(no subject)
Week Name/Date/Time: 'Traitors in the Mist' / Friday, 10th March 2006 / 2:28 PM.
Location: Pitch
Open To: Thatcher
Currently Involving: Troy
Troy Frogley was feeling bleedin' good about this week. A lovely week, a week to be marked in calendars and such and to be remembered as "I AM HAPPY AND POSITIVE AND FINALLY KARMA HAS STOPPED BEING A BINT" week.
He had Quidditch finally, he had stopped this silly odd angst over Lolita (the confusion on how to win her over remained, however), and he was actually getting better at studying for his NEWTs. Yes. He had made illustrated notecards on every important point for Potions, mapped out eighteen parchments worth of configurations for Arithmancy (with one mistake involving accounting for muggle salmonella poisioning and time zones and airplanes. . .), and Herbology was bloody brilliance. Sure, his wand work was still utterly terrible, and he'd set fire to a rug in the common room when he meant to perform a simple Aguamenti. . .PSH! ATHLETES didn't need bloody wandwork!
Athletes such as "Troy Birmingham Frogley" (sounded so good announced, really, even without a Sonorus) made their OWN bloody magic, with a Nimbus and a Quaffle. Which he was just practicing throwing into the goal from increasing distances, only to zip on over and catch it as it fell toward the ground.
So far, he was sixteen for sixteen, and was attempting a throw from halfway across the pitch. Sure, it was quite a daunting distance, but he'd try it nonetheless. He extended his arm, gripped the Quaffle firmly, and heaved the red ball toward the hoop. Arm aching a bit after the throw, he peered over, watching it soar through the air. . .
And hit the bottom of the goal, bouncing off the edge. With a loud, angry muggle curse, Troy darted immediately over to catch the ball, at least satisfied with his speed. Sixteen of seventeen, now.
Location: Pitch
Open To: Thatcher
Currently Involving: Troy
Troy Frogley was feeling bleedin' good about this week. A lovely week, a week to be marked in calendars and such and to be remembered as "I AM HAPPY AND POSITIVE AND FINALLY KARMA HAS STOPPED BEING A BINT" week.
He had Quidditch finally, he had stopped this silly odd angst over Lolita (the confusion on how to win her over remained, however), and he was actually getting better at studying for his NEWTs. Yes. He had made illustrated notecards on every important point for Potions, mapped out eighteen parchments worth of configurations for Arithmancy (with one mistake involving accounting for muggle salmonella poisioning and time zones and airplanes. . .), and Herbology was bloody brilliance. Sure, his wand work was still utterly terrible, and he'd set fire to a rug in the common room when he meant to perform a simple Aguamenti. . .PSH! ATHLETES didn't need bloody wandwork!
Athletes such as "Troy Birmingham Frogley" (sounded so good announced, really, even without a Sonorus) made their OWN bloody magic, with a Nimbus and a Quaffle. Which he was just practicing throwing into the goal from increasing distances, only to zip on over and catch it as it fell toward the ground.
So far, he was sixteen for sixteen, and was attempting a throw from halfway across the pitch. Sure, it was quite a daunting distance, but he'd try it nonetheless. He extended his arm, gripped the Quaffle firmly, and heaved the red ball toward the hoop. Arm aching a bit after the throw, he peered over, watching it soar through the air. . .
And hit the bottom of the goal, bouncing off the edge. With a loud, angry muggle curse, Troy darted immediately over to catch the ball, at least satisfied with his speed. Sixteen of seventeen, now.