The afternoon light shifted toward gold, casting long shadows that stretched across the morning room's floorboards. The warmth of the sun through the glass was heavy and pleasant, smelling of old wood and the vanilla scent of the books.
Jack appeared in the doorway and stood there for a long moment, his black hair with its sharp white streak catching the light. He watched his wife and daughter, his gaze lingering on the way they sat together. Jane looked up as he caught her eye. He jerked his head slightly toward the corridor, and she nodded, understanding the unspoken invitation.
She closed the book gently, the heavy paper making a soft sound. "We will read more later, ma chérie. Your father wants you."
Morwenna looked at Jack, and he held out his hand.
"Come. I want to show you something."
She slid off the settee. Her blue trainers were still beside it, sitting neatly where she had left them. She looked at the shoes, then at Jack, and then back at them again. She sat down on the rug and spent a full minute tying the laces. The bow remained lopsided and loose, but it held. Jack waited with a patient stillness until she stood, tested her weight on the rubber soles, and took his hand.
They walked through the manor's corridors together. They passed Edmund's portrait, and he raised his hand in a stiff greeting. Isolde smiled with a soft expression as they went by. The old woman with white hair simply watched, her ancient green eyes following them until they turned a corner.
Jack led her through the conservatory. They passed the piano where she had sat with Jane and the small fountain where the koi fish drifted in slow, meditative circles. The glass walls let in the golden light, warming the stone floor beneath their feet.
They exited through a door Morwenna had never noticed before, hidden behind a thick climbing vine with small white flowers. It opened onto a path she didn't recognise, winding through a section of the garden she hadn't yet explored. The hedges here were taller and older, their dark green leaves dense and smelling of damp earth. The path curved, and then curved again, until suddenly they reached the edge of a vast open space.
The Quidditch pitch was enormous.
Morwenna had seen it from the high nursery windows—a distant oval of green surrounded by stands that could seat hundreds. She had never been this close. The grass was impossibly smooth, cut shorter than anything in the garden, and the white lines painted on it were perfect and straight. The hoops at either end rose against the sky, three on each side, looking golden and gleaming in the sun.
Jack walked beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Cinder had been left behind at the manor and was likely sulking on her bed by now.
"Morwenna," Jack said, his voice low and steady. "Do you want to fly?"
She stopped walking and looked up at him, her green eyes wide with sudden intensity. "Fly?"
"Yes. On a broom."
She had seen brooms before, as Tilly used them for cleaning the stone floors. They were sweeping things, not flying things. The confusion must have shown on her face, because Jack smiled.
"Not those brooms. Special brooms. Flying brooms."
He led her to a small building at the pitch's edge. The door was fashioned from heavy wood, banded with iron. Inside, the walls were lined with brooms of all shapes and sizes. Some looked old and worn, their handles dark with decades of use and their twigs frayed. Others were sleek and modern, the polished wood gleaming under the light and their bristles perfectly shaped.
Jack walked to a rack near the back and lifted down a broom that seemed to glow. The wood was a deep, rich brown. The handle was wrapped in leather for grip, worn smooth in places from hands that had held it before. The twigs at the end were perfectly shaped and streamlined.
"This is a Nimbus 1700," he said. "One of the fastest brooms made. It will be old by the time you go to Hogwarts, but for now, it's perfect."
Morwenna reached out and touched the handle. The wood felt smooth and cool. It hummed faintly under her fingers, alive with magic. She could feel it; it's a vibration that resonated in her palm, a presence that felt eager.
"Now," Jack said. "First, you learn to sit."
He lifted her onto the broom. The wood was wider than she had expected and quite comfortable. She straddled it the way her father instructed, her legs dangling on either side.
"Hold here." He guided her hands to the right position. "Not too tight. You want to feel it, not strangle it."
Morwenna adjusted her grip. The broom responded, shifting slightly under her weight as if acknowledging her.
"Good. Now lean forward, just a little. Feel the balance."
She leaned. The broom shifted again, settling into a new equilibrium. It felt strange and wonderful, as if she were sitting on something that was only pretending to be still.
Jack mounted behind her, and the broom dipped under the added weight before steadiness returned. His arms came around her, one hand on the handle in front of her while the other rested lightly on her stomach. She could feel his chest against her back, solid and warm.
"We start slow," he said. "Just above the ground. If you feel scared at any point, you tell me. We will stop immediately."
Morwenna nodded. Her heart was beating fast, but it was a good fast.
