Author's notes: Strange, what can come when you sit down and simply write, with no particular plan in mind. Even stranger, the voice that makes itself heard when you are desperately trying to come up with a title.
Voice: Hey, why not use a Shakespeare quote as the title for each of the
chapters?
Cairnsy: Huh? I don't use chapter titles, I'm tying to think of
the title for the actual *story*.
Voice: Well, you can use a Shakespeare
quote for that, as well!
Cairnsy: But I don't even like most of
Shakespeare's plays!
Voice: Tough. I am the voice, I must be obeyed.
So, blame the convoluted titles on the voice. To those who can identify where each of the quotes comes from, big props ^_^. As many of the Shakespeare plays I like are some of his minor ones, good luck in placing some of the more difficult ones!
And just because this is the season for overly long author's notes, this 'little' fic was never supposed to see the light of day. It's what I classify as my throw away fic, the story I work on when I don't want to think or worry about things that tend to be rather important, like characterisation or plot. So, this is purely for fun. Don't expect anything even close to half decent. Big hugs as always to WT2.
Second chapter coming out later today.
Chapter one: But For My Sport and Profit.
Marcus Flint.
You can learn a lot, staying at Hogwarts over Christmas. With the thinning of students comes a greater ability to watch and study others, not that I would admit such a habit to anyone else. Flaws become more visible, and secrets not quite so, when the students left behind let their masks slip, drawn in by the false security of half empty tables and self preoccupation.
They never seem to realise just how open they are leaving themselves, not until it is too late. By then, I always tend to have enough information to make sure my holiday at least is ... enjoyable.
House divisions fade, I've also learnt, during these Christmas weeks. You socialise with whomever you please, although we often remain, as we are, proud Slytherins who are far above all others. Even when there are only a handful of us here, we prefer our own company to that which is tainted by mock wisdom or a belief of power or innocence.
No one is innocent. Naive, yes. But never innocent.
My eyes fall on a third year, alone by the fire in the Great Hall. I have yet to decide why she remains, for which reason she shuns her home, or it her. For, one thing you also learn over Christmas, is that all of us who are here are misfits of some form, that we each have our own from of rejection. Be it the 5th year who wishes to escape the confinements of a rigid family, the 4th year whose parents have no time for her, the 6th year who has lost himself in an unredeemable crush.
The 7th year who is powerless at home, but always in control, always safe, here.
A friend snarls in the direction of where a group of Gryffindors sit with a pair of Ravenclaws. I merely rise an eyebrow, regarding the table with dim curiosity. The Weasley family is there, as they always are. They're betrayal is the social system, or perhaps simply poor contraception. I let my eyes linger on the oldest one, and a smile tugs at my lips as he turns disapprovingly to one of the twins. Percy is always a source of amusement during these winter weeks, perhaps this year I will be able to break his famed control enough so that he really does 'flip out', as Lana used to always say.
My smile slips into a growl as Oliver Wood suddenly looks up from the book he is ready, and sees us watching his group. He glares at us with a cold anger, practically daring us to cross the room and beat him to a pulp. I have yet to figure out why he stays behind, and it is something that frustrates me. Not every year, but most. Warm words spoken about his family, weekly care packages from them. No-one stays behind, without a reason.
Drake moans at my side, complaining about being bored. It breaks my concentration, but perhaps it was time to put aside such thoughts for now. The others mutter on, devising plans to humiliate and embarrass, and I pitch in occasionally with some ideas of my own.
"If I didn't know you better, Marcus, I would say you had an obsession with that Weasley kid." Bothemius says it coldly, like only a true Slytherin can. I snort, taking a sip of the hot chocolate in front of me.
"It took you this long to notice? I've only been trying to take him down a notch or two for 7 years, now."
That perfect fucking Weasley. Always better, always smarter, always in control. The only time he ever loses it, is when someone manages to hassle him enough. Of course, perfect Percy is known for having only 2 or so emotions in the first place, so getting him to lose control over them is difficult as hell. I've never seen anyone succeed.
The victory will only be sweeter, as a result.
"You haven't done a fabulous job at it, have you?" The words are said with mockery, but we both know that he hasn't had any more success than I've had at riling the Weasley. Oh, we've gained points for making him blush, or occasionally leaving him speechless. But those are petty one-ups, not even close to the effect either of us have hoped to have. It is fairly easy to embarrass him, but the prize lies in making those masks of his slip.
