Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish another chapter of Slytherin's Red Prince
If you want to Read 4 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch
Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, and Chapter 12 are already available for Patrons, so go to my Patreon to gain Early Access.
Harry Potter
The Charms classroom occupied a cheerful space on the third floor, with tall windows that let in streams of autumn sunlight. A tiny professor standing behind his desk on a stack of books.
"Why were you reading about illusion magic?" Daphne asked Harry as students were filling the class.
"Because I'm a magician and magicians make illusions." Harry said with a smile, and Daphne rolled her eyes.
"Welcome, welcome!" Flitwick squeaked as students filed in. "First-years, please find your seats! We have a wonderful lesson planned today!"
Harry took a seat near the middle of the classroom, positioned so he could see both the professor and most of his classmates. Goyle settled heavily into the seat beside him—an arrangement that had become standard in classes where they weren't assigned partners. The larger boy still looked slightly surprised each time Harry chose to sit with him, as though he couldn't quite believe someone actually wanted his company.
Across the room, Hermione Granger was already seated in the front row.
"Now then," Flitwick began, hopping down from his platform with surprising agility, "Does anyone remember what I said we'll be learning today?"
Hermione's hand shot higher.
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"The Levitation Charm, sir," she said immediately. "Wingardium Leviosa. It's one of the most fundamental charms in practical magic, used for moving objects without physical contact. The incantation derives from the Latin 'wingardium,' meaning to lift or raise, and 'leviosa' from 'levis,' meaning light or weightless."
Several students rolled their eyes at this display of knowledge. Harry noticed Ron Weasley, sitting beside a sandy-haired boy, making a face that suggested he'd just smelled something unpleasant.
"Excellent, Miss Granger! Five points to Gryffindor for such a thorough explanation." Flitwick beamed at her, then addressed the entire class. "As Miss Granger so eloquently stated, today we'll be learning Wingardium Leviosa. This charm is deceptively simple—it requires precise wand movement and clear pronunciation, but the magical theory behind it is quite straightforward."
He picked up his own wand and demonstrated, making a feather rise smoothly from his desk and float in lazy circles around his head. "The wand movement is crucial: swish and flick. Like so." He demonstrated the motion several times. "And remember, it's Wing-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa. The stress on the 'gar' is essential."
Harry watched carefully. It seemed simple enough, a smooth diagonal swish followed by a sharp upward flick. The key would be maintaining the right speed and angle.
"Now," Flitwick continued, distributing feathers to each student with a casual wave of his wand, "you'll notice I've given you each a feather. They're light, easy to levitate, perfect for beginners. Once you've mastered the basic charm, we can move on to heavier objects. But for today, we focus on technique."
A feather drifted down to land in front of Harry. He picked it up, examining it thoughtfully. The lightness of the object meant less magical force required, which should make the spell easier—but it also meant any imprecision in the wand movement would be more obvious.
"You may begin!" Flitwick announced cheerfully. "Remember—swish and flick!"
Around the classroom, students began attempting the charm with varying degrees of confidence. The air filled with voices calling out "Wingardium Leviosa" in different tones and pronunciations.
Harry observed for a moment before making his own attempt, noting how others held their wands and the speed of their movements. Seamus Finnigan, a sandy-haired Gryffindor, was waving his wand so vigorously that his feather kept spinning away. Neville Longbottom's feather hadn't moved at all, despite his obvious concentration.
Beside Harry, Goyle stared at his feather with the expression of someone facing a particularly difficult mathematical equation.
Harry raised his wand, mimicking the movement he'd seen Flitwick demonstrate. "Wingardium Leviosa."
The feather rose smoothly into the air, hovering about a foot above the desk.
"Excellent, Mr. Potter!" Flitwick's voice carried across the classroom. "Perfect form on the first attempt! Five points to Slytherin!"
Several heads turned to stare. Draco looked pleased but unsurprised; he'd come to expect this level of performance from Harry. Daphne merely raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment. But several Gryffindors were staring with hostility.
Harry lowered his wand, allowing the feather to drift back down. Then he turned to Goyle, who was still frowning at his own feather.
"Having trouble?" Harry asked quietly.
Goyle's face reddened. "Can't get the movement right. Keep doing it wrong."
"Let me see your wand grip." Harry studied how Goyle held his wand, too tightly. "You're gripping it too hard. Hold it more like this." He demonstrated a looser, more natural grip.
