Harry Potter 1 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

HP 1 - Harry Potter and the
Sorcerer's Stone

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CHAPTER ELEVEN
QUIDDITCH
A  s  they  entered  November,  the  weather  turned  very  cold.  The  mountains
around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning
the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows
defrosting  broomsticks  on  the  Quidditch  field,  bundled  up  in  a  long  moleskin
overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots.
The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry would be playing
in  his  first  match  after  weeks  of  training:  Gryffindor  versus  Slytherin.  If
Gryffindor  won,  they  would  move  up  into  second  place  in  the  house
championship.
Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood had decided that, as
their secret weapon, Harry should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he was
playing  Seeker  had  leaked  out  somehow,  and  Harry  didn’t  know  which  was
worse  —  people  telling  him  he’d  be  brilliant  or  people  telling  him  they’d  be
running around underneath him holding a mattress.
It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. He didn’t
know how he’d have gotten through all his homework without her, what with all
the last-minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them do. She had also lent
him Quidditch Through the Ages, which turned out to be a very interesting read.
           Harry  learned  that  there  were  seven  hundred  ways  of  committing  a
Quidditch foul and that all of them had happened during a World Cup match in
1473;  that  Seekers  were  usually  the  smallest  and  fastest  players,  and  that  most
serious  Quidditch  accidents  seemed  to  happen  to  them;  that  although  people
rarely  died  playing  Quidditch,  referees  had  been  known  to  vanish  and  turn  up
months later in the Sahara Desert.
           Hermione  had  become  a  bit  more  relaxed  about  breaking  rules  since
Harry and Ron had saved her from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer
for it. The day before Harry’s first Quidditch match the three of them were out in
the freezing courtyard during break, and she had conjured them up a bright blue
fire  that  could  be  carried  around  in  a  jam  jar.  They  were  standing  with  their
backs  to  it,  getting  warm,  when  Snape  crossed  the  yard.  Harry  noticed  at  once
that  Snape  was  limping.  Harry,  Ron,  and  Hermione  moved  closer  together  to
block the fire from view; they were sure it wouldn’t be allowed. Unfortunately,

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something  about  their  guilty  faces  caught  Snape’s  eye.  He  limped  over.  He
hadn’t  seen  the  fire,  but  he  seemed  to  be  looking  for  a  reason  to  tell  them  off
anyway.
“What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?”
It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him.
“Library books are not to be taken outside the school,” said Snape. “Give
it to me. Five points from Gryffindor.”
“He’s just made that rule up,” Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped
away. “Wonder what’s wrong with his leg?”
“Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” said Ron bitterly.
The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione  sat  together  next  to  a  window.  Hermione  was  checking  Harry  and
Ron’s Charms homework for them. She would never let them copy (“How will
you  learn?”),  but  by  asking  her  to  read  it  through,  they  got  the  right  answers
anyway.
Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the Ages back, to take
his  mind  off  his  nerves  about  tomorrow.  Why  should  he  be  afraid  of  Snape?
Getting  up,  he  told  Ron  and  Hermione  he  was  going  to  ask  Snape  if  he  could
have it.
           “Better  you  than  me,”  they  said  together,  but  Harry  had  an  idea  that
Snape wouldn’t refuse if there were other teachers listening.
           He  made  his  way  down  to  the  staffroom  and  knocked.  There  was  no
answer. He knocked again. Nothing.
Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was worth a try. He pushed
the door ajar and peered inside – and a horrible scene met his eyes.
Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above
his  knees.  One  of  his  legs  was  bloody  and  mangled.  Filch  was  handing  Snape
bandages.
“Blasted thing,” Snape was saying. “How are you supposed to keep your
eyes on all three heads at once?”
Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but —
“POTTER!”
           Snape’s  face  was  twisted  with  fury  as  he  dropped  his  robes  quickly  to
hide his leg. Harry gulped.
“I just wondered if I could have my book back.”
“GET OUT! OUT!”
Harry left, before Snape could take any more points from Gryffindor. He
sprinted back upstairs.

