#lasso tool my saviour

[qekouu]

[kyukyukyukyukyukyukyukyukyukyu]

i got art block lasso tool my saviour e

[notsissannis]

—I’ve Been On My Knees for A Minute

Marcus Flint x Hermione Granger

One-shot: complete

Rated: General

World: Post-Hogwarts

Read on [AO3][FFN]

“You gotta be shitting me,” he muttered, halting his walk when he saw the back of the ever growing big hair, turning to the same corner as him. He slowed his pace, fully intending to have a bit—large—distance between them. He didn’t fancy meeting anyone here; especially today.

“Okay,” he told himself when her hair was out of his sight, “let’s hope she doesn’t go to that building.”

But of course, she had to go to that building. Of all the buildings in the world, it had to be the one building he wanted to go. His hand itched to pull the crazy hair off her head, turning it into a fucking curly lasso to throw her out with, and then screamed: ‘There! Go to that building! Ravage it! Fucking piss on it! Own it! Leave this one for me!’

He lingered at the entrance as his eyes followed her movement. Once she stopped by the receptionist counter, he started to run for the lift and grinned stupidly, satisfied, when his lift filled up nicely.

Merlin, yes! Pack this bloody thing up, my peasants. We don’t want Medusa incarnation to join us, do we?

But, who was he kidding? He was not in the Wizarding World. There was no Merlin here. So of course, his prayer was denied by those Muggles’ deities. He saw her hand shot up, asking for his people to let her in.

Cheesus, if you’re listening up there, please, make her hair stuck in someone’s armpit so she won’t make it here. Please, Cheesus!

“Thank you!” She said to the first Muggle that he would Avada later for holding the door open for her.

“You’re welcome. Did you hear about the hurricane? Jesus, it was crazy,” the dead man started a conversation.

Embarrassingly, he realised that His name was, in fact, Jesus. Not Cheesus.

“Terrible news,” she said, pressing a floor button that he couldn’t see from his stand.

Jesus, he thought sheepishly, I admit, it was quite an insult to you that I got your name wrong. And perhaps, that’s why you didn’t grant my small request. But Jesus, please, I’m begging here—my knees are virtually on the floor now—I don’t want to be on the same floor with her.

When the door slid open, revealing a placard which has ‘Wilkins Dentistry’ written on it, he snuck himself out as sneaky as a Niffler while she was saying goodbye to the overly friendly man.

He went in to announce himself and was relief to know that he was not late for his appointment. He even still had ten minutes to spare. So, he told the pretty, green eyes blondie his name; with a wink, of course. He went to sit at the corner, picked up a magazine, and just waiting for his name to be called by the lady.

Pretty little thing, she was, in her pink transparent blouse. Muggles sure were fashion forward compared to them.

He lifted the magazine higher, hiding his face as he ran his tongue across a line of jagged teeth. He wasn't insecure of it, per se. He had his handsome face and big built to go by. Teeth was a small flaw that he didn't mind having. It just that, he really didn't want anyone to see him there.

People walked past in front of him, but his mind was elsewhere; recalling the things he’d heard of the tools Muggles used to fix their teeth.

“They have this small thing that could drill a hole in your teeth. And this clip to pluck them out. Messy, they are! Blood and flesh, and more tooth out, down to its root!” He had heard from his teammate who was dating a Muggleborn at that time.

“Then why did you try it?” His other teammate had asked.

“Mate, the ladies there don’t wear robes. I could still feel her tits on my cheek.”

He didn’t come here for the tits; though if the teeth healer was someone like the pink lady, he wouldn’t mind.

“Marcus Flint,” the pink lady called him.

He could hear the smile in her voice. As he saw her red-painted lips has actually curved a smile for him, he thought, Yup. Won’t mind her tits at all.

But dreams of tits has stopped dead as he did at the opened door. He looked up to the ceiling calmly, but his mind was screaming at the top of its mind-lung: 

What the fuck, mate?! Thought we had a deal!

“Well, well. If it isn’t our favourite Quidditch Captain. The one and only, Marcus Flint in the flesh,” she said in way of greeting.

“Hermione Granger,” he said.

That was it. Short and simple. Didn't have to mention her position as Hogwarts’ Deputy Headmistress, nor her being the right hand of Minister Shacklebolt, nor, of course, the fact that she was the saviour of the Wizarding World—their sweetheart, the brain of the Golden Trio, the one that had once rode a fucking dragon.

