7.
Marcus Flint scowled at his opened book. The letters seemed to shimmer and move even as his eyes made to read them. Left to right. Left to right. Right to left. Repeat. As soon as he moved from line to line, he found that he could not move on to the next page without at least skimming the top portions of the text again. His head began to hurt; a dull, throbbing pain that seemed to start from the eyes and work itself around to the nape of his neck. He rubbed at his temples, closing his eyes in an attempt to soothe his nerves. Returning his attention to the text, he used his hands to create shade over the tome, hoping that it would stop the rivers of white from overpowering the words.

"Don't you have detention with Professor Snape," called a female voice.

Marcus looked up and found Drusilla Landau pulling out the chair across the table from him and proceeding to sit. Taking out a book from her book bag, she looked over Marcus appraisingly. For his part, Marcus' brow furrowed deeper. He sunk further down in his seat and pulled his book and parchment closer to him.

"What are you studying?" Drusilla leaned forward and looked at Marcus' book. "Oh, Charms. I like Professor Flitwick," she said, casually returning to her own studies. "I know I'm not supposed to and all that. But, hey... what can you do?"

"What you want?" Marcus asked gruffly, looking ever more uncomfortable.

Drusilla just shrugged. "All of the other tables are either full or have complete idiots in them."

But, wasn't Marcus a 'complete idiot', too? Professor Snape thought so and had no qualms about letting him know it. Marcus continued to watch the girl ruefully, as if expecting her to start ribbing on him at any moment. The slag offs never came. Drusilla had long, straight, jet-black hair that seemed to take in light from every source and reflect it back. It shined as though alive and would oft times move even when there were no winds to move them. Her face was round and cat-like and her eyes a deep shade of grey that revealed little to anyone peering in them. Marcus found her... alluring if not pretty altogether.

Drusilla looked up at the clock on the far wall. "I'm serious, Marcus. You're fifteen minutes late for your detention with Professor Snape."

"How d'you know?"

"Heard him talking about it, didn't I?" She answered nonchalantly, flipping a page from her tome.

Marcus began wondering how she could have overheard Professor Snape talking about his detention, which moved to wondering who Professor Snape was talking to, which turned into other thoughts of unimportance until Marcus was doe-eyes and slack-jawed, mouth slightly open with a blank expression on his face.

"Marcus!" Drusilla was snapping her fingers in his face. "Seriously Flint you need to go. You're late!"

Madame Pince stalked around a shelf carrying stacks of books, piled precariously atop each other. She pursed her lips disapprovingly and whispered, "Shhh! No talking in the library, you two!"

Marcus looked at the clock on the wall and hopped to his feet. "Oh no! I'm late for Professor Snape's detention!" He began scurrying around, tossing his Charms book, parchment, and quill into his messenger bag. Without so much as a 'goodbye', Marcus ran out of the library, almost colliding with Madame Pince along the way. Drusilla merely shook her head when she realized that Marcus had left his ink on the table. A smile slowly crept on her face. She now had an excuse.

§

"Professor Snape, might I have a word with you?"

Oliver walked in the Potions classroom where Professor Snape sat behind his desk, marking student exams furiously with angry, red ink. The professor looked up at the sound of Oliver's voice.

"Yes, Mr. Wood?" he replied with an arched eyebrow. Although there was a hint of disdain in his voice, his eyes did not narrow (which Oliver took as a good sign to continue with his trespass).

"Sir, if you please," Oliver continued as he walked closer to the table, quite unsure of what to do with his hands. "I was wondering if I could... well, that is..."

"Get on with it, Mr. Wood. My time is precious."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Oliver took a deep breath and steeled himself, although not making eye contact with his professor. "Sir, I was wondering if you could give me some extra lessons." His eyes darted up to meet Professor Snape's in an attempt to quickly gauge his response. "I don't think I'll do very well in Potions."

As Oliver rambled on, one of Professor Snape's eyebrows arched. He lips began to curl up at the ends into an expression that was surely supposed to be a smile, but held far too much derision in them to be complimentary.

Finally, he interrupted Oliver, "Gryffindor's aren't known for their... patience. Here it is not even a week into school and already you think you should know everything."

He stood and straightened out his robes before wrapping himself in his cloak. Professor Snape's head tilted up, allowing him to scowl down his nose at the near-cowering Oliver.

"I must admit, however, that your performance in my class is hardly deplorable. You're friends with the Weasleys, are you not?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Should you need the extra tutelage, you may go to Bill Weasley. He is head boy, now, and is surprisingly more than capable of tutoring you in the subject."

It seemed as though it caused Professor Snape great discomfort to admit that a Gryffindor was good at a subject that he taught; he practically sneered Bill's name as he spoke it.

"Yes, sir."

Professor Snape walked back to his high-backed chair, as if there was nothing else to discuss. An irritated scowl dressed his features when he found, much to his dismay, Oliver still standing before him.

"Is there something else?" he asked irritably.

"N-no, sir."

"Then, be off."

Oliver turned and scampered to exit the room. As his hand reached for the handle, the door swung open. Oliver collided with the one person he would have liked most to avoid, Marcus Flint.

Marcus' hands instinctively reached up to prevent Oliver from falling to the floor, as if they had a mind of their own. Even after realising who he was touching, he could only just bring himself to let go. There was something... odd about the way Oliver looked at him, as if he was expecting pain. Marcus liked the look of fear and hurt on people and he could smell it a mile away in most cases. However, he found himself hypnotised by Oliver's blended expressions of abject horror, panic and dread. As if switched off by a light-switch, Marcus' doe-eyed expression contorted in anger. He let go of Oliver's shoulders dumping the precariously positioned youth onto the floor.

