High up in the freezing air, the moment Damian sensed the violent, chaotic surge of magic beneath him, he kicked off his broomstick without a single second of hesitation.
At the exact same time, he manually triggered the two protective runic artifacts hidden beneath his Quidditch robes.
A semi-transparent, polygonal shield instantly materialized, surrounding him in a geometric dome. Almost simultaneously, four thick, runic ice-crystal shields stacked themselves tightly between Damian and the doomed broomstick.
Finally, he cast a wandless Protego, silently enveloping himself in a standard wizarding Shield Charm.
In the blink of an eye, Damian had erected three separate, heavy layers of defense.
BOOM!
The broomstick detonated in mid-air. Being at ground zero of the blast, Damian was instantly swallowed by the expanding fireball.
The heat wave was absolute and scorching. As the kinetic blast surged outward, the outermost layer of runic ice-shields was blown to pieces, the shards vaporizing instantly in the intense heat.
Massive, jagged cracks immediately spider-webbed across the second layer, the translucent polygonal shield.
The shockwave ripped through the air. Although the Shield Charm managed to absorb the brunt of the magical impact, Damian didn't escape unscathed.
The concussive aftershock battered his internal organs as if he had been struck by a troll's club. A sharp, piercing pain flared in his chest, and a thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Propelled by the force of the explosion and gravity, Damian plummeted rapidly toward the pitch.
Fighting through the dizzying pain, he swiftly pulled a standard Wiggenweld Potion and a Blood-Replenishing Potion from his magically extended pocket, downing them both mid-air to stabilize his internal injuries.
Up in the stands and the commentator's podium, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Snape leaped to their feet, drawing their wands in unison.
A collective gasp caught in their throats, leaving them staring in horrified silence at the massive fireball and the thick, black smoke pluming in the sky.
A few agonizing heartbeats later, just as uncontrolled screams began to erupt from the student sections, a silhouette broke through the smoke.
Damian was falling at a terrifying speed.
The professors immediately raised their wands, preparing to cast Arresto Momentum to slow his descent. But what they saw next froze them in their tracks.
Enduring the agonizing pain tearing through his body, Damian stretched both hands toward the rapidly approaching ground. With his fingers splayed wide and his palms facing down, he poured a massive surge of runic and standard magical energy directly into the earth.
The sandy floor of the Quidditch pitch began to violently ripple and expand.
Millions of grains of sand fused together, their fundamental structure warping under his immense magical will. In the blink of an eye, a massive section of the pitch transformed into a colossal, sand-gold sponge.
Crisis often acts as a catalyst for extreme growth. Faced with terminal velocity, Damian possessed several runic methods to save himself, but in a sudden flash of pure inspiration, he had instinctively chosen advanced Transfiguration.
As the spell took hold, Damian felt a profound click within his magical core, as if a heavy shackle had just shattered. He had crossed a massive threshold, reaching a completely new realm of understanding in the art of Transfiguration.
The breathtaking, impossible alteration of the pitch left the screaming stadium dead silent once more.
The professors, wands still raised, looked as if they were physically choking on their own spells.
Professor McGonagall, the school's undisputed master of Transfiguration, felt the sheer scale of the magic most deeply. "Such magnificent, flawless Transfiguration..." she murmured, her eyes wide behind her spectacles. "Even I... would find it difficult to execute that any better under such duress."
Snapping back to reality, the professors hastily fired off slowing charms to further cushion his fall.
Damian plunged headfirst into the massive sponge.
Even with the transfigured mat and the professors' combined slowing spells, the kinetic impact still flared the intense pain in his chest. Fortunately, the Wiggenweld and Blood-Replenishing potions he had consumed mid-air had already begun their work, preventing his organs from rupturing entirely.
Rubbing his dizzy head, Damian forced himself to stay conscious and pulled a third restorative potion from his robes.
The professors quickly rushed onto the pitch. Professor Snape reached him first, his dark eyes intensely scanning Damian's condition.
Snape snatched the empty vial from Damian's hand, gave it a quick sniff to identify it, and immediately pulled a crystal vial of his own from his billowing black robes.
"Drink it," Snape ordered sharply.
Damian downed the potion without a second of hesitation. Anything the Potions Master personally carried was guaranteed to be top-tier.
