The match began in a roar of excitement.
All eyes snapped back to the pitch as the players took their positions—Gryffindor in scarlet, Slytherin in emerald green—both teams striding out to thunderous cheers.
Across the stands, both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were united in their hope: to see Gryffindor topple Slytherin.
Only the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain voiced a quiet worry. "I want Gryffindor to win, but I'm nervous about what it'll mean if Slytherin loses. If they do, it'll prove that even the most advanced brooms can't beat true skill. Harry Potter is honestly the best Seeker I've seen in years…"
Douglas smiled reassuringly. "Don't forget, we've got some of the best Chasers on our side. Focus on your own preparation before a match—steady your nerves, don't dwell on what happens after. Play to your strengths, and even if you lose, you'll know exactly where the difference lies, instead of just complaining about a single missed opportunity."
Cedric understood at once—Professor Holmes clearly didn't fancy Hufflepuff's chances today.
With a shrill blast from Madam Hooch's whistle, the stadium erupted. Fourteen players shot into the stormy sky, brooms slicing through the heavy air.
Douglas gestured to the green blurs streaking across the pitch. "When it's your turn out there, don't show off your speed like the Slytherins. Keep your head—play your game, and play it well."
It wasn't just Douglas—the entire stadium could see Slytherin flaunting their speed advantage. Draco Malfoy in particular darted around Harry like an arrow, jaw working, probably taunting all the while.
But soon, Douglas sensed something was off.
He watched as George, one of Gryffindor's Beaters, repeatedly knocked a Bludger away from Harry—yet the ball seemed almost magnetically drawn to him.
(Bludgers, after all, are bewitched to rocket around the pitch, targeting players at random. It's the Beaters' job to keep them away from their own team.)
Only those with magically enhanced sight—like Douglas, or those right next to Harry—could see just how unnaturally the Bludger was behaving. The rest of the crowd was too caught up in the broader spectacle to notice.
Suddenly, Douglas stood, scanning the shadowy edges of the pitch, searching the darkest corners for any sign of foul play.
The Hufflepuffs around him stared, puzzled by his behavior.
But Douglas found nothing—no trace of a house-elf anywhere.
He knew the Quidditch balls used for Hogwarts matches were the same ones used in practice, always locked in Madam Hooch's office. The night before, during detention, George and Fred had grumbled about Wood keeping them late for extra training, making them the last team on the field. Douglas had even checked the Marauder's Map at the time—no sign of the house-elf Dobby.
He'd also seen Madam Hooch inspect the balls before the match—nothing seemed out of place.
So how had the Bludger been cursed?
Unfortunately, Douglas had never had the chance to properly study house-elf magic—not even that of the Hogwarts kitchen elves. They belonged to the school, and he had no authority to ask them to demonstrate spells they wouldn't normally use in front of wizards.
At that moment, rain began to fall, fat droplets pelting the pitch.
Douglas turned his focus back to the match.
Disappointed sighs rippled through the stands.
Then, over the loudspeaker, Lee Jordan's voice rang out, heavy with regret: "Slytherin leads, sixty to zero."
Cedric, beside Douglas, frowned. "What's going on? Why are Gryffindor's Beaters—George and Fred—hovering around their Seeker?"
The Quidditch captain shook his head. "So close… That Bludger stopped Angelina from scoring. It's a strange tactic—doesn't seem like Wood's style at all."
Douglas said nothing, his eyes fixed on the rogue Bludger. Outwardly, there was no sign of a curse. House-elf magic, it seemed, was a master of leaving no trace.
The match was briefly paused, then resumed.
This time, Harry was left to face the wild Bludger alone.
The rain came down harder.
Douglas let his visual charm fade, watching the game with naked eyes.
The battle between red and green grew ever more intense. With the twins in play, the match became a different beast entirely. Gryffindor's score crept closer and closer to Slytherin's.
Suddenly, a collective gasp swept through the stadium.
High above, Harry released his broom with both hands, then snatched at something in the air.
"The Golden Snitch! Harry's got the Snitch!" Lee Jordan practically leapt from his seat, shouting with excitement.
The cheers of three houses drowned out the curses of Slytherin.
Then a new wave of alarm swept the crowd.
Harry, legs gripping his broom, was plummeting straight toward the ground.
In a flash, Douglas whipped out his wand and pointed it at Harry.
Instantly, Harry's fall slowed, and he drifted gently to the earth.
Madam Hooch's whistle signaled the end of the match.
Gryffindor's team surged to Harry's side.
Douglas didn't follow—he slipped quietly from the pitch.
A crowd swarmed around Harry, showering him with congratulations and peppering him with questions.
Harry, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm, told them it was broken and asked who had saved him. To keep Draco Malfoy from spotting the Snitch, he'd taken a direct hit from the Bludger—now his arm felt completely shattered. If his fall hadn't been slowed, he might have been even more seriously hurt.
But nobody on the pitch had noticed who'd cast the spell from the stands.
Soon, Gryffindor supporters spilled onto the field, rallying to help. Everyone insisted on taking Harry to the hospital wing. Even Hagrid offered to carry him, but Harry protested firmly:
"Hagrid, I broke my arm, not my leg—I can walk just fine… And Colin, stop taking pictures!"
…
In the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey was far from pleased.
"You should've come straight to me—I could've fixed it in a second. But now I'll have to remove the bones from your forearm and give you Skele-Gro to regrow them."
Harry stared at her, baffled. "Madam, I came here as soon as I was hurt. I don't understand—I can still feel my arm bones."
Hermione and Ron, who'd brought him, nodded in confusion.
Madam Pomfrey snorted. "Are you questioning my expertise? I can see at a glance—a small piece of bone is missing from your forearm, yet there's no wound. Only magic could make it vanish. Next time, tell whoever's meddling with healing spells to stop interfering. It only causes more trouble!"
The trio shook their heads vigorously. Harry quickly explained, "Madam, no one treated me! After the Bludger hit, someone just slowed my fall with magic—that's all…"
Hermione added, "It must've been Professor Holmes who saved you, but he left right after."
Harry blinked in surprise. "The Professor came to the match?"
Madam Pomfrey still seemed unconvinced. Hearing Douglas's name, she grumbled, "Douglas was there? Then why didn't he just fix your arm properly? That sort of injury would take him seconds…"
Before she could finish, she turned and swept away.
The trio exchanged uncertain glances.
Hermione frowned. "Could that Bludger have been cursed to steal a piece of your bone when it hit you?"
Harry scowled. If that was true, then Slytherin had sunk to a new low.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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