She picks the rusty broomshed padlock easily.

George's, today. Fred's has some twigs broken, and she won't be held responsible—if she's caught.

On her way out the back garden gate she sees a gnome. It hisses at her; she glares back, and it scuttles away. She's in no mood to do anything but fly.

The clearing in the back woods is empty. Silent, except for a Peeveslike breeze that rattles the rickety barrels set up as goals.

The battered leather of the makeshift Quaffle is familiar in her hands. She aims for the barrels as if for his head.