With the long-awaited Quidditch match just around the corner, tension buzzed through the castle like a live wire.
In the Great Hall, Gryffindor and Slytherin students glared at each other across their house tables, locked in a silent staring contest—as if the first to blink would doom their team to defeat.
"Where's Harry? Haven't seen him since this morning," Harold asked.
"He went to the locker room early," Ron explained. "Oliver says Harry's the key to the match and didn't want him getting psyched out by Slytherin."
"Slytherin's Seeker is Malfoy," Fred and George chimed in as they came down the stairs with their brooms in hand.
"Those Nimbus 2001s? All courtesy of his dear old dad."
"Oliver says that just proves he's compensating for his lack of talent."
"And that's our chance to win."
The Nimbus 2001 was the fastest broomstick money could buy. Gryffindor's whole team couldn't afford even one between them.
The performance gap was enormous, and Oliver Wood knew it. He might not say it aloud, but if the match came down to scoring alone, they were toast.
Their only shot was for Harry to catch the Snitch before Slytherin racked up a 150-point lead.
Everything rested on him.
No wonder he'd been on edge all week.
By ten-fifty, students were pouring out toward the Quidditch pitch. Despite the humid, sticky air and low rumbles of thunder in the distance, the crowd was buzzing with excitement.
Seamus and Dean had made a banner out of old bedsheets that read "Go Harry!"—and it even shimmered in daylight.
Halfway across the field, Harold suddenly realized he'd forgotten his snacks and bolted back to the dorm to grab them.
When he returned, panting, the match was already underway.
"Did I miss anything?" Harold asked, squeezing into the front row. Ron had saved him a seat.
"You're just in time," Ron said, lowering his flag. "Slytherin scored once already. Their brooms are insane."
Harold nodded, ripping open a Chocolate Frog. The card inside winked up at him—Dumbledore, again.
Collecting Chocolate Frog cards was one of Harold's few indulgences. But Dumbledore's card was so common it might as well be used as wallpaper. Just about every wizard had one—or five.
Only Adalbert Waffling, author of Magical Theory, had more circulation.
Harold stuffed the card in his pocket and handed the frog to Neville. Then he opened another.
Adalbert Waffling. Magical Theory.
"…I swear, if I ever ask Fred to buy me frogs again, I'm a troll," Harold grumbled, stuffing the chocolate in his mouth and cracking open a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.
On the field, Harry twisted nimbly in midair, the Bludger whooshing past so close it ruffled his hair. The crowd erupted in applause.
Harold joined in, raising his hands—then returned to snacking on beans and galleon-shaped biscuits.
"Harold, are you watching the match or having a picnic?" Hermione asked, exasperated. Though Harry was barely dodging Bludgers by inches, her attention kept drifting toward the buttery smell of Harold's snacks.
"Same difference," Harold said, handing her a biscuit.
He wasn't really into Quidditch. All the near-death dodging didn't exactly scream "fun" to him. Without food, he'd be bored out of his mind.
Come to think of it, wasn't Harry getting a bit too close to the Bludger? At this rate, they were going to start producing sparks.
Down below, the team had noticed something was wrong and called for a timeout.
"That Bludger's not normal," Hermione muttered, frowning. The Gryffindor players seemed to be arguing. "Why don't they just ask Madam Hooch to inspect it?"
"Because they'd forfeit the match," Ron sighed. "We'd lose to Slytherin automatically."
"But everyone can see it's rogue!"
"Doesn't matter. Rules are rules. And right now, it's back in the box acting totally normal."
Hermione was so furious she couldn't find words.
Harold, standing nearby, was scanning the crowd carefully.
With all the recent chaos, he'd almost forgotten about another problem—the house-elf Dobby, who had sealed off Platform Nine and Three-Quarters to stop Harry from coming to Hogwarts.
A rogue Bludger definitely sounded like his work.
