Zacharias

Sweat rolled down his forehead before being whipped off by the strong, cold winds fighting for dominance tonight over the Quidditch Pitch.

A deep dodge, an artful taunt-- followed by a long and swooping 180 turn.

Behind him: the sharp clap of his green cape as the pressure cut their corners back, the roar of looming clouds overhead.

A small round yellow glint just there!, above the horizon line, 10 meters off!

Straight as an arrow, he went for the gold.

5 meters.

Racing now, chest leaning low into the broom, one hand outstretched as his own nails directly scratched at the surface of the sound barrier.

One more meter..