Joining the Slytherin team as a reserve? Henry found, somewhat to his own surprise, that he was genuinely interested.
There was a logic at work here that ran contrary to a certain common assumption. In European and American schools, academic achievement does not, as a rule, make a person popular.
The ones who are truly sought after are the athletes.
As for whether throwing himself into sport was beneath the dignity of the British royal family—history had already settled that question. Being incapable on a field of play was the real indignity.
His grandfather, after all, had won his grandmother's heart not only with his looks but with the agile, easy confidence of a man who could handle himself on a tennis court or in a kayak.
His father, Charles, by all accounts a more bookish sort, had reportedly not enjoyed his time at Gordonstoun particularly. His studious nature had made him a target.
Status meant nothing to a thirteen-year-old determined to make his feelings known through a fist.
William, in his own time, had faced isolation at school as well—until he became captain of the swimming and rugby teams, at which point things changed very quickly indeed.
Sport was a powerful currency for earning recognition among peers, and a far more immediate one than rank or title.
Even J.K. Rowling, who had been something of an isolated bookish type in her own school days, had woven this truth into her writing without perhaps fully realising it; the popular Lily, after all, had ultimately chosen the athletic James Potter.
Some patterns in human nature were very consistent.
Academic ability could earn the House points and establish competence. Afternoon tea could build meaningful connections and quiet influence within a smaller circle.
But to gain broad and immediate recognition from a group—particularly one like Slytherin, which had a deep instinctive respect for demonstrated strength—the Quidditch pitch was the most direct stage available.
Henry accepted Flint's invitation.
Draco landed beside him a moment later, his face still flushed from the morning's flying.
"What are you thinking about, Henry? Isn't Quidditch extraordinary? I told you it's far more interesting than staring at those musty books in the library."
"It's considerably more challenging and more enjoyable than I expected," Henry said, turning away from the pitch with a smile. "Thank you for bringing me here, Draco. I think it might be worth investing some real time in."
Draco looked extremely satisfied, in the manner of someone who has led a friend to discover something they themselves had always known was worth finding.
"Of course it is! Come to training often from now on—I'll have a word with Flint." He dropped his voice slightly, with the air of sharing something useful. "Between us, I've heard Flint has been complaining that his Seven-Stars are a bit out of sorts, and his family isn't keen on replacing them with a Nimbus this year. If you could help in some small way, even just mentioning that you know someone at one of the broomstick suppliers in Diagon Alley, he'd consider you one of his own."
Henry nodded. This was Draco offering goodwill and, at the same time, quietly explaining the rules of the game as Slytherin played it.
That evening, back in the dormitory, Theodore was studying The Standard Book of Spells by candlelight.
He looked up and offered a greeting as Henry came in. Henry responded, sat down at his desk, and spread out a fresh sheet of parchment.
He wanted Sir Arnold's perspective on this—that steady, experienced advisor who had a particular gift for holding seemingly instinctive choices up to rational scrutiny.
--
Dear Sir Arnold,
This morning I accompanied Mr. Malfoy to the Quidditch pitch for a test flight and made an unexpected discovery: I appear to possess a reasonable natural talent for flying. My broom control was steady, and my reaction time and spatial awareness seem adequate. This was enough to draw the initial notice of Slytherin's Quidditch captain, Flint, who has given me leave to observe team training. Mr. Malfoy has also suggested, not subtly, that making something of myself in this area would considerably assist my integration into the inner circle of the House.
Quidditch holds a unique social and symbolic position at Hogwarts, and I am inclined to invest some effort in it. However, this raises questions of time, potentially equipment, and most importantly whether this fits within your established long-term thinking. I would be grateful for your assessment of the potential gains and risks.
Sincerely, Henry
--
On the second page, he appended his observations of the Slytherin Quidditch players: their general characters and dispositions, and the way each of them had responded to him that morning.
The reply arrived faster than he had expected. The following evening, Mercury dropped the letter onto his dinner plate with characteristic composure.
Sir Arnold's view was that Henry should seize the opportunity and actively pursue a place on the House team, ideally before the year was out. He should set his sights on one of the key positions—Seeker or Chaser—and Sir Arnold was clear that at this stage of building influence within Hogwarts, this was the strongest available strategy.
He was equally clear on one point: Henry should not use money to smooth the path. That kind of approach left a particular impression, and it was not the one they were working to build.
Henry folded the letter away. As he did, a thought surfaced.
He had forgotten some of the finer details of the original story by now, but he still remembered clearly enough that Harry Potter had been permitted to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team in his first year after his flying talent caught Professor McGonagall's attention during a specific incident.
He also remembered, with some detachment, that Ron Weasley's rat was Peter Pettigrew—but that was entirely someone else's problem.
Ron's older brothers were walking around with the Marauder's Map, watching their younger brother spend time daily with someone listed as Peter Pettigrew, and apparently drawing no conclusions from it.
Henry had no particular desire to involve himself in any of that.
His foundational principle at Hogwarts was simple enough: stay clear of the trio, and the vast majority of the associated dangers would take care of themselves.
Besides, Hermione was a committed progressive, and he, as the descendant of an aggressively imperialist line of monarchs, did not imagine they would find much common ground.
He set the letter aside and tapped his fingertips lightly against the smooth desk.
If Potter could be granted an exception to the rule against first-years joining House teams, then in principle a path existed. The mechanics of how it had happened for Potter were worth considering carefully.
Two things had made it possible in his case: first, Professor McGonagall had personally witnessed an extraordinary display of flying talent while Potter caught Neville's falling Remembrall; second, as Head of Gryffindor House, Professor McGonagall carried enough authority and force of will to push through the exception herself.
So what about his own situation?
After the morning's test flight, his talent had been noted by Flint and several of the team members, which was a foundation.
The complication was Professor Snape. As Head of Slytherin, Snape would be the one to decide whether to make the same kind of exception.
Exceptional raw ability might not be enough on its own—Snape was not the sort of person who made exceptions simply because the talent was there.
And yet.
Henry's mind moved through it steadily. What if Potter, the person Snape disliked most in the school, were to join the Gryffindor team on the strength of his flying?
The man already couldn't look at Potter without seeing James. And now, rather than inheriting his mother's gift for Potions, the boy appeared to have inherited his father's gift for Quidditch instead.
Henry could imagine Snape's expression quite vividly.
A two-step plan began to take shape.
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100PS=Extra 1 chapter
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