The Future Will Be Better Tomorrow

The Future Will Be Better Tomorrow: Chapter Two

On one side of the window there was green. Green in the form of rolling plains and hills, rushing past. On the other side there was green. Green in the form Slytherin, and envy.

In this cabin of the Hogwarts Express, there sat several Slytherin seventh-years, including one Marcus Flint.

It didn't matter to him at all that Oliver would be playing for Puddlemere. No, not at all. Just like it didn't matter to him what people thought of him, didn't it? He was Marcus Bloody Flint for that matter. Marcus Fucking Flint. What did it matter to him? Then again, neither 'Bloody' nor 'Fucking' was his middle name. It was David, actually, horrifyingly mundane and completely irrelevant.

He was in a foul mood. How could he not be? He was throwing a childish tantrum and fully aware of it, but unwilling to stop it. He had no reason to, anyway. He didn't have a valid reason for the tantrum either, and all these complications left him feeling even angrier.

He looked perfectly calm and collected on the outside, his actions betraying none of his thoughts. Inside he was silently cursing Robert Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson, J.M. Barrie, Alexander Graham Bell, William Wallace, Professor McGonagall and John Napier.

All in his childish fit, of course. There was nothing Marcus prized more than a good book, and he had absolutely nothing against logarithms. He did have a little something against McGonagall, but his main problem was Oliver Fuckface Wood.

It was really simple and obvious, how all of Marcus' problems could be attributed to Oliver Wood. He did badly for his Arithmancy NEWT because Wood was chewing on his quill. Marcus couldn't be damned to find out what it was he had against Wood, but the chewing of one's quills greatly annoyed him. Marcus failed to get the Quidditch Cup because Wood stole his notebook. Marcus was destined to be a failure in life, all because of Wood. Fucking Wood. Bloody fucking Wood. Why wouldn't the fucking cunt leave him alone?

Marcus was being unreasonable, as part of the tantrum. He didn't know what he felt like doing more, getting rolled down by the Hogwarts Express or pushing Wood out of the train so that he would get run over.

He found it tremendously unfair, how everyone looked at Wood and immediately knew he was a Puddlemere fan. People guessed everything but that for him. He found it unfair too, that many people disregarded him. But to speak out would mean that he was an attention-seeking bastard, and he was not the Weasley twins.

And he had enough evidence to back that up. Just early this morning, during the party, a Hufflepuff girl was asking everyone to sign in some autograph book. Truth be told, Flint hated such things, but still, he couldn't help but feel a little hurt when she asked everyone but him to sign in the book.

There was another time, when he overheard this conversation between a Ravenclaw girl and her friends. They were talking about the boys of Hogwarts, and rating them based on their own criteria. One of them mentioned Marcus Flint and the rest burst out laughing, and one of them had said, "I'm not even sure if he qualifies as a human". Marcus thought in response, if he didn't qualify as human, Oliver Wood shouldn't qualify as a male of the species.

Thinking of Wood made him want to rip out all his hair and stomp around all over again, so he decided to get up for a walk around the train. He felt as if was ready to combust any moment, and jumping off the speeding Hogwarts Express suddenly became very viable to him. He decided to head towards the snack cabin, perhaps to binge on food and hopefully stuff himself to death.

When he entered the snack cabin it was overflowing with people. A wave of nausea washed over Marcus. He felt disgusted at people, people of any sort, and desperately wished everyone could just drop dead there and then.

"Flint! Flint!" Someone called.

Marcus was all ready to strangle the offending twat when he realised it was Adrian Pucey. And the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team, including Warrington. Warrington had replaced Pucey this year, when Pucey was hospitalised due to an unfortunate accident in Transfiguration the day before the match against Gryffindor. And all the anger and frustration dissipated.

Actually, it didn't quite as much dissipate as it was forgotten. A very natural reaction though, for the Slytherin Quidditch Team was wearing these green-and-silver box-pleated miniskirts along with their Quidditch jumpers.

