Charlie Weasley, the Gryffindor Captain, launched from the ground like a cannonball. He stamped his foot with such force that the practice broom, enchanted to provide uniform thrust, shuddered slightly before rocketing forward.
Sebastian, watching his trajectory on the primary obsidian scoreboard, allowed himself a flicker of pure, professional admiration. The boy flew with a reckless, beautiful commitment—a fluid, instinctive dancer on the wind.
After swiftly adjusting the magnification on a monitoring charm, Sebastian turned his attention to the next aspirant.
"Contestant Number 2," he called, addressing a nervous Slytherin Chaser waiting by the starting line.
"Your readiness protocol is non-negotiable. Once Mr. Weasley successfully clears Halo Number 12 on the far side of the lake, your own Halo Number 1 will receive the initiation signal. Proceed only when the green light is confirmed. No premature launches, understood?"
The young Slytherin, who looked more like he was preparing for an irreversible potions accident than a flight, nodded vigorously.
"Perfectly clear, Professor. I've studied the Sequential Activation Protocol on the Scoreboard's reverse. My strategy is optimized for the later segments, allowing me to observe Mr. Weasley's initial kinetic compensation profile."
The Slytherin's calculating, almost detached tone was a stark contrast to Charlie's current, wind-whipped euphoria.
Charlie, meanwhile, was experiencing the purest form of aerial challenge. The wind howled past his ears, threatening to tear the fabric of his robes, but his focus was absolute.
He was struggling, not against the broom, but against the insidious gravitational pull of the Inertial Dampening Charms Sebastian had woven into the course. These charms demanded constant, minute corrections that strained his core and forearms.
He flawlessly threaded the needle through the tight vertical cluster of rings 8, 9, and 10, executing a sharp, vertical ascent. The moment he cleared 10, his body instinctively adjusted, dipping his weight forward and calculating the impending nightmare: Halo Number 11.
This halo was Sebastian's first true aptitude gate. It required a terrifying, high-speed dive followed by a sudden, massive vertical flare to avoid sinking into the icy Black Lake, which sat mere inches below the hoop's perimeter.
No time to hesitate. Hesitation is the enemy of velocity, Charlie's inner voice screamed. He didn't slow; he accelerated. He flattened himself against the wood, becoming a literal arrow, hurtling downward from fifty feet. His eyes were locked on the shimmering green target.
Closer... Closer...
At the absolute last possible millisecond—just as the dark, cold spray of the lake surface began to mist his face—Charlie executed the most violent vertical jerk of his life. His arms strained, his muscles screamed, and the broomstick bit upward, converting kinetic energy into a breathtaking arc.
He passed through Halo 11 cleanly.
The momentum carried him in a blinding low skim across the water, the broomstick's tail almost dragging a wake before he pulled up into a sharp, stabilizing climb.
A deafening roar erupted from the spectators.
"He went for the full high-risk dive! He should be soaking wet right now!" bellowed a student in disbelief.
"Ten out of ten for sheer, suicidal audacity! That was a perfect G-force pull-up!" another shouted.
Even the stoic Slytherins were moved to spontaneous applause, genuinely impressed by the sheer, unadulterated spectacle of Charlie's move. The Gryffindor Captain's flight was not just accurate; it was performative.
As Charlie threaded the high, tricky series of rings 13, 14, and 15, the scoreboard registered his passing of Halo Number 12, and the Slytherin contestant, Number 2, shot forward to begin his own calculated run.
Professor McGonagall, who had watched Charlie's near-water skim with a hand pressed firmly to her chest, now approached Sebastian, her frown one of deep, intellectual confusion rather than disapproval.
"Sebastian," she stated, gesturing toward the towering Scoreboard.
"The boy is clearly an exceptional flyer; his total elapsed time will speak for itself. But why the overwhelming complexity of the data display? Look at the second column—it's detailing the temporal micro-fluctuations between every single hoop pair. We are recording not just the total time, but the time taken to traverse the two-hundred feet between Halo 19 and 20, versus the two-hundred feet between 25 and 26. Why not simply record the final overall score, as is traditional?"
All the Quidditch captains and the more academically inclined students craned their necks, keenly anticipating Sebastian's answer. The Professor is asking the real question, they thought. Why this level of meticulous detail?
Sebastian steepled his hands, his expression shifting from detached observer to passionate lecturer.
"Professor McGonagall, the traditional method—a single, final time—is a terrible, archaic diagnostic tool," Sebastian asserted. "It only tells you who is fastest, but not why they are fastest, or more importantly, where their critical flaws lie."
He gestured to the scrolling data beside Charlie's name. "Observe the data between Halo 23, 24, and 25. That sequence demands sustained, small-radius, rapid vertical corrections—a direct simulation of a Seeker maneuvering tightly through a crowded pitch. Charlie's traversal time there slowed by nearly fifteen percent compared to his straight-line speed between Halos 5 and 6."
"What does this reveal? It shows that Charlie Weasley, despite his phenomenal straight-line velocity and daring dives, has a weakness in sustained, rapid-fire kinetic compensation. If I told Charlie his rapid turns were subpar, he would argue. He would say, 'I am the Captain, my turns are fine.' However, with this unassailable objective data—with his own numbers showing a fifteen percent slump in that specific skill—the argument becomes pointless. The data forces him to confront his weakness."
Sebastian smiled, a slightly predatory, analytical smile. "This Scoreboard doesn't just rank them, Professor. It provides a highly specialized training syllabus for every single player. The system doesn't rely on my subjective assessment; it relies on irrefutable temporal proof. It is the ultimate tool for self-optimization."
