(1938-11-07) Fun and Quidditch
Details for Fun and Wuidditch
Summary: Alphard and Myrus play Quidditch with a motley group of students. It ends prematurely, but nobody seems to mind. Except the muggleborn Gryffindor who has to go to the infirmary.
Date: 1938-11-07
Location: Quidditch Field

Alphard loved Quidditch. One didn't have to read his mind to get it; it was there in his grinning face; his gleaming eyes; his animated bodylanguage. Most particularly he loved being the nastiest beater on any game he got into, romping through the field with his bat in one hand, the other securing his grip of his top notch broom. The sort of broom that drew envious looks from students who weren't rich. His robes flapped behnd him like a mad banner as he wooshed down to intercede on the behalf of another student, getting between unprotected intended victim of a bludger, and then viciously batting the iron ball in the opposite direction.

It was all supposed to be just a game for fun. But Alphard still wasn't above trying to put his fellow students into the infirmary. This particular ball was going straight for the back of a younger boy who should've been paying more attention.

Another who owned a well-manufactured (but not to the high quality that Alphard's broom, a close second on this entire field) was Myrus. The sleek grey, smooth sided broom was definately of above average quality. And it showed enough that that battered bludger that barrelled in a beeline for his braincase, he not-so deftly pressed the front of his broom downward, taking him in a path right for the dirt below.

"Make another attempt at that, I'm sure the infermary misses me!" To the one he didn't see just sling that bludger in his general direction. Now pulling up, he was in prime position to pull up and catch the quaffel between two other players on the opposing team doing a handoff routine straight towards his own teams goal rings. He speeds straight upward trying to time it just right.

"Dammit," Alphard growled under his breath as he failed to down the Ravenclaw. With a snarl he assessed the situation. Immediately he saw the danger, but couldn't which way to deal with it. He could go for the bludger again, but then he'd have to fight for it with the other team's Beater. No. Instead he bent low over his broom, set his eyes on Myrus, and then flew at an intersecting angle at top speed. He'd run body interference instead, make good use of the fact that he was a big kid for his age.

"Don't you worry!" He shouted out. "It's my sacred bloody duty to keep the infirmary well supplied with students!" It was hard to tell if he'd get there in time, though. Or if Myrus would be there first, and ruin that perfect goal scoring oppertunity!

Mental aquity had to oust this one! It might be enough, it might not, but he wasn't afraid to try! He stands up in the stirrups on the sides of his broom, reaching upward to where the quaffle would next be passed, but someone was a little too close and his fingertips would barely touch the ball. Just enough for the expected catch to not catch it, and off it goes to… Oh great. The youngest one on their own team.

Nevermind that, a crash expectant! Myrus hangs onto his broom for dear life after the impact, likely flipping about in the air and hanging from it for a moment or twelve. Precarious in the middle of the field.

Alphard aimed with his shoulder. Sure it was going to hurt him, too, but he figured it'd hurt him less than it would hurt Myrus, which was really the only thing that mattered. That was how he kept score in the game. Win or lose didn't matter nearly as much as whether he inflicted more pain on the other team than it inflicted on his. Usually he had that victory down everytime he played. "Ooomph!" Was the sound of his breath being knocked out as the two collided. He clung to his broom, momentarily dazed as he unsteadily flew on past.

"SCORE!" Since said young'in had caught the quaffle and gotten it through the hoop. Alphard stilled came to a still, wincing as he rubbed his shoulder. Dammit, that'd hurt. A glance flew back over his shoulder to see how his victim was faring.

Myrus wasn't one to show his pain outwardly if he couldn't help it. "Fancy a second go, Black!?" He swings and catches his broom with his uninjured leg, hooking his foot back into the stirrup and with a simple tug of the broom downward, he half barrel rolls and rights himself with the downward inertia of the broom itself. Work smarter not harder kind of lad.

"Next time roust on a halfer, I pray they are easier sport for you!" He shouts over to him, in such a tone that would denote he might inwardly like to see a mudblood get hit once or twice.