Goyle adjusted his hold, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"Good. Since you are trying to levitate a feather and not a car, you should move it precisely. Think of it like..." Harry paused, searching for an analogy Goyle would understand. "Like throwing a perfect pass in a game."
Something clicked in Goyle's expression. "Oh! Like when I used to play catch with my dad."
Goyle raised his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa."
The feather wobbled, then rose about three inches before dropping back down.
"I did it!" Goyle said, his face lighting up with genuine joy. "Harry, I actually did it!"
"You did," Harry confirmed with a smile. "Try it again. You've got the feel for it now."
As Goyle continued, Harry's attention was drawn to movement across the classroom. A Gryffindor boy, Cormac McLaggen, Harry recalled with distaste, was struggling with his feather, his face growing increasingly red with frustration. He was a pureblood.
Harry hesitated, then made a decision; he needed to get to know students from the other houses as well, not just Slytherin. Standing, he crossed the aisle toward the Gryffindor side.
"Excuse me," Harry said politely to McLaggen. "I noticed you're having some trouble. The wand movement needs to be smoother—"
"I don't need help from a snake," McLaggen spat, his voice loud enough to carry. Several nearby students turned to stare.
Harry's face remained blank. "I was just trying to—"
"I said I don't need your help, Slytherin." McLaggen's face twisted with contempt. "Go back to your side of the classroom and leave us alone."
"Mr. McLaggen!" Flitwick's voice cracked like a whip despite its high pitch. The tiny professor had appeared at McLaggen's elbow with startling speed, taking even Harry by surprise. "That language and attitude are completely unacceptable in my classroom! House rivalry is no excuse for rudeness!"
McLaggen's face went from red to white. "But Professor, he—"
"Mr. Potter was offering assistance, which is exactly the kind of collaborative learning I encourage." Flitwick's usually cheerful expression had hardened. "You will apologize to him immediately, or you'll find yourself in detention."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the classroom. Harry could feel dozens of eyes on him, and not all of them friendly. Many of the Gryffindors were giving him angry looks.
The only exceptions were Hermione Granger, who looked disapproving of McLaggen's behavior, and Neville Longbottom, who offered Harry a small, sympathetic smile from his seat near the window.
"Sorry," McLaggen muttered without looking at Harry.
"Apology accepted," Harry said evenly, though he was glad for this interaction; it was information for the future. He returned to his seat,
So much for inter-house cooperation, he thought wryly. Apparently, offering help to a Gryffindor is considered some kind of Slytherin trick.
Goyle looked like he wanted to strangle McLaggen. Once Harry sat down, he told Harry they could ambush him after class when he is alone, even Draco agreed, saying he is an insult to Purebloods. Harry says that would put them in trouble, they are Slytherins, they do things cunningly, not make it obvious to everyone who did what.
The lesson continued, though the atmosphere had grown noticeably tenser. More students managed to levitate their feathers—Hermione's rose smoothly on her third attempt, earning her another five points. Ron Weasley was still struggling, his feather doing everything except actually floating.
"You're saying it wrong," Hermione said, leaning toward Ron with that particular tone of someone who genuinely wants to help but has no idea how condescending they sound. "It's Wing-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa, not Wingardium Levio-SAR."
"You do it then if you're so clever," Ron snapped, his ears turning red.
"I already have," Hermione replied with a hint of smugness, gesturing at her floating feather.
They're going to have words after this class, Harry predicted. Ronald Weasley seems the type to simmer and then explode, and Hermione has no idea she's poking a hornet's nest.
"Now then!" Flitwick clapped his hands, drawing attention back to the front. "Most of you have achieved basic levitation, which is wonderful! But I wonder—would anyone like to try something more challenging?"
The classroom fell quiet. Several students looked nervous at the prospect of a harder task, while others seemed intrigued.
Harry's hand rose smoothly into the air.
Flitwick's eyes lit up with obvious delight. "Yes, Mr. Potter?"
"Professor," Harry began, "is it possible to use the spell on something inside an object? Without affecting the container itself?"
"Excellent question, Mr. Potter! Truly excellent!" The tiny professor clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. "What you're describing is actually fifth-year material—a variation called Wingardium Leviosa Interius. It requires significantly more focus and magical control than the standard charm."
"Fifth-year?" someone whispered. "He's asking about fifth-year spells?"
