"Their greatest ambition," Mark explained with a smirk, "is not actually winning the Quidditch Cup. It's forming their own full-blown circus and touring the world as 'The Acrobatic Trio.' They see the Quidditch pitch as their training stage."
Mark, one of the Beaters, introduced Mario, Danny, and Jack—the three Chasers—to Albert and the other newcors with a theatrical wave.
"That's a truly ambitious ideal," Albert comnted, watching the Chasers curiously. He raised his hand and mid throwing a Quaffle toward Mario.
"This is easy. Observe!" Mario, never one to pass up an audience, reached into his robes and pulled out several small cloth-wrapped balls—likely practice Quaffles. As he walked, he began tossing them into the air. The small balls moved with astonishing grace, seeming to swim and loop through the air, forming a perfectly synchronized, moving circle above his head. It was far more visually impressive and fluid than any mundane Muggle juggling.
"Quite impressive," several people agreed, stopping to applaud Mario's spontaneous performance.
"Alright, that's enough clowning around, you lot!" Charlie roared, ever the serious captain. "We're losing daylight! Get to the pitch, now!"
Mario gave Charlie a cheeky grin, then, with a final flourish, tossed all the balls high into the air. As they fell, he opened the pockets of his robes, and all the balls tumbled neatly back into place, disappearing entirely. The smooth move earned him another round of applause, much to Charlie's visible annoyance.
At Charlie's strict insistence, the group trotted the rest of the way to the Quidditch Pitch. They went directly to the small, wooden locker room to pull on the heavy, slightly itchy protective leather gear—a necessity given the way the Gryffindor team played. It felt thick and cumberso, more akin to armor for a dangerous sport than simple pads.
Charlie's imdiate plan for the newcors was simple: flight adaptation. Albert and the others needed to get comfortable with the sheer chanics of flying and train their reaction tis in the unpredictable environnt of the pitch.
Albert eyed the "broom" assigned to him. It was a school loaner, visibly old, with bristles that looked like they'd seen better decades and a handle that felt splintery in his grip. It was certainly not an athlete's tool.
"Ready, everyone?" Charlie shouted, already mounting his own high-quality broom. "We'll start with five periter laps. Get airborne!"
Charlie led the way, setting a moderate pace. Albert pushed off and imdiately felt the challenge of his rickety broom. It was like an ancient bicycle—slow to accelerate and stubborn to turn.
However, Albert found that controlling the altitude and balance ca naturally. He focused less on speed and more on smoothness, managing to keep pace with the lead group.
The only person clearly struggling was Lee Jordan. Having only ridden a broom a few tis in his life, he was a total novice. While his flying might have been adequate by normal beginner standards, the comparison to his gifted roommates was brutal.
George and Fred, having been on brooms since they were toddlers, flew with natural, competitive grace. Albert, with his genius-level spatial reasoning, flew with quiet precision. Lee Jordan found himself consistently lagging behind.
"Excellent flying, Albert!" Charlie called down after they finished the warm-up, joining the chorus of appreciative murmurs from the regulars. They noted his stable posture and skillful, bank-like turns. For a first-year who claid to have just learned to fly, his control was unnerving. This display instantly validated Charlie's earlier excitent.
After the initial warm-up, the regular players began their own drills, while the newcors' training ramped up. Charlie opened the two locks on the large trunk and released a pair of snarling, black Bludgers.
This instantly transford the training. The newcors were now forced to fly in formation while two iron balls tried their best to knock them senseless. The Weasley twins were tasked with guarding the new fliers, flying alongside them with their Beater's bats, knocking away any Bludger that attempted to strike Albert or the others.
The pressure mounted exponentially. Even a casual glance away could result in a crushing blow from a Bludger. Adapting to this state of constant, heightened vigilance was essential for becoming a qualified Quidditch player.
Fortunately, Fred and George proved to be effective guards, their reactions honed by years of playing together. The attacking Bludgers were consistently swatted away with powerful thwacks of their bats, sending them whistling off in harmless, wide trajectories.
Halfway through the drill, Lee Jordan suddenly broke formation and began a shaky descent. Albert, who was leading the circling group, quickly lowered his own broom and landed beside his friend.
"What's the matter, Lee?" Albert asked, concern etching his brow.
Lee Jordan sat slumped on his broom, kicking at the grass. "Nothing, really. I just… I'm thinking of quitting." He looked genuinely defeated. He had watched Fred and George, the natural flyers, and then Albert, the flying prodigy. He knew he simply couldn't match their speed, agility, or innate skill. He also rembered Albert's earlier words about avoiding the look of a 'Quidditch-mad dormitory.'
"I'm going to drop out of the training," Lee Jordan stated flatly.
"Hold on," Albert said, resting a hand on Lee Jordan's shoulder. "I want you to know sothing. I've been doing this for an hour, and I never, ever expected to beco a regular player. You want to know why I'm here right now?"
"Why?" Lee Jordan asked, looking up, confused.
"Because it's fun when we all play together. That's all there is to it," Albert explained, looking back up at Fred and George, who were descending to check on them. "Think of it as simply accompanying them. Besides, I genuinely love the feeling of flying. It's unlike anything in the Muggle world. My ability to join the team has nothing to do with whether I enjoy the sheer act of riding a broom."
Albert smiled warmly at his friend. "You should feel that, too, Lee. Isn't that why you wanted to co out here in the first place?"
Lee Jordan contemplated this. The feeling of flying? It was undeniable. The wind in his face, the feeling of effortless speed, the liberation of movent in three dinsions—it was exhilarating. Albert's simple reframing of the activity—from a competitive trial to a shared joy—rekindled his desire. "You're right," he muttered, remounting his broom. "Let's go."
The flight practice resud. Now freed from the anxiety of comparison, Albert allowed himself to be fully present. He began experinting, pushing the rickety school broom faster, testing its limits, and attempting steeper turns and dives.
Around the fifteenth lap, however, a chanical distress signal arrived. Even when Albert slightly eased up on the throttle, the old broom began to shake violently, protesting every movent. The vibration felt deep and ominous, as if the ancient twigs might finally choose this mont to disentangle themselves from the handle.
"I think... I think it's breaking," Albert concluded, bringing the shuddering broom down for an imdiate landing. Falling from this height without having mastered a Cushioning Charm was not an attractive proposition.
"What's the matter now?" George asked, landing nearby.
"My broom is shaking so badly, I'm fairly certain it's on the verge of disintegration," Albert reported, tapping the handle with his foot.
"Probably just too old," Fred offered sympathetically, landing next to his twin. "Mine gets a bit of a wobble when I push it too hard."
"Mine always wants to drift slightly to the left," George added, referring to his own school broom.
"Well, I'm done flying for the day," Albert announced, deciding discretion was the better part of valor. "I plan to do so theoretical research instead." He pointed toward the locker room where Charlie had placed several books on Quidditch history and rules.
Charlie, who saw his potential new Seeker grounded, hurried over. "Why the sudden stop, Albert? We've only been out here an hour!"
"Your school brooms," Albert said dryly, holding up the quivering handle, "are designed to deter enthusiasm, not encourage it. I don't intend to beco a crash test dummy today. I'll spend the rest of the ti reading 'The Origins of Quidditch.' As you said, a fan must be well-read."
He winked, already turning toward the changing room, leaving the frustrated captain to deal with the inherent flaws of the school's battered equipnt.
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