CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was happening, Ron
was on top of him, wrestling him to the ground. Neville hesitated,
then clambered over the back of his seat to help.
“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screamed, leaping onto her seat
to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape — she didn’t even notice
Malfoy and Ron rolling around under her seat, or the scuffles and
yelps coming from the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe, and
Goyle.
Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time to see
something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches — the
next second, Harry had pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in tri-
umph, the Snitch clasped in his hand.
The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever re-
member the Snitch being caught so quickly.
“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won! We’ve
won! Gryffindor is in the lead!” shrieked Hermione, dancing
up and down on her seat and hugging Parvati Patil in the row in
front.
Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. He
couldn’t believe it. He’d done it — the game was over; it had barely
lasted five minutes. As Gryffindors came spilling onto the field, he
saw Snape land nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped — then
Harry felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into Dumble-
dore’s smiling face.
“Well done,” said Dumbledore quietly, so that only Harry could
hear. “Nice to see you haven’t been brooding about that mirror . . .
been keeping busy . . . excellent . . .”
Snape spat bitterly on the ground.
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