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The days slid past on a taut wire.
By the weekend, the pent-up tension at Hogwarts finally found its release valve on the Quidditch pitch.
If the dungeons and towers belonged to private schemes and quiet suffering, then the sunlit field today was pure public catharsis.
Lucian stood alone in the shadowed fringe of the stands.
Far off, the Gryffindor and Slytherin sections were sharply divided. After the corridor bloodbath, the bad blood had hardened into open hostility. Slytherin banners mocked Gryffindor's one-hundred-sixty-point hole; the Gryffindor stands simmered like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
A sharp whistle of brooms slicing air overhead.
Fred and George Weasley hovered on Cleansweeps, one on each side, Beater bats slung over their shoulders. The usual mischief was gone from their eyes—replaced by awkward guilt.
"Look at that, George. Our unlucky Ravenclaw mate."
"Yeah, Fred. Seeing him lurking in the shadows is breaking this stone heart of mine."
The twins exchanged a glance; their brooms dipped lower.
The corridor mess had caught Lucian too—collateral damage that landed him in the hospital wing.
Gryffindor's points might be in the negatives, but for these two brothers—who hid soft hearts behind nonstop jokes—dragging an innocent bystander into their house's disaster clearly weighed on them.
"About the other night, mate." Fred scratched his red hair, dropping the banter. "Even though Malfoy started it, our lot dragged you into the mess."
"Sorry, Ashford." George shifted the bat on his shoulder, sincere. "After the match, we'll send you a full box of the latest Dungbombs as apology—if you don't mind the smell."
"Save the apologies. Focus on the trouble overhead."
Lucian tilted his chin toward center field. "The referee doesn't look inclined to make this easy for you."
The twins followed his gaze.
Severus Snape—black robes billowing—strode onto the grass. Without ceremony he kicked open the match box. Bludgers and Quaffle shot skyward.
"Merlin's beard! That old bat!" Fred cursed.
"Thanks, Ravenclaw! We'll deliver on that apology!" George shouted.
They yanked their brooms up and dove into the fray.
Lucian let the moment pass without comment. His attention locked onto a fleeting golden flicker—almost impossible to track.
The Golden Snitch.
Legend said the earliest Quidditch games hadn't used a Snitch at all—just a small golden bird called a Golden Snidget.
But hunting Snidgets became so popular the species nearly vanished and was declared near-extinct.
Eventually the skilled metalsmith Bowman Wright crafted the mechanical replacement: a Snitch of identical weight, with articulated wings that mimicked a bird's precise, lightning-fast maneuvers.
Rumor held that in 1884, on Bodmin Moor, one Snitch evaded capture for six whole months. The two teams eventually gave up in disgust. Some Cornish wizards still swore the thing was out there—wild and free.
To Lucian, though, the Snitch wasn't hard to follow at all.
The sky was cloudless. That fast-moving magical signature stood out like a beacon.
"This magical pattern…" He narrowed his eyes.
The Snitch's energy structure resembled a Kinetoplast—a rhomboidal, mesh-like topology with high fault tolerance. Even partial breaks left the whole frame intact under stress. That gave the little ball its incredible durability, blistering speed, and razor-sharp changes of direction.
A perfect inspiration struck.
If he could extract and etch that rhomboid lattice onto his own silent wings… By the principle of magical homology—where the innate talents of magical creatures, wizards' spells, and alchemical artifacts all shared the same underlying logic—a single feather retraced with that pattern could revolutionize flight speed and maneuverability.
A genuinely valuable research path.
While he was lost in alchemical daydreams, the match took a sharp turn.
Snape began intervening shamelessly. He docked Gryffindor points on absurd pretexts and blatantly ignored Slytherin fouls.
The crowd's rage ignited.
Nearby in the stands, Ron and Draco Malfoy were suddenly trading punches over a single taunt—fists connecting hard.
Right beside them, Hermione sat motionless. No reaction at all.
At the absolute peak of the chaos—
Harry Potter slammed his broom into a screaming dive.
He pulled up inches from the grass, arm outstretched.
The golden flicker vanished into his closed fist.
For one stunned heartbeat the cursing and screaming stopped.
Then red swallowed green.
"GRYFFINDOR WINS!"
Lee Jordan's voice cracked over the Amplifying Charm, echoing across the pitch. "One hundred and fifty points! Potter caught the Snitch! We beat them right under Professor Snape's nose!"
The blatantly biased commentary drew no reprimand from McGonagall.
In the stands, fighting students froze. Ron shoved Malfoy aside, forgetting his bruised mouth, and waved his arms like a madman.
Lucian watched from the shadows.
"Twisted path… but still forced to the same ending."
Even with his interference—Gryffindor's points in the red, cracks forming in the trio—the decisive heroic moment had arrived precisely on cue.
Not manipulation this time.
Extreme luck—gifted straight to the Savior's hand.
Just then his gaze drifted to the field's edge.
A large figure was slipping away.
Rubeus Hagrid.
Normally the die-hard Gryffindor fan would be sobbing and charging down to hug Harry after a win like this.
Today he looked furtive. That enormous moleskin coat bulged suspiciously at the front. He didn't even stop to congratulate Harry—just hurried toward his hut at the forest's edge.
Lucian caught the faint, searing magical signature.
Ancient. Furious. Teetering on the edge of hatching.
Norwegian Ridgeback.