When Alan arrived at the library, the castle's stone walls were cutting the afternoon sunlight into bright, slanting stripes. Dust rolled silently within the golden beams.
He ignored the towering stacks of Transfiguration texts. Those complicated theories were nothing more than stored data already lodged within his Mind Palace. His steps were precise and deliberate, carrying him past rows of high shelves, until he stopped at a quiet, neglected corner.
"Magical Transportation."
The air was filled with the dry fragrance of old parchment and leather bindings, a scent forgotten by time.
What he sought were books on "broomstick aerodynamics" and "magical propulsion efficiency."
His long fingers brushed across spines, pausing briefly:
Broomstick Care and Maintenance.
On the Origins of Famous Broomstick Woods.
A Century of Broom Core Variations.
Alan's brow furrowed. These books treated broomsticks purely as magical artifacts—mystical composites of wood, twigs, and spells. Wizards obsessed over the toughness of ash, the flexibility of willow, whether dragon heartstring or unicorn hair produced greater power. Yet not a single text touched on the most fundamental question:
Why do they fly?
At last, his eyes fell on volumes closer to historical records and enthusiast guides:
Illustrated Guide to Broomstick Models.
A Century of Quidditch.
He pulled them down and flipped them open. They were filled with glory-filled depictions of matches and praise for legendary players. But tucked into yellowed margins were crude, disproportionate schematics of broom structures, alongside flight records of certain broom models in specific tournaments.
This—this was his only usable data source.
Alan found a seat, spread out parchment he had brought, and dipped his quill into ink. The soft scritch echoed through the silent stacks.
He linked the prototype design of the Firebolt from the Illustrated Guide to the recorded "maximum dive speed" of the Bulgarian National Team test noted in Quidditch Century. Then he cross-referenced another book's estimates of the Comet series' magical energy consumption against headwinds.
Formula after formula took shape under his quill. Lines of precise calculations emerged. His Mind Palace raced, quantifying scattered, unreliable, highly subjective descriptions, stripping away all sentiment and leaving behind only cold physical parameters.
By the time he rolled up sheets of parchment covered with diagrams and equations, the sunlight outside had turned warm orange.
He was almost late.
The open air at the Quidditch pitch carried the fresh scent of trampled grass.
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were already restless. They hovered half a foot above the ground on battered school brooms, chasing one another while shouting exaggerated taunts and insults.
"You finally made it, Alan!"
Lee Jordan was the first to spot him, pulling his broom into a sharp stop, hovering midair as he complained:
"We thought you drowned in an ink bottle and turned into a puddle of walking inkblot!"
Near the towering golden hoops leaned Charlie Weasley, Gryffindor's Quidditch captain. Broad-shouldered, freckled from the sun, he was tenderly polishing his custom Swedish Short-Snout broom with a soft cloth, movements steady and reverent.
Alan ignored his friends' teasing. While Charlie gathered the group, Alan walked to a flat patch of grass, crouched, and carefully unrolled his parchment.
"Look at this."
He beckoned the twins and Lee Jordan, who crowded around.
What they saw left them baffled. It wasn't any spell diagram they knew, but a chart of straight lines, curves, and strange symbols.
"This is the aerodynamic model and efficiency chart I built," Alan said calmly, his tone clinical.
"Of the Comet 140—the same brooms the school lends us."
He pointed at the peak on one of the graphs.
"According to my calculations, when the broom's angle of attack relative to the horizontal plane is kept at 15.3 degrees, the internal magical propulsion achieves its highest efficiency."
His finger slid to a diagram of body posture.
"At the same time, if you maintain this stance—elbows tucked in at 30 degrees, knees bent at 125 degrees, back leaning forward—you minimize your wind resistance.
"The result is greater speed and stability while consuming the same amount of magical power."
Fred and George gawked, their faces morphing from curiosity, to confusion, to a kind of stunned comedy.
They felt less like they were in a flying lesson and more like they had wandered into some incomprehensible Muggle physics class.
"Oh, come off it, Alan."
Fred scoffed, massaging his temples dramatically.
"Flying is about instinct and guts, not numbers! What, are you going to pull out a protractor midair to measure angles?"
"Exactly," George laughed, clapping Fred's shoulder.
"As long as you've got the guts, you've got the speed! That's the Weasley flying secret!"
At that moment, firm footsteps approached behind them.
Charlie Weasley had finished polishing his broom. He had caught Alan's entire explanation.
There was no mockery on his face—only keen interest, mixed with surprise.
As a seasoned Quidditch player, he knew better than anyone how body posture affected flight. At high speeds, even the smallest shift in arm position could cut velocity or send one off course. These were ingrained instincts.
But never had he thought—
That these instincts could be calculated.
His eyes lingered on the function curve Alan had drawn, at the peak marked "15.3°." He couldn't quite grasp it, but something about it felt right.
"Your theory is very interesting, Alan."
Charlie's voice was warm as he patted the boy's thin shoulder. It carried no prejudice—only genuine encouragement from a senior.
"I don't fully understand these 'efficiency' and 'angles' of yours," Charlie admitted with a broad grin, teeth flashing white.
"But I'll let you try your method. I'd like to see the results myself."
His eyes met Alan's, gleaming with real anticipation.
"I look forward to it."
Charlie Weasley's voice rang across the open pitch, brimming with Gryffindor's hearty passion:
"The Flying Lesson begins now!"
He gave a short demonstration of the basics: how to bond with the broom through sheer willpower, the magical summons of a wizard's intent.
"Hold your hand over the broom, focus, and shout with confidence: 'Up!'"
The words had barely left his mouth before two loud voices shouted in perfect unison:
"Up!"
~~----------------------
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