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“Did you get it?” Ron asked as Harry joined them. “What’s the matter?”
In a low whisper, Harry told them what he’d seen.
“You know what this means?” he finished breathlessly. “He tried to get
past  that  three-headed  dog  at  Halloween!  That’s  where  he  was  going  when  we
saw him — he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d bet my broomstick he let
that troll in, to make a diversion!”
Hermione’s eyes were wide.
           “No  —  he  wouldn’t,  she  said.  “I  know  he’s  not  very  nice,  but  he
wouldn’t try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe.”
           “Honestly,  Hermione,  you  think  all  teachers  are  saints  or  something,”
snapped Ron. “I’m with Harry. I wouldn’t put anything past Snape. But what’s
he after? What’s that dog guarding?”
Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the same question. Neville
was snoring loudly, but Harry couldn’t sleep. He tried to empty his mind — he
needed to sleep, he had to, he had his first Quidditch match in a few hours – but
the  expression  on  Snape’s  face  when  Harry  had  seen  his  leg  wasn’t  easy  to
forget.
The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of
the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking
forward to a good Quidditch match.
“You’ve got to eat some breakfast.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Just a bit of toast,” wheedled Hermione.
“I’m not hungry.”
Harry felt terrible. In an hour’s time he’d be walking onto the field.
           “Harry,  you  need  your  strength,”  said  Seamus  Finnigan.  “Seekers  are
always the ones who get clobbered by the other team.”
           “Thanks,  Seamus,”  said  Harry,  watching  Seamus  pile  ketchup  on  his
sausages.
By  eleven  o’clock  the  whole  school  seemed  to  be  out  in  the  stands  around
the  Quidditch  pitch.  Many  students  had  binoculars.  The  seats  might  be  raised
high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what was going on sometimes.
Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean the West Ham fan
up in the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they had painted a large banner on one
of  the  sheets  Scabbers  had  ruined.  It  said  Potter  for  President,  and  Dean,  who
was  good  at  drawing,  had  done  a  large  Gryffindor  lion  underneath.  Then
Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that the paint flashed different

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colors.
           Meanwhile,  in  the  locker  room,  Harry  and  the  rest  of  the  team  were
changing  into  their  scarlet  Quidditch  robes  (Slytherin  would  be  playing  in
green).
Wood cleared his throat for silence.
“Okay, men,” he said.
“And women,” said Chaser Angelina Johnson.
“And women,” Wood agreed. “This is it.”
“The big one,” said Fred Weasley.
“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” said George.
“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” Fred told Harry, “we were on the
team last year.”
“Shut up, you two,” said Wood. “This is the best team Gryffindor’s had
in years. We’re going to win. I know it.”
He glared at them all as if to say, “Or else.”
“Right. It’s time. Good luck, all of you.”
Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker room and, hoping his
knees weren’t going to give way, walked onto the field to loud cheers.
           Madam  Hooch  was  refereeing.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  field
waiting for the two teams, her broom in her hand.
“Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she said, once they were all
gathered around her. Harry noticed that she seemed to be speaking particularly to
the Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, a sixth year. Harry thought Flint looked as if
he had some troll blood in him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fluttering
banner  high  above,  flashing  Potter  for  President  over  the  crowd.  His  heart
skipped. He felt braver.
“Mount your brooms, please.”
Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand.
Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.
Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off.
           “And  the  Quaffle  is  taken  immediately  by  Angelina  Johnson  of
Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too —”
“JORDAN!”
“Sorry, Professor.”
The Weasley twins’ friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the commentary for
the match, closely watched by Professor McGonagall.
“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a
good find of Oliver Wood’s, last year only a reserve — back to Johnson and —
no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains

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the Quaffle and off he goes — Flint flying like an eagle up there — he’s going to
sc—  no,  stopped  by  an  excellent  move  by  Gryffindor  Keeper  Wood  and  the
Gryffindors take the Quaffle — that’s Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice
dive around Flint, off up the field and — OUCH — that must have hurt, hit in
the back of the head by a Bludger — Quaffle taken by the Slytherins — that’s
Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he’s blocked by a second
Bludger  —  sent  his  way  by  Fred  or  George  Weasley,  can’t  tell  which  —  nice
play  by  the  Gryffindor  Beater,  anyway,  and  Johnson  back  in  possession  of  the
Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes — she’s really flying — dodges a
speeding  Bludger  —  the  goal  posts  are  ahead  —  come  on,  now,  Angelina  —
Keeper Bletchley dives — misses — GRYFFINDORS SCORE!”
           Gryffindor  cheers  filled  the  cold  air,  with  howls  and  moans  from  the
Slytherins.
“Budge up there, move along.”
“Hagrid!”
           Ron  and  Hermione  squeezed  together  to  give  Hagrid  enough  space  to
join them.
           “Bin  watchin’  from  me  hut,”  said  Hagrid,  patting  a  large  pair  of
binoculars around his neck, “But it isn’t the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign
of the Snitch yet, eh?”
“Nope,” said Ron. “Harry hasn’t had much to do yet.”
“Kept outta trouble, though, that’s somethin’,” said Hagrid, raising his
binoculars and peering skyward at the speck that was Harry.
Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, squinting about
for some sign of the Snitch. This was part of his and Wood’s game plan.
“Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the Snitch,” Wood had said.
“We don’t want you attacked before you have to be.”
When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple of loop-the-loops to
let off his feelings. Now he was back to staring around for the Snitch. Once he
caught  sight  of  a  flash  of  gold,  but  it  was  just  a  reflection  from  one  of  the
Weasleys’  wristwatches,  and  once  a  Bludger  decided  to  come  pelting  his  way,
more  like  a  cannonball  than  anything,  but  Harry  dodged  it  and  Fred  Weasley
came chasing after it.
           “All  right  there,  Harry?”  he  had  time  to  yell,  as  he  beat  the  Bludger
furiously toward Marcus Flint.
“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan was saying, “Chaser Pucey ducks
two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the — wait a
moment — was that the Snitch?”
A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the Quaffle,

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too  busy  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the  flash  of  gold  that  had  passed  his  left
ear.
Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived downward after the
streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs had seen it, too. Neck and neck
they hurtled toward the Snitch — all the 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,  taken  by  Spinner,  who
puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession.”
           It  was  as  Harry  dodged  another  Bludger,  which  went  spinning
dangerously  past  his  head,  that  it  happened.  His  broom  gave  a  sudden,
frightening lurch. For a split second, he thought he was going to fall. He gripped
the  broom  tightly  with  both  his  hands  and  knees.  He’d  never  felt  anything  like
that.
It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him
off. But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off.
Harry tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goal-posts — he had half a mind

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to  ask  Wood  to  call  time-out  —  and  then  he  realized  that  his  broom  was
completely out of his control. He couldn’t turn it. He couldn’t direct it at all. It
was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent swishing
movements that almost unseated him.
Lee was still commentating.
“Slytherin in possession — Flint with the Quaffle — passes Spinnet —
passes Bell — hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose — only
joking, Professor — Slytherins score — A no…”
           The  Slytherins  were  cheering.  No  one  seemed  to  have  noticed  that
Harry’s broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying him slowly higher, away
from the game, jerking and twitching as it went.
           “Dunno  what  Harry  thinks  he’s  doing,”  Hagrid  mumbled.  He  stared
through  his  binoculars.  “If  I  didn’  know  better,  I’d  say  he’d  lost  control  of  his
broom…but he can’t have.…”
           Suddenly,  people  were  pointing  up  at  Harry  all  over  the  stands.  His
broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on.
Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry’s broom had given a wild jerk and Harry
swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.
           “Did  something  happen  to  it  when  Flint  blocked  him?”  Seamus
whispered.
           “Can’t  have,”  Hagrid  said,  his  voice  shaking.  “Can’t  nothing  interfere
with  a  broomstick  except  powerful  Dark  magic  —  no  kid  could  do  that  to  a
Nimbus Two Thousand.”
           At  these  words,  Hermione  seized  Hagrid’s  binoculars,  but  instead  of
looking up at Harry, she started looking frantically at the crowd.
“What are you doing?” moaned Ron, gray-faced.
“I knew it,” Hermione gasped, “Snape — look.”
           Ron  grabbed  the  binoculars.  Snape  was  in  the  middle  of  the  stands
opposite them. He had his eyes fixed on Harry and was muttering nonstop under
his breath.
“He’s doing something — jinxing the broom,” said Hermione.
“What should we do?”
“Leave it to me.”
           Before  Ron  could  say  another  word,  Hermione  had  disappeared.  Ron
turned  the  binoculars  back  on  Harry.  His  broom  was  vibrating  so  hard,  it  was
almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The whole crowd was on its
feet,  watching,  terrified,  as  the  Weasleys  flew  up  to  try  and  pull  Harry  safely
onto one of their brooms, but it was no good – every time they got near him, the
broom  would  jump  higher  still.  They  dropped  lower  and  circled  beneath  him,

