End

Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

Author's Note: The accident that ruined Marcus Flint's Quidditch career.

Time: Marcus is twenty-seven; so about six year after Deathly Hallows...

Genre: Drama and Angst

Date Finished: December 15, 2010

Rating: PG

He felt the Bugler ram into his back and heard the awful sound. It was a sound that a Quidditch player never wanted to hear: the sound of bone breaking into a million pieces. He dropped the Quaffle. The pain was racing up his spine. He couldn't take it. The pain was unbearable. He fought to keep his eyes open. He fought the urge to pass out.

It was too much.

He found himself giving in.

No, it wasn't supposed to be like.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Darkness surrounded him. He lost his grip. He was falling, falling toward the ground.

He could hear the roar of the crowd behind him. He could hear cries of horror, cries of glee.

Now, it was gone.

He woke up. Things weren't right. This is not what he remembered. It was white, too white. Quidditch pitches weren't this colour. He didn't remember any white pitches.

"Lie still," his wife, Katie, whispered in his ear.

He was in her arms.

He looked up at her. Got gently hit over the head.

"Don't move," his father whispered him his ear." "Your mum's gone to get a Healer."

He was numb. He couldn't feel anything. It was like he was floating. It was like he was in another world. This was real. This was fake, a nightmare.

He sheet felt strange against his bare chest. Why could he feel that and not anything else? He didn't understand. This didn't make any sense.

He could hear voices in the background. They were talking about him. He knew that a Healer was touching him, but he couldn't feel it.

Crack.

It filled the room.

He felt that.

He swore under his breath.

"He's good," his father said. "He's cursing, he's good."

He didn't find it one bit funny.

He could hear them talking again. He couldn't understand them. It was like they were speaking a different language. He was pretty sure that they were speaking English.

"Never play again," someone said. "He'll never be able to move like he did."

"Can he walk?" someone asked.

"He should be able to," someone replied.

"It's over?"

"I'm positive."
He felt his heart sink. He knew that this day would be come.

It was over.

This was the end.

But it didn't seem real.

It had been two months since the accident. It was also his first time on a broom since it happened.

He got on the broom and kicked off. He felt fine. What did the Healers know?

He flew for ten minutes. Nothing happened. He landed and got a Quaffle. Now it was time to test it.

He circled around to the goals. He raised his arm and prepared to score. As he drew back, a sharp pain shot through his body. He dropped the Quaffle.

Cursing, he landed.

It was true.

This is was end.

He sunk down to his knees.

It really was over.

Twenty-four years of training and just like that it was over.

Now, he had to get a "real job."