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Francis Elliot was nervous. Extremely, uncomfortably, ungodly nervous. It was the day before the quidditch draft, so he had reason to be. It was his one big break, his one chance at making seeker for a professional team. He had worked so hard for so many years, and now he was getting the opportunity to show off his skills and hope they were enough to get him signed. His parents had told him that he would do well, he had the talent, he was sure to get drafted, and even if he didn't there was always next year. But Francis didn't want next year, he wanted this to work out now.
The young man was at a quidditch pitch in Australia. Intent upon some final practice, he had went to the place about midday, only to find that everyone else had the same idea as him. The place was filled with other quidditch hopefuls, and while usually that would have bothered the 19-year-old, today he only saw it as a way to improve his skills further. He would have to maneuver through the players, duck, weave, and speed through them in hunt of the golden winged ball he was supposed to find. It was just better practice for him. He looked at the snitch he had in his hand, then at his broom (a Nimbus 2000 which he cared for like it was a beloved child), and readied himself to let it go.