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- Wand
- Straight 14 Inch Sturdy Elm Wand with Demiguise Hair Core
[adminapproval=11684194]"...Should be a fun game" Jean finished with a half shrug, glad that the team's publicist had begun shooing people out of the locker room so they could finish getting ready. Reaching to his back, Jean pulled off his warm-up shirt and reached for his game shirt and robes. With a knock on the locker room door, an odd habit he'd picked up since he'd gone pro, Jean made his way onto the pitch, ready to start in his second game. This brought his total to four games played. Finally, Jean felt like he was hitting his stride as a professional quidditch player. The difficult times felt like they were finally behind him.
With a determined look on his face, Jean kicked off the ground as hard as he could, racing for the quaffle as the referee released it. The sound of the crowd and the announcer dulled down as he narrowly missed the quaffle to one of his teammates. Jean tailed her, trying to find an opening so he could take a pass. None came, but she scored and put them up 10 to nothing. Jean high-fived the woman, one of his favorites on the team before soaring off as their opponents took possession. Everything moved faster in professional quidditch.
**** later in the game****
The French National team was 40 up now, and Jean held out his arms, the quaffle slamming into his hands with a small thud, the movement vibrating through his body. He was used to it by now, months of dealing with this new level of intensity. Jean shifted the quaffle to a safer position as he flew towards the hoops, his broom bringing him to speeds he'd never known as a Gryffindor player. Sweat plastered his blonde hair to his forehead, but the cool breeze had him barely noticing. The nineteen year old was laser focused, his attention on the hoops and as he let the quaffle fly towards the scoring zone, he knew that he'd scored. Just as he was turning to celebrate with whomever was close by, Jean heard one of his teammates yell his name. With a smile on his face, Jean turned, his hand up to give a high five. He hadn't realized the tone in his voice, the warning in it.
As the bludger slammed into the back of his head, Jean immediately tilted to the side, falling off his broom and hurtling towards the ground. The Mediwizards on site caught him, their wands floating the unconscious man onto a stretcher, a hush coming over the crowd as everyone looked on. Jean was rushed off the pitch to the nearest hospital. The crowd buzzed, worried, but the ref quickly gestured for another player to enter so play could resume. It wasn't until later, after the French National team had won by a margin of 220 to 40, that anyone would learn the news.
(translated to English from the French version of The Daily Prophet)
With a determined look on his face, Jean kicked off the ground as hard as he could, racing for the quaffle as the referee released it. The sound of the crowd and the announcer dulled down as he narrowly missed the quaffle to one of his teammates. Jean tailed her, trying to find an opening so he could take a pass. None came, but she scored and put them up 10 to nothing. Jean high-fived the woman, one of his favorites on the team before soaring off as their opponents took possession. Everything moved faster in professional quidditch.
**** later in the game****
The French National team was 40 up now, and Jean held out his arms, the quaffle slamming into his hands with a small thud, the movement vibrating through his body. He was used to it by now, months of dealing with this new level of intensity. Jean shifted the quaffle to a safer position as he flew towards the hoops, his broom bringing him to speeds he'd never known as a Gryffindor player. Sweat plastered his blonde hair to his forehead, but the cool breeze had him barely noticing. The nineteen year old was laser focused, his attention on the hoops and as he let the quaffle fly towards the scoring zone, he knew that he'd scored. Just as he was turning to celebrate with whomever was close by, Jean heard one of his teammates yell his name. With a smile on his face, Jean turned, his hand up to give a high five. He hadn't realized the tone in his voice, the warning in it.
As the bludger slammed into the back of his head, Jean immediately tilted to the side, falling off his broom and hurtling towards the ground. The Mediwizards on site caught him, their wands floating the unconscious man onto a stretcher, a hush coming over the crowd as everyone looked on. Jean was rushed off the pitch to the nearest hospital. The crowd buzzed, worried, but the ref quickly gestured for another player to enter so play could resume. It wasn't until later, after the French National team had won by a margin of 220 to 40, that anyone would learn the news.
(translated to English from the French version of The Daily Prophet)