Okay. Maybe she did deserve some recognition.

Hermione Granger,” he repeated and added, “The Collector of Quidditch player.”

He has regrettably signed his death.

She looked amused though, smiling toothily and showing off her perfect pearls.

Listen, he wanted to say as he took a seat across the table from her, your teeth were worse than mine, okay. They were possibly the worst-est in the whole fucking world. So, back off with that twinkling teeth of yours, witch!

“So, tell me,” she said, leaning forward and palming her chin, “what are you doing here?”

“You’re the smart one in the room. You tell me,” he answered, leaning forward, also with his palm under his chin.

Her eyes gleamed with something that he had seen on Malfoy's before. His stomach went queasy.

“I believe you were informed of how we do things here?” She asked with a smug smirk that could easily mistaken for a sneer.

Who is this? Is that really you, Malfoy? Are you taking a piss on me?

“‘Course." He shrugged his shoulder. “Just tell me where to lay down.”

That smirk widened into a full-fledged grin. He swore he went blind for a moment there when her teeth were showing. She stood up, carrying a thin file with her and leading him to another room.

“Please, lay down here,” she patted the weird looking couch with some sort of table lamp, small basin, and small table attached to it. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

A room inside a room. He could barely hear anything from outside in the previous room. Imagine the quietness of this deeper room.

He sat on the couch, wiggling his arse about. It was quite comfy.

She came back with a tray of shiny trinkets. “Lay down, Mr. Flint.”

He did. As she busied herself with the big couch: fixing the height of it and tilting the lamp to shine right in his fucking face, he recapped the drill his teammate had talked about. If she was going to drill his mouth down to his throat, down to his lung, and drilled a hole—or more, why stop at one?—on it, no one could hear his scream. Not even the pink lady.

She asked him to open his mouth, and instantly, one latexed finger slid along his teeth as he had done with his tongue earlier. 

He kept his gaze far away across the room to the large picture of a perfect white tooth. Trust Muggles to keep a picture of a tooth as a piece of decoration. Whatever next? A spotless toe?

“Oh, Mr. Flint,” she said, her voice was muffled by the white mask, “we have a lot to work on.”

He turned his gaze to her then. Meeting her eyes and saw that Malfoy's gleam swirling in them.

Yes, he remembered what it was now. It was torment. Evil and wicked and ugly. 

He cleared his throat before he asked, “What kind of work?”

“I assume you want to straighten your teeth?” She asked.

“Yeah,” he hated to admit it. "Pretty bird in pink said something about braces?”

“Pretty bird in pink’s name is Summer,” she sounded amused.

“And yes, braces. To put it simply,” she pushed her finger deeper to the last tooth in line, “first, we will thoroughly clean and dry your teeth. Next, we will apply the bonding glue to your teeth and attach the brackets. The glue may taste unpleasant, but it’s harmless. Finally, we will place the archwire in the brackets and secure it with elastic bands. It is so we can connect your teeth in line and forcing them to band together nicely.”

It was so... academic. She said it all so matter-of-factly, and he quickly agreed with the rest of Hogwarts’ students, that yes, she was a swotty, know-it-all witch. His Quidditch brain couldn't digest a thing.

She freed his mouth from her vicious finger and took off the latex before she wrote something on his file.

He looked back to the tooth and asked, “So, no drill, right?”

He literally, literally, could feel her eyes gleamed brighter. It pierced the corner of his eye like a lightning. Too much brightness.

“Oh, yes. Yes, there is, Mr. Flint,” she said, sounding too please about it. “I did say we need to clean your teeth first, right? Cleaning, polishing, and filling, they all need some drilling.”

Jesus, my man, what the fuck?!

“Unfortunately,” she pulled her mask down, “your appointment for today is only for consultation,” she informed him, pouting as she offered him a cup of water.

Fucking pouting. As if it was so unfortunate for them—only her—to not be able to drill the shit out of his teeth.

“So unfortunate,” he muttered, rinsing his mouth and spitting the water into the small basin.

“Devastating, really.” She stood up, taking out a candy from one of the drawer. “You do know I’m a witch, right?”

As if to prove it, she elevated the candy for him to snatch.

