The next day was Saturday. From dawn, the Castle was filled with the sharp scent of gunpowder—evidence of the Quidditch match ahead. In the Great Hall, Gryffindor and Slytherin stared each other down across the long tables, as though neither side would dare blink first. The tension was thick.
"Where's Harry? Haven't seen him since morning," Robert asked.
"He went to the changing room early," Ron answered. "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 descended, carrying brooms.
"They've got Nimbus 2001s—sponsored by his dad."
"Oliver says that just proves Malfoy relies on money, not skill."
"It's our chance to win."
A Nimbus 2001 was the fastest broom money could buy—Gryffindor's combined team couldn't afford one. Oliver Wood admitted that if they competed by speed, they'd lose. Their only hope was for Harry to catch the Snitch before Slytherin led by 150 points, ending the match early. With everything riding on one person, it was no wonder Oliver looked tense under the pressure.
By eleven o'clock, the students flooded toward the Quidditch Pitch. Although the weather was hot and humid, with distant thunder rumbling, everyone's enthusiasm remained high. Seamus and Dean waved a homemade "Go Harry!" banner brightly across the stairs.
Robert realized he'd forgotten snacks halfway there and dashed back to the dorm. Breathless, he arrived just as the match had begun.
"Did I miss anything?" Robert squeezed to the front; Ron had saved a spot.
"You're just in time," Ron said, lowering his flag. "Slytherin just scored—those Nimbus 2001s are blazing."
Robert nodded, unwrapped a Chocolate Frog, and the principal flashed by him, disembarking into the crowd. It was Dumbledore again—Robert sighed in disappointment. He collected Chocolate Frog cards as a hobby. Nearly every witch or wizard had a Dumbledore card; only Arch Magus Adalbert Waffling, author of Magic Theory, had more.
Robert popped the card into his pocket, offered the frog to Neville, then opened a packet of Bertie Bott's Every‑Flavor Beans.
Meanwhile on the Pitch, Harry twisted evading a Bludger that skimmed his hair—drawing cheers from the crowd. Robert raised his hand to cheer, then focused on his beans and Galleon cookies.
"Robert, are you here to watch or have a picnic?" Hermione asked, trying but failing to follow the game; her gaze kept flicking to his snacks.
"It's the same thing," Robert replied, handing her a cookie.
He wasn't much into Quidditch, nor did he appreciate the thrill of a Bludger near-miss. He just didn't want to go hungry. Meanwhile, Harry seemed to be flirting dangerously with the Bludger.
A sudden timeout was called. Hermione frowned: "That Bludger's faulty. We should ask Madam Hooch to check it."
Ron shook his head. "We'd forfeit if we did."
"But everyone sees it's broken."
"That's the rule," Ron said grimly. "And it's stowed."
Hermione glowered, speechless. Robert scanned the crowd, thinking of Dobby—the house-elf who sealed Platform 9¾ to stop Harry. This crazed Bludger had to be connected somehow. But spotting a hidden house-elf in the thousands of spectators? Impossible.
Then the rain began—large drops turning visibility to mist. Madam Hooch blew her whistle; the Gryffindor team surged forward again. No new strategy—Harry was left alone against the Bludger while Fred and George went after Malfoy.
The rain worsened; Harry stuttered in his dodges. The crowd laughed, watching a drenched boy fight for his life. Hermione gripped her wand, ready to intervene. Ron and Robert stood, unmoving, transfixed.
"He's going to get hurt," Robert muttered.
"Need Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said. "She should be here now."
"I'll go," Robert said, standing and brushing crumbs off. He squeezed through the damp, cheering crowd and headed off toward the Hospital Wing.
He paused at an empty corridor—damp stone floors reflecting the rain outside. It reminded him unpleasantly of past weekends. He'd take the long way—but Harry would hold on, Robert hoped.
Ten minutes later, he returned with Madam Pomfrey. They raced across the soggy pitch to find Harry and Malfoy locked in a chaotic tangle—racing on one broom. Malfoy had a hand twisted in Harry's hair; Harry pressed his foot on Malfoy's face, leaning over him. Madam Hooch blew her whistle in vain.
In the rain-soaked chaos, a flicker of gold appeared—the Snitch. Both boys reached. Madam Pomfrey gasped. Robert followed close, dread pooling.
Then the Bludger, which had been circling erratically, struck. Malfoy recoiled and grabbed the broom; Harry's position shifted. The Bludger shot toward Harry's head. In a split second, the Snitch rose. Harry rose, reaching—hand grasping—but the Bludger hit him in the back. He went blank.
The broom bucked and fell. With a wet thud, Harry and Malfoy hit the muddy ground. The stands erupted—cheers, silence, panic. Players swarmed. Water splashed everywhere.
Madam Pomfrey's eyes were furious. She knelt beside Harry, feeling for broken bones.
Harry's vision cleared. He saw a row of teeth—Lockhart's grin. "You're lucky, Harry—neck nearly broken! But don't worry; I'll fix you right up." Harry felt pain lock through him; he couldn't speak.
Lockhart raised his wand.
"Out of the way!"
A firm hand shoved him aside. Pomfrey started examining Harry. "Shoulder blade's broken. The leg—also broken. Lucky it's not too bad." She set his leg, bandaged his shoulder.
"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Harry whispered. Lockhart flounced closer.
"Oh, I could've healed him," Lockhart said smugly.
Pomfrey's eyes narrowed. "If you really want to help, fix the other boy."
Lockhart's smile slipped, but he couldn't refuse. He crept over to Malfoy, wand at the ready. Malfoy's leg looked clearly broken.
Lockhart waved. "Brackium Emendo!"
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