Chapter 112: Two People on One Broom

The next day, Saturday.

With the upcoming Quidditch match, the castle had been thick with tension since morning.

In the Great Hall, Gryffindor and Slytherin glared at each other across two long tables, as if whoever blinked first would lose the match.

“Where’s Harry? I haven’t seen him since morning,” Silven asked.

“He went ahead to the locker room,” Ron said. “Oliver thinks Harry’s the key to today’s match and doesn’t want him influenced by Slytherin.”

“Slytherin’s Seeker is Malfoy,” Fred and George came down the stairs, their brooms in hand.

“Those Firebolts were funded by his father.”

“Oliver sees that as proof of his lack of skill.”

“It’s also our chance to win.”

…

The Firebolt was the fastest broom money could buy; the entire Gryffindor team couldn’t afford even one.

The gap was too great. Even though he hated to admit it, Oliver Wood had to acknowledge that if they relied on scoring points, they’d lose for sure.

The only way to win was for Harry to catch the Golden Snitch before Slytherin reached a 150-point lead and end the match early.

The entire win or loss rested on one person. No wonder he’d been so nervous yesterday.

Around eleven, all students headed for the Quidditch pitch. Though the air was hot and humid, with distant thunder rumbling, their enthusiasm remained high.

Seamus and Dean had made a banner from an old bedsheet; “Go Harry!” glowed brightly even in daylight.

Halfway there, Silven remembered he’d forgotten his snacks and rushed back to his dorm.

By the time he arrived, panting, the match had already begun.

“Did I miss anything?” Silven squeezed to the front; Ron had already saved him a spot.

“You’re just in time,” Ron put down his flag. “Slytherin just scored. Their brooms are too fast.”

Silven nodded, opened a packet of Chocolate Frogs, and the Headmaster winked at him—then vanished.

It was Dumbledore again. Silven was disappointed.

Collecting Chocolate Frog cards was one of his few hobbies. He had so many Dumbledore cards they were practically overabundant—every wizard seemed to have one or two.

Only the wizard who published Magical Theory had more cards than him.

Silven tossed the card into his pocket, gave the Chocolate Frog to Neville beside him, and opened another packet.

Adalbert Wufflin: Author of Magical Theory…

“…”

“If I let Fred buy me any more Chocolate Frogs, I’m a troll!” Silven scowled, shoving the chocolate into his mouth and pulling out a packet of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

On the pitch, Harry made a sharp turn; the Bludger whizzed past his hair. The near-miss drew a roar from the crowd.

Silven raised his hand in cheers, then went back to eating the beans and Galleon cookies.

“Silven, are you here to watch the match or to have a picnic?” Hermione couldn’t help asking. Though Harry was narrowly dodging Bludgers, she couldn’t focus—her attention kept drifting to the scent of cookies beside her.

“Same thing,” Silven handed her a Galleon cookie.

He wasn’t really interested in Quidditch and didn’t understand the romance of narrowly avoiding Bludgers. Not eating would be boring…

Come to think of it, wasn’t Harry being a bit too romantic? He and the Bludger were practically sparking…

At that moment, the players noticed something was wrong and called a timeout.

“That Bludger’s off,” Hermione frowned. She’d noticed Gryffindor players arguing: “I wonder how they’ll fix it. Why not ask Madam Hooch to inspect it?”

“That would disqualify us,” Ron said. “We’d lose straight to Slytherin.”

“But everyone knows the Bludger’s faulty.”

“Rules are rules,” Ron sighed. “And right now, that Bludger’s safely locked in its box.”

Hermione was too furious to speak.

Silven stood beside her, carefully observing the surroundings.

Recent events at the school had made him nearly forget another problem: Dobby, the house-elf who’d sealed the platform entrance to keep Harry from coming to Hogwarts.

This rogue Bludger seemed connected to it too.

Silven scanned the crowd, but finding a hidden house-elf among hundreds of spectators was clearly impossible.

Worse, it started raining. Heavy drops fell, obscuring distant views.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle; Gryffindor took off again.

They had no good strategy—just told Harry to handle the rogue Bludger himself, while Fred and George focused entirely on Malfoy.

The rain grew heavier. Harry dodged the Bludger’s violent attacks again and again, growing increasingly clumsy. Laughter rose from the crowd.