Hermione Granger had leaned so far forward in her seat that she was practically falling out of it, her eyes bright with intense interest.
Flitwick bustled over to a cabinet at the side of the classroom, rummaging through it with excitement. "The difficulty lies in focusing your magic through a barrier while maintaining precision on your target. You must essentially split your magical attention—acknowledging the barrier exists without allowing it to affect your spell."
He emerged with a glass box about the size of a large book. Inside it, Harry could see a single white feather identical to the ones they'd been practicing with.
"Even fifth-years struggle with this," Flitwick explained, placing the box on his desk where everyone could see it. "The glass creates interference—not magical interference precisely, but it requires you to visualize your spell working through a medium that would normally deflect magic." He looked at Harry with something like pride. "But let's see what you can do, Mr. Potter."
Harry stood and approached the desk, aware of every eye in the classroom following him.
He studied the glass box carefully, noting how the feather rested at the bottom. The glass was clear but thick, probably deliberately chosen to make the task more difficult.
"The key," Flitwick said softly, "is to visualize your magic as something that can pass through solid objects. Like light through a window. The glass is there, but it doesn't stop what you're trying to accomplish."
Harry nodded, processing this. He raised his wand, focusing not on the glass but on the feather within. In his mind, he pictured the magic flowing through the barrier like water through a sieve.
"Wingardium Leviosa Interius," he said, his wand movement precise.
The glass box trembled slightly. The feather remained motionless.
Frustrated murmurs rippled through the watching students. Harry could practically hear them thinking: See? He's not that special after all.
But Harry wasn't discouraged. The glass had responded, which meant his magic was reaching it—he just needed to refine his focus. He tried again, this time concentrating harder on the idea of his magic passing through rather than affecting the glass itself.
"Wingardium Leviosa Interius."
The feather twitched.
Just a small movement, barely noticeable, but it had definitely moved. Harry's eyes narrowed in concentration. He was close. The visualization was working; he just needed to strengthen it.
Third attempt. He closed his eyes briefly, building the mental image with absolute clarity: magic flowing like light, passing through the glass as though it were air, touching only the feather within.
His eyes opened. "Wingardium Leviosa Interius."
The feather rose.
Not smoothly—it wobbled and jerked, barely making it an inch off the bottom of the box before falling back down. But it had risen.
Flitwick let out a squeak of pure delight that could probably have shattered glass if it had been any higher-pitched.
"Remarkable!" he practically shouted, bouncing on his toes. "Absolutely remarkable! Mr. Potter, that was extraordinary! You actually moved it! I've had seventh-years who couldn't accomplish that much on their first try!"
The professor turned to the class, gesturing enthusiastically at the glass box. "Do you all see what Mr. Potter just did? He performed a fifth-year charm—imperfectly, yes, but he performed it nonetheless! That demonstrates exceptional magical control and theoretical understanding!"
He spun back to Harry, his eyes bright. "Twenty points to Slytherin! And Mr. Potter, I want you to know that was genuinely impressive work. Truly impressive."
Harry returned to his seat amid a storm of whispers. Draco looked surprised. Theodore looked thoughtful. Daphne's expression remained neutral, but her cold eyes glinted like ice under sunlight.
The Gryffindors' reactions were more varied. Hermione Granger looked torn between admiration and competitive frustration. Neville was smiling, apparently just happy to see someone succeed. But many others—including Ron Weasley and Cormac McLaggen—were glaring at Harry with open resentment.
"Think you're so clever, don't you?" McLaggen muttered, just loud enough for Harry to hear. "Showing off with advanced magic. Typical Slytherin, always trying to make everyone else look bad."
Harry ignored him. McLaggen's words, he was clearly jealous, and was using the Slytherin card as if that somehow gave him the moral high ground in this one-sided discussion.
The rest of the lesson proceeded with students continuing to practice basic levitation, though the atmosphere had shifted. Harry's performance had created a division in the room—his housemates looked at him with varying degrees of pride and calculation, while most Gryffindors regarded him with suspicion.
When Flitwick finally dismissed the class, he called out, "Mr. Potter, a moment please?"
Harry approached the professor's desk as other students filed out. He could hear Ronald Weasley's voice carrying from the corridor: "It's no wonder she hasn't got any friends. She's a nightmare, honestly."
"Mr. Potter," Flitwick said warmly, drawing his attention back. "I wanted to tell you how impressed I am with your work today. That level of magical control is quite rare in first-years."
