Silence blanketed the pitch like frost.
High above the field, Lucian Thornwick hovered calmly, the Golden Snitch secured between his fingers. Its tiny wings buzzed in futile protest—the only sound in a stadium stunned beyond speech.
Then—
Click.
Oliver Wood's stopwatch slipped from his trembling hand and dropped into the grass.
That tiny sound shattered everything.
Wood's chest heaved. His shoulders shook—not with fear, but with an overwhelming surge of triumph that felt too large for his body to contain.
His face flushed crimson.
His eyes locked onto Lucian like a knight beholding a prophesied champion.
"Did you see that?!" Wood roared hoarsely, voice cracking under the force of emotion.
He pointed skyward with a shaking arm.
"Did you ALL see that?!"
His voice exploded into a thunderous shout that rolled across the pitch.
"That—" he bellowed, "—is Gryffindor's ace!"
"With him, the Cup is ours! Ours!"
The silence detonated into a storm.
Cheers erupted with such force that the goal hoops trembled.
"Gryffindor!"
"Lucian!"
"We're winning this year!"
Angelina, Katie, and Alicia threw their arms around each other, half-laughing, half-sobbing in disbelief. Even seasoned players felt like first-years again, giddy at the inevitability of victory.
Above, Fred and George finally lowered their bats.
They exchanged a look.
Shock lingered—but so did admiration.
Fred gave a short breath of a laugh. "I retract everything I said."
George grinned. "We might need to invent a new definition of 'fast.'"
Then they raised their voices and joined the celebration louder than anyone.
Lucian descended slowly, the emerald afterglow fading around him.
He handed the Snitch to Wood without ceremony.
No grin.
No boast.
Just quiet composure.
As though what had just occurred was merely confirmation of data.
And then he walked away, leaving a team reborn in confidence behind him.
Match Day
By the time the long-awaited match arrived, Hogwarts pulsed with electric anticipation.
Gryffindor versus Slytherin was never merely a game.
It was pride. History. Rivalry sharpened to an edge.
And this year, one name had transformed anticipation into legend:
Lucian Thornwick.
Scarlet and gold banners clashed visually with waves of green and silver. The stands shook with chants and whistles. Even the professors' section was filled.
Professor McGonagall gripped her hat tightly, composed but visibly tense.
Snape stood with arms folded, expression cool—but his gaze never left the players' entrance.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with unmistakable curiosity.
Lee Jordan's amplified voice boomed across the stadium.
"Welcome, witches and wizards, to the most exciting match of the season!"
"Entering the pitch—Gryffindor!"
Wood led his team into the sunlight, determination etched across every face.
Moments later, Slytherin strode in.
Taller on average. Broader. Moving not in formation, but with swagger.
At their head—Marcus Flint.
Large. Rough-featured. Confidence bordering on arrogance radiated from him like heat.
Instead of heading to his side of the field, Flint veered toward Gryffindor.
He stopped three steps from Lucian.
The stadium quieted slightly.
Flint looked him over slowly, deliberately.
"So," he drawled, voice thick with disdain, "you're the 'genius.'"
He emphasized the word like it tasted sour.
"Don't think flashy tricks win matches."
He stepped closer, casting a shadow.
"Out here, it's power that counts. Strength. Impact."
Behind him, Slytherin players snickered loudly.
To them, rumors of self-created magic and wind-flight sounded like exaggerated fairy tales.
Quidditch, in their philosophy, was simple.
Hit harder.
Fly faster.
Intimidate first.
Lucian did not respond.
He did not bristle.
He did not glare.
He simply looked at Flint as one might observe passing weather.
The absence of reaction struck harder than any retort.
Flint's smirk faltered.
The Slytherin captain felt it—an inexplicable sense that his intimidation had dissolved into nothing upon contact.
Lucian's voice, when it came, was calm.
"Strength without precision wastes energy."
A small pause.
"And collision," he added evenly, "is usually the result of insufficient control."
Flint's jaw tightened.
The crowd murmured.
Wood, behind Lucian, straightened with renewed fire.
The referee's whistle pierced the tension.
Players mounted their brooms.
The match was about to begin.
And for the first time, even Slytherin felt it—
This would not be a normal game.
Because the sky itself no longer belonged to them.
It belonged to Lucian Thornwick.