"S-sorry," Oliver muttered.

"Pouf," he sneered as he stepped over the lad, giving him a swift kick in the leg.

"That's enough, Mr. Flint," Professor Snape ordered. "Mr. Wood, I believe I asked you to leave."

Oliver did not have to be told twice. He pushed himself from the floor and hurried down the corridor.

As Marcus walked to Professor Snape's desk, his satisfied smirk quickly melted to one of forlorn as he took in his Head of House's stern visage.

"You," Professor Snape began, his voice low and dangerous, "are twenty minutes late. You have added another week to your detention, boy."

If Marcus was angered by this, he hardly showed it. He learned long ago that reactions to the professor's punishments only meant longer detentions -- and more of them. Instead, Marcus stood stoic, looking at the spot just above Snape's shoulder.

"Oh, yes," Professor Snape continued, standing and leaning on his desk. "I know how badly you wish to be on the Slytherin Quidditch team. But I can assure you that I will not forgo our winning streak by allowing your incompetence to sully their performance."

As if he could hear Marcus' teeth grinding in indignant protest, Professor Snape's lips curled upwards into a belittling smile.

"Rest assured, Flint -- you will never play Quidditch for Slytherin as long as I am head of house."

With that, Professor Snape turned his attention back to the parchments on his desk and took a seat, as if Marcus was a mere irritation that had already been dealt with. Marcus stood, hands clenched in fists, jaws locked in anger.

Without looking up, Professor Snape said, "Well, Marcus...? The cauldrons won't clean themselves."

Marcus made to take out his wand.

"Oh, no, Marcus," Professor Snape said, raising a finger. "No magic."

He pointed to an old, wooden bucket on the far wall, filled almost to the rim with soapy water. 'By hand', Marcus realised, and even the water's saponaceousness looked foul and polluted with its choler. Professor Snape flicked his finger and a large, soaked sponge flew towards Marcus, who managed to catch it before it careened into his face. He closed his eyes as soap and water splash on his face. 'One day,' he thought, 'I'm gonna get Professor Snape back for this.'

With sponge in one hand and the bucket of water in the other, Marcus walked over to the other side of the room where rows of dirty cauldrons with their encrusted and burnt potions remnants. Surprisingly, his thoughts were not on the task at hand, nor about the Quidditch try-outs that he'd miss in two days. Even his anger at Professor Snape seemed to fall deep into the depths of his mind. Instead, his thoughts fell on Oliver; how his shoulders felt in Marcus' hands, how he looked, the fear rising in those big, brown eyes, even how he smelled, like sweat and (ironically enough) wood. As Marcus took the brush, nestled a cauldron between his legs, and began to scrub. Still, he thought of Oliver Wood. Certainly, he was beginning to hate himself for it.

§

Marcus Flint.

That name was supposed to ring fear in Oliver's heart and, to a point, it did. However, there was a familiarity with him that Oliver could not quite figure out. He was used to being afraid even in a place that was supposed to be safe. Moreover, he was used to having to walk on eggshells around people, to watch what he said and to show appropriate respect. What he was not used to, however, were the feelings bubbling underneath that threatened to erupt whenever the Marcus Flint got too close.

What was it, some new form of fear and dread? Fascination? Adoration? Marcus was strong, that was obvious, and he didn't seem to care what others thought of him. Oliver thought he seemed driven, too, as if he had a goal and nothing could stand in his way. Yes, there were things to admire in Marcus, Oliver knew, but there were other mitigating factors. Marcus was mean and cruel and hateful and spiteful, certainly not someone to look up to.

Oliver turned the corner and entered the Great Hall, with its tables dividing Hogwarts students in more ways than one. He stood and surveyed the room. Hufflepuffs clumped together in ever-changing groups, tactile and smiling; Ravenclaws huddled with their books and parchments, exchanging notes and debating vigorously; Slytherins scowled and were surly with eyes suspicious even of their mates. Then there were the Gryffindors, his Gryffindors; open, honest, wary only of the table behind them -- the Slytherins. Certainly, there were bullies among the group, but it was a fun sort of bullying, more pranks than hateful. Indeed, there were bookish sorts, like Percy, who probably would have been just as comfortable in Ravenclaw. What qualities did Oliver share that made him a fit with Gryffindor? The Sorting Hat offered no reasoning, no logical progression from point A to point B. It simply asked some questions and, in the end, asked him where he wanted to be?

'I like lions,' he remembered himself saying. What a silly answer! What a silly, childish thing to tell something as old, wise and powerful as the Sorting Hat.

'Lions, eh?' the Hat had replied. 'Then let it...'

"Out of my way, Gryffindork!" came a voice from behind just before Oliver was pushed out of the doorway by an upper-level student. His heart raced, with both fear and excitement. He looked at the small group of Slytherins that pasted by him, and found he was hoping that each dark-haired bloke he saw was Flint. But none of them were.

As if on cue, Oliver saw Percy craning his neck to try to see him. A smile, a nod, followed by Ethan and Cory, then Bill and... Charlie. Smiles. That's what came to mind when he thought of Gryffindors; smiling, happy, loyal faces of friends who at least seemed happy to see you, who would defend you to the end, no matter if it was your fault.

For a moment, Oliver felt guilty for pondering Marcus Flint so much. Why do that when he had true friends who cared for him? Why even worry about what someone like Marcus thought of him when he had Charlie?

Oliver practically ran over to the Gryffindor table when Percy and Charlie waved him over. He sat in his familiar spot, in between Percy and Charlie and across from Ethan and Cory and welcomed their greetings and their questions. Moreover, when Charlie Weasley ruffled his hair before resuming his conversation with Bill, Oliver felt like he was truly home.