The morning of December 2nd did not begin with the usual groan of waking up for classes. Instead, a current of electric excitement surged through the stone corridors of Hogwarts. The announcement had appeared on the house notice boards at dawn: ALL CLASSES CANCELLED. MANDATORY ASSEMBLY AT THE QUIDDITCH PITCH. 10:00 AM.
By mid-morning, the castle had emptied. The grounds were bursting with activity, a sea of black robes rippling across the frosted grass. Students gathered in tight, chattering knots, their breath puffing out in white clouds in the chill air. They crowded the edge of the Forbidden Forest, climbed the lower stands of the Quidditch stadium, and filled every available corner of the grounds.
The mystery that had dominated the rumor mill for six weeks—the flashing lights atop the Astronomy Tower, the strange clouds over the pitch, the rumbling from the lake—was finally about to be revealed.
Near the entrance to the Quidditch field, a massive, raised dais had been transfigured from the earth itself. It stood high above the heads of the students, draped in the banners of all four houses.
The faculty was already assembled. Professor McGonagall stood tall and proud, her tartan scarf motionless in the wind. Professor Flitwick was practically vibrating with excitement, standing on a conjured box to see over the railing. Snape stood at the back with Professor Sprout, his expression one of bored indifference. Even Hagrid was there, looming like a mountain behind the other staff, beaming with pride.
Suddenly, a brilliant flash of crimson fire erupted in the center of the platform.
A collective gasp swept through the student body. From the heart of the flame, Albus Dumbledore stepped forward, his purple robes immaculate. Fawkes, the magnificent phoenix, circled overhead once, letting out a musical cry that echoed against the castle walls before vanishing in a shower of sparks.
Dumbledore walked to the front of the platform. He scanned the hundreds of upturned faces with a calm, benevolent expression, his blue eyes twinkling with the joy of the moment.
The chatter died down instantly. The wind seemed to hold its breath.
Dumbledore slowly raised his wand, pointing the tip directly at his own throat.
"Sonorus."
Dumbledore's voice boomed across the grounds, magnified to a thunderous volume that resonated in the chests of every student.
"Welcome!" he declared, his arms spread wide. "For weeks, you have watched the skies change. You have seen clouds that breathe, towers that shift, and waters that lash out."
He gestured to the sprawling, magical obstacle course suspended above them.
"We have long treated flight as a sport," Dumbledore continued, his tone shifting to one of solemn respect. "But flight is also survival. It is precision. It is the mastery of oneself against the elements. Today, Hogwarts unveils a new tradition. A crucible designed to test the limits of your courage and your skill. I present to you... The Aerial Gauntlet."
A roar of applause swept through the crowd, though many students looked up at the swinging stone axes of Zone 2 with visible apprehension.
"This masterpiece," Dumbledore said, quieting the crowd with a gentle lowering of his hands, "as you all know, was not summoned by me, nor was it built by the Ministry. It was designed, engineered, and constructed by one of your own."
Dumbledore turned his gaze toward the entrance of the pitch, his amplified voice echoing against the distant mountains.
"The idea was proposed, designed, and constructed solely by Mr. Alister Potter"
The silence that descended upon the crowd was heavier than gravity.
Alister stepped out from the shadow of the platform. He wore a simple, aerodynamic set of black training robes, devoid of House crests. In his hand, he gripped a standard, school-issue Cleansweep Seven—a heavy, dependable broom, but hardly a racing machine. He walked with a calm, predatory grace to the center of the pitch.
He didn't look at the crowd. He mounted the broom, his eyes fixed upward on the pulsating white rings of Zone 1.
He kicked off.
The Cleansweep groaned under the sudden force, but Alister forced it upward, his body locking into a perfect aerodynamic tuck.
ZONE 1: THE VELOCITY RINGS
He hit the first ring at sixty miles per hour. The cloud-matter, solidified by his Duro charms, rushed past him like a white tunnel.
Thump-thump. The rhythm of the Oscillo charm vibrated in his chest.
The third ring was contracting. To a normal eye, it was a closing door. To Alister, it was a mathematical equation. He didn't slow down; he accelerated. He rolled the broom ninety degrees, slicing through the narrowing gap sideways just as the cloud-wall slammed shut inches behind his tail twigs.
The moisture from the transfigured mist clung to his face, cold and clammy. The G-force pressed him into the handle as he spiraled upward, threading the needle through the twisting, breathing tunnel of twenty rings. He was a bullet in a rifled barrel, shooting straight for the sky.
ZONE 2: THE CLOCKWORK TOWER
He burst out of the cloud layer, gasping for thin air, and was immediately confronted by the granite bulk of the Astronomy Tower.
The massive stone pendulums—shaped like executioner's axes—were swinging with terrifying momentum. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Alister's analytical mind engaged.
Pendulum A: Intersect in 2.1 seconds. Pendulum B: Lagging by 0.4 seconds.
He dove. He banked hard right, the stone blade of the first axe missing his left shoulder by a fraction of an inch. The wind of its passing ruffled his hair. He snapped the broom back left, weaving through the kill-zone with a violence that made the wood of his broom creak.
Then came the Shifting Wall. The bricks ground against each other, sliding in and out like a puzzle box. He saw a gap opening near the cornice—a square hole barely wider than his shoulders.
He didn't hesitate. He pulled the handle up, aiming for the hole. Just as he approached, the bricks began to slide shut. He didn't brake. He rotated his body, spinning the broom like a drill, and shot through the closing aperture. The stone scraped the fabric of his robes as he punched through to the open air on the other side.