Harold tried to search for any sign of a house-elf in the crowd—but in a sea of hundreds, it was like looking for a Niffler in a gold vault.
Then it started to rain.
Huge raindrops began pounding down, blurring vision and soaking everything.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle again. The teams launched into the air once more.
They hadn't solved anything. Their plan was apparently: "Hope Harry survives."
Fred and George kept Malfoy distracted while Harry dodged the rogue Bludger solo.
The downpour grew worse. Harry's evasions grew more frantic—and more ragged. His wild maneuvering drew uneasy laughter from the stands.
"We should probably go get Madam Pomfrey now," Harold muttered, giving up the search for Dobby. "At this rate, Harry's going to get seriously hurt."
"Maybe she should be on the pitch already."
Neither Ron nor Hermione moved. They were both frozen, eyes glued to Harry. Hermione had even drawn her wand, ready to sprint out and hex the Bludger herself.
"Fine, I'll go." Harold stood, brushed off the crumbs, and pushed through the crowd.
The hospital wing was across the castle.
When he reached the main entrance and found it completely empty, he hesitated, then chose a longer route around. Big, echoing, silent halls gave him the creeps these days.
Ten minutes later, Harold returned to the pitch with Madam Pomfrey, both of them drenched.
They looked up—and froze.
Harry and Malfoy were on the same broomstick.
Malfoy had a death grip on Harry's head. Harry was standing on the broom, one foot jammed into Malfoy's face.
Madam Hooch's whistle was screaming—but the boys ignored it. They were locked in combat, arms outstretched toward something ahead.
A flash of gold winked through the rain.
"That's dangerous! Far too dangerous!" Madam Pomfrey shrieked, hurrying forward. Harold rushed after her.
Then the rogue Bludger reappeared—swooping around and diving in from the side.
It was headed straight for them.
Malfoy panicked. He let go of Harry and clung to the broom with both hands.
That threw off Harry's balance—putting his head in the Bludger's path.
Everything happened in an instant.
With the rain obscuring everything, no one in the crowd even realized what was happening.
He saw only the Snitch as it darted upward.
He lunged, pushing off Malfoy's back, rising into the air.
His hand snapped shut.
Thanks to the Snitch's change in direction, it hit Harry's back instead of his skull.
Still, the force knocked him unconscious.
His broom spiraled out of control and dove toward the ground.
Mud exploded everywhere.
Harry and Malfoy slammed into the pitch.
Harry still had the Snitch clutched in his hand.
The team rushed toward him.
"Barbaric sport!" Madam Pomfrey snapped, furious.
Rain beat down on Harry's face. Pain burned through his back.
He opened his eyes—and saw a familiar, gleaming smile.
"Lucky break, Harry! That Bludger nearly broke your neck—so close," said Lockhart cheerfully. "But don't worry, I'll have you good as new in no time."
Harry groaned. Lockhart raised his wand, but the pain made it impossible to speak.
"Step aside! Stop interfering!"
Madam Pomfrey shoved Lockhart out of the way without a second glance and knelt beside Harry.
"Scapula's fractured. Leg's broken too. Not bad, all things considered." She saw how his leg was twisted and yanked it back into place.
Then a roll of bandages flew over and wrapped his shoulder tight.
"Thanks, Madam Pomfrey," Harry managed weakly.
"Oh, I could have done that, you know," Lockhart chimed in. "Poppy, not to offend you, but if I'd handled it, Harry'd be dancing right now."
Pomfrey's face darkened. Lockhart's babbling was making her job impossible.
"Professor Lockhart, if you really want to help, why don't you check on the other student."
Sure, Malfoy had fallen too—but healing The Boy Who Lived was a headline.
Still, he couldn't ignore her. With clear reluctance, he trudged over to Malfoy.
Like Harry, Malfoy had a broken leg.
"You're lucky too," Lockhart said, raising his wand with dramatic flair.
(End of Chapter) ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦•𝘯𝘦𝘵