The library was quiet, save for the scratching of quills and the occasional rustle of parchment. Alister sat at his usual table, a stack of heavy tomes on runic stability pushed to the side. He had decided to take a brief tactical break from his heavy research to understand the local culture. If he was to operate effectively in this world, he needed to understand what occupied the minds of the populace.
According to his observations, the single most consuming topic for the student body—aside from exams—was Quidditch.
He pulled a slender, green-bound book titled Quidditch Through the Ages toward him. He opened it, expecting to find a strategic breakdown of aerial combat maneuvers or team coordination tactics.
Instead, as he read the first few pages, his left eye developed a violent, involuntary twitch.
He stared at the page, rereading the paragraph to ensure his translation matrix hadn't malfunctioned.
"The Golden Snitch: Catching the Snitch earns the Seeker's team 150 points and ends the game."
Alister lowered the book slowly. He ran a quick calculation. In a game where a standard goal scored by a Chaser was worth 10 points, the Snitch was worth fifteen goals.
Unless the opposing team was dominating by a massive margin—which suggested a complete failure of matchmaking—the actions of the Chasers, Beaters, and Keepers were statistically irrelevant. The game was essentially two people playing tag while twelve others flew around as set dressing.
It was a tactical nightmare. It rendered 85% of the team redundant.
He flipped the page, hoping for a redeeming clause.
"The game does not end until the Snitch is caught, or by mutual team agreement. The longest recorded game of Quidditch lasted three months."
The twitch in his eye worsened. Three months?
How did they handle sleep deprivation? Nutrition? Bathroom breaks? Did the crowd just sit there? A "sport" with no time limit wasn't a competition; it was a siege. It was a test of endurance where the victory condition was entirely disconnected from the primary flow of gameplay.
He flipped to the section on Fouls.
"There are 700 known Quidditch fouls listed in the Department of Magical Games and Sports records. All of them are known to have occurred during the final of the first World Cup in 1473."
Alister stared at the number. 700.
How could a referee enforce 700 rules? It was bureaucratic insanity. It suggested a game that had been patched together over centuries by drunk wizards with no concept of game design or standardized regulation.
Alister slammed the book shut. The noise echoed in the quiet library, earning him a sharp glare from Madam Pince.
He rubbed his temples. He understood that the wizarding world lacked the myriad entertainment options of the modern Muggle world, leaving them with only magic duels and this... flying circus. But still, the lack of logic was offensive.
He pushed the book away as if it were contaminated. He would respect the skill of flying—the broom was a useful tool—but he would never respect a game where the most optimal strategy for the Chasers was to simply stop playing and help the Seeker look for the shiny ball.
"Idiots," he muttered under his breath, turning back to his runes. "The whole world is run by idiots."
But halfway through, a thought struck him.
In his past life, he had seen soldiers training. He remembered Muggle obstacle courses—brutal, efficient tracks designed to test speed, agility, and spatial awareness. He thought of the urban sport of parkour, where the environment itself was the opponent.
Why not apply that to flying?
A race not determined by a golden winged walnut, but by pure piloting skill. A three-dimensional aerial gauntlet filled with moving obstacles, tight tunnels, and sudden hazards.
The idea crystallized instantly.
It was perfect. It wasn't just a better sport; it was a Trojan Horse for his own training.
To build such a course, he would need to reshape the environment. He would need to transfigure clouds into solid platforms, turn air into rushing tunnels, and animate static objects into moving hazards. It would require Tier 2 and eventually Tier 3 Transfiguration on a massive scale.
If he did this on his own, he'd be expelled for endangering students. But if he pitched it as a "Flight Training Course" to improve the Hogwarts Quidditch teams...
He thought of Professor McGonagall. She was strict, stern, and tolerated no nonsense. But she was also a fanatic when it came to Quidditch. If he could convince her that this course would produce better flyers for the school, she wouldn't just allow it—she would sanction his use of advanced magic to build it. She might even tutor him personally to ensure the "safety" of the obstacles.
It was a brilliant way to grind his Transfiguration proficiency in plain sight, under the guidance of a master, with full school approval.
Alister stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. He strode over to the reference section and pulled out a large, detailed map of the Hogwarts grounds. He returned to his table, spread a fresh roll of parchment over the map, and dipped his quill in ink.
His mind, a perfect engine of computation, began to overlay a geometric nightmare onto the blueprint of entire hogwarts.
For three days, Alister barely slept. He operated in a fugue state of pure creation, his quill moving across parchment with the speed and precision of a sewing machine. He didn't just map obstacles; he mapped the airflow around the towers, the structural integrity of the bridges, and the magical density of the lake's surface.
He fed the raw data—distances, angles, magical stress points—into the Ascension System. Where a team of seasoned magical architects would have spent months arguing over load-bearing spells and spatial coordinates, the System crunched the numbers in milliseconds.
