"You're pathetic, troll."
A group of cushioned chairs made a half-circle in a nook of the Slytherin common room, where Jakob's shrill voice echoed mercilessly for everyone to hear. Marcus, having returned from Madam Pomfrey with his hand lightly bandaged (and strict orders not to move his hand too much) which allowed only the ends of his fingers and a thumb to poke out, merely scowled at the floor. His Charms textbook lay open on his lap, though he had long-since stopped reading. The taunts of his friends were brutal and relentless once they ascertained what happened between Marcus and the new Gryffindor.
"I can't believe you let that girl-of-a-boy get the better of you," Damien said, red-faced from laughing.
"It wasn't the Squib," Marcus finally rebuffed. "It was those Weasley blokes."
"Since when was a troll afraid of a weasel, Flint?" Mathis asked.
"Fuck orf," Marcus huffed.
"Bloody Mordred, you even skulk like a fuckin' troglodyte," Jakob admonished, his eyes narrowing.
His laughter ceased as he surveyed Flint, disgust colouring every inch of his angular face. Slowly, the others stopped their laughing, too, as if waiting for some unspoken order. Jakob merely shook his head in resignation, draped his leg over the arm of his chair and began to read his Transfigurations tome.
To Marcus, the silence of his peers was far worse than their ridicule. He could take their jeering, at least then he knew they were paying attention to him, thinking about him, even if it were with slight disdain. However, to be ignored, to be thought so little as to be forgotten, that was unbearable. Unable to take the taciturnity any longer, Marcus slammed his book closed and stormed off to the sleeping quarters. He could hear the slight murmuring of his peers; they were laughing at him, yet again.
Once he made it to his four-poster, Marcus slipped off his robe and loosened his tie, letting them both fall to the floor. He kicked them under his bed even as he began unbuttoning his shirt. Pain shot through his hand when I tried to use it, forgetting that it was still quite sore. He stood stoic and grimaced with clenched jaws, shutting his eyes tight as he waited for the pain to subside. Surveying himself in the full-length mirror beside his bed as he slid his shirt off his shoulders, he took in his reflection.
Marcus was hardly an ugly lad. Sure, his teeth could use a bit of fixing, but his frame was sturdy enough. His jaw line was pronounced, strong and his eyes were that of deep chocolate, as his niece was fond of saying. He was not pretty, but boys -- no, men -- were not supposed to be 'pretty'. Men were to be strong and burly, not prancing about like a poofter-- like that Oliver Wood prat. Likewise, what of Charlie Weasley? If anyone deserved a swift kick in the arse, it was that redheaded ponce. Marcus could admit that he could never intimidate Weasley, not built as he was. He would have to work on that in the meantime. There was a new determination to get on the Slytherin Quidditch team, now if only to send a Bludger directly at the Gryffindor's fat head. In the meantime, he would make sure to deal with Troy Davis -- who mucked up Marcus' chances to play Quidditch by getting him in trouble with Professor Snape as well as Oliver Wood, who deserved everything he was going to give him. After all, Charlie Weasley will not be here forever.
He discarded his shirt on his bed, his hands brushing along his chest. Marcus could feel the muscles underneath the suppleness that was his boyhood. Even now at the age of twelve, he could see the outline of definition on his stomach. He raised his unbroken hand, then bent the arm at the elbow, tensing and flexing. The seeming pliable flesh gave way to something harder as a bulge of a bicep poked through the façade of softness. Marcus looked away from his reflection and stared at the muscle, rubbing it with his other hand, enjoying the feel of it.
The flexed appendage relaxed and travelled down along his chest to his stomach, his fingers searching for hair that is hardly there, yet. His heartbeat quickened and his breath hitched as the very tip of his hand slid under the waistband of his undergarments. He watched the reflection of his crotch as his cock grew hard.
When he heard the pattering of feet from behind the door growing louder, Marcus jerked his hand away and crawled onto his four-poster. Not wanting to be the focus of any more revilements this evening, he closed the curtains. His breathing finally slowed as he waited for sleep to claim him. When he finally began to dream, he dreamt of revenge.
