Since he couldn’t be sure if the Bludger's odd behavior would start up again, and with Slytherin’s lead growing larger, Harry knew he needed to catch the Golden Snitch as soon as possible to end the game.
“Practicing ballet, Potter?” Malfoy jeered, flying right beside him. “I didn’t know you had that in you. Maybe you should join the Skeletons!”
Harry was momentarily distracted by Malfoy’s taunting and glanced back. But at that exact moment, he saw it—the Golden Snitch darted right between them. Without missing a beat, Harry took off in pursuit.
Malfoy, a bit slower to react, scrambled to catch up. Thanks to his superior broom, the distance between them started to shrink.
“It’s the Snitch! Both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have seen it… they’re speeding up!” Lee Jordan’s voice boomed from the commentary booth. “The Snitch just changed direction… Harry’s closing in, less than two feet away… and Malfoy’s dropping behind… Seems a fancy broom doesn’t always cut it!”
Harry was inching closer to the Snitch, his fingertips nearly brushing its wings… but then a Bludger abruptly changed direction and hurtled toward him. This time, Harry didn’t dodge. He let go of his broom and lunged forward, catching the Snitch firmly in his hand. But at that same instant, the Bludger smashed into his arm, breaking it.
With a loud splash, Harry tumbled off his broom and landed in the muddy ground, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Cheers erupted from the stands, and Kyle grinned—it was the first time in three years he’d seen a whole season opener, and it had been worth it.
As the crowd chanted Harry’s name, Kyle spotted Dobby the House-elf dashing away from the pitch, with Kaka in hot pursuit, wielding a cleaning broom and whacking Dobby repeatedly on the head. Apparently, this was the House-elves’ way of handling conflicts—straightforward and, well, brutish.
Kyle raised an eyebrow, wondering if that final Bludger’s strange targeting had been Dobby’s doing… If so, it was relentless. Poor Harry, though; Kyle had hoped he might escape without a broken arm.
After the match, Madam Hooch moved Harry and Marcus Flint, who was also injured, to the edge of the pitch to be taken to the Hospital Wing. A crowd quickly gathered.
Groggy, Harry blinked and saw a blurry row of what looked like gleaming teeth. "Oh no, not you," he muttered under his breath.
“What do you say? Shall I fix that arm for you?” announced Lockhart loudly to the crowd. “Not to worry, I’m on it!”
He pulled out his wand. "So, who shall we treat first?"
Harry, still half-dazed, managed to lift his uninjured hand and point shakily at Marcus Flint. “H-him… he’s hurt worse…”
“What a thoughtful lad,” Lockhart said, dabbing at his eyes as though moved. “Don’t fret, I can heal you both in no time at all. Let’s start with the closest one.”
He eyed Harry’s injured arm.
“No!” Harry exclaimed hastily. “Really, just… leave it, it doesn’t hurt at all… honestly…” He struggled to sit up.
“Nonsense—you’re talking gibberish from the pain!” Lockhart replied with a grin, raising his wand. “Just lie down. It’s a simple spell; I’ve done it countless times…”
“Professor Lockhart…”
Kyle pushed through the crowd and leaned in close to Lockhart. “We all know you could handle it,” he whispered, “but let’s leave this to Madam Pomfrey… Otherwise, she might run out of patients. Plus, everyone would love to hear your thoughts on the match.”
“Oh, you’re right. I wouldn’t want to steal Poppy’s thunder,” Lockhart said, patting his head sheepishly. “Apologies—I’ve tended to the injured so often on my travels, it’s become second nature. I hope Poppy forgives me.”
“But when it comes to Quidditch, you’ve come to the right expert,” Lockhart added with a chuckle. “The Appleby Arrows asked me twice to join them, but I had to turn them down. I was saving villagers from Wagga Wagga Werewolves at the time. Actually, they invited me again just this July, the day after Dumbledore visited me. If that letter had arrived two days sooner, I’d be on the Quidditch pitch right now!”
Lockhart’s story drew murmurs and admiring glances from his fans, who still seemed plentiful despite everything.
Lying on the ground, Harry felt immense relief. “Thanks…” he whispered gratefully to Kyle.
Fred and George pushed through the crowd as well, and as Lockhart recounted his impressive “Quidditch credentials,” they swiftly lifted Harry and hurried him off toward the Hospital Wing.
Everything went smoothly, and it took Madam Pomfrey only a moment to reattach Harry's arm. She seemed a bit disgruntled, though.
“Every year someone gets hurt... This sport is too dangerous; I can’t understand why Dumbledore hasn’t banned it yet,” she muttered, thrusting a potion bottle into Harry’s hands. “Drink this; it’ll help with your recovery…”
Harry accepted the potion without a word and took a cautious sip. Although he’d braced himself, the taste nearly overwhelmed him—it was like the Dursleys' pot-scrubbing liquid. He choked slightly but managed to keep it down.
“I thought they said there were two injured,” Madam Pomfrey remarked, looking around. “Why is it only you?”
No sooner had she spoken than a group of Slytherins arrived, carrying Marcus Flint into the Hospital Wing. The animosity between the teams was clear; the Slytherins glared daggers at the Gryffindor players. However, with Madam Pomfrey present, they kept silent, settling Marcus on the hospital bed farthest from Harry.
“A broken nose, and several teeth missing…” Madam Pomfrey examined Marcus with a frown. “Dumbledore really should ban this reckless sport!”
“Madam Pomfrey, Quidditch isn’t actually that dangerous—” Malfoy started to protest, but one look from Madam Pomfrey shut him up.
After his recent stay in the Hospital Wing, Malfoy had developed a bit of a phobia of Madam Pomfrey. Her potions were worse than slug juice, and just the thought made him feel queasy. He glanced at the door, his pale face turning even paler. Any urge to mock Harry quickly vanished—he wanted nothing more than to leave before Madam Pomfrey noticed him.