JUNE SELWYN
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Date: April 12, 2026 | Solo |Dialogue: X
────────────────────────────────
It was the first sunny day in who knows when. Years, it felt like. Sunny day, but not warm. The wind still came in sharp, cutting bursts off the mountains, slicing through the castle grounds with little regard for optimism. And with a good jacket, you could almost block out the stinging air. Almost.
A few groups of students were dotted around the ground, but most had decided that the spring weather was not yet spring-y enough for the great outdoors. Most had stayed inside. Sensible.
June stood alone, on the crest of a small hill near the Tarns, jacket buttoned, scarf pulled tight around her neck, the grass still brittle beneath her boots, broom in hand. She shifted her grip, tossing it lightly from one hand to the other, more out of habit than anything else, inspecting the wooden shaft that had seen better days. June took care of her broom, of course, but after four years of use (and abuse on occasion), one can only do so much.
Her fingers found the chipped tip first, where a small piece of wood had cracked off entirely during the attack on her race in second year. They never did find out what happened. A shiver went up June's spine as she recalled the event, the panic, the pain afterward. The friend who jumped to the track to check on her. Questions asked, then dropped. Concern offered, then redirected. The kind of incident that lingered only for the people it had happened to. June exhaled slowly through her nose.
They never did find out what happened. Or rather, they never found out because no one else wanted to but her.
Her grip tightened briefly before she moved on, tracing the longer crack along the side, a gift from a bludger in a Quidditch match she'd refereed. She was never quite sure why she did those for fun. They hurt much more than it was worth. And made your racing broom splinter a bit when hit because it's a light and fast broom, not a durable one.
The bristles were in tip-top shape, though. The easiest bit to care for, but still.
June adjusted her gloves, rolling her shoulders once against the cold. She had made a decision, weeks ago. The first day the snow pulled back and the sky held its rain, she would go flying. Today was the day.
In a single motion, June swung her leg over her broom and pushed herself into the sky, not even bothering to warm up.
Up.
The cold hit harder a few meters above ground. The wind caught her hair, tugged at her scarf, pressed against her chest as she leaned forward.
Up.
The castle dropped away beneath her, stone and structure giving way to open space. The Tarns shrank to dark patches below, the students to moving dots. The world simplified.
Up.
June didn’t level out right away. She pushed higher, faster than necessary, chasing altitude with a kind of quiet insistence. As if distance alone might solve something.
It didn’t, but the air was clearer here. That counted for something.
She finally leveled off, breath steadying as the climb gave way to stillness. The wind no longer fought her, it streamed past.
June adjusted her grip and tilted the broom forward, a wild glint in her eye.
The world stretched into motion, the castle sliding across her periphery, the Tarns flashing silver-black beneath her as she skimmed their edges before pulling up again in an arc.
Her body remembered what to do long before she thought about it. Weight here. Pressure there. Anticipate the turn, don’t react to it. Let the broom move with you, not under you.
There was no broom racing team here. No early morning practices, no circuits marked out across the sky, no quiet, competitive tension between riders pushing for fractions of a second. No one to beat. No one to fall behind.
June banked into another turn, sharper this time, feeling the pull of it through her arms.
She missed it.
Not the crashes. Not the sore limbs the day after.
But the structure of it. The illusion of simplicity, but a world of strategy hidden just below the surface. She did, admittedly, also miss the authority she had. She did, after all, lead her team to their first-ever victory (and second, at that). She hated the losing streak beforehand that had been pinned on her shoulders, but she took pride in coaching her teammates to improve, to see them grow and overcome challenges
She dipped lower, letting the ground rush up just enough to feel it before pulling back into a climb. The strain in her arms, the resistance of the wind, the precise angle of her turn, everything demanded attention. No room for anything else.
That, perhaps, was why she didn’t miss it.
Racing had been simple in a way the rest of her life seemed to refuse to be. But it had also been loud, demanding, constant. There had always been something to prove, even if no one had said it out loud.
Here, there was no one watching, no expectation, no outcome to measure herself against.
It was wonderful.
It was infuriating.
June pushed into another turn, then another, testing the broom’s response. It held, of course, but the vibration through the shaft carried that familiar imperfection, that slight instability she knew too well.
She corrected without thinking. Always correcting.
The thought lingered.
Not just the broom.
June straightened, easing off the speed slightly, letting the air settle around her again. She hovered there for a moment, suspended between ground and sky.
Her OWLs were next month, and with them she'd need to start making decisions about her future. Well, the decisions weren't the issue, but the reasons behind them were. Or rather, the lack thereof.
Which classes should I pursue NEWTs in after this?
All of them.
But are you even interested in Magizoology?
No, but it doesn't matter.
Why take it?
I have to.
Why?
...
June had never gotten farther than that in this train of thought. For so long she had been so sure of who she was, but... Was that really who she was? She had a name that no longer meant what it did to others. She had a broom racing career in a school far away and nothing here. She had a schedule full of classes and no direction for what to use them for. She had a dangerous interest that she was realizing may have been for someone else. She had a father who loved her, but still needed to make decisions for himself.
June drew in a breath, sharp with cold, and let it out slowly.
People really weren't exaggerating about feeling like the world was ending when you're a teenager.
