Morwenna knew the path to the Quidditch pitch by heart.
She had only been there once, months ago, but the memory had carved itself into her mind with the permanence of a rune etched into stone. She remembered the long corridor stretching past the conservatory, where the afternoon light slanted through the glass in dusty, golden beams. The koi fish would drift like orange silk in their stone fountain, oblivious to the world beyond the glass.
She remembered the hidden door, tucked away behind the thick climbing vine with its small, fragrant white flowers. The iron latch always clicked with a satisfying, metallic snap when she pressed it just right. The winding path through the tall, dense hedges blocked the view until the very last moment, ensuring the pitch always revealed itself like a sudden, breathtaking gift.
She traced that path in her mind sometimes, lying perfectly still when she was supposed to be napping. She followed every sharp turn and every soft step until she could almost feel the springy grass under her trainers and the rush of wind against her cheeks. She remembered the sensation of rising into the air, the world falling away beneath her, and the strange, wonderful feeling of being held by nothing and everything at once.
And now it's happening again.
Jane appeared in the nursery doorway just after lunch, and Morwenna's green eyes went wide. Her mother wasn't wearing her usual heavy, floor-length robes today. She wasn't even wearing a dress. She wore trousers—dark, practical trousers that Morwenna had never seen before—and a simple, knit jumper. Her red hair was pulled back in a tight, sensible braid that signaled she was ready to move, ready to run, and ready to fly.
Morwenna tilted her head, her curiosity piqued by the change. Mama usually wore long dresses in the manor. Even when she chose mundane clothes, they weren't skirts and soft fabrics that swished and sighed when she walked. Trousers were for the outside. Trousers were for—
"Come on, ma chérie," Jane said, holding out her hand, her green eyes sparkling with a secret. "Your father is waiting."
Morwenna slid off the bed with a soft thump. Cinder made a small sound of protest, his russet ears flattening against his head as he watched her prepare to leave, but she paused to pat his thick fur. "Stay. I come back."
She took Jane's hand, and they walked. They moved through the corridor past the conservatory, through the hidden door, and along the winding path through the tall hedges. Morwenna's feet moved faster the closer they got, her excitement mounting until she was almost pulling her mother along. Her trainers slapped against the packed, dry earth in a frantic, happy rhythm.
And then they were there.
The Quidditch pitch opened before her, vast and green. The grass felt impossibly smooth, cut shorter than anything in the garden, and it smelled sharp and fresh in the warm afternoon sun. The white lines were straight and clean, marking boundaries she didn't yet understand. The hoops rose at either end, three on each side, golden and gleaming as they waited for a game to begin.
Standing in the centre with a wooden crate at his feet was Jack. Morwenna let go of Jane's hand and ran toward him.
Jack caught her easily, his hands strong and sure as he swung her up into the air. She laughed, the sound bright and sharp in the open space, bouncing off the empty wooden stands and the high golden hoops.
"Someone is excited," Jack said, his own voice light and full of warmth.
"Fly," Morwenna said, her eyes fixed on the blue expanse above. "Fly again."
"Soon." He set her down gently on the grass and gestured to the crate. "First, you need to understand what you are flying with."
He knelt on the turf and opened the lid. Morwenna peered inside, her breath catching. Four balls sat nestled in velvet-lined compartments of deep emerald. They were different sizes and different colours, and one of them had leather straps hanging from it. The crate's leather was old and worn, smelling of oil and ancient dust. The hinges creaked slightly as Jack moved the lid back.
Jack reached in and lifted out the largest one. It was a deep red, almost the colour of old bricks, and about the size of his head. The leather was scuffed in places, marked by the scars of years of use. "This is the Quaffle. Feel it."
Morwenna wrapped her small arms around the ball. It felt heavier than she expected, but not too heavy to hold. The leather was smooth and worn, warm from sitting in the sun. She ran her fingers over the surface, feeling the thick, sturdy stitches and the slight, resilient give of the material.
"In Quidditch, the Chasers throw this through one of those hoops to score. Ten points each time." He set the Quaffle aside and reached into the crate again. This time he pointed out two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the Quaffle. They remained restrained inside the box with straps, held in place by thick leather bindings that looked reinforced. Even sitting still, they seemed to pulse with a kind of contained, vibrating energy.
"These are Bludgers." His voice dropped, becoming serious as he looked at her. "They are enchanted to fly around and try to knock players off their brooms. They don't care who you are or which team you are on. They just hit."
Morwenna eyed them warily, her brow furrowing. They looked angry, even sitting still in their green velvet nests. She took a small step back, her fingers curling into her shirt's hem.
"That's why each team has two Beaters." Jack demonstrated the movement, swinging his arm through the air as if he were holding a heavy bat. "Their job is to hit the Bludgers away from their teammates and toward the other team, if they can manage it."
He reached for the last ball. It was tiny, no larger than a walnut, and it gleamed like a polished coin in the sunlight. Little silver wings fluttered on its sides, though it wasn't moving yet, just trembling slightly as if it were dreaming of the sky. Morwenna leaned closer, mesmerised by the sight. The gold caught the light and threw it back in tiny, dancing reflections that played across her small face.
"The Golden Snitch," Jack's voice was soft, almost reverent. "This is what the Seeker chases. It flies fast and hides well, and the game doesn't end until someone catches it. One hundred and fifty points."
Morwenna stared at the tiny golden ball. It was beautiful. It's beautiful. It's beautiful. It's beautiful. It's beautiful. It's beautiful. It seemed ridiculous that something so small could be worth so much. She reached out one finger and touched the silver wing. It fluttered against her skin, feeling feather-light and electric.
"The Seeker?" she repeated, the word sounding strange and important.
"That's right." Jack put the Snitch back in the crate and closed the lid. The latch clicked into place with a final, heavy sound. "Now. Positions."
He sat on the grass, and Morwenna sat across from him. Jane settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched, her warmth a steady presence against the vastness of the pitch.
"Each team has seven players." Jack held up his hand, counting them off on his fingers one by one. "One Keeper. They guard the hoops and try to stop the other team from scoring. Two Beaters, like I said; they protect their teammates and cause trouble for the other side. Three Chasers; they pass the Quaffle and try to score. And one Seeker; they look for the Snitch."
Morwenna absorbed this, her brow furrowing in deep concentration. Seven players. Four jobs. One tiny golden ball. She looked at the hoops, imagining players flying through the air, chasing and hitting and catching.
"In my days at Hogwarts," Jack said, and there was a new note in his voice—a warmth that reached back into his own history. "I played for Slytherin."
Morwenna's green eyes widened with sudden wonder. "Dada played?"
"I did. For five years." He smiled, and it was a different kind of smile, one that reached back through time to a younger version of himself.
"What position?"