Oliver shook his head at Rachel Rawlings - the Ravenclaw beauty. He could not see how he upset her; they had never
been dating to begin with. It was now - in a corridor - that she had fallen against the wall, deep waves of sobs bursting
from her throat. And, Oliver - gentle - sweet, naïve, Oliver attempted to place a hand on her shoulder; she had thrown it
off, viciously. He hated to see girls cry - especially when he was the reason. He felt extremely uncomfortable - he shifted
his weight from one foot to the other.
Suddenly, without warning, Rachel ceased to make any noise. She whirled around, her robes making a terrible
swishing sound to his ears. Swiftly, she wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her robes. Then, she slapped him -
once on his left cheek. His face was moved, with such force, how could one not move? The sound of silken skin against
rough flesh, echoed throughout the area. Oliver looked down - he did not want to see her.
"We could have been great together! Imagine - they all would have gawked, drooling over you and me! Well, just . . .
fuck off, Oliver Wood!"
Rachel slammed into him as she left, making known her undying ardour toward abhorrence. Oliver
heard one final screech of denial, and resentment - then he was left alone. Throughout his years at Hogwarts, he
realized for the first time, he had broken many hearts - unintentionally. For, on this night, the weight of cruelty weighed
down upon him. He loathed it - all he wanted was for things to be uncomplicated.
Then, his thoughts turned to Peony Eanthers. He leaned against the wall, sliding down so his knees
were against his chest. Oliver considered that in this certain position, he looked like a child that had just been
reprimanded. He briefly wondered why he had not noticed her before. It came to him as a shock: she was ordinary.
Ordinary - he hated that word. Many times he had heard it to describe himself. So, all he had were a couple pairs of
clothes; he spent his money on Quidditch oriented objects: he did not want to be merely good - he wanted to be the
best. Purely, all Oliver needed was a broom - he was happy - until now.
Oliver Wood sighed, heavily. One week ago someone could have asked him, why are you not going with
anyone? He would have replied - as he had many times before - I guess I just haven't met the right girl. Even those
words sounded ghastly to him. They were hallowing - vague, and contradicting to what he stood for.
There was a definite attraction that Oliver could not explain. He did not think that Peony was not goode
enough - he would - could never speak of someone like that. Only, it bothered him that he could have over looked
such a kind person. While he toiled in the wee hours of the morning, working out strategies, she was bursting with
trepidation of someone attacking her. And, while Oliver went out almost every weekend to Hogsmeade - with friends -
Peony stayed in her dorm room - cowering.
It was not fair, he decided. It was not fair that he was treated differently just because he had won a few
Quidditch games - just because he was pleasant to look upon. Then, he thought - she is the most beautiful person I
know. It came to him on a whim, for he did not regret it. It was valid, for him - never had he met anyone like Peony -
he gathered, he never would again.
Like any being, etched with fear - he wanted to hold onto her - this beautiful being. Oliver recalled how
her hair was unkempt the last time he beheld her. Her eyes were brimming with some unknown emotion that only
she could possess. He smiled - recalling her countenance eased the dull feeling in his stomach.
Tears – salt water that is released from the orbs in order to cleanse: crystal shards of lucid glass
fell down Peony's cheeks. He was standing there – Marcus Flint; a name that drove her wild with terror. So
calmly did he dress – his pants and shirt, both tailoured made. He sat down beside her, making sure to be as
offensively close as possible. A sneer pulled back over his entire face; she shook uncontrollably.
He had left the silencing charm on her, for even if he had not, she would not have spoken a
word – she could not speak. In the silence, before, she was safe – now only the silence brought memories
of him. So swiftly, Flint struck out his hand – she thought he had hit her. Not pain – was it soft – indeed –
soft, with calloused hands, he stroked her back.
Peony widened her eyes; she surmised that his beatings and stroking
felt the same. Frigid with unfeeling ice – dominate as the eye of the heavens.
He sneered as his hand set off her pallid skin, made of indifference to silk
and wool. Her skin erupted in goose flesh – her breath rigged. From her back
and between her legs, blood warmed the bed sheets. Her innocence of purity was
lost; gone always for an eternity and beyond. And, her neck adourned with whelps
of teeth marks. Oh, how her back throbbed – he had used his wand to bind her
to the bed – face down. Her back – once with a pallour that made the moon cry with envy –
his name, crimson – beaten into her flesh.
