By the end of October, the wind began to bite, and so did the madness.

  It started with a breakfast announcement, which, in Hogwarts fashion, came courtesy of Dumbledore casually rising from his golden throne like a kindly god preparing to drop a dragon into the tea party.

  “My dear students,” he began, with that serene voice that always managed to carry across the entire Great Hall without ever seeming raised. “As the leaves fall and the air sharpens, so too does the anticipation for our most treasured tradition…”

  Jake immediately dropped his spoon. “It’s Quidditch. He’s announcing Quidditch.”

  Dumbledore continued, “However—this year, there shall be a slight change to our aerial festivities. Madam Hooch, in coordination with the Heads of Houses, has proposed an experimental bracket.”

  A hush. Even the ghosts were listening.

  “In addition to our traditional inter-house Quidditch Cup for upper years, we will also be hosting first-year house teams.”

  The Hall erupted.

  Jake practically screamed. “OH MY—CAELUM—DID YOU HEAR THAT? THEY’RE LETTING US PLAY. US!”

  I blinked at him. “Yes, I heard. I’ve been sitting two inches from your exploding lungs.”

  Across the tables, simir chaos unfolded. First-years from Slytherin were already puffing themselves up like serpents in heat. Ravencws whipped out notebooks, presumably plotting aerodynamic strategies. Hufflepuffs just looked vaguely terrified.

  And Gryffindors?

  They were already fighting over positions.

  By afternoon, Madam Hooch had commandeered the noticeboards. One massive parchment nailed across the Gryffindor common room:

  GRYFFINDOR FIRST-YEAR QUIDDITCH TRIALS – THIS FRIDAY AT DUSKPositions avaible: 3 Chasers, 1 Seeker, 2 Beaters, 1 Keeper.

  ALL hopefuls to report with their own brooms OR a school broom. No exceptions.

  And beneath that, in a neat, iron-penned scrawl:

  “Skill will not be judged by blood or name. Only by air.” — M. Hooch

  Jake was vibrating.

  “I’m trying out. I have to. My dad always said I had great reflexes. I once caught a Bludger to the face and didn’t cry.”

  “That expins a lot,” Desmond muttered.

  Nathaniel was quieter but already reviewing pys in a borrowed textbook. He wanted Keeper. “It’s chess in the sky,” he told me. “Which is poetic, if you think about it.”

  “I try not to,” I replied.

  I didn’t try out.

  Not because I couldn’t fly — I could. I understood momentum, vectors, timing. That wasn’t the problem.

  I just didn’t care.

  Why fling yourself through the sky chasing balls when you could be in the library rewriting the Aparecium charm to reveal more than just invisible ink?

  Let Jake fly.

  Let Desmond break things with bats.

  Let Nathaniel study wind trajectories like a nerd on a broom.

  I would watch.

  Friday. Dusk. Quidditch pitch.

  Cold wind. Blood-orange sky. First-years herded together like overconfident ducklings.

  Madam Hooch stood center field in her sharp whistle-bzer, her short silver hair whipped to one side like a knife edge. If McGonagall was the cat that judged your soul, Hooch was the hawk who pierced it.

  “All right, little lions,” she barked. “Line up by position.”

  Jake was already doing pushups. I had no idea why.

  The stands were empty, save for a few curious upper-years and some professors. But I saw McGonagall there. Watching. Not just supervising — evaluating. She leaned slightly forward, murmuring to herself and taking notes.

  “Don’t think she came just for moral support,” I said to Nathaniel as we passed.

  “She’s scouting,” he murmured.

  Indeed she was.

  The tryouts began.

  Jake soared.

  He didn’t fly — he unched. He was reckless, manic, borderline dangerous. But he had raw, maddening instinct. He stole a Quaffle mid-spiral from a girl twice his size, grinned like an idiot, and nearly crashed into a goalpost.

  “JAAAAKE DAWSON, YOU MAD LAD!” someone screamed.

  Madam Hooch scribbled something down. She didn’t look impressed. But she was watching.

  Desmond’s turn as Beater looked more like war. The Bludger didn’t know what hit it — mostly because it was him, hitting it like it owed him galleons. His bat snapped once. He asked for another.

  Nathaniel, by contrast, was all precision. He blocked goals not with fir but calcution. He moved like he was solving a riddle midair. Quiet. Unshakable. Exactly the sort of Keeper you never notice until they win you the match.

  Me?

  I sat in the stands with Kuro on my shoulder, notebook in hand, tracking their moves, drawing parallels between flight paths and runic diagrams.

  Jake called it “nerding out.”

  I called it “learning from the sky.”

  Afterward, Madam Hooch blew her whistle so hard I thought a window shattered somewhere in Hogsmeade.

  “That’s it! Results will be posted by Sunday. Until then — don’t break your necks trying to impress the air.”

  As everyone dismounted, sweating and sore, McGonagall approached. She didn’t smile. But she did speak.

  “To those of you who actually used your brains in the air,” she said softly, “well done. To the rest—try to remember the goal isn’t to die with style.”

  Jake bowed. “Then I have failed you, Professor.”

  She ignored him.

  Back in the common room, the air was feverish. Jake was already drawing diagrams on napkins. Desmond started carving a new bat handle. Nathaniel was reviewing past match statistics. First-years buzzed with specution.

  And me?

  I opened my spellbook.

  Because while they fought for the sky, I was still mastering the shadows beneath it.

  Still — part of me wondered.

  If I ever did fly again… would I see my enemies faster?

  Would the wind bend around my eyes?

  Would I catch everything?

  I closed the book.

  And made a note:

  “Watch the game. Even when you don’t py — the world teaches you when to fly.”

  [End of Chapter 12]