I feel obligated to explain what exactly this is before we go any further. It has a rather interesting background story - yesterday, I looked down at my leg and noticed a huge and rather exceptional bruise just below my knee, round with an unblemished center (I likened it to being hit with an iron doughnut). I posted a picture of it on Facebook and a former professor of mine commented that it looked like I was hit by a bludger and that I had been obliviated since I couldn't remember where it came from. Tim, this story's for you. I followed through on my threat of making a story out of it! XD I want to try and clear up any confusion that might come up beforehand so that you can fully appreciate this brief moment of hilarity. For one thing, there are various moments when Irene (the main character) thinks to herself - these are highlighted in italics, so hopefully you'll be able to catch them easily. Additionally, there's a bit more swearing here than usual. I basically made Irene into me (Irene's my middle name - subtle, I know), and I am well aware that, if I were thrust into this situation, I would be acting EXACTLY like this. Except I probably would fall off my broom. Multiple times. But I'd keep trying! Anywho, yes, this is basically a 'fan falls into the fictional world' story, so if that doesn't float your boat, I suggest searching out a different body of water for your vessel. As always, let me know what you think, and keep on the lookout for some interesting new projects coming in the future!

The Forgotten Bludger

Irene blinked furiously multiple times in an attempt to clear her vision, refusing to believe the vision her eyes set before her. The sight of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, house flags dancing faintly in the soft breeze against an ideally brilliant blue sky, was straight out of the movies. Reminds me a bit of Azkaban, she thought, fighting to keep hold of some semblance of sanity. Or maybe Prince. It all depends on who's captain. She halted the slightly maniacal giggle that threatened to escape her lips at the absurdity of her situation. This was Hogwarts; this was freaking Harry Potter. This world did not really exist…and yet the ground under her feet felt shockingly firm for something fictional. Same with the hand that suddenly clamped onto her shoulder.

Her face darted around and she literally gasped. Harry Potter. Savior of the wizarding (and therefore, by default, the Muggle) race. Casually touching her shoulder, like this was not the single most significant moment of her life. CALM, IRENE, REMAIN CALM. And then he did that damn, stupid, infuriatingly adorable half grin that all boys seemed to master by age three and she felt her already slim grasp of intelligence crumble into a mushy puddle of fangirling.

"All right there, Jo?" he inquired, leading her forward to the locker rooms. Several thoughts began to dart through her already dumbfounded mind, lead by an incredulous cry of Jo? REALLY? Honestly, life?! What the hell kind of magic is this?! Somehow she managed to weakly grin back, fighting to clear her throat and respond as though she genuinely possessed a functioning brain.

"I'm fine," she eventually squeaked, startled at her accent. British. That was interesting. Her imagination was pulling out all the stops today. It abruptly occurred to her that this was exactly the answer she sought – her imagination. She was daydreaming. Or real dreaming; sometimes it was hard to tell between the two. She had had Harry Potter themed dreams gobs of times, though admittedly this felt a hell of a lot more real and uncomfortably awkward than any of those. At least in most she got to keep her name…shaking her head, she managed a true smile and tested out her new voice once more. "Really, Harry, I'm okay. Just nervous, I suppose."

The concerned expression on his face melted back into excitement at her reassurance, meek as it was. "Excellent. Can't have our newest Chaser caving under the pressure before her first match!"

There – right there, on the pathway leading to the pitch – that's where the last of her brain functions effectively shut down. She barely sputtered out, "Newest what?!" before a redheaded blur yanked her away, guiding her surprisingly willing body into the girls' half of the locker room. She blinked dazedly down at the pretty (seriously, when had that happened? What the crap, puberty?) yet focused Ginny Weasley, who instantly began stuffing her limbs into a uniform. Katie Bell held out a pair of gloves to her, which Ginny stuffed into Irene's hands before they practically carried her to the open area where the team would converge.

Ginny and Katie, she fought to take in, that means I'm replacing…Demelza something, was that her name? The one who was good against bludgers. Oh damn…bludgers…I don't stand a chance. She sat anxiously between the two young women, waiting for Harry to begin the pep talk he would inevitably provide and hoping it would be sufficient time to remind herself exactly how they went about riding brooms in the movies.

She barely paid attention while Harry spoke, instead attempting to find any loophole that would get her out of this situation, and both of her fellow Chasers eyed her concernedly as they picked up their brooms and approached the field. A sea of green met them and Irene couldn't stop the defeated groan from escaping her. Slytherin. Of course. Fan-freaking-tastic. They gathered about Madam Hooch, who appeared far more terrifying in real life (if one could call this hallucination such) than she ever did in the films. Her eyes practically seared into your soul.

"I want a good, clean match, understood?" she barked unsurprisingly, glaring at the two rival teams individually. Most of the Slytherins sneered while the Gryffindors grimly looked on. I am so, so dead. "Mount your brooms! On my whistle!"

