I wasn't exactly surprised to learn I'd been knocked out in an unfortunately over enthusiastic post game group hug. It did worry me a bit that nobody noticed I was unconscious until they took the team picture, and couldn't get me to hold the Quidditch Cup up straight.

I think, in that moment, I understood him. The boy saved my life, not for a reward, not for gratitude, not for fame. It was simply in his nature; his thoughtless, stubborn, self destructive, Gryffindor nature. He saw someone in trouble and he went to their aid. It was no more complicated then that, which made it all the more depressing. I looked at Harry Potter, and he looked back at me. In that moment I could not hate him.

Then he vomited on my shoes.


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