Chapter 58 — After the Whistle

Nearly a fortnight after we found Mrs. Norris, Gryffindor played Slytherin. The potion remained in its early stages, and the teachers had not announced who had attacked the cat. For an afternoon, most of the school seemed willing to leave the rumours indoors and shout at something in the open air. I joined Ron, Hermione and Hagrid in the stands, with my pouch settled where I could reach it beneath my coat.

Lucius Malfoy had come to watch. I noticed him before finding his son on the pitch, sitting comfortably among the spectators. He knew how to appear at ease; that was all I could honestly learn by looking. I turned back as fourteen Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones rose above the grass, removing the advantage of the model from either side.

Wood had prepared for that and for Flint’s methods. He wanted our Chasers to keep the difference close enough for the Snitch to matter. He also wanted them to recognise a foul before it knocked them from their brooms. The opening minutes gave us a convincing demonstration of why the second part belonged beside the first.

Flint drove into a gap with more shoulder than space. A red-robed player swerved to remain airborne, and Hooch’s whistle awarded the resulting penalty. Lee Jordan explained it with rather more personal feeling than McGonagall considered appropriate. Ron stood up, sat down and rose again when the next challenge took place.

He was relieved that Hooch had seen the foul. I pointed out that several hundred of us had seen it, though judging by his reaction that did not always help. Hagrid leant forward until the rail creaked faintly. Hermione followed the Quaffle with an attention she seldom admitted bringing to Quidditch discussions over breakfast.

Slytherin went ahead. Gryffindor answered often enough that, whenever I checked, the difference remained within the hundred and fifty points Harry could bring us. He circled beyond the crowded centre, looking for gold. Malfoy approached him once with his mouth moving, but I could not hear the words. Harry turned away and continued searching.

A Bludger went towards his head. He ducked, a perfectly ordinary response to an ordinary part of the game. The turn the ball made afterwards was less ordinary. It came back at him, ignoring another player it passed while Harry accelerated across the pitch.

I stood up. George changed course to intercept, but the ball was already beyond his reach and still following Harry. Ron watched it curve again and said it should not turn like that. Hermione accepted Hagrid’s binoculars and looked towards the other stands. I understood why, remembering the previous year and how badly we had misunderstood the casting we saw.

Snape was visible. So was Lucius, and neither was doing anything I could identify as a spell. That gave me nobody to point at. It certainly gave me no reason to assume that looking calm meant either guilt or innocence, while Harry was running out of space in which to discover the answer himself.

Ron pulled out his damaged wand. Hermione caught his wrist before he could raise it, reminding him that even a sound wand would be a risk with Harry in the way. I was already moving towards the steps. I asked them to tell Hooch what we had seen and keep watching for a cause, then went down while Hagrid called across the pitch.

Through gaps in the stands, I caught pieces of Harry’s flight: red robes, a polished broom shaft and the ball too close behind him. Timber crashed somewhere near the boundary. The Bludger vanished into a damaged section while Harry climbed clear, giving me a moment to hope he had found a way to stop it. Then he changed direction towards a gold glint beyond Malfoy’s shoulder.

The Snitch drew both Seekers down towards the framework beneath the stands. Flint shouted, Malfoy turned after Harry, and the Bludger tore itself free of the wood. I stopped trying to watch the whole pitch and ran for the nearest opening onto the grass. Hooch was moving towards the side where the players had disappeared, with George following the ball and still unable to catch it.

More wood broke outwards. Malfoy emerged badly off balance, his broom striking a beam before he hit the ground. He rolled clear and clutched his hip. Harry shot out above him, still flying towards gold, while the Bludger closed the gap with a speed I could now see much more clearly than I wanted.

It hit his right arm. A piece of protective gear broke loose, and Harry jerked sideways against the broom. He caught himself long enough to reach with his other hand. His fingers closed round the Snitch, Hooch’s whistle sounded, and then he lost his balance.

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He was low, but the landing still looked ugly. He struck the grass, rolled and stopped with one arm held close. Lee began announcing Gryffindor’s victory. His voice broke off before he finished, and I looked from Harry towards the black shape coming down at him.

Harry rolled before it struck. The Bludger punched into the ground where his chest had been, dragged itself free and curved round again. Hooch signalled the players clear, blowing her whistle once more. The match was over, but whatever had made the ball pursue Harry had no interest in the result.

