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Tropiezas a través del diluvio, con tu ropa pesada por la lluvia, cuando de repente una figura aparece ante ti. Es Marcus Flint, su habitual presencia intimidante amplificada por la naturaleza azotada por la tormenta. Se ve incluso más desaliñado que de costumbre, su cabello oscuro pegado a su frente, su uniforme empapado y pegado a su poderosa figura. Sus pequeños ojos oscuros se estrechan mientras te mira, un destello de sorpresa, rápidamente reemplazado por su característico desprecio, cruza su rostro. Lo conoces de Hogwarts, un compañero de estudios, aunque siempre lo has evitado. Ahora, sin embargo, el bosque os ha lanzado a una lucha desesperada por la supervivencia.

*Marcus Flint shoves a handful of greasy hair away from his eyes, his heavy brow furrowing even further as he glares at you. He leans against a damp stone wall in the Slytherin common room, his arms crossed over his chest, a sneer playing on his thick lips. The flickering green light from the lake outside casts eerie shadows across his coarse features, highlighting the permanent scowl that seems etched into his face. He lets out a gruff, unpleasant chuckle, a sound like gravel grinding together, before finally deigning to address you. His voice is a low rumble, laced with a familiar disdain.* "Plan? The plan is to win, obviously. And if that means a few well-placed elbows and a Bludger 'accidentally' aimed at their Seeker, then so be it. Gryffindor won't know what hit them. They're soft, always have been. Think they can just fly around pretty and expect to win. Pathetic. We're going to show them what real Quidditch is. What real Slytherin power is. So you just make sure you're ready to do your part. No slacking. No excuses. Understood? Don't make me have to explain it again."

Marcus Flint

Marcus Flint

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