On Saturday evening, the fireplace crackled in the Slytherin common room. Draco was restless, his gaze drifting repeatedly toward Henry, who sat on the sofa reading The History of Magic. Finally, as though having made up his mind about something, he stood and walked over.
"Hey, Henry. It's Sunday tomorrow and the weather looks promising." He tapped the floor lightly with one foot. "Flint—our Quidditch captain—and I have arranged to go down to the Quidditch pitch tomorrow morning to try out some brooms. A few of the team members will be doing rehabilitation training as well. Would you like to come along? Of course, if brooms don't interest you, that's perfectly fine."
The last part sounded like something added to soften a request he was already committed to making. It was clear enough what was happening: after the Remembrall incident and the conversation over afternoon tea, Draco had been quietly recalibrating.
He was trying to rebuild a connection, or perhaps demonstrate his own worth, using the one domain he was most confident in. Inviting Henry to the Quidditch pitch was, in his mind, a sophisticated form of reaching out.
Henry closed his book. He thought of the flying lesson notice, and recognised this for what it also was: an opportunity to step into one of the wizarding world's most central social rituals and observe an important circle within Slytherin from the inside.
"Sounds interesting," he said, smiling. "I'd love to see it. Thank you for the invitation, Draco."
Draco's face brightened immediately, his earlier nervousness giving way to his more familiar air of self-possession.
"Settled, then. We'll go together after breakfast. You'll see what real flying looks like—nothing like those toy brooms they hand out in class."
On Sunday morning, the Quidditch pitch looked exceptionally vast in the clear autumn light. When Henry and Draco arrived, several tall figures in Slytherin Quidditch robes were already waiting at the edge of the field.
Captain Marcus Flint, who had the look of someone who had once lost an argument with a doorframe, was gruffly directing two teammates through their warm-up.
He glanced at the arrivals, gave Draco a brief nod, and subjected Henry to an undisguised appraisal. The look was more calculating than welcoming.
"Malfoy, keep your friend off the practice area," he said gruffly. "Last thing I need is someone catching a stray ball to the head." He added, with a slight edge of mockery, "Or you could teach your prince here to stop a broom from rolling around."
A burst of rough laughter came from the nearby teammates.
Draco's colour rose slightly, but he straightened his back and patted his broom. "He doesn't need teaching, Flint. Henry picks things up quickly."
He turned to Henry and lowered his voice. "Ignore them. That's just how they are. Come on, I'll show you."
Draco mounted his broom and rose a few feet from the ground, demonstrating a series of smooth hovers and slow, controlled turns.
His technique was genuinely more refined than most first-years, the product of evident training rather than mere enthusiasm.
Henry watched his movements, then picked up one of the Seven-Star Sweeps left on the sidelines for visitors. It was a slightly older model, but usable enough.
"Up," he said clearly.
The broom leapt steadily into his hand.
The moment his fingers closed around the handle, something shifted. Practising spells required conscious direction and deliberate control of magic—flying, he sensed immediately, operated on something different: balance, spatial instinct, the kind of wordless understanding between a rider and the thing beneath him.
It reminded him of learning to ride as a child, of learning to move with a horse rather than against it, of feeling the wind as information rather than obstacle.
"Not bad!" Draco called down from the air. "Come up and get a feel for it. Don't go too high yet—just settle in."
Henry mounted the broom and pushed off from the ground.
The Seven-Star Sweep climbed smoothly, without so much as a jolt. He found his balance almost at once.
The feeling was immediate and natural, as though some part of him already understood how to distribute his weight and communicate with the broom through the subtlest shifts of his body.
He leaned forward and the broom accelerated; he eased back and it slowed; his turns were astonishingly clean, the curves tracing through the air without any of the awkward wobbling of a beginner.
"Hey! You're good!" Draco flew closer, genuinely surprised. "Your control is far better than someone on their first flight. You've got some real talent for this."
Henry didn't answer. He was listening to it—the wind past his ears, the ground shrinking away below, the particular quality of freedom and the accompanying desire for precision that came with height.
It felt good. Very good. He tried a low, shallow dive and pulled up lightly as the grass approached, his robes snapping in the air behind him, the movement clean and unhesitating.
Flint and the other players, who had been watching with only casual interest, gradually stopped what they were doing.
"Was that a Wronski Feint?" one of the Chasers said, almost involuntarily. "Merlin's beard—is this actually his first time on a broom?"
"The broom's a bit old, but the control is good," another Chaser observed. "His centre of gravity is right. No unnecessary shifting on the turns."
Flint crossed his arms. Something had changed in his expression.
He didn't care about bloodline or Muggle background. The Quidditch pitch had its own measure of a person, and it had nothing to do with either.
"Hey! You up there!" He raised his voice toward Henry. "Dare to push it faster? Go around the edge of the pitch so we can see your straights and your turns."
Draco looked slightly tense in the air, but Henry gave Flint a small nod, lowered his body, fixed his eyes on the edge of the pitch, and calculated his angle and speed.
Then the Seven-Star Sweep shot forward.
The acceleration was not the sharp, explosive burst of a Nimbus 2000, but it was far beyond anything an ordinary first-time rider should have been capable of. Henry held the broom tightly, the wind flattening his hair, his body settled and completely steady.
He drove straight ahead without hesitation, then before the turning point, he leaned smoothly forward and let the broom carry him through a clean, precise arc, completing the turn just above the edge of the pitch with almost no loss of speed.
He came down after one full loop and landed evenly, the broom barely shuddering.
A short silence followed. Flint slapped one hand against his own palm with a sharp crack. His face remained largely without expression, but his eyes were different.
"Not bad. Really not bad." He walked over and looked Henry up and down, his breathing only marginally elevated. "You've genuinely never flown before? Not anywhere—not somewhere Muggle either?"
"First time," Henry said, dismounting with composure.
He was aware that his heart was beating somewhat faster than usual, but the feeling was closer to exhilaration than nerves. Even without wings, something in people never quite stopped wanting the sky.
Draco landed beside him, his expression a mixture of surprise and unmistakable pride.
"See, Flint! I told you he learns fast." He turned to Henry, his tone bright with enthusiasm. "You have real talent, Henry. Especially your cornering—it's so controlled. If you had a Nimbus 2000 instead of that old thing..."
Flint stroked his chin, turning something over.
"The broom held you back, but the foundation is clearly there. Quick reflexes, no fear of speed, and more importantly, a clear head."
He regarded Henry steadily. "Interested in coming out to the pitch to practise more? You're welcome to watch team training as well. Firstyears can't join the team, obviously, but there's nothing stopping you from getting familiar with things early."
+++++++
Someone asked in the comments where his system is. That will be explained later, but in the latest p@treon chapter, it was activated after he met the right conditions.
100PS=Extra 1 chapter
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