"Perhaps that is where we can all get our entertainment from this year," Draco Malfoy chimes in, although we all practically ignore him. It is fine to use family power to lord over students in other houses, it is not to do so to those in your own. He notes our disinterest - that is what happens when you want to play with the big boys, kid - and I can tell he is about to say something over the top to try and regain our attention, as he always does. He seems to believe that idiotic ideas have their roots in intelligence. "A bet, to see who can make him lose control."
"Malfoy, we do that on a daily basis," He turns red at my harsh words. At least he managed to pick up this time that I was insulting him; too often attacking words don't penetrate his thick hide of arrogance.
"I meant more than that," he replies with a hiss, and I'm about ready to dismiss him. He is the youngest at our table; we tolerate him only because we feel like it. The boy has always craved power, and we are the ones who hold it. "As a bet, we ... we target a particular way of bringing him down!" He seems pleased that he managed to come up with that idea on the fly, and that we 'obviously' didn't notice that it hadn't been part of his original plan. I make no attempt to hide the rolling of my eyes, and briefly I wonder why he even bothers to pretend he cares about annoying the eldest Weasley, when he finds more fun in trying to embarrass the younger one.
"Such as what?" I'm surprised that Drake even bothers to reply, but then I catch the mostly concealed interest that lurks in his on again/off again lover's eyes. Bothemius thinks there might be some potential here, and Drake picks up on it as quickly as an eagle does a rat. My surprise is nothing when compared to Draco's, whose laughable mask of control slips.
"I, I.."
"You've been fighting this battle on a ground where you are doomed to fail," Marlena practically purrs from my side, her hand resting playfully on my knee. I smirk as Draco tries vainly to hide his jealousy - he has no problem being cut off by the bewitching 7th year, it is the fact that she flirts so openly with all of us, myself in particular, but never him which does it. She has been quiet throughout the conversation, but only because she has been listening and planning herself. She also has seen the possible use of Draco's line of thinking. "Perhaps if we focus on one thing you do ... well," the hand slips higher, as does Draco's anger, "you can get your well deserved victory."
It is no surprise that this would come back to me. We are not selfish with our victories, our little group. While all of us 7th years have some issue with the Head Boy, they know that this is a prize that I desire above almost all others. I have long been victorious over Oliver Wood, his one love is Quidditch, and it is a love I have destroyed on many occasions with my team. While I will never grow tired of the utter frustration I can cause him, nor will there be any rivalry greater than what I still have with him, there are times when a single success can outweigh a continuous one. I had played to my strengths to beat Oliver. Some would say, I had exhausted my only strength to beat him. Well, except one.
"Are you suggesting I throw him to the ground and fuck him senseless?" I reply with deliberate lust, and this time it is Marlena that Draco is jealous of. Transparent does not even begin to describe the child. Dropping my tone to one of false seductiveness, I lean into her, continuing the jest. "Or, perhaps, against a wall? That has always been one of your favourite places, hasn't it, Marlena?"
"I think you might just have caught on." I'm startled from the game as she smiles back at me, but with undeniable seriousness in her eyes. "You've never been able to match his wits, darling. But even Draco here knows more about sex than puritan Percy." Drake doesn't even try and conceal his laugh as Draco preens, mistaking Marlena's jibe as a compliment.
"The seduction of Percy Weasley. That is certainly something that would be fun to watch," Bothemius muses. "That said, I think you would have A better chance trying to romance a log. It would provide you with better sex, in any case." Even Draco picks out on the challenge in his voice. I raise an eyebrow coldly, inwardly letting my thoughts race over this new development. I am not one to ever back down for a challenge however, and my reply comes almost instantly.
"I believe that Malfoy suggested that this be a bet?" The idiot nods wildly from the other side of the table, as though he is a puppy who has done something good, and is now being complimented. As though a conspiracy is about to unfold, the others lean towards me, eyes dancing with glee.
"50 Galleons," Bothemius states. Marlena looks concerned for a moment, her 'allowance' has been cut off by her parents, and I'm sure she will have a little trouble getting together the money in the case she loses. Neither Draco nor Drake have such a problem, so they do nothing but nod. "4 weeks, to bed the brat. That is when school starts. My 50 is on you getting shot down."
I'm never shot down, when it comes to sex. The challenge has become two fold.
"I'm going to have to agree with Bothemius here," Drake agrees. That doesn't surprise me, as the two are usually on the same wave length. I punch Marlena lightly on the arm when she nods also, a look of mock disappointment firmly on my face.
"What, you don't think I can do it, babe?" I pout. "This was all your idea, but even you won't support me in my hour of need? Will no one?"
