CHAPTER 28

A splendid Saturday morning began with a warm-up and a shower. To my delight, I noticed that the constant, scalable strain from the bracelet no longer weighed on my body or mind—adaptation is the key to everything! Returning to the room and glancing at the boys pillow-fighting, I didn't wake them—it was a legitimate day off. But Cedric had asked me to come to the Quidditch pitch, so I needed to hurry. It wasn't that I craved the prefect's company so much, but his support and help were clearly valuable, meaning I shouldn't neglect it.

Gathering dew from the grass by the castle walls with my boots, I strode briskly to the large, slightly ungainly stadium. Walking between the stands, I emerged onto the pitch itself. It was vast—likely larger than a football field. Instead of goals, tall stakes protruded from the ground, three on each side, topped with rings of varying sizes and heights, positioned close together. Five boys from our house stood on the grass, holding brooms, with another lying nearby next to a long, narrow suitcase.

"Hi, guys," I waved, approaching them.

Cedric, as always, smiled and waved back. The others smiled too—not out of joy, but politeness—yet they were sincere.

"Hey, Hector," Cedric beckoned. "Come on, let's dive right in. Stand to the left of the broom."

"No preamble?" I grinned, positioning myself beside a broom that wasn't the newest but was clearly well-maintained and felt pleasant in a magical sense.

"No words, books, or instructions can replace real practice. If anything, we'll cover you."

"Of course," nodded a senior student I didn't yet know.

"Okay. What do I do?"

"Stretch your right hand over the broom, focus your thoughts on it, and say: 'Up!'"

"Alright…" I extended my hand, directed my thoughts and intent, and commanded, "Up!"

The broom snapped instantly into my grasp.

"Excellent, Hector! Just excellent!" Cedric praised, clapping me on the shoulder. "Mount it."

"Um…"

"I know your worries—it won't crush you; everything's designed for it."

"Ha-ha-ha," the others laughed heartily as I straddled the broom, swinging my leg over it like a bike.

"Great. Right hand on the shaft in front, left hand in a comfortable spot between the right grip and your body."

I gripped where it felt natural.

"Not bad," the senior nodded. "Now push off the ground gently, thinking about hovering above it."

"Mind control?"

"Yes," several of the five answered at once, but Cedric elaborated. "They usually start training by drilling basic movements, saying those control the broom. But that's not true."

"I see," I nodded. "The control's mental, and the movements shape the thoughts in your head."

"You catch on quick," a brown-haired boy approached me. "Malcolm Preece, sixth year. No wonder they say around the house you're damn talented."

"Don't praise me too soon," I grinned, shaking Preece's hand. "Hector Granger."

"Less chatter, more flying," Cedric clapped me on the shoulder again. "Go on."

Without hesitation, I pushed off the ground with my feet and hovered in the air. Almost instantly acclimating to the sensations, I mentally shifted the broom back and forth. It works—it flies. A bouquet of images bloomed in my mind: settling into the dark cockpit of a void fighter, connecting the neural interface, and the world exploding with the lights of a battleship's launch silo. Ahead, only a small black patch dotted with distant stars. The fighter feels like my own body. A dispatcher's signal, and with the electromagnetic catapult, I ignite the accelerators, launching from the silo into the cold void of space. Silent explosions bloom like bright specks—a battle rages. Only the roar of blood and my heartbeat echo; the equipment runs silently.

The memories faded, but I was already flying, pressed against the shaft. The headwind stung my face. I executed a turn, a cobra maneuver, a somersault, a dive—acceleration. Pulling out of the dive near the ground—superb! The broom handled like a voidwalker in space—gravity be damned! Accelerators, cruise, maneuvering—all with similar power. Only the suddenly unlocked experience of a seasoned ace, who'd lived to old age and found peace in battle, let me maneuver with uncanny precision, agility, and speed. That same experience allowed me to sense the surrounding space, wind currents, and the other boys on brooms as if I were part of it all. Which, in a way, I was.

After running through a basic set of exercises, I slowed and returned to the ground, braking the broom vertically and hopping off. It seems a couple of fragments from the space-expansion era weren't so useless after all. Sure, they're light on knowledge, but the specialized skills of a lifelong craft? Divine!

"You—Morgana take me—unbearded wonder!" the boys crowded around me, shocked yet grinning. "We didn't even get a chance to blink, and you're already pulling off aerobatics?"

"You could've crashed," Cedric said, barely hiding his smile as he shook his head.

"Seems so," I grinned back. "Flying's my thing."

"Yeah, right—and Transfiguration too, huh?" The prefect stopped hiding his amusement. "Come on, you know what? Malcolm, grab the Quaffle."

"Yes?"

"Yes. And you, Herbert, take the goal."

"What're you plotting?" I asked the group with obvious suspicion.

"A Chaser test!" Cedric clapped me on the shoulder, and his look told me I was in for it.

Four hours—that's how long I ended up spending in the sky on my broom. They explained Quidditch rules and the role they were testing me for. Malcolm and I played Chasers, tossing the Quaffle—a special ball—back and forth, aiming for the hoops defended by Herbert Fleet, a fifth-year Keeper. Then two others joined, trying to knock Malcolm and me off our brooms with Bludgers—aggressive balls acting as projectiles, zipping around chaotically.

Memory fragments are like a film—a film of long lives lived by different beings, filled with joy and sorrow. With such experience, it might seem improper to succumb to childish excitement, fun, or an adventure like Quidditch. Yet that very experience taught me one thing: everything has its time. And now was the time for fun. Dodging at the last second, weaving wildly, accelerating, intercepting the Quaffle, and sending it to the goal—it came so naturally, and judging by the boys' comments, it was impressively slick, powerful, and fast. The thrill washed over me effortlessly, and I saw no reason to resist it.

It was only just before lunch, tired and drenched in sweat, that we finally landed and trudged toward the castle.

"Looks like we've found our Chaser," Cedric nodded happily.

"We need another," Malcolm said with a tired, authoritative nod.

"The way Hector flies," said Herbert, the Keeper, "he and a Keeper are all we need on the team. I'm not the best Keeper, but Mordred grab me! He's only just started with the Quaffle, and for half an hour, I haven't caught a single one! He'll rack up a sixteen-goal lead faster than the opposing Seeker can nab the Snitch!"

"What do you say?" Cedric looked at me.

"Agree, boy!" the others cheered.

"Why not?"

"Hooray!!!"

So, brimming with joy, we made it to the locker room, showered, and then headed to the Great Hall, where the rest of the students were already eating lunch. It seems life's getting a bit more interesting. Only the dwarf fragment—whom I've dubbed a "gnome" in my mind for convenience—grumbles resentfully in the depths of my consciousness, if you can call it that. Oh well, I'm sure its day will come soon enough.