---
Sleep came easily for Oliver last night. He hardly worried about the creaking sounds Hogwarts gave off and barely concerned himself with the dragons or ogres, which may, or may not be rummaging through the castle, not with Charlie Weasley around. Even dreaming of the lad gave Oliver a sense of security that he could scant remember ever feeling before. When he awoke to Percy's insufferably enthusiastic voice -- far too enthusiastic for mornings, mind you -- Oliver could not wait to start the day. He had his first flying lesson, after all... and Charlie would be there, too. Nothing could bring him down!
Oliver walked with Cory, Ethan and Percy to the Gryffindor showers. Ethan's scruffy hair could barely be contained first thing in the morning and Cory's breathe, as bad as it was during the day, was a fair share worse first thing in the morning. Oliver hoped he would refrain from using words with a lot of H's and U's. Of course, when the first words out of his yawning mouth were 'hello', Oliver realized that was wishful thinking. Yet even Cory's questionable hygiene could not put a damper on Oliver's spirits or muzzle his mood, which Percy quickly noticed.
"You're all smiles this morning," Percy said as he applied dentifrice to his toothbrush.
"What?" It took a moment for Oliver to realize that he was smiling indeed.
"You're smiling. In a good mood, then?" he asked, bringing his toothbrush to his mouth.
Oliver reached over to take Percy's paste. "May I?" he asked.
Percy nodded.
"I slept well, is all," Oliver said, putting a thin line of paste on his toothbrush. "It's been an age since I've slept that well."
Percy leaned over the faucet, bringing water to his lips and swishing it around before spitting. He pulled out his wand and flicked it towards his kitbag.
"Accio towel."
Percy's bath towel floated into his arms. Ethan yanked back the curtains of his shower just enough to reveal the surprise on his face, which was matched by Oliver's.
"Did you just perform a Summoning charm?" Ethan asked, incredulously.
"Where'd you learn that?" Oliver mumbled, dribbling toothpaste-flavoured spit from the sides of his mouth.
"I told you before, Oliver," Percy answered, looking both smug and exasperated. "You pick up a few things living at The Burrow. Charlie would always pinch my things."
Oliver almost grew mad at the insinuation. Charlie was no thief! He was beyond such petty things, Oliver was sure of it.
"Well, if not Charlie then certainly the twins," Percy qualified.
"Why do you always call them 'the twins'," Ethan said as he stepped out of the shower, wrapping his bath towel around his slender waist and using another to dry his hair. "It's like they haven't a name or summat."
"Well, it's a fair bit quicker than saying 'Fred and George' each time they break something," Percy answered, as if explaining something so simple to someone completely obtuse. "And you'd scarcely see one without the other, at any rate. Might as well make it easy on yourself."
Percy walked out of the bathroom, flinging his bag over his shoulder. Before opening the door to exit, he turned back and called, "And do hurry. I'm absolutely starving."
Oliver watched as Percy disappeared from view. Ethan prodded at him with an elbow and smiled.
"I don't know about you," he said, "but I can hardly wait for 'the twins' to arrive. Fair bit more fun than ole Percival I'd imagine."
Oliver laughed in spite of himself.
----
The remainder of the morning went by swiftly. Classes concluded without incident and Oliver's mood was such that even seeing Flint scowl at him in the corridors could hardly dampen his spirits. He knew, after all, that Charlie would be able to handle things if the need arose, and that made him feel infinitely safer. 'If only I could be like Charlie,' he often thought to himself.
The closer it came to three-thirty in the afternoon, however, the more nervous Oliver found himself becoming. It hardly helped matters that Ethan fretted just as much and far more vocally over his fear of flying. Neither had ever been on a broom before and several taunts of the Slytherins in Transfiguration class did little to ease their ills. Percy remained calm, but Oliver noticed a bead of sweat begin to gather around the redhead's brow. To make matters worse, Charlie was to be there, helping Madame Hooch with the lessons. What if Oliver fell in front of him? What if he could not even take flight? What if he remained grounded and still? What would Charlie think of him then?
