"Sorry!" Ron immediately called out, climbing toward Katie to assess the damage.
"Get back to your position—she's perfectly fine!" Angelina barked with barely contained frustration. "But when you're passing to teammates, try not to bludgeon them unconscious, yeah? We have actual Bludgers for that particular job!"
Katie's nose streamed crimson, Fred and George circling her like concerned vultures. Orli could just make out them producing a purple sweet from somewhere in their robes.
"Swallow this," Fred instructed with suspicious confidence. "Guaranteed nosebleed stopper."
"Right, enough passing drills," Angelina attempted to salvage what remained of their practice. "Full scrimmage time. Fred, George—release the Bludgers and let the Snitch loose."
Hermione had been watching the pitch with laser focus, her knuckles white where they gripped the bench edge.
"He's simply too nervous," she whispered, more to herself than Orli. "He was absolutely brilliant during those summer holidays at the Burrow..."
"Absolutely," Orli murmured with hollow conviction, her gaze drifting back to the aerial chaos unfolding before them.
Angelina's whistle shrieked across the grounds. Harry released the Golden Snitch in a flash of wings and gold, while Fred and George sent the Bludgers rocketing skyward like iron cannonballs. Harry immediately accelerated into a series of breathtaking maneuvers—weaving, diving, spiraling around the Chasers with the fluid grace of a hunting falcon. The twins began their relentless assault on the Bludgers, creating scoring opportunities for Katie and Alicia with surgical precision.
But within moments, Angelina's whistle cut through the air like a blade.
"Stop—stop—STOP!" she bellowed, her voice cracking with exasperation. "Ron, you're not guarding the center hoop! Remember—you have three goals to protect! This is Quidditch, not some Muggle football match!"
Ron had been hovering anxiously before the left goalpost like a lost puppy, leaving the other two hoops as defenseless as newborn kittens.
"Sorry," Ron mumbled, his mortification visible even from the stands.
"While you're tracking the Chasers, you need to incorporate strategic movement to cover all three goals!" Angelina continued, her captain's authority strained to breaking point. "Either hold the center and make rescue dives to the sides, or patrol in calculated patterns—but never abandon an entire section!"
"Sorry," Ron repeated mechanically, his face now blazing with the intensity of Filibuster's Fireworks.
"And you, Katie," Angelina snapped, "surely you can do something about that hemorrhaging?"
"It's getting exponentially worse!" Katie replied thickly, pressing her sleeve against her nose in a futile attempt to stem the crimson tide.
Orli watched Fred rifle through his pockets with dawning horror etched across his features.
"Merlin's saggy left—" Fred began, then caught himself. "I may have accidentally given her a Nosebleed Nougat instead of a bleeding stopper."
"Wonderful," Angelina said with the tone of someone contemplating ritual suicide. "Let's attempt this catastrophe once more."
Orli desperately tried to summon optimism for Ron's prospects. She refused to acknowledge the Slytherin contingent, who had launched into a rousing chorus of "Gryffindor's Heading for Disaster," but hope was becoming as elusive as morning mist.
The resumed practice lasted precisely three minutes before Angelina's whistle murdered it again. Katie had turned the color of parchment and was swaying on her broomstick like a willow in a hurricane. Fred and George shot toward her with the speed of striking hawks.
"Hospital wing—now!" Angelina commanded.
"We'll escort her," Fred volunteered, guilt radiating from every pore. "She—er—might have consumed the wrong confectionery—"
"Brilliant," Angelina said with bitter resignation as the twins shepherded Katie toward the castle. "Now we've lost our Beaters and a Chaser. Absolutely no chance of productive training now."
She gestured toward the ground with the air of a general ordering retreat. "Team meeting. Changing rooms. Now."
The players descended like deflated balloons. As they trudged toward the changing rooms, the Slytherin chorus continued their gleeful serenade of Gryffindor's impending doom, their voices carrying across the pitch like the cawing of carrion crows.
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