Authors Note: I'm making an attempt at my favorite couple - or one of them, at least. Marcus/Oliver - this is only my second fanfiction, so excuse me if its bad. xD
Things I Own: The Rocky Horror Picture Show movie, A bowler hat, A sketchbook full of awesome drawings
Things I Don't Own: A sense of style, The ability to sing, and unfortunately Harry Potter.
Chapter One Inebriation
The game had been brutal. Oliver groaned as he clutched his injured arm, knowing it was just bruised but all the same. A bludger never did hit you without making you wish it'd have just knocked you off your broom to put out your misery.
Of course, Oliver Wood didn't wish himself dead. You couldn't play quidditch when your six feet under, and quidditch was his life. All the same, though, he wasn't going to be making any spectacular saves in practice between now and the next match.
He managed somehow to undress himself with just the one arm, finally making it to the showers to wash off the head-to-toe mud that adorned him. How do you even get mud on you when your in the air? It isn't as though you playing on the ground! He grumbled to himself, scowling as he worked the kinks out of his worn muscles.
They had lost the game, giving Slyltherin the quidditch cup for the fourth year in a row. They needed a better seeker - someone who could actually catch the bloody snitch. He banged his head against the nearest wall, knowing that if they found one the choice wouldn't be left to him. He wasn't captain. Yet. He corrected himself. Not captain yet. Its only a matter of time... next year, maybe. I'll be old enough then....
The thought didn't keep him from practically drowning himself in the showers, however, and when he finally came back into the locker room wearing only a towel, he was the only one still there. He shifted through his locker, muttering vague nothings about strategy and plays, finally pulling out a clean pair of muggle-style jeans and a grey cashmere sweater that his grandmother had given him. The sturdy fourth-year pulled them on distractedly, pushing his soiled gear into a duffel bag to take back to his dorms for cleaning and throwing the soaked towel into the laundry.
By the time that he was making his way back up to the castle, it had stopped raining. He strolled leisurely across the grounds, not that eager to get inside so that he could be bombarded by insults for all the saves he had fumbled. They should have been blaming the seeker - he was the wanker who couldn't see the snitch right in front of his blood face. Not to mention the Slytherins would be celebrating, meaning loud and raucous parties that would no doubt result in less than sober upper-class men strolling about after hours with the detentions and deductions of house points racking up.
Okay, Maybe its not that bad...He allowed with a low chuckle. He still was upset that Gryffindor hadn't taken the cup, though.
The keeper found himself wandering up the marble steps, preparing himself to head up to Gryffindor tower. He wanted to be ready when the insults started bombarding him.
"Oi! Wood!"The Scott tensed as someone called him, looking over his shoulder to see who it was.
Marcus Flint, one of the Slytherin chasers, was at the bottom of the stairs, voice slightly slurred, no doubt from the alcohol that had been smuggled into the dungeons by this long after the game.
"Flint." He acknowledged, grimacing. "Shouldn' ya be at y'ur little after-party?"
"Jus' came from there." The larger between them replied curtly, managing to pull himself up the first few steps without face planting but tripping over the next one, and with a fantastic thud went sliding back to the bottom.
Oliver muffled a laugh, knowing that if it came to a fight he would most surely lose. The Slytherin quidditch team was known for its habit of employing abnormally large, ugly people for its use, and Marcus was no exception.
"Well, get on with it then. Whatcha want?" He wasn't really in the mood to play these games with the troll-like pureblood.
"I jus' wanted to say good game."
The Gryffindor was quite surprised by this. Since when did a Slytherin show any sentiment such as a compliment towards a Gryffindor? A quidditch rival, no less?
"Err... thanks?" His thick Scottish burr was muddled with wariness, waiting for the inevitable insult that never came.
Marcus swayed on his feet, looking quite green in the face. Oliver frowned before traipsing his way down the flight of stairs to stand next to the larger boy. "Flint, I thin' we should getcha to the infirmary."He said uncertainly, eyebrows furrowing. He didn't want the other to pass out and be found by angry Gryffindors - no doubt they would still be feeling bitter after the game, and he had no qualms to thinking they would do something to him while he was incapacitated.
"I don' need ta go to the infirmery!" The inebriated boy protested, garbling his words fantastically. Oliver sighed, moving his bag over to one shoulder and placing the other under the chasers arm to help him up the stairs.
And there were alot of stairs. Why would you put the hospital wing so far up? People don't want to have to wander up flights of stairs dragging injured others! He thought exasperatedly, finally stumbling up the last few steps and setting off down the hall with Marcus in tow.
"Has anyone ever told you that you have pretty eyes?" He quipped, grinning foolishly. Oliver gave a half-hearted smile in response, thinking that it was the alcohol talking. "No! Really. They're like... brown... and..."He seemed to struggle for a moment, trying to come up with an adaquate word to use. "Eye-ish."
"Yeah."The other boy agreed awkwardly, ignoring the owl-ish looks being cast in his direction as they finally stood in front of the doors to the hospital wing. "I thin' ya can make it from 'ere, right?"
The Slytherin nodded, but didn't release the death-grip he had come to have on Oliver's shirt. "Thanks for helping me, Oliver."Flint said, voice full of emotion. The Gryffindor made a solid pact to never help a drunk Slytherin again - it was just too weird.
He finally managed to extract himself from Marcus's grip, adjusting his bag so that it was no longer slipping out of his grasp. "Y'ur welcome, Flint. Don' make a habit of it."
The taller, more muscular boy seemed to hover on the verge of doing something drastic before finally falling over the edge, pulling the sandy-haired teen into a hug before releasing him and sauntering through the doors to see Madam Pomfrey.
Oliver stared wide-eyed after him, mouth slightly open, before shaking it head and passing it off as the sentiments of a less-than-sober troll, walking in the other direction towards Gryffindor Tower.
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End Note: Review? Next chapter to be up some time this week or next week, most likely, since I have to work on my other story some as well. ^^