The final whistle of the match cut through the tense air over Hogwarts like a razor-sharp blade.
In the stands, a sea of red and gold erupted in a thunderous explosion.
The sound was so immense, it seemed as if it could tear the gray sky apart.
The Gryffindor players let out beast-like roars in midair. They dived—not toward the ground, but toward the substitute Seeker still clutching the Golden Snitch, his face blank with confusion.
Countless hands pulled him off his broom, and amid a cacophony of cheers, tossed his frail body into the air again and again.
With each ascent, he saw faces contorted with ecstasy.
With each descent, he heard his name chanted in unison by the entire house.
Charlie Weasley rode his Firebolt like a red projectile, heading straight for the figure who had quietly landed at the edge of the pitch.
"Alan!"
He leapt from his broom and, in a nearly bone-crushing bear hug, enveloped Alan entirely. The mingled scent of sweat, rain, and leather, along with his heavy breathing, filled Alan's nose.
"We won! We fucking won!"
The celebration in the Gryffindor common room lasted from dusk until midnight.
The fireplace flames, magically amplified, leapt over a person's height, painting everyone's face in a deep red glow. The air was thick with the sweet aroma of Butterbeer mixed with the lingering scent of various prank candies.
Alan's mysterious "coordinate capture" tactic became the central topic of the celebration.
It was endlessly dissected, exaggerated, and embellished by the crowd, ultimately giving birth to several wildly different—but equally incredible—versions of the story.
"I'm certain Alan is a natural Seer!" declared a seventh-year prefect, raising his cup confidently to a group of younger students surrounding him.
"He wasn't calculating, he was predicting! He foresaw where the Snitch would appear next!"
"Come on," another player retorted, "I was closest to him—I saw him muttering over that parchment! It was definitely some super-charged 'Luck Charm!' He poured an entire year's worth of fortune into that substitute Seeker!"
The waves of jubilation grew louder and louder, almost threatening to tear off the common room's ceiling.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the castle, the infirmary was deathly silent.
The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and the sharp, acrid sting of "Skele-Gro."
Marcus Flint sat on a pale hospital bed, the recently healed pain in his collarbone still sending sharp tingling jolts. His green uniform, soaked with sweat and mud, had yet to be changed, and his entire demeanor exuded the aura of a defeated man.
The infirmary door opened silently, and a tall, dark figure slid inside.
Professor Snape's face was darker than the stone walls of the dungeon.
Flint's bloodshot eyes, burning with humiliation, flared with rage at the sight of him.
"Professor!"
His roar echoed through the empty infirmary, making a potion bottle on the windowsill vibrate.
"We didn't lose unfairly!"
His voice trembled, every word forced out through clenched teeth.
"But we didn't lose to those stupid Gryffindors! Absolutely not!"
He raised a hand, pointing at his recently set collarbone. The gesture, though slightly ridiculous from his agitation, radiated indignation.
"We were sabotaged! We were defeated by… by something we couldn't even begin to understand!"
Snape's black eyes were unreadable, calmly observing him, waiting for more.
"It was that Muggle!" Flint finally bellowed the answer that had tormented him, the truth he refused to accept.
"We lost… we were beaten by… by a damned Muggle's mathematical formula!"
The words "mathematical formula" came out both disdainfully and confusedly, as if speaking a filthy, profane term.
That sentence, like a seed enchanted with a "Multiplication Charm," floated silently out of the infirmary door.
It drifted down the quiet corridors, sinking into the castle's shadowed depths.
Soon, in the Slytherin common room, with its cold stone walls and eerie green glow, the seed landed in the perfect soil to take root.
It quickly sprouted, twisted, and grew poisonous, creeping vines.
A brand-new rumor, full of malice and exclusivity, silently began to spread throughout the castle:
"That mysterious Gryffindor tactical advisor of Muggle origin used an unheard-of, evil 'mathematical curse' to corrupt the sacred Quidditch match."
For the world outside, Alan remained utterly indifferent.
He didn't linger long in the center of the celebration either.
Halfway through the festivities, carrying a cup of pumpkin juice, he wove through the noisy crowd to find Charlie Weasley, who was being swarmed by teammates.
"Charlie."
He said it calmly.
The Gryffindor captain, still flushed from excitement, immediately felt the noise and chaos of the party fade when he saw Alan's cold, impassive eyes.
Alan led him to a quiet, unnoticed corner of the common room.
With a flick, he spread out a parchment recording every detail of the match on the table.
The parchment was filled with dense numbers, trajectories, and timestamps in various colored inks.
Alan's expression was so serious, it was as if they had just lost a battle for survival itself.
Charlie's heart, still riding on joy, instantly cooled and sank, replaced by an inexplicable unease.
"Charlie…"
Alan spoke, his voice calm, precise, and devoid of any emotion.
"Congratulations on our victory."
He pointed to a red mark on the parchment—a symbol representing a goal.
"However, amid the celebration, we must remain clear-headed. In this match, our tactical execution still contained seventeen small—but potentially fatal—errors."
Charlie's smile froze.
"For example, in the twelfth minute of the match," Alan's finger moved to the other end of the parchment, pointing at a tactical route drawn in blue ink, "Angelina's feint started two full seconds before my instruction."
"This caused Katie, when receiving the pass, to face a defender who had already recovered half a body length. She could have shot unimpeded, but because of this error, she had to shoot under pressure, which increased both the difficulty and the chance of interception."
"Furthermore…"
His finger moved again.
"At the forty-seventh minute, Fred and George, while executing my instruction to 'attack the broom tails,' had a three-degree deviation in George's hitting angle."
"Although it did not cause any severe consequences—the opposing Chaser only wavered briefly and did not fall—in theory, this error could have been completely avoided. A three-degree deviation at high speed is enough to shift the final landing point of the Quaffle by five whole feet. We were merely lucky that the opponents reacted too slowly."
Alan's voice was like a precision instrument reading data—cold, exact, and completely devoid of emotional coloring.
One by one, he pointed out every "flaw" he had observed during the match that did not conform to his precise tactical model.
From the flight arcs of the players, to the timing of passes, to the extra 0.5 seconds spent dodging the Bludger…
Every single mistake was quantified into exact numbers.
Charlie Weasley, who had just been basking in the sheer joy of victory, now sat dumbstruck.
The cheers and laughter from the common room felt as if they came from another world—distant and faint.
He listened as Alan reviewed the match with machine-like precision, cold sweat forming, drop by drop, along his temples.
He felt as if he were not talking to a classmate, but reporting to a machine—relentless, demanding absolute perfection.
In Alan's world, there seemed to be no vague concepts like "victory" or "defeat"; only "execution" and "deviation."
For the first time, Charlie truly understood what it meant to play under a master of extreme rationality—a "scientist" of the game—and how simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying that experience could be.