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Harry spun around in midair. Sure enough, McLaggen, for reasons best known to himself, had pulled Peakes's bat from him and appeared to be demonstrating how to hit a Bludger toward an oncoming Cadwallader.
"Will you give him back his bat and get back to the goal posts!" roared Harry, pelting toward McLaggen just as McLaggen took a ferocious swipe at the Bludger and mishit it.
A blinding, sickening pain ... a flash of light. . . distant screams . . . and the sensation of falling down a long tunnel. . .
And the next thing Harry knew, he was lying in a remarkably warm and comfortable bed and looking up at a lamp that was throwing a circle of golden light onto a shadowy ceiling. He raised his head awkwardly. There on his left was a familiar-looking, freckly, red-haired person.
"Nice of you to drop in," said Ron, grinning.
Harry blinked and looked around. Of course: He was in the hospital wing. The sky outside was indigo streaked with crimson. The match must have finished hours ago ... as had any hope of cornering Malfoy. Harry's head felt strangely heavy; he raised a hand and felt a stiff turban of bandages.
"What happened." "Cracked skull," said Madam Pomfrey, bustling up and pushing him back against his pillows. "Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once, but I'm keeping you in overnight.
You shouldn't over exert yourself for a few hours." "I don't want to stay here overnight," said Harry angrily, sitting up and throwing back his covers. "I want to find McLaggen and kill him." "I'm afraid that would come under the heading of 'overexertion,'" said Madam Pomfrey, pushing him firmly back onto the bed and raising her wand in a threatening manner.
"You will stay here until I discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the headmaster." She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back into his pillows, fuming.
"D'you know how much we lost by." he asked Ron through clenched teeth.
"Well, yeah I do," said Ron apologetically. "Final score was three hundred and twenty to sixty." "Brilliant," said Harry savagely. "Really brilliant! When I get hold of McLaggen —" "You don't want to get hold of him, he's the size of a troll," said Ron reasonably. "Personally, I think there's a lot to be said for hexing him with that toenail thing of the Prince's. Anyway, the rest of the team might've dealt with him before you get out of here, they're not happy. ..."
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