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The chill November air bites at Harry's cheeks, a sharp, invigorating sting that barely registers through the roaring excitement of the Quidditch crowd. The Gryffindor-Slytherin match is already a tempest of emerald and scarlet. Below, the stands are a blur of cheering faces, a vibrant, shifting mosaic of house colours. Above, the sky is a vast, bruised canvas, promising rain but holding off for now, as if even the weather is holding its breath for the spectacle. Harry, perched precariously on his Nimbus Two Thousand, feels the familiar thrum of the broomstick beneath him, a comforting vibration that usually settles his nerves.
Today, however, a different kind of tremor runs through him. The pressure is immense. Slytherin has a formidable team, led by the sneering, arrogant Draco Malfoy, who glides through the air with an infuriating grace. Harry's job, as Seeker, is simple: catch the Snitch. But nothing about today feels simple. The whistle shrills, piercing the din, and Madam Hooch, her short, grey hair whipping around her face, tosses the Quaffle into the air.
The game explodes into motion.
Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell, Gryffindor's Chasers, are a blur of scarlet, weaving through the Slytherin defence. Marcus Flint, the burly Slytherin Captain, is already trying to intimidate them, his heavy broomstick a dark shadow. Suddenly, a dark, whizzing shape streaks past Harry's ear. He instinctively ducks, the wind of its passage ruffling his hair. It’s a Bludger, one of the two iron balls that usually rocket around the pitch, trying to knock players off their brooms. Fred and George Weasley, Gryffindor's Beaters, are supposed to protect their team from these menacing projectiles, batting them away with their bats.
But this Bludger, this particular Bludger, is different. It doesn't veer off towards a Chaser or a Keeper. It circles back, a malevolent black orb, and hurtles directly at Harry again. He swerves sharply, the Nimbus Two Thousand groaning in protest, his heart hammering against his ribs. This isn't right. Bludgers are wild, unpredictable, but they usually target whoever is closest, or whoever poses the biggest threat. This one has tunnel vision, and its target is him.
"Harry, look out!" Fred's voice, strained and urgent, cuts through the wind.
A moment later, Fred and George are on either side of him, their bats raised, their faces grim. The rogue Bludger, instead of scattering, simply hovers, then lunges again. George swings, a powerful crack echoing across the pitch as his bat connects. The Bludger ricochets, but instead of flying off into the distance, it performs an impossible mid-air U-turn and comes straight back, faster than before, a dark, determined missile.
"It's after you, Harry!" George yells, his voice laced with disbelief. "Only you!"
This is unprecedented. Bludgers are supposed to be indiscriminate. This one is behaving like a sentient, vengeful entity. Harry feels a cold dread seep into his bones. He tries to focus on the game, on the elusive glint of the Snitch, but his eyes are constantly darting to the black blur that stalks him. He can't think about anything else. Every muscle in his body is tensed, ready to dodge, to weave, to escape the next inevitable assault. Fred and George are working in tandem, a frantic, desperate ballet of defence. They are supposed to be patrolling the entire pitch, protecting the whole team, but now their entire focus is on Harry.
They swing, they block, they deflect, their bats a blur of motion. Each deflection sends the Bludger careening away for only a moment before it inevitably, relentlessly, returns to Harry. He sees the strain on their faces, the sweat beading on their foreheads despite the cold. They are exhausted, their arms aching, their attention entirely consumed by safeguarding their Seeker.
Harry tries to glance around, to catch a glimpse of the Snitch, but the Bludger is too persistent. It flies so close he can feel the displaced air, a cold, metallic breath against his cheek. He ducks, twists, and dives, his body contorting into impossible shapes. His muscles scream in protest. His Nimbus Two Thousand, usually so responsive, feels heavy, sluggish, as if it, too, is weary of this relentless pursuit. He narrowly avoids a direct hit to his head, the Bludger whistling past his ear with a sound like a cannonball. A split second later, it clips his shoulder, sending a jolt of searing pain through him. He cries out, a sharp, involuntary gasp, but he clings to his broom, his knuckles white.
The game continues below, a distant, muffled roar. The Quaffle changes hands, points are scored, but Harry is in his own private battle, a terrifying aerial duel against an inanimate object that seems to possess a malevolent will. He can't look for the Snitch. He can't even think about it. All he can do is survive. He's too busy trying to avoid a concussion, or worse, a broken bone, to even register the score.
And the score, as it turns out, is rapidly escalating against Gryffindor. The Slytherins, unhindered by rogue Bludgers, are playing with a ruthless efficiency. Adrian Pucey and Graham Montague, their Chasers, are making easy work of the Gryffindor defence, scoring point after point. Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Seeker, is free to roam, unmolested, his eyes scanning the pitch for the golden glint.
The scoreboard flashes: Slytherin 60, Gryffindor 0.
