Chapter 58: The Second Attack

Harry lay on the ground with difficulty, feeling as if every bone in his body had shattered, but compared to the Cruciatus Curse, this pain was bearable.

“Don’t touch him—avoid secondary injury,” Madam Hooch stopped the team members crowding around, “Wood, go notify Madam Pomfrey and have her come here immediately.”

“Understood,” Wood replied, then hurried off.

“What happened?” came Snape’s slightly displeased voice.

“Professor, I’m telling you, Malfoy didn’t follow the last play,” someone from the Slytherin team complained, “this guy must have lost his mind.”

“Why didn’t you follow?” the person added, “You didn’t accelerate, you didn’t change direction—what’s going on?”

“I didn’t follow any acceleration or direction change,” Malfoy defended.

“When the opposing Seeker accelerated, you didn’t follow. When he turned, you didn’t follow. You only rushed over after catching the Snitch—what were you doing?”

“Harry was being chased by the Bludgers the whole time—why would he change direction?” Malfoy spread his hands. “The Keeper kept yelling for me to go—how was I supposed to go? The opposing Seeker kept accelerating.”

“He’s a bit confused—or maybe just too far gone…” Harry heard Snape’s low murmur, but couldn’t catch the rest, as Madam Pomfrey moved him onto a stretcher and began treatment.

“Your injuries are serious,” Madam Pomfrey said worriedly. “If it were just your right arm, I could heal it in a second—but many of your bones are broken.”

“And they’re not where they’re supposed to be,” she added. “You’ll need to stay overnight.”

“Thank goodness,” Harry whispered weakly.

The injuries he could feel alone—his left leg nearly numb, his right arm and lower back throbbing so badly he broke into sweat—made him suspect his spine was fractured. In the Muggle world, such injuries could ruin a person’s life; yet to Madam Pomfrey’s ears, an overnight stay was all it required.

Even her tone suggested that an overnight stay in the magical infirmary was already an unusual treatment.

With his friends’ help, Harry settled quietly onto the hospital bed. Madam Pomfrey had driven out all the noisy students. Every part of him ached, forcing him to stare wide-eyed at the ceiling. Soon, he grew accustomed to the pain; bored and lying still, he drifted into a light sleep.

Hours later, Harry awoke from darkness, his many pains forcing a cry from him—he thought he’d been hit by the Cruciatus Curse again. In that moment, he was certain he’d woken from sheer agony. Then, as a chill of fear swept over him, he realized someone was gently wiping his forehead with a towel.

Harry turned alertly toward the figure beside his bed—it was Zhang Qiu, and he exhaled in relief.

“You’re sweating a lot, Harry,” she said. “I was worried—the Divination predicted tonight would bring an ‘unpleasant intruder.’”

Harry didn’t take her erratic Divinations seriously, but at this moment, he decided it was better to believe than to dismiss.

“Thank you,” he said. “But you don’t need to stay here all night—go rest.”

“Just tonight. You’ll be fine tomorrow,” Zhang Qiu said, glancing at her watch. “It’s only eight—no problem.”

“Oh, I thought it was late,” Harry thought. Eight wasn’t even bedtime yet.

They chatted idly for a while, then suddenly heard a commotion outside. Both turned toward the door in confusion.

Dumbledore entered the ward, wearing a long woolen robe and a nightcap, holding the head of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared behind him, carrying its feet. Together, they placed it on the bed.

“Call Madam Pomfrey,” Dumbledore whispered. McGonagall dashed out. Harry and Zhang Qiu froze, realizing something urgent was happening. Moments later, McGonagall rushed back, drenched in sweat, followed by Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling on a cardigan as she came, letting out a sharp gasp.

“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey leaned over the statue, whispering to Dumbledore.

“Another attack,” Dumbledore said. “Minerva found him on the stairs.”

“There was a trail of grapes,” McGonagall said. “I suspect he was trying to sneak in to visit Harry.”

“Help me sit up—I want to see,” Harry whispered. With Zhang Qiu’s help, he looked at the statue on the bed—moonlight fell across its unmistakable face.

