— little hell.
Firewhiskey was the dominant smell looming through the corridors of Hogwarts. Cheering, yelling and general horse-play was in action, and it could all be found in a sea of green and silver. Slytherin had just beaten Gryffindor in the second-last match of the season, thus knocking them out of the tournament for the Quidditch cup. Needless to say -- there were festivities to be thrown. It wasn’t enough that they were guaranteed a win next week against Ravenclaw, but they had defeated their rival house. The game had been bloody, violent, and altogether a little unfair. Nobody stood a chance on a broom when Owen Page was zooming about in his element, with a thick bat in his hand and a metallic ball at his beck and call.
Owen was playing his role in the celebration, drinking whenever something was passed to him in a concealed bottle, eating whatever food was sent his way -- but his heart wasn’t in it. Every since he had arrived back from France, ever since he had lived through the pain of a thousand deaths and more… He really hadn’t been interested in anything anymore. He was failing his classes, his attitude had took a turn for the worse (as if it had been possible) and he spent most of his time in the woods as a hungry wolf, or he spent his time away from the castle, fulfilling his Death Eater duties. It seemed that his performance in France and his ability to withstand pain without a single peep had peaked the Dark Lord’s interest in him even further. He had been given a special job -- one that included inflicting pain and dark wizards who openly wanted to join the inner circle. He wasn’t going to deny that he enjoyed it, a little bit at least.
Finally, he refused the bottle put before him with a flick of his hand and a shake of his head. The male offering it seemed to have forgotten himself from a moment and laughed good-heartedly, pushing it against Owen’s chest as though to ask him again, to take a drunk. All the mock-enjoyment the Page male had been putting into the celebration faded and out struck his hand, curling around the nameless boy’s neck and he squeezed lightly. He didn’t take well to being pestered, nor did he enjoy the insolence of people he didn’t even know existed. The bottle fell to the cobbled floor and smashed, yet it didn’t draw the attention of many. The noise was far too loud.
“I don’t like repeating myself,” growling through clenched teeth, he dropped his hold on the boy and shoved him from his presence. Every single being in the castle was aware of Owen and even more so, his reputation. Crossing him was a rookie mistake and often ended up as a painful one. The hand he had used to strangle the stranger wiped down along the front of his shirt, as if he had been contaminated. He still wore his Quidditch uniform, like the rest of his team mates. Blood had dried on the front of his top from an earlier broken nose, and his knuckles were bruised -- bleeding, too -- from the fight that had broken out at the end. He looked dangerously handsome, oddly enough. He banished his friends from his presence with an irritated growl. All patience he had was gone. However, when a familiar blonde head through the vast dark colours caught his attention he perked up. The smile that stretched his lips was light, a twisting cruel one that did nothing to make him look harmless.
“Always throwing yourself into the middle of trouble… Eh, Fletcher?” It was the first time he had spoken to her since he had brutally tortured her all that time ago.