Written for Hogwarts' Writing Club - Showtime: Say No To This: (word) Blackmail, the Comic Book Day Event: Forbidden Love, the Love in Motion Event: MarcusOliver and the Roald Dahl Day Event: Sneaky pecan pie - Write about a Slytherin.

Word count: 666

honey we were never meant to last

Something inside Marcus' chest shatters when he sees the pictures spread out in front of him. Malfoy smirks, ugly and smug, and Marcus wants nothing more than to destroy him, to show him that here, his name may be great, but his deeds should matter just as much as his father's reputation.

Almost against his will, Marcus' fingers trace the glossy paper, where two figures are entwined closely, hiding their faces in the shadows.

Even so, their embrace is unmistakeable, as is their identity. It makes his heart ache, to realize that he was a fool, to believe they could ever have this.

""I wonder," Malfoy says, grin wide and mocking, "what the team would say if they knew you were… fraternizing with the enemy. A Gryffindor, no less," he adds, and the disgust in the voice of a boy so much younger than he is shouldn't hurt this much, shouldn't feel like being stabbed in the heart.

"What do you want?" Marcus asks, scowling. He forces his pictures to steady over the pictures—even now, he can't stand the idea of ruining them, even though he knows that whatever he and Oliver shared in those pictures is now ruined.

"I want to play Seeker," Malfoy orders, eyes an icy grey. He's already won and he knows it, but Marcus will be damned if he doesn't make him work for it anyway.

"Then you should try out," he bites back. "If you're as good as you think you are, I'm sure that won't be a problem for you. Slytherin, you see, only takes the best."

Malfoy's eyes burn with cold fury and he barely manages to restrain a snarl. "Then I'm sure you won't mind if I hand these pictures to your other teammates. After all, they deserve to know what their captain is up to, when he stays behind in the changing rooms."

For a glorious instant, Marcus considers cursing this blond bastard—imagines having him writhing in pain at his feet. Marcus bets he wouldn't look so smug, then.

"That won't be necessary," Marcus hisses, heart pounding in his chest, pulling the photographs to his chest. He stares down into Malfoy's grey eyes, and he hates. "I expect you to be there on time for our next training session—those will be posted in the common room."

Malfoy eyes the pictures Marcus is holding with contempt for a moment, before his eyes flick back up to his face. "You can keep these. I have plenty of copies—but I'd suggest ending such… relations between you and that Gryffindor." He smiles, a nasty thing full of teeth. "Or don't. It's always nice to have someone I can count on to be on my side."

"Yes," Marcus replies through his teeth, thinking of sun-kissed skin hot against his own, of warm lips stealing the breath from his mouth and of a boy who says he hates him but always knows what to say to make Marcus' mind go quiet. He doesn't know if he can lose that. "Yes, it is."

"Glad to see we're on the same page, Flint," Malfoy replies before leaving, strutting out of their common room like he owns the place.

The room is nearly empty, now, and no one is paying Marcus any attention. He lowers the photographs back on the table, lungs heavy in his chest.

The boys in the pictures are happy. Marcus had never thought about how they might have looked to outsiders—he's never given thought to the feelings blooming in his chest whenever he and Oliver sneak away together, stealing precious moments away from the world, but it is so clear to see here that it hurts.

Love is written on every curve of their bodies, on every shy smile and laugh blossoming in between ardent press of their lips, and Marcus feels like a fool for not seeing it before he has to make it end, for ever thinking they could make it work.