The accident still happened.
Harry's vision was blurry, her competitive streak on fire. She didn't even clock the second rogue Bludger before she dove straight for the Snitch buzzing right by Malfoy's ear.
"Watch out, Harry!" Fred yelled at the top of his lungs.
BAM. Mud exploded everywhere. Harry hit the ground hard and rolled off her broom.
Her arm was hanging at the most unnatural angle imaginable.
Through waves of pain, she heard whistles and shouting—like it was coming from miles away. She forced her eyes open. The Golden Snitch was clutched tight in her good hand.
"Ah-ha…" she slurred. "We won."
Then everything went black.
Up in the stands, the whole crowd had stopped breathing.
Sean quietly lowered his wand. Looked like Harry's luck wasn't great today.
"Harry!" Hermione shrieked and bolted down the stands with everyone else.
On the pitch, the Gryffindor team looked like two different teams: half of them cheering victory in the distance, the other half panicking and zooming toward Harry.
By the time Sean reached the field, Lockhart had already surrounded her.
The second Harry cracked her eyes open, Lockhart flashed his dazzling celebrity smile.
"Oh no… no, not you," Harry's shaky voice carried loud and clear.
"No idea what he's on about," Lockhart announced to the anxious Gryffindors crowding around. "Don't worry, Harry, I'm just going to fix that arm right up."
"No!" Harry practically begged. "Just leave it like this, thanks—"
She tried to sit up. The pain made her see stars.
"Lie still, Harry," Lockhart soothed. "It's a simple little charm—I've done it hundreds of times."
"Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?" Harry hissed through clenched teeth.
"He really should go to the hospital wing," Oliver Wood said, still covered head-to-toe in mud but grinning like a maniac because his Seeker had just pulled off the catch of the century. "That grab was unreal, Harry. Best flying I've ever seen from you."
Through a forest of legs, Harry spotted Fred and George wrestling the rogue Bludger back into its box. It was still thrashing like it wanted murder.
"Stand back, everyone," Lockhart said, rolling up his emerald-green sleeves dramatically.
"No—no—"
Harry's protest was too weak. Lockhart was already twirling his wand like a baton.
Harry's bones were either fixed… or gone.
Sean was too far away to stop it, and Lockhart had cast the spell lightning-fast anyway.
When Harry's arm turned into a sad, floppy, boneless noodle, Sean suddenly found himself wondering if a spell like that even existed.
He mentally flipped through every volume of Standard Spells. Nope. Definitely Lockhart's original creation.
This realization left him genuinely stunned.
"The Chicken-Leg Deboning Divine Curse?" Justin blurted out of nowhere.
Sean shot him a look that said what the hell.
"Okay, okay," Justin muttered, blinking innocently. "If you're not worried, Sean, then I guess I'm not worried either—"
The random comment somehow calmed Neville, who had been shaking like a leaf.
Lockhart hadn't reattached Harry's bones. He'd removed them. All thirty-three of them.
When they finally got Harry to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey was not happy.
"You should have come straight to me!" she snapped, lifting the limp, rubbery thing that used to be an arm. "I could have mended the bones in one second—but growing them back—"
"You can do that, right?" Harry asked desperately.
"It's going to hurt like hell. Drink up. Regrowing bones is nasty business."
She poured a huge glass from a bottle labeled Skele-Gro. Harry took one gulp, gagged, and nearly threw it back up.
"You think this is pumpkin juice?" Pomfrey huffed, giving him the stink-eye.
As far as she knew, only one person ever got special-flavored potions from a certain Potions Master.
Her gaze landed on the tiny wizard curled up with an old book. Between his fingers you could just make out the cover: Easy Introduction to Empty Runes.
Right then the doors burst open and the entire Gryffindor team poured in—dripping mud, looking like drowned rats.
"That was incredible flying, Harry," George said. "I saw Marcus Flint screaming at Malfoy that the Snitch was right above his head and the idiot still didn't see it. Malfoy looked ready to cry."
They brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice. A full-blown victory party was about to kick off around Harry's bed when Madam Pomfrey came charging in like a mother dragon.
"This child needs rest! He's got thirty-three bones to regrow! OUT! All of you!"
Then she softened. "Except you, dear Sean. We still need to talk about those missing potion stocks…"
So the ward emptied, leaving just Harry and Sean.
Sean finished inventory, Pomfrey happily toddled off, and threw over her shoulder: "And no more tweaking the flavors, young man. If the students figure out potions can taste good, this place will be packed nonstop."
Sean finally understood why hospital wing potions always tasted like death.
He glanced behind the curtain. Harry was tossing and turning—growing bones back hurts.
Funny thing: Harry and Skele-Gro actually went way back.
One of the Potter ancestors, Linfred of Stinchcombe, had invented a bunch of potions. One of them eventually evolved into modern Skele-Gro.
Now it was working its magic on his own descendant.
If wizard magic is a kind of belief, then how do you explain those weird inherited bloodline abilities?
Sean started thinking.
Only powerful wizards seemed to pass down special gifts—like the Dumbledore family's phoenix affinity, or the Gaunts' Parseltongue.
Sean had never once heard of a "Slug-Tongue" bloodline or "Caterpillar Affinity."
Magic is supposed to be vast and limitless. If bloodline traits are just mutations that get passed down, you'd expect all kinds of random ones, right?
But there was nothing. Total blank.
Meaning only the traits of truly great wizards survived.
So… what exactly happens to a wizard when they reach that kind of legendary level?