But he moves to go and get the quaffle for their own offensive pattern, but it does take him a few moments to get that second leg into the other stirrup. Probably a little badge of pride in Al's mind, anyhow.

"A second, a third, and as many more times as you want to, Lowe!" Came Alphard's cheekily amused response. His hand dropped from where he'd been rubbing at his shoulder. It was going to bruise, but that would hardly be the first time. "Hah. You know I'd love to, but you're the one who keeps getting in my way!"

While Myrus wne to get the quaffle, he unhurriedly returned to his teams' side of the pitch. His bat slowly spun in his hand, almost like it was in the possession of an evil sentience. It was an old bit of wood, cracked and scratched over the years.

"Next time, don't be a bloody idiot," he sneered to the mudblood Gryffindor who had gotten his ball briefly intercepted by Myrus. "Or it'll be you I accidentally bump into."

Yeah, that gryffindor was probably scared out of his wits by his own teammate. Myrus wasn't any better though, but his picking was less direct and more 'point at that guy as a secondhand threat'. He looks at the hufflepuff third year quaffel handler. "Yeah, he said don't get in his way again." But since the Huff didn't hear the whole conversation, her eyes just went wide with fear.

Okay, deep down he felt bad playing a wording joke on someone like that, but you have to admit it's kinda funny.

"Ok, let's go!" Shouts the sixth year Griffindor that was kinda the captain of their hodgepodge team. Now the quaffel was out, and Myrus speeds towards the other side of the field as fast as he can whilst they passed it in the back to gain some time, spread and get ready for the obvious long pass that would come. Or was it so obvious to be a fake out? Myrus as the bait?

Alphard's eyes narrowed as he watched Myrus' team lurch into motion. His own wasn't much better, truth be told. And they'd stuck their worst player as Keeper, which was just about how it always went. That fat little fourth year who'd been picked last, and even then it had been a debate regarding whether they really needed to have even teams.

"You intercept Lowe, I'll go for.." exactly who he was going for was obvious when he set his broom towards their 'Captain'. His fellow beater smacked the bludger in Alphard's direction, a pass rather than an attack. Alphard's own bat went back, his whole body twisted around like a coiled spring. When he unleashed, he struck the bludger perfectly, THUNK, sending the hurling ball of iron with malicious glee towards his target.


The smack to the face could probably be heard in the dormitories above for those near a window, though not necessarily looking out of it. The captain came to a dead stop as he was cracked in the chest with the bludger. He was a quite athletic boy. Bulky in the chest and shoulders. "Ohhhh.." he groans, and continues trying to fly forward with some success. But it just wasn't enough, and he waved his arms as in to say 'the game is called due to death'. Or something like that.

As Myrus looked back when he heard the crash of bludger on bodybuilder, he wasn't looking where he was going as he was slowing to a stop. That fat kid. Ohhh the fat kid. Screaming something like 'turn away' or some such. Their collision wasn't as bad as Myrus' and Alphards. Myrus hung from under his broom for a moment, pulling the same stunt to right himself and since they were near the ground, the bragging kid got a palm to the face. "Rest your tongue-" pushing him clean off his second- (or fourth-)hand thriftshop broom. Bragging he knocked a fifth year off his broom, when that didn't even actually happen.

Myrus waves at the other team, "It's time to call it quits." And he wasn't planning on coming back to play, but he does hover over to Alphard, either sitting near him as purebloods do sometimes and/or glide next to him towards the sidefield. "Now -that- is tough bludgeoning." He points out.

"That was uncalled for!" A scrawny Hufflepuff girl told Alphard with a glare. "You did that on purpose! We're just playing for fun!" The complaint fell on deaf ears, however, with the Slytherin boy merely smiling smugly in her direction as if they were having a pleasent conversation. "Perhaps I just figured you were good enough that you could shield him. Instead of, you know, leaving him completely unprotected." His shrug said he didn't think it was his fault at all.