"I will," Draco speaks up haughtily.
Shut up, Malfoy.
"Looks like you are about to get your first opportunity to have a go at him," Drake points to the Gryffindor table, where all but Percy are about to leave from. For a moment, it looks like Oliver has managed to persuade my target to go with them, and I frown in distaste. Percy's books seem to convince him that they are far better company than the group of idiots in the end, and he remains, alone at the table as the others scurry out.
"Now would be a perfect time," Draco agrees coolly, and nothing could convince me otherwise that he is a rank amateur when it comes to something like this.
"Yes," I reply snidely. "Why don't I just go over there, no plan, no preparation, and when the entire Slytherin table is watching with anticipation. He is sure to suspect nothing is foul." The others snicker, and Draco lamely tries to make it appear as though he said something that stupid deliberately. My words do snap Drake into action, however, and he rises from the table, the others following.
"We will see you in the common room, later. We're doing no good for you by staying here." With a parting smile, they are gone, and I am left with only my thoughts.
Seduction is something I have always done well, but Percy is not the type I usually seduce. I get up and seat myself where Marlena had been sitting, providing a better view of the Head Boy. He is not exactly attractive, although I wouldn't say he doesn't have a nice look to him. Tall, wiry, he certainly isn't elegant in his stride. His hair is, much to his own distaste I am sure, wild and fiery, a brilliant red that rivals that of the sunset. The freckles that sprinkle down his nose and across his cheeks are far lighter than that of his brothers, a result of not knowing the sun as intimately as they do. I let my eyes linger just briefly on his delicate cheekbones, and the blue eyes that are firmly buried in the book in front of him. Perhaps there is a certain attractiveness to him.
Even if there wasn't, the thought of achieving such utter dominance over the Head Boy is too tantalising a prospect to pass over.
No, the question wasn't motivation, but what angle to attack from.
The straightforward approach was more than unlikely to work; it was doomed to fail automatically. Taping my fingers on the table lightly, I think of other possible ways to win him over - for Percy was not the kind of person to fall into bed with any odd person. Hell, I doubt he'd been in bed with *anyone* that didn't have fiery red hair and freckles.
Ah, what imagery a Freudian slip can provide.
4 weeks, to convince the Weasley I'm madly in love with him. Or, perhaps to corrupt his mindset enough that he would throw himself into a fling just to prove to others - no, himself, that he wasn't as dry and unemotional as everyone had him pegged to be. A combination of both could be the winning ticket.
It would be one hell of a jackpot to win.
Still, it would be silly not to exhaust all possible avenues. Who knew, perhaps Percy was just dying for a shag, or there was a reason behind the fact all his teachers seemed to love him. It was after all rare for the top student to come by such marks as Percy does so innocently, considering he isn't Ravenclaw.
Besides, even if this doesn't get me anywhere, it will be worth it to see the expression on his face.
Percy Weasley.
They are gone, as they always are. They never linger longer than necessary, say more than is needed to either get something done or to humiliate. Only my books remain as companions, and I have yet to strike up a good conversation with them. They listen, but never give advise, even though I turn to them so frequently. It would be nice if they once returned the care and trust I give them. If anyone would.
They never ask me to accompany them, why would they? They see me as the anti-type when it came to Christmas holidays. They will tolerate me on Christmas day, but that is as far as their goodwill stretches. If only it was due to something deeper than the holiday spirit.
I should have been surprised when Oliver asked if I wanted to join them, but then, this was Oliver. Oliver, who was always looking out for strays. I certainly fit the description of unwanted mongrel, right down to the shaggy hair. They were going to play some Muggle game that Dean had, and would I like to join them? Even I, at my most cynical, could not ignore the earnestness in Oliver's eyes - he really did want me to come along. Not because I was his latest pity case, not because he felt that perhaps someone being friendly would banish from my mind the sharp comments that Fred had made to me earlier on while we were still eating breakfast. He wanted me to come along because I was *me*.
The man is clinically insane. Even I wouldn't spend time with myself, given the choice.
I had lost myself in those eyes, if but for a moment. Everything was daring me to say yes, to forget the books that I brought to the table, to go have fun with my own family, to take the always difficult first step of trying to bridge at least some of the distance that lay between us. It was my own eyes that betrayed me in the end, drifting hopefully to where the twins stood.