Marcus' first reaction was, bloody hell, what the fuck were you thinking? But he was too shocked to even say that out loud. They must have been quite a sight then, gaping Marcus and the posse of Slytherins in Really Short Skirts. After recovering from the shock, it suddenly hit him that Wood and the Weasleys were in the cabin. Which was followed by an overwhelming need to jump out of the train.

Seeing that Marcus had closed his mouth, the Slytherin Quidditch Team immediately launched into a dance and cheer sequence, "for the best captain ever!"

Marcus would never be able to face anyone in life ever again.

And Wood and the Weasleys jumped at the chance to get back at Flint.

"Fucking hell, Flint, I never knew."

"I never knew either," Flint squeaked.

Upon realising he had just squeaked, Flint once again wished for a premature death.

"At least Flint's boys look better than yours." Bole gave a condescending smirk.

"Yeah, to make up for his lack of looks," replied Fred, albeit a tad too unimaginatively.

And Malfoy: "Why don't you make up a cheer of your own and let's see who's better?"

Silence, on the Gryffindors' part. George opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Flint.

"Um," he started. "Um, uh, can we go out?" Flint pointed at the door and looked at his Quidditch team. But before he left the cabin, he said to Wood, "It's not like

they wear skirts on a regular basis anyway."

Outside, before Flint could do anything, he was smothered in hugs from the Slytherin Quidditch team. This made him slightly panicky, and he tried to push them away weakly. Unexpectedly, he burst into tears. Then he felt like such a pansy he stopped crying. He buried his head in his hands and attempted to hide in a corner. Somewhere behind him, the Slytherin Quidditch team poked fun at him a little, smiles on their faces unseen by Flint.

They retreated to a cabin to avoid being stared at. Flint asked them what the whole men-in-skirts-dancing-in-front-of-everyone incident was about, and he found out it was all Pucey's fault. They had wanted to plan something for their "wonderful, brilliant, extraordinary, fantastic, incredible, marvellous, sensational" Quidditch Captain, and were joking about it. Then they realised that it might actually work out, and so they set forth in their ultra-mini miniskirts and came up with a cheer for him. Marcus was amazed that they all actually agreed to wear skirts and dance for him; he knew that some of his teammates had reputations to uphold.

For the rest of the day they talked and smiled and laughed then almost cried.

When the train pulled into King's Cross, Flint was trying as hard as he could to not break down. He hated having to remain composed and all when he was feeling the exact opposite inside. He'd already started to miss training with Bole, Derrick, Bletchley, Pucey, Montague, Malfoy and Warrington. He'd miss running all over the school to look for his teammates everytime there was an early morning training session. He'd miss sitting with them during mealtimes, devising new ways to cheat and occasionally trying them out. He'd miss asking Pucey for help on homework and having him do it for him. He'd miss all the pre-match changing-room nervous breakdowns, though none of them ever let it show on the pitch that they actually cared enough. He'd miss listening to Derrick sing in the showers, Bole's underwear that had moving cartoons, Pucey's cooking experiments, Montague's imitations of people, Bletchley with his up-to-date gossip, Warrington's endless database of bad jokes and Malfoy's bragging.

All this made him remember Terence Higgs, who was kicked out of their team in Marcus' first seventh year. The two of them were, for the lack of a better word, friends since they were first years, and when Terence had to leave the team Marcus felt really guilty, even though it wasn't his fault.

Terence Higgs was Muggle-born. There were Muggle-borns in Slytherin, though they were as common as rain in the Sahara Desert. No one actually knew that, because Terence kept that hidden. The Sorting Hat had told him that while Slytherin was the perfect house for him, he would have a hard time there as he was Muggle-born. But since Terence had read up so much on the wizarding world ever since he received the letter of admittance to Hogwarts, he told everyone that he was a half-blood, and no one thought otherwise. Until in Terence's seventh year, when Mr Malfoy came to put his son on the team.

