After the sorting finished and Dumbledore had announced the beginning of the customary Hogwarts feast, plates and utensils clashed loudly in the Great Hall. Contrary to the excited atmosphere, Marcus Flint was anything but happy. Draco Malfoy had just left the table with his dumb bodyguards to dredge up another fight with the stupid Golden Boy. He was bound to get himself kicked off the team if he kept things up like this and Marcus was not in the mood to find a new seeker. Marcus was not against pickling with the Gryffindor's seeker; however, there was a time and place for everything. Just watching him waltz his way to the Gryffindor's was enough to churn his stomach.
His jaw grinded harshly against the food in his mouth as McGonagall approached Malfoy. This was it. He was going to get his stupid, idiotic… infuriating self, kicked off the Slytherin team. It drove him mad. When Malfoy had first joined the team while bearing seven new brooms not too long ago, he had been ecstatic. Now he was firmly regretting ever feeling happy about the new addition. Not only did he spend all his time playing with Potter, he did not even catch the snitch right next to his head; it was not something he was willing to forget. It was a crushing defeat, and one he was not going to talk about to anybody. It was bad enough that they had lost every year to those insects since Potter.
Marcus glared at Malfoy as he slinked back to the Slytherin table. He was no worse for wear than when he left.
"What was that about?" Marcus bit out through his clenched teeth. He found it extremely hard to dispel the feeling of disbelief and rage that ran through his body. Crabbe and Goyle sat further down the table and continued eating. Draco merely shrugged nonchalantly and plainly said, "I was just teaching Potter his place. Why do you care?"
He sat down in front of Marcus and proceeded to fill his plate, much to his chagrin.
"You know you could have been kicked off the team!" He slammed his hands on the table; nobody looked up or got distracted from their conversations to see what was going on; when Slytherins didn't care, they didn't care. "McGonagall has the power to do just that, and while Snape may be on your side, you'll be lucky if you get to be an extra! You know we can't afford to fool around, especially with that bastard Potter on his team! Will you stop being so damn obvious?"
Draco Malfoy stared at him with defiance. "So what… you think he's actually skilled? It's merely luck. Don't get so worked up over it."
"I don't care! We don't have another seeker!" Marcus hissed. "Theo graduated last year. No one else in Slytherin, except for you, can actually play seeker. We're short on Quidditch players as it is because Montague is gone too. Terrence is still pissed off at you and he's not willing to come back. If you can't do it, we're finished. Stop leading that moron on already and think for once."
Draco pulled his lips into a mocking line. "Fine."
Marcus decided not to push him. His father Lucius Malfoy was to be respected in his wishes.
The weekend had started right after the night of the feast. September first of the year had fallen on a Friday. Not many people were milling about in the halls since many that did not have special classes on the weekends ultimately chose to sleep in.
Oliver had decided the night before to practice freely on the pitch early in the morning. As he felt the wind brushing roughly against his body he felt it was the best decision he could have made. He lived for Quidditch. As he was gaining speed but not really paying attention to where he was going he narrowly avoided being hit by a speeding streak of green.
"Hey Wood, pay attention!" Marcus Flint sneered at him. He was dressed in battered practice equipment. Oliver's stomach suddenly clenched and a cloud of anger rose into his throat. "It figures a dumb Gryffindor like you would not notice someone flying right at them."
"Shut up, Flint." Oliver shouted at his enemy's retreating back. He was flying away from him.
Two can play at that game... thought Oliver. He held the broom tightly with his gloved hands and leaned forward. He sped past the devil and continued doing his laps around the stadium. Not before long Marcus had caught up with him and they were speeding in the air side by side, one trying to overtake the other. Speed was Marcus' element and he was pushing ahead.
Are you sure you can compete with me? Marcus mouthed at him. Neither of them thought that he would have been heard if he spoke at the speed they were going, but there was an added bonus of Oliver constantly glaring at him with his thoughts simmering in a soup of competitive hate; he was almost there. Faster and faster they flew around the pitch, neither one slowing down in case the other overtook him.
"That's that I should be asking you!" Oliver shouted. He felt like he was going at an unimaginable speed. The only consistent thing was Marcus, and that was because they were flying like their brooms were stuck together through an invisible source. They flew around and around the stadium for an unknown amount of time, and neither of them noticed an approaching figure.
"STOP THIS NONSENSE!" Professor McGonagall shouted with her magically magnified voice. "CEASE or you WILL be punished!"
Oliver slowed his broom first, but it took a lot of effort since he was speeding so fast in one direction. He lifted the handle up and suffered a brief feeling that he was going to crash. Gradually he slowed to a comfortable speed with Flint not too far behind him. They both landed in front of her, both windswept with adrenaline pumping through them like a poison. Oliver landed and ran toward her. Marcus did so as well but with a hesitant step.
"What do you two think you're doing?" Professor McGonagall scolded them. "Even if it's you two, you should both know that at the speed you are going you are practically stunt-flying. Any wrong move and you both could have been smashed to pieces- I don't CARE how well you think you can fly! You may not know it but this has happened before, and I am not one to wish for another tragedy. Classes haven't even begun and now this? A game has spectators and the only reason you have not had more serious injuries was because we cushion your fall. Stunt-flying is not the same as doing drills, and even professionals have people to lessen the injury."
The professor unmagnified her voice and stared menacingly at them both as they nodded in agreement; both were fidgeting from the adrenaline, increased by fear of McGonagall whose voice had definitely shaken them. Oliver felt that there was something different with her stare this time around. It was usually just a look with the promise of punishment, but there was a touch of contemplation with she looked between the two.
"We understand." Oliver cleared his throat nervously and asked, "May we go now professor?"
Marcus Flint looked at him with disbelief, as if he couldn't comprehend the fear of being possibly thrown in detention or the fact that it wasn't just anybody standing in front of them. Maybe it was because Oliver said "we". He took a step to the side as if he was about to run away from the scene.
"Oliver… Marcus Flint…" Professor McGonagall sighed. "I will take fifty points from the both of you, and give you something to do since you seem to have so much free time on your hands."
