CHAPTER THIRTEEN
match. Little did Harry know that Ron and Hermione had been
secretly practicing the Leg-Locker Curse. They’d gotten the idea
from Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready to use it on Snape
if he showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.
“Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,” Hermione muttered as
Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve.
“I know,” Ron snapped. “Don’t nag.”
Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry aside.
“Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever need an early
capture of the Snitch it’s now. Finish the game before Snape can fa-
vor Hufflepuff too much.”
“The whole school’s out there!” said Fred Weasley, peering out of
the door. “Even — blimey — Dumbledore’s come to watch!”
Harry’s heart did a somersault.
“Dumbledore?” he said, dashing to the door to make sure. Fred
was right. There was no mistaking that silver beard.
Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was safe.
There was simply no way that Snape would dare to try to hurt him
if Dumbledore was watching.
Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as the teams
marched onto the field, something that Ron noticed, too.
“I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he told Hermione.
“Look — they’re off. Ouch!”
Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was Malfoy.
“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you the re.”
Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle.
“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time?
Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?”
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