Explosions did have a therapeutic effect.  Pete couldn’t have put his finger on why, but it was not unlike the satisfaction found in breaking something to smithereens or punching a sniveling Ravenclaw git in the nose.  Often times Pete felt like he had so much energy bottled up inside that he needed to vent it out in whatever way he could find.  Teachers seemed to resent this, and his mother never understood it.  At least, Pete didn’t think she understood.  Coach Collier understood it, Pete felt rather sure.  What sort of man could spend that much time encouraging blokes to move and hit things without understanding?  

“You know, You could catch the pitch on fire like that. Pretty sure that would make us forfeit to Hufflepuff."

“Pitch is too wet to catch fire,” he said.  “But if you’re worried about the Slytherin lockers, I doubt a few sparks are going to do more than singe it up a bit.”  Of course, Nat was already at work lobbing his own whatnot down there and Pete pulled a small handful of pebbles out of his pocket, scattering them beside him.  He took another one and tapped it with his wand, speaking the incantation, though he didn’t throw it.  

Instead he leaned forward over the railing, breathing deeply of the cold air, visualizing the upcoming match, the shouting students, the balls rocketing around, fliers racing back and forth.  They had to win.  The sheer force of Pete’s will alone ought to be enough to make it happen, he thought, but somehow that never seemed to be enough when it came to the team at practice.  

“Do you think I’m too hard on them?” Pete asked Nat.  “Our team, I mean.”  For all the bitching and complaining he heard, sometimes he wondered if they even wanted to play.  Or was it Pete who was over the top?  He looked at the little pebble in his palm, frowning a bit before he threw it hard.  The sparks from his pebble exploded all over the ground.  “I want the Quidditch Cup,” he added, as though this were some secret he were revealing.