"Let me hear you make decisions without your televisions" -depeche mode
Authors Notice: It's a really strange vague short fic! Wow, lots of adjectives! Anyway, Marcus/Katie because someone suggested it to me and I was like: 'That's a really good idea.' I tried my hand at it about two/three weeks ago and it didn't work out so I tried a different style for it. Enjoy! Paint a picture in your head and just go with it.
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They say it begins with a clash.
But it always ends, even when it's not supposed to. It's supposed to be forever, maybe. And you're supposed to remember it as the time of your life and the day that the man in the moon walked the earth.
He's supposed to love her tomorrow and she's supposed to remember him come Sunday. But she's a Gryffindor and he's a Slytherin and when do things like that ever work out? She says 'It's been a really nice day' and he says: 'It has been.' She rushes up the dormitory steps, throws an old portrait a kiss and falls into the bed. She whispers to the pillow and can't go to sleep.
They might've kissed, maybe. She doesn't remember all that much, only that the Slytherin common room was lighter than she ever imagined. That there was an edge of lightening in the cloudy dark. A bit of goodness that surrounded the evil like sugar quills spun in acid.
But she was George's girl--at least she was supposed to be, whatever that meant. He was the love of her life, and he wasn't, and then he might've been again. They were older than they thought they were, and he was her past and present in future.
And there was another involved there. Flint. Marcus Flint, probably. Slytherin boy, tall, dark hair, not half good looking and had a wit to kill for. He didn't get detention because he never got caught. They say his parents went to Azkaban more than Saint Nick went to the orphanages. They say that but only he knows, and even he doesn't really know, so it probably doesn't count.
He can't promise her forever, and he probably can't even promise her tomorrow, or next hour...or after dark or anything worth promising. And for once loyalty comes at no costs and she really doesn't care at all. She wonders--what if George sees them out on the pitch?--what if George sees them and kills Flint and it's all some large massacre that goes down in the books?--she wonders if this is what it's like to not care at all--and thinks it's a vaguely amusing feeling.
It doesn't compare to anything, and maybe not even Christmas of '94 or her first kiss with George. It's so strange and so foreign and feels so right and so wrong and it's a mix of everything she's ever known. Or hasn't, even. Flint is not a good person, she thinks, but it's only one kiss, maybe. She's known him for five years but she's only really known him for the last hour and a half. An hour and a half and it's all so quick and it doesn't really make much sense.
"Do you hear it?"
"What?"
"The clash…"
They say it ends with a clash.
*