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.
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..