Irene swung her leg over the broom's handle, feeling her hands begin to sweat inside her gloves. Please, God, just…let me get up in the air? Please? I am so screwed. When the whistle trilled, she somehow managed to instinctually push off the ground hard enough to become airborne, much to her surprise. The initial rush of wind and deep swooping sensation through her stomach thrilled her momentarily, until she realized exactly what caused the feelings. In the air. Flying. On a stick. Oh nonononono…I loathe heights.

She imagined she looked rather like an oversized flamingo falling spectacularly from a large tree, or perhaps an inelegant and overly stout turtle trapped awkwardly on its back in a high lipped bowl. She had almost no control over the broom's direction, nearly running down one of her team's Beaters as she fought for stability. Harry pulled up easily to her side, a slightly maddened expression on his face.

"What are you doing?!" he called over the roar of the crowd.

"I HAVE NO BLOODY IDEA!" Irene shrieked back, feeling the whoosh of a bludger narrowly missing her face.

"Joanne Murray!" Harry barked at her in an entirely un-Harry like tone. She only had a moment to chuckle internally at the name connection (I see what you did there, overactive imagination) before he continued. "Pull yourself together! This team needs you! You're a damn good Chaser most of the time, even if you've gone completely mental right now. Just follow your instincts!" With that, he darted away, returning to his search for the snitch.

She shook herself once, taking a long, shaky breath. Instincts. Right. Surely I possess some of those. Gripping the broom's handle tighter, she swerved slightly, feeling the appendage below her follow her commands with only a small amount of reluctance. She urged it forward, picking up speed once her confidence began to grow, and pulled it to an experimental halt. It willingly obliged at this point, to her surprise, and she was finally able to properly notice the game. Gryffindor was down two goals and Katie and Ginny were in desperate need of an adequate third. Guess I'll just have to do, she thought resignedly before diving into the fray.

It was madness. Shapes darting around her, balls passing faster than she could perceive them, and the action constantly changing direction. She fought down an inopportune wave of motion sickness as Ginny noticed her open. Nodding her halfhearted acceptance, the girl threw the quaffle and Irene (HOLY HELL) caught it. She had little chance to bask in her momentary success, however, as nearly all of the Slytherin team converged on her. Oh shit.

Instincts, instincts, INSTINCTS! She felt herself edge the tip of her broom down slightly to dart diagonally away, narrowly avoiding a Slytherin/Gryffindor sandwich. She guided herself away from the fray, mostly hoping she wouldn't get caught rather than attempting to make a goal. The three hoops loomed above her, the green clad Slytherin keeper nastily watching her, and she made a split second decision. Throwing the ball with all of her strength, she screwed shut her eyes to await the groans of disappointment from the crowd. Instead, she was met with a round of cheers as the commentator belted out, "Murray scores! Ten points to Gryffindor!"

"Shut your ass," she muttered with a grin, steering herself around so that she could see Harry. He floated not far above her, giving her a swift thumbs up before flying back to the center of the field. She followed his lead, watching the quaffle's motions intently as it was passed from player to player. The tense, competitive nature of the game took her over, and soon she was playing as though it were the most natural action in the world.

She managed to make two more goals before the inevitable occurred. She was just about to pass off the ball to Katie when a bludger crashed into her leg, directly below her knee. The pain that stole over her made her drop the sphere, thankfully directly into Ginny's waiting hands. Groaning lowly, she clutched her leg, her broom lowering to the ground with the motion. She faintly heard the sound of a whistle being blown before the grass around her flooded with bodies. One of them lifted her up and began carefully sprinting her up toward the castle, but she soon grew too unconscious to really give a damn.

Note to self: bludgers. SUCK. Irene huffed out a breath and winced, raising herself to sit upright in the hospital wing bed. She half expected to end up here eventually, but it still a load of crap to be proven correct. At least she appeared to be in one piece.

Harry sat beside her, grinning broadly. She smiled sheepishly back as she asked, "What happened? Did we win?"

He chuckled and nodded. "I caught the snitch just before you were injured. That bludger nearly busted your leg in two, though. You've still got quite a bruise, but Madam Pomfrey fixed you up properly." He rose to his feet and patted her on the shoulder once more. "I'll let you rest. I spend enough time in here on my own that I'd rather not stay when I'm not being forced to." As he made for the door, she called out for him to stop.

"Hey, Harry?"

He turned, emerald eyes far brighter than she ever pictured while reading the books. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Don't worry about it," he replied with a smile and a wave. "Get better soon, all right?"
"I'll see what I can do."

The faint strains of Hedwig's Theme abruptly jolted Irene awake, a subtle shot of pain racing down her leg as she bolted upright. She sat in her own bed, her cat peacefully dozing at her side. She slammed the alarm off in irritation and threw aside the covers, frustrated with herself.

You knew it was a dream; why are you so disappointed? A strange mark reflected in the mirror caught her eyes as she headed for the shower, making her freeze and pale slightly at what she noticed. A large, bludger sized bruise, already turning a mottled bluish green, rested just below her knee, directly where it hit her during the supposedly dreamt match. She touched it with a single finger and felt the sudden pain of confirmation that she was not seeing things, though she would really rather accept that she had gone insane.

"Well what do you know."