"Scum," Marcus sneers, regarding his fellow Death Eater with revulsion. He leans forward, letting his rank and alcohol-washed breath sweep over the dishonoured. "There is no excuse for your cowardice! You are a Death Eater; you are the epitome of everything that you never did on that battlefield! You, Pritchard, are a disgrace to the Death Eaters!"
"I didn't want to be like you." Graham Pritchard forces the feeble and pathetic words past his parched lips as he raises his head. With more effort than it should have taken, he licks the dripping blood from his lips. Marcus strikes him again. Graham's head snaps to the right, and he spews blood mingled with salvia. Keeping his exhausted emerald eyes closed, Graham hangs his head, his carrot orange hair matted with dirt and sweat.
Young Slytherin Pritchard went into battle with his wand blazing and his dagger concealed in his boot. Creatures with leathery wings flew above him, rising in the smoky sky before they dived on unsuspecting wizards. One, a large orange gargoyle, zipped past Graham, grabbing one of his comrades by the hood of his robes, and flew back into the air. Soaring with the clouds, the gargoyle released the Death Eater, impaling him with other victims on a shard of metal. Graham watched for a few moments as the Death Eater convulsed before he felt his stomach churning at the scents of metallic blood and human kind at its worst.
Slipping into one of the buildings, he vomited in the corner and slumped onto the cold cement floor. Grabbing a flask buried in the many folds of his black velvet robes, he quickly washed his mouth with the burning liquid and spat it out. He stayed hidden in the corner while the sounds of battle rang through his ears and tears fell from his eyes as he leaned his head on the wall.
Graham was forced to find the courage to stand as an elderly Death Eater, Rookwood, was slammed into the building by a blast of immense fire from Sirius Black's wand. The building suddenly erupted into flames, it's boiler the screaming human torch that was once Rookwood. The stench of searing flesh and cloying smoke caused Graham to heave again, until his stomach was purged, before he was forced from his hiding spot.
Entering the dismal streets, smoke mingled with the tang of blood and battle. Graham felt fear for the first time, and it ate at him from the inside, starting with his heart. Every fibre of his body chimed with the currents of the strongest magic; Graham couldn't remember feeling anything so powerful before, and for a moment he fell back in awe. He saw witches and wizards run from him, their eyes dead with fear. Most were unsure about what was happening, all they knew was that they must get away.
Graham slinked into an alley and took another belt from his flask. Behind stacks of firewood, he witnessed two of his senior Death Eaters quarrelling.
The redheaded Death Eater landed a punch on a black-haired Death Eater, knocking him backwards. The redhead didn't stick around for the other to retaliate; he wiped the blood from his face with the cuff of his robes, but it never came off. Leaving the alley, pained yellow eyes watched him all the way.
Crouching down, Graham ensured that the black-haired Slytherin couldn't see him. Graham instantly recognised him as having once been a Chaser on the Quidditch team back when Hogwarts was still around.
The Chaser stalked off, never laying his eyes on Graham, his fists flexing at his side and his jaw clenched at this chance missed.
The battle lasted only forty-five minutes, but it seemed to drag on for endless days. Graham left shaken; his hands never touched the blood of the innocent.
"You are an error. Everything about you is an error. If we gave you another chance, you would still be an error," Marcus mocks, jamming his knee into the young man's gut before Graham's brain can even register the pain.
Graham coughs violently and falls to his knees, droplets of blood dripping like the water from a water clock and forming a pool below his mouth.
"You're lucky that Malfoy will carry out your punishment, for if it was up to me, you'd die slowly and most painfully. I could hurt you just enough that you wouldn't fall into unconsciousness as you bled to death. You disrespected honour."
Unable to stand and face Flint, the scrawny seventeen year old forces himself to lift his head, groaning with each crucial movement. "Don't speak"--Graham coughs violently--"to me about honour, Flint. You've become so blinded by power you've forgotten what honour really is! The code we follow is not of honour!"
Marcus jams his elbow into Graham's back, the sound of shattering bones ricochets through the chamber's ceiling and echoes in Marcus's heart. Graham collapses to the ground, wailing in unspeakable pain, fighting unconsciousness. Two Death Eaters rush forward from the shadows of the doorway.
"Bloody hell, Flint!" the fair-haired one screams in an Irish brogue.
"He'll live, but just for death."
And Marcus exits, leaving Graham whimpering and broken.
The two Death Eaters watch him go. As his footsteps disappear down the corridor, their hearts decelerate to a normal beat, and they breathe a little bit easier. At their feet, the carrot-topped boy remains until the blond Death Eater withdraws his wand, and takes aim towards Graham.
"What are you doing, Finnigan!?" his mate fearfully asks, eyes wide.
Seamus glances over, his blue eyes reflecting nothing but darkness with a sprig of nobility. "Putting this poor bloke out of his misery. We can make Lord Malfoy understand. Percy can make Lord Malfoy understand," he states with a dull voice as Graham's blood washes away his tears. With a shaking breath and a relocation of his eyes, the young Irish wizard casts, "Avada Kedavra!"