Mr Malfoy had requested that the members of the Quidditch team then meet him, and he made his offer of donating new broomsticks to all the members of the team, if one of them was willing to let Draco have his place. Mr Malfoy then asked about Higgs' parentage because he had never heard of a pureblood family that went by Higgs, and Higgs was forced out because he was not pureblooded. Marcus had felt it was horribly unfair but he was powerless to do anything. Mr Malfoy's offer was one that could not be refused either way, and Flint had to live with the guilt for the rest of his life.

Interestingly enough, it was the year where the Chamber of Secrets was opened. It was also the year Higgs was named Head Boy, the first Slytherin in more than ten years. With the Basilisk running loose Flint was worried sick for Terence, what with his Head Boy duties and all. The Quidditch team took turns to accompany Terence, and they made him wear spectacles, just in case. Terence was quite whiny about it, and constantly told them not to worry, which worried them even more.

Terence was now working in some wizarding homes architectural firm, and they occasionally kept in touch.

With Terence Marcus remembered more of his seniors, and with that he missed Quidditch all the more. Marcus had decided to give up on Quidditch, because he knew Wood would make it to Puddlemere and he couldn't stand playing for any other team. Thinking about it now, he felt foolish for being such an avid Quidditch fan. Everything seemed so futile now, he thought.

He wasn't too eager to get home, because at home he had to face all the Puddlemere posters he so desperately wanted to rip into pieces now. His heart was breaking, his dreams were already broken and his spirit was crushed.

He trudged slowly out of King's Cross, unwilling to leave the place and go home. His life felt as if it was over, and maybe it was. He had lost all direction in life, and all he wanted to do now was to wallow in self-pity and die in vain.

Fuck. In the corner of his eye, he saw Wood heading over, a smile on his face.

"It's called a kilt, you know," he said cheerfully.

Why? Marcus thought. Why oh why oh why oh why?

He gave a weak smile in reply and attempted to run away. But of all things, his trolley wheel got stuck and couldn't turn. Somewhere at the back of his mind he was running though all the possible ways to get rid of Wood.

Wood came over and unstuck Marcus' trolley for him. He then proceeded to make conversation, following Marcus where he went. Wood was like a housefly, hard to kill and impossible to get rid of. Wood asked him which League team he supported, and he croaked "Falcons" before dumping his entire luggage all over inside the taxi and rushed into it, slamming the door rudely in Wood's face.

He felt a pang of guilt as soon as he slammed the door shut. He didn't mean to be that rude to Wood. He just wanted to run away from him. Then he felt guilty for running away from Wood. He didn't mean any harm. Then again, Wood so heartlessly tore his dreams apart, so he shouldn't have felt so guilty. Then felt guilty for thinking such a thing. Eventually he got tired of feeling guilty and returned to wallowing in self-pity.

He never quite understood Wood, and Wood still had his strategy book. Not that it mattered anymore, he thought glumly. He still didn't feel like returning home, so he decided to dump his belongings in some sodding little locker in Diagon Alley. He headed to the Leaky Cauldron, but upon realising that his whereabouts might be found, he headed out into the Muggle world.

He walked aimlessly about Central London. He went into a bookstore and bought a book, and read it while taking random trains to nowhere in the Underground. The best thing Terence ever did to Marcus, in Marcus's opinion, was to introduce him to Literature. The magical world seemed to be rather lacking in the artistic department. Magical paintings and photos couldn't capture the beauty in a moment, and the vastness of the magical world seemed to suppress the imagination.

Marcus didn't have much money with him, and he couldn't stay out forever. Also, his parents had already made an agreement with him, that he would pay for all his expenses the moment he graduated from school. They'd like him to find his own place to stay too, and for all this Marcus needed a job. Unfortunately, his current plan for the future was to waste his life away, so the entire thing was flawed and implausible.

