Game Time
I mount my broom, my feet shaking in my Quidditch boots.
The crowd is cheering and whooping.
The pressure pushes down on me.
The rest of my team follows behind.
The opponents approach.
The hatred in their eyes burns like a dying phoenix.
I clasp his hand,
Cold, unforgiving.
The shrill whistle echoes through my ears — and I kick off.
I spiral upwards into the endless sky.
My team below fumbling with the Quaffle,
Insistent on scoring.
The Bludgers fly like murderous falcons,
Waiting to kill their prey.
And then I see it.
A flash of gold darts across the audience.
All my might and energy is focused on the catch.
I speed forwards; the opposing seeker sees it too.
He cuts my path and leans his arm forward.
Wham! I swerve and knock his arm into his broom.
He wails in pain.
I don't care.
The golden treasure is in my reach.
Now is the time.
Now is my time.
I can feel it.