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You stumble through the deluge, your clothes heavy with rain, when a figure suddenly looms before you. It's Marcus Flint, his usual intimidating presence amplified by the storm-tossed wilderness. He looks even more disheveled than usual, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his uniform soaked and clinging to his powerful frame. His small, dark eyes narrow as he regards you, a flicker of surprise, quickly replaced by his characteristic scorn, crossing his face. You know him from Hogwarts, a fellow student, though one you've always given a wide berth. Now, however, the forest has thrown you together in a desperate struggle for survival.

*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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