"Mortals call it magic. The ancients called it understanding."— Eryndor Kael, a philosopher-mage who vanished into the Aetherium during his seventh meditation on light.
October 1, 1969
The Scottish autumn arrived with a relentless, driving rain that drummed against the castle walls day and night. The grounds turned into a muddy slush, and the Great Hall was perpetually lit by floating candles to combat the gloom of the storm-grey ceiling. But down in the dungeons, with the lake acting as a thermal insulator and a roaring fire in the grate, it was pleasantly cozy.
Vega had settled into the rhythm of Hogwarts faster than he expected. It wasn't the hostile battleground he had braced himself for, nor was it the whimsical wonderland of the storybooks. It was simply... school. Just a school where the stairs moved on Fridays and the history teacher was a vampire who remembered the Black Plague fondly.
He sat in one of the high-backed leather armchairs near the fire, scratching out the final inches of a Transfiguration essay on the structural integrity of avian-to-goblet transformations. Across from him, Barty Crouch Jr. was on the verge of a nervous breakdown over Charms.
"Twelve inches!" Barty groaned, dropping his head onto the table. His textbooks vibrated in sympathy—or maybe in silent judgment. "Flitwick wants twelve inches on the Locomotor Spell. How am I supposed to write that much about movement? You cast it, it moves—done!"
Vega leaned back in her chair, flicking his wand absentmindedly. A quill lifted itself from Barty's desk and began walking in slow, exaggerated goose-steps across his parchment.
"Maybe start with how that happens," he suggested, smirking.
Barty cracked one eye open. "You're mocking my suffering."
"I'm enriching your understanding through practical demonstration."
"I'm enriching my headache," he muttered, grabbing the quill and stuffing it back in the inkpot. "Flitwick doesn't need a treatise—he needs a hobby."
Vega tilted his head. "You could argue the spell represents wizardkind's ongoing fascination with manipulating inertia."
"Or," Barty said, straightening up dramatically, "I could argue that twelve inches of quill-flailing is cruel and unusual punishment."
Vega grinned. "That's the spirit. Lead with that moral outrage. Professors love passion."
Barty sighed. "If I survive this essay, I'm inventing a spell that writes papers for you."
He snorted. "You mean plagiarism by magic?"
He shrugged. "Innovation."
"It's not that hard" Cyrus Greengrass remarked from the sofa. He was lazily shuffling a deck of Exploding Snap cards, looking for an excuse not to start his own Potions homework.
"You're one to talk," Barty muttered, scribbling furiously. "Your essay on Antidotes is just a list of things you're allergic to."
"It's practical application," Cyrus defended, flicking a card onto the pile. It smoked harmlessly. "Besides, I sit next to Vega. If I get poisoned, I assume he'll fix me before I turn purple."
"Bold assumption," Vega murmured, though he smiled.
The dynamic had formed naturally. Barty was the anxious intellectual, Cyrus was the cynical idler, and Vega found himself as the stabilizing center. It wasn't a calculated court; they just got along.
A rustle of silk announced the arrival of the rest of their circle. Rhea Greengrass dropped onto the sofa next to her cousin, shoving his legs out of the way, while Ellaria Shafiq took the empty chair beside Vega.
"You're hogging the fire," Rhea told Cyrus, ignoring his indignation. She placed a small velvet box on the table. "Sugared violets. Mother sent a care package."
"Your mother is the only reason I tolerate you," Cyrus said, snatching one before Rhea could slap his hand away.
"Want one?" Rhea offered the box to Vega.
"Thanks." Vega popped the violet into his mouth. The sugar crunched, giving way to a floral sweetness. "So, what's the news? You look like you're sitting on a secret."
"Better," Ellaria said softly. Her dark eyes were bright with suppressed excitement. "The notice board. Madam Hooch posted the schedule."
Vega paused, his quill hovering over the parchment. He felt a distinct thrill run up his spine.
"Flying?"
"Thursday afternoon," Rhea confirmed, grinning. "Slytherin and Gryffindor. First session."
"Finally," Vega breathed. He set his quill down. The academic grind was satisfying in its own way—he enjoyed the challenge of Slughorn's brewing and the mental gymnastics of Transfiguration—but he missed the sky.
"I hate brooms," Barty moaned, looking at his hands. "They're unstable. I'm going to fall off, break my neck, and my father will be disappointed that I died in such a mundane way."
"You won't die, Barty," Vega said, closing his book. "It's just balance. If you can walk on a straight line, you can fly."
"It's a straight line three hundred feet in the air," Barty pointed out miserably.
"Details," Cyrus waved a hand. "Just don't look down."