“Of course.”

“And you’re a wizard.”

It was his turn to prove his wizardry by vanishing the candy's wrapper before chewing the strawberry candy into smaller pieces. He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Granger. We did go to the same school, remember?”

“Then you know I could just fix them with a flick.”

“No,” he shook his head.

“No?” She blinked. “Why? It’s painless. No drilling, no pain. It would only take less than five minutes. And it won’t even cost you knuts.”

He rubbed his face, contemplating if he should tell her his stupid reason or not. But, when he looked up and caught her eyeing him curiously, he gave in. He knew her enough to know how tenacious she could be. Sooner or later, she would drill—literally—the answer out of him.

“It’s a challenge.”

She raised her eyebrows. “To what? To see who would survive braces?”

“My friend Maximus, told us about his experience with Muggle's dentistry. I told him it couldn't be that bad, that he was just being a pussy."

At this, he saw her nose twitch. He reminded of the old tale he'd heard in passing, about a small lady whom had fought for House-elf’s right. He was done with school at that time, but he could imagine her twitching nose at every dig from other students, an obvious show of her distaste. Then it would followed up with a lengthy preach.

He had experienced it first hand, after all, during Quidditch practice when Malfoy had joined the team for the first time. He couldn’t help but smirk at the memory.

She narrowed her eyes when she found him smirking. "There’s nothing funny about having a pus—a vagina.”

He guffawed then. How could someone who had seen the world at its worst in their early youth could still be this gullible? It was endearing—not in a ‘Hey, you're cute’ way, he corrected himself, but in a ‘Hey, that kitten is adorable’ way.

“Ain’t got problem with vaginas here.” He had a sudden realisation that he had never said the word vagina. He, like any other men of his age, preferred cunt or pussy, or maybe, if he were one funny arsehole like Terrence, he would have called it Meat Wrapper.

“ So, yeah. I told him he was just being a vagina. And most of our team laughed with me—not because of vagina. Relax, Granger—and then, you know, the usual ‘I dare you' shit.”

“And you just happen to stumble upon the Wilkins?” She asked suspiciously.

He had to roll his eyes. Who did she think she was that he would track her down like a creepy stalker? “Don’t flatter yourself. How would I know this place is yours? You’re not even a Wilkins, Granger.” He laid out the crystal clear fact.

“Unless,” he looked down at her fingers, noticing how slender they were.

It finally dawned on him that one of them had been in his mouth. It had slithered along his teeth like his tongue had done, like a lover’s tongue would have done. 

Jesus, Flint!

He looked up again. “There’s no ring. Did you marry and get divorced?”

She made a funny face as though she was chewing something sour. “No, I’m not married. Not a divorcee, too. And Flint, it’s a new millennium. People can change their name to whatever they want.”

“Even your last name?” He asked incredulously. It was preposterous to even think of it.

“Of course!” She said loudly, showing her Muggle pride by puffing her chest out and daring him to question her.

Normally, he would. Because, as a Pureblood, his last name was sacred for him. It was a legacy, a proof of his bloodline. Yet, today, he felt like indulging the feisty living hair in front of him. So he let it slide.

Instead, he said, “So, if I wanna change my name, what, I just need to fill a form?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“I can change my name to anything? Like to Marcus Flamel, or even better, Macadamia Fireborne?” He laughed at the funny names he came up with.

“Yeah, or Marcus Bint,” she said, her eyes shone with mischief, “since, you know, you love vagina so much.”

“Marcus’ Bint?” He was amused, not gonna lie. This was straight-laced Hermione Granger he was talking with. And she just cracked a joke. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t be calling yourself name.”

Dear Jesus, please stop my mouth.

“Oh?” One corner of her mouth turned upward. “Me? Marcus’ Bint?” She tucked a wild lock behind her ear, her cheeks coloured in the softest pink he has ever seen. “Hmm. Somewhat possible. You are, after all, a Quidditch player.”

Sweet Cheesus. That’s enough. No need to reply. Get off the couch and walk your arse out and ask the pink bird if she wanna grab lunch together.

“Ah. And not just a Quidditch player, at that. It’s Captain, Marcus’ Bint. National Team’s Captain.” He took pride when the colour extended down to her neck. 

That’s it, he thought arrogantly, You’re done for, Granger. Now shut the hell up and let this go already. For both of our sake!

