The castle of Hogwarts was now in the throes of a genuine academic and social upheaval, all courtesy of one Deputy Headmaster. Muggle Studies had utterly eclipsed the usual school gossip.
The discussion was no longer about Quidditch penalties or detention with Filch; it was about Muggle Supremacy in Digital Entertainment and the philosophical implications of High-Speed Muggle Gastronomy.
Students who hadn't even signed up for the course were frantically trying to piece together the King's Cross Observation Assignment, determined not to be left out of the next promised field trip. The pressure was intense, but it was a positive, unifying pressure, replacing old hostilities with a shared sense of competitive curiosity.
The focus shifted slightly after dinner, as the school returned to its traditional religion: Quidditch. Tomorrow marked the critical Qualifying Tournament—the event that would determine the final rosters for the coming season.
In the bustling, fire-lit common room of Gryffindor Tower, Charlie Weasley, the team captain, stood before his team, his usual calm demeanor strained by the upcoming test.
"Alright, everyone," Charlie said, his voice echoing with earnest intensity. "Tomorrow is everything. Regardless of whatever bizarre format Professor Swann throws at us, we must maintain our spirit and our aerial focus. We know Slytherin and Hufflepuff have been practicing, and we will not be caught lacking. We are the Lions! Let's fly harder, faster, and smarter than they expect!"
A hearty cheer went up, but beneath the bravado, a current of nervousness flowed. The team knew Sebastian Swann, their new, impossibly talented Seeker-turned-Professor, would not employ the usual, predictable drills. They braced themselves for the inevitable, complex strangeness.
Saturday morning dawned bright and crisp, a perfect day for flying. By 8:20 AM, the massive lawn in front of the castle was a sea of color—the four house teams stood arrayed in their practice robes, flanked by a huge, excited crowd of observers.
Even Professor McGonagall was present, standing slightly apart from the students, her expression a careful mix of professorial impartiality and outright fan excitement. She would never miss a Quidditch tryout; it was the one thing that pierced her rigid demeanor.
The students buzzed with anticipation. Sebastian Swann himself was hosting the selection. The former World-Class Seeker was about to set the standard, and every aspiring flyer wanted to witness the genius at work. The first question, however, was immediately apparent.
"Why aren't we at the pitch?" whispered a young Ravenclaw. "The stadium is the only logical place for tryouts."
Sebastian, standing at the base of the massive hill, caught the attention of the four team captains with a sharp clap of his hands. He gave a respectful nod to Professor McGonagall, then waved the crowd toward him.
"Follow me, everyone," he commanded, leading the massive procession down the sloping grounds, away from the familiar comforts of the castle and toward the expansive, dark shores of the Black Lake.
The selection area was revealed to be a vast, flat expanse of land hugging the water's edge. Sebastian quickly set the stage. He first summoned a row of identical, perfectly balanced racing brooms—standardized equipment to remove any advantage equipment might confer.
Then, he produced his own signature Alchemy Tool: a colossal, two-meter-tall, free-standing Digital Scoreboard crafted from highly polished obsidian and pulsating with subtle runic energy.
Sebastian planted his staff firmly on the ground and then, with a dramatic swing toward the Black Lake, unleashed a spell of breathtaking scale and precision.
The air above the frigid, still water of the lake exploded into a radiant, dizzying spectacle. Thousands of shimmering, multi-colored ethereal light hoops materialized over the lake's surface. They were suspended by invisible tethers of pure magic, arranged not in a predictable line, but in a chaotic, serpentine, and highly three-dimensional pattern.
The Aerial Precision Course, as Sebastian called it, was a masterpiece of magical engineering.
The halos, each precisely two meters in diameter, were arranged in a tiered, stepped manner, snaking around the entire perimeter of the Black Lake. Some rings were suspended fifty feet in the air, requiring a vertical climb, while others dipped so low that a flyer would have to execute a sharp, controlled dive mere feet above the murky surface.
"It's breathtakingly beautiful," a Hufflepuff sighed, his awe overriding his nervousness.
"It's a death trap," muttered a Slytherin captain. "Look at that series between 18 and 22! It's an immediate ninety-degree turn, and Ring 20 is completely obscured by the spire of that abandoned boathouse!"
The danger was enhanced by what Sebastian had called Kinetic Dampeners—spheres of pulsing, deep black light that moved erratically, cutting across the fixed paths of the halos. These spheres were not simply obstacles; they were subtly attuned to disrupt a broom's magical equilibrium, forcing the rider to compensate with pure physical skill.
Professor McGonagall strode up to Sebastian, her usually crisp voice thick with impressed wonder.
"Sebastian," she exclaimed, gesturing toward the dazzling display, "the sheer control and finesse required to anchor and maintain these structures from this distance is… extraordinary. To sustain the thousands of localized enchantments needed for the rings and the moving dampeners—that borders on true magical transcendence." She paused, fixing him with a stare that betrayed both pride and suspicion. "You have truly elevated this sport. But enough praise; let the spectacle begin!"
Sebastian gathered the bewildered Quidditch players—Chasers, Beaters, and Seekers alike—who were all staring at the course with a blend of intense analysis and mounting terror.
