It was So. Fucking. [i]Weird[/i]. to be playing quidditch with Marcus Fucking Flint. Every instinct Katie had told her to block his passes, to get in his face and return fire for years of brutal play at Hogwarts. How many times had he broken her nose? How many times had he fouled on her? It only seemed fair to give him a taste of his own potion.

Except she couldn’t. This was too important. If she didn’t make the team, her career was as good as over. What would she have left? Katie lived and breathed quidditch, and if this was taken from her, the dream she’d chased since she first rode a broom at four…It wasn’t an option.

Instead of getting up in Flint’s grill, she focused on her role. She had to take point, had to keep Miller and Perth busy and out of the way. Which was proving a little difficult. The three of them had been playing together recently, and Katie had to rethink her tactics when Miller dodged her elbow. She turned sharply, grazing his face with the tail of her broom, shooting forward.

Flint—they caught eyes—the quaffle was coming to her, she had to arc up to snag it, pull it flush, slip it to her other arm, Perth was there and a bludger, drop elevation sharply, the world falling away from her, that rush of exhilaration as she plummeted down ten metres, sprinting away, loop past a bludger—Pucey was traveling, Davies close on him before a bludger nearly unseated him from his broom.

The pass connected, Miller sweeping in from the right, but Pucey shoulder checked him, anticipating, snapping out of Perth’s range, he and Flint snapping the quaffle between them through the pitch. They were [i]good[/i] together. Katie was already weaving out of Davies’ path, spiraling upwards to push towards the goal, the world a blur. Tabtiang’s bludger caught her in the ribs, but Katie knew pain, knew how to block it out, and she redirected the momentum to avoid Weller. She heard the crack of a bat, Llewellyn’s blow missing the bludger entirely but catching Weller’s chest and sending him towards the ground. 

Katie didn’t bother to watch. Falling off a broom wasn’t something that stopped the Falcons. He’d be caught and return to play before long. She was too busy following Miller. His reach was longer, but she was lighter, faster, and though his elbow found home in her ribs, she’d tackled the quaffle away from him, the pair of them tumbling. A wayward kick and she was free to chase the goal.

Meza was a problem, but Flint, fucking [i]Flint[/i] was there, and his arm was stronger. It pained her to admit it, and Pucey was on her right, running interference. The wind was too loud to hear any shouts and Katie turned on a dime, slinging the quaffle towards Flint. [i]Catch it, you son of a bitch[/i].