropriate.”
“Waiting for her to grow up, sir,” Flint said earnestly. “Looking after her.”
A slight tic appeared in Snape’s cheek. “Is that your explanation for the fracas of the past week, Mr Flint?”
“The heirs are bullying her, sir.”
“The heirs,” Snape repeated and pinched his nose. Flint knew Snape understood about the heirs. He’d explained it many a time before, usually after some catastrophic loss of house points. At last Snape took a deep breath and said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Flint, but do you not have a contract with the Falcons for next season?”
“If pass my N.E.W.T.s, sir.”
“Mr Flint, has it occurred to you that you may need a career in order to support a family? I cannot suggest strongly enough that you focus upon passing your exams. I’m sure Miss Bulstrode will look far more favourably on a successful Quidditch star than on a delinquent layabout who has been expelled for fighting during his eighth year of education.”
That sounded reasonable. There was just one small problem. “But the heirs, sir?”
Snape sighed. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. Flint who had never seen Snape smile, found this deeply disconcerting. Cautiously, he began to scan the study for escape routes.
“Mr Flint,” Snape said, his eyes bright with glee. “I have a mission for you. Have you heard of Sirius Black?”
Flint nodded cautiously, as if he was trying to placate a Hippogriff. “Death-Eater,” he said. “Escaped from Azkaban. Trying to kill the Gryffindor Seeker. Keeps trying to break into the Gryffindor common room.”
“We must guard against him!” Snape snapped, his eyes gleaming. “I want you to guard the Slytherin common room, Flint. Protect your House from the madman. Protect Miss Bulstrode.”
“Yes, sir.” Flint imagined the gleam of gratitude in Millicent’s eyes as he defended her from a ravening maniac.
“You must stay in the common room at all times. A sentinel does not leave his post. And there must be no more feuds. Guarding against Black must be your first priority. Constant vigilance!” Snape stopped suddenly and took a breath, his eyes slightly wild.
Flint was beginning to feel a trickle of suspicion. Was this just a plot to keep him away from the heirs?
Snape must have seen his doubt. “Do you know why I’ve chosen you for this task, Flint?” he asked, his voice soft and silken.
“No, sir.”
“Because you’re an expert, Flint. Do you know who Sirius Black is, Flint?”
“A loony, sir.”
“He’s the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The last heir.”
Marcus Flint’s heart thrilled. He set his shoulders and rose from the chair. “I know my duty, sir.”
As he walked away from Snape’s office, he could have sworn he heard laughter from behind the closed door. He ignored it and continued towards the dungeons. He was going to make Snape proud. He was going to make his house proud. He was going to make Millicent proud.
Marcus Flint really could not bear heirs.