"I would have done anything to get you to see me," he began, startling her
in the shadows, "but you wouldn't even look at me. Only with contempt, did
you behold me – hatred bourn of rumours. Even before we were sorted into
houses, you strayed from my path; we all knew – every first year knows – who's
a Slytherin and who's not."
Her shivering ceased – and just for a moment, she saw understood.
Marcus Flint would never be seen as just a man – person, at least not to
anyone else except another Slytherin. He would be seen as a snake – the
serpent of deception, treachery, and detestation. For, even her state
of agony; her soul gave out sympathy to the man that had just violated
her in more ways than one.
As quickly as he had broken through the darkness, he propelled himself
from the bed and turned on her. Only feet away, her heart pounded furiously –
she was sure Flint could hear it – she was sure he was enjoying it. But,
something within her timid demeanour told her to cease being afraid; make
fear her slave and not the other way around.
Just as he pointed his wand, to brandish yet more memories of agony
– Peony sat up. In slow motion, Marcus saw her. He had never seen her
without her eyes downcast and scurrying. Now, at her sudden change in
posture – in attitude, he found he could not harm her at the moment.
Peony casually touched her throat, rubbing the terrorized skin. She
pointed at her vocal cords, and then to his wand.
Cautiously, Marcus whispered the incantation to relieve the charm
that held her tongue. When it was done, she let loose a fiery breath of a
sigh. He caught a scent of Eucalyptus-mint. Peony pulled her blankets
around her, tightly; there was safety to be sought in the warmth of cotton.
"I always thought you hated me, Marcus," the first time she had ever called
him by his first name, "but I feel sorry for you. After all you've done to
me – I can forget and move on – it's a pity that you were never taught to
express love; you were adourned with anger, abhorrence, and misery."
The words scarcely made any sense to the shadowed Slytherin man.
He sneered and raised his wand once more . . . A knock at the door, silenced
his intentions. Marcus turned and glared at the door. A low growl from the
back of his throat flew to Peony's ears.
"Get rid of them!" he growled at Peony.
She sat in defiance – face blank as a spring day's sky. He moved
to her – Marcus held his wand at her throat. She meant merely to move the
wand from her throat, but caught him off guard – the wand flew across the
room and landed by the door. His eyes ablaze – passionate detestation –
pure, virgin rage, this is what he was bourn to be.
"You get rid of them," she bit off sarcastically.
Then, she was standing. The blankets dripped off of her as water
would. Marcus was over whelmed with her nakedness. She rushed at him,
forcing him to back up. Her arm – it was behind her back. She shook,
violently, calling upon the Gods to strike her down dead if her actions
were unjust. Her wand came from behind her back – Marcus thought,
suddenly – it contrasts with her skin. That was the last thought he
was able to produce at that moment, before pain was upon him . . .
Oliver stood – unmoving – near indifferent. He heard screams;
screams that he thought no man should be ever subject to, let alone be
subject to their audibility. He cringed as a long drawn out screech,
blew its way over his ears.
Abruptly, his senses of reaction returned. Oliver grabbed the
doorknob, turning it – twisting – doing everything to the damnable demon
that refused to budge. His hands became two fist of enraged blood: it
dripped from his knuckles, staining the back of his hands. Oliver had
done all that he could, save for blowing the door off its . . .
The door soared to the right – broken – insignificant. What Oliver
beheld as he stepped through the door, would delay leaving in his mind
everlastingly. On the floor of elder stone, Peony sat, cradling Marcus
Flint's head – hair unkempt – a colour that would make ebony cry from envy.
She looked up into his eyes – Oliver's unchanging, youthful orbs;
there she found herself more troubled than ever in her existence. He fell
to his knees, crawling around the ever-spilling silver essence that flowed
through translucent veins of every living – breathing being. He touched her
shoulder – that only served to set her off.
Peony slapped his hand away; for the first time in his life, Oliver
cowered – from the look of fright upon her countenance.
"He came from no – no where – I didn't know," she whispered.
Oliver wanted to hold her – comfort her, but she would allow that now.
She never wanted anyone to touch her. How could she feel anything when
all that she had ever touched turned to evil? Sudden realization befell
her – her body more pallid than it had ever been before.
"Oh, Merlin – what have I wrought – what have I wrought?"
"I think you've just killed the devil," Oliver answered.
There was no remorse in his voice – he would never hold repentance.
