Floating (Drarry)

Captian

Marcus flint drowned the mug in warm, soapy water as he washed up in the bathroom sink.

It was nearly 2am and he'd needed three coffees just to stay awake. Quidditch season was starting soon and a stabbing headache had grown from the back of his head as he considered players to fill in the seeker position.

They were all undertrained, lazy and stood no chance against harry potter or cho chang.

Flint eyed the clock, wondering if it was too late for a run. He'd only burnt 3,000 calories and things weren't evening out.

The Slytherin captain knew he needed to be in perfect condition if they stood a chance in winning the cup in three months.

Marcus let himself out through a broken window of a ground floor classroom and ran 7 laps of the quidditch pitch, his breath cloudy in the January air.

He mounted his broom and shivered violently as he tried to calm down.

Things will work out and Father loves me.
I am good at quidditch and I am a great captain.

The sixth year whispered his mantras over and over again, trying to stop his growing unease.

The knot in his heart refused to untangle leaving him gasping for shallow breaths.

Marcus flew back down to the damp pitch, his heart thundering against his chest. His collar choked him so he tore of his shirt leaving his bare skin exposed to the icy chill.

Flint paced up and down before lying in the frost coated grass. The painful freeze shocked him back into breathing and he sighed in relief.

He looked up at the full, silver circle in the sky and basked in its moonlight.

Marcus replayed the old greek mythologies his father would read him in his head, to calm down. Icarus should have waited for nightfall. The moon would have never let him go.

He slipped into bed around dawn, eyes trailing over his sleeping dorm mates. The quidditch captain wasn't unpopular but he had no close friends, most assumed he preferred solitude but really the boy felt isolated. He still hasn't gained the confidence to raise his hand in class, let alone start a conversation and Marcus found it was a little late to make friends at 16.

Instead he spoke to the trees in the forest and conversed with the Merpeople in the lake but it did little to fill the gaping hole.

Sometimes he'd talk aloud to himself and the silence of the room would absorb his words like blood staining cotton. He was so lonely he could feel it physically. A sodden, rain drenched cloak pressed against his chest. Flint could do nothing but soak in the feeling.

Marcus curled up in bed feeling insignificant and small, but so are stars from a distance he could almost hear his father say.

The sixth year had no siblings or living parents but he could sometimes feel what he imagined love was for his quidditch teammates.

Marcus's life was empty and quiet but so full of secrets he could sometimes feel them eating him up inside. 

He slept through breakfast and was ten minutes late to charms but it didn't matter, because he was Marcus Flint and no one noticed.

He was a quidditch prodigy with a strong rivalry against Oliver Wood but once he stepped of the pitch he was nothing.

The only time he touched another was when he'd clasp on tightly to the Gryfindoor's Captain's hand and they'd attempt to break eachother fingers while shaking before a match.