The wind whipped through Draconia's hair as she levitated a few inches above the grass to survey the mess of bodies below. It was a Tuesday morning, and the air felt damp against her skin. Most of the prospective players were already hovering in nervous clusters, their broomsticks twitching in their hands. She watched a boy in the distance nearly tip himself over because he was too busy staring at the Slytherin stands. Draconia felt a familiar, sharp prickle of irritation in her chest. These people were not all equal, and she was not in a mood to pretend they were.
"Line up!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chatter of the crowd. She didn't wait for them to settle, because she hated waiting. She descended to the turf, her boots hitting the grass with a solid thud. "If you can't even keep your balance while standing still, you have no business being on a broom."
A few people laughed nervously, but most simply looked at their feet. Draconia scanned the faces, looking for a spark of something useful. She saw plenty of ambition, but ambition without talent was just a loud way to be disappointed. Most of these applicants looked like they spent more time studying their charms than actually flying. She needed a team that could function as a single organism, not a collection of individuals trying to look impressive.
"You, in the green tie, come forward," she commanded, pointing at a tall, lanky boy who looked like he might faint. "Can you catch a Quaffle without looking like a startled owl?"
"I think so, Draconia," the boy stammered, his face flushing.
"Don't think, just do it," she snapped. She watched him fly upward, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He was mediocre at best, but he had enough stamina to hold a position, which made him a functional part of the machine. She made a mental note to keep him as a reserve, just in case.
Greta drifted closer to her, hovering a few feet above the grass. The Beater was one of the few people Draconia actually respected because Greta was predictable. She was a force of nature, all muscle and blunt force, and she never tried to be anything other than what she was. "They look a bit pathetic today, don't they?" Greta asked, her voice casual.
"They are pathetic," Draconia replied, watching a girl stumble through a basic jinx-dodging manoeuvre. "It is a constant struggle to find anyone who isn't a complete waste of space."
"Be nice, or you'll scare them off before the season even starts," Greta teased, though she didn't sound like she meant it.
Draconia ignored the advice and turned her attention to a smaller girl who was diving with surprising speed. The girl was fast, but her turns were too wide, leaving her vulnerable to a well-timed Bludger. Draconia watched the way she gripped her broom, noting the tension in her forearms. There was a lack of finesse there, a certain roughness that would make her a liability in a tight formation. Draconia felt a surge of disdain for the girl's lack of control.
"Next!" Draconia called out, her eyes never leaving the pitch. She didn't want to spend the whole morning here, but she knew that a weak team meant a weak season. The Slytherin streak was seven years old, and she had no intention of being the one to break it. The pressure of the cup was something she wore like a second skin, invisible to everyone else but heavy on her shoulders.
A boy with thick glasses flew past, nearly clipping her shoulder. He looked terrified, his eyes wide and darting. Draconia watched him descend, her lip curling in a tiny, almost imperamental sneer. He had the raw speed, but he had no sense of spatial awareness. He was a hazard to himself and everyone else. She wanted people who could read the pitch, not just react to it.
"The way you fly is like a wounded Kneazle," Draconia said as the boy landed. The boy looked as though he wanted to melt into the grass. "You have the speed, but you have no direction. Do you always fly like you're afraid of the ground?"
"I... I'm trying, Draconia," the boy muttered, rubbing his neck.
"Trying is for people who don't know how to succeed," she retorted. She didn't care if she sounded harsh; she was being efficient. Efficiency was better than politeness in a sport where a single second determined the winner.
She moved through the crowd, picking through the ranks of the hopefuls with a surgeon's precision. She saw the talent, but she also saw the flaws. She saw the way the light caught the sweat on their brows and the way their hands trembled when they reached for a Quaffle. It was a tedious process, sorting the wheat from the chaff, but she was the one who would have to live with their mistakes.
"Move to the left, you're blocking the sunlight," she told a boy who was standing in her path. He scrambled away, looking embarrassed. Draconia didn't give him a second glance. She was already looking past him, focused on a girl who was demonstrating a perfect spiral.
The girl was good, certainly. She had the grace of a seasoned player, her broom moving as an extension of her body. But Draconia noticed the way she hesitated before every high-speed turn. It was a minute delay, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye, but Draconia saw it. The girl was playing it safe, and in a real match, playing it safe was a death sentence.
"You're too cautious," Draconia told the girl after she finished her demonstration.
The girl blinked, her expression a mask of confusion. "Cautious? I thought it was a perfect turn."
"It was perfect for a practice session," Draconia said, her voice flat. "It won't be perfect when a Bludger is aimed at your head. You need to stop thinking and start feeling the air."
She watched as the girl tried again, her movements more aggressive this time. It was a start, but it wasn't enough. Draconia felt a sense of lonely superiority as she watched them struggle. She was always a step ahead of everyone else, a realization that brought her both satisfaction and a certain kind of isolation. She was not just playing a game; she was perfecting a craft.
The morning dragged on, the sun climbing higher in the sky. The pitch was a sea of movement, of flying bodies and the constant, rhythmic thud of Quaffles being caught and thrown. Draconia stood at the edge of the fray, her eyes scanning for anything that could actually serve the team. She saw the potential in a few, but most of it was buried under layers of nerves and incompetence.
"You're being a bit of a tyrant today," Greta said, drifting back toward her. "They're terrified of you."
"They should be," Draconia replied, her gaze fixed on a particularly clumsy Chaser. "If they're afraid of a few words, they'll crumble under the first real hit."
"You're hard on them," Greta noted, a small smile playing on her lips.
"I am honest," Draconia corrected. She didn't see the point in sugarcoating the truth. The truth was that most of them were mediocre, and she had no time for mediocrity. She wanted a team that could fly with the same precision she used to navigate the corridors of the castle.
She watched a boy attempt a particularly difficult dive, only to lose his grip and tumble toward the grass. He regained his balance at the last second, but the clumsiness had been glaring. Draconia felt a twitch of annoyance in her jaw. It was the same old story: a lot of effort