Rion couldn't help but think she'd made a mistake. The idea of flying, in her experience, was always so much better than the reality, and even the thrill of win couldn't make her feel better about the prospect of getting back on her broom. It was different at try-outs. Nobody was relying on her. Nobody would get angry with her if she missed a goal. But when that whistle blew... everybody would be out for blood. Even the idea of practising alone filled her with a sick sense of dread. What if she got up there and discovered her aim had gotten - if it were possible - worse?
At least she was only an alternate. With any luck, Michael would keep her benched for most of the game. And by the time she got up in the air, if she ever did, the beaters' arms would be tired. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the pitch gate. Just fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of practice. She could manage that.
No. No, no no. Michael should have given the spot to somebody else. How could she have been so stupid and selfish? She couldn't fly. She couldn't even mount her broom. Her hands were sweating; she'd fall, and slip, and start to plummet...
A hollow thump several yards away brought her swiftly to her senses. It was raining...quaffles? She stepped out of the shadow of the stands and looked up. Rion wasn't the only one who'd thought to get some solo practice in today. Not the only one with slippery hands, either, she thought, as she stooped to catch the bouncing quaffle. Well, she had to return it. She could do this. If not fifteen minutes, then fifteen seconds. It was somewhere to start.
She kicked off, climbing steeply, steadily, until she came level with the Gryffindor. The climbing part was all right. It was hovering that made her feel like she was going to be sick. "Um," she said. Was her broom juddering? Was it supposed to do that? "You might have to come and get it. I can't throw." Or rather, she couldn't throw and grip her broom for dear life.