Author's Note: This is the prize for answering my movie reference challenge at the end of chapter 11 of Give Me Life. The contest was very close, and multicolouredeyes was the first to answer correctly, with only minutes to spare. For anyone who was curious, the answer was Kiss Kiss Bang Bang; it's a great movie that you should definitely watch if you haven't yet had the pleasure. Anyway, I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope it meets multicolouredeyes' expectations.

This can be taken by itself as a oneshot or as a prequel to Give Me Life. It takes place at the end of summer after the final battle.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or related characters. The story title is a song from Franz Ferdinand.


You Could Have it so Much Better


Harry stood in the middle of the English National Qudditch Pitch, reveling in the familiar scents and sounds. It had been over a year since he'd played a proper game of quidditch, and the afternoon's practice with the National team had been sore temptation indeed, but he remained resolved. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life on a broomstick.

He was knocked out of his reverie as something hard hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He looked down dazedly as a quaffle rolled away from him on the springy turf.

"You're supposed to catch that, Potter," a familiar man shouted from maybe ten meters away as he sprinted up to pick up the quaffle. "It's a good thing you're not trying out for Chaser."

Harry squinted at the other man. "It's Flint right? Marcus?"

He nodded. Marcus Flint had filled out some in the last five years, but he still maintained a tall slender physique. He tossed the quaffle back and forth from one hand to the other.

"Oliver Wood is pretty pissed that you're not considering any offers from Ireland."

"I'm not considering any offers at all," Harry clarified.

"Then why are you here?"

"It seemed like the best way to get them to leave me alone."

Flint chuckled, still tossing the quaffle from hand to hand. "So, what, you don't want to be a professional quidditch player?"

Harry shook his head. "Although, after practicing with you guys, I'm tempted to change my mind."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment. Usually when they bring guys in, they spend their first two seasons on the bench. But, if today was any indication, I think the coach will play you this fall for sure."

"Except, that I'm not playing," Harry said, "and, besides, I think I've had offers from every quidditch team in Europe, and no one really seemed interested in me sitting on the bench."

"Even without a tryout?"

"It's not about how well I play. It's about selling tickets; they just want to be able to say that they have Harry Potter on the team. I'm not interested in being anyone's poster boy anymore."

Flint shrugged. "Who cares why they want you on the team as long as they let you play?"

"I just want to earn something for myself for once."

"So, join the team, help us win the world cup, and prove them all wrong."

"That wouldn't prove anything though, because that's what everyone would expect. If we won, no one would be surprised, but if we lost everyone would be disappointed. It's not worth it."

"Sure," Flint smiled in a crooked way that came off as almost charming, "but if we win, I can rub it in Wood's face. Ireland was in line for the cup last year, until quidditch got suspended, and he's just way too smug about it."

"Do you and Wood see a lot of each other then?" Harry asked. They had started walking back towards the locker rooms now.

"We go out for drinks every once in a while, and Britain plays Ireland pretty often."

"How did that happen? I don't remember the two of you being the best of friends back at school."

"My first game after I made it up from the minors, we played Ireland, and they just slaughtered us. He made some pretty amazing saves, and I went to congratulate him after the game. We got to talking- and drinking- and, before we knew it, it was last call. After that, we made it a weekly thing. We drink and talk, I tell him where to shove his quaffle, and we head home. It's kind of nice: a little like old times."

Harry snorted.


"That's just so weird."

Flint frowned. "A good rivalry is healthy, Potter. When you get older, you'll understand that."

Harry gave him a skeptical look. "Sure, rivalry is good. It bolsters competition and all that, but you're not supposed to go out drinking once a week with old rivals; you're supposed to do that with your friends."

Flint shrugged. "These days, if you grew up in Slytherin, you have to be careful who your friends are."

Harry looked away at that. It made him sad to see people around his age put away in Azkaban, mostly just because they didn't know how to stand up to their parents. And, Harry had a pretty good idea who, in particular, Flint was talking about. Harry had helped put a couple of the Slytherins from Flint's class into prison himself.

