She Moves Through The Fair

She traced ancient patterns in the faint dusting on the hardwood. The studio's stereo and every radio in the house blasted the same Hardiman track- set on repeat. No complaints as it was a late Tuesday morning and Katie's parents were probably having a hasty lunch at the Leaky Cauldron of rabbit stew, buttered black bread, and port. Arms flailing she did a back click and fling before pirouetting. Hips waggling sensuously, sliding the heralding percussive brogue in a half circle. The silent-but-deadly ghillies lay abandoned at the bottom of her bag, Katie decided that it was time for fun. The Games were still two weeks away and she would be ready regardless. The World Feis Champion was born ready, always challenging her grandmother that Sporty Spice is an ideal role model.

Damn this heat. August was being particularly temperamental at a time when Dr. Bell announced that they would have to cut back on a few muggle luxuries, running the air conditioners only at night was atop his list. Bathing in the pulsating electric joy of her art the stifling humidity seemed to mitigate itself. Katie's flesh was free and alive- Druidic robes, drab grey skirts, and Oxfords a million miles away. Her skirt flared caught on the updraft of a leap and leg curl but it was her dark blonde hair unbound and swinging freely that drew anyone's eye to it, though not powerfully enough for any troupe to offer her release from her provincial North London prison. The silencing charms would placate the neighbours.

But it was a familiar sight to them when they would see Katie and her friends skipping along from Réve Brodie's School of Irish Dance, dangling round their necks secondhand leather dance slippers; charm bracelets and junk bangles jingling from slim wrists. Not much had changed when Katie left for Hogwarts, she knew what her family was and she knew that she was her own person- her own witch- escaping from the shadow of her hippie older sister who fled to Micronesia upon graduation to marry a renowned shaman instead of attending Stonehenge. Katie's younger brother attended Beauxbaton and often spent his summers at the Junior League Quidditch camps in Nice. So what was Katie to do? At four her mother originally had her signed up for ballet, but the repetition of the same Bach piece pounding on the piano day after day coupled with the tragedy of not receiving your toe shoes for another two years sent Katie reeling out of the hall.

When she was seven the family spent the remaining two weeks of summer in a quaint boarding house in Connamarra. They went to the village fete and Katie ducking through the legs of crushed onlookers snaking into one particular tent, filled to bursting she saw her. Gallops, intricate leaps and impossible flings made that particular witch airborne without a broom. Dearbhla O'Shaughnessy's name had made The Prophet's front page more times than you could count, her taps accompanied The Chieftains over the wireless. She was unmistakable with her exaggerated teased copper curls streaked with shimmering gold. Gryffindor and proud. New goals were set as Katie sought to be O'Shaughnessy's successor but it didn't come without its Doxy bites. The rigid discipline of keeping her arms at her sides nearly at all times, hour-long warm ups, and the pain... the pain nearly did her in. But it paid off- legs slender with muscle tone, firm high breasts, and a rhythm adopted into every move she made: insignificant turns, the flash of her throat all memorable. It was that odd grace and elegance that contrasted with the brutality of Quidditch that Katie made her own serving well on the house team. Wood had finally noticed. Maybe it was just her choice of leotard when he caught her practicing in the locker room: a mini kilt patterned with the Sutherland tartan (A/N: I love you Kiefer!), a cotton weave for movement instead of the traditional thick tweed and white spandex body suit. But if you'd asked Oliver what song was playing he would be unable to recall. However what Katie did on the gym bench was another matter....

By sixth year it began to fall apart. Puddlemere United had owled him about their scouts being about Hogwarts covertly and a new training facility in St. Andrews for possible reservist candidates. If Katie shed so much as one tear it would have broken him! And with resignation she stood at Hogsmede waiting for Puddlemere's train to take Oliver down south. Promises of owls and gifts would be honored, yes, but hardly the issue. One more longing good-bye kiss before the team and she stayed until the blue and grey steam engine disapparated into the moors. Alighting their car at King's Cross Alicia, Angelina, the Weasleys, even Harry and Hermione offered their sympathies and words of hope.

'Summer will fly, I promise.'

'Can you imagine how Oliver's going to look after St. Andrews?'

'I should think you'll be so busy with dancing Oliver might be upset at you!'

Was she being unreasonable or so insecure of herself that Katie failed to recognize where she began and Oliver ended? Funnily enough as she watched the last of her housemates, Harry as it turned out, trudge off to the horrid Dursleys' station wagon she wasn't the only one. Standing several feet away was Marcus Flint, and it took Katie a moment to realize this. For one thing he was dressed in muggle clothes- the finest in casual wear- baggy jeans, Timberlands, and a T-shirt that read 'PUBLIC ENEMY #1'. Slung over his arm was a leather jacket and he wore a silver link chain round his neck with the Flint family crest hanging from it.

He clicked his teeth. 'Poor, poor Bell. Missing Wood already? Will such hardship ever cease?' Katie slitted her eyes once at him and turned back to the gate.

'Didn't you graduate Flint? Oh, sorry, I forgot- failed your N.E.W.T.S.'

'Just didn't turn up for the second half, that's all.'