The explanation hit the watching captains and potential recruits with the force of a Bludger. They suddenly realized the sheer, brutal efficiency of Sebastian's approach.
This wasn't a mere tryout; it was a personalized aerial diagnostic that stripped away all ego and revealed the cold, mathematical truth of their capabilities. The concept of an "easy" elective seemed a thousand miles away. Sebastian Swann was a world-class professional, and he was demanding nothing less from them.
Fred Weasley, whose commentary usually bordered on the nonsensical, suddenly grasped the import. "It's like the Scoreboard is telling him: 'Your turns are costing you profit, Charlie! You need to reinvest in your rotational agility!'"
"Precisely!" George added, his eyes wide. "He's running an aerial auditing firm!"
Sebastian had just finished instructing Charlie to take a mandatory break—allowing his nervous system to recover before his next attempts—when a sudden, horrific sound ripped through the air: a colossal SPLOOOOSH, followed by the shrieking of spectators.
"Professor! Contestant Number 4 is down!"
Everyone turned to see a plume of frigid Black Lake water erupt near Halo 11—the same low-level danger zone Charlie had barely cleared. The broomstick, having misjudged the dive, had nose-dived into the dark water.
The unfortunate pilot, a cocky Ravenclaw who had clearly intended to emulate Charlie's high-speed attempt without the requisite skill, was sputtering in the freezing, seaweed-choked lake.
Sebastian reacted with the speed of a professional. Without moving an inch, his wand snapped out, pointing not at the boy, but at the broom, which was sinking fast.
"Ascendio Majoris!" A subtle, silvery light enveloped the broom, which instantly zipped back to the surface. Next, a simple, powerful charm was directed at the struggling student.
"Submergo Emerge!" The young wizard, propelled upward as if by an invisible geyser, shot out of the water and hung suspended in the air.
Finally, with a simple flick of his wrist, Sebastian cast the ultimate professional courtesy: the Full-Spectrum Thermal Dryer Charm. The boy's robes, hair, and entire body were instantly enveloped in a wave of sterile heat, leaving him perfectly dry, warm, and smelling faintly of ozone—but entirely, humiliatingly defeated.
The Ravenclaw, his bravado entirely washed away, grabbed his retrieved broom and meekly flew back to the starting area, his total flight time voided by the catastrophic impact.
The incident served its intended purpose. The hundreds of watching students, and the subsequent competitors, immediately adjusted their strategy from daring emulation to cautious conservatism. The stakes had been raised; the Scoreboard was not just judging speed, but ruthlessly punishing poor execution with freezing, public humiliation.
The selection process continued efficiently, guided by the precision of the Scoreboard. Sebastian was processing the results of contestant Number 28's third and final, slightly mediocre run when the familiar, inescapable duo approached again. They were no longer alone. Fred and George Weasley were flanked by two other Second Years, forming a small, highly aggressive delegation.
"Professor Swann," Fred began, adopting a tone of solemn, administrative concern. "We have observed the selection process, and we submit that there is a critical data gap in your talent pool analysis."
"Indeed, Professor," George chimed in, equally grave. "Your system is currently undervaluing future capital assets. These younger students are the feedstock for next year's recruitment drive. We are attempting to maximize the return on investment for Hogwarts Quidditch by identifying and addressing their fundamental aerial flaws now."
Sebastian sighed, looking toward Professor McGonagall, who was now smiling slightly at the twins' absurd, Sebastian-parodying language.
McGonagall stepped forward, adopting a measured, diplomatic tone. "Sebastian, I believe the boys have a point, though poorly articulated. The various House Captains, myself included, will be holding their own team tryouts next week. Allowing these Second Years to attempt your course now would provide them with valuable, objective feedback that could immediately improve their readiness for formal recruitment. It is, if you will, pre-emptive professional development."
She looked pointedly at the clock on her own watch. "Furthermore, it is only 11:16 AM. We have ample time. If you require a break from monitoring the Scoreboard, I am perfectly willing to assume supervision. It would be a fascinating exercise in data management."
Sebastian checked his own wrist, noting the time and the smooth efficiency of the earlier runs. He realized McGonagall's offer was a genuine desire to engage with his system. The chaos he had created was now drawing faculty support.
He looked at the wide, hopeful, ambitious faces of the young Weasleys and their accomplices. They weren't just asking for a turn; they were asking for a chance to validate their ambition using his own objective, mathematical metric.
Sebastian lifted his head, delivering the verdict with an air of theatrical resignation.
"Very well. I accept your sound, if entirely unsolicited, Human Capital Optimization Argument." He gestured toward the line of waiting brooms. "I will make an administrative decision to temporarily waive the Third Year enrollment requirement for this specialized training exercise."
He fixed his gaze on the elated younger students. "Perhaps—just perhaps—we will uncover a prodigy or two whose skills have been tragically latent due to their inability to fully grasp the Physics of High-Speed Muggle Dynamics. Proceed with caution. And Fred, George—no talking about Aerial Auditing during your flight, please."
The Second Years burst into delighted cheers, scrambling toward the starting line, eager to subject themselves to the harsh, unforgiving, but entirely fair judgment of Sebastian Swann's Calculus of Flight.
Now that the Second Years are being included and the difficulty of the course is established, do you think the younger students will attempt to collaborate and share their data to gain an advantage, or will the sheer competitive pressure of the scoreboard keep them focused on individual success?