The Quidditch pitch shimmered under autumn sunlight.
Golden goal hoops towered fifty feet in the air. The grass was bright and freshly cut. Everything felt expectant.
Gryffindor's team stood in a circle, dressed in scarlet robes.
And at the center of their attention—
Lucian Thornwick.
His reputation had already reached mythic proportions: wandless flight, self-created spells, defeating a troll alone, earning fifty points from Dumbledore.
Oliver Wood looked as though Christmas had come early.
"Listen up!" he shouted enthusiastically. "This is our year! Why? Because we now possess the most powerful secret weapon Hogwarts has seen in a century!"
He pointed dramatically at Lucian.
"A true flying genius! A Seeker who treats the Golden Snitch like a toy!"
A few players grinned.
But two figures stepped forward, arms crossed.
Fred and George Weasley.
"Now hold on, Oliver," Fred began casually, resting his Beater's bat on his shoulder.
"We absolutely agree," George added, circling Lucian thoughtfully, "that his flying is brilliant. Dazzling, even."
Fred nodded. "No broom. That alone is outrageously cool."
Wood frowned. "Then what's the issue?"
The twins' expressions shifted.
Serious now.
"Quidditch isn't an exhibition," Fred said evenly. "It's violent."
"Structured chaos," George clarified.
"Brutal, actually," Fred added.
They both looked at Lucian—not mockingly, not cruelly. Just professionally.
"A Seeker doesn't just chase the Snitch," George said. "He dodges Bludgers. Survives body checks. Endures hours of sustained aerial strain."
Fred tapped his bat lightly against his palm.
"When a Bludger is screaming at your head at over a hundred miles an hour, grace alone doesn't save you."
George finished the thought.
"Your flight style looks… light. Elegant. But can it withstand impact? Long-duration exertion? Repeated shock forces?"
Silence settled.
The concern was real.
Lucian's feats had been explosive demonstrations—but brief.
Quidditch matches could last hours.
The airspace was crowded.
Hostile.
Wood opened his mouth to protest.
Lucian raised a hand slightly.
He bent down and picked up a Quaffle, weighing it thoughtfully in his palm.
He tossed it once.
Caught it.
Examined the leather seams as though analyzing craftsmanship.
Then he looked at the twins.
"You raise valid considerations."
His tone was calm—curious even.
"As for endurance, structural stability, and impact tolerance…"
He gave a faint smile.
"Empirical verification would indeed be appropriate."
He turned to Wood.
"Begin training."
Wood blinked. "Right—right! Mount up!"
Brooms kicked off the ground.
Players ascended into formation.
Lucian did not pick up a broom.
Instead, he stepped forward—
And lifted smoothly into the air.
No flourish.
No dramatic surge.
Just controlled ascent.
The team spread out. The twins released a Bludger experimentally.
It rocketed across the field with a metallic hum.
"Bludger incoming!" Fred called, half-warning, half-test.
The iron ball shot straight toward Lucian's torso.
He did not swerve wildly.
Did not accelerate dramatically.
He rotated slightly midair.
The space around him seemed to tilt.
The Bludger's trajectory curved subtly at the last instant—as though striking an invisible slope—and veered harmlessly past him.
George's eyebrows shot upward.
Fred swung again, harder this time.
The second Bludger tore forward at greater velocity.
Lucian extended two fingers.
There was a faint ripple in the air.
The Bludger decelerated sharply within three feet of him—as if caught in thick resistance—before dropping straight down into the grass.
No collision.
No strain.
Just redirected force.
Lucian lowered his hand.
"Momentum can be redistributed," he said mildly. "Impact is optional."
The twins stared.
Wood gaped openly.
"Right then," Fred muttered.
"Well," George added slowly, "that's… one way to handle it."
Lucian tilted his head slightly.
"Shall we increase intensity?"
There was no arrogance in his voice.
Only inquiry.
Wood swallowed.
Then grinned like a man who had just discovered buried treasure.
"Full-speed drill!" he roared.
The team launched into motion.
And as scarlet robes streaked across the sky, one truth became increasingly difficult to deny—
Lucian Thornwick was not adapting to Quidditch.
Quidditch was adapting to him.