Flint’s First Foray
- Bard
Marcus Flint wouldn't consider himself a nervous fellow. He wasn't afraid of anyone or anything; his father had seen to that. Yet, here he was, in the changing rooms, pacing back and forth as his heart raced and sweat clammed his palms. He could hear the swell of the crowd above, all eagerly chanting as they waited for the match to start. And Merlin, Marcus felt sick.
It was his first match. He'd failed to impress the Captain last year, who'd told him that he'd seen a flobberworm with more ability than Marcus. It had been nothing short of a miracle that he'd been accepted onto the team this year, as his father had made sure to tell him several times in his last owl. But Marcus had worked hard to get here, despite what the others thought, and he took his position as Beater with utter pride. Pride, and a nauseating need to vomit.
"Come on, Flint, we're up," Davis Selwyn called out, and Marcus picked up his broom and gathered with the rest of the team by the entrance. Davis had been brief with his pep talk and it had boiled down to one simple thing; they could not lose. Following his team members out onto the pitch, Marcus was momentarily blinded by the sunlight and the vast open blue sky. The crowds surged like a wave in the stands above, their roaring chants drowning out everything else. And Marcus felt a thrill like no other, unable to keep the beaming smile off his face. He lived for Quidditch, it was the only thing he was good at.
Mounting his broom, Marcus waited for the starting whistle before he kicked off. Soaring upwards, he felt the wind ripping past his face and a freedom like no other surged through him. This is what he loved more than anything. The match started relatively slow; the Ravenclaw Chasers were fast and agile, but their Beaters were slow and in the first half hour, Marcus sent a Bludger hurtling their way a number of times. The second nearly took the Ravenclaw Captain off his broom. Davis was in his element, bellowing orders as he circled the pitch. Within an hour, Slytherin were taking the lead 180-20 and Marcus was truly in his element.
Until he wasn't.
He didn't see the Bludger flying his way. Their Seeker, Janie Finch, had spotted the Snitch and he'd been too busy watching her race towards the ground that he didn't see the large brown ball hurtling his way. It collided hard with the side of his head and that's the last thing he remembered from the match.
He woke up a day later in the Hospital Wing. Davis, Janie, and the rest of his team were gathered around his bed; Janie was flipping through a copy of Witch Weekly, clearly bored, and Davis was picking his fingernails. He glanced up when he saw Marcus stir. "About time! You've been sleeping for thirty hours."
"He was knocked out," Janie corrected without looking up from her magazine. Marcus pushed himself up, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over him. He reached up to touch the side of his thickly-bandaged head.
"Did we win?" He asked hopefully. Davis' face lit up and he grinned triumphantly back at him.
"Of course we did. You should have seen the catch Janie made. It was spectacular."
Marcus sat back against his pillows with a smile. He might have missed the moment of glory, but a win was a win. He couldn't wait to tell his father about this.