Harry’s stomach clenches. Sixty points. An easy lead. It's a devastating blow, and he knows it's largely his fault, or rather, the Bludger's fault. He's a liability, a magnet for danger, and his Beaters are tied up defending him.
You'd expect, in a situation like this, that Oliver Wood, Gryffindor's Captain, would call a halt to the match. Bludgers are supposed to attack as many people as possible, regardless of team affiliation. Seeing one of them fixate on a single player, relentlessly, should have been grounds for an immediate investigation, both in terms of Harry's safety and in terms of fairness. It's a clear violation of Quidditch rules, an unprecedented anomaly.
But Wood does nothing. He's a blur of motion near the Gryffindor hoops, blocking shots, his face a mask of furious concentration. He shouts encouragement, barks orders, but he doesn't seem to register the sheer abnormality of the Bludger's behaviour. Or perhaps he does, but his desperate, overriding desire to win, to finally break Slytherin's dominance, blinds him to the obvious danger.
He's too focused on the game, too consumed by the scoreboard, to see the bigger picture, the outright peril Harry is in. His eyes are fixed on the Quaffle, on the opposing Chasers, on anything but the dark, relentless orb that stalks his Seeker. He's a good Keeper, a dedicated captain, but his tunnel vision is proving to be a fatal flaw today.
Alicia Spinnet, however, is not so easily swayed. She’s a fourth-year Chaser, usually calm and composed, but now her face is flushed with anger. She swoops down towards Wood, shouting something he can't quite hear over the wind and the crowd. Her broom dips, her hand gestures emphatically towards Harry, who is currently performing an acrobatic dodge that would make a professional Seeker proud. She refuses to concede the match to Slytherin, not like this, not when one of their own is being actively hunted by a rogue ball. Her defiance is clear, even from a distance.
Below, in the stands, a small knot of spectators notices something is terribly wrong. Hagrid, his massive frame practically vibrating with concern, bellows, "Tha' ain't right! That Bludger's gone rogue!"
His voice, usually booming with good cheer, is laced with a rare, raw anxiety. Hermione Granger, her bushy brown hair a frantic halo around her head, clutches Ron Weasley's arm.
"Ron, it's not normal! It's only going after Harry! Someone has to stop it!" Her voice is a panicked whisper, barely audible above the crowd's roar, but her eyes are wide with fear for her friend.
Ron, his face a mixture of anger and helplessness, shouts back, "I know, Hermione! But what can we do? We're down here!" He shakes his fist at the sky, his frustration palpable. "Wood's blind! He needs to call time!"
Unknown to them, on the other side of the stands, another voice joins their worried chorus, though far more quietly. Blaise Zabini, a Slytherin, usually aloof and disdainful, stands a few rows behind them, his dark eyes fixed on Harry. A flicker of something unreadable, perhaps concern, perhaps just morbid fascination, crosses his face. He doesn't shout, doesn't gesture, but his gaze is intense, analytical, and clearly indicates he, too, recognizes the anomaly. He sees the unfairness, the danger, even if he won't admit it aloud. They are all helpless, trapped in the stands, watching a disaster unfold in slow motion. Madam Hooch, however, seems utterly unfazed. She hovers near the centre line, her whistle still clutched in her hand. She barely even bats an eye at the chaotic aerial ballet around Harry.
After a particularly brutal near-miss where the Bludger scrapes Harry's ribs, she merely calls out, her voice crisp and dispassionate, "Gryffindor, ready to resume play?"
Her tone is purely procedural, as if this is just another minor incident in a standard match. Her lack of reaction is terrifying, almost as if she can't see what's happening, or simply doesn't care.
Harry, despite the searing pain in his side and the exhaustion that threatens to drag him from his broom, hears her. He sees Alicia's furious face, Wood's grim determination. He knows what forfeiting means. It means giving Slytherin an easy victory, a triumph they don't deserve, not when he's been battling a rogue Bludger for half the match. His pride, his stubborn Gryffindor spirit, flares up. He won't give them the satisfaction.
He takes a deep, ragged breath, the cold air burning his lungs. "We're ready, Madam Hooch!" he shouts, his voice hoarse but firm. "Keep playing!"
He knows it's a foolish, dangerous decision. He knows he's putting himself at risk. But he also believes, with a desperate, irrational hope, that if he can just keep the Bludger at bay, if he can just survive long enough, he might still get a chance at the Snitch. He has to. He can't let his team down. He can't let Slytherin win like this. He'll deal with the rogue Bludger himself, somehow. He has to.
The Gryffindor team, after a moment of stunned silence, does as told, albeit reluctantly. Fred and George exchange a worried glance, but they resume their relentless defence of Harry, their movements becoming even more desperate. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie continue to press the attack, but their movements are less fluid, more hesitant, their eyes constantly darting to their Seeker, their concern etched on their faces. Oliver Wood, still focused on the Quaffle, seems to accept Harry's decision, perhaps relieved that the game isn't being called.