Oliver, Ethan, Percy and Cory hurried down the front steps onto the open grounds for their first flying lesson. The sky was clear and a slight breeze whipped through the courtyard. From a distance, Oliver could see Charlie placing twenty or so broomsticks in two rows of ten. He looked up and waved at them as they walked closer to the crowd of Gryffindors already grouped around Madame Hooch.
"Hullo, Percival!" Charlie bellowed, far louder than necessary.
Ethan and Cory laughed as Percy's smile instantly morphed to a scowl. "Don't call me that!"
Madame Hooch stood with her hands on her hips, her hawk-like eyes surveying the youngsters gathered around her. A small smile stretched across her thin lips as the wind rustled her short, grey, feather-like hair.
"Well," she called, "you lot won't be flying me. Find a broom!"
Each student scurried to claim their own broomsticks. Oliver's was tattered with bristles bound haphazardly by twine which, in and of itself, was deteriorating badly.
"Hold out your hand," called Madame Hooch, "and say 'Up!'"
Everyone shouted 'Up'. Cory's broom flew to his hand at once. Percy's bounced up and down, hovering just beyond his reach. It seemed like it was teasing him. After the third exasperated command, Ethan's finally shot up to strike him square in the face, leaving a long, red mark across his cheek. Oliver's broom was the worst, however. It simply flopped about like a fish out of water, rolling around fervently but hardly raising itself from the ground. It seemed... tired.
"Having problems, mate?" Charlie asked from behind.
"Only a bit," Oliver answered, blushing.
"Here's a tip," Charlie said, leaning in to whisper in Oliver's ear. "Don't ask it. Tell it."
It took a moment for Oliver to absorb what was said. All he could remember at first was the breath that tickled the nape of his neck as Charlie spoke and the smell of him as the wind carried it to Oliver's nose.
"Go on, then," Charlie prodded.
Oliver to a deep breath and resolutely commanded 'Up!'. The broom handle jumped up to his hand, and continued to move as if full of unbridled energy. Whereas before the broom seemed listless and weak, now it seemed sprightly and eager to go.
"Charlie," Madam Hooch said, "help the students with the proper stance, please?"
"Yes, ma'am," he answered, placing a hand on the small of Oliver's back. "Up you go, then."
Oliver straddled the broom, gripping the handle so tight as to be white-knuckled.
"Easy there, tiger. Don't strangle the broom. You're not shirty with it."
Charlie mounted the broom behind the lad and wrapped his hands around Oliver's, forcing his grip to loosen. Oliver could feel the moisture from Charlie's breath dance along his ear. His back felt warm, as though it were wrapped in a duvet. Goosebumps sprouted along the young Gryffindor's neck and he felt a dead weight in the pit of his stomach.
"Here's a trick Madame Hooch won't show you," Charlie finally said. "Scoot up higher along the shaft and lean into the wind when you fly."
With that, Charlie walked away and began inspecting the other students' positioning. Oliver found that he instantly missed the warmth on his back but his attention soon focused to the broom, which seemed poised to shoot off against his will.
"Now, when I blow my whistle," Madame Hooch said, "I want you to kick off the ground. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two --"
Oliver leaned forward as Charlie had suggested. However, before Madame Hooch could blow her whistle, Oliver's broom shot upwards into the air carrying the hapless youth with it. Madame Hooch managed to duck out of the way as the pair sped by before spiralling up toward the clouds.
Oliver scarcely heard the shouts of his classmates or professor over the sound of the wind rippling past his ears as his speed became ever faster. His velocity increased to the point where he was no longer able to remain seated. His bottom rose from the broom as he held on for dear life. Once again, Oliver was strangling the handle of the broom as he shot up in what appeared to be amazingly acrobatic spiralling loops. Impressive though this may have looked to onlookers, Oliver's broom was totally out of his control.
Oliver could feel the splinters catch in his skin as his grip loosened and he slid down the length of the broom. Finally, he could take no more. As the broom reached the apex of its highest arch, Oliver simply gave up...
... and let go.