It was a fucking joke. No, correction, saying 'it' suggested that quidditch in general was. Both the teams currently disgracing the pitch were fucking jokes. Lounging luxuriously in the Slytherin stands, Caoimhe would not have even bothered with the match if the deciding factor had been about seeing a decent match. It would be pure miracle if the match finished within three days time, knowing the skills of both the seekers. If the bloody snitch hit one of them in the face (or fell into a mud puddle so it could be wrestled out in McArthur's case), then maybe, but otherwise this would be a long weekend indeed. A long period of shouting out obscene things about everyone and their families and of waiting for the final moment when Slytherin would be awarded the cup. There was no damned chance of their not winning, not after all the fucking effort Caoimhe put into making sure that trophy would have their names on it.

Granted, if you asked her, it really only ought to be her name on the thing, but there were charms for erasing that could be resorted to before she left the castle for good.

That this was her last match at Hogwarts, ever, was something Caoimhe was determinedly not thinking of. No, her mind was on insulting everyone in sight or hearing distance and praying the match would end soon so she could finally have her reward. Whenever any thoughts regarding how she'd never see the pitch again from her current eyes rose its disgusting emotional and sentimental head, the red head chanted anything she could think of regarding mudbloods and their less than savoury descent to distract herself. Nothing better than a little mudblood baiting to take her mind of other matters.

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Caoimhe Moran, resident doorknob- everyone gets a turn.