He wasn't supposed to be out after dark in such a secluded area, but he didn't really care. It had been ages since he'd flown, and insanity had been fast approaching. There wasn't space to get a broom off the ground in any relatively large city, which he'd known when he'd moved to London for the summer, but suddenly there were also regulations about where one could go to fly. A park outside of Canterbury at one in the morning definitely didn't fit in with those. But he didn't care.
The young man stood silently in the middle of the field, listening for any out of place noises or movement. His wand was tucked loosely into his front pocket, within easy reach in case someone--or rather, something--was lurking in the shadows of the trees. He knew he'd be an easy target up in the air. Just a couple whispered words, and he'd be dead. And who would know? The first to find him would undoubtedly be a Muggle child-this was their park, after all.
He shook his head and exhaled softly. It wasn't worth worrying about; doing that had ruined half his childhood. After a moment, he picked up a grooved ball and kicked off from the ground. As he rose into the air, he noted the lack of a moon. Good, that meant he wouldn't have to watch where he flew. The Ministry of Magic got more calls because of wizards flying across the moon than was reasonable, even now when it didn't have anyone to spare.
He leaned forward and zipped around the perimeter of the park, then cut straight across the field to the basketball court. Zooming low over the hoop, he dropped the ball in and scooped it back up from the ground. Then, he drifted to a position several feet away from the hoop and threw the ball from there, again retrieving it once it dropped.
"This isn't quite the same without a bludger flying at my head," he murmured. He flung the ball at the backboard and caught it when it bounced back. "Definitely not the same." After a moment, he dropped the ball and flew almost wildly around the park, swooping under the monkey bars on the playground, looping around goalposts, and pulling out of suicide dives at the last possible second.
Finally, he touched back down to the ground, his breathing only slightly heavier. It was going to take awhile to return to Diagon Alley, and the sun would be up soon. Time to get back. He grimaced at the thought of Muggle transportation-the smell, the lighting, the dull stares of the people that used it-and glanced down at his broom. With a small smile, he tightened his grip on it, grabbed the ball, and flew up over the trees towards London.