The Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts was boiling over with heat and noise.
From the stands, a roaring sea of red and green banners clashed in a riot of color and sound.
Lucian sat alone in the Ravenclaw section, gazing down at the farce about to unfold with cold detachment.
In his vision, the sky above the pitch was webbed with golden threads—dense, intricate, forming a vast net that completely enveloped the small figure astride the Nimbus 2000. The script had long been written: the Savior's debut must be accompanied by peril, near-death acrobatics, and a final blaze of glory.
"This is what they call protagonist treatment," Lucian murmured, taking a slow sip of black tea. "To highlight the hero's courage, the stage must first arrange a near-fatal circus act."
With Madam Hooch's whistle, fourteen brooms shot skyward.
The match began smoothly. Lee Jordan's commentary crackled with excitement. Harry Potter moved through the air with astonishing grace—a swift swallow darting between Chasers.
Until the change came—sudden and violent.
Harry's broom gave a savage jerk, then began bucking wildly.
It tried to throw him off.
Screams of terror erupted from the crowd.
Lucian's gaze cut through the chaos.
Down below, Snape was staring fixedly at Harry, lips moving rapidly in a silent counter-curse.
Not far from him, Professor Quirrell huddled deep inside his turban. Beneath that ridiculous purple cloth, a black-red malice poured forth in a steady stream, forming an invisible hand of curse that clamped tight around the broom handle.
A silent tug-of-war.
On one side, Snape desperately shielding the Savior.
On the other, Voldemort testing Dumbledore's limits.
The world-will sang with delight. It bent the ambient field, suppressing Snape's power while amplifying Quirrell's curse—ensuring the drama stayed thrilling.
"Tedious performance."
Lucian set down his teacup.
"Since I already hold the backdoor to control, why not make this solo act a little more… vivid?"
His awareness sank into the dantian, stirring the gray vortex within.
Through the captured and remade anchor point, an invisible command flowed along the gray-tainted golden thread—traveling upstream, straight into the chaotic depths of Quirrell's soul.
On the teachers' stand—
Quirrell—focused entirely on his dark spell—felt as though a needle had been driven into the back of his skull where his "master" resided. Soul-deep agony exploded without warning.
"Urk—!"
The short, shrill scream was swallowed by the surrounding roar.
His curse shattered.
Worse: the massive magical force he had been channeling lost its direction and recoiled violently.
Quirrell jerked backward, convulsing like a man in seizure, and collapsed face-first onto Hagrid's broad back.
In the air, Harry's broom stopped its mad thrashing and steadied.
Harry scrambled back into position, bewildered.
This was the pleasure of controlling variables: no wand-waving, no shouted incantations—just the lightest touch at the critical node.
But in the very next instant—
The sky darkened abruptly.
What had been merely a chilly wind turned vicious, tearing banners from their poles and shredding several into ribbons.
A vast, offended will descended over the pitch.
The script had been disrupted.
The villain had faltered. The crisis was insufficient. The hero's moment of glory would be diminished.
So the world-will stepped in to correct it personally.
Whoosh—!
A Bludger—previously chasing a Gryffindor Chaser—suddenly executed an impossible right-angle turn mid-flight.
It had been granted acceleration no human Beater could produce.
The black iron ball screamed through the air, abandoning its original target and hurtling straight toward Harry Potter, who had only just regained control.
The speed was blinding.
If the broom couldn't kill him, then shatter his bones. Suffering must come—only then would victory taste sweet.
"Oh? Going to take the stage yourself now?"
If Harry died here—head smashed in—the Savior-rearing project would collapse into a funeral. The entire storyline would fracture beyond repair. That level of chaos Lucian could not yet afford.
He had to intervene—without revealing himself.
The Bludger was less than ten feet away. Harry's eyes widened in terror; there was no time to dodge.
"Aresto Momentum."
He applied the tiniest lateral nudge—just enough to alter trajectory.
In the last possible heartbeat—
The Bludger screamed past Harry's ear, the wind of its passage slicing his cheek and shearing off several strands of hair.
And in the instant Harry's mouth flew open in shock—
A small golden object was caught in the slipstream, forced straight into his throat by an invisible hand.
Harry choked violently, nearly asphyxiating.
He coughed and retched, tumbling off the broom and landing hard on the sand. Hands clutching his neck, he hacked once, twice—then, under the stunned gaze of the entire stadium, spat out the shining golden sphere.
The Snitch.
After one frozen second, the stands exploded into deafening cheers.
"Harry Potter catches the Snitch! Gryffindor wins!"
On the teachers' stand—
Hermione Granger stood with her wand half-raised, hidden in the crowd. She had come intending to set Snape's robes alight—she was certain, through her Omnioculars, that he had been muttering a curse.
But when she finally pushed close enough, she witnessed something inexplicable:
Snape—pale as death—lowered his wand. When Harry hit the ground safely, Snape visibly exhaled in relief.
And Professor Quirrell—the perpetual stutterer—was slumped in his seat, blood streaming from his nose, handkerchief pressed to his face.
Hermione's wand froze mid-air.
If Snape was the villain, why did he relax when Harry was safe?
If Quirrell was innocent, why did he look so devastated when the danger passed?
And that Bludger… had it really been an accident?
She quietly lowered her wand, burning the scene into memory.
Up in the Ravenclaw stands—
Lucian watched Harry being hoisted into the air by jubilant teammates. He felt the lingering pressure in the atmosphere—the offended wrath of the world-will still circling, searching for whoever had interfered with the Bludger.
But his intervention had been too swift, too subtle, and the magical turbulence of the match too chaotic. It found no target.
Still—he was now marked.
"This time a Bludger. What will it be next?"
Lucian stood and left the celebrating crowd behind.
Through this match he had confirmed two things:
First: the Horcrux anchor worked perfectly as a control handle.
Second: the world-will was a precise but petulant machine. Disrupt its predetermined route, and it would spare no expense—resorting to the crudest methods—to force the outcome.
"Victory came. But so did greater danger."
Lucian walked toward the exit, his silhouette stark against the sea of ecstatic faces.
"Still… at least now the play is finally becoming interesting."