Fair Game | theodore nott

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Fuck!" Cecile cursed for what felt like the hundredth time.

This must've been the third time she's fallen off her broom thanks to that damned Bludger.

Merlin, she hated that thing.

She grumbled more curses to herself as she staggered to her feet once more and snatched up her broom, watching as the Bludger zoomed around in the sky. It taunted her, really it did. It wanted her to get even more upset than she already was.

It was bad enough that she couldn't shut her eyes for even a moment. No, instead, Cecile was forced to stay awake until the early hours of dawn, counting the wood on the floor of her bed. At that point she had given up on the idea of sleep and took her broom out to the Quidditch Pitch.

Usually her lonesome sessions were somewhere in the evenings before dinner, but today was a special occasion. Since listening to her Walkman would only leave her more restless, she figured distracting herself physically would do the trick.

And it did for the most part. Her frustrations were now focused on the Bludger that kept smacking her off the broom and causing her to land awkwardly on the ground, either creating a new bruise for herself or provoking an already healing one.

Cecile got back on the broom though, taking the Quaffle in her hands and flashing towards one of the hoops. The Bludger had sensed her fast movements and spiraled towards her. She dodged around it and threw the Quaffle through the nearest hoop.

Her shoulder exploded with pain and her body tipped over, causing the broom to go with it. Cecile grunted but kept her grip on the broom until she was upright again, sending seething glares towards the flying brown ball.

The thing felt like a bowling ball, but one the heavier side. It was a wonder why no one liked the sport, Cecile understood that for the most part. The Bludger was the bane of hers and many Chasers' existence.

But she kept going, diving for the Quaffle and flying towards the other side of the pitch.

This was good.

It's what she kept telling herself whenever she stepped foot on the pitch alone. Or whenever she'd fallen off her broom with another injury. It was good. It helped. The thoughts were as distracting when she was in pain. The memories weren't as painful compared to the injuries she'd get. They were all a figment of her imagination for a while and she enjoyed that. For a moment everything that happened was gone from her mind and she was forced into the present.

No one would approve of this. Not Ginny, not Hermione, not her sister, maybe her mother would have a few words to say if she really cared. But they coped with their trauma, with their nightmares. Why couldn't Cecile?

Hermione constantly reads the Daily Prophet, facing her scars head on. Sometimes she'd still stare blankly at her forearm where the dirty words meant to stain her identity never healed. Ginny carries on as if nothing has happened, all too used to the trauma she's experienced since her first year. Blaise keeps most of it to himself but she could tell that he hardly sleeps but would rather not talk about it. Everyone else had coped in their own way.

Cecile wanted to cope. She was coping. She figured beating the pain out of her would help. It distracted her.

But did it heal her?

She'd like to think she was getting there.

"Honestly, just what I need! First, I am stuck in an awful divorced from your miserable father, my eldest has become a disappointment and off marrying some bland American wizard, and now I my youngest is an incompetent and unstable creature!" Esme Dempsey screeched while her assistant attempted to calm her down, "This better not end up in the papers, I swear to Merlin, Cecile!"