* * *
After pummelling the four walls in his chambers till his knuckles are raw and bleeding, Marcus sets forth in search of more walls. It's been a while since he tasted the dirt and tang of battle and decay on his lips, a while since he could take his aggressions out on someone and actually kill them. Battle is his true love; he craves everything, from the sense of exhilaration to the rush of adrenaline, that he can only get in conflict. The attack on Camp Phi was exactly what Marcus needed to take his mind from other pressing matters. Nonetheless, there was something else during those three-quarters of an hour that he detested. A war of words with old mate and Quidditch Keeper, William Bletchley.
William, being Marcus's dorm mate for seven years of the eight years he was at Hogwarts, was like a brother to Marcus. Well, as much as anyone could be a brother to him, anyways. When Snape told Marcus in their second year that the Quidditch captain wanted Marcus as Chaser, William was automatically made Keeper. Three years later, when Marcus was a fourth year and some third year bloke named Oliver Wood was becoming more of an annoyance, Marcus made captain and the Slytherin Quidditch team was reshaped.
For two years, the Quidditch Cup was theirs. Then, the same year that Oliver Wood made captain, the Gryffindor team was bestowed a new Seeker--The Boy Who Refused to Die. Marcus was a sixth year when this happened, and he never again saw the Quidditch Cup engraved with the Slytherin team's players.
Then in his seventh year, Marcus kicked William from the team for dim-witted reasons that orbited some fifth year witch. Cressida Capulet was her name, and for a while she was the object of Marcus's lust.
William couldn't keep his business in his robes; after a game where a rogue Bludger broke the Gryffindor Seeker's arm, Marcus watch as Cressida became more to William than just his best mate's bird.
Acting as he usually does--irrationally and with brute force--Marcus kicked William from the Quidditch team and in general, hereby ensuring his reputation of being a callous bastard. For Marcus, life was good once more. That is, until he got the results from his N.E.W.T.s. Zero is the lowest score someone can accomplish.
Marcus scored negative five.
He decided, quite angrily, that he didn't care. This was just another year to play Quidditch, and Snape would ensure that he'd play; he was the best, after all. His time was spent writing new strategies, stealing Wood's, or practicing in the harshest of conditions. Draco Malfoy was getting better, surpassing that wuss Terence Higgs, and soon, Marcus found another thing to fill his time.
That thing was Adrian Pucey's girlfriend. And by the end of Marcus's second seventh year, with the help of a witch and wizard, she belonged to Marcus.
Lost in anger but never in thought, Marcus finds himself passing her bedchambers. He doesn't knock, he doesn't believe he has to knock, and with a loud hammering, the door bursts open, slamming against the wall before bouncing back and shutting.
"Oh, bollocks," Rae mutters, as she cracks open a fatigued eye.
Her chambers are darkened except for the soft glow of flames from strawberry scented candles hanging from the walls. The fire blazes in the fireplace, bathing the clammy room in unneeded, yet wanted, heat.
"Get up."
"Sod off."
Marcus lunges forward into the chamber, the familiar scent of strawberries filling his lungs with each ragged breath. Quickly, his blinking eyes adjust to the darkness and he demands again, "Get up!"
"It's three o'clock in the morning," Rae mumbles, her face buried in her feather pillow and the thick quilted blankets pulled over her head. "Sod off."
Marcus glares at her, sneering. "Four o'clock," he corrects coldly. Walking over to her bed in three large steps, he seats himself next to Rae, who has angled her head away from him. Reaching over, he wraps his calloused hands around her chocolate tresses and jerks her head towards him violently. "Get. the. fuck. up."
Rae whimpers, a cold chill surfing down her spine even though the heat in the room causes beads of sweat to form, and sits up in bed. When Marcus just stares at her, Rae slouches her shoulders and closes her eyes, feeling the power of sleep wash over her. She's dressed in a light green satin nightgown that leaves nothing to the imagination, enhancing the soft lines of cleavage, and chocolate hair messily frames her pale face.
Suddenly, Marcus wrenches the sheet from Rae's shaking grasp, and she cringes faintly, chewing on her lower lip. Marcus's hard black eyes roll over Rae, hungrily taking in her every curve as her nightdress clings to her clammy skin. Her blue eyes are empty, and a sense of boredom and exhaustion rests in her facial features. Rae tilts her head to the side, staring into Marcus's eyes, afraid of what might be staring back at her.
Marcus's eyes are dark, intense and strong, with a fire burning in the pupils that consumes all reflection. He grabs Rae at her wrist, jerking her towards him, and she stumbles into his chest. Wrapping his hands around her hair, he yanks her head back, pressing his lips forcibly to hers in bruising kisses.
Marcus abruptly pulls away, striking Rae across the cheek so hard that both her cheek and his hand are throbbing, one more than the other. She's pitched against the headboard, and Marcus jerks to his feet.
Staring down at her with those eyes that she's grown accustom to, Marcus crosses his arms over his black-robed chest. "Malfoy has ordered an audience before his Death Eaters at dawn in the First Ceremonial Hall to address the events of yesterday." Marcus extends his hand, silently commanding Rae to take it, and he yanks her to her feet. Running his index finger along Rae's collarbones, she swallows the lump forming in her throat. "This is a victory to him. But no matter what he says, we lost. Lost good people, lost that camp." He pauses for what seems like a thought. "Have I ever told you about Bletchley?"