“I think we should alert Madam Pomfrey right away,” Silven shook his head, abandoning his search for the house-elf.

“If this keeps up, Harry will get hurt.”

“Exactly…”

“We should get Madam Pomfrey to come straight to the pitch.”

Ron and Hermione said it, but neither moved. Both stared fixedly at Harry on the pitch; Hermione even had her wand out, as if ready to rush out and save him.

“Fine, I’ll go,” Silven stood, shook off cookie crumbs, and pushed through the crowd.

The hospital wing was on the other side of the castle.

Silven stared at the empty castle entrance, hesitated, then chose to circle around—the empty, deserted hallway always brought back unpleasant memories.

But taking a detour wouldn’t take long. He trusted Harry could hold on.

Ten minutes later, Silven returned to the Quidditch pitch with Madam Pomfrey, braving the downpour.

They entered the pitch and looked up—Harry and Malfoy were shoving each other on their brooms… no, wait!

Silven squinted. They were both on the same broom, in a bizarre pose: Malfoy gripping Harry’s head, Harry’s foot planted on Malfoy’s face.

Madam Hooch’s shrill whistle blew continuously, but neither paid attention. They kept struggling forward, both reaching out.

In the rain, a flickering golden light danced ahead of them.

“Too dangerous! This is too dangerous!” Madam Pomfrey cried, quickening her pace. Silven hurried after her.

At that moment, the rogue Bludger came again, looping sharply through the air and hurtling straight toward them.

As the Bludger drew closer, Malfoy finally panicked. He instinctively pulled his arm back and clung tightly to the broom.

But that movement shifted Harry’s position.

The Bludger had been aimed at Harry’s shoulder—it now targeted his head.

All this happened in an instant, and the rain obscured vision. No one reacted in time.

Not even Harry noticed—he was focused entirely on the Golden Snitch ahead.

The tiny golden ball flapped its wings and suddenly shot upward. Harry instinctively pushed hard, using Malfoy’s grip to stand upright on the broom, his outstretched hand clenching tightly.

“Crack!”

The Bludger finally arrived.

Fortunately, the Golden Snitch’s sudden ascent altered Harry’s trajectory—the Bludger struck his back instead.

Even so, Harry saw only darkness and collapsed instantly.

The broom, now uncontrolled, shook violently before plummeting straight to the ground.

With a splash, Harry and Malfoy crashed into the muddy pitch.

Harry still clutched the Golden Snitch tightly in his hand.

Cheers erupted from both sides of the crowd; teammates rushed over immediately.

“What a brutal sport!” Madam Pomfrey looked even angrier.

The pain from the Bludger, combined with the cold rain pouring over his face, brought Harry back to consciousness quickly.

The moment he opened his eyes, he saw a row of gleaming teeth.

“You’re lucky, Harry,” Lockhart grinned. “That Bludger nearly broke your neck—just barely missed. Don’t worry, I’ll fix you right up.”

Harry saw him raise his wand, tried to speak—but the pain where he’d been hit was too intense. He couldn’t utter a word.

Lockhart raised his wand.

“Get out of the way, don’t block me!”

A rough hand shoved him aside. Madam Pomfrey didn’t even glance at him—she immediately examined Harry’s condition.

“Scapula broken, leg broken too. Still, not too bad.” She noticed Harry’s leg hung at an unnatural angle, reached out, and yanked it sharply.

“Aaah!” Harry screamed—but the next second, his leg was set.

Instantly, a bandage wrapped tightly around his shoulder.

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said sincerely.

“Oh, I could’ve done it too,” Lockhart said beside her. “Poppy, you might not like hearing this, but if I’d treated him, Harry would’ve been walking by now.”

Madam Pomfrey’s expression darkened. Lockhart kept babbling, severely disrupting her assessment of Harry’s other injuries.

“Professor Lockhart, if you truly want to help, go check on the other boy.”

Lockhart looked reluctant.

He knew another person had fallen from the broom—but healing a normal student was nothing compared to healing the Boy Who Lived. The latter drew far more attention.

But since Madam Pomfrey had spoken, he couldn’t ignore her. He trudged reluctantly over to Malfoy.

He, too, had broken his leg.

“You’re lucky,” Lockhart raised his wand and swept it elegantly downward.

“Amen!”

…

(End of chapter)