“My, my. Now that’s a catch. Only fools would let him go astray, letting him free for other bints to claim,” she replied, one hand splayed against her neck, as though it could hide her flushing skin.

He didn't expect a reply. The Granger he’d known of didn’t have this... this balls. Flirty and—

He looked back to her neck where her fingers has it wrapped, the finger that had been in his mouth. He noticed the flushed skin squeezed between her fingers; rosy, pink, nearing to red. She was flirty and—

Alluring.

“Are you a fool then, my bint?” He held her gaze and saw her emotions laid bare: surprise, uncertain, daring, and curiosity. So curious.

He has always preferred his women with soft-coloured eyes. Blue or green or grey, like the tender thing they were. But this brown was strong. Fearlessly invited him in like no other had done before.

He saw her mouth starting to part and brace himself for her answer.

But, he did called him Cheesus again, didn’t he? So, of course they would be someone behind the door now, knocking.

And just like that, the tension ebbed away. He cleared his throat, stretching his collar out because the damn cloth was crushing his windpipe. He could breathe easier now.

Granger opened the door. “Yes, Summer?”

Summer snuck a look at him, smiling shyly with her fluttering eyelashes. She didn’t do it on purpose, he could tell. And he found himself feeling relief for Granger for not having an airhead as her assistant.

“Mrs. Gaylord is here,” Summer said steadily, as if Gaylord was a common name.

No wonder Muggles were eager to change their name.

He saw Granger's sideway smile when she studied the file Summer has given her. “Of course. Mr. Flint here was leaving, anyway. Tell Mrs. Gaylord,” she met his eyes and—fuck him inside out—his heart actually skipped a beat, “to come now.”

He laughed out loud. It came out so easy and genuine with her. Who was it that he’d heard from about Granger being boring? This was far from boring, mate. The lady was funny as fuck.

“Oh, that remind me. Do you want to proceed, Mr. Flint? In your next appointment agenda, our orthodontist would be cleaning your teeth. In your case, that would be our Dr. Granger here. Then, from there, you need to schedule another appointment to finally start with the process of assembling your braces.

You can make an appointment now if you want to,” Summer said to him, her thick eyelashes complimented her green eyes nicely.

He turned to Granger. She was meeting his eyes unflinchingly. She had huge, expressive doe eyes: beautiful and brilliant. It sounded crazy, but he could see his reflection swimming in the vast pool of brown. He couldn’t decipher what it was in her eyes now. But he knew what it was in his.

Curiosity.

He was curious of this Hermione Granger. Older and seasoned with past hardship. He wanted to know more. To peel her off, layer by layer, and—

That’s it, Marcus. You’ve gone mad. Mental! Avoid this danger! Granger Danger!

“Yes,” he turned to look at Summer again. “Make it as soon as possible, can you, dove? I’m on my one month break now. So I’d appreciate it if you could schedule it sooner.” He smiled, and of course, he winked.

Summer blushed furiously, reciting to Granger of her tight schedule. Granger, on the other hand, still kept her eyes on him when he saw the small grin on her face. So small that he could barely see her shiny pearls this time.

“Next week,” she told him instead of Summer.

This was it. Marcus Flint was done for. By a moving, breathing big hair; a Medusa incarnation—in a way, she was, as his eyes now froze on hers. And what was it that I say about doe eyes? I take it back. This is no doe eyes. This is a fucking dragon eyes—the breaker of  Quidditch player’s heart.

The one and only, Hermione Granger.

“Next week it is then, Miss Bint.”

She replied with the widest grin a woman could have possibly mustered. It was scary, if he was to be honest. But, it was scarier how his cheeks hurt from his own widest grin. He swore he could feel them stretched to his ears. Fucking Muggles and their unreliable gods. This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for His easily mispronounced name.

When he walked out of the room, he didn’t stop to ask Summer out for lunch. He didn’t even Avada the friendly man when he, again, shared the same lift with him.

He ran his tongue against the line of his teeth, humming when he felt a sure, slender finger instead of his soft tongue.

He was done for, thoroughly done for. Front, back, inside, outside, left, right; thoroughly done for. How insane it was for it all has happened in a span of less than an hour?

But of course, who was he kidding? Just like his teeth, his life was funny like that.