"Damian?!" The Slytherin and Ravenclaw players, completely stunned by the sequence of events, finally touched down on the pitch.
The students in the stands desperately tried to swarm the field, but the younger ones were blocked by the towering walls of the transfigured sponge. Only the upper-years managed to scale the soft material using levitation charms.
Professor McGonagall swiftly transfigured a piece of debris into a sturdy stretcher and levitated Damian onto it. She turned to the crowd, magically amplifying her voice.
"Today's match is over! Given the current score, Ravenclaw wins this specific bout."
"However, once the regular season rotation is completed, there will be a scheduled rematch between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw teams!" she announced firmly.
"I am taking Mr. Black to the Hospital Wing," McGonagall continued, her stern gaze sweeping the stands. "Prefects, you are to escort the students of your respective Houses back to your common rooms immediately!"
...
Later that afternoon, Damian lay comfortably on a crisp white bed in the Hospital Wing.
His complexion was perfectly ruddy and healthy. Looking at him, one wouldn't even be able to tell he had been at the epicenter of a lethal explosion just hours prior.
A large group of students stood clustered tightly around his bed. Damian's closest friends had entirely ignored the prefects' orders, sneaking out of their common rooms to check on him.
The professors had already departed to thoroughly investigate the shattered remains of his broomstick.
Seeing the deep worry etched onto his friends' faces, Damian felt a genuine warmth bloom in his chest. "I'm perfectly fine, guys. Didn't Madam Pomfrey just tell you? The injuries were stabilized mid-air, and Professor Snape's personal brew was incredibly effective. Honestly, if they had brought me to the Hospital Wing any later, the wounds would have completely healed on the way up the stairs."
Jerry scowled, his expression uncharacteristically dark. "How could something like this even happen?"
"When Harry was playing his first match, Professor Snape was hexing his broomstick from the stands!" Neville blurted out bluntly. "Could it be that he—mmph!"
Neville was instantly silenced as Harry slapped a hand firmly over the Gryffindor boy's mouth.
Neville tried to struggle, but upon seeing the incredibly dark, murderous glares aimed at him from the surrounding Slytherin students, he wisely decided to stop talking.
Damian smiled faintly, stepping in to defend the Potions Master. "Professor Snape may be incredibly strict, Neville, but he would never deliberately sabotage a student's broom to lethal effect."
"Damian is right. The professors have already gone to investigate the wreckage," Hermione chimed in rationally. "There should be official results soon."
"Keep your voices down! This is the Hospital Wing, not the Great Hall!"
The school matron, Madam Poppy Pomfrey, marched over with a deeply displeased expression, carrying a steaming goblet of bubbling purple potion. "The patient needs strict, undisturbed rest. All of you, out!"
After pinching his nose and struggling to choke down the vile-tasting purple draught, Damian waved his friends off. "Go on back, guys. Don't worry about me. I honestly feel like I could be discharged right now."
Madam Pomfrey shot him a withering glare as she snatched the empty goblet back. "Don't even think about it, Mr. Black! You are staying in this bed to recover for a few days, and that is final!"
Geralt clapped a hand to his chest. "Get some rest, mate. If we hear anything about the investigation, we'll sneak back in and tell you."
Damian nodding, bidding them all a warm goodbye.
Soon, the ward was empty, save for one person. Griffin Everett, the younger Slytherin student Damian had helped earlier in the year, had lingered behind the retreating group.
"Griffin?" Damian asked, lowering his voice. "Is there something you need?"
Griffin glanced nervously at the Hospital Wing doors to ensure the others were gone. Seeing that Madam Pomfrey wasn't paying attention to them, he stepped close to the bed.
Leaning in, Griffin whispered directly into Damian's ear. "During the time-out, right after the substitution was announced... I saw Wil quietly leaving the pitch by himself."
A cold, sharp glint flashed in Damian's eyes. "Wil?"
Griffin nodded nervously. "That's all I saw, and I don't have a shred of solid evidence. Just rest well for now, Senior. When I get back to the dungeons, I'll start investigating him quietly."
Damian reached out and patted the younger boy's shoulder gently. "Thank you, Griffin. I appreciate it."
Griffin smiled shyly. "You've already helped me out so much, Senior. Being able to return the favor is the least I can do."
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