Draco Malfoy

Draco Malfoy stood at the edge of the launch pad, leaning casually against the railing. His silver pegasus, Argent, beat its wing impatiently against the ground, as if sharing his master's impatience. Below, the crowd bustled: some were placing bets, others were shouting the names of the favorites, but Draco could hear only the roar of the wind and the beating of his own heart.

He glanced at the starting line. One figure stood out among the riders: Evelina Rain. Her dark pegasus was almost a shadow against the bright morning sky. She adjusted her helmet, glanced quickly at Draco, and smiled faintly. It was a smile that struck a chord with him.

"She thinks she can compete with me?" flashed through Malfoy's mind. He knew her reputation: agile, fast, with a keen sense of the air. But reputation is not victory.

The judge raised his hand, counting down the seconds until the start. Draco gripped the reins, feeling the excitement boiling in his blood. He didn't just have to win—he had to prove that the title of best rider was rightfully his.

"Let him hope for luck," he thought, looking straight at Evelina. "Luck will be on my side today."

The whistle blew sharply, like the crack of a whip. The pegasi soared into the air.