And Baby, I Always Knew
You Were Bad News
by Silvia
The parents say, "If you're not careful, you'll end up like Marcus Flint," and he will kill them for it.
He will say, "They would have been lucky," and close his eyes, slow and solemn, like a prayer, and taste their blood when it splatters over his mouth, sliding in to tap at his tongue.
He is silent at dinner parties, dress robes pressed and tidy, and tells the hostess that her necklace brings out her eyes. He pictures them sightless and clouded, against the green lawns of Hogwarts, wand clutched rigor mortis tight within her fist, and smiles sweetly.
"He's such a nice boy," they say. Failure, Failure. "And it's really too bad."
"I'm scared," he tells Oliver. "You won't believe what I've learned."
He learned:
Oliver has a wet mouth that tastes of Quidditch field soil, sweet and gritty against his teeth, and he will use it anywhere Marcus wants him to.
Oliver stops along the corridor to the prefects' bathroom at a quarter past midnight when Marcus catches his eye and mouths, "Be there." He waits, and whispers, "What do you want?", and when Marcus says, "You," that's fine.
Oliver knows Harry Potter, and Harry Potter knows him, trusts him, believes him. Is stupid.
Oliver will tell Harry whatever Marcus wants.
Oliver wants to do good, and that's vague enough to work without swallowing him. He looks to the bright feeling in his chest, and clutches at it, and knows he's in the right place at the right time.
Oliver is there, back at Hogwarts two years after they've left, when Marcus bursts through Dumbledoore's thick slabs of door and crumbles a spiny lamp with his fist because people are shouting.
Marcus' fingers drip, warm and wet, and Marcus tells the room and its people that there was a feast, with pheasant and wine and thick slices of bread and plans, and they're sleeping now, but soon they won't be.
He says, "You have to get him. We have to finish this. They'll-" and walks across the room, bare feet crunching across the shattered glass, to brush his thumb down the back of Oliver's arm.
Oliver watches, always, with clear sky eyes and pushes his skin further into Marcus' skin, and does it.
Oliver will do this.
And Marcus will cry because it's all too much, too beautiful too soon, and Oliver will press up against his back and whisper, "I know," when he doesn't.
Oliver will say, "No one has to know who told us."
And Marcus will think, 'If you're not careful...' and say, "I'll be fine."