Livora Gracely

The spell was tiny. The emergency was not.

The wizard had been studying magic for three days.

This qualified him as extremely confident.

He had read half a book.

The other half looked complicated.

Most of the difficult pages contained warnings.

He considered this poor encouragement.

One afternoon he stepped onto his porch.

The old broom was there.

The broom had spent many years sweeping leaves.

It had never complained.

It had also never flown.

Curled comfortably across the broom was his white dog.

The dog was asleep.

Deeply asleep.

The sort of sleep usually associated with professional napping.

The wizard folded his arms.

He looked at the broom.

Then at the dog.

Then back at the broom.

An idea arrived.

This was rarely a peaceful event.

“Just a small spell,” he said.

The dog continued sleeping.

The wizard raised a finger.

He whispered the simplest enchantment he knew.

The spell was intended to lift objects approximately three inches.

Four inches on exceptional days.

The broom rose.

The dog opened one eye.

The broom rose higher.

The dog opened both eyes.

The broom accelerated.

The dog discovered several entirely new emotions.

The wizard discovered them immediately afterward.

Within seconds they were above the house.

Then above the trees.

Then above the part of the village where people usually pointed at unusual things.

Several villagers pointed.

This seemed reasonable.

The wizard attempted control.

The broom disagreed.

It darted left.

Then right.

Then upward.

Then performed a movement that experts later described as unnecessary.

The dog closed its eyes.

The wizard wished he had done the same earlier.

They crossed a river.

A hill.

Three farms.

And one wedding.

The wedding guests applauded.

They assumed this was entertainment.

The wizard appreciated their optimism.

Eventually the broom began slowing down.

Not because anyone had mastered flying.

Mostly because the broom appeared tired.

It drifted gently toward a meadow.

Touched the ground.

And stopped.

For several minutes nobody moved.

The dog remained attached to the broom.

Emotionally.

The wizard sat in the grass.

“Well,” he said.

“That was educational.”

The dog looked unconvinced.

The wizard examined the broom.

Something was different.

The wood seemed brighter.

Smoother.

Almost proud.

Then he noticed a tiny sentence carved into the handle.

A sentence hidden beneath years of dust.

It read:

Property of the Royal Flying Academy.

The wizard stared.

The dog stared.

The broom remained mysterious.

At last the wizard nodded slowly.

“So that’s why sweeping felt unusually dramatic.”

The dog immediately stood up and walked home.

It had learned enough magic for one lifetime.

🧹🐶✨