It adjusted the scale, corrected the trajectory of the high-speed turns, and calculated the exact magical output required to sustain a transfigured tunnel of wind through the Viaduct.
By the evening of the third day, the task was done.
What would have taken an ordinary wizard six months of agonizing calculation lay finished before him.
Alister sat back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. His desk in the dormitory was buried under piles of rolled parchment. It wasn't just a map; it was a comprehensive instruction manual for turning the entire castle grounds into a high-speed, lethal obstacle course.
He picked up the master sheet. It showed a route that started at the Quidditch pitch, dove through the arches of the stone bridge, spiraled around the Astronomy Tower, skimmed the surface of the Black Lake, and wove through the edge of the Forbidden Forest before returning to the start.
It was a "Sky-Parkour" track designed to test every facet of a flyer's skill—and more importantly, it was a project that would require massive, sustained Transfiguration to build and maintain.
He organized the piles into a neat stack, his movements precise despite his fatigue. He had the plan. Now, he needed the permission.
For that he changed his plan, Professor McGonagall was a Quidditch enthusiast, yes, but she was also a strict disciplinarian who valued rules and safety. There was a high probability she would reject the proposal simply because a first-year shouldn't be reshaping the school grounds.
Albus Dumbledore, on the other hand, was a Tier 3 master, a whimsical eccentric, and the ultimate authority. If the Headmaster approved it, McGonagall couldn't argue.
Alister nodded to himself. He would go straight to the top.
But first, his body demanded restitution. He collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When he woke, the sun was high in the sky. He glanced at the clock—it was noon. He had slept through his morning Charms class. He felt a brief flicker of concern, then dismissed it. He had already mastered Wingardium Leviosa to a level that exceeded Flitwick's curriculum. Attending the class just to wave a feather around was a waste of resources.
Geniuses, he reasoned, had privileges.
(A/N: which his creator never had (T_T) )
He washed up quickly and dressed in fresh robes, ensuring his appearance was immaculate. He placed the heavy stack of parchment into his magically expanded pocket and left the dormitory.
He made his way through the shifting staircases up to the seventh floor. The castle was quiet, with most students and staff gathered in the Great Hall for lunch.
He walked the length of the corridor where the Headmaster's tower was supposed to be. He saw a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet. He saw a suit of armor that squeaked. He saw solid stone walls.
He did not see a door.
He walked the corridor again. And again. He scanned the walls with his magical sight, but the entrance was cloaked in heavy concealment charms that his current level couldn't pierce.
He paced the floor for the fourth time, his patience wearing thin. He stopped in front of a large, ugly stone gargoyle, letting out a frustrated sigh.
Just as he was about to give up and return to the common room to rethink his approach, the ugly stone gargoyle he had been staring at suddenly sprang to life. It didn't speak, but with a grinding sound of stone on stone, it leaped aside, revealing a gap in the wall behind it.
A moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, slowly ascending like a corkscrew.
Alister stiffened, his hand instinctively twitching toward his wand. He hadn't spoken a password. He hadn't cast a spell. The passage had opened on its own. His instincts screamed trap, but his analytical mind argued that if someone wanted him dead, he wouldn't be able to do it with this obvious trap.
He stepped onto the moving stairs warily, his body tense, ready to react to any threat. The staircase carried him upward in smooth, spiraling circles until he reached a gleaming oak door with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.
Before he could knock, the door swung open silently.
Alister stepped into a vast, circular room. It was filled with curious silver instruments that whirred and puffed smoke, and the walls were lined with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently.
Sitting behind a massive, claw-footed desk was Albus Dumbledore. He was looking at the entrance with a pleasant smile, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, his voice light and welcoming. "I watched you pacing the corridor for quite some time on my Omnioculars. I couldn't very well let such an enthusiastic young wizard return empty-handed, could I? Persistence should be rewarded."
Alister stood straight, masking his surprise. The old man had been watching him. "Headmaster," he acknowledged with a respectful nod. "I apologize for the intrusion."
"Nonsense, nonsense," Dumbledore waved a hand airily. "I was just enjoying a little mid-day treat. Care to join me?"
He picked up a golden bowl from his desk and extended it toward Alister. "Cockroach Cluster? They are quite delightful this time of year."
Alister looked into the bowl. Inside were large, brown lumps of chocolate that were shaped, with disturbing realism, exactly like giant cockroaches. He could see the textured wings, the little antennae, and the spindly legs frozen in chocolate.
A drop of cold sweat trickled down the back of Alister's neck. He had faced death on the battlefield. He had brewed poisons. He had dissected dark magic. But the sight of those realistic, crunchable insects made his stomach do a slow, sickly flip.
"I... will decline, Headmaster," Alister said, his voice tight. "I've just eaten."
"More for me then," Dumbledore chirped happily, popping one into his mouth. A loud, sickening crunch echoed through the silent office.
Alister tried very hard not to twitch.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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