The anticipation made the next two days drag. Classes passed in a blur.
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Merrythought had them practicing the Smokescreen Spell. The classroom filled with grey fog, and Vega earned twenty points by managing to vary the density of his smoke, creating shapes that drifted like ghosts through the haze. Even Frank Longbottom managed a decent cloud, though he lost his wand in it for ten minutes.
In Herbology, they repotted Mandrakes. Vega found the screaming roots irritating, but he discovered that a firm grip and a lack of hesitation stopped them from biting. It was all about confidence.
But by the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, Vega was vibrating with energy. The weather had cleared up slightly, leaving a crisp, blustery day with high white clouds scudding across a pale blue sky.
The Slytherins and Gryffindors gathered on the flat expanse of grass down by the Forbidden Forest. The Gryffindors were already there, chatting loudly. Frank was bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking eager, while Alice Fortescue looked a little green.
Lined up on the grass were twenty broomsticks.
"They look like kindling," Cyrus whispered, eyeing the nearest broom with deep suspicion.
He wasn't wrong. They were ancient Cleansweeps and battered Comets, the twigs sticking out at odd angles and the handles scarred from decades of abuse.
"Stand by a broom!"
Madam Hooch marched onto the pitch. She had short, spiky grey hair and yellow eyes that missed absolutely nothing. She moved with the jerky, restless energy of a bird of prey.
"Right hand over the broom handle," she barked. "And say 'Up'!"
"UP!" the class shouted.
Vega looked at his broom—a Comet 160 that had seen better centuries. He didn't shout. He focused his intent, extending his magic to the wood, a simple invitation.
"Up."
Thwack.
The broom snapped into his palm instantly. It vibrated against his skin, eager and ready.
Around him, brooms were rolling over on the ground or flopping lazily into hands. Barty's broom shot up, hit him in the nose, and dropped back to the grass.
"Ow," Barty muttered, rubbing his face. "It hates me."
"Mount your brooms," Hooch ordered once everyone had wrestled their equipment into submission. "Grip tight. Check your balance. On my whistle... three... two..."
Tweeeeet!
Vega kicked off.
He didn't hesitate. He launched himself hard, leaning into the ascent. The wind rushed past his ears, cold and sharp, and the ground fell away instantly.
Most of the class was hovering tentatively at ten feet, wobbling like newborn fawns. Vega shot past them, climbing to thirty, forty, fifty feet.
The broom was old and drifted slightly to the left, but he compensated with his knees, feeling the air resistance against his robes. It was glorious. The freedom of it, the sheer scale of the view—the castle spread out like a toy model, the lake shimmering like hammered steel.
He banked hard, feeling the G-force pull at his stomach. It was a delightful, swooping sensation. He laughed, the sound snatched away by the wind.
"Mr. Black!" Hooch's voice drifted up from below, tiny and annoyed. "Come down! That is not a hovering altitude!"
Vega ignored her for a split second, taking one last look at the horizon. He felt light. He felt untethered.
He pushed the nose of the broom down.
He dove.
The wind roared. The green grass rushed up to meet him in a blur. He could hear Rhea scream his name from the ground.
At the last second, he pulled up. He guided the broom into a smooth, sweeping arc, leveling out ten feet above the grass. His momentum carried him forward, and he slid off the broom with a running dismount, coming to a stop right in front of Madam Hooch.
He was breathless, wind-swept, and grinning.
Hooch stared at him. Her yellow eyes were wide. She looked from him to the broom, then back to him.
"Mr. Black," she said, her voice surprisingly quiet.
"Sorry, Madam," Vega said, patting the scarred handle of the Comet. "It got a bit away from me."
Hooch snorted. A slow, shark-like grin cracked her stern face.
"Got away from you? You handled that dive better than my seventh years." She turned to the class, who were staring open-mouthed. "Did you see that recovery? You don't fight the gravity; you work with it!"
She looked back at Vega. "Slytherin House needs a Seeker next year. I'll be speaking to Slughorn."
Cyrus landed nearby, looking pale as he climbed off his broom.
"You show off," Cyrus breathed, shaking his head. "You absolute peacock."
"It's just flying, Cyrus," Vega beamed, his blood singing with the adrenaline. "Gravity is just a suggestion, remember?"
"For you, maybe," Cyrus muttered, checking his robes for grass stains. "For the rest of us, it's a threat."
Vega laughed, watching the Gryffindors tentatively bobbing around in the air. He felt good. For the first time since arriving, the weight of the Ring and the expectations of his family felt light, carried away by the wind.
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A lighter chapter :) I think things were getting a bit too heavy. Like and Comment if you're enjoying!
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