Dead and gone, Marcus Flint, in his opinion more than ever now, was better
to the world lifeless.
been dating to begin with. It was now - in a corridor - that she had fallen against the wall, deep waves of sobs bursting
from her throat. And, Oliver - gentle - sweet, naïve, Oliver attempted to place a hand on her shoulder; she had thrown it
off, viciously. He hated to see girls cry - especially when he was the reason. He felt extremely uncomfortable - he shifted
his weight from one foot to the other.
Suddenly, without warning, Rachel ceased to make any noise. She whirled around, her robes making a terrible
swishing sound to his ears. Swiftly, she wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her robes. Then, she slapped him -
once on his left cheek. His face was moved, with such force, how could one not move? The sound of silken skin against
rough flesh, echoed throughout the area. Oliver looked down - he did not want to see her.
"We could have been great together! Imagine - they all would have gawked, drooling over you and me! Well, just . . .
fuck off, Oliver Wood!"
Rachel slammed into him as she left, making known her undying ardour toward abhorrence. Oliver
heard one final screech of denial, and resentment - then he was left alone. Throughout his years at Hogwarts, he
realized for the first time, he had broken many hearts - unintentionally. For, on this night, the weight of cruelty weighed
down upon him. He loathed it - all he wanted was for things to be uncomplicated.
Then, his thoughts turned to Peony Eanthers. He leaned against the wall, sliding down so his knees
were against his chest. Oliver considered that in this certain position, he looked like a child that had just been
reprimanded. He briefly wondered why he had not noticed her before. It came to him as a shock: she was ordinary.
Ordinary - he hated that word. Many times he had heard it to describe himself. So, all he had were a couple pairs of
clothes; he spent his money on Quidditch oriented objects: he did not want to be merely good - he wanted to be the
best. Purely, all Oliver needed was a broom - he was happy - until now.
Oliver Wood sighed, heavily. One week ago someone could have asked him, why are you not going with
anyone? He would have replied - as he had many times before - I guess I just haven't met the right girl. Even those
words sounded ghastly to him. They were hallowing - vague, and contradicting to what he stood for.
There was a definite attraction that Oliver could not explain. He did not think that Peony was not goode
enough - he would - could never speak of someone like that. Only, it bothered him that he could have over looked
such a kind person. While he toiled in the wee hours of the morning, working out strategies, she was bursting with
trepidation of someone attacking her. And, while Oliver went out almost every weekend to Hogsmeade - with friends -
Peony stayed in her dorm room - cowering.
It was not fair, he decided. It was not fair that he was treated differently just because he had won a few
Quidditch games - just because he was pleasant to look upon. Then, he thought - she is the most beautiful person I
know. It came to him on a whim, for he did not regret it. It was valid, for him - never had he met anyone like Peony -
he gathered, he never would again.
Like any being, etched with fear - he wanted to hold onto her - this beautiful being. Oliver recalled how
her hair was unkempt the last time he beheld her. Her eyes were brimming with some unknown emotion that only
she could possess. He smiled - recalling her countenance eased the dull feeling in his stomach.
Tears – salt water that is released from the orbs in order to cleanse: crystal shards of lucid glass
fell down Peony's cheeks. He was standing there – Marcus Flint; a name that drove her wild with terror. So
calmly did he dress – his pants and shirt, both tailoured made. He sat down beside her, making sure to be as
offensively close as possible. A sneer pulled back over his entire face; she shook uncontrollably.
He had left the silencing charm on her, for even if he had not, she would not have spoken a
word – she could not speak. In the silence, before, she was safe – now only the silence brought memories
of him. So swiftly, Flint struck out his hand – she thought he had hit her. Not pain – was it soft – indeed –
soft, with calloused hands, he stroked her back.
Peony widened her eyes; she surmised that his beatings and stroking
felt the same. Frigid with unfeeling ice – dominate as the eye of the heavens.
He sneered as his hand set off her pallid skin, made of indifference to silk
and wool. Her skin erupted in goose flesh – her breath rigged. From her back
and between her legs, blood warmed the bed sheets. Her innocence of purity was
lost; gone always for an eternity and beyond. And, her neck adourned with whelps
of teeth marks. Oh, how her back throbbed – he had used his wand to bind her
to the bed – face down. Her back – once with a pallour that made the moon cry with envy –
his name, crimson – beaten into her flesh.
