Disclamer: Sadly, I do not own Flint, although I wish I can
Who am I? I never seem to have a decent answer for that. Well, I'm Marcus Flint, of course. I know that much, but other than that, looking any deeper, I get lost. A Slytherin, which I am, or as I mostly hear it, a bloody cunning snake. Both terms I can agree too, there isn't much to deny about it. I've paced the halls of the dungeons countless times, flew around the pitch perhaps double the amount, each time pondering myself.
What in the hell am I expected to do in my life? I can barely keep a decent friendship, much less a relationship. A nagging voice in my head clearly reminds me of why. "It's because of your parents." It always tells me that, constantly reminding me off the lack of a childhood I had. Also the lack of parental even in my teen years. Countless days I have spent alone, barely catching a glimpse of either of my parents, our house-elf did the duty of raising me. The bloody elf didn't help much; he was a cold-hearted of a thing also. He would disappear for hours, leaving me to be sitting in my room alone, of course I grew on to quidditch, with no damn company, my broom was the only thing I ever had. Still, that little shit never showed a kind tone, I can still recall his slimy voice croaking out, Master Flint.
What is it about my first name, no one calls me it. Always I hear, "Oi! Flint" or even "Watch were your going Flint." There was one, yes, one person who called me Marcus, but that was in secret, no one knew about it, or even that we spoke to each other civilly; it was for the best that no one knew. Perhaps their scared, no, there isn't any question about it, their scared, scared of the damned Slytherin Captain. I know my looks are not that great, but now really?
Shit, I know I have crooked teeth, I've been told plenty of times, and yeah, I have looked into a mirror. Sure, I resemble a troll, it's not my fucking fault one of my great grandparents fucked one, my family's fucking screwed up, what do they expect of me? Well, then again, I'm the lucky family member that inherits those cursed genes. Always me, Marcus Flint, the lucky little boy. The little boy, who repeats his god damn 7th year at Hogwarts.
Maybe though, perhaps. I shouldn't get my hopes up to high. The one thing my parents have taught me, I don't deserve shit. Yes that they taught me, and quite well too, but well maybe this year is different, maybe. I can walk into the Slytherin common room and hear, "Hey Marcus, come sit here, did you read the daily prophet?" or maybe ask me about music, shit I listen to the weird sisters, so why can't I talk about them. No...no, I'm Marcus Flint, the quidditch captain. That's the only way I can be portrayed, the only way people will speak to me, about the cursed sport. Well you never know, this year, when I get on the train, someone will ask, "hey how was your summer?" Why in the fucking hell am I telling myself this, of course that won't happen, I don't deserve friends, I don't deserve shit.
That's who I am, Marcus Flint, the rejected, troll looking freak.