Flint held the door open for Harry as they went into the locker room. They'd dallied too long on the field, and the rest of the team was already gone. Marcus put his broom and pads into his locker and Harry set his firebolt down on the bench.

Marcus stripped out of his robes and stretched, and Harry couldn't help but watch as the muscles in Marcus' back contracted and released in a perfect demonstration of masculine prowess. Harry swallowed whatever lustful feelings he was having- for being the savior of the wizarding world, it had been an awfully long time since he'd gotten laid- stripped down, and followed Marcus into the showers.

The moment they stepped foot on the tiles, the faucets began to jet hot water into the shower room, and the air filled with steam.

Flint didn't waste any time, but stepped under one of the faucets and began soaping up with the body wash that he'd taken from his locker. "Do you want some of this, Potter?" he asked, offering him the bottle.

"Yeah, thanks," Harry took the bottle, squirted some into his hand, and gave it back. The soap warmed as he lathered it in his hands. Harry brought them to his nose and sniffed. It smelled very masculine, not at all like the stuff Harry had at home.

It was nice.

Harry soaped his chest, trying to keep his mind on his own business and not the rather attractive naked man standing next to him.

"What's that from?" Flint asked, and, when Harry turned to see what he meant, Marcus put a large firm hand on Harry's thigh.

Harry looked down at the hand in alarm. Flint's forefinger was tracing the line of a thick white scar that wound its way from the front of Harry's thigh around the side and stopped just shy of his right buttock. He was able to fight down any arousal, but he couldn't help the flush that crept into his cheeks.

"Oh, um," Harry turned away from the touch, lest he lose control. "My cousin hit me with a bike chain when we were kids." Harry was actually a little touched by Flint's curiosity; most of the time people were only concerned with one scar.

Flint frowned. "He hit you with what?"

"Oh, of course," Flint wasn't muggle born; he'd have no idea what a bicycle was. "It's a thick chain about like this," Harry held his fingers almost a centimeter apart.

Flint's eyes widened.

Harry ran his own fingers over the old scar. "It probably would've healed better if they brought me to the hospital, but they were too concerned about Dudley crying over his broken bicycle to bother taking me in for stitches."

"You didn't go to the hospital." Flint furrowed his brow, stepping towards Harry to examine the scar again.

Harry's eyes fluttered closed as Marcus' rough fingertips followed the scar back around to his backside, and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from letting out a moan.

"I got yelled at for bleeding on the carpet, and they made me sit out on the front steps," Harry made out in a harsh whisper.

Flint looked up to Harry then, meeting his eyes. They were green, beautiful, but not the same green as Harry's; they were a dark olive green and full of compassion. Harry had to swallow the lump in his throat. Flint still had his hand pressed to Harry's thigh, and the momentary lapse in concentration when he'd been caught off guard by Flint's eyes had allowed his arousal to surpass his control, and he was half hard.

Suddenly, Flint removed his hand and stepped back.

Harry closed his eyes and braced himself for whatever Flint's reaction would be. All the while, willing his unruly cock to show some discretion, but Flint remained silent, and finally Harry was forced to open his eyes.

Flint was smiling at him.

Harry turned red.

"This really isn't the best place, Potter," Flint said, gesturing around the shower room.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled. "I didn't mean to. It's just… and you…"

Flint was still smiling at him. It was kind of unnerving. He stepped forward again and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "We could go back to my place though."

Harry looked up at that, his face a perplexed mixture of hope and disbelief.

"It's not far."


Flint's apartment was a dump. The walls were bare cinder blocks, and the floor was poured concrete. The mismatched furniture was an assortment of curbside rescues. There was a halfway decent Persian rug covering the space in front of the fireplace, but that looked like the only bit of furnishing that was less than thirty years old. There was a pile of dirty dishes in the sink almost a meter high.

Harry cringed inwardly.

"I'm not home much," Flint said by way of explanation.

Harry didn't say anything.

