THE MIDNIGHT DUEL
feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly.
On my whistle — three — two —”
But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on
the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched
Madam Hooch’s lips.
“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but Neville was rising straight
up like a cork shot out of a bottle — twelve feet — twenty feet.
Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling
away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and —
WHAM — a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown
on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and
higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and
out of sight.
Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as
his.
“Broken wrist,” Harry heard her mutter. “Come on, boy — it’s
all right, up you get.”
She turned to the rest of the class.
“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital
wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of
Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.”
Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off
with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.
No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into
laughter.
“Did you see his face, the great lump?”
The other Slytherins joined in.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati Patil.
147