ZONE 3: THE BLIND DESCENT
He crested the tower and looked down. There was no ground. Only the swirling, unnatural grey storm of the Nebulus fog bank.
He tipped the nose of the broom down and entered the dive.
The world vanished. The fog was absolute. Visibility dropped to zero. The enchanted wind howled, creating phantom noises—dragons roaring, thunder clapping—designed to induce panic.
Alister closed his eyes.
He shut down his vision and expanded his magical senses. He felt the air pressure shifting against his skin. He felt the resistance of the Ventus jinxes buffering his left side.
The Warrior's Instinct.
He adjusted his course by feel alone, fighting the phantom winds that tried to flip him over. He was falling in a controlled crash, a missile seeking the water. He pushed the broom faster, trusting his calculations, trusting his magic.
ZONE 4: THE HYDRA'S TRENCH
He burst out of the fog bank, the surface of the Black Lake rushing up to meet him at terminal velocity.
He pulled up. The Cleansweep screamed in protest, leveling out inches above the dark water. The spray hit his face like icy needles.
The water erupted. The Hydra Tentacles—columns of water animated by his own transfiguration—lashed out. They were mindless, snapping whips of liquid force.
Alister slalomed. He banked left, his knee skimming the water, dodging a watery hammer-blow. He pulled up, jumping over a sweeping tendril.
Ahead lay the final challenge: The Ice Tunnel. A jagged, translucent throat of frozen air suspended above the lake.
He shot inside. The sound changed instantly to a high-pitched whistling. The walls were jagged, narrowing to a claustrophobic squeeze. Reflections of himself flashed by in the ice, a blur of black robes. He could feel the cold radiating off the walls, seeking to numb his hands.
He saw the exit—a circle of light. He flattened himself against the broom handle, becoming one with the wood, and burst out into the sunlight.
He circled the pitch once, bleeding off speed, and landed in the center of the grass. His boots touched the earth with a soft thud.
The silence was absolute.
Alister stood up, his chest heaving, his hair wild, his robes damp with mist and lake water.
The silence shattered.
It wasn't a gradual build; it was an explosion. A roar of cheers, screams, and applause erupted from the grounds, a wall of sound that physically vibrated against Alister's chest. The Gryffindors were yelling, the Ravenclaws were clapping furiously, and even the Slytherins—usually so reserved—were banging their goblets against the railing of the stands.
Alister frowned slightly, confused. He had disappeared into the fog bank for thirty seconds. He had been invisible inside the ice tunnel. How could they appreciate a performance they hadn't seen?
He looked up.
Suspended high above the pitch, dwarfing even the goalposts, was a massive, shimmering screen made of condensed light and smoke. On it, a colossal, high-definition moving image of Alister himself was just fading out. It showed a close-up of his face as he burst from the ice tunnel, his eyes intense and focused, water droplets suspended in the air around him.
Alister's gaze snapped to the Headmaster's platform.
Albus Dumbledore stood at the edge, his wand lowered but still glowing with a faint, silvery light. His blue eyes were shining behind his half-moon spectacles, locking onto Alister's across the distance.
Alister understood instantly. Dumbledore had linked his own perception to a massive projection spell. He had broadcast every twist, every turn, and every near-death maneuver to the entire school in real-time.
Alister stood a little straighter. He raised his hand to wave. The crowd's volume doubled. The Aerial Gauntlet was no longer just a course; it was a legend which will be recorded as first of its kind, and Alister was its architect.
Dumbledore raised his wand once more. The tip glowed, and the deafening roar of the crowd was gently dampened, fading into an attentive silence.
"A magnificent demonstration!" Dumbledore's amplified voice boomed, his smile beaming down at Alister. "Mr. Potter has not only built a challenge; he has set a standard."
He swept his arm toward the massive, shimmering screen hovering above the pitch. The image of Alister's face dissolved, replaced by a grid of golden lines and empty slots.
"The Aerial Gauntlet is not merely for recreation," Dumbledore announced, his voice taking on a formal weight. "It is a competition. From this day forth, this screen shall serve as the Hall of Records."
He pointed to the grid.
"The names of the ten students with the fastest completion times shall be permanently displayed here for all to see. To hold a place on this board is to hold honor for your House."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the stands. A visible leaderboard. Glory.
"Furthermore," Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling dangerously, "at the End-of-Term Feast, the student who holds the record for the absolute fastest time shall be awarded the Aviator's Cup—a distinction carrying with it a reward equal in prestige to the House Cup itself."
The murmur turned into a buzz. A prize equal to the House Cup? For individual skill? The competitive spirit of every Gryffindor and Slytherin in the stadium ignited instantly.
"However," Dumbledore raised a finger, "to compete, one must be trained. It has become clear that our current curriculum does not sufficiently prepare our students for the skies."
He paused for effect.
"Therefore, I am pleased to announce that Flying Lessons will no longer be restricted to the first year. Beginning immediately, Flight and Aerial Maneuvers will become a mandatory core subject for all students from First through Fourth Year."
The stadium erupted again, but this time it was a chaotic mix of cheers from the Quidditch enthusiasts and groans from the students who preferred to keep their feet on the ground.
Dumbledore lowered his wand, the amplification spell fading, but his presence remained commanding.
Alister looked at the empty leaderboard, where his name was currently absent—he hadn't officially timed his run for the record yet. He smirked. He had created a system that would force the entire school to train, to become stronger, to push their limits.
"The change has begun," Alister whispered.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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