People Watching.

Chapter Thirteen.

The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam Hooch's whistle, Harry kicked hard into the air and heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him. Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and swooped, spiralled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open, rain was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. He could hear laughter from the crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn't change direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the Gryffindor goalposts, where Adrian Pucey was trying to get past Wood—
A whistled in Harry' ear told him the Bludger had just missed him again; he turned right over and sped in the opposite direction.

"Training for the ballet, Potter?" yelled Malfoy as Harry was forced to do a stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the Bludger, and he fled, the Bludger trailing a few feet behind him; and then, glaring back at Malfoy in hatred, he saw it— the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches above Malfoy's left ear— and Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn't seen it.
For an agonizing moment, Harry hung in midair, not daring to speed toward Malfoy in case he looked up and saw the Snitch.
WHAM.
He had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger had hit him at last, smashes his elbow, and Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by the searing pain in his arm, he slid sideways on the rain-drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his right arm dangling useless at his side— the Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time aiming at his face— Harr swerved out of the way, one idea firmly lodged in his numb brain: get to Malfoy.
Through a haze of rain and pain, he dived for the shimmering, sneering face below him and saw its eyes widen with fear: Malfoy thought Harry was attacking him.
"What the—" he gasped, careening out of Harry's way.
Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and made a wild snatch; he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass out.
With a splattering thud, he hit the mud and rolled off his broom. His arm was hanging at a very strange angle; riddled with pain, he heard, as though from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand.

"Aha," he said vaguely. "We've gone." And then he fainted.

Harry came around, rain was falling on his face, still lying on the field, with someone leaning over him. He saw a glitter of teeth.

"Oh, no, not you," he moaned.

"Doesn't know what he's saying," Lockhart said loudly to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors (and a Ravenclaw) pressing around them. "Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to fix your arm."

"No!" Harry said. "I'll keep it like this, thanks..."
He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar clicking noise nearby.
"I don't want a photo of this, Colin," he said loudly.

"Lie back, Harry," said Lockhart soothingly. "It's a simple charm I've used countless times—"

"Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?" Harry asked through clenched teeth.

"He should really, Professor," said a muddy Wood, who couldn't help grinning even though his Seeker was injured. "Great capture, Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I'd say—"
Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and George Weasley wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.

"Stand back," said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves.

"You really shouldn't— Madam Pomfrey's the best of the best!" (Y/n) tried protesting.