Slytherin's hunting strategy had collapsed into farce.
Green-robed players darted wildly between four indistinguishable Lucians, colliding with one another, shouting conflicting orders, swinging Bludgers at air.
Marcus Flint's face had turned a furious shade of purple. His roars echoed across the pitch—powerful, yet utterly ineffective.
Amid the chaos, one Slytherin remained focused.
Terence Higgs.
Unlike his teammates, Higgs ignored the confusion and locked onto a single Lucian weaving intricately between the goal hoops.
That one, he told himself fiercely. The flight pattern is complex. He's searching. That has to be the real one.
He pushed his broom to its limit and pursued relentlessly—
Never realizing he was being drawn farther and farther from the true battlefield.
Above the Storm
High above the pitch, near the cloudline, the real Lucian Thornwick hovered in absolute stillness.
The Phantom Maze had served its purpose.
Below him, Slytherin unraveled.
Above them, he watched.
Calm.
Detached.
Like a conductor observing the climax of a symphony he had already mastered.
His gaze shifted—not to Flint, not to the flailing Chasers—
—but to a flicker of gold near Gryffindor's end of the pitch.
A tiny, erratic spark.
The Golden Snitch.
Now.
Higgs had been successfully lured away.
The path was clear.
The Descent
Without warning—
A streak of emerald lightning tore downward from the clouds.
It wasn't flight.
It was a declaration.
A straight-line vector of impossible acceleration that split the sky itself.
The crowd did not react—
Because they couldn't.
The human eye could not process what occurred next.
One instant, Lucian was a distant silhouette against white cloud.
The next—
He was beside the Snitch.
No dramatic lunge.
No flourish.
In the fractional moment when emerald and gold intersected—
He extended his hand.
Closed his fingers.
And captured it.
Silence.
Then—
Madam Hooch's whistle screamed across the pitch.
The four remaining phantoms burst like mist under sunlight.
The scoreboard flickered—
Gryffindor: 150
Slytherin: 60
Lee Jordan's amplified voice cracked with disbelief:
"Lucian Thornwick has caught the Snitch! The match is over! Final score—150 to 60! Gryffindor wins!"
From the activation of Phantom Maze…
To the capture…
One minute.
Exactly one minute.
The Explosion
For ten full seconds, the stadium was frozen.
Then—
The Gryffindor stands detonated.
Scarlet and gold banners whipped through the air.
Students leapt onto benches, chanting in thunderous rhythm:
"Lu-ci-an! Lu-ci-an! Lu-ci-an!"
The sound rolled across the grounds like a tidal wave.
On the staff platform, Professor McGonagall stood abruptly.
Her normally pristine bun had loosened.
Her knuckles whitened against the railing.
Pride—fierce and unguarded—shone in her eyes.
Her House had not merely won.
They had witnessed history.
Beside her, Severus Snape did not cheer.
He watched.
His expression was not anger.
Not even disappointment.
It was something colder.
Concern.
Because he had seen this before.
A brilliant boy.
Unmatched talent.
Charisma.
A calm detachment from praise.
Tom Riddle.
The memory surfaced unbidden.
Snape's jaw tightened.
Power like this could shape the world.
Or scar it.
Below, Lucian descended slowly onto the grass.
The roar of thousands washed over him.
He stood at the center of the storm—
Composed.
Unmoved.
The Snitch rested quietly in his palm.
Lee Jordan's voice rang out again, trembling with awe:
"Confirmed! From the moment Lucian split into phantoms to the capture of the Snitch—only one minute!"
"A new Hogwarts record!"
History had shifted.
Not through brute force.
Not through reckless aggression.
But through control.
Precision.
And the quiet certainty of a mind always ten steps ahead.
On that day, the sky over Hogwarts no longer belonged to rivalry.
It belonged to Lucian Thornwick.
And everyone knew it.