A need for pain -- a need to cause pain -- allies and enemies
All the same, he prefers the simplest of weapons. Blunt ones work best. Fists, a length of wood. He's not overly fond of knives, swords -- they draw blood much too easily. A coward's weapon. Black and blue are his colors. A split lip that swells, a bruise that turns the colors of pain's sunset -- those are the badges he prefers.
Connor didn't know how much pain could delight until he got into a fight with a Gryffindor boy twice his size. The memory is clear --
"Warrington, you prick!"
He turns, that confident smirk upon his face.
"You rang, Lurch?"
The boy cracked his knuckles, his face was as red as his hair. He was joined by three others, one his mirror image and the other some companion Connor did not recognize.
"Someone told me that you gave Angelina some refreshment after yesterday's practice, Warrington."
"So I did. She was thirsty, so I brought her some pumpkin juice."
"Is that why she's been vomiting all night, you son of a bitch? What the hell did you put in that juice?"
Connor smiles and that's enough for the red-haired boy to advance.
"Perhaps she ought to have thought twice before trusting a Slytherin," he replies.
There's no warning, the older boy comes rampaging like a blind bull and grabs Connor around the middle to throw him to the ground. He was expecting the blow, but it forces the wind out of him for a split-second. A shout goes up nearby and suddenly there is a ring of voices around them. Forcing his arms up and out, he manages to break free long enough to land a blow across the Gryffindor's face. There's a crunch and a roar of approval from the Slytherin side. But Connor ought to have realized the red-haired boy had a thing for the bitch, because he felt his wrist seized tight. The first thing he thought of was manacles. Bound. The boy twisted his arm around behind his back and forced him down into the wet grass. He tasted mud as he tried to get up, but the press still came down. A cheer rose among Gryffindors.
"You're going to go and apologize to her, damn it."
"Is she still in the Hospital Wing?" his muffled words came through.
"Yes!"
"She'll be fine after tomorrow's game --" Connor wheezed, grimacing against the straining pain in his arm. "-- if I got the dosage right."
He felt himself being flipped over as easily as a pancake. The red-haired Beater sat on his stomach and with one hand, pulled Connor's arms over his head. The boy's reddening face was a mask of fury. Then, Connor realized something. The boy's weight on his body, his arms wrenched high over his head -- damn, it hurt, but there was something else there. Something different. Whether the boy recognized it, Connor couldn't tell, because the next thing he knew the boy had his hand around Connor's throat. Just a little squeeze, enough to remind him.
"You poison any of my teammates again, Warrington, rip out your heart and use it for a Quaffle."
There was something in that straining breath that made Connor realize a terrible truth. He was -- stiffening. Not his shoulders, not his arms that were wrenched behind his head. Lower. Maybe it was the look in his eyes that gave it away, but the red-haired boy jumped up as if he had been zapped.
"C'mon Weasley, finish him off!" yelled a Gryffindor.
"Why don't you pick on someone your own size, Weasel?" cursed a Slytherin.
But Fred only stood in confusion, a hand raising to his tender nose, probably broken. And walked away.
That was when Connor learned the value of pain. He's been seeking it ever since.