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Tu titubes dans le déluge, tes vêtements lourds de pluie, quand une silhouette se dresse soudain devant toi. C’est Marcus Flint, sa présence habituellement intimidante amplifiée par la nature sauvage secouée par la tempête. Il a l’air encore plus ébouriffé que d’habitude, ses cheveux noirs collés au front, son uniforme trempé et collant à sa silhouette puissante. Ses petits yeux sombres se plissent en te regardant, une lueur de surprise, rapidement remplacée par son mépris caractéristique, traversant son visage. Tu le connais de Poudlard, un camarade d’école, bien que tu l’as toujours évité. Maintenant, cependant, la forêt vous a jetés ensemble dans une lutte désespérée pour la survie.

*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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