"I would have done anything to get you to see me," he began, startling her
in the shadows, "but you wouldn't even look at me. Only with contempt, did
you behold me – hatred bourn of rumours. Even before we were sorted into
houses, you strayed from my path; we all knew – every first year knows – who's
a Slytherin and who's not."
Her shivering ceased – and just for a moment, she saw understood.
Marcus Flint would never be seen as just a man – person, at least not to
anyone else except another Slytherin. He would be seen as a snake – the
serpent of deception, treachery, and detestation. For, even her state
of agony; her soul gave out sympathy to the man that had just violated
her in more ways than one.
As quickly as he had broken through the darkness, he propelled himself
from the bed and turned on her. Only feet away, her heart pounded furiously –
she was sure Flint could hear it – she was sure he was enjoying it. But,
something within her timid demeanour told her to cease being afraid; make
fear her slave and not the other way around.
Just as he pointed his wand, to brandish yet more memories of agony
– Peony sat up. In slow motion, Marcus saw her. He had never seen her
without her eyes downcast and scurrying. Now, at her sudden change in
posture – in attitude, he found he could not harm her at the moment.
Peony casually touched her throat, rubbing the terrorized skin. She
pointed at her vocal cords, and then to his wand.
Cautiously, Marcus whispered the incantation to relieve the charm
that held her tongue. When it was done, she let loose a fiery breath of a
sigh. He caught a scent of Eucalyptus-mint. Peony pulled her blankets
around her, tightly; there was safety to be sought in the warmth of cotton.
"I always thought you hated me, Marcus," the first time she had ever called
him by his first name, "but I feel sorry for you. After all you've done to
me – I can forget and move on – it's a pity that you were never taught to
express love; you were adourned with anger, abhorrence, and misery."
The words scarcely made any sense to the shadowed Slytherin man.
He sneered and raised his wand once more . . . A knock at the door, silenced
his intentions. Marcus turned and glared at the door. A low growl from the
back of his throat flew to Peony's ears.
"Get rid of them!" he growled at Peony.
She sat in defiance – face blank as a spring day's sky. He moved
to her – Marcus held his wand at her throat. She meant merely to move the
wand from her throat, but caught him off guard – the wand flew across the
room and landed by the door. His eyes ablaze – passionate detestation –
pure, virgin rage, this is what he was bourn to be.
"You get rid of them," she bit off sarcastically.
Then, she was standing. The blankets dripped off of her as water
would. Marcus was over whelmed with her nakedness. She rushed at him,
forcing him to back up. Her arm – it was behind her back. She shook,
violently, calling upon the Gods to strike her down dead if her actions
were unjust. Her wand came from behind her back – Marcus thought,
suddenly – it contrasts with her skin. That was the last thought he
was able to produce at that moment, before pain was upon him . . .
Oliver stood – unmoving – near indifferent. He heard screams;
screams that he thought no man should be ever subject to, let alone be
subject to their audibility. He cringed as a long drawn out screech,
blew its way over his ears.
Abruptly, his senses of reaction returned. Oliver grabbed the
doorknob, turning it – twisting – doing everything to the damnable demon
that refused to budge. His hands became two fist of enraged blood: it
dripped from his knuckles, staining the back of his hands. Oliver had
done all that he could, save for blowing the door off its . . .
The door soared to the right – broken – insignificant. What Oliver
beheld as he stepped through the door, would delay leaving in his mind
everlastingly. On the floor of elder stone, Peony sat, cradling Marcus
Flint's head – hair unkempt – a colour that would make ebony cry from envy.
She looked up into his eyes – Oliver's unchanging, youthful orbs;
there she found herself more troubled than ever in her existence. He fell
to his knees, crawling around the ever-spilling silver essence that flowed
through translucent veins of every living – breathing being. He touched her
shoulder – that only served to set her off.
Peony slapped his hand away; for the first time in his life, Oliver
cowered – from the look of fright upon her countenance.
"He came from no – no where – I didn't know," she whispered.
Oliver wanted to hold her – comfort her, but she would allow that now.
She never wanted anyone to touch her. How could she feel anything when
all that she had ever touched turned to evil? Sudden realization befell
her – her body more pallid than it had ever been before.
"Oh, Merlin – what have I wrought – what have I wrought?"
"I think you've just killed the devil," Oliver answered.
There was no remorse in his voice – he would never hold repentance.
Dead and gone, Marcus Flint, in his opinion more than ever now, was better
to the world lifeless.
