The wind in the second half grew sharper, whistling past ears with a piercing edge.
Under the gray sky, Gryffindor's scarlet uniforms tangled with Slytherin's dark green, the two colors blurring into a chaotic storm of motion.
The match could no longer be described as "stalemated."
It was a boiling cauldron, moments away from spilling over, every second building up a violent energy strong enough to blow the lid clean off.
Alan's tactical instructions were precise down to each second, each pass. Every Gryffindor flight path, every bit of teamwork carried a near-mechanical beauty—so seamless that Slytherin's offensive rhythm was shredded, piece by piece.
But Slytherin's counter was brutal in its simplicity.
They abandoned complicated tactics entirely.
The match became nothing more than raw collisions, a contest of sheer strength.
Their more advanced Nimbus broomsticks gave them terrifying bursts of speed. Every close encounter rattled with bone-shaking impact that set teeth on edge.
The score remained locked.
Slytherin's captain, Marcus Flint—his already coarse features now flushed a livid purple from repeated failures—gripped his broom so tightly the veins on his muscular forearms bulged, his knuckles whitening.
Yet again, his pass was cut off with surgical precision by Angelina Johnson.
In that instant, Flint's reason snapped.
His eyes no longer tracked the scarlet Quaffle.
He had abandoned scoring altogether.
His target was no longer the ball.
It was a person.
He wrenched his broom around, body pitched forward, transforming himself into a living battering ram. His aim: Gryffindor's newly substituted Seeker- Troy, a scrawny boy who looked like a strong breeze could knock him out of the sky.
It was blatant.
It was deliberate.
It was a hit meant to injure.
BANG!
The thud of impact cut through the roars of tens of thousands like a hammer blow.
Troy's body twisted grotesquely midair. A strangled scream tore from his throat, then was cut off as he was flung from his broom, limbs flailing, plummeting.
Charlie Weasley reacted at the very edge of human limits. He dove like a hawk, catching Higgs a heartbeat before he hit the ground.
Fweeet!
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked, sharp enough to pierce eardrums.
Her face burned with fury unlike anything the stadium had ever seen. She stormed to Flint, awarding Gryffindor a penalty shot, her voice raining down icy, thunderous warnings.
The match halted.
The Gryffindor team swarmed together, eyes burning as they saw Troy curled up in Charlie's arms, face pale, body limp in agony.
Every drop of blood in their veins surged to their heads.
Fred and George's faces bore no trace of their usual mischief. Their knuckles whitened on their Beater bats, veins standing out.
Angelina's lips pressed into a bloodless line.
They were a heartbeat away from spinning their brooms, launching themselves at the dark green swarm of Slytherins.
Tension crackled, swords drawn, about to ignite.
And then—
A voice.
A voice devoid of warmth, clear and cold as shattering ice, flowed through Captain Charlie's throat, reaching every Gryffindor ear.
"Calm down. All of you."
It was Alan's voice.
Just four words—yet they carried an undeniable force that froze every Gryffindor player in place, cutting off their forward surge.
"Anger is the least efficient emotion.
It only strips you of judgment."
Alan stood at the sidelines, eyes never once flicking to the injured Troy. His gaze was fixed firmly on the tactical board in his hands. Through Charlie, he issued orders with chilling clarity.
"All units, immediately execute Formation Seven—the 'Iron Barrel' defense.
Abandon offense entirely.
Contract the formation and protect our substitute Seeker."
Charlie hesitated, but in the end repeated the final, most crucial order word for word:
"Repeat: abandon all offense!"
The Gryffindor players froze in shock.
Abandon offense? Now? After such a foul, when rage was boiling in their blood?
At that moment, the substitute Seeker—summoned to the sidelines in haste—stepped forward.
A boy so ordinary he was nearly invisible in daily life. Now, faced with the prospect of replacing the injured Troy, his body trembled uncontrollably.
His face drained pale, lips quivering, teeth chattering audibly.
Tens of thousands of eyes, the predatory sneers of Slytherin, the solemn faces of his own teammates—together they crushed him like a mountain. He could barely breathe.
Finally, Alan's gaze left the tactical board. He looked directly at the boy.
He did not offer comfort.
He did not give words of encouragement about "catching the Snitch."
Through Charlie's voice, he spoke instead with a tone so calm it was almost cruel—yet it struck the boy with an uncanny familiarity:
"Listen."
The boy shuddered, instinctively lifting his head.
"Now—forget this is a match.
Forget the score.
Forget Slytherin.
Forget the Golden Snitch.
You have only one task: immediately, in this section of the pitch, begin executing your daily flight training.
Plan B.
Route Thirty-Seven.
Starting coordinate: one-one-seven point four.
Go."
Each word landed like a pin dropping in absolute silence—precise, sharp, stripped of all emotion.
And in that instant, the substitute Seeker, who had been on the verge of tears, suddenly stilled.
Plan B. Route Thirty-Seven…
The name, the coordinates—like a lightning strike through his panicked mind.
It was the same route he had flown hundreds, thousands of times on the training pitch, so deeply ingrained he could fly it blindfolded. His most familiar path. His safest program.
The fear-clogged mush of his brain latched onto it at once—like a failing machine finding its operating system again.
He no longer needed to think.
He no longer needed to judge.
He no longer needed to carry the unbearable weight pressing on his shoulders.
He only needed… to execute.
The boy nodded heavily, almost on reflex.
Then he took the broom, swung his leg over.
No trembling this time.
He rose into the air—not looking at anyone, not seeking the golden glimmer of the Snitch—only flying straight into the designated sector.
There, he began to repeat, over and over, the dull, familiar, bone-deep training path etched into his body.
Fweeeeeeet!
The restart whistle sliced through the skies.
And then, on the Quidditch pitch, an unprecedented and absurd sight unfolded—one that no textbook had ever imagined.