In his hands there was no megaphone to cheer the team, no telescope to track the match.
Instead, resting across his knees was a piece of parchment. At first glance, it seemed entirely blank, with not a drop of ink. Yet at certain angles, faint streams of magical light flickered across its surface.
This was his creation—
The Real-Time Tactical Board.
"Remember."
As the final seconds before the match ticked away, Alan's voice cut cleanly through the howling wind, reaching every Gryffindor player with perfect clarity.
Alan's tone carried no excitement, no fiery passion—only the cold weight of logic, sharp and irrefutable.
"Abandon those unrealistic notions of individual heroism. Execute every tactic we drilled in practice to the letter. Trust the data. Trust logic. Trust me."
Charlie Weasley drew in a deep breath. The hot-blooded fervor surging in his chest settled, hardening into something steadier, stronger. He nodded heavily, then swept his gaze over every Gryffindor player.
Madam Hooch's whistle split the air, shrill and piercing.
The match had begun!
Fourteen figures shot skyward, splitting into two colliding torrents of red and green.
Slytherin wasted no time with finesse. From the very first instant, they bared their fangs.
Brutal.
Savage.
Crashes skirting the edge of foul play.
Their three Chasers didn't even bother looking at the Quaffle. They became battering rams gone berserk, focused on one singular goal—knock every red-robed Gryffindor out of the sky, one by one.
Boom!
A dull thud rang out. One Gryffindor Chaser swerved into a desperate barrel roll to avoid a head-on collision, only to be slammed at the tail of his broom by a second Slytherin crashing in from behind.
He spun helplessly in the air, nearly thrown off his broom, drawing horrified screams from the stands.
In an instant, Gryffindor's formation was shredded by this reckless, barbaric assault.
Their rhythm was broken.
The players were scattered, reduced to fighting individually, struggling just to dodge the relentless attacks. Chaos and desperation weighed them down, forcing them into pure defense.
On the stands, Gryffindor students had their hearts in their throats, gasps and cries of panic echoing in waves.
But in that solitary coach's seat, Alan's expression did not change.
He didn't even bother to lift his head to the sky.
His entire mind was absorbed in his Mind Palace.
The roars, the crashes, the cheers—all the noise and emotional chaos dissolved the instant it entered his brain, filtered and stripped away.
What remained was only the purest form: cold, pristine data.
Every player's flying speed, their turn angle, stamina consumption, threat level… the ever-shifting state of the match broke down into countless logical chains, all measurable, all calculable.
And then, the parchment on his lap—the Real-Time Tactical Board—began to respond.
Lines of soft glowing light and shifting symbols appeared and re-formed across the blank surface. Red dots marked Gryffindor. Green dots marked Slytherin. The crisscrossing lines projected the next movements of every single player.
"Charlie."
Alan spoke, his voice quiet yet strangely steady, carrying a calm that crushed the panic brewing inside Gryffindor's captain.
He never lifted his gaze, eyes still fixed on the flickering dots of the board.
His first command flowed out—through Charlie's throat—onto the pitch.
"Order Angelina to launch a feint down the left flank. Push at maximum speed—make it look like she's going to force a breakthrough. Draw all of their defense to the left.
Then, in exactly three seconds, lob the Quaffle high—send it across the diagonal to the open space twelve feet above ground on the right wing. Katie Bell will be waiting there."
Charlie's Adam's apple bobbed.
The instruction sounded strange—even reckless. In such a chaotic formation, launching a feint was practically asking Angelina to become the prime target of Slytherin's focused assault.
But then, Alan's words flashed through his mind—
"Trust the data. Trust logic."
He hesitated no longer. Using the prearranged hand signals, he relayed the complex command with precise accuracy.
On the pitch, Angelina was being hounded by two Slytherin players, trapped in a tightening net of pressure. The instant she received the order, her eyes sharpened.
She yanked hard on her broomstick—then did the last thing anyone would have expected.
She didn't retreat.
She surged forward.
Straight into the densest wall of Slytherin's defense!
The Slytherin Beaters and Chasers fell for it at once. Instinctively, they collapsed their formation inward, rushing to suffocate this "reckless" Gryffindor who dared such arrogance.
But in the very moment all eyes were dragged to the left flank, Angelina's arm snapped upward.
The Quaffle arced high into the sky, cutting a flawless parabola.
And it soared… toward an empty, undefended patch of air.
The Slytherin players even laughed aloud.
Their laughter froze the very next second.
Katie Bell's figure emerged like a phantom, arriving at the exact spot the Quaffle would fall.
No defenders.
No obstacles.
She caught the perfect pass with ease, and before her stretched nothing but an open goal.
Score!
Gryffindor had struck first!
The red sea in the stands erupted, thunderous cheers shaking the pitch.
But Alan did not so much as glance up. He didn't pause to savor the success.
His mind continued to race at full speed.
"Order Fred and George to abandon all escort duties on the Quaffle."
The second command, transmitted once more through Charlie's hands, seemed even stranger—tinged with something cold, even sinister.
"Have them drop everything. Focus solely on their Beater—Peregrine Derrick. Track every swing of his bat.
When his swing finishes, there's a 0.5-second recoil where his balance falters. In that exact instant, strike upwards from beneath him. Aim at the tail of his broomstick with precision.
Remember—don't injure him. Just break his balance."
On the pitch, the Weasley twins froze for half a heartbeat.
They exchanged a glance.
And in the glint of each other's eyes, they both saw it—the gleeful spark of mischief, that exhilarating thrill of a prank perfectly set.
With a wild whoop, they broke free of their opponents like hunting hounds catching the scent of blood. They streaked toward the utterly unsuspecting, doomed Derrick.
Under Alan's scalpel-sharp, emotionless commands, the battle shifted.
Subtly.
Irreversibly.
Gryffindor was no longer a band of reckless hotheads fighting on passion alone.
They were being reshaped—transformed.
Injected with icy precision, honed into ruthless efficiency.
They became a disciplined, finely tuned strike team.
Step by step, they dismantled every savage onslaught from Slytherin.
And calmly—mercilessly—picked out the flaws hidden beneath Slytherin's arrogance and rage, striking back at the weak points with surgical force.
~~----------------------
Patreon Advance Chapters:
[email protected] / Dreamer20