At eleven in the morning, the whole school—teachers and students alike—packed the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students had brought binoculars, yet even then it was sometimes hard to see what was happening.
Hermione led her little circle of girlfriends to the very top row and spotted Neville, Seamus, Ron, and football-mad Dean Thomas on the adjacent stand, clearly tinkering with something. To boost Harry's morale—at Dean's suggestion—they'd made a huge banner (Ron had sacrificed a bedsheet). It read "Potter for the Win," and Dean, their resident artist, had painted a roaring Gryffindor lion below.
Seeing the banner, Hermione decided to pitch in. With a flick of her wand, the lion on the cloth seemed to come alive and threw back its head with a sky-splitting roar. She didn't treat it as anything special and even waved at Ron and the others afterward.
Then Hermione reached into her bag, pulled out a small canvas, and enlarged it with a spell. When it was bigger than the stands themselves, she flicked her wand again and sent the sheet floating upright in midair. It was blank for now, but a massive white curtain hovering behind the stands drew plenty of eyes.
Meanwhile in the locker room, Loren was already laced into Gryffindor red, sitting off to one side listening to Oliver Wood's pep talk. It was the same speech he gave before every match; the moment he started his first sentence, George and Fred chimed in and recited the rest in chorus. Wood shot the twins a murderous look and then turned, a little stiffly, to Loren. "Loren, on the pitch you've got to hold back. Don't… do anything fatal. You could end up in Azkaban."
"Not before we win the Cup," George cut in blithely. "If you're going to go to Azkaban for Quidditch, at least make it after the championship."
Wood, caught off guard, actually picked up the thought and babbled half a sentence before realizing it was wildly inappropriate. Loren's look made him blanch, and he hurriedly changed the subject. "Right. Time's up. Good luck, everyone." He bolted out first, leading the team onto the field. George headed the other way toward the reserves' bench; he'd watch from the VIP section until called.
Madam Hooch, today's referee, stood at midfield with her broom, waiting for both teams to line up. "I expect fair and honest play," she said as the players clustered around—pointedly glancing at Slytherin's captain while she spoke.
Loren took a look at him too. Marcus Flint had a rough-hewn face but a big, powerful frame—there had to be a dash of troll in that blood.
Before Loren could decide how exactly he was going to deal with Marcus, Madam Hooch's whistle cut through his thoughts. "Mount your brooms." He swung astride his Nimbus 2000.
The whistle shrieked again, and fifteen brooms shot up, streaking into the sky.
"The Quaffle—snatched at once by Angelina Johnson—what a brilliant Chaser, and isn't she—er—sorry, Professor McGonagall."
Lee Jordan, under Professor McGonagall's close supervision, provided the commentary.
Loren didn't follow the Quaffle. He began hunting his real targets. At that moment he saw a Slytherin Beater arrowing toward a Bludger—lining up to smash it at a Gryffindor Chaser. Loren poured magic into his broom, wringing every drop of speed from it, and hurtled toward the Slytherin Beater.
They approached the Bludger from opposite sides, arms drawing back in near-perfect sync.
A scream tore over the pitch. The Slytherin Beater pitched off his broom and crashed onto the grass, senseless. Loren shot past the Bludger without striking it.
What had happened?
On the giant white canvas behind the Gryffindor stand, an image suddenly bloomed—Loren, closing on the Bludger. The moving picture captured the moment from the perfect angle, and the stands fell silent as eyes swung to it—even Lee Jordan stopped mid-spiel.
On the canvas, the Slytherin Beater ever so slightly raised his swing, letting his bat skim just over the Bludger—so that it would smash straight into Loren's head. He had aimed for Loren, not the ball.
Loren's reaction had been razor-quick; he ducked hard. His bat, however, connected with something else round—something that, while also ball-shaped, was decidedly not a Bludger. The Slytherin Beater took the blow to a very sensitive place and went limp, sliding off his broom.
"Poor Lucian Bole," Lee Jordan resumed, voice full of feeling. "He may have long-term psychological scars after—"
"Jordan! Commentate properly," McGonagall snapped.
"—after that totally legal defensive maneuver. Er—may his future children be—well—healthy—"
McGonagall cut him off again, but she didn't sound angry.
Play continued. With Slytherin's Beater neutralized, Katie Bell wasn't hit by the Bludger, and Gryffindor scored.
Now Slytherin had the Quaffle. Captain Marcus Flint tucked it under his arm—but instead of heading for the goal hoops he veered straight toward Loren at the edge of the pitch, clearly intending to use brute mass to knock him off his broom and avenge Lucian Bole.
Loren wasn't in the mood to indulge him. He streaked for a nearby Bludger, ready to give Flint a "gift."
Before he reached it, a gust hissed at his back; he wrenched his broom aside just in time. A Bludger shot past his shoulder—the work of Slytherin's other Beater, Peregrine Derrick, who had timed it to pin Loren's line while Flint closed in. Loren, avoiding the Bludger, found himself nearly sideways in midair.
Flint thundered at him. From the stands came a collective intake of breath—"Foul!" Gryffindors roared.
When they collided, the result wasn't what anyone expected. Marcus Flint howled, clutching his face, and dropped the Quaffle. Angelina flashed in to scoop it up. Loren, meanwhile, shot upward; his broom wobbled for a heartbeat, but he'd dodged the worst of the crash.
It had happened too fast for most to follow. All eyes snapped back to the floating screen. The replay showed Flint barreling in—only to have the rigid twigs of the Nimbus 2000's tail rake straight across his face, painting a streak of crimson like a modernist masterpiece.
Flint yelped at the unexpected "art," hunched over, and tried to hide his face—far too late to preserve his dignity. Laughter rolled around the stands. Few had much sympathy for that particular brand of sneakiness.
On the pitch, Angelina used the distraction to slip the Quaffle past the Keeper—score! Flint, still bleeding, earned a sharp rebuke from Madam Hooch, and Gryffindor was awarded a penalty in front of the hoops.
Lee Jordan, riled by Flint's antics, raised his voice. "Following that blatant and frankly despic—"
"Jordan."
"I mean, following that public and highly objectionable foul by Marcus Flint—"
"Jordan, I warn you—"
"All right, all right—Marcus Flint nearly got Gryffindor Beater Loren Angus killed out there! Gryffindor to take the penalty—"
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