Farley raised an eyebrow and lifted a small piece of scrambled egg on her fork with deliberate composure.
"A very official answer," she said, after a pause. "I hope the match goes well for you today."
"Thank you," Henry replied with a quiet smile.
By eleven o'clock, the entire school had apparently decided to be present. The stands around the Quidditch pitch were packed, most students clutching scarves and many with binoculars already raised.
The air was sharp and biting, and the flags of all four Houses snapped in the wind—four sets of colours standing out hard against a grey sky.
The shouts, cheers, and boos from opposite ends of the stands wove together into something almost physical in its intensity.
Henry sat in the substitutes' area in his dark green Slytherin uniform, his Nimbus 2000 lying across his lap, one hand resting lightly on the handle.
As a first-year reserve, his function today was to watch and learn. He would not play unless the circumstances Professor Snape had described as "extreme" came to pass.
He looked across the pitch to where the Gryffindor team was completing its warm-up. Harry, on his Nimbus 2000, was working through a series of sharp turns, his red and gold uniform trailing behind him in the wind.
He looked tense, but his eyes were bright.
Draco, seated beside Henry with the satisfied expression of someone anticipating entertainment, nodded toward the Gryffindor end. "See that? Potter's hands are shaking. Just wait until Flint gets going."
Flint himself was delivering his final tactical instructions a short distance away, his broad frame completely unbothered by the cold. "Hit the Bludgers hard and keep them moving! Clear a path for the Chasers when they break through! And as for the Snitch—" he glanced at their Seeker, seventh-year Terence Higgs "—Higgs, this kid is a first-year with no match experience. Use what you have. Don't rush it. Make him wait and wear him down until he makes a mistake."
Higgs, tall and composed, nodded without a word. Three seasons as Seeker had left him unhurried by almost anything.
Henry listened and watched, his gaze moving steadily across the pitch.
He had spent part of the previous evening reviewing what records existed of both teams' past matches and tactical tendencies.
Gryffindor's strength lay in the twin Weasleys' unpredictability with the Bludgers and Harry's instinctive, almost reckless speed and aerial intuition.
Slytherin's advantages were stamina, structural discipline, and a willingness to play in whatever register the situation required.
"Teams, take your positions!"
Madam Hooch's voice, amplified across the pitch, cut through the noise. The roar of the crowd rose sharply, then dropped into an expectant hush.
Both teams rose into the air, lining up at the centre of the field. Green and silver against red and gold, set against the dull blue-grey of the sky.
Madam Hooch's silver whistle sounded, and the match erupted into motion.
Fifteen brooms launched upward simultaneously. The Quaffle was released into the air, and the Bludgers broke free of their casing with a sharp metallic crack.
"Gryffindor in possession! Angelina Johnson breaks through, beautiful feint, she gets past Montague! Passes to Alicia Spinnet—Bludger! Slytherin's Beater doesn't hesitate! She dodges but loses the Quaffle! Slytherin take it!"
Lee Jordan's voice rang across the stadium with the kind of enthusiasm that left no doubt whose side he was on.
"Slytherin counter-attack! Chaser Bole drives straight at the Gryffindor hoops—the Weasley twins try to cut across him, but his partner sends a Bludger right at them! They have to split—Bole shoots! Wood saves it! Brilliant! But Slytherin keep possession!"
From the opening moment, the match was relentless. Slytherin's approach was clear and consistent: use physical presence and Bludger pressure to disrupt Gryffindor's rhythm entirely.
Flint moved through the air like something considerably heavier than a man on a broomstick, cutting across Harry's flight path repeatedly, each time earning a sharp word from Madam Hooch without any particular adjustment to his behaviour.
Harry flew with concentration, his eyes constantly sweeping the pitch for any glint of gold.
Higgs drifted along the edges of the field with a practised, unhurried air, apparently unconcerned, but positioning himself to close off the most likely angles where Harry might first spot the Snitch.
"Gryffindor lose possession again! That tackle from Flint was absolutely a foul—but Madam Hooch lets it go! Slytherin score! Twenty to zero!"
The Slytherin stands erupted. The Gryffindor end responded with noise of an entirely different character.
"That is completely unfair!" In the stands, Hermione stamped her foot in frustration. Ron, beside her with Neville on his other side, was pale but attempting to project calm. "Flint is doing that deliberately."
"That's Slytherin," Ron said, his voice strained. "They always play like this. Harry can handle it."
Out on the pitch, the score crept to thirty-ten in Slytherin's favour. Gryffindor pressed back, but Slytherin's defensive structure was tight, and the Bludgers kept disrupting any sustained attack Gryffindor tried to build.
Then something unexpected happened.
During a sharp diving sequence as both Seekers chased what looked like a potential Snitch sighting, Higgs clipped Angelina Johnson, who had also angled downward in the same moment. The contact was minor, but as Higgs corrected his position, the trailing end of his broom caught a Bludger that George Weasley had already struck hard.
The deflection sent the Bludger back at a far more difficult angle, straight at Higgs' back. He twisted to avoid it, and the Bludger grazed his shoulder.
The sudden movement threw him sharply off balance, and his broom shook violently.
A sharp, grinding crack sounded across the pitch.
The handle of Higgs' broom, already stressed from the earlier contact, split halfway along its length. Not a clean break, but enough.
The broom immediately began to list and spin in short, uncontrolled arcs.
"Merlin! The Slytherin Seeker's broom has gone!" Lee Jordan's voice rang out.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle in three urgent bursts. Play stopped. The Slytherin team descended around Higgs and guided him to the ground, where he landed with a controlled urgency.
Flint took the broom and looked it over. His expression said everything before he spoke.
"Can it be repaired?" Higgs asked through clenched teeth. His left arm had taken the Bludger's grazing blow, and dark stains were already seeping through the sleeve of his robe.
Flint gave the broom a short, hard push upward. It rose a few feet, wavered violently, and began to rotate. He caught it before it could spin further.
"Not a chance. This thing won't survive another pass."
Madam Hooch stepped in. "You may request a replacement broom, or if the player cannot continue due to injury, a substitute may take the field. Both options are within the regulations."
"I can still fly," Higgs said.
"No." Flint's voice was flat and final. "That arm isn't right. Go to Pomfrey." He turned, his expression shifting into something calculating. "We have a reserve Seeker."
Valentine, standing nearby with his arms folded, frowned. "Are you certain about this? He's a first-year."