The golden autumn sun was beginning to lose its warmth, casting long, skeletal shadows across the Quidditch pitch. For Harry, the past few days had been a blurred montage of dusty library books, frantic interviews with students for the Auror Training Class, and the bone-aching exhaustion of Quidditch practice.
Joining the team as a second-year Seeker had originally felt like a dream—a chance to fly, to compete, and to follow in the footsteps of legends like Cedric Diggory. But the reality was far grittier. Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Vice-Captain, was a man who viewed sleep as an optional luxury and rain as "refreshing liquid motivation." Together with Marcus Flint, the seventh-year Captain, they had turned Harry's life into a relentless cycle of drills.
"Focus, Harry!" Marcus's voice boomed across the pitch, echoing against the empty stands. "Krum isn't going to give you a polite head-start! He's going to use every dirty trick in the Durmstrang playbook to bury you in the dirt!"
Harry wiped sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling slightly against the broom handle. He was dazed, his muscles screaming for a break that wasn't coming. The European Quidditch Cup was looming, and since the departure of Charlie Weasley, Hogwarts had been struggling. Victor Krum was a name that haunted Marcus's dreams—a Seeker so fast he seemed to teleport.
"To beat Krum, you need more than speed," Wood shouted, hovering nearby. "You need extreme spatial awareness. You need to be able to dodge a Bludger without even looking at it, because your eyes must stay on that Snitch!"
Marcus swung his heavy beater's bat, a wicked grin on his face. "Again! Block his vision, Oliver!"
Wood dived in front of Harry, his cloak billowing like a curtain, obscuring Harry's view of the rest of the pitch. It was a simulation of a "vision-block" tactic often used by aggressive teams. Harry squinted, trying to sense the movement behind Wood's back.
WHOOSH.
The heavy iron Bludger whistled through the air. Harry felt the vibration more than he saw the ball. At the last possible microsecond, he rolled his broom to the left. The Bludger hissed past his ear, missing him by an inch.
"Good! That's the instinct we need!" Marcus cheered.
But Harry didn't feel like cheering. He watched the Bludger fly off toward the far end of the pitch, expecting it to lose momentum. Instead, the heavy iron ball performed a sickening, physics-defying 180-degree turn in mid-air. It didn't bounce; it hunted.
It came screaming back at Harry's head. He dived, the wind whistling through his hair as the black blur passed over him.
"Marcus!" Harry yelled, his voice tight with panic. "Something's wrong with this one! It's not behaving!"
Marcus and Wood both froze, watching as the Bludger ignored every other player on the field, curving sharply upward to target Harry again. It was as if the ball had developed a personal vendetta.
"Is it a curse?" Wood hissed, his eyes wide. "Did Durmstrang send someone to sabotage us? They want to take out our Seeker before the match!"
"Protect him!" Marcus roared, diving toward the rogue ball.
The training session instantly turned into a desperate aerial battle. Marcus swung his bat with all his might, connecting with the Bludger and sending it flying toward the stands. But the ball didn't stay down. It jerked in mid-air, spinning with a frantic, buzzing energy, and dived straight back toward Harry's chest.
"Harry, get down to the ground!" Wood commanded, flying close to Harry to act as a human shield. "I'll cover your flank! Marcus, keep that thing off us!"
Wood moved in, his larger frame blocking Harry's view of the incoming threat once again. Harry felt a momentary sense of relief. With the Vice-Captain shielding him, he felt safe. He let his guard down for just a second, turning to thank Wood for the protection.
"Thanks, Oliver, I didn't think—"
"HARRY! LOOK OUT!" Marcus's scream was frantic.
Harry's head whipped around. Because of Wood's protective positioning, he had been completely 'vision-blocked' from the Bludger's new trajectory. The ball hadn't come from above; it had looped low, hugging the ground, and now it was spinning upward like a dark bullet from right under Wood's arm.
Harry tried to twist his broom, but the momentum was too great.
CRACK.
The sound of the impact was sickening—the dry snap of a branch in winter. A white-hot explosion of pain blossomed in Harry's right arm. The world tilted on its axis. His grip on the broom vanished, and he went into a freefall.
The sand of the pitch rushed up to meet him. THUD. Harry lay on his back, staring up at the darkening sky. His arm felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. He could hear the frantic shouting of his teammates, the clatter of brooms hitting the sand nearby, but it all felt distant, as if he were underwater.
Then, he saw it. The Bludger was still coming. It had finished its loop and was now descending vertically, aimed directly at Harry's face as he lay defenseless on the ground. It intended to finish the job.
It's over, Harry thought, closing his eyes.
"CONFRACTO!"
A sharp, feminine voice cut through the chaos. A bolt of red light slammed into the Bludger just feet above Harry's head. The iron ball didn't just fly away—it disintegrated. Shrapnel whistled through the air, burying itself harmlessly in the sand.
Harry opened his eyes to see Hermione Granger standing over him, her wand still raised and glowing, her face a mask of fury and terror. Ron was right behind her, looking pale.
"Harry! Are you okay? Talk to me!" Ron shouted, dropping to his knees beside him.
Marcus and Wood landed seconds later, their faces pale. "Who did it?" Marcus snarled, looking at the stands. "Who cursed that ball? I'll have their head for this!"
"Make way! St. Mungo's Training Class coming through!"
Two older students, wearing the distinctive green-trimmed robes of the medical elective, pushed through the crowd of players. They looked excited—this was their first "real" trauma case.
Hermione, who had already knelt down and performed a quick diagnostic spell, looked up at them. "His right humerus is fractured," she said, her voice clinical despite her shaking hands. "The bone is snapped, but it hasn't broken the skin. He's in shock."
"Good work, Miss Granger," one of the sixth-years said, pushing her aside with a bit too much enthusiasm. "We'll take it from here. We're professionals."
He leaned over Harry, pressing a hand firmly against his chest. "Don't move, Potter. If you move, the bone shards could nick an artery. Just lie still and let the experts handle the transport."
"I can walk," Harry groaned, trying to push himself up with his left hand.
"Absolutely not!" the other St. Mungo's student insisted. "You could have a spinal concussion from the fall. We need to stabilize you." He flicked his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
Harry felt the humiliating sensation of his body lifting off the sand. He was floating horizontally, hovering about three feet in the air like a piece of oversized luggage.
"Put me down!" Harry hissed, his face turning a deep shade of crimson. "This is ridiculous! Everyone is looking!"
"Harry, listen to the seniors," Hermione said, her eyes welling with tears of relief. "They know what they're doing. Just... just close your eyes."
The procession began. Two sixth-years 'steering' a floating Harry Potter, followed by a furious Quidditch team, a worried Ron and Hermione, and a growing tail of curious younger students who had seen the explosion on the pitch.
As they crossed the stone bridge toward the castle, Harry could see students leaning out of the windows to get a look at the "floating Boy Who Lived." He felt a fresh wave of mental exhaustion. The voice in the walls, the Chamber of Secrets, and now a cursed ball trying to turn his skull into a pancake—it was all too much.
He reached up with his good hand and pulled the collar of his Quidditch jersey over his face, hiding from the world.
Just let me wake up in the hospital wing, he prayed. Or better yet, don't wake me up until next year.