THE MIDNIGHT DUEL
“Give it here,” Harry called, “or I’ll knock you off that broom!”
“Oh, yeah?” said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried.
Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and
grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Mal-
foy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time;
Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few
people below were clapping.
“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy,”
Harry called.
The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.
“Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, and he threw the glass
ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground.
Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air
and then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom
handle down — next second he was gathering speed in a steep
dive, racing the ball — wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the
screams of people watching — he stretched out his hand — a foot
from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom
straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall
clutched safely in his fist.
“HARRY POTTER!”
His heart sank faster than he’d just dived. Professor McGonagall
was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling.
“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —”
Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and
her glasses flashed furiously, “— how dare you — might have bro-
ken your neck —”
“It wasn’t his fault, Professor —”
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