Eventually Marcus ran out of places to go, and decided to go home. It was ten in the morning the next day, and his family was having breakfast. They greeted Marcus with huge smiles, and jumped up to hug him. Marcus tried to avoid them. He was on an avoiding spree now. He decided that it would be best to isolate himself from the world.

He was sorely disappointed in himself. He was Slytherin, yet he lacked so much ambition. He retreated to his room, where, too disheartened to unpack, he lay on his bed and cried bitterly at the posters on his wall.

And hated himself all the more for being such a weakling, for having so little ambition, for being such a failure and such a disappointment.

He remained in the room, and on the next day his parents started to worry for him and knocked on his door.

"Marcus? Are you alright?" They called. "Answer me, Marcus!"

At that point of time Marcus was actually asleep, and upon hearing that made some grumbly noise and replied that he wanted to sleep. He couldn't go back to sleep after that, and felt a sudden urge to move out. So he went about chucking all his things into boxes, and when it was time for him to keep the posters he didn't feel like it. He didn't even want to touch them. He felt so embarrassed that he was once a fan of Quidditch and - he couldn't even bear to think about it anymore. In the end, he decided to chuck everything into boxes, and maybe throw away those posters on the way out.

When he told his parents he would be moving out, they asked if he was "alright" again. Marcus mumbled a yes, which of course meant that he was not "alright". But he didn't want to answer any more questions, and fled from the place as fast as he could. Then he was hit by guilt all over again, and he dearly wished to fling himself into the River Thames.

Too cowardly to even kill himself, he retreated into a dingy little room rented from the Leaky Cauldron. Then he wallowed in more self-pity and depression.

Sometime in the week, though, he received some letters. One was from his parents, informing him that they had bought tickets for the upcoming Quidditch World Cup Finals. The other was the Puddlemere fan newsletter, with a report on the newest members of their team.

He wished he could have just disappeared from the surface of the earth; that would save him the trouble of having to write back to his parents and to cancel his subscriptions to any publication to do with Quidditch. He felt sick and tired and drained and guilty and worthless and at the bottom of it all, hated himself.

Which is the easiest thing for anyone to do really. Marcus hadn't eaten in days, mostly out of the hope that he might actually die of starvation. He just lay there on the bed, thinking of various ways to commit suicide, falling asleep, and waking up disappointed to find he was not yet dead.

But before Marcus could starve himself to death there was an impatient knock on the door. After much deliberation, Marcus crawled out of bed and cracked open the door. It was the innkeeper, and he was here to chase him out. They needed to provide rooms for the sudden influx of witches and wizards in town for the Quidditch World Cup, and since this was a short-stay inn and Marcus had been staying there for a week they decided to kick him out first.

At least they were kind enough to move his things out for him, he thought darkly.

And he was out in the big bad world again. He was starving, and he got something to eat. So he wouldn't be dying of hunger after all. He was sitting in a corner of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, eating a mint-ice cream sundae, watching the world go by.

The bright sunlight made him feel less depressed, and he took out some parchment and began composing a letter to his parents, telling them that he would be unable to attend the Quidditch World Cup finals. Then he decided, to heck with it, and threw the letter away.

So Marcus went for the World Cup after all, Ireland vs. Bulgaria. He spent most of his time hiding in his tent, and the remaining time hidden under a green hat lined with shamrocks. He actually spotted the Weasleys, and they were with Potter. He spotted many other familiar faces too.

And then there was the Dark Mark. The appearance of it caused much commotion in the camp. Marcus didn't know of it though as he was hiding in his tent. He only heard about it later, from his parents and from the others' conversations.

He felt very nonchalant about it, and vaguely wondered why they did not attack the campsite and kill everyone in sight. Marcus would have very gladly run out then to offer himself to be killed.

After the Quidditch World Cup Marcus seemed to have brightened up a little, and he even went looking for a job. He ended up as a barkeep in some pub located in Knockturn Alley, and some normalcy returned to his life.