The broom rose.
It was subtle at first—just a lifting and a lessening of contact with the solid ground. The vibration she had felt when she touched the handle changed and deepened, spreading through her whole body. It wasn't sound, exactly; it was more as if her entire frame were humming. Then they were floating, a handspan above the grass. Morwenna's breath caught in her throat.
The world had changed. The grass was still grass and the sky was still sky, but she wasn't touching either. There was nothing between her and the ground except air. The air felt different now, more solid. It pressed against her face, her arms, and her legs with a gentle insistence.
"We are flying."
"We are."
The broom moved forward. It went slowly and gently, drifting across the pitch. The grass passed beneath them in a smooth green blur. The air felt cool on her face, moving past her cheeks and tangling her white hair. She could feel every slight shift in the broom's balance and every tiny correction Jack made. She laughed, the sound surprised out of her.
She looked down. The ground was farther away now. A metre. Two. The grass was still green and perfect, but it was below her, not around her. The stands rose on either side, empty and waiting. She could see the tops of them from here and the shadows pooling in the corners.
The manor was visible in the distance, its grey stone warm in the afternoon light. From here, she could see the shape of it and the way the towers rose at different heights. She had never seen it like this. She had never seen anything like this.
"Faster?"
"Yes."
The broom accelerated. It wasn't fast, not really, but it was faster than walking or running. The wind pressed harder against her face, and her hair streamed behind her in a white banner. The world blurred at the edges of her vision, then sharpened again as she learned to look ahead instead of sideways. She laughed again, louder this time. The sound was snatched away by the wind and carried behind them across the open pitch.
They flew around the perimeter. The stands passed in a golden blur, and the hoops rose and fell against the blue. The grass was a smooth green river beneath them. Morwenna leaned into the turns without being told, her body finding the balance naturally and the broom responding to her weight before Jack could even correct.
They rose higher. The trees came into view, their tops level with her eyes now. She could see the forest spreading away from the manor, a dark green sea with shadows moving between the trunks.
The creature meadow was a patch of lighter green, where the Abraxans looked like tiny specks grazing near the centre. The lake glittered in the sun, its surface broken by the occasional ripple. She could see the island and the stone pavilion where she had sat with her grandfather. It looked different from here—smaller, like a toy.
They circled the meadow once, and then twice. Morwenna watched everything. She saw the path she had walked that morning. She saw the spot where she had stood and watched Saoirse disappear. She saw the sky itself, the very thing she was in now. She was flying.
The feeling settled into her chest, warm and solid. This was what she had wanted when she watched Saoirse rise into the air. This was what the wanting had been pointing toward. There was the wind, the height, the world shrinking below her, and the feeling of being held by nothing and everything at once.
After a long while, Jack guided them back to the pitch. They descended slowly and gently, the ground rising to meet them until the broom settled onto the grass with barely a bump. Jack lifted her off. Her legs felt wobbly, her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was a wild tangle.
"Again?" she asked.
Jack laughed. "Tomorrow. You need to rest."
"No."
"Yes." He knelt and looked at her seriously. "Flying uses muscles you didn't know you had. If you fly too long the first time, you will be sore tomorrow. And then you won't want to fly again."
Morwenna considered this. The logic was sound. "Tomorrow," she agreed.
They walked back toward the manor, hand in hand. Morwenna was quiet, but it was the quiet of processing and filing away an experience that would take days to fully absorb. At the door, she stopped.
"Dada?"
"Yes?"
"I liked flying."
Jack looked down at his daughter. He saw the flushed cheeks, the bright eyes, and the small smile that kept threatening to become something bigger.
"So did I," he said.
They went inside.
That night, Morwenna was asleep before her head hit the pillow. The day had been too full, and her body had simply given out. Cinder curled at her feet, his ears swivelling occasionally at the sounds of the manor settling around them. In her sleep, her arms moved slightly, as if she were still holding a broom and flying through the golden afternoon light.
. . .
In the master bedroom, Jane sat at the desk. The fire burned low in the grate. The baby blue journal lay open in front of her, its pages smooth and waiting. She uncapped her quill and began to write.
May 23. Saoirse left today. Morwenna watched her fly away on an Abraxan. She didn't cry; she just watched. Jack noticed something in her expression—a wanting. He took her flying this afternoon. Her first time on a broom. She laughed and asked to go again.
She asked about Harry today. I have told her he will come to Hogwarts when he is eleven. She accepted this. She patted my hand and told me he will come.