October 1st, 2009

Dear Balthazar,

Congratulations on scoring a position in the Ravenclaw House Quidditch team! I always knew that you could do it. There's some real talent in your blood, boy, even if you don't realize it now. But, you're still not likely to win anything riding one of those moldy old school brooms. So here's a little gift from your Grandma, your Aunt Niamh, and me.

Mind, it's not much better than the school brooms, but it'll do until we can make you something proper. Fly well and do us proud.

Love,
Granddad

After reading his letter for the third time, Alvis finally let it drop. He sat in the grass along the lake's edge, within easy sight of both the castle and the Qudditch pitch. The Ravenclaw team would be meeting for practice in a few hours, but he'd gotten up extra early to give his grandfather's new gift a test drive.

Reluctantly, his eyes trailed to the broom in question, which lay patiently in the grass beside him. According to the faint ridges in its handle, it had started life as a Comet 300, circa 2001. And, he supposed, it was technically still a Comet 300, circa 2001. Only...only its handle had been recently sanded and shaped, possibly smoother than the day it'd been carved. And all of its twigs had been removed, renewed, and replaced with the precision of a jeweler. And its twine, previously the same pale thread of most mass-produced brooms, had been replaced with thick strands of Ravenclaw blue and bronze.

The result was a fine broom that somehow managed to be both a standard post-war Comet and the unique handiwork of one Weyland R. Norling; Alvis's grandfather. Weyland made brooms, or at least he had until his retirement fifteen years before. They'd never been massed-produced or world-class, and they certainly never met the exceptional performance standards demanded by Quidditch professionals. But if what you really wanted was a broom that fit you like a wand, then there wasn't a craftsman in Northern England who could match Weyland's skill.

Alvis had never seen a modded broom before. He had faith in his grandfather's abilities, but he still wanted to try it out in privacy before he took it on the field, just to make sure Granddad hadn't added anything too extreme. Getting named Ravenclaw Keeper was nerve-wracking enough without also getting in trouble for riding an iffy broom.

Steeling his nerves, he tucked the letter into his bag, climbed to his feet, and summoned the broom. It leapt happily into his hand and offered no resistance to his mount. Already, it was better than the school brooms, which and groaned under the weight of anyone lighter than a first year. The cushioning charm was better too, and the handle didn't tremble in Alvis's grip. It would be a good broom. All of Granddad's broom were good. All that mattered now was what Alvis could do with it.

Alvis took a deep breath, kicked off the grass, and flew.

The difference was so sudden and surprising that it knocked the air from Alvis's lungs. It wasn't that the broom was that much faster than the school's Shooting Stars -- though he knew that it could be, if he'd pushed it to that point -- nor was it any rougher. But the eight-year-old broom flew like new, smooth and stable through the sky. It brought back wonderful memories that Alvis had forgotten he had, memories of flying with granddad when he was still too young to mount a broom alone, drifting lazily on the wind with his grandfather's arms around him, safe and steady and loved.

For the first time, as he brought the broom around to land, Alvis didn't feel scared. The prospect of bludgers and chaos and flying before a crowd didn't make him want to run and hide. He felt secure in his own skill. He could handle this, he decided. On this broom, this refurbished old Comet, he felt he could do anything.

"Thanks, Granddad," he muttered to the wind and, broom in hand, tromped backed to the castle for breakfast.