It was Colin. His face wore a curious smile, one hand resting on his camera.

“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered.

“Perhaps a sudden attack,” McGonagall said. “He may not have even seen his attacker’s face.”

The three stared at Colin. Then Dumbledore reached out, attempting to pull the camera from his chest.

“Did the camera leave any clues?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“I smell something,” Dumbledore said, prying open the camera’s back.

A hissing gas poured from the camera. Even three beds away, Harry could smell the acrid stench of burning plastic.

“Strange Muggle device,” Madam Pomfrey muttered. “It melts into this odor?”

“But why?” Dumbledore gently placed the camera on Colin’s bedside table. From the dazed expressions of the three professors, Harry sensed they knew no more than he did.

“Harry, you’re awake?” Madam Pomfrey turned toward him. “Don’t worry, child—some pain is normal. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Why burn the film?” Harry asked painfully. “What did he photograph?”

“Don’t think about that now, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently. “First, you need to heal.”

“I can’t not think about it, Professor,” Harry said irritably. “Today, someone tampered with the Bludgers—I was chased the whole match. This injury is why.”

“We’ll investigate,” McGonagall said. “We’ll look into the Bludgers.”

“It’s too late—the film’s already burned,” Zhang Qiu interjected. “Colin’s Harry’s biggest fan—he must’ve taken dozens of photos of you today.”

“So the attacker burned the film because Colin accidentally captured his picture?” Harry’s voice rose. “Maybe no one tampered with the Bludgers beforehand—maybe someone cast a curse on the pitch!”

“So that’s it,” Dumbledore frowned. “During halftime, a student reported to a professor—Snape spent the second half casting counter-charms on you. But they had little effect. The charm on the Bludgers was unlike any common spell.”

“Could it be an American spell?” Zhang Qiu said, and everyone knew who she suspected.

“No, don’t worry,” Dumbledore cut straight to the point. “I spoke with Donald. His motive is love.”

“If the attacker came from outside,” Dumbledore said, “that’s more likely. I need to investigate. Rest now.”

“I’ll stay with Harry,” Zhang Qiu said as the professors left.

“Looks like the Divination was accurate,” Zhang Qiu said after they left, flipping through her notebook. “Last year, my Master predicted your first Quidditch match—he said you’d catch the Snitch with your mouth amid interference, and that Snape would help you.”

“That prophecy came true this year,” Harry said weakly. “Maybe tonight’s intruder won’t come until next year.”

“I have a theory, Harry,” Zhang Qiu said. “Colin looks petrified too. The attacker burned the film—perhaps to hide his crime of attacking you with the Bludgers. In other words, the person who painted the blood message, the one who attacked you this afternoon, and the one who attacked Colin tonight—they’re likely the same person.”

“That’s not a new idea—it’s just confirmation of past guesses,” Harry said. “A full conspiracy, meant to make Hogwarts seem in danger.”

“If it’s a full conspiracy…” Harry suddenly realized something.

“Dobby!” they both said at once.

“Right—house-elf magic is different from wizard magic,” Harry recalled what he’d read. “That’s why Snape’s counter-charms didn’t work.”

“And Hogwarts has protective wards—outsiders can’t easily sneak in,” Zhang Qiu said. “But those wards might not stop house-elves.”

“I told you—he’s a bad one,” Zhang Qiu fumed. “He’s threatening you. Your investigation into the Chamber scared the real culprit, so he sent Dobby to warn you.”

But deep down, Harry still wanted to believe Dobby was just a dim-witted house-elf trying to protect him in his own clumsy way.

“What if Dobby wasn’t lying the first time?” Harry weakly argued. “What if he really meant well—just used the wrong method? Like tonight—he foresaw an attack and deliberately smashed you into the infirmary to keep you safe?”

“Did you forget why Colin was attacked tonight?” Zhang Qiu pointed to the burned camera. “And to protect yourself, you let an innocent person be harmed? That’s not the kind of hero we want.”

“Fine. Tomorrow, I’ll investigate Dobby,” Harry stared fixedly at the ceiling. Colin was attacked because of him—and the guilt made Harry’s chest tighten.