"I thought you were gonna knock him through one of the oops and call the game won. I might even have accepted that." With a chuckle he watched as the Gryffindor was fussed over. To the infirmary!

"Accio Bottle!" It flew in from the stands, orange juice in a glass milk bbottle. Alphard caught it, popped open the cork, then took a swallow. Even if it wsa cool november, he was still hot.

Myrus just keeps quiet as he hovers over to the sidelawn of the pitch, hopping off his broom and hobbling just a smidge before he stands upright, and runs a hand through his hair as the other players all gather at the same location to rest. He looks around at everyone kinda piling in one area. "Because grass only grows in patches small enough to smell the next wizard's sweat." He shakes his head and moves to a less occupied area, over by the balls. He calls the balls back, wrestling the balls back into their respective spots in the case, and shutting it. Since the poor third year who was trying was failing horribly with a bludger almost lifting him up and slapping him on the ground.

Alphard saw no need to go join the group of students mostly making sure that the Gryffindor was alright. That and chatting about the game and who would've won if there hadn't been that injury. He dropped to the ground with the effortless grace of a born athlete, his bat under one hand while he nonchalantly continued to drink from his bottle. So instead he wandered over in Myrus' direction.

"So were you a distraction or were they actually gonna pass the quaffle to you next?" It was a moot point now, but Alphard was still curious.

Myrus stands from wrestling that last bludger in before now finally closing the case. Yes, it took him that long. Bum leg, ma!

"Hm?" He looks over to who was asking him. "Oh. He wasn't actually telling us much. Just the start of the play and that was it. He was being a twit if you ask me. I hope he's in the deulling club. Once I get in I might have a crack at the magical muggle, too."

He picked up the case and his broom. Still doing well to hide the bruising and limping effects of the- oh forget that. "Hey, someone bring this inside to the storage room, you will. You there, freckles." Kid looks up at him that's a redhead like no other, pointing at himself in the chest, "Yes, you! You're the only one with freckles as big as the womping willow. Carry this inside. Get some help if it stands to reason you can't go it alone." Like it was obvious to get help if you are the only one told to do it but can't.

He looks at Alphard. "Did you plan to make way to the great hall for evening meal?"

"Huh. Joining the Duelling club, pal? Think you've got it in you to stand up on the stage and dish it out against something other than just dummies?" Like they occasionally used in DADA. There was a hint of scepticism about the older boy as he quizzed Myrus. "Anyway, no. He's not in it, thank Merlin's shaggy ass. Though there's plenty of other mudbloods there to make up for it. Some of the half-bloods are almost as bad." There was a sense that he was talking about one in particular. His mouth was a thin line just at the thought.

"Yeah. I guess." So after thumping his broom up onto his shoulder (the good shoulder) he started on the treck up to the castle itself.

Myrus nodded as he watched the last few moments of the Gryffindor male being helped down the hall towards the infirmary before the small gaggle of concerned younglings and a nurse or two dissappeared around a corner. "Bring it," he said, and would turn in the hallway, carrying his own broom at his side in the middle to just hold it by his hip on the non injured side so he could at least try to walk normal the whole way there.

"Alright. I didn't check the menu. So don't be bitter if it's something you hate, because I don't know."

With more than a bit of arrogance, the tallish Black boy murmured: "You step a foot inside the club, and I will. Though you shouldn't feel too bad when I put you down. It's how you handle the mudbloods that matter." He hadn't bothered to look in the downed Gryffindor's direction since shortly after he'd struck him down. It was all a bit beneath him; so said his airs of aristocratic detatchment. "Still, it is the best of the regular clubs. If you want to know how to handle your wand under pressure, there's nothing like it."

Myrus nods, "I'm sure. One of the reasons I want to get in there. Hunting dragons and the sort might require a deft wit." Everyone knew probably by now that he was very big on Creature Lore. Maybe one of the prodigies. So, charms and curses might be necessary for such a line of employment. Wouldn't hurt anyway!

And the smells of the dinner hour were upon them getting to the Great Hall doors that came open with a simple push. Yes, it was dinner time!

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