I could not get to him before it did. My hand found a shield preparation while I ran, and I called for him to stay down. I threw the strip between him and the rising ball, speaking Protego as it left my fingers. The barrier shuddered when the Bludger clipped its edge, turning the attack aside without stopping the ball completely.

The delay gave me room to move behind the shield. Harry was trying to push himself away with his uninjured hand, his face pale beneath the dirt. The ball dipped for another approach. I reached into the separately wrapped set and took out a destructive preparation, remembering the fragments in Flitwick’s tray and the marks they had left along its sides.

Harry lay behind the barrier. Beyond the Bludger was clear grass, away from the nearest spectators and the players Hooch was directing aside. I waited for the line I needed rather than throwing at the first black movement. Then I reached past the shield’s edge and cast into its path.

‘Reducto!’ The preparation burned white. The Bludger broke, sending hard fragments against the shield and others into the turf beyond. I ducked beneath the rapid impacts, keeping the remaining light between Harry and the debris while the larger pieces struck the ground.

Nothing rose to attack again. For one breath I stayed where I was, expecting the pieces to gather or something else to come out of them. They remained scattered in the grass. Then I moved beside Harry, telling him not to stand while I looked towards Hooch.

The Snitch’s wings fluttered between his left fingers. He asked whether I had got the ball, and I told him it was broken. His head sank back onto the grass with an exhausted expression I found more reassuring than a cheer. He was speaking, breathing and still holding the thing he had nearly killed himself to catch.

His right arm looked wrong. I kept my hands away from it while Hooch came down, signalling the nearest players to land farther from the fragments. The shield faded. Two preparations were gone, and I secured the remaining destructive pieces in their separate place before anything could fall loose while I knelt.

Lee’s voice returned over the pitch. He announced that Oswald Mercer had destroyed the Bludger after it continued attacking beyond the catch. Cheers reached us in a confused wave, mixing relief with the victory people had been preparing to celebrate. I heard my name and scarcely took it in. Harry had begun looking at the broken guard lying nearby.

‘It hit that first,’ he said. ‘I felt it take some of it.’ I told him we would let Pomfrey examine the arm rather than deciding how much the equipment had saved. He tried to smile. ‘Your gear, then you. Thanks twice, I suppose.’

I managed a shaky laugh and asked him to begin by staying on the ground. Hooch reached us before he could answer. She looked at the Snitch, his arm and the pieces of iron, and her expression became stern. She ordered the gathering players to leave the fragments untouched and give Harry room.

Hagrid arrived with Ron and Hermione close behind. He lowered himself carefully on Harry’s other side and told him not to move the arm. Ron asked whether it was broken. Hagrid looked without trying to straighten it, then said Madam Pomfrey would tell us. We needed to get him to her.

That was what I wanted to hear. Harry being able to tell us it hurt was better than several possibilities I had imagined from the stands. It did not qualify any of us to decide which bones had survived. Hermione stood back to clear a path while I looked for the safest way to move him without catching the injured arm.

More teachers approached across the grass. Lockhart reached the edge of the group with his wand already out and announced that he could attend to the injury. Harry looked up sharply. He began refusing, saying he would rather wait, but Lockhart stepped round Hagrid before the sentence was finished.

‘Brachium Emendo!’ he said. I moved across him and shouted for him to stop, too late to put anything between the wand and Harry. Light had already passed over the arm. Harry stared down, momentarily surprised enough to tell us it no longer hurt.

Lockhart smiled and lifted it to display the result. The arm bent where no arm ought to bend. Hermione made a small sound behind me, and Ron went silent. I looked from the loose sleeve to the hand hanging at its end, unable for a moment to reconcile it with what had been there before the spell.

Lockhart lowered it quickly. He began explaining that the pain had gone, as though that remained the part we should concentrate on. McGonagall reached us before he found a useful continuation. She placed herself between him and Harry and ordered him to step away.

‘You will come to the hospital wing,’ she said. ‘You will tell Madam Pomfrey precisely what you cast.’ Lockhart looked at her instead of the arm, apparently finding no ready reply. I turned back to Harry, who was still staring at the sleeve while Hagrid made room for McGonagall beside him.

We had stopped the thing trying to hurt him. His own flying had won the match, and my preparations had left the Bludger in pieces. All that should have remained was getting him safely to somebody who could help. I kept looking at his arm, angry enough to shake now that the immediate danger was supposed to be over.