Rae blankly stares ahead.
"Real fucking toffee-nosed bloke. Had him as Keeper for five years, one of the best on the team. He could have surpassed Wood's talents, if he could have kept his business in his robes. I heartlessly kicked him from the team, as I did to Higgs. I put my own resentment over what was best for the team. And do you know what?" Marcus's hands land on Rae's shoulders, his dirty fingernails digging into her flesh, drawing fresh blood. Rae flinches, digging her nails into her palm, forcing herself not to show the pain that Marcus would take much satisfaction in.
"W-what?" she inelegantly stammers.
Marcus flashes Rae a crooked grin. "I'd do it again if I ever had the chance." He removes his fingernails from her skin, her blood staining them, running from the wounds and dripping down her shoulders. "Remorse is a weakness," he sneers as he trails his tongue up Rae's shoulder, licking the red blood. He feels Rae shudder beneath him, and he presses closer to her.
"Your emotions don't bind you, they set you free," Rae replies, neither thinking nor caring about the consequences of her words. "Your fists shouldn't do the talking, or is that what you resort to when your intelligence fails you? A pummelling instead of logical words, right? You say your emotions don't control you, but you let your anger rule you." She rests against the wall, the stone unusually warm on her clothed back.
Marcus clenches his fists at his side, his jaw tightens, his eyes avert to the floor. "I come here looking for comfort and this is what I get? A nagging whore who doesn't know what she's talking about?" he whispers through gritted teeth. Marcus brings his eyes back towards Rae, and she gasps as she imagines Death in their reflection. "Find something else to do with your mouth other than talking; no one wants to hear you!"
Rae flushes a deep red with embarrassment and anger, but refuses to let Marcus win this battle. Shaking inside, but forcing herself to remain calm on the outside, Rae lets her emotions run free. "You don't rule me, Marcus! I shouldn't have to think and believe everything you say! It's barbaric and dim-witted and irrational and . . . and . . ."
Rae stalls, interrupted when Marcus wraps his hand around her neck. He tightens his hold when Rae gasps for breath, his eyes laughing at her as a sneer plays across his lips. With many thoughts running through her mind that she cannot begin to make sense of, she desperately claws at his forearms, silently begging him to release her. She rips strips of skin from his arms with her nails, which Marcus sniggers slowly at before he hurls her across the room.
Rae smashes into the mirror hanging from the wall, shattering it into a sea of sharp slivers that graze across her skin, drawing painful blood and ripping her thin nightgown. Collapsing onto the ground, her body trembles with buried sobs as splinters of glass stick to her skin or embed themselves in the fine wounds.
"Next time, keep your mouth shut!" Marcus warns as his footfalls sound out her chambers and down the corridor.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Rae staggers slowly to her feet, leaning upon the wall for a much-needed support. Shaking uncontrollably, she eases herself towards the bathroom, the cuts along her legs and arms seeping warm blood and leaving spots on her once spotless floor.
Stumbling into the bathroom, she peels the moist and bloody fabric from her body, and discards it into the corner. As she turns on the faucet, clear and cool water fills the bathtub, and it soon darkens to red when Rae submerges herself.
* * *
The First Ceremonial Hall is decorated with medieval weapons that once drew blood from and killed a king. In the centre is a long, maple table where the most important Death Eaters congregate, around a hundred in total. Adorning the stone walls are banners of the old Hogwarts houses (in remembrance and respect, Lucius had once said) and portraits of a young Voldemort, Grindelwald, and the newest, Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius, who stands at the end of the table with a goblet of red wine in hand, wordlessly stares at each of his imperative Death Eaters in turn. Gathered around him are none other than Gene Avery, Marcus Flint, Percy Wealsey, and Seamus Finnigan, to name a few.
"My friends and loyal Death Eaters," Lucius starts, carefully selecting his words. "A few days ago, we made history." He pauses, but only for the applause from the Death Eaters. He raises his hand. "Silence, please. That faction known as the Last Alliance will be just that--the last alliance. They attacked us and lost. They attacked us, and our defences held. They attacked us, and I doubt they will again in the near future. For the next time they attack, we will spare no defence. This is a victory, my friends. Those who fought bravely and died bravely will be honoured in death, and those who survived to tell the tales of their battle scars will be rewarded.
"Let it be known that from this day forward, Marcus Flint will be an honorary guard. Edward Mulciber has been promoted to the head of Camp Omega. Benjamin Lestrange the new commander of the Blue boarder patrols!
"We must show those wizards that this left us unjaded, and we must revel in the soft rays of victory. In a week's time, there will be another Quidditch match to celebrate, and I leave that matter in the hands of Percy Weasley. Let him prepare a spectacle that will leave us cheering for more, a spectacle befitting of the victors of that battle!" More cheers and applause, and Percy nervously slumps down into his seat. Lucius raises his goblet, the red wine sloshing against the crystal sides.
"A toast, my friends. To victory!"
"To victory!" they echo.
