CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chasers seemed to have forgotten what they were supposed to be
doing as they hung in midair to watch.
Harry was faster than Higgs — he could see the little round ball,
wings fluttering, darting up ahead — he put on an extra spurt of
speed —
WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors below —
Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose, and Harry’s broom
spun off course, Harry holding on for dear life.
“Foul!” screamed the Gryffindors.
Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered a free
shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all the confusion, of
course, the Golden Snitch had disappeared from sight again.
Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, “Send him off,
ref! Red card!”
“What are you talking about, Dean?” said Ron.
“Red card!” said Dean furiously. “In soccer you get shown the
red card and you’re out of the game!”
“But this isn’t soccer, Dean,” Ron reminded him.
Hagrid, however, was on Dean’s side.
“They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry
outta the air.”
Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides.
“So — after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating —”
“Jordan!” growled Professor McGonagall.
“I mean, after that open and revolting foul —”
“Jordan, I’m warning you —”
“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which
could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor,
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