Fool. Nothing more than a fool. Had I really expected to see anything else but distaste on their faces? I should know them far better than to hope that they would actually enjoy the thought of spending time with me. I should have known that they wouldn't want to share the ever popular and fun Oliver Wood with their dour brother, who would only strip the evening of all its fun.
I should have.
Oliver didn't see their faces, only the sudden resolve that formed on my own, and the sharp words of dismissal I issued. I don't need to close my eyes to see the hurt that had crossed his face, before he had smiled warmly, promising to catch up with me later so we could study together.
I wish he wouldn't do that, make me seem as though I am worthy of such attention. At times, he almost manages to convince even me. It will not be long before someone reminds him that I am someone who is to be avoided, not sought out. That there are far better things one can do, that time is best spent on pleasurable pursuits, as opposed to boring lost causes.
And yet, none have been able to convince him so, in 7 years. I doubt I will ever understand him.
"So, you want to go somewhere and engage in a session of hot, steamy sex?"
Only Marcus would start off a conversation like that. I'm actually surprised that he hasn't tried that line before. I look up at him, taking in the far too innocent smile and the eyes dancing with mischief. He enjoys this too much, as he always does. I tilt my head, as though to contemplate his offer.
"Let me finish this paragraph first," I answer finally, before turning back to my book. He drops into the seat next to me, and I do not have to look at him to feel his surprise.
"Really?" Half of it is said in jest, but there is a hint of serious there - he cannot tell for sure whether I have made a rare joke, or if I've suddenly become the easiest lay in Hogwarts. If it was in me, I would roll my eyes at the fact Marcus believes his 'charm' is such that I would throw myself at his feet. Just because many are taken in by his looks, doesn't mean I am so superficial.
"No, Marcus." If this wasn't Marcus I was dealing with, I would swear the soft sigh that came from him was one of honest disappointment. He makes no move to suddenly disappear, and with my already tried patience running thin, I look up from the book I'm desperately trying to convince myself is just as interesting as human companionship. "What *is* it that you want?"
"You mean besides hot-"
"Yes, yes, besides that," I respond with the wave of a hand, glad that I'm in such a state of self-wallowing that I can't be bothered blushing. It is his turn to study me now, and I find his gaze unnerving, although it is something I hide well. It is not his usual condescending or mocking glance, both which I know. He is contemplating, not judging.
Oliver looks at me like that, sometimes. I never know how to deal to it when he does, just like I don't know how to deal with Marcus. He smiles then, a serious, small smile, and I don't know how to deal with that either.
"You know, I have no idea." I'm startled by the way he says it, almost ruefully. I glance at him suspiciously, wondering what has become of the Marcus I have the displeasure of knowing, or of the trickery that is involved here, somewhere. But I can think of nothing to incriminate him, no falseness - a quick glance around the room shows that the only audience for his possible tactics is a third year in front of the fire place. "I guess I just felt like engaging in some banter with my favourite Gryffindor," The cheeky smile is back, but not the attitude that has always accompanied it.
And banter, indeed. I certainly wouldn't use such a light word to describe our altercations in the past. Torment might be a better word.
"Well, I'm sure that like everyone else, you have far better things to do than to spend the morning conversing with me." It comes out stiffly, and I try to ignore the truth behind the words I'd spoken as though they were nothing more than a dismissal. That strange look of his is back, but then he rises, nodding.
"You're right. Detention with Plume." He groans, and for a moment I actually feel sorry for him - detentions with Plume are rumoured to be worse than being stuck in a bathroom with Moaning Murtle. Then, I remember exactly who it is I'm feeling sorry for.
"I'm sure Professor Plume wouldn't have given you a detention unless you deserved it," I huff, and for a moment I'm sure he is going to bite back with a more Marcusesque style comment. Instead, he simply grimaces, before getting up to leave. I let my eyes follow him as he heads out of the room, confusion keeping my eyes on the doors of the Great Hall even after he has passed though them.
What exactly is he up to?
Marcus Flint.
I smile triumphantly once I'm outside the Great Hall. That went rather well, all things considering. I had been lucky enough to cross Percy while he was in one of his worn moods, when he is too tired to simply automatically dismiss someone who is annoying him.
"He watched you leave - his eyes didn't leave you for a second."
I would have growled in annoyance if it wasn't for the fact that Draco's comments are actually of use. For once, I will let it slide that the slimy brat had obviously been spying on me. He does that to all of us, although I'm sure in his mind it makes him part of our group. Perhaps I am still too caught up with my thoughts to care.
The seed has been planted. Now, to harvest it.
"You're really good at this, you know."
Shut up, Malfoy.