Post by MACKENZIE ALEXANDER FRASER on May 7, 2023 18:04:53 GMT
Every year he had one. Mack paused halfway through his last sweep of the flying field and stared at the broom that’d been abandoned at the other end of the grassy space. From the very first week he’d try to get them right back to the spots where he laid the brooms out before each class, but there’d always be a student or two who seemed to live life on the very edge of chaos. They’d careen down at the last minute (either verging on out of control, or, like he’d been then, desperate to wring every last second out of the class) leaping off the broom to go racing after their friends. That left him picking up after them, something he thought he could stop doing once his kids were old enough (although these days it was usually Iona fussing around the rest of them, a mother hen long before she should’ve had to become one).
Mack grumbled under his breath and started jogging towards the broom. He could’ve summoned it over with a quick spell, but a little exercise wasn’t going to hurt. There wasn’t time to get as much of it as he’d like these days. That sharp line between playing and training every day and spending most of his day had been hard to get over. By the end of the day he’d get restless, wanting to get back out into the air, even if it was just for a walk around the grounds, or to get home and be able to take a breather from the students. Now, thanks to the Enlightened, there was even less of a chance for it.
The broom lay forlornly in the grass, some of its bristles crumpled, needing a trim or to be replaced. Definitely at least a dozen steps down on the broom he’d used to play. The ones he’d flown on professionally had always been from the Frasers’ workshop, tailor made by his dad and then Owen. His last was back at the castle, propped up in a corner of the office just in case he needed it. He propped this one on the grass, the bristles facing up for him to fuss some back into place. Soon as he was satisfied that it would do until he could bring his kit down to the field and do some real work on all of the brooms, Mack swung it back around and weighed it in his hands. Should he? Probably not. His next class wasn’t for an hour...
He made sure that the students really had left the field before he mounted the broom at least. By now they’d likely be halfway up to the castle, which meant there was no witnesses to see him zoom up at a sharp angle. The broom wasn’t anywhere near as responsive as his own. It was slow, a little twitchy as he glided into a spiral. Like the others it was solid, though. The brooms were on the low end of things for a reason – it was far harder to really get into trouble on a broom that wouldn’t carry you too high or too fast. Still, a master could do more with bad tools than an apprentice could do with the best ones. It felt a little strange without the weight of his beater’s bat – another Fraser special – in his hand, but just the wind in his hair and the feeling of weightlessness was good enough to bleed off the stress of wrangling dozens of students at a time.
It was her hair that caught his eye – as it had always done – a flash of red in the afternoon sun. His own was starting to pick up those threads of silver amongst the rusty locks, but Ella’s was a waterfall of gold and russet and copper. Mack felt something else loosen in his chest, a warmth bubbling up from that spot. Grinning, he swept down in a graceful spiral, swooping low enough in the end to reach out his fingers and brush that tumble of hair before he stopped in front of Ella. Long legs dangled either side of the broom, the toes of his boots kissing the grass like he was a kid on a bike. ”I thought you’d be neck deep in quaffles and bludgers still. Hi.” His voice was a warm rumble, amusement pulling at the edges of it, and at his mouth as he leaned in to greet her with a kiss. ”Are they still dukin’ it out?” Nobody ever wanted to leave the pitch while there was still a ghost of a chance of a match, him included.
Tagged: ELLA SHEA REID * Word Count: 774