The two walked side by side down the corridor, their shadows stretching long across the stone floor in the firelight.
Draco talked with uncharacteristic enthusiasm about the Slytherin team's strengths and weaknesses, while Henry listened attentively, asking a well-placed question here and there to keep him going.
Over the days that followed, a new rhythm established itself in Henry's routine. Every afternoon after tea, he made his way to the Quidditch pitch.
Captain Flint had initially allowed the first-year to observe with only grudging tolerance, but his attitude shifted quickly.
Henry was never late and always arrived in proper practice clothes. He watched quietly and kept his observations to himself unless someone asked. When Flint ran the team through specific formations, Henry would note the movements on a small magical sketch board on the sidelines, and on several occasions he identified flaws in the patterns.
The team did not take these observations particularly seriously at first—until a simulated match in which the opposing side exploited precisely those flaws to score.
"How did you see that?" Flint pulled Henry aside after practice, gruff and sweaty, but with genuine curiosity in his eyes.
"The view from the sidelines is different," Henry said, holding up the sketchboard. "When your left wing advances, the right wing's cover lags slightly behind. A sharp enough opposing Chaser will find that gap and push through."
What he did not mention was the considerable effort that had gone into developing those observations.
He had been sending Sir Arnold detailed records of the Slytherin team's tactics along with books on Quidditch strategy after every session. A proper think tank, quietly operating by owl post.
Flint studied the diagrams for a long time, then clapped a hand on Henry's shoulder with enough force to make him sway.
"You'll play in the next practice. Try the Seeker's position."
Henry did not let his satisfaction show. He simply nodded. "I'll be ready."
A more interesting shift was also underway within Slytherin itself. News of Harry Potter's exceptional entry onto the Gryffindor team had spread throughout the castle.
Gryffindors were delighted; Slytherins were disgruntled, until word began to circulate that their own House might have something worth watching.
"Flint's been letting that first-year train with the team," someone said.
"I heard he flies better than some of the third-years," added a voice from nearby. "That's what Flint told someone, anyway."
The murmuring in the Slytherin common room grew: if Professor McGonagall could make an exception for Potter, why couldn't Professor Snape do the same for one of theirs?
Meanwhile, certain portraits along Professor Snape's usual route through the castle had taken to discussing the matter in carrying voices whenever he passed, particularly those with an opinion on the unsettling precedent of Potter's selection.
These conversations, like water finding its level, eventually reached the ears they were intended to reach.
On Friday afternoon, after Potions, Professor Snape did not leave the classroom immediately. He remained behind the lectern, his dark eyes moving across the students as they gathered their belongings.
"Mr. Welsh," he said, without inflection. "Stay a moment."
The classroom went quiet. Draco, Pansy, and Daphne exchanged a glance and made careful efforts to look natural.
Across the room, Potter, Weasley, and Granger paused in their packing and looked over with undisguised curiosity.
Professor Snape surveyed the lingering students.
"What are the rest of you still doing here?"
The room emptied without hesitation.
Henry placed his last textbook in his bag, walked to the lectern, and waited.
"Mr. Welsh."
Snape did not speak again immediately. He regarded Henry for a moment with an expression that gave nothing away.
"I've heard certain accounts of the flying lesson. The rescue in particular."
"Mr. Longbottom was in danger, Professor," Henry replied, his manner neither deferential nor challenging. "Anyone with the ability to help would have done the same."
"Anyone with the ability." Snape's expression did not shift. "How remarkably noble. I am almost moved." His tone carried the dry, unhurried quality of a man who had not been moved by anything in some years. "Tell me, Mr. Welsh—are you interested in Quidditch?"
The directness of it was unexpected. Henry chose his words with care.
"I find flying enjoyable in itself, Professor. As for Quidditch, it strikes me as a sport that demands both a high degree of skill and real teamwork."
"Captain Flint informs me you have attended every practice session this past week without exception," Snape said, stepping out from behind the lectern, his black robes trailing softly across the floor. "He also mentioned that you have shown an unusual grasp of tactics."
The last phrase carried a faint note of scepticism, but his eyes were entirely serious.
"I've only offered observations from outside the play, Professor," Henry replied. "A different vantage point occasionally reveals things that aren't visible from the air."
Snape glanced toward the door. The Gryffindor trio, who had been making their way out with conspicuous slowness, felt the weight of his attention and departed without looking back.
Snape turned to Henry again, his voice taking on a deliberate, unhurried quality.
"Professor McGonagall saw fit to make an exception for Mr. Potter, establishing him as the youngest Quidditch player in a century. An interesting precedent." He paused. "Slytherin does not petition for special treatment. But we do not stand by while other Houses claim every available advantage."
Henry waited.
"Flint believes you have the potential to compete for the Seeker position. The current reserve situation is not satisfactory." Another pause, long enough that Henry half expected the conversation to end there. "Starting next week, you will be listed as a reserve player for the Slytherin Quidditch team. No announcement, no declared exceptions. You are simply a student who has performed well in practice and has been selected by the captain. You will attend all sessions and train across all positions. You will not play in competitive matches this season unless circumstances require it."
Henry's expression did not change. "I understand, Professor. Thank you for your confidence in me."
"This is not confidence," Snape said flatly. "It is a strategic necessity. Gryffindor has their celebrated genius Seeker." The contempt in his voice was thorough and unhurried. "Slytherin requires a proportionate response. You fly capably, you think clearly, and—" his gaze dropped briefly to Henry's wrist, where the faded marks from the rescue were still faintly visible "—you have already given the entire school reason to take note. Now you must demonstrate that you have earned what I am giving you."
"I will, Professor."
Snape gave a single, slight nod. Henry turned and left, aware of the gaze that followed him to the door.
In the corridor, Draco, Pansy, and Daphne closed around him at once.
"Well? What did he say?" Draco asked, barely keeping the urgency out of his voice.
"Starting next week," Henry said, continuing to walk at an easy pace, "I'm a reserve player."
Pansy let out a suppressed sound of triumph. Daphne's face broke into a rare, unguarded smile.
Draco grinned and drove his fist through the air. "I knew it. Slytherin against Gryffindor—and you against Potter. This season just became considerably more interesting."