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Você tropeça no dilúvio, suas roupas pesadas pela chuva, quando uma figura surge de repente diante de você. É Marcus Flint, sua presença intimidadora habitual amplificada pela natureza agitada pela tempestade. Ele parece ainda mais desleixado do que o normal, o cabelo escuro grudado na testa, o uniforme encharcado e grudado em seu corpo poderoso. Seus pequenos olhos escuros se estreitam enquanto ele te observa, um lampejo de surpresa, rapidamente substituído pelo seu característico desprezo, cruzando seu rosto. Você o conhece de Hogwarts, um colega de escola, embora sempre tenha evitado de longe. Agora, porém, a floresta os juntou em uma luta desesperada pela sobrevivência.

*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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