QUIDDITCH
Flint seized the Quaffle and scored five times without anyone
noticing.
“Come on, Hermione,” Ron muttered desperately.
Hermione had fought her way across to the stand where Snape
stood, and was now racing along the row behind him; she didn’t
even stop to say sorry as she knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst
into the row in front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled
out her wand, and whispered a few, well-chosen words. Bright blue
flames shot from her wand onto the hem of Snape’s robes.
It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize that he was on
fire. A sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the fire
off him into a little jar in her pocket, she scrambled back along the
row — Snape would never know what had happened.
It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clam-
ber back on to his broom.
“Neville, you can look!” Ron said. Neville had been sobbing into
Hagrid’s jacket for the last five minutes.
Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him
clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick — he
hit the field on all fours — coughed — and something gold fell
into his hand.
“I’ve got the Snitch!” he shouted, waving it above his head, and
the game ended in complete confusion.
“He didn’t catch it, he nearly swallowed it,” Flint was still howl-
ing twenty minutes later, but it made no difference — Harry
hadn’t broken any rules and Lee Jordan was still happily shouting
the results — Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy
points to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He was being
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