"Thank you, Professor. I've been reading ahead—trying to understand the theory behind the spells we're learning."
Flitwick beamed. "Initiative! I love to see it! You know, your mother had a similar approach to magic. She was absolutely brilliant at Charms—natural talent combined with dedicated study. One of the best students I ever taught."
Harry was always happy to be compared to his parents; it made him feel...closer to them, as if they were people he had known, people he had met. "She was good at Charms?"
"Exceptional," Flitwick confirmed. "Your father was excellent at Transfiguration—had an instinctive grasp for it that McGonagall still talks about. But your mother..." His expression grew distant with memory. "Lily was gifted at Charms, Potions, and Ancient Runes. She had this wonderful curiosity about how magic worked, always asking questions, always pushing to understand the deeper principles."
He focused back on Harry with a gentle smile. "I see a lot of her in you. That same curiosity, that same drive to understand rather than just perform. It does my heart good."
"I wish I'd known her," Harry said quietly, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Flitwick's expression softened with sympathy. "I'm sure you do. But Mister Potter. You're making her proud, I'm certain of it. The way you approached that advanced charm, the way you helped Mr. Goyle despite it benefiting a potential academic rival... those are things your mother would have done."
He reached into his desk and pulled out a slim volume bound in dark blue leather. "I'd like to lend you this. It's an advanced Charms textbook—third and fourth-year material mostly, but with some fifth-year concepts. I think you're ready for it."
Harry accepted the book reverently. "Thank you, Professor. I'll take good care of it."
"I know you will." Flitwick hesitated, then added carefully, "I understand you're watching Quidditch practice this afternoon?"
"Yes, sir," Harry confirmed. "Captain Flint was kind enough to give me permission."
"I see." Flitwick's expression was difficult to read. "How... interesting. Well, I hope you enjoy it, Mister Potter. Quidditch can be quite educational when approached with the right attitude."
There was definitely subtext there, but Harry couldn't quite decipher it. Did Flitwick approve? Disapprove? Was he warning Harry about something?
"Thank you, Professor. For everything."
"My pleasure, my boy. Now, off you go—wouldn't want to be late for your next class."
Harry left the Charms classroom with the book tucked under his arm, his mind turning over Flitwick's words. The corridor outside was mostly empty now, students having dispersed to their next lessons or free periods.
He was almost to the stairs when he heard raised voices around the corner.
"...just trying to help!" That was Hermione's voice, tight with frustration and hurt.
"Well, nobody asked for your help!" Ronald Weasley shot back. "Maybe if you weren't such a know-it-all all the time, you'd actually have friends!"
Harry paused, hidden from view by the corner. He shouldn't eavesdrop; this was not his business, and they weren't even from his house.
"I was just trying to show you the correct pronunciation!" Hermione said, her voice rising. "The spell requires—"
"Nobody cares about your perfect pronunciation!" Ron interrupted. "Just because you've read every book in the library doesn't make you better than everyone else!"
There was a moment of silence. When Hermione spoke again, her voice was thick with tears. "I never said I was better than anyone."
"You don't have to say it. You make it obvious every time you wave your hand in the air or correct someone's wand movement!" Ron said harshly. "Just... leave me alone, alright? Go show off to someone who cares."
Footsteps retreated rapidly, Hermione running away, from the sound of it.
Harry stood frozen, the advanced Charms book heavy in his arms. He could go after Hermione, try to offer comfort or support. She was Muggle-born like his mother had been. She was being ostracized for being clever and enthusiastic. Part of him wanted to help.
But the other part—the part that had learned harsh lessons about survival at the Dursleys—reminded him that getting involved in Gryffindor drama would only paint a bigger target on his back. He had no reason to worry; she would cry about it, and then learn she has no reason to value Ronald's attention, and she would find someone else who valued it.
"Harry!" Draco's voice called from further down the corridor. "Come on! We need to eat lunch before practice. You're not going to impress Flint if you're too weak from hunger to stay on a broom!"
The decision was made for him. Harry turned away from where Hermione had disappeared and jogged toward where his friends waited.
But as he walked, he couldn't shake the memory of Hermione's voice thick with tears, or the way the Weasley had weaponized her intelligence against her. It reminded him uncomfortably of how Aunt Petunia had treated him—punishing him for being different, for being clever, for not fitting into the box they wanted to stuff him into.