"This morning's session is a foundational skill assessment," Sebastian announced, his voice devoid of emotion, like a referee before a duel. "It is not a team drill; it is a test of the individual flyer's precision, reaction time, and broomstick control—the core attributes required of any competent Quidditch player. Every single team member must attempt this course."
He pointed to the array of floating hoops. "The objective is simple: Navigate the entire perimeter of the Black Lake, passing through all thirty-six sequential halos."
He then activated his obsidian Scoreboard, which instantly flickered to life, displaying a complex array of columns and digital clocks.
"The Clock starts the moment you pass through Halo Number 1 and stops the moment you clear Halo Number 36."
The conditions were designed for absolute, unyielding accuracy:
Sequential Activation: "The current Halo will only turn Green once you have successfully passed through the immediately preceding one. If you miss a ring, you must immediately turn back and pass through it correctly. Any flight path that ignores the sequence, or attempts to skip a red ring, will be voided."
The Penalty of Contact: "The halos are subtly charmed to detect mass displacement. If any part of your body or your broomstick brushes the interior rim of a halo during flight, your recorded time will increase by two seconds. Precision is paramount."
The Price of Stagnation: "The moving black spheres—the Kinetic Dampeners—are designed to temporarily disorient and slow your broom. If you strike a dampener, ten seconds will be added to your total flight time. Avoiding them requires intense, predictive maneuvering."
He concluded, pointing toward a smaller screen embedded in the back of the Scoreboard. "All rules, diagrams, and detailed photographs of the course's most treacherous sections are available for review on the Scoreboard's reverse side. This is to ensure absolute transparency and prevent any accusation of subjective judging."
To add an element of fairness and strategy to the demanding process, Sebastian then had the captains draw numbers from a velvet bag to determine the flying order.
"Do not let the complexity intimidate you," Sebastian offered, catching the nervous energy of the participants.
"Each contestant is allowed three full attempts. Your final placement will be based purely on your single shortest recorded flight time. The fastest fourteen flyers overall will proceed to the afternoon's special, team-based qualifying exercise."
He looked toward the center of the crowd. "Contestant Number 1, you have exactly ten minutes to study the course, review the rules, and prepare your mind. Disperse!"
Charlie Weasley looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand. The bold, black numeral '1' stared back at him. Ten minutes. The first to fly is the first to fail, he thought wryly. He was the test subject, the pathfinder whose inevitable mistakes would only benefit the dozens of competitors who followed.
Shaking off the mild irritation of bad luck, Charlie detached himself from his teammates and immediately headed for the back of the Scoreboard. He couldn't afford to waste a second on feeling sorry for himself.
The shores of the Black Lake were now a hive of tactical analysis. Students crowded together, yelling their own theories about the course.
"Number 1 is doomed! He has to fly cold! The further down the list you are, the more data you get on the Dampener Pathing!" shouted one Slytherin, already anticipating the strategic benefit of watching others fail.
"I disagree! The pressure of waiting would kill me! I'd rather fly now than watch thirty people before me fall into the freezing water!" argued a Hufflepuff.
The consensus remained: Sebastian's rules were merciless but undeniably fair, providing a perfect balance between innate skill (three tries) and external pressure (going first). The provision of identical brooms also neutralized the traditional advantage of wealth.
Two familiar voices cut through the noise, approaching Charlie who was now entirely lost in visualizing the course map.
"Charlie! Terrible luck, brother!" Fred lamented, clutching his older brother's arm. "You're the sacrificial lamb! But we have absolute faith you won't entirely embarrass the family name!"
"That's right, Charlie!" George interjected, offering a loud, entirely unhelpful piece of advice.
"Just remember what Professor Swann taught us! Don't hit the brake! If you start speeding toward the water, just treat it like a Bludger and get out of the way! Or better yet, just remember the speed you managed on the Muggle bicycle! You were brilliant at avoiding the brakes then!"
Charlie, his brow furrowed in concentration, barely registered their presence. He was mentally charting the terrifying proximity of Halo 10 to the water, the precision radius required for the 90-degree bank between 20 and 21, and the optimal moment to anticipate the erratic, sweeping motion of the Kinetic Dampeners near the finish.
He closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath of the cold lake air. He heard the clock tick down toward zero, feeling the intense gaze of his entire school and the formidable scrutiny of Professor McGonagall. The entire, complex problem was now downloaded into his mind.
Sebastian's amplified voice was the only thing that mattered.
"Ten minutes have elapsed. The Quidditch Selection Tournament has officially begun."
"Contestant Number 1, mount up!"
Charlie pushed through the crowd, his mind empty of everything but the next thirty-six gates. He settled onto the polished broomstick, the wood cool and light beneath his hands. The first ring, a beautiful emerald green, pulsed with silent invitation.
He gave one final, defiant nod to the crowd. No brakes.Pure precision.
With the clock ticking and the first of thirty-six impossible targets waiting, will Charlie Weasley's high-risk piloting style deliver a record time, or will the severe penalties for contact and the Kinetic Dampeners prove too costly?