WHO: Thomas McCormack
WHAT: Early morning alone time practices!
WHERE: Appleby Park
WHEN: Before 6 AM this morning!



The sun had just begun to show its face, meaning that it was nearly a quarter to six. Appleby Park was empty, silent save for the crack that echoed through the stands every few minutes. It sounded like thunder rattling the seats, the sound of bludger meeting bat reverberating throughout the pitch.

Thomas’ toes wriggled in his sneakers, the cool breeze of the morning gliding over his shoulders and giving him chills. He watched as the bludger zoomed through the air, arcing around the goal posts and back toward him. He took his stance, his grip tightening on the bat, and crack! The bludger went soaring once again, this time tearing through a row of front row press box seats. Thomas heard the groan of the metal bending, and after a moment realized that the bludger was not coming back.

He let out a breath, his wrist twisting to spin the bat idly. It was something he did on the pitch, swinging the bat around as if he were revving up for the ultimate slam. To most it seemed like a nervous tick, because Thomas McCormack of all people would be prone to having one of those, but it kept him focused. His timing depended on his constant control of his bat, and since moving back to the beater position in the preseason, his had been perfect.

From the ground, anyway. Thomas started toward where the bludger was lodged in the seats, figuring that he could start his morning workout a bit early---even if he was already on the pitch three hours before any of his team were to arrive. Since his release from the hospital this was how he’d spent his mornings, and with the all-star game coming up, Thomas felt the need to pick up even more time. If he got voted on and he couldn’t play...that would devastate him. But things hadn’t changed with his magic, even though Saoirse had summoned a breakthrough. Maybe he should have stayed in the hospital, but being confined had never worked well for Thomas. He’d always needed to figure things out for himself.

Jogging towards the steps to the stands, Thomas grimaced at the broomshed door that was nearly off its hinges. This pitch really needed a renovation, but the owners hadn’t wanted to invest any money into what might not be a productive team. Their offseason moves were the Arrows’ final shot at returning to their former glory, and Thomas felt the pressure. As if he didn’t already have a number of things weighing on him; whether or not the Arrows organization flourished seemed to want to squash him.

He slowed, deciding that he should attempt to fix the broomshed door before doing anything else. If he couldn’t fly, the least he could do for his team was put some effort into their pitch. He had been trying to captain them from the ground, and while it was somewhat effective, it wasn’t the same as being up in the air with them. The view from the ground gave Thomas a different perspective, but...it pained him more, not being able to soar with his teammates. He bit back a sigh of frustration as he entered the broom closet and was met with a whole mess of equipment just lying about. Apparently the cleaning staff had ignored this corner of the pitch last night.

Or, his girls were just slobs.

Thomas was going to go with the latter.

He took a step to enter, but tripped himself up on a fallen broom. Thomas bent to pick it up and realized that it was the broom he’d been using during practices, to keep his own in top shape. It irked him greatly that his practice broom had been so haphazardly thrown, but who was he kidding? He wasn’t going to need it any time soon. Thomas gripped the broom, his fingers running down the lines of the wood, combing the bristles with his palm. It was a good broom. It was nothing like his Nimbus back home, but it was a good, solid broom. It did what it had to do. His mouth pressed into a firm line at the thought, and Thomas shut the broomshed door, making his way toward the stands.

He climbed the stairs, broom in hand, up, up, up. There were only two levels to Appleby Park, but it was still one of the larger quidditch pitches. Thomas hefted used his backstage pass to get into the press box, and without much thought, climbed precariously on the journalists’ table and popped his head outside. There was a great breeze, one that would’ve surely sent his flyers into different directions, but he paid it no mind as he tossed the broomstick on top of the actual press box, grabbed the edge of the roof and hefted himself up. He let out a grunt as he pulled himself on top of the press box, and Thomas stood, broom in one hand as he overlooked the pitch.

This was highly dramatic and a tad dangerous, he thought for just a moment before he mounted his broomstick and jumped.

By his calculations, he was seven stories up. Not too high for a quidditch player, but much too high for someone who couldn’t make a broom fly. Thomas’ eyes shut against the wind and with fear, but he pulled on the front of his broom like he would in a game to stop a dive that would send him crashing toward the ground. The usual feeling of being tugged upward did not appear, and in a few more milliseconds he would crash into the pitch, where his life would hopefully be saved by the cushioning spells on the grass.

Except he didn’t. Crash, that is. The wind stopped blowing, the feeling of gravity sucking his stomach up through his throat had settled, and now it was just Thomas, letting out a strangled scream at the feeling of plummeting to the earth...which he was no longer doing. He risked opening his eyes, in case he had actually died and was now hovering in some quidditch purgatory, some limbo, but to his surprise he was still very much on his broomstick.

Only it was hovering just a foot above the ground, at a nearly 160 degree angle. Thomas let out the breath he’d been holding and toppled off the broom, dropping into the grass with a thud of exhaustion and relief. He turned to the broom, watching as it fell from its levitating state to lie beside him. After a few deep breaths a grin formed on his face and Thomas let out a laugh of success; he’d just scared the magic out of himself.

He stood, putting out his hand to summon the broomstick, and sure enough it shot up off the ground and he wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Thomas felt dizzy, he felt happy, he felt crazed, he felt---sick. Woozy after jumping, after risking his life on a chance, but it had been worth it.

Vomiting on the pitch had so been worth it. He could fly again.