While the flying field remained frozen in stunned silence after Lucian's impossible display—
A tall figure on a broom was approaching from the direction of the Quidditch pitch, searching frantically for a missing Golden Snitch.
Oliver Wood.
Gryffindor Quidditch captain.
A man who treated Quidditch as life itself.
"These first-years… I wonder if Madam Hooch will spot any promising talent this year…"
Out of habit, Wood glanced toward the training lawn below.
He had only meant to take a casual look.
Instead, he witnessed something that would be burned into his memory forever.
A black-haired boy hovered in midair—
Without a broom.
Without any visible magical aid.
Then—
The boy transformed into a streak of black light.
In a blink, he crossed hundreds of meters and casually plucked the Golden Snitch out of the sky.
Wood froze midair.
His entire body locked up as if hit by a Full Body-Bind Curse.
Shock.
Utter, overwhelming shock.
His mouth fell open. His eyes widened like Bludgers, locked onto the distant figure holding the Snitch.
As an experienced player and captain, he understood better than anyone what that meant.
Flight without a broom.
Unmatched maneuverability.
Absolute unpredictability.
On a Quidditch pitch, such a player could perform movements no broom-bound wizard could ever replicate.
And that speed—
What level of speed was that?
Fast?
No.
Absurdly fast.
Faster than any broom he had ever seen—even the Nimbus 2000.
A flyer who didn't need a broom.
A flyer faster than a Golden Snitch.
What did that mean?
The realization erupted in his mind like a volcano.
Joy.
Wild, uncontrollable joy surged through him.
He saw it.
He saw Gryffindor crushing Slytherin in the Quidditch Cup Final.
He saw himself lifting the trophy high as the stadium roared.
This year's Cup—
No.
The next several years' Cups—
Were guaranteed.
"Who—who is that?!" Wood demanded, landing abruptly beside a trembling Hufflepuff first-year and grabbing his shoulders.
"Th-that's a Gryffindor first-year… Lucian Thornwick…"
Lucian Thornwick.
A Gryffindor.
That was the final spark.
Wood nearly exploded with excitement.
"Invite him!" he shouted.
"No matter what it takes—we must invite him!"
"He's our future Seeker!"
In Wood's eyes, Lucian was no longer a person.
He was a shining, golden Quidditch Cup engraved with "Gryffindor."
Tactics were already forming in his mind. With that speed and freedom, every Slytherin trick would become meaningless.
"Champion… the championship is calling me…"
He grinned like a man possessed.
But not everyone on the field was floundering.
After a few initial failures, when Harry Potter placed his hand above his broom and said "Up," the broom leapt eagerly into his palm.
It felt… natural.
When the whistle blew, he kicked off.
No wobble.
No hesitation.
The broom responded as if it were an extension of his body.
He rose smoothly, wind rushing past his ears, the ground shrinking below.
A surge of freedom filled him.
He belonged here.
In the sky.
For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry felt something that was truly his.
Not "The Boy Who Lived."
Not the scar.
Not the whispers.
Just flying.
A quiet pride blossomed inside him.
He even allowed himself a small smile as he glanced at classmates still struggling below.
But that pride lasted less than half a minute.
When Lucian calmly kicked away his broom—
When he rose under his own power—
Harry's smile vanished.
He watched, stunned, as Lucian danced across the sky with impossible grace.
If Harry's flying was a human cooperating with the wind—
Then Lucian was the master of it.
A ruler surveying his domain.
The gap between them felt immeasurable.
And when Lucian became that sky-rending streak of light—when he caught the Golden Snitch as casually as picking a flower—
Something inside Harry cracked.
All the fragile pride he had just discovered shattered instantly.
"He caught the Snitch!"
"That was a Golden Snitch!"
"That's not talent—that's divine!"
Cheers erupted across the field.
When Wood's near-hysterical declaration of "Future Seeker!" echoed out, the praise reached its peak.
Harry looked down at his obedient broom.
Then up at Lucian, hovering like a figure from legend.
A strange fog filled his mind.
He felt like a child who had proudly found a polished stone—only to look up and see someone else standing atop a palace of diamonds and gold.
The contrast was suffocating.
Who was he?
Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived.
The child who had survived Voldemort.
The so-called Chosen One.
For so long, that identity had defined him.
It was the source of the stares.
The whispers.
And, somewhere deep inside—
A quiet, secret pride.
But now, doubt crept in.
Did the scar truly mean he was unique?
Did surviving as a baby truly make him special?
Compared to Lucian's miracle-like brilliance…
His own talent felt small.
Almost trivial.
If Lucian was what true genius looked like—
Then what was he?
Just a boy saved by his mother's love?
Just… lucky?
For the first time since coming to Hogwarts—
Harry Potter felt utterly uncertain.