Maybe later, he thought. Maybe if an opportunity presents itself. But not now. Right now, I have bigger problems to deal with.
Harry and his group made their way down to the Quidditch pitch. The sky overhead was a flat grey, promising rain later but holding off for now. Harry kept one hand on his cloak, both to shield against the cold and to keep Sylvia warm where she was coiled beneath the fabric against his chest.
"Are you sure she's going to be alright out here?" Tracey Davis asked, eyeing the slight bulge in Harry's cloak with concern. "Snakes don't exactly thrive in cold weather."
"She'll be fine," Harry assured her, feeling Sylvia shift contentedly against his skin. "She's got my body heat, and she can always retreat further into my robes if she needs to."
"Still seems cruel," Tracey muttered, but dropped the subject.
The Quidditch pitch spread before them like a vast green arena, the three golden hoops at each end gleaming despite the overcast sky. Already, figures in dark green robes were circling overhead.
"There's Flint," Draco said, pointing at a particularly broad-shouldered figure doing aggressive loops around the center hoop. "And that's Pucey, third from the left. He's one of our Chasers. Father says he's got excellent tactical awareness but needs to work on his finishing."
"Your father has opinions about everything, doesn't he?" Blaise observed dryly.
"Father values excellence in all pursuits," Draco replied with a sniff. "Especially Quidditch. Did I mention he almost played professionally before deciding to focus on Ministry work?"
"Yes," Theodore said without looking up from where he was settling onto the stands' wooden bench. "Several times. This morning, in fact."
Draco's ears turned slightly pink, but he continued undeterred. "Well, it's relevant. Quidditch is in the Malfoy blood. I'll be on that team by second year, mark my words."
Harry claimed a seat in the middle of their group, positioning himself where he'd have the best view of the pitch. Daphne sat to his right. Theodore took his left, already pulling out a small notebook—of course Theodore would take notes on a Quidditch practice.
"This is brilliant," Goyle said, his face bright with genuine excitement. "Never been this close to a real practice before. Usually they kick younger students away if they try to watch."
"That's because most younger students are annoying distractions," came a voice from behind them. They turned to find Gemma Farley, a sixth year, settling onto a bench a few rows back. "But Flint made an exception for you lot. Try not to make him regret it."
"We'll be quiet as mice," Draco promised, though his eager expression suggested that would be a challenge.
The team continued their warm-up exercises, and Harry found himself completely absorbed in their movements. The three Chasers—Pucey, a girl Harry didn't know, and another boy—were passing the Quaffle between them in increasingly complex patterns. Their movements were synchronized.
"See how they're always moving in triangles?" Theodore observed, scribbling in his notebook. "It creates passing lanes while preventing the other team from intercepting easily. Basic formation, but they execute it well."
"The girl's name is Lucinda Talbot," Daphne supplied. "Fifth year. Her family breeds racing brooms—she's been flying since she could walk. The other Chaser is Graham Montague. Fourth year, excellent speed but sometimes too aggressive."
"You know a lot about the team."
"I make it a point to know relevant information," Daphne replied coolly. "Quidditch is important to house morale. Understanding our team's strengths and weaknesses is simply practical."
Harry made sure to remember that.
Overhead, two Beaters were practicing their aim, sending a Bludger rocketing back and forth between them with bone-jarring force. One nearly lost control of it, the iron ball veering dangerously close to Pucey before the Beater managed to redirect it.
"Sloppy," Theodore muttered, making a note. "The bigger one—that's Bole, isn't it?—he's got power but his accuracy is inconsistent. The other one, Derrick, compensates with better positioning."
"You're analyzing them like they're chess pieces," Blaise observed with amusement.
"Everything's a chess game if you look at it right," Theodore replied without looking up from his notes.
Harry's attention drifted to the figure flying alone at the far end of the pitch. Miles Bletchley, the current Seeker, was practicing search patterns. He'd fly in a grid, eyes scanning for any flash of gold, then suddenly dive or bank as though pursuing something.
He's competent, Harry thought, watching the older boy's technique critically. Good speed, decent instincts. But his patterns are predictable. He searches methodically, which is smart for finding a hidden Snitch, but makes him easy to anticipate in a real match. And his dives lack the commitment needed to beat a more aggressive Seeker to the catch.
"What do you think?" Draco asked, following Harry's gaze. "Bletchley's been our Seeker for two years now. He's solid."
