The Future Will Be Better Tomorrow

The Future Will Be Better Tomorrow: Epilogue (or It Could Have Been A Brilliant Career)

Of course he didn't want to let go. He had already gone past the hysterical stage, and so all he did was to stand around numbly. Marcus's parents were rushing over with some Mediwitches, but it wasn't as if it would help.

And Mrs. Flint was crying out hysterically, and Mr. Flint was trying to comfort her, and he felt rather awkward, so he slunk off to be alone. It was pointless to cry; Marcus wasn't here anymore.

He was vaguely aware of Fred and George and Lee following him, but since they hadn't said anything yet neither would he.

That said, the moment he stepped out of the Quidditch stadium, he slumped down the wall and wept bitterly.

*

He went to the funeral after all; he never thought he could bring himself to it. George came over and told him about where and when it was held, and in the end, he decided to go.

He still can't decide if he should have gone.

And once again, he just stood there. He was too tired to cry, and what with all the other people crying he couldn't. Maybe he was just being a little too selfish because he looked at all the other weeping people and thought, what did they know anyway.

But what did he know himself?

All he knows is the things that could have been. He is still rather unwilling to accept what has happened. Somehow seeing all these people at the funeral irks him. And it wasn't a particularly large one; there was no need to have people come just to laugh at him for making the wrong choice.

Or whatever. He'd rather not think.

He sees several ex-Slytherins, and he realises that people are staring at him. Whatever for? They don't know anything. He is reminded that neither does he, actually, and he's thinking again.

And it all went by, and he didn't pay much attention. He saw no point anyway, and he was still feeling rather possessive of Marcus. He didn't bother to go up to have one last look at the corpse. He knew it wasn't Marcus, and that was enough.

*

Later Mrs. Flint came over to thank him.

Whatever for?

"I really appreciate that you were there for him when he died."

He was quite confused, really, but he just wanted to be alone.

"It's just--it's really hard, you know, to see your child die in such a painful way."

He still did not reply.

"He was--oh, he was such a Puddlemere fan, you know. And it's just--you're playing for Puddlemere, and--I don't know, just thanks for being there for him."

Honestly. There for him? What was she playing at? And Marcus, a Puddlemere fan?

And there Mrs. Flint was, sobbing uncontrollably, and he felt disgusted at himself for having cried that way, just days before.

And all he wanted was to be alone. Really. He hasn't got all the time in the world, you know.

Marcus, a Puddlemere fan?

Nothing ever made sense, did it?

"I remember him running around with posters of that Puddlemere team, you know, the one Captained by some lad called Damien Lyndon?" Mrs. Flint said, sniffing and dabbing her eyes with tissue, a wistful smile on her face. "And he always went about saying how his goal in life was to get on the Puddlemere team."

Oliver's patience was running thin. And it was Damon, for fuck's sake.

Mrs. Flint shrugged and dabbed her eyes some more and continued to reminisce.

Oh, come on, really. Marcus could have liked Puddlemere only when he was young. After all, people do change.

Marcus would be a Falcons fan to him, and there was nothing to be said otherwise.

Of course he was wrong again; just like he was when he swore that he would help Gryffindor win the Quidditch Cup. He knew it. He wouldn't accept it.

Why should he anyway? He would have believed it, had it made sense.

"You know, he actually received the letter telling him to go for the Puddlemere tryouts."

Sob stories and things that could have been. Honestly. He felt like telling Mrs. Flint, so what if he didn't make it? If he trained a little harder he might have.

Why didn't he?

"But the moment he came back from school in his last year he just cooped himself up in his room and then left a few weeks later."

Oh, and let me guess. You never saw him again?

"And he never went for the tryouts. It's what I don't get: why did he give up on his childhood dreams?"

Because childhood dreams are made up of hope and fluff and fantasy and ha, ha, ha if all these existed. Childhood dreams. Really. He scoffs.

"Why did he go join the Death Eaters?"

As if he had the answers. Mrs. Flint broke down all over again.

Mr. Flint came over, and hugged the trembling Mrs. Flint.

Oh, if only Marcus went for the tryouts. He would have made it in, he would be playing with Oliver, they would go for a drink after matches and they would talk about Quidditch.

Oliver scoffs at his own immaturity. How he used to think Quidditch was everything. It was just a fucking game. He was just too stupid to realise it. He was so fucking pathetic.

And if Marcus was in Puddlemere, or even in some other team, he wouldn't have gone to be a Death Eater, would he? And he wouldn't have died and they could even have been happy together.

He was so fucking pathetic he couldn't believe himself.

So here he was, deluding himself that Marcus actually did like him in return. He wouldn't know, would he? After all, Marcus never said anything about it, and as far as he knew, they were rivals, enemies, and never friends.

And what were all these people doing here? The funeral ended an hour ago, they should all be going home and feeling relieved that they can finally rest in peace without the threat of Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

Mr. and Mrs. Flint were going off now, and the other people followed. Oliver stayed behind, dawdling about for a while, until there were no more people left in the graveyard.

"Marcus-- " he began, and looked at the marker for Marcus' full name.

"Marcus David Flint," he read, then paused, but continued anyway, "I hate you."

He stood there, as if expecting a reply.

"Marcus David Flint, I hate you," he repeated.

He was so pathetic he was about to cry.

"I hate you."

And he could feel the tears welling up. Why was he such a fucking pussy?

"I hate--" But he couldn't finish. He collapsed, hugging the marker, he didn't know why but he did.

He hated Marcus for being all that could have been, David, a Puddlemere teammate, David, a close friend, David, a you-know-what, David, the stuff of childhood dreams.

He hated Marcus for lying to him, for telling him that he was a Falcons fan, for telling him that he very much preferred to be a Death Eater. He hated Marcus for making him wait, in the false hope that they would meet again someday and they could do the things that could have been.

He hated Marcus for avoiding him, but then they both avoided each other anyway.

He hated the House system. If it didn't exist he could have got along with Marcus very well and none of this would have happened. And then maybe both of them would have died in the Death Eater attack during the Puddlemere-Magpies game. Oh the irony.

He realises that maybe they were never meant to be, and that might have been it. But how could it be? And oh, he just remembered: he hated Marcus for causing him so much pain too.

Until he realises that Marcus never meant to. So maybe Marcus did like him back after all.

He has absolutely no idea what to feel. All he knows is that he doesn't want to move.