The night's torrential rain quietly stopped at dawn.
A thin mist draped gently over Hogwarts' damp lawns like a gauze curtain.
A peculiar procession wound its way out of the Castle entrance.
Leading the run were several couples from the upper years.
Between gasps, they always found a chance to exchange a gooey look or brush fingertips, sweat and hormones fermenting in the morning mist as they turned the morning run into a kind of public dating ritual.
Carefully sandwiched in the middle of the procession was a large group of sleepy-eyed first-years with unusually determined expressions.
Their little faces were flushed and they were panting, but the sacred flame of devotion to their houses burned in their eyes.
The older students behind them all wore knowing, mischievous smiles.
They watched the first-years' solemn expressions of "I'm fighting for my house's survival," enjoying one of the few pleasures of the start of term.
In the latter half of the procession, the scene changed abruptly.
A group of serious-looking students moved their lips silently and traced complex patterns in the air with their fingers, practicing the mouth movements and gestures for nonverbal spells as they jogged.
This was Professor Holmes' recommended method of making efficient use of spare moments.
In the professor's words, "I expect you to become a new generation of competitive overachievers!"
And at the very back came the most rugged-looking group of all.
Neville Longbottom ran at the front, followed by the members of the Swiftwind Sword Club, each with a practice longsword strapped to their back, its metal hilt gleaming cold and hard in the morning light.
Their strides were steady and powerful, their breaths even and deep; clearly, they already treated a warm-up of this intensity as a daily morning ritual to wake their bodies.
Behind