"He's adequate," Harry replied, careful to keep his voice neutral. "But adequate isn't exceptional."
Daphne's eyes flickered to him, sharp with interest. "You think you could do better?"
"I think," Harry said slowly, "that I'd like to find out."
The practice continued for another twenty minutes, giving Harry ample time to study every aspect of team dynamics.
"How's the team looking overall?" Draco asked, turning to face the sixth year. "For the Gryffindor match, I mean."
Gemma's expression grew more serious. "Honestly? We should win. Gryffindor's got Wood as Keeper, he's brilliant, probably the best in the school—but their Chasers are inconsistent. If we can keep them from scoring too much while Bletchley finds the Snitch, we'll be fine."
"That's a lot of 'ifs,'" Theodore observed.
"Quidditch is always a lot of 'ifs,'" Gemma replied with a slight smile. "That's what makes it interesting."
Harry was only half-listening to this exchange, his eyes still tracking the players overhead. He was studying Bletchley's search patterns, noting how the Seeker's attention sometimes drifted when he'd been searching for too long. That kind of focus fatigue could be exploited by a smart opposing Seeker.
I can do better, Harry thought again, the certainty settling deeper into his bones. I know I can.
The sharp blast of a whistle cut through the air. Flint had descended to hover about fifteen feet off the ground, his expression stern as he called the team in for a break. The players converged on him, forming a loose circle in the air while he apparently gave them feedback on the drill they'd just completed.
After a few minutes of discussion, the team scattered to different parts of the pitch, presumably to work on individual skills. But Flint didn't join them. Instead, he flew directly toward where Harry and his friends sat in the stands.
The captain touched down on the grass just in front of their section. He pushed sweat-dampened hair off his forehead and fixed Harry with an appraising stare.
"Potter." Flint's voice carried clearly despite the wind. "Ready for your turn?"
Harry stood immediately, feeling his friends' eyes on him but not looking at them. This was it. The moment he'd been carefully engineering since breakfast. He needed to do good, to give a clear message to Snape. "Absolutely."
Flint's lips quirked slightly. "Good. Come on down here then. Let's see if Hooch's excitement was justified or just her usual enthusiasm for anything with wings."
Harry descended the stands. Behind him, he could hear Draco whispering excitedly to the others, but the words didn't register. His entire focus had narrowed to Flint and the broom the captain was now holding out to him—one of the school's training brooms, old but serviceable.
"Which position you said it interested you?" Flint asked, and Harry knew why he was asking the same question again. He wanted to see if Harry was a coward.
Harry met his gaze directly. "Seeker."
Overhead, Bletchley's head snapped around at the word. Several other team members paused in their individual drills, attention drawn by the unexpected declaration.
Flint's expression didn't change, but he seemed amused. "Seeker," he repeated slowly. "Of course you are. Everyone wants to be Seeker. Glory position. Catch the Snitch, win the match, get your name in the school records."
"I'm interested in finding things," Harry replied calmly. "And in doing what I'm good at. If that happens to be the glory position, well, I won't complain."
That earned him a surprised bark of laughter from Pucey, who'd descended to hover nearby. "At least he's honest about it."
Flint studied Harry for a long moment, taking in his calm demeanor, the complete lack of nervousness despite being evaluated by the team captain and several older players.
"Bold choice," Flint said finally. "Let's see what you've got."
He raised his whistle to his lips and blew three sharp blasts. The signal brought the entire team converging on their location, faces curious and—in Bletchley's case—decidedly unfriendly.
Harry took the broom Flint offered him, running his hands over the worn wood. It wasn't anything like the racing brooms he'd seen advertised in Quality Quidditch Supplies, but it was solid. Reliable. That was all he needed.
"Right then," Flint addressed his gathered team while Harry stood slightly apart, the broom in his hands. "Potter here wants to try Seeker. We're going to give him exactly one chance to show us what he's got. If he's dangerous or incompetent, he goes back to the stands immediately. Clear?"
Nods all around, though Bletchley's agreement looked forced through gritted teeth.
Flint turned back to Harry. "You'll have two minutes once I release the Snitch. Your job is simple—catch it. No interference from the team, no one trying to block you. Just you, a broom, and the Snitch. Think you can handle that?"
"Yes," Harry said simply.
"Good." Flint pulled a small golden ball from his pocket—the training Snitch, its wings folded flat. He held it up where everyone could see. "Standard rules. The Snitch releases in ten seconds, then goes invisible until Potter gets airborne. The moment he's flying, it activates."
