Harry Potter: Westeros's Plant Life

'What a stubborn creature' Adrian thought, observing the trembling house-elf before him with exasperation.

However, this was simply the nature of house-elves. Once they decided upon a course of action, no matter how others might try to persuade them with logic or threats, they would stubbornly persist with the single-minded determination of a charging hippogriff, unless their master clearly commanded them to stop.

After hearing Dobby's timid yet resolute reply, Adrian couldn't help but frown.

Fortunately, the noise outside continued masking Dobby's screams, so no one noticed the anomaly in this corner.

"Harry doesn't need your protection, Dobby," Adrian said calmly. "With me here, watching over him, Harry will be perfectly safe. Even if Voldemort himself were to appear at Hogwarts right now, he wouldn't be able to harm him."

Voldemort's name struck Dobby's small, quivering body like a Stunning Spell, making his ears droop and turning him quiet.

For a long moment, it was as if the air itself had frozen into ice. Even the distant cheers from the pitch seemed muffled.

"You... you dare speak that person's name aloud?" Dobby looked somewhat incredulous, and stared at Adrian in shock.

"Yes, Voldemort," Adrian repeated with emphasis, his tone remaining as unhurried and steady as if merely stating an ordinary fact. "Even he couldn't hope to harm Harry under my watch."

Of course, Adrian knew in his heart that truly defeating Voldemort in open combat would be no simple task—perhaps impossible for most wizards.

But if the goal was simply protecting Harry, Adrian felt a quiet, unshakeable confidence settle in his chest.

Dobby seemed to gradually emerge from his shocked stupor, his large, luminous eyes searching Adrian's face with the intensity of someone trying to divine truth from tea leaves.

After a moment, he let out sobs and murmured, "Dobby understands now... most respected sir, Dobby will not interfere with Harry Potter anymore."

Hearing these words, Adrian breathed a sigh of relief.

He nodded and waved his wand, completely releasing the chains binding Dobby.

Released from his magical bonds, Dobby immediately collapsed to the cold stone ground, his body trembling uncontrollably as residual magic coursed through his system.

In Adrian's experience, house-elves possessed an almost pathological inability to lie, especially when making solemn promises. Therefore, Dobby's promise to "not interfere anymore" could be considered as reliable as a magical contract written in unbreakable ink.

At least for the immediate future, there was no need to worry about the well-meaning but dangerous house-elf continuing to "help" Harry.

If Dobby had persisted in his protection attempts—blocking barriers, intercepting mail, casting crude spells—it would indeed have created problems that could spiral far beyond simple inconvenience into genuine disaster.

"Now hurry up and remove your magic from the Bludger," Adrian said.

Dobby nodded vigorously, and struggled to stand up from the ground.

However, just as he began to raise his hands to perform the counter-spell, a new sound erupted from the stadium outside.

At first, it was just scattered voices, separate shouts of excitement and surprise scattered throughout the massive crowd. But within moments, the entire stadium erupted into a thunderous noise.

"HARRY POTTER! HARRY POTTER!" The chant rose and fell like ocean waves, each repetition growing stronger and more unified.

"HE CAUGHT THE GOLDEN SNITCH!" someone screamed above the noise.

The sharp sound of the referee's whistle cut through the chaos repeatedly, officially signaling the end of the match, while cheers continued to echo and re-echo off the stadium walls.

Adrian could actually feel the wooden stands swaying slightly beneath the weight of thousands of celebrating fans.

It seemed that despite Dobby's interference with the rogue Bludger, Harry had somehow managed not just to survive the match, but to win it in spectacular fashion.

"Never mind the Bludger for now," Adrian said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The match is over. Do as you see fit, Dobby—but remember your promise."

His gaze shifted away from the house-elf and toward the pitch, where he could just make out figures moving.

Meanwhile, at the center of the Quidditch pitch, Harry lay sprawling on the drenched grass star. His right hand was raised triumphantly toward the sky, fingers wrapped around something golden.

Beneath him, a large puddle of muddy water had soaked through every layer of his Quidditch robes, seeping into his skin with an icy chill that should have been uncomfortable but somehow felt refreshing after the intensity of the chase. Cold raindrops struck his face, each one bringing a hint of coolness that contrasted sharply with the burning adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

But Harry had no time or feeling to care about minor discomforts like cold or wet clothing. The euphoria of victory was too overwhelming, too intoxicating, drowning out every other sensation like a powerful Cheering Charm applied directly to his soul.

Just moments ago—though it felt like both seconds and hours—he had successfully caught the Golden Snitch after one of the most dangerous matches in Hogwarts history.

Although that cursed Bludger had certainly caused him more than "a little trouble" his right arm felt like it had been used as a Beater's practice target, and he was reasonably certain that several bones were no longer in their intended places, the final result remained unchanged.

Gryffindor had won.

Harry's entire body ached from his spectacular crash landing. Despite the discomfort, or perhaps because of the way adrenaline was still masking the worst of it, Harry found himself grinning like a madman.

The fact of victory made every ache and pain not just bearable, but almost insignificant.

Trying experimentally to move his injured right arm, Harry discovered that while the limb was clearly damaged, he could still maintain his grip on the Golden Snitch.

Harry's grin widened even further.

The thunderous sound of approaching footsteps splashing through the wet pitch announced the arrival of what seemed like half the school.

At the very front of this charging crowd, Wood—Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and possibly