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» 13th March 2021 || Flight of the Bumblebee, Open!
Posted: Jul 11 2017, 04:47 PM
Early March was a time when Robin should have been obsessing over the start of the racing season, pouring over a dozen magazines and making bold predictions about who was going to win what. That was on top of preparing for her own racing season, helping out with her dad's cars (which mostly involved adding stickers and making the tea if she was honest) and pretending her schoolwork didn't exist. This year, however, she'd be doing precisely one of those things. With the barrier up she couldn't even have her parents send her the magazines (or anything else for that matter, she was starting to have serious irn bru withdrawal symptoms), let alone attempt to keep up with all her sports. Honestly, the one drawback about Hogwarts was the way it stopped her taking part in the one sport she figured she actually had real flair for.
Wizard sports were another matter entirely. At first she'd been annoyed by quidditch, the way a game seemed like it'd be decided before anyone stepped onto the pitch just by the quality of their equipment and that skill would play little part in it. The same could be said about a lot of motorsport of course, though Robin would argue for days on that particular subject. She was starting to come around to the game however, in part because it was the only way she could experience any kind of speed before the summer holidays rolled around. Flying lessons were getting on her nerves, she didn't feel she was allowed to actually push herself, explore the limits of the elderly equipment she'd been given to learn on, or even to find out how good she really was.
Which rather explained why she was out here this evening. The pitch was empty, the school brooms were easy to get access too now she'd mastered the alohamora charm, and she had a good few hours to kill before curfew. That should give her a chance to let her hair down and see just how badly the months of inactivity had dulled her reflexes, if she didn't just spend the whole time flying around as fast as the old broomstick would go.
Grinning, the young Slytherin stepped onto the deserted pitch and took a moment to look around the stadium. She didn't know how many rules she was breaking right now, nor did she care, she just wanted to know if she was anywhere near as good on a broom as she was in a kart. Maybe this stupid wizard sport would do as a term time distraction from the carer in racing cars she still dreamed of.
After a moment's pause, she mounted the elderly broom and kicked off from the ground the way she always did in lessons. A single lap of the stadium at a low level to get the feel of this particular broomstick, and she'd start going higher, faster (if that really applied to this old thing) and weaving in and out of the posts a bit. Maybe there was something to this flying lark after all. She just needed a much, much faster broom to actually make it as interesting as throwing her kart around at something approaching seventy MPH.
As engrossed as she was in flying around the pitch, ginger hair streaming behind her and a huge grin on her face as she finally got the chance to stretch the legs of the decrepit old broomstick, she didn't even realise she wasn't as alone out here as she thought.
This post has been edited by Robin Westfall-Moore: Jul 11 2017, 04:51 PM
Posted: Jul 16 2017, 10:11 PM
Saturdays were always full beyond for Tristan, and this one had been no exception. It felt much later than it was, despite how many hours there was before curfew. He'd already been down to Hogsmeade with Dominique, who had agreed as long as he promised they wouldn't linger past two. The village had been busier than he'd expected, having forgotten that the owner of Honeydukes was giving away sweets that day to students. Tristan had planned to purchase some anyway, and despite having never been left wanting for extra spending money, would certainly take free chocolate. After he had picked up what he'd gone for in the first place (new gloves and twig clippers for Quidditch), they'd gone back to the castle. Tristan happened to think he'd been pretty gracious not mentioning how jumpy Dominique was on the path, but he couldn't even call attention to this stellar example of friend behavior-- he had been too busy distracting her from her fear with stray elbow nudges and stealing her scarf.
Hours had passed since then and he'd already done his homework for the weekend, intending to spend Sunday on the pitch for as long as he could, but he couldn't manage to stay away until morning. Instead he had grabbed his broom and the gloves he needed to break in before this month's game, picked up his--Sawyer's--bat, and headed up to the pitch to fly. Branwen mewed her protest, but he picked up the small black fluffball with one hand and dropped her in Dominique's lap as he walked by, leaving them with a mischievous grin and little else.