He met Harry's eyes one more time. "Don't make me regret this, Potter. Ready?"
Harry swung his leg over the broom, settling into position. The wood felt right beneath him, and when he kicked off—
The world dropped away, and everything else fell silent except for the wind and the perfect, crystalline clarity of flight.
"I'm ready," Harry said, and he was smiling.
"Three," Flint counted. "Two. One."
He tossed the Snitch upward. For a brief moment, it hovered, wings unfolding in a blur of motion, and then it shot away into the grey October sky, disappearing against the clouds so quickly that several of Harry's friends gasped.
Where would I hide if I were a Snitch? he thought, his eyes scanning the grey expanse of sky. The training model was slower, Flint had said, which meant it wouldn't fly to the absolute limits of the pitch. It would stay relatively close, making it findable but not easy.
He circled the pitch once at moderate speed, his head moving in controlled sweeps as he searched.
The Snitch was designed to be visible. That was the entire point—a Seeker had to be able to see it to catch it. So it would be against something that made the gold stand out. Not the grass, too much green. Not the sky directly, too much grey. But the boundaries between things...
There.
A glint of gold, barely visible near the far goalposts where the metal hoops created a frame against the sky. Twelve seconds had elapsed since Flint released the Snitch.
Harry didn't hesitate. He leaned forward until his chest nearly touched the broom handle and willed the old Cleansweep to give him everything it had.
The acceleration was immediate and violent. Wind roared in his ears, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes as the cold air hit his face. The wooden handle creaked ominously beneath him, and somewhere in the back of his mind Harry registered that he was probably pushing the broom beyond its recommended speed.
He didn't care.
Below him, someone gasped. The sound was barely audible over the wind, but Harry caught it anyway. They were surprised by his speed.
Good.
The Snitch must have sensed his approach because it suddenly darted left, shooting toward the center of the pitch. But Harry had anticipated the movement; it moved like an animal trying to run away. He knew what that was like from watching Miss Frigg's cats hunting mice.
He banked hard, the broom responding to his body's command before his mind had fully processed the decision. His inner ear screaming that he was going to fall, that no one could maintain this angle—
But he didn't fall. He completed the turn with inches to spare and was already accelerating after the fleeing Snitch.
"Merlin's beard," someone breathed from below. Harry didn't look to see who.
The chase was on in earnest now. The Snitch wove between the goalposts with the agility its makers had designed it for, zigging and zagging in patterns meant to confuse and disorient. But Harry matched every movement.
At twenty-three seconds, the Snitch made a desperate bid for freedom, shooting straight up toward the cloud cover with a burst of speed.
Harry followed.
The Snitch reached the clouds and banked sharply right, trying to use the grey mist as cover.
Harry anticipated the turn. Instead of following the Snitch's exact path, he cut the angle, taking a diagonal trajectory that would intercept rather than chase. It was a calculated risk—if he'd guessed wrong about the Snitch's direction, he'd lose it entirely in the clouds.
He'd guessed right.
The golden ball emerged from the mist directly in his path, close enough that Harry could see the delicate engraving on its surface.
His right hand released the broom handle, reaching out with fingers spread—
Twenty-nine seconds after Flint had released it, Harry's fingers closed around the Golden Snitch.
The tiny wings beat frantically against his palm for a moment before going still, acknowledging capture. Harry held it aloft, the gold clearly visible against the grey sky, and allowed himself a moment of pure triumph.
Then he descended.
His feet touched down on the grass with barely a stumble despite the speed of his descent. The broom settled beside him as he released it with one hand, still holding the Snitch high with the other.
For three seconds, there was absolute silence on the pitch.
Then the stands erupted.
"YES!" Goyle's voice carried clearly, followed by whoops from Crabbe and Draco. Theodore was clapping with genuine enthusiasm, while Blaise wore an expression of impressed surprise. Even Daphne looked pleased, though she maintained her characteristic composure.
But Harry wasn't looking at his friends. His attention was on the Slytherin team, on Flint's face specifically, trying to gauge the captain's reaction.
Flint was staring at him with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. His mouth had fallen slightly open, and Harry took that look as a win.
"Twenty-nine seconds," Flint said slowly, as though testing whether the words sounded believable when spoken aloud. "You caught it in twenty-nine seconds. On a school broom."
