After Angelina secured possession for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, morale soared throughout the Gryffindor stands. They shouted themselves hoarse, cheering without restraint, while the Slytherin students either roared in anger or choked on their words. A few even let out quiet whimpers.
"Woo-hoo! Angelina!"
"Angelina! Queen of the lions!"
Cheers like these swirled around Brian's ears. He could barely keep up with everything he was hearing, and his eyes had an even harder time.
Watching a Quidditch match took far more effort than watching football-first, there was more than one ball on the pitch; second, although there were fewer players, they flew on broomsticks far faster than anyone could run on two legs-
Players in red and green darted back and forth across the pitch, while the cannonball-like Bludgers constantly switched their preferred targets-it was utter chaos.
By the time Brian decided to focus on the Quaffle, Hagrid's voice had completely taken over his ears-
Hagrid's towering height gave him the best view, and he had a habit of providing live commentary while watching matches. Acting as a second commentator, he launched into an impassioned account-
At such close range, the half-giant's naturally booming voice almost completely drowned out Lee Jordan's commentary-and his account was even less impartial than Lee Jordan's.
"Angelina! Gryffindor's fastest Chaser-see that? That little Slytherin brat can only trail behind her and eat her dust-oh, oh! Perfect pass! Spinnet-she played brilliantly as a reserve last year!"
Even as Hagrid bellowed, he remembered to raise his telescope. After searching for a moment, he pointed high into the sky and slapped Brian's shoulder, shouting,
"Harry's up there! Look how high he's flying-he's clearly looking for the Golden Snitch!"
"Yes, very high!" Brian discreetly tightened his grip on the railing. He had spotted Harry right at the start-the moment the match began, Harry had shot high into the sky on his Nimbus 2000 and had done little else since. It was probably a tactic he had worked out with Wood.
"No!!!"
Dean's anguished cry dragged Brian's attention back to the Quaffle-the Slytherin captain, Flint, had just lunged in like a black bear flying at the speed of an eagle and snatched it away. He charged straight toward the Gryffindor goalposts, barreling through everything in his path-
Now it was the Slytherin stands' turn to cheer. They shouted-
"Well done, Flint! Smash those stupid lions' heads in!"
"Wood!" Ron sprang up anxiously, nearly tearing his throat with his shouting. "Stop that Troll!"
The entire pitch fell eerily silent for a moment-until Oliver Wood lived up to everyone's hopes and reclaimed the Quaffle with a neat sweep of his hand. As expected, another wave of cheers rose, overlapping and swelling.
"Brilliant-Katie, score... no! Katie, are you all right?!"
An older Gryffindor girl's enthusiastic cheering abruptly turned into deep concern.
The Bludgers, which had yet to make close contact with any players, had finally sprung into action-one slammed into the back of Katie's head, then an older Slytherin player took a heavy blow to the stomach. Fortunately, they were all wearing protective gear-
Brian watched with twitching eyelids-he had to admit, the ball sport wizards adored was far more brutal than anything Muggles played.
He felt that yesterday's diligent practice had been worthwhile-perhaps his silent Ancient Healing Magic would come in handy any moment now-
Now, all he needed was to concentrate and firmly hold a precise intention, and he could heal his chosen target without a sound or a flash of light, before anyone else could notice.
"Bludger! Angelina! Look out!" Hermione shouted an urgent warning, but Angelina was so far away. How could she possibly hear her?
Fortunately, a Bludger's nemesis-one of Gryffindor's Beaters-reached Angelina in time and sent the insatiable ball packing with a vicious swing of his bat. It changed targets and hurtled toward a Slytherin Chaser.
"Well done, Fred..." Ron's celebration stopped halfway through. Puzzled, he asked everyone around him, "Was that George or Fred?"
"You're their own brother-if you can't tell them apart, how are we supposed to?" Hermione grabbed Ron's head and turned it back toward the pitch. "It doesn't matter-look at Angelina! There's no one ahead of her to stop her. She's going to score!"
As the Quaffle shot straight through the center of Slytherin's scoring hoop, the cold air caught fire with the cheers erupting from Gryffindor. The Slytherins beat their chests and stamped their feet, while Harry performed several somersaults high overhead.
His celebration seemed to have offended a Bludger-a Quaffle that had just been knocked away flew straight at Harry, but he casually lifted his broomstick and dodged the attack. Fred... or perhaps George, promptly knocked the ball back into the main action.
"Did you see that, Chet? The way Harry dodged that Bludger-good heavens, good heavens, that broomstick's practically become his third leg!" Unable to contain himself, Hagrid jumped up, setting off a small earthquake in the stands.
Brian's view bounced up and down, but he still keenly caught that fleeting streak of light. "Hagrid, calm down-I saw the Snitch-right beside the ear of that Slytherin player holding the Quaffle!"
He was not the only one. Harry and the Slytherin Seeker had spotted it too-one dived from high above, while the other accelerated at full speed from the edge of the pitch. In the blink of an eye, they were shoulder to shoulder-no, Harry was faster!
"-No! You filthy Troll! I hate Trolls!" Ron leaned halfway over the railing and roared at the Slytherin captain, Flint. "You bastard! Foul! Referee!"
"Red card, red card!" Dean, a devoted West Ham supporter, shouted along with him.
Just as Harry was about to catch the Golden Snitch, Flint suddenly sped in from the flank and deliberately rammed Harry's broomstick-but Harry and his third leg worked together seamlessly. Though knocked off course, he remained firmly on his broomstick.
Brian breathed a sigh of relief and let the silent Ancient Healing Magic he had readied dissipate. He glared sourly at the student who looked so much like a Troll, gaining a clear understanding of why the Slytherin Quidditch Team had such a rotten reputation, then patiently explained to Dean:
"Dean, Quidditch isn't like football. There's no rule about being sent off with a red card-honestly, that's unreasonable. Perhaps the organizers should change the rules."
Hagrid agreed with him. Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and Gryffindor was awarded a penalty shot.
Dean, however, was still indignant:
"Just a penalty shot? Why? If someone committed a serious foul like that in football, one that could get someone killed, the player who did it would be finished for life!"
But compared with the trouble Harry encountered next, Flint's attack was nothing-at some point, the broomstick that had been so perfectly in sync with him suddenly began bucking violently like an untamed horse.
"Hey, Harry's being a right little rascal-he's really convincing. I almost thought he'd actually lost control of his broomstick," Hagrid muttered as he watched Harry through his telescope.
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