The Beautiful Game (Open)

When Aoife felt sad, or angry, or annoyed, or just bored, the solution was always to just grab her broomstick and beater's bat and head down to the Quidditch Pitch to play a lonely game of AoifeQuidditch. It was her own version of the game, which just involved whacking a bludger around the pitch for a while, occasionally getting hold of a quaffle to shoot some goals, and every now and then yelling at random students who got in her way while she was playing. Today she wasn't sad or angry or annoyed at anything in particular but she felt an overwhelming urge to throw a chair, just because. Violent hormonal mood swings, she supposed. Sucked. Over the years, she'd come to learn some people found spontaneous chair-throwing behaviour quite rude and so instead, she'd thrown on her quidditch robes to go and play for a while.

There was one bludger different from all the others in the little quidditch shed. It was her favourite one. It was slightly undersized, and very battered and bruised. His name was Bertie. And she always picked Bertie. Like usual, she picked him up. So that was all she needed, along with her broom - her fancy new broom, an old Firebolt model, which was much flashier than her old Cleansweep - and she was ready! For AoifeQuidditch.

Immediately she skipped out onto the pitch and mounted her broom. An older student seemed to just be hovering in the air aimlessly over there. Oh well. If the bludger hit them it was their own fault. Still, she threw it upwards and took a huge smack at it, aiming in the opposite direction. And she flew off after it. This was what she usually did - chased the bludger around a bit, having fun hitting it as hard as she could while picturing Seren's face on it. And in the least poetic way possible, enjoying the fresh air and wind and shit. Aoife's poetic thoughts were interrupted when in the corner of her eye she saw Bertie zooming towards someone on the ground. "Move out of the fecking way!" she shouted, slightly concerned but mainly just annoyed.