"Is that... good?" Harry asked, playing the ignorant.
"Good?" Adrian Pucey had descended to ground level, his own expression mirroring Flint's shock. "Potter, I've seen professional Seekers take longer than that in training. That was..." He seemed to struggle for words. "I've never seen anything like it."
Lucinda Talbot, the female Chaser, was shaking her head slowly. "The way you cut that angle in the clouds. That wasn't luck—you anticipated where it would go. How?"
"I just... knew," Harry replied, not really in the mood to talk about mice and cats. "The Snitch had been moving in a pattern. When it went vertical, the only logical escape route was a horizontal break. I just had to guess which direction."
"Just had to guess," Pucey repeated faintly. "He says he just had to guess."
But not everyone was impressed. Miles Bletchley's face had gone through several shades of red before settling on a deep crimson that suggested either fury or humiliation, probably both. His hands clenched the handle of his own broom so tightly, Harry wondered if his bones or the broom would crack.
"He's a first-year!" Bletchley burst out, his voice cracking slightly on the words. "A child! You're all acting like he's the next Viktor Krum, but he's eleven years old!"
"An eleven-year-old who just caught the Snitch faster than you've ever managed," Flint observed mildly, but his voice had steel beneath it.
Bletchley's face darkened further. "There was no competition! No opposing Seeker trying to beat him to it, no Bludgers being aimed at his head, no Chasers in the way! Of course it looks impressive when he's flying in perfect conditions with nothing to distract him!"
Harry had to give it to him. Because Bletchley had a point, and everyone knew it. Catching the Snitch in isolation was one thing. Doing it during an actual match with another seeker challenging you and the boulger potentially cracking your skull was a whole different thing.
Several team members exchanged glances. Derrick, one of the Beaters, nodded slowly. "He's not wrong," the seventh-year rumbled. "Match conditions are a different beast entirely."
"Put him up against a real Seeker," Bletchley continued, sensing support. "Let's see how well he does when someone's actually competing for the Snitch instead of just watching him show off."
Flint was quiet for a long moment, his eyes moving between Bletchley's flushed face and Harry's calm demeanor. Then, slowly, his expression shifted into something that might have been a smile on a less severe face.
"You're absolutely right, Miles," Flint said, and Bletchley looked momentarily triumphant before the captain continued. "We do need to see how Potter handles real match pressure. Which is why we're going to have a proper game."
He turned toward the stands where Harry's friends sat watching. "Oi! You lot! How would you like to play a real match?"
Draco actually did almost fall out of his seat, catching himself on the bench in front of him at the last second. "What? Seriously?"
"Dead serious," Flint confirmed. "Potter's team against us. Full Quidditch rules. Let's see how he performs when there's actual competition."
Theodore's grin was immediate and genuine. "You're actually letting us play? Against the house team?"
"Why not?" Flint shrugged, but Harry was sure he was planning something. "You'll learn more in one real game than in a dozen practice sessions. And it'll give us a proper test of Potter's abilities under pressure." He glanced at Bletchley. "Fair enough?"
Bletchley still looked mutinous, but he nodded grudgingly. "Fine. But when he fails, I want everyone to remember that I called it."
"And when he succeeds," Pucey said cheerfully, "I want everyone to remember that I saw it coming."
Blaise had stood up in the stands, his expression shifting from amused to uncertain. "We don't know how to play properly. Most of us have barely been on brooms."
"Then you'll learn fast," Flint replied. "Consider it an educational experience. Besides, it's not like we're expecting you to actually win—we just want to see how Potter handles himself when things get messy."
"How generous," Daphne murmured, but she was already standing.
Harry smiled a little. This was going better than he had hoped.
Flint clapped his hands together. "Right! Match starts in fifteen minutes. That gives Potter's team time to figure out positions and get the basic rules down. We'll play to first Snitch catch or one hour, whichever comes first. Everyone understand?"
A chorus of affirmatives and nervous agreement followed.
"Good." Flint's smile widened fractionally. "Potter, I suggest you start thinking about team composition. You'll need three Chasers, two Beaters, a Keeper, and obviously yourself as Seeker. Choose wisely—your friends' safety depends on how well you position them."
Seven positions to fill with six friends, most of whom had never played Quidditch beyond the basic flying lessons. This was going to be complicated.
"Alright," he said, gathering them close. "Let's talk strategy."
If you want to Read 4 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch