Disclaimer: ((I suppose this should come first then..)) I OWN NOTHING…Except my plot. All Harry Potter names, logos and related identica blah blah blah belong to JK Rowling blah and not me. But just so you know, the plot is mine. I came up with it myself.. really.

Author's note: as I lay in bed this morning, the last night's dream stayed fresh in my mind. and what a dream it was! This inspiration came upon me so quickly I decided to write it down. Mind you, this came from a dream, so please do not be alarmed by the freakishly odd plot that you are about to take in. I kind of had to make up the names of Marcus' parents because they are at this point unknown to me, but some fake ones will do for now. R&R and tell me if I go overboard with my adjectives. again, this my start out slow, but a few plot turns here and there will keep you interested. And if not… well, never mind.
Ps: I am a new author and I tend to go crazy with the plot at times.. Bear with me, please, and again, R&R!!

Anyway, uh… here goes:

Marcus Flint paced in the lockers, already dressed in his emerald green Quidditch robes. He frowned and checked his watch. The match would not start for another half hour, yet he couldn't seem to be able to stand waiting that long. He sighed and took a seat on the bench, facing the lockers. He muttered to himself under his breath, 'win at all costs… win at all costs…' He strode over to the tap, turned the handle and splashed some cold water on his face. It was the first match of the Quidditch season. He wasn't going to let the Gryffindors rob Slytherin of the cup again. He wouldn't stand for it.

Marcus had never been a boy to give up so easily. One would suppose it was influenced by the way he was brought up. Marcus' father had never really been around much before Marcus went off to Hogwarts. His father was more of a busy, overachieving executive type. He had a pretty high position with the Ministry of Magic, and was always at work and didn't have enough time for his wife or son. This had never been a huge problem, but more of a minor irritation that soon began to eat away at Marcus' family, and later his whole future.

The problem started when Mr. Luther Ignatius Flint II came home from work one day, tired, and bitter as ever. He walked toward the black leather sofa in the sitting room. He massaged his temples with his fingers, a splitting migraine coming upon him. He dry swallowed two painkillers, and the pain began to become less. He felt thoroughly beaten after such a day at the office; Sleep came like an invisible wave crashing unexpectedly upon him, yet it was more of a relief than a discomfort.

A small five-year-old Marcus Flint sat in his playroom alone, for his nanny was taking a sleep in the rocking chair next door. Despite all his nanny's warnings about bothering his father after he came home tired from work, the small boy ventured out into the hall. He wandered downstairs to the entry hall, and across the hardwood floor to the sitting room where his father lay. He reached out his hand to touch his father's arm.

The next thing the small child knew was that he was on the floor, bruises on the back of his head and on his chest. Tears streamed down the child's face. He hardly remembered what had happened except that his head hurt and his daddy was mad at him and yelling. Later that night, Marcus sat outside his parents' room listening to them talk. Hearing their voices normally comforted him, since they never seemed to have any time for him at all. However tonight was different.

Marcus found no comfort in his parent's voices that particular night; instead of their quiet discussions of their demanding jobs, and life in particular, all Marcus could hear was shouting. He opened the door of his parents' room a crack. Luther was pacing back and forth, while his crying wife sat on the edge of their four-poster bed. Her normally pretty face had been replaced by one distorted with sadness and anger. Marcus couldn't understand what they were yelling about, but it must have been a very big deal. He remembered his mother standing up, hearing a loud crack, and his father storming out of the room, not failing to hit Marcus with the door on the way out. A very scared Marcus wiped the tears from his eyes and the blood from his face. He remembered how his stomach felt when he looked in the room and his mother had vanished…

Marcus splashed himself once again with the cold water from the tap in the locker room. He shook his head. Why had he been thinking of this now, of all times? He needed to focus on the game. 'yes.. the game.' He thought to himself. 'focus on the game. Focus on winning. Win at all costs.' He smirked at the thought of kicking Gryffindor this year. 'win.. win at all costs…'

The rest of the time before the match was a blur. He was hardly paying attention when he gave his pep talk. Thoughts were lingering among the memories of his childhood; the memories he was still trying to force out of his thoughts. He couldn't help but wonder how they had unburied themselves from the back of his mind. After trying so hard and so long to forget…

The match was what you'd normally have expected; Gryffindor won, but not by much. Lee Jordan's commentary didn't help the Slytherin team play any better though. Marcus walked with the rest of the team to the castle, his broom over his shoulder. The conversation was based mostly on Malfoy badmouthing Harry Potter and the other Gryffindors, and bragging about his highly successful father. Marcus could hardly stand Malfoy, but found it better to be on his good side than his bad.

Marcus slowed down and let the group walk on, leaving him standing there. He looked to the sky and sighed. He needed a place to think. He mounted his broom and flew up to the astronomy tower. It was always empty this time of day, and flying was faster than walking up 200 flights of stairs. He landed on the slightly sloped roof of the tower. He looked across the grounds and leant back on the slope of the roof. He closed his eyes, and dosed off. The memories came flooding back to him, all of them mixing together, sort of like a collage of bits and pieces of his past.

He woke with a start, a cold sweat beading his face. He wiped his face and took a few deep breaths. That had been without a doubt the worst dream he had had in such a long time. He felt silly, freaking out over something that couldn't hurt him. They were only dreams after all.. only dreams… he sighed and looked at his watch. He had missed lunch, and dinner would be served in less than an hour or so. This side of the castle had already grown dark, for the sun was setting behind him. It was then he realized he wasn't alone...

A/N: hope you enjoyed the first chapter. please R&R... I hope to have the second chapter posted shortly.