When Tristan finally stepped out onto the pitch there was just one girl putting around on an old school broom; a small firstie, maybe second year at most. Unable to recognize her from afar, Tristan paid her almost no attention. He glanced long enough to note red hair, and the chances that meant Weasley of some kind were pretty good. You could not throw a rock at Hogwarts without hitting a Weasley, though Tristan imagined Dominique would probably frown at him for it, spoiling all of his chances to enjoy spontaneous rock throwing. Instead of bothering himself over who was sharing the pitch with him (yes, he had gotten there after but as soon as he arrived it became his), Tristan picked up his bat and set an old, battered quaffle on the ground, then kicked off and took to the sky.
He'd always liked American brooms. They were larger, powerful, and he was tall. They suited his stature well and flew in a way he had come to appreciate, and so Tristan had purchased the best Starsweeper he could find. After completing a quick few laps, he slowed enough to catch a glimpse of the girl struggling to make the battered old broom go just a bit faster. She wasn't a Weasley at all, but rather one of the ones who'd been sorted Slytherin at the start of this term, which meant she was appropriate for a little minion or hopeless fan, and likely little else. They did have some reserve spots on the team, now that they had to replace a few players, but the thought hadn't immediately come to mind. Fill the team with firsties? What were they, Gryffindor?
"Little ginger! Aye, you. Merlin, you're only a little dwt, you are." He shook his head at the quality of the broom, but grinned when he saw that she had been enjoying her flight. "What's your name, Westerly something? Tristan Nott." He lifted his chin, the pride he had in his name evident from the smirk that played at the corners of his lips. Tristan very much assumed she should know who he was, whether from Quidditch or their common room or his surname, he was not exactly a quiet presence at Hogwarts. Still, he offered his name for her benefit, so she could gracefully disguise her embarrassment if she hadn't a chance to learn who he was yet.
He tilted his head, his smirk broadening into a full, genuine smile. "D'you think you can fly well enough to keep a hand off that sad, abused old stick? I want practice, I've got an old quaffle, and you're not doing anything more important. Toss it at me a few times, will you, and I'll teach you some if you do well...including which of the school brooms are less tragic than the others." Less a request than a nicely-wrapped demand, Tristan took his wand from his jacket and summoned the old quaffle to them, tossing it to the girl. "I'll hit it back," he lifted his bat, "and you dodge. It's only a quaffle, but if you think I carn hurt you with a quaffle, you'd be wise reevaluate."
Posted: Jul 19 2017, 05:12 PM
The faster Robin tried to go on the old school broom she'd 'borrowed', the more convinced she was that flying into a headwind would send her backwards, probably faster than she was going right now. The kart she'd beenr acing when she was eight could probably outdrag it, and she'd have given pretty good odds it'd corner better too. She was having real problems working out why the school kept such worn out equipment hanging around when the place was filled to the brim with wizards, surely they could fix the things up, or replace them with something that wasn't quite so useless?
Slow as the thing was going, it took her a while to loop around the goalposts at one end of the pitch, and by the time she was facing the direction the older boy was in, he'd already taken to the air. She was fairly sure he was on the house quidditch team, but she'd also admit she'd never actually managed to pay attention for more than about half an hour of a game even when she had gone to to watch them, so it was hard to say. Still, he didn't seem to want to bother her, so she wasn't going to bother him. She half expected him to tell her to go away and leave him the pitch, so being ignored was far preferable.
His quick few circuits of the pitch easily lapped the antique broom she was still trying vainly to coax some kind of performance out of, and she couldn't help feeling irritated at that. Almost as much as she was when he started speaking to her. "A little what?" the Scot replied, manoeuvring her broom towards him so she didn't have to shout. Not that she could keep up if he didn't want her to, much to her chagrin. "Westfall-Moore." she added with a look of mild surprise that he'd actually noticed a muggleborn firstie existed, even if he didn't know her name. "Robin Westfall-Moore. You actually play this game, right?" She gestured vaguely at the goalposts and tried not to think about how much she'd heard of him was actually true, or why he might be spending what she was sure he considered valuable flying time chatting with her.
Oh. He wanted help training. That made sense, and she gave a shrug in response. "I can spit faster than this thing flies. If I couldn't stay on it one handed I'd probably die of shame." she bragged, figuring that having spent so long racing karts and developing her reflexes and skills that way meant she'd have no issue with the stick. balance wasn't really a problem either, she'd had her flying lessons the same as anyone else. "So I can do that, no problem." she added, although her catch of the quaffle was clumsy at best. She managed to hold onto the ball though, and took the old broom a short distance away from the boy before she tossed the thing at him (only slightly aiming for his head. He had made that last instruction sound like a threat after all.) Tiny as she was, she wasn't going to get a lot of force behind it, but she hoped her aim wasn't too terrible. And that she wasn't too focussed on tossing the thing to dodge the return.
