The sun was setting outside of her apartment, but she hardly had a thought to spare for it as she hastily scribbled a formulaic response to the eighth piece of fan-mail she had received that day. It was a pointless task, she noted half-heartedly as she signed her name, an ambiguous blur of letters, written in green ink. Her afternoon had been spent revising tactics for their upcoming match against Puddlemere United, and she really had little thought to spare for fans doting over a particularly memorable Bludger which had hit the Chudley Cannons’ Seeker squarely in the back, costing them the game the previous week.
Setting down her quill and rubbing her temples, she wondered vaguely when Quidditch had become more of a chore than anything. It had once been her everything, her fervour, her reason to breathe, but now, she considered numbly, it was simply a routine. Wake up, train mercilessly, play in their matches, finish somewhere toward the bottom of the league and answer a couple of pieces of fan-mail in between. She was tired of it, she thought wryly, and more than anything, she wanted a break.
She gazed out the window at the last rays of the dying sunlight, and remembered back to when she had been a child with the simple, mundane, seemingly unattainable dream of fame. She had wanted citizens of Britain and France and China alike to know her name, to cheer for her as she scored goals, invented the cure for lycanthropy, or sang on stage to a roaring crowd.
But at what price has fame come?
She felt like there was a gaping hole in her lifespan, years in which she had lived without really doing so. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had a moment to herself, time to listen to the wizarding wireless network, time to sit down to a glorious meal…
And she wondered, with a twinge of regret, how long it had been since she had had a bowl of ice cream.
Hurriedly picking up her quill, she scrawled a note which she copied onto five pieces of paper, called her owl down from where she sat perched in her cage, and tied it to her leg. As she watched her soar out of sight, she realised that she couldn’t remember the last time she had cancelled practice.
Shrugging, she considered the fact that she had a day to herself waiting for her in the palpable future. She smiled slightly, and hoped that Fortescue’s would be open.