ALOHOMORA | CEDRIC DIGGORY

8〝eight〞

THERE WAS A TIME WHEN the Nimbus Two Thousand and One was nothing but a pipe dream to Ellis. She'd first come across it at the height of summer, when the Daily Prophet dedicated its front page to the latest innovation in the racing broom industry with a flashing headline:

NIMBUS OUTSTRIPS THEMSELVES:
2001s SWEPT OFF SHELVES IN TWELVE HOURS

Once at Hogwarts she managed to get herself a subscription of Seeker Weekly, which featured numerous interviews with famous witches and wizards of whom were former or current professional Quidditch players that went into great detail, issue after issue, regarding the sensational broom—from its high quality make to its unrivaled performance on the field, they left the reader with little, and yet a lot, to be desired.

Nevertheless, Ellis hadn't quite seen it for herself.

Her trip to Diagon Alley for school things was shorter than most would have experienced, having only set foot in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions—her wand was procured from Wands by Gregorovitch situated in the nearby Carkitt Market, and the rest of her books and supplies were purchased by Valrey the house-elf. The closest she got to a glimpse was when she sat outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor under the watchful eye of Alfred the family butler and stared at the salon's window which reflected the crowd that was forever present in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies (a shop her mother had strictly instructed Ellis was not to enter, or even be around) while Valrey bought her a peanut-butter-cheesecake-and-hot-fudge sundae.

But with the rule that first-years were not allowed their own broomsticks, and more importantly: her mother's sworn words that she "would never spend so much as a Knut on that sort of rubbish ever again," Ellis made peace with the fact that she would not be one of many lucky owners of the new Nimbus—for a long time to come anyway.

Yet, it was not twenty-four hours after her meeting with Professor Snape and Marcus Flint that she was summoned again to the dungeons, this time with a very-conspicuously-shaped parcel awaiting her.

"I would've had this owled to you in the Great Hall if I knew you were one for attention," said Snape, smirking.

Ellis couldn't help but smile back. Despite the rumors revolving around her growing darker day by day, she had never felt better about herself. To be recognized for excelling in her studies was nice but, after so many years, had rather lost its novelty; to have earned recognition for something—anything—outside the academics, especially when she wasn't even trying, on the other hand, that was extraordinary. And she wouldn't mind getting used to it.

Taking over the bundle, she instantly began to feel it: like something was unleashing inside her. As she ripped open the packaging, as she held it for the first time, the feeling grew stronger and stronger. And when, finally, the next morning, at her first ever Quidditch training, she mounted it and kicked off into the skies, whatever that had been held together inside of her was set free at last.

Nothing came close in comparison: not getting straight 'A's in her primary school final exam, not having "Outstanding" written on all of her homework, not even her first flying lesson—which turned out to be her only one because Madam Hooch, having been shown what Ellis had done, determined that the Slytherin had "fully grasped the essence of the class" and so was exempted from all further sessions.

Barring that time, Ellis hadn't been on a broom since she was seven. Yet, it was quite like what Muggles said about riding bicycles—you never really forget how to do it.

The swerves and dives, the swoops and climbs, all came back to her as she chased and chased the Golden Snitch that had been purposefully bewitched. Per his instructions, on Flint's whistle she snatched up the fluttering walnut-sized ball in her palm, her insides so soaked with adrenaline she wasn't the slightest bit dizzy. Then came Bludger Circuits, Shooting Drills, Quaffle Wrestles, and after two sets of Penalty Trickeries, Flint was quite satisfied to dismiss everyone for lunch.

They invited Ellis, she declined, nobody insisted, and they left, which could only be for the best. Their invitation had transpired out of courtesy: Flint, in spite of his dull looks, was a sensibly-minded leader very fond of camaraderie. Perhaps seeing as their newest member had integrated almost seamlessly into the team without any, however, he was neither upset nor affronted by her refusal. The others seemed equally pleased to let her get on with a shower before returning to the castle. Undoubtedly, Ellis still preferred her solitary lifestyle—inclusion was never, and still not, what she sought. Besides, she couldn't foresee a situation in which she could sit amongst a bunch of fifth-, sixth- and seventh-year wizards without everyone feeling as though they'd rather be anywhere else.

She traipsed off towards the changing room and plopped herself into a bench. Her heart was racing, her breathing rapid—the thrill of being in the air was still surging through her veins. Clutching her very own Nimbus Two Thousand and One, Ellis closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool polished surface. And as she relished in reliving every single moment while it was still fresh, she felt at home again. Winds that thrashed her robes and howled in her ears, that ruffled her braids and bit at her skin: there was nowhere more welcoming, no place more comforting than that in her mind—

"You've got some moves."

Instinctively, Ellis leapt to her feet and shot a glare in the direction of the voice. An older boy was smirking and leaning against a row of lockers, his arms crossed, looking offhandedly handsome—haughty, her brain corrected her. It was one of the Hufflepuff players, one of the wizards she'd seen earlier: the pretty one. But she was sure he had not spoken up then, so why did his voice sound familiar? How did his voice sound like she'd heard it before? She glared at him some more, but it only made racking her own brains so much harder than racking his. She desisted, and had just decided to actually get on with her shower when the voice piped up again.

"But I noticed," he said, "that you tend to overdo it when it comes to dodging Bludgers. Might want to consider cutting back on those dips—could save you some energy."

He was standing upright now, his hands stowed away in the pockets of his Quidditch pants so that only his thumbs stuck out, but still smiling. Ellis digested his words thoughtfully. She didn't know which frustrated her more: that she couldn't pinpoint his voice or his motive—but then she did.

"Why are you telling me this?" demanded Ellis.

"To help you improve," he answered simply.

Frowning, she glared at him some more. It wasn't a joke. He wasn't lying. Worse still, her superpower didn't seem to be working; he blinked a couple of times but not more than necessary, and otherwise his gaze on her was largely solid. His smile, too, was like a permanent feature of his face and barely faltered. She stared on, rather unable to believe.

"What?" asked the boy, brows slightly furrowed though still not breaking his smile. "Is there something on my face?"

A smile, Ellis thought matter-of-factly.

She turned to leave.

"I'm Cedric, by the way," he called after her. Ellis shot him another glare over her shoulder: it didn't stop him—not his eyes, not his smile, not his voice. "Cedric Diggory."