Who knew, maybe if she impressed him enough, he'd put in a good word for her at next year's tryouts. No team would want a firstie on a school broom, surely.
This post has been edited by Robin Westfall-Moore: Jul 19 2017, 05:12 PM
Posted: Jul 22 2017, 10:29 PM
Tristan waved his hand dismissively, deciding not to bother explaining harmless Welsh to the girl on the old school broom. Of course, she hadn't much choice--firsties weren't allowed their own brooms--but he knew the ratty old things never made for a very pleasant experience. "That's a mouthful, innit? Robin, then." he decided with a grin. Tristan had never understood why some families chose to hyphenate their names. As wrapped up in legacy and tradition as pure-blooded families were, it seemed insulting not to be able to decide which family's name to bear, or to imply that a person wouldn't record their lineage in such a way that they would remember the other. Most importantly, it was just too much effort for surnames that mattered very little to not at all in pureblood society. Would that change, when he took control of his House? He wasn't sure where he would take the Nott family now, and it was far too much thinking to be doing on the Quidditch pitch anyhow.
"Aye, I play Beater. D'you know how it all goes?" he asked, hefting his bat up to rest against his shoulder as he hovered nearby. He was going to tell her either way, of course. "I hit the iron ball that chases players around the pitch to try and break them in half. It's a swing of the bat, and either I mean to break some bones or protect one of ours. Broke a leg and some ribs over in Ravenclaw, last game." Lifting his chin, Tristan's proud smirk made it very obvious that he felt brutalizing his fellow players was an accomplishment. The Herald had mentioned particular trouble containing Nott. If there were any Beaters who didn't think such viciousness was an accomplishment so...they were probably Hufflepuffs.
The laugh that chased her brag was not meant to be a cruel one. Tristan was perfectly capable of being cruel when he wanted to be, but he appreciated firsties who had more confidence than they probably should have. He had always been stuffed full of confidence, and it hadn't gotten him anywhere but ahead. "Good. There's one with a broken off handle that the Hufflepuff Seeker always tries to steal for games. Carn imagine why she uses a school broom for matches but it's a bit less tragic than the rest. Give that one a try, next." he suggested, following her catch of the quaffle. Robin hadn't asked for tips, but Tristan had never considered himself a person who needed to precede their opinions with a request for permission. If she was on the pitch, it was only natural that she would be interested in Quidditch, which he considered to be easily the best game in the world. There was nothing more exhilarating than flight, and the feeling of his bat connecting with the bludger to send it on its murderous hunt for others who raced through the air with him. It didn't hurt that he looked amazing in his Quidditch robes, as well.
"Bring the Quaffle to your chest when you catch it," he suggested, but had little time for anything else before she'd tossed it in his direction. Her aim seemed alright--certainly enough for him to connect with the bat despite the ball sailing a little high. He grinned, wondering if she'd done so on purpose before smashing his bat into the quaffle to send it hurtling back in her direction. Then, he paused to see if she'd get out of the way in time. He hadn't swung quite as viciously as he knew he was capable of, but then, she was only small, and he wanted to get a few swings out of this mini practice.
Posted: Jul 25 2017, 05:27 PM
Robin simply shrugged as he commented on her name. It never seemed that complicated to her, it wasn't as if she had titles or was the fourth of her name or anything like that, and it was only double barrelled. She'd been at primary school with a girl who was unfortunate enough to have a quadruple barrelled name, so maybe her perception was just warped and wizards didn't do that sort of thing. "Robin' fine, 's what everyone calls me anyway." she replied with another shrug, feeling like she was stating the obvious there. Probably not the best way to impress someone like him.
"I think so." she began in response to his question, but as he carried on speaking regardless, she gave a small frown. She listened to the explanation though, and her eyes widened a little at the mention of what the bludgers were actually made of. She'd figured they were probably rubber or leather, something that wasn't going to weigh a ton and inflict the kind of injuries he was so smug about. Playing this game might not be sugh a good idea after all, not because she was worried about getting hurt, but because someone might actually enjoy inflicting the injuries. She'd run into that kind of attitude on the racetrack once or twice, and her father had rather dismissively referred to the drivers in question as new money, bullingdon club wannabes, or when he was seriously angry, Americans. She kept her smirk to herself at that thought, though she didn't look impressed by the bragging. Saying nothing was the best option if she did actually want to give the game a try, there had to be some people on the team who weren't quite so obnoxious.
