Let the broom win.
What a quintessentially ridiculous remark to make, Thomas thought. Not that he had a firm grasp of what the word quintessentially meant - but it was the thought that counted.
And it became very evident, very quickly that the thought had counted for nothing as when Thomas' broom began to drop, Rufus had passed him. Thomas huffed and pulled his broom upwards before attempting to veer to the right to avoid the corner.
As he did so, he noticed the back half of his broom shake a little. Which was not at all what he'd expected. He turned his head too look at the brush and within the space of two seconds Thomas had gone from soaring about forty feet above the grounds of the Puddlemere stadium to falling at an increasingly fast pace toward the mud on the pitch.
Fumbling for his wand, a look of sheer panic in his eyes, Thomas pulled it out and aimed it at the ground; "Molliare!"
And not wanting to see his demise, Thomas closed his eyes and came to a sudden halt about two centimetres from the floor before dropping onto the mud.
He stood up and watched as his broom spiralled down toward the ground. Not quite sure what to make of this, Thomas cast the summoning charm on the broom and watched as it began to career toward him.
The only problem was: - it didn't seem to stop.
Not until it slammed into his chest causing Thomas to drop to the floor in agony, ag least. His broom was now laying carelessly next to him as if it had given up with its broom filled lifestyle.
Let the broom win, Rufus had said.
Let the broom win.
What a quintessentially ridiculous remark to make, Thomas thought. Not that he had a firm grasp of what the word quintessentially meant - but it was the thought that counted.
And it became very evident, very quickly that the thought had counted for nothing as when Thomas' broom began to drop, Rufus had passed him. Thomas huffed and pulled his broom upwards before attempting to veer to the right to avoid the corner.
As he did so, he noticed the back half of his broom shake a little. Which was not at all what he'd expected. He turned his head too look at the brush and within the space of two seconds Thomas had gone from soaring about forty feet above the grounds of the Puddlemere stadium to falling at an increasingly fast pace toward the mud on the pitch.
Fumbling for his wand, a look of sheer panic in his eyes, Thomas pulled it out and aimed it at the ground; "Molliare!"
And not wanting to see his demise, Thomas closed his eyes and came to a sudden halt about two centimetres from the floor before dropping onto the mud.
He stood up and watched as his broom spiralled down toward the ground. Not quite sure what to make of this, Thomas cast the summoning charm on the broom and watched as it began to career toward him.
The only problem was: - it didn't seem to stop.
Not until it slammed into his chest causing Thomas to drop to the floor in agony, ag least. His broom was now laying carelessly next to him as if it had given up with its broom filled lifestyle.
Let the broom win, Rufus had said.
Let the broom win.