She leaned forward again, harder this time. Faster.
The wind roared, drowning everything else. No voices. No expectations. No questions waiting for answers she didn’t have.
Just motion.
Just forward.
Forward.
A few groups of students were dotted around the ground, but most had decided that the spring weather was not yet spring-y enough for the great outdoors. Most had stayed inside. Sensible.
June stood alone, on the crest of a small hill near the Tarns, jacket buttoned, scarf pulled tight around her neck, the grass still brittle beneath her boots, broom in hand. She shifted her grip, tossing it lightly from one hand to the other, more out of habit than anything else, inspecting the wooden shaft that had seen better days. June took care of her broom, of course, but after four years of use (and abuse on occasion), one can only do so much.
Her fingers found the chipped tip first, where a small piece of wood had cracked off entirely during the attack on her race in second year. They never did find out what happened. A shiver went up June's spine as she recalled the event, the panic, the pain afterward. The friend who jumped to the track to check on her. Questions asked, then dropped. Concern offered, then redirected. The kind of incident that lingered only for the people it had happened to. June exhaled slowly through her nose.
They never did find out what happened. Or rather, they never found out because no one else wanted to but her.
Her grip tightened briefly before she moved on, tracing the longer crack along the side, a gift from a bludger in a Quidditch match she'd refereed. She was never quite sure why she did those for fun. They hurt much more than it was worth. And made your racing broom splinter a bit when hit because it's a light and fast broom, not a durable one.
The bristles were in tip-top shape, though. The easiest bit to care for, but still.
June adjusted her gloves, rolling her shoulders once against the cold. She had made a decision, weeks ago. The first day the snow pulled back and the sky held its rain, she would go flying. Today was the day.
In a single motion, June swung her leg over her broom and pushed herself into the sky, not even bothering to warm up.
Up.
The cold hit harder a few meters above ground. The wind caught her hair, tugged at her scarf, pressed against her chest as she leaned forward.
Up.
The castle dropped away beneath her, stone and structure giving way to open space. The Tarns shrank to dark patches below, the students to moving dots. The world simplified.
Up.
June didn’t level out right away. She pushed higher, faster than necessary, chasing altitude with a kind of quiet insistence. As if distance alone might solve something.
It didn’t, but the air was clearer here. That counted for something.
She finally leveled off, breath steadying as the climb gave way to stillness. The wind no longer fought her, it streamed past.
June adjusted her grip and tilted the broom forward, a wild glint in her eye.
The world stretched into motion, the castle sliding across her periphery, the Tarns flashing silver-black beneath her as she skimmed their edges before pulling up again in an arc.
Her body remembered what to do long before she thought about it. Weight here. Pressure there. Anticipate the turn, don’t react to it. Let the broom move with you, not under you.
There was no broom racing team here. No early morning practices, no circuits marked out across the sky, no quiet, competitive tension between riders pushing for fractions of a second. No one to beat. No one to fall behind.
June banked into another turn, sharper this time, feeling the pull of it through her arms.
She missed it.
Not the crashes. Not the sore limbs the day after.
But the structure of it. The illusion of simplicity, but a world of strategy hidden just below the surface. She did, admittedly, also miss the authority she had. She did, after all, lead her team to their first-ever victory (and second, at that). She hated the losing streak beforehand that had been pinned on her shoulders, but she took pride in coaching her teammates to improve, to see them grow and overcome challenges
She dipped lower, letting the ground rush up just enough to feel it before pulling back into a climb. The strain in her arms, the resistance of the wind, the precise angle of her turn, everything demanded attention. No room for anything else.
That, perhaps, was why she didn’t miss it.
Racing had been simple in a way the rest of her life seemed to refuse to be. But it had also been loud, demanding, constant. There had always been something to prove, even if no one had said it out loud.
Here, there was no one watching, no expectation, no outcome to measure herself against.
It was wonderful.
It was infuriating.
June pushed into another turn, then another, testing the broom’s response. It held, of course, but the vibration through the shaft carried that familiar imperfection, that slight instability she knew too well.
She corrected without thinking. Always correcting.
The thought lingered.
Not just the broom.
June straightened, easing off the speed slightly, letting the air settle around her again. She hovered there for a moment, suspended between ground and sky.
Her OWLs were next month, and with them she'd need to start making decisions about her future. Well, the decisions weren't the issue, but the reasons behind them were. Or rather, the lack thereof.
Which classes should I pursue NEWTs in after this?
All of them.
But are you even interested in Magizoology?
No, but it doesn't matter.
Why take it?
I have to.
Why?
...
June had never gotten farther than that in this train of thought. For so long she had been so sure of who she was, but... Was that really who she was? She had a name that no longer meant what it did to others. She had a broom racing career in a school far away and nothing here. She had a schedule full of classes and no direction for what to use them for. She had a dangerous interest that she was realizing may have been for someone else. She had a father who loved her, but still needed to make decisions for himself.
June drew in a breath, sharp with cold, and let it out slowly.
People really weren't exaggerating about feeling like the world was ending when you're a teenager.
She leaned forward again, harder this time. Faster.
The wind roared, drowning everything else. No voices. No expectations. No questions waiting for answers she didn’t have.
Just motion.
Just forward.
Forward.