Steadying herself on the decrepit old broom, she nodded at the suggestion. Arrogant or not, he knew a lot more about the game than she did, and if she was careful to check that broom when no-one was looking it shouldn't matter too much if he was trying to trick her into making an idiot out of herself. He probably wasn't, but she was finding it never hurt to be careful around here. She didn't speak though, wanting to concentrate on what she was trying to do here, which seemed simple enough. Not getting hit, like she was back at home, playing stinger at scouts.
Except on a broomstick with someone hitting things at her, not running around the village hall while someone tossed a football.
As the quaffle came at her, faster than she'd expected it to, she tried to jerk the broomstick left and up, out of the way. She almost managed it too, the ball clipping the end of the bristles as she rose. She gave a squeak and her grip tightened on the handle, but she stayed on the broom and gave a triumphant grin to the older boy. "That wasn't so bad, maybe there is something to this game of yours." Her initial take on the boy was forgotten for now, she was just enjoying herself. "But, um, I don't know how to do a summoning charm or anything like that." she added, glancing round to see where the ball had gone, and starting to shift the old stick in it's general direction. With no idea that he was going easy on her, she was right back to trying to impress him even a little bit.
Posted: Yesterday at 08:51 pm
For someone like Tristan, whose family quite literally wrote the book on blood purity in magical families, surnames had been drilled into his head as gravely important from a young age. He couldn’t resist playful teasing over her comment, stated obviously. “Sure, except your professors, anyone on a sports team if you plan on playing Quidditch, and anyone who doesn’t know you well here at school…” Reaching up to comb his hair from out of his eyes with his fingers, Tristan lifted his chin and smiled. Yes, he was quite full of self-importance and no, it didn’t bother him remotely. “Of course, I carn be simply classified along with everyone, which means you’ll need a nickname eventually.” –or she would, if he felt she was worth talking to after this evening. He wouldn’t dismiss a firstie out of hand; Lorcan had been plenty useful and Tristan appreciated having little minions running about.
A mischievous smile lit up Tristan’s face as he saw her surprise over the bludgers. “Wicked little things, they are. We’re meant to protect the rest of our team as well, but I’ve always liked a good offense for that. The badgers won’t hurt any of mine if I’ve broken them all first this game coming.” It had been the danger in Quidditch that made it so thrilling to Tristan in the first place, despite his father’s displeasure. His heir shouldn’t be flying about hitting iron back and forth, was the criticism that had come out of the mouth of a dragon handler, of course. Tristan had never listened, and had taken to the skies to chase what he loved. The only difference after his father’s death was that he felt a rare shred of guilt over endangering the legacy of the House of Nott. If the worst should happen to him, at least there was still Gwilym and Eirien, but it wouldn’t. Tristan had always acted invincible; and he wouldn’t have if he wasn’t more than halfway convinced.
A short laugh followed Robin’s squeak as the quaffle hit the old broomstick’s twigs, and Tristan swooped down to meet the girl, grinning. Invariably he enjoyed practice—in the rain, with people he didn’t know, however it came—and she was being a good sport about it. Maybe he could put her onto Quidditch early enough to get her some good practice in. “It’s only the best game in the world, and we need alternates. Try taking a shot at the hoops. I’ll set you up with a pass, and you can take a shot down there, aye?” He waved his hand dismissively to show he would retrieve the quaffle. “I’ve got it. You carn summon them anyway—they’ve got charms to protect them from tampering now.”
Without hesitation, Tristan turned his broom toward the quaffle and raced after it, scooping it up and curling it under his left arm in a proper hold, switching his bat to tuck under his right arm for now. He settled his right hand on the broom handle and pulled it up to race back toward her. Slowing his broom as he came nearer, Tristan inclined his head toward the set of hoops on the far end of the pitch. He grinned again, and hefted the quaffle once before tucking it back under his arm again and glancing toward it to demonstrate to her how it was best held. “Ready?”
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