Harry is unable to take on the Bludger head-on. He tries, briefly, to outmanoeuvre it, to trick it into crashing into a goalpost, but it's too smart, too relentless. It anticipates his every move, a dark, intelligent shadow. He twists, he dives, he climbs, but it's always there, a foot behind him, a hair's breadth from impact. The pain in his shoulder throbs, a dull ache that intensifies with every jarring movement. He's breathing hard, his vision blurring at the edges.
Then, it happens. He's trying a particularly daring manoeuvre, a Wronski Feint that he hopes will shake the Bludger off his tail. He dives sharply, plummeting towards the ground, intending to pull up at the last second. But the Bludger is faster, smarter. It doesn't fall for the feint. Instead, it adjusts its trajectory, accelerating, and slams into his back with the force of a battering ram.
A blinding flash of white pain explodes behind Harry's eyes. He hears a sickening crack, feels a jolt that rips through his entire body. The air is knocked from his lungs, and his grip on the Nimbus Two Thousand loosens, involuntarily. He's no longer flying. He's falling.
He tumbles through the air, his broomstick spinning wildly away from him. The ground rushes up, a dizzying green blur. He hits it with a sickening thud, a bone-jarring impact that sends another wave of agony through his right arm. He lands awkwardly, his arm twisted beneath him at an unnatural angle. A scream tears from his throat, raw and involuntary, as he tries to push himself up, only to collapse back onto the grass, his vision swimming. His arm, his right arm, is horrifically broken, bent at an impossible angle, a grotesque parody of a limb.
Above him, the game continues, but it's a distant, irrelevant hum. All he can feel is the searing, all-consuming pain. He lies there, gasping, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of the agony.
Suddenly, a shadow falls over him. He squints, his eyes watering, and sees a figure hovering above him on a broom. It's Draco Malfoy. The Slytherin Seeker, his blonde hair gleaming in the dull light, looks down at him, his face unreadable. Harry expects a sneer, a triumphant laugh, a taunt about his fall. But there's nothing. As Draco hovers, Harry sees it. A tiny, golden blur zips past Draco's head, then circles back, almost playfully. The Snitch. It's right there. And then, with a swift, almost imperceptible movement, Draco's hand shoots out. His fingers close around the tiny, fluttering wings. He catches the Snitch.
The whistle shrills again, long and piercing, signalling the end of the match. Slytherin wins.
But Draco isn't celebrating. He doesn't raise the Snitch aloft, doesn't pump his fist in the air, doesn't even crack a smile. He simply descends, landing his broom with an uncharacteristic gentleness near Harry. Harry, still writhing in pain, watches him through a haze of agony. He expects the usual taunts, the triumphant gloating. But Draco doesn't attack him. He doesn't even acknowledge the Snitch clutched in his hand. His eyes are fixed on Harry's arm, wide and unblinking.
"Can you walk?" Draco asks, his voice surprisingly quiet, devoid of its usual sneer.
Harry seethes in pain, his mind struggling to process the question, the unexpected lack of malice. He stares at the Slytherin with incredulity, his breath catching in his throat. What does he care? He just won the game.
"Can you walk?" Draco repeats, his voice holding an unexpected patience, a hint of something Harry can't quite decipher. It's not sympathy, not exactly, but it's certainly not the usual venom.
"What do you care?" Harry manages to rasp the words, grating in his throat. "You won the game. We're not friends."
Draco's eyes, usually cold and calculating, soften almost imperceptibly. "We could be," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "We're still kids."
The words hang in the air between them, shocking in their sincerity, their vulnerability. Harry stares at him, stunned into silence. The pain in his arm is a white-hot fire, but Draco's unexpected words cut through it, leaving him bewildered.
"I can walk," Harry finally says, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue, but his pride refuses to let him admit weakness.
He tries to push himself up again, biting back a scream as his broken arm protests violently. Draco watches him for a moment, then, with a decisive movement, he drops his broom. It clatters to the grass beside him. He kneels, his face serious, his usual arrogance replaced by something akin to concern.
"C'mon," Draco says, extending a hand, not to help Harry up, but to gesture towards the distant castle. "I'll take you to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey can easily repair your arm in seconds. After all, it's her job, and she is an expert healer."
Against his former judgment, against every instinct that screams at him to refuse help from a Malfoy, Harry allows Draco to help. The pain is too great, the shock too profound, to argue. He nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. Draco carefully helps him to his feet, supporting him as Harry sways, his legs weak beneath him.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin teams, who have now descended to the pitch, along with a significant portion of the spectators, just stare in bewildered silence. They see Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, leaning heavily on Draco Malfoy, his arch-nemesis, the two boys slowly, awkwardly, making their way off the Quidditch pitch, towards the castle. It's a sight that defies all expectations, a moment that will be talked about for years to come. The rivalry, the animosity, the usual volatile exchanges – all of it seems to have vanished in the face of a rogue Bludger and a broken arm.