She sneered looking away. 'A bloody-minded thing to do, but how recklessly Flintish of you.' Marcus raised his brow incredulously.

'"Flintish"?'

'Yes. Women are at a loss for adjectives when it comes to you Marcus. Good day.' She had not taken three steps when he shoved a flask in her face.

'Might you have a nip?' Katie would have slapped him for his vulgarity, but the sting of the Ogden's tantalized her. She wrenched the silver thing from his hand, but Marcus unclasped his fingers wantonly. Katie took a long, sharp draught, she pulled her lips in so tight they were white. Her eyes filled with tears and she was certain they were bloodshot. After a few minutes of exchanging insults and liquor, a pair of bright spots blossomed on Katie's cheeks and it signaled their departure. Every now and again Katie would waver and took great care to step off the curb. Marcus on the other hand strode alongside whistling. He hailed a cab which whisked them to Dunne Hill. Marcus was impressed with the Bell home: French windows, Tudor doors, canary yellow marble everywhere.

'They're not home... they never are,' she blithely commented as they entered the vestibule. Up the stairs leaving a trail of clothes behind. As expected Marcus was rough but Katie would beg him later on. He had this eerie calmness about him as he intensely watched Katie take the dominant position, Marcus' big hands steadying her hips. But she'd have it no other way, and this was fine, it was easy. Naturally Katie had been initially repulsed at Alicia's musings over the *all-male* Slytherin team and pondered if their roughness in the game was matched in the bedroom. She couldn't wait to throw it in Spinnett's face! Katie rode on sensation lost in a sea of textures, soft pale curves to hard tanned planes (no tan lines, shameless bastard). After a fourth time Katie knelt up inadvertently catching a glimpse of them in her beaureau mirror. She grinned.

'What're you smiling at, Cheshire Kitty?'

'I like the look of us.'

Marcus scoffed, 'Pervy.' He turned on his side taking her with him, he made it quite apparent that he made no plans to leave. Katie kissed Marcus graciously as he allowed her to become uncharacteristically forward lips and tongue flitting against his crust of stubble along his chin. 'Should've shaved....'

'Cut it off and I'll kill you,' she hissed. Marcus tumbled Katie deep into the lavender print duvet pining her firmly beneath him. His mouth hot and hard slanted over hers, but Marcus would not kiss her yet.

'Such bloodshed necessary?' He felt Katie discontinue running her nails lightly down his biceps and her arms flopped down on either side of her head in an overtly flirtatious recoiling manner. Was that sincerity behind his remark?

'You tell me.' Her teammates were right, the summer did fly. And then the harsh reality of Hogwarts hit her when she saw Marcus in Quality Quidditch Supplies at Diagon Alley, the first they had seen each other in weeks of their last tryst. On the whole it wasn't unpleasant, he nodded in acknowledgement and she did the same then politely parted ways. Marcus returned later that evening, tapping at Katie's window hovering on his Nimbus 2001 and due to his weakened state he couldn't leave until the following afternoon, Katie made him promise that he would owl her as soon as he'd portkey back to Kildare. Portkeying was dodgy as it is, but doing it semi-dehydrated made her panic.

The last year was a hectic one: Gryffindor won the Quidditch and House Cups, the Yule Ball was a near disaster with Harry, Hermione, and Ron giving each other the silent treatment temporarily. Oliver made Puddlemere reservist, he told Katie he loved her, and she was accepted to Stonehenge University. Katie would be spending more time with their dance troupe than in class. Glancing at the calendar on the wall adjacent to her she marked off in bright red the days until she would meet up with Oliver, his first game would be at Inverness the opposing team had yet to be announced. Flicking her wrist over looking at her watch Katie knew that Marcus was late. No matter, she shrugged that was nothing new. If he ever decided to show up early or on time that would be a miracle performed by Merlin. Then she heard the crash and a slew of profanities that might make a sailor blush and took that as her cue.

The Falmouth Chaser (for the main team) sat on his knees before the fireplace under a coating of soot hacking and coughing, Katie strutted into the front parlour on quick feet melodramatically dragging her toes. Marcus managed to pull himself to his feet after a few minutes when he saw Katie posing in front of him. Bent at the knees, crossed feet, and hands firmly planted on hips she drawled, "Care for some water?"

"Double Ogden's would be fine." Marcus dusted himself off. Katie flicked a lock of her blonde hair from her face.

"Sorry. We had a party last week, apple brandy's all we have left." Marcus swatted his hand.

"It'll do. Where is it?"

"Where it usually is." He shoved his hands into his pockets and disappeared into the dining room. After a few minutes of rooting through the liquor cabinet he returned with the bottle of Catriona's Chartreuse and a pair of heavy crystal shot glasses.

"Sorry I'm late. Gearing up for an exhibition game."

"Where?" Katie queried.

"Uhh..." Marcus searched through his floo powder muddied mind. "Inverness says I believe." Katie threw her head back in a mocking guffaw while leaping. Marcus was taken aback at her reaction but in the last year with her he learned not to leave anything to his imagination. Katie skipped upstairs, hands flourishing above her head as a flamenco dancer would with castanets in a whirlpool of red glitter, it was really too easy.