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obviously  hoping  to  catch  him  if  he  fell.  Marcus  Flint  seized  the  Quaffle  and
scored five times without anyone noticing.
“Come on, Hermione,” Ron muttered desperately.
Hermione had fought her way across to the stand where Snape stood, and
was now racing along the row behind him; she didn’t even stop to say sorry as
she knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in front. Reaching Snape,
she  crouched  down,  pulled  out  her  wand,  and  whispered  a  few,  well-chosen
words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto the hem of Snape’s robes.
It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize that he was on fire. A
sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a little
jar in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row — Snape would never know
what had happened.
It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back on
to his broom.
           “Neville,  you  can  look!”  Ron  said.  Neville  had  been  sobbing  into
Hagrid’s jacket for the last five minutes.
Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him clap his
hand  to  his  mouth  as  though  he  was  about  to  be  sick  —  he  hit  the  field  on  all
fours — coughed — and something gold fell into his hand.
“I’ve got the Snitch!” he shouted, waving it above his head, and the game
ended in complete confusion.
           “He  didn’t  catch  it,  he  nearly  swallowed  it,”  Flint  was  still  howling
twenty minutes later, but it made no difference — Harry hadn’t broken any rules
and Lee Jordan was still happily shouting the results — Gryffindor had won by
one  hundred  and  seventy  points  to  sixty.  Harry  heard  none  of  this,  though.  He
was  being  made  a  cup  of  strong  tea  back  in  Hagrid’s  hut,  with  Ron  and
Hermione.
“It was Snape,” Ron was explaining, “Hermione and I saw him. He was
cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Rubbish,” said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of what had gone on
next to him in the stands. “Why would Snape do somethin’ like that?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, wondering what to tell
him. Harry decided on the truth.
“I found out something about him,” he told Hagrid. “He tried to get past
that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal
whatever it’s guarding.”
Hagrid dropped the teapot.
“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said.
“Fluffy?”

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“Yeah — he’s mine — bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub
las’ year — I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the —”
“Yes?” said Harry eagerly.
“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly. “That’s top secret,
that is.”
“But Snape’s trying to steal it.”
           “Rubbish,”  said  Hagrid  again.  “Snape’s  a  Hogwarts  teacher,  he’d  do
nothin’ of the sort.”
“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cried Hermione.
The afternoon’s events certainly seemed to have changed her mind about
Snape.
“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all about them! You’ve
got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!”
           “I’m  tellin’  yeh,  yer  wrong!”  said  Hagrid  hotly.  “I  don’  know  why
Harry’s  broom  acted  like  that,  but  Snape  wouldn’  try  an’  kill  a  student!  Now,
listen to me, all three of yeh — yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh. It’s
dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between
Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel —”
“Aha!” said Harry, “so there’s someone called Nicolas Flamel involved,
is there?”
Hagrid looked furious with himself.

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