"Do you want a beer or something?" Flint asked, walking over to a dented yellow refrigerator.

"A beer's fine," Harry answered. He stood awkwardly behind the sofa.

Flint grabbed a couple bottles from the fridge, popped the caps off, handed one to Harry, and flopped down on the sofa.

Harry took a drink of his beer. It was horrid. He preferred red wine or hard liquor, but he took another drink and downed half the bottle anyway. Then, he carefully seated himself next to Flint on the sofa.

"Relax, Potter," Flint said, downing most of his own beer.

"Sorry," Harry said, staring at the lip of his bottle.

"And stop apologizing," Flint said. He set his beer down on the coffee table and moved over on the sofa so that his and Harry's thighs were touching. "Here," he rested his hand on Harry's knee, moving it up toward the inside of Harry's thigh while he took the beer from him and set it on the coffee table next to the other one. "You can stop me any time," he said gently.

Harry nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat as his body responded to Marcus' hand.

Flint must have noticed Harry's continued unease though, because a moment later he removed the hand. "This isn't your first time, is it?"

"No," Harry shook his head. "It's just been a while. I've been… busy."

Flint smiled again at that. Harry was starting to really like that crooked smile.

"I can imagine," Flint said finally, his smile softening. "Well, allow me to give you a refresher then." He replaced his hand, this time moving it from Harry's knee to the inside of his thigh.

Harry gasped, the half hard erection he'd been sporting since back at the locker room jumping to attention.

Flint smiled and slipped a hand up under Harry's shirt, tweaking a nipple as he leaned forward to press his lips to Harry's. Harry met his kiss hungrily, slipping his tongue in between Flint's lips. Marcus broke the kiss for an instant as he moved to straddle Harry's lap.

"I already got an eyeful in the shower, so is it okay if we skip ahead to the naked part?" Flint asked, sliding his hand down Harry's chest to grab the hem of Harry's shirt and lift it up over his head. He tossed it aside.

"Uh, yeah," Harry said, a little chilly without his shirt, but this concern was forgotten as Flint's shirt joined his on the floor.

Harry didn't feel guilty enjoying the view this time. His eyes roamed over the finely tuned muscle of the other man's chest greedily, and he reached out with a hand to run it across the smooth skin and hard muscles. He clutched his arm around Marcus' back as he leaned back in for another kiss.

Flint's breath was hot, and the hardness beneath his trousers was rubbing against Harry's erection as he rocked against Harry's hips, kissing him hard.

Harry made a little mewling sound and a grunt and came in his pants.

Flint pulled away, smirking. "I guess it has been a while."

Harry blushed, biting his lip.

"It's okay, let's clean you up real quick and get you out of the rest of these troublesome clothes, and we can give it another go in a few minutes. I can be patient."

Harry leaned back and allowed Flint to unbuckle his belt and pull off his trousers. His breath caught for a moment as Flint grabbed his wand off the coffee table and pointed it at his crotch, but it disappeared a second later as the unpleasant sticky wetness in his pants was replaced with a warm dry tingle of magic.

Harry smiled. "That one would have come in handy back at school."

Flint set his wand back down, chuckling. "I'll teach it to you sometime. You might find a use for it yet."

"Yeah, I probably could."

"Want to take this to the bedroom?" Marcus asked, rising to his feet and offering a hand to Harry.

Harry leaned back on the sofa a moment longer, scanning from Flint's dark hair and crooked smile down to his strong muscled shoulders and biceps, lean torso, flat plane of a stomach, following the sparse dark hair to where it disappeared at the hem of his denim trousers, the way the dark denim clung to his hips and thighs, loose at the calves, and stopped at Flint's bare feet on the cheap Persian rug.

Harry took Flint's outstretched hand, and they went into the bedroom together.

The bedroom was as shabby as the rest of Flint's apartment. A mattress took up most of the room; it didn't even have a box spring, just sat on a couple of wooden shipping pallets. There were dirty clothes lying in piles on the floor. The bed was clothed in very nice black silk sheets though, Harry noticed as Flint shoved him down onto them.

Harry leaned up on his elbows, watching as Marcus stepped out of his trousers and boxers and joined Harry on the bed, naked.

"Up for another go?" Marcus asked after giving Harry a brief kiss.

Harry looked down, waiting for Marcus to follow his gaze. "Looks like."

Flint made a satisfied moan and slipped his hands under the elastic of Harry's pants, slipping them down over Harry's hips, freeing his newfound erection. Harry gasped, arching up against Flint as the other man crawled on top of him. Flint was a pleasant solid weight on top of him, and Harry closed his eyes tight as another wave of pleasure threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to concentrate on anything else; the last thing he wanted was the embarrassment of coming prematurely a second time.

The weight was suddenly gone as Marcus kneeled between Harry's legs and reached over to the bedside table to fumble around until a moment later Harry felt a lubricant slickened finger enter him, and his eyes shot open as he let out another moan. Flint thrust the finger in and out a few times before he added a second and then a third, twisting and scissoring them to prepare Harry, who was now pressing himself back onto Flint's fingers.

He moaned in disappointment as the fingers were removed, but it was short lived. Flint pulled him forward, hooking Harry's legs over his shoulders, and Harry let out a gasp as Flint entered him.

Flint let out a gasp of his own as soon as he was fully seated. "You're so tight, Potter."

Harry bucked his hips, urging Flint to move. Marcus obliged, thrusting slowly at first, until he found his stride, and then faster as Harry twitched his hips up to meet him.

It had been far too longs since Harry had enjoyed the press of another body against his. The occasional fumbles in the dark back at Hogwarts that had marked his first sexual encounters couldn't hold a candle to what he was experiencing now. The press of the mattress against his back, and the thin film of sweat forming on his skin. The fullness of having Flint inside of him, and the firm athletic muscle of Flint's shoulders against his calves. The little squelching noises as Harry arched his hips up to meet Flint's thrusts and their heavy breathing almost drowning it out.

Harry came first, clamping onto Flint as he came hot and sticky between their chests. He lost function of his muscles after that, and his legs fell limply from Flint's shoulders. Marcus settled Harry's legs about his waist and gripped the other man's hips, thrusting deeply a few more times until he found his own release and collapsed on top of Harry, breathing hard.

He lay there for a few seconds, trembling in the aftermath of his climax, before rolling over onto his side next to Harry.

Harry let out a contented sigh and leaned into Flint's strong chest. "That was amazing."

"Not bad yourself, Potter."

Harry kissed the nearest bit of skin he could reach: the hollow above Flint's clavicle. "That's one thing Oliver Wood never had the opportunity to do."

Flint chuckled. "That's a pity." He ran a hand over Harry's thigh, "because, you're built to be enjoyed."

Harry smiled, wrapping an arm around Flint's waist. "Is it alright if I crash here? Between that and the pitch, you've done a thorough job of wearing me out, Flint."

"Hush," Marcus admonished, his own eyes drooping.


Harry woke to a tense feeling in his lower back. Upon inspection, the cause was revealed to be Marcus Flint's arm, which Harry had spent at least part of the night sleeping on. Flint didn't seem to mind; he was snoring soundly.

Harry retrieved his glasses and wand from the wooden crate next to Flint's mattress. He cast a glowing charm and checked the time, 5:27, then he peeked out the shades. It was still mostly dark out.

Harry looked back and groaned inwardly. He couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking. Flint was easy to talk to, attractive, and a skilled lover. It would be all too easy to fall into a comfortable relationship. If that happened, the slight temptation that he had to accept the English National's offer would become a lot more prominent. It would be only a matter of time before he found himself on a broomstick.

That wasn't what he wanted.

He felt a pang of regret as he saw Flint's smooth muscled back cast into shadow by the glow of his wand, but Harry ignored his desire to crawl back under the covers and go back to sleep. Instead, he went back out into the other room, gathered up his clothes, and apparated without even taking the time to get dressed.