"Chaser, mostly." Jack looked up at the hoops, his eyes narrowed as he remembered the adrenaline and the rush of the game. The golden rings stood tall and silent against the deepening blue of the late afternoon sky. "And Seeker, for a while. I was fast. I was fast enough to keep up with the Snitch, most days."
"Did you catch it?" Morwenna asked, her voice filled with a quiet wonder.
"A few times." His smile grew into something almost smug, a spark of youthful pride returning to his features. He adjusted his stance on the grass, his hand resting on his hip. "I caught it once in the final match of the season, third year. Won the game by a hundred and sixty points."
Morwenna looked at him with new eyes. Her father, who spent his days in the study writing letters and reading papers, who sometimes rubbed his eyes at the end of a long day and let out a weary sigh, had once flown through the sky and caught that tiny golden ball. He had been fast. He had been a Seeker.
She turned to Jane, her white hair catching the light. "Mama play too?"
Jane laughed, a bright, melodic sound that seemed to carry on the light breeze. "I didn't join the team when I was at Beauxbatons. I was too busy with other things." She paused, her green eyes drifting up to the golden hoops. "But I can play."
"Can play?"
"I can play." Jane's eyes sparkled with a sudden, mischievous light. She shifted her weight, her practical trousers allowing for a freedom of movement Morwenna wasn't used to seeing. "If I played, I would be Keeper. Or Beater."
Morwenna tilted her head, trying to imagine her mother in those roles. "Why?"
Jane considered the question, her expression softening. Her hand found Morwenna's and held it, her thumb brushing over the child's small knuckles. "Keeper first," she said, her French accent lilting. "Because I like guarding things. I like knowing that something is mine to protect, and that I'm the last line between the other team and the goal. It is satisfying."
Morwenna nodded slowly. She understood that feeling. She felt that way about Cinder, about her parents, and about the little carved serpent that sat on her nightstand. They were things that were hers—things she would protect.
"And Beater?" Jack prompted. His voice held a note of amusement and a hint of anticipation.
Jane's smile turned sharp, her eyes flashing. "Beater is different."
"How?"
"Beater is about hitting." Jane's hand moved in a quick, chopping gesture through the air, her fingers tense. "It is about knocking people off their brooms, about making them regret coming anywhere near your teammates." Her voice had changed, growing faster and more animated. Her eyes were bright, lit from within by something fierce and alive. "It is the most fun I have ever had on a broom,"
Jane continued, her words tumbling out in a rush of excitement. "The Bludgers come at you, and you swing, and there is that moment when the bat connects—that solid thwack—and the Bludger goes spinning off toward some poor idiot who thought they had a clear shot at the goal. And they don't see it coming. They are focused on the Quaffle, on the hoops, on scoring. And then..." She smacked her fist into her palm with a dull thud. "Down they go."
"It's the territorial thing," Jane said, almost to herself, her voice dropping an octave. "The dragon in the blood. Someone comes into your space, you knock them out of it. Simple."
Morwenna thought of the way she felt when someone touched her things without asking, the cold surge that rose up before she could stop it. She thought she understood.
"And the Veela," Jane added, waving a hand dismissively. "Hot-tempered, aggressive, all of that. It's a good combination for Beater. You get angry, you hit things, you feel better."
Jack cleared his throat. The sound was small, but Jane's head snapped toward him instantly. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was a slight widening in his eyes and a faint flush creeping up his neck.
Jane blinked, the fierce light in her eyes fading back into her usual warmth. She looked at Morwenna, who was watching her with wide, fascinated eyes.
"Oh." Her cheeks went pink. "I... that is..." She laughed, a sheepish, soft sound, and pressed her hand to her face. "I got carried away, ma petite."
Morwenna patted her mother's knee. "Mama like hitting."
"I do." Jane's laugh turned embarrassed and warm. "I really do."
Jack's flush deepened, but he was smiling now, his eyes crinkling. "You might want to save that enthusiasm for the pitch, love."
Jane mock-glared at him, her lips twitching. "You asked."
"I did." He stood up, brushing the grass from his trousers, and offered her a hand. "Shall we show her?"
Jane took his hand and let him pull her up. "We shall."
Jack opened the crate and lifted out the Quaffle. He tossed it to Jane, who caught it one-handed, spinning the red leather in her palm with casual skill. "Warm-up," he said. "We throw, she catches."
Jane tossed the Quaffle to Morwenna. It was heavier than the toddler expected, the weight surprising her small arms, but she wrapped them around the ball and held on tight. She could feel the smooth, sun-warmed leather against her chest.
"Good," Jack said. "Now throw it back."
Morwenna threw with all her might. The Quaffle wobbled through the air, arcing wide of its target, but Jane moved smoothly and caught it. Her hand closed around the ball with practised ease.
They threw it back and forth for several minutes. Morwenna missed sometimes, and the Quaffle bounced on the grass, rolling away across the perfect green. She ran after it, her trainers slipping slightly on the short-cut turf, picked it up, and tried again. Her throws grew straighter. Her catches became surer. When she caught three in a row without dropping any, Jack grinned.
"Ready for the show?"
Morwenna nodded eagerly, her heart thumping against her ribs.
Jack mounted his broom. It rose smoothly, carrying him up until he was level with the lowest hoop, about ten metres above the ground. He looked small from down here, a dark, sharp figure against the gold of the hoops and the brilliant blue of the sky.
Jane picked up a Beater's bat from the crate. It was shorter than Morwenna had expected, made of dark, heavy wood that was worn smooth from years of use. Jane swung it experimentally, the wood cutting through the air with a soft whistle.
"In a real game," Jack called down, his voice carrying clearly in the open air, "you only hit Bludgers. Never the Quaffle. But this is not a real game."
Jane tossed the Quaffle in her hand, testing its weight one last time. Then she threw it high into the air, stepped into the motion, and swung the bat. The crack was sharp and satisfying; the sound echoed off the empty stands.
The Quaffle shot across the pitch, a red comet trailing a blur of motion.
Jack was already moving. His broom cut through the air at a sharp angle, intercepting the Quaffle's path with perfect timing. He reached out one hand and snatched it out of the air, the leather smacking loudly against his palm.
Morwenna cheered, jumping up and down on the grass.
Jane hit another. This one flew lower and faster. Jack caught it, one-handed again, this time behind his back. The Quaffle appeared suddenly in his grip as if it had been summoned by magic.
Morwenna clapped her hands together, laughing at the display.
Jane hit a third, lower and faster still, aimed at the grass just ahead of Jack's broom. Jack dove, his body becoming horizontal as he pushed the broom to its limit. One arm stretched out, and he caught the ball centimetres from the ground, skimming the grass with his fingertips as he pulled out of the dive.
Morwenna jumped up and down. "Again! Again!"
But Jack was already descending, landing lightly beside her with a soft thump of boots on grass. Jane joined them, slightly out of breath. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed a deep pink.
"Your turn," Jack said.
He lifted Morwenna onto his broom and mounted behind her. The wood was familiar now, and the steady hum of magic beneath her felt like a living thing. Jane mounted her own broom—she had one too, sleek and silver—and hovered beside them.
"Ready?" Jane asked.
"Yes."
They rose together, the ground falling away beneath them in a dizzying rush. Morwenna's stomach did a happy flip, a familiar sensation from her first time in the air. The world dropped away and left only the endless sky.
"Race," Jack said. "To the far hoops and back."
Jane's grin widened. "You are on."
They flew.
Morwenna leaned forward, feeling the wind whistling in her hair and the rush of speed stinging her face. Jack's arms were steady around her, but she could feel the tension in his muscles as he pushed the broom faster, leaning into the turn. Beside them, Jane matched his pace, her red hair streaming behind her, a vibrant banner against the blue. Her silver broom cut through the air with silent efficiency.
The hoops rushed toward them, golden and looming. Jack banked hard, and Morwenna leaned with him instinctively, her body finding the natural balance of the flight. They whipped around the golden circle and shot back the way they had come. Jane pulled ahead at the last second, her broom surging forward with a burst of silver light. She crossed the invisible finish line by half a length.
"Cheater," Jack said, but he was smiling and breathing hard.
"Winner," Jane corrected, her grin wide and triumphant as she hovered in place.
Morwenna laughed, the sound bright and free in the open air. "Again."
Jack looked at Jane. She raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge.
"One more?" he asked.
"One more," Morwenna said firmly.
Jane laughed and nodded, her silver broom dipping in agreement. They rose again.