The beautiful Saturday morning began with a warm-up and a shower. To my joy, I noticed that the constantly scalable load from the bracelet had stopped weighing down both my body and my consciousness—adaptation is everything! Returning to the room and looking at the guys who were heartily butting their pillows, I didn't wake them—a lawful day off.
But Cedric asked me to come to the Quidditch pitch, which meant I should hurry. Not that I wanted to communicate with the current Prefect so much, but his support and help are obviously useful, which means they should not be neglected.
Collecting dew from the grass near the castle walls with my boots, I walked briskly to the large and slightly clumsy stadium. Passing between the stands, I went out onto the field itself. It really is big; probably bigger than a football field. Instead of goals, towering stakes stuck out of the ground, three on each side. At the ends of the stakes were hoops of different sizes and at different heights, but quite close to each other.
Five guys from our House were standing on the grass of this stadium. In their hands, they held brooms, and another lay nearby on the ground, next to a large oblong suitcase.
"Hi, guys," I waved to them, approaching closer.
Cedric, as always, smiled and waved back. The others also smiled, but not out of joy, but out of politeness. At least sincerely.
"Hi, Hector," Cedric beckoned me. "Come on, dive right in. Stand on the left side of the broom."
"Without preambles?" I smiled in response, standing in the indicated place by a not particularly new, but clearly well-maintained broom that felt pleasant magically.
"No words, books, or instructions can replace real practice. If anything, we'll back you up."
"You bet," nodded an upperclassman unknown to me yet.
"Okay. What to do?"
"Extend your right hand over the broom, direct your thoughts to it and say: 'Up!'."
"Alright…" I extended my hand, directed my thought and image, immediately commanding: "Up!"
The broom instantly jumped into my hand.
"Excellent, Hector! Simply excellent!" Cedric praised me, slapping my shoulder. "Mount it."
"Um…"
"I know about your worries. It won't crush anything—everything is thought out."
"Ha-ha-ha," the others laughed kindly, and I straddled the broom, throwing my leg over it like over a bike.
"Excellent. Right hand on the shaft in front, left—however comfortable between the right hand's grip and the body."
I grabbed it where it was comfortable.
"Not bad," the Prefect nodded. "Now just lightly push off the ground, thinking about how you will hover above the ground."
"Mental control?"
"Yes," several people from the five answered simultaneously, but it was Cedric who continued the explanations. "Usually, training begins with drilling basic movements and saying that the broom is controlled by them. But that's not true."
"Understood," I nodded. "Control is mental, and movements facilitate the necessary thoughts in the head."
"Catches on immediately," a brown-haired guy approached me. "Malcolm Preece, sixth year. Not for nothing do they say in the House that you are damn talented."
"Don't praise ahead of time," I smirked and shook Preece's hand. "Hector Granger."
"Less chatter, more flying," Cedric slapped me on the shoulder once again. "Go on."
Without thinking long, I pushed off the ground with my feet and hung in the air. Practically instantly getting used to the sensations, I moved the broom back and forth mentally. It works—it flies.
A bouquet of images literally bloomed in my head: me sitting in the dark cockpit of a void fighter, connecting the neural interface, and the world around immediately blossoms, transforms, blooming with the lights of the battleship's launch shaft. Ahead is only a small black spot with tiny dots of distant stars. The fighter feels like my own body. A signal from the dispatcher, and together with the electromagnetic catapult I activate the thrusters, flying out of the shaft towards the cold void of space. Silent explosions bloom with bright dots—a battle is underway. Only the hum of blood and heartbeats are heard—the equipment works silently.
The memories let go, but I am already flying, pressing myself to the shaft. The wind hits my face. Banking, cobra, roll, dive—acceleration. Pulling out of the dive near the ground—excellent! The broom is controlled exactly like a void ship in space—it doesn't care about gravity! Thrusters, main engine, maneuvering engines, but all of similar power—only the suddenly revealed experience of a real ace who lived to old age and found peace in battle allowed me to maneuver incredibly precisely, deftly, and quickly. This same experience allowed me to feel the surrounding space, wind currents, and other guys on brooms as if I myself am a part of this space. Although, that is exactly how it is.
Having flown the basic set of exercises, I settled down and returned to the ground, braking the broom vertically and immediately jumping off it. It seems that pair of shards of people from the era of space expansion turned out to be not so useless. Yes, terrible consumers, no knowledge, but the specialized skills of a lifetime occupation—are divine!
"You, Morgana take me, are a natural!" the guys crowded around me with shock and smiles. "We didn't even have time to squeak, and you're already showing aerobatics?"
"You could have crashed," Cedric hid a smile as best he could and even shook his head.
"Looks like it," I smiled back. "Flying is my forte."
"Yeah, sure. And Transfiguration too, right?" the Prefect stopped hiding his smile. "Let's do this, you know what? Malcolm, take the Quaffle."
"Really?"
"Yes. And you, Herbert, get on the hoops."
"What are you up to?" I asked the guys with clear suspicion.
"Checking for Chaser!" Cedric slapped me on the shoulder, and by his look, I understood that I was caught.
Four hours—that's how much I eventually spent in the sky on a broom. They explained the rules of Quidditch to me, explained the essence of the role for suitability to which I am being tested. In the end, Malcolm and I performed the roles of Chasers, tossing the Quaffle, a special ball, and sending it into the hoops defended by Herbert Fleet, a fifth-year guy. Then two others joined, trying to knock Malcolm and me off the brooms with the help of Bludgers flying here and there—aggressive balls acting as projectiles.
Memory shards—like a movie. A movie about the long lives of different sentients. They are full of events, pleasant and sorrowful. It would seem, having such experience behind me, it is simply indecent to succumb to childish excitement, fun, as well as allowing oneself to be drawn into such an adventure as Quidditch. But it was this experience that allowed me to understand one thing—there is a time for everything. And right now is the time for fun. Dodging at the very last moment, maneuvering frantically, accelerating, intercepting the ball, and sending it to the target—it turned out so naturally, and judging by the guys' words, also incredibly cool, powerful, and fast, that the pleasure from what was happening rolled in by itself, and I saw no single reason to resist it.
Only right before lunch, tired and soaked through with sweat, we finally landed and marched to the castle.
"I think we found a Chaser," Cedric nodded joyfully.
"Need one more," Malcolm nodded importantly and wearily.
"Judging by how Hector flies," Herbert, the Keeper, spoke up, "the team generally only needs him and a Keeper. I'm not the best Keeper, but Mordred take me! He just got comfortable with the Quaffle and that's it—half an hour, and I can't catch a single ball! He'll rack up a difference of sixteen goals faster than the enemy Seeker catches the Snitch!"
"What do you say?" Cedric looked at me.
"Agree, guy!" the others encouraged me aloud.
"Why not?"
"Hooray!!!"
So joyful we reached the locker room, the shower, and then the Great Hall, where other students were already having lunch with might and main. It seems life is becoming somewhat more interesting. Except that the shards of the dwarf, whom I decided to call a gnome in my thoughts for convenience, grumble offendedly in the depths of consciousness, if one can express it that way at all. Oh well, I'm sure a holiday will come to their street soon too.