Oliver Wood's whistle cut sharply through the autumn air.
"Alright, focus up!"
Scarlet uniforms shot skyward as the Gryffindor team mounted their brooms and fanned out into formation. The Quaffle began moving in tight, efficient passes between Angelina Johnson and the other Chasers, red arcs flashing across the bright sky.
Only Lucian Thornwick remained momentarily on the ground.
Under a web of complicated gazes, he stepped forward lightly—
—and rose.
No broom. No visible propulsion. Just a smooth, vertical ascent until he hovered level with the rest of the team.
For some of the newer players, it was still a breathtaking sight.
For Fred and George Weasley, it confirmed something else entirely.
"Left flank," Fred muttered.
"Right," George replied.
They split apart, gripping their Beater bats firmly as the Bludgers were released.
The two iron spheres burst from their crate and immediately began tearing across the pitch in erratic, violent arcs.
Fred struck first.
Crack!
His bat connected cleanly, sending a Bludger screaming across the field—straight at Lucian.
It was no casual tap.
It was a test.
Then another strike.
And another.
The twins became artillery units in motion, coordinating without words. Their shots grew heavier, sharper, more deliberate.
One Bludger attacked head-on.
Another curved in from Lucian's blind side.
A third was angled to anticipate his escape path.
The pitch transformed instantly into a kill zone.
Black iron streaked through the air like hunting hounds.
And at the center—
Lucian remained suspended, calm.
The first Bludger closed in at terrifying speed.
He shifted three inches to the left.
That was all.
The iron ball tore past his shoulder.
The second came from behind.
Without turning, Lucian tilted backward slightly; the sphere grazed empty air where his chest had been a heartbeat before.
The third approached in a vicious arc designed to corner him.
He descended a fraction—barely noticeable.
It missed.
No panic.
No explosive acceleration.
No dramatic evasive burst.
Just minimal movement.
Efficient.
Precise.
Too precise.
High above, George frowned.
"He's not even pushing himself!"
Fred's jaw tightened.
"He's treating it like a dance."
They exchanged a look.
Decision made.
George swung with everything he had.
The Bludger detonated off his bat with a crack like thunder, tearing toward Lucian faster than any previous strike.
And both twins shouted at the top of their lungs:
"LUCIAN, LOOK OUT!"
"ON A QUIDDITCH PITCH, FLASHY MAGIC WON'T SAVE YOU! SPEED AND REACTION ARE WHAT MATTER!"
The warning echoed across the stadium.
It wasn't mockery.
It was conviction.
To them, whatever Lucian was doing—however miraculous—still fell under the category of "magic tricks." And Quidditch was not about tricks.
It was muscle memory.
Instinct.
Survival under pressure.
Wood felt doubt creep in despite himself.
The twins weren't wrong.
Matches lasted long. Bodies collided. Fatigue set in.
Could elegance endure brutality?
The Bludger screamed forward—faster than before.
Lucian did not move.
Not at first.
For a split second, it appeared as though he would allow the iron sphere to collide with him.
Gasps rose from below.
Then—
He vanished.
Not far.
Not dramatically.
He accelerated in a straight line—so suddenly, so cleanly, that the air snapped in his wake.
The Bludger struck nothing.
Lucian reappeared twenty feet above, perfectly still.
No wind-up.
No wasted motion.
Just raw acceleration.
Wood's eyes widened.
That wasn't decorative magic.
That was speed.
Fred reacted instantly, redirecting the second Bludger toward Lucian's new position.
Lucian dove.
This time there was no elegance—only velocity.
He streaked downward like a falling star, pivoted mid-plunge, and shot horizontally across the pitch in a blur that rivaled any racing broom present.
The Bludgers tried to track him.
They couldn't.
Within seconds, he had crossed the entire field twice.
No broom vibration.
No balance corrections.
No drag from wood or bristles.
Just pure, self-propelled motion.
He halted abruptly at center field, perfectly stable.
The Bludgers overshot and clanged together behind him.
Silence fell.
Lucian looked toward the twins.
"You're correct," he said evenly. "A Seeker requires speed."
He paused.
"And reaction time."
A faint distortion rippled around him—subtle but visible.
The two Bludgers, mid-flight again, suddenly jerked as though encountering resistance. Their paths slowed just enough—
—and Lucian threaded between them at impossible proximity, passing through the narrow gap with less than an inch to spare on either side.
He stopped once more.
No heavy breathing.
No strain.
"No unnecessary ornamentation," he finished calmly.
Fred lowered his bat.
George exhaled slowly.
That hadn't been decorative.
It hadn't even been defensive.
It had been dominance.
Wood felt his earlier doubt burn away, replaced by something blazing and fierce.
Lucian hadn't relied on spectacle.
He had demonstrated something far more terrifying—
Control over acceleration itself.
The twins exchanged one final glance.
Fred grinned first.
"Well," he admitted.
George followed, shaking his head.
"Looks like he does speak Quidditch after all."
High above the pitch, Lucian remained poised in the open sky.
He had not adapted to the chaos.
He had measured it—
—and surpassed it.