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Though Lucian's thoughts had already drifted toward that little hut, the surrounding clamor dragged him back to the present.
Madam Hooch's whistle was completely drowned beneath the roar.
Lee Jordan—still amplified—screamed the final score until his voice cracked. The Gryffindor stands became a boiling red sea. Students hugged, threw hats skyward, screamed themselves hoarse.
Across the pitch, Slytherin sat under a low, poisonous cloud. Green banners lay trampled; older students glowered; younger ones whispered furiously. The air between the two sides crackled with naked hostility.
"Hey! Catch!"
Two red blurs swooped down with a rush of wind and braked sharply in front of him.
"What are you daydreaming about!"
Fred and George leaped off their brooms. Red-and-yellow face paint streaked with sweat and dirt made them look wild and exhilarated.
"Here." Fred pulled a small pouch from inside his Quidditch robes and shoved it into Lucian's chest. "As promised—freshest Dungbombs we've got. Just don't use them on the Gryffindor common room and we're square."
Lucian weighed the bag in his hand.
George leaned in, voice low and excited. "Besides the Dungbombs, there's two special ones. Remember that glass orb you helped us improve the other day?"
Lucian recalled the little sphere with the swirling lion inside.
"Mischief fireworks," he said.
"Exactly!" Fred snapped his fingers. "We took your advice—added pressure triggers and delayed activation. Enough squeeze, or a hard drop…"
"Boom—" George mimed an explosion with both hands. "Half-hour guaranteed unshakable special-effects cloud. We tested it in the changing room. Proper spectacular. If the Slytherins lose badly and come looking for trouble later—this is our little return gift."
Right then the stands began emptying in a flood toward the exits.
Because of Snape's shameless bias, this match had carried far more venom than usual. The two houses were forced to funnel down the same narrow stairwell.
Lucian tucked the pouch away and looked toward the gathering whirlpool.
At the tight bottleneck, red met green.
Malfoy—flanked by Crabbe and Goyle—blocked the turn in the stairs. Pansy Parkinson stood behind him, twisting a green scarf in her hands.
Harry and Ron led the front of the Gryffindor pack.
"Move, Malfoy." Harry's fist still clenched the now-still Snitch; his chest rose and fell hard.
"In such a hurry, Potter?" Malfoy drawled in that nauseating tone, eyes raking over Harry. "Rushing back to celebrate your pathetic, rock-bottom house points?"
The words struck every Gryffindor nerve perfectly.
Yes—they'd won the match.
But after the corridor disaster, the hourglass still sat uglier than any other house's.
"Shut your filthy mouth." Ron's face flushed scarlet; his fists cracked. "You spent the whole match hiding behind Crabbe like a coward—now you've got the nerve to block the way?"
"You think you won honorably, Weasley?" Pansy cut in shrilly. "If Professor Snape hadn't been merciful and overlooked your crude fouls, you'd have been sent off!"
"Merciful?" A seventh-year Gryffindor shoved forward. "Snape never intended us to win!"
"That's because you flew like headless chickens!"
The shoving intensified.
Wands slid from pockets. The air turned electric.
In any other moment, a certain voice would have cut through.
She would have recited Rule Twenty-Three at full volume. Warned about corridor spell-casting and detention. Dispersed the crowd with that unshakable tone.
Today, there was nothing.
Hermione Granger stood at the crowd's edge. She didn't look at Malfoy. Didn't look at Harry. She simply… wasn't there.
The curses, the sparking wand-tips, even Ron taking a rough shove while shielding Harry—none of it moved her face a single millimeter.
She was a ghost drifting outside the scene.
Lucian caught the moment.
He understood: she had already made her choice in action.
"Looks like someone needs to cool off."
Fred muttered beside him.
He shot George a glance.
George nodded, stepped back half a pace, and with a subtle flick of his wrist sent the glass orb rolling silently down the inclined steps—straight into the Slytherin knot.
It rolled to a stop at Malfoy's feet.
Malfoy—mid-taunt, jabbing a finger at Ron's nose—took one step back.
His heel crushed the orb.
A crisp crack was swallowed by the crowd noise.
Thick, almost tangible pink mist erupted from under his shoe. It expanded with terrifying speed, engulfing the front row of Slytherins in two blinks.
Then the mist twisted and reshaped in mid-air.
Two seconds later, enormous golden-spark letters blazed above Malfoy and company:
I AM A BIG IDIOT
The words glittered. A hilariously off-key trumpet fanfare played underneath.
The stairwell froze for one heartbeat.
Then Gryffindor exploded into deafening laughter.
"Brilliant!" Lee Jordan leaped on a step.
"My eyes!" Crabbe flailed blindly in the pink fog.
Malfoy's face turned the color of liver. He slashed his wand, trying to banish the mist and the humiliating sign. Just as the twins promised—ordinary cleaning charms did nothing.
The words even followed him as he moved.
"Weasley!" he screamed, wand-tip glowing dangerous red.
But the Gryffindor crowd seized the chaos and surged past, laughing, Harry and Ron throwing mocking faces over their shoulders as they hustled the team toward the castle.
A brewing bloodbath ended in absurd comedy.
Lucian watched the twins high-five mid-air before vanishing into the celebrating throng.
He spared no second glance for the furious Slytherins. He turned and walked toward the opposite exit.
The script's inertia had still delivered Gryffindor their glory.
But the powder keg—built of hatred and resentment—was fully formed.
All it needed was a single spark.
…
Gryffindor's euphoria and Slytherin's bitter departure didn't fade with time.
They only went underground—still churning beneath the surface.
The only force strong enough to temporarily suppress house warfare was the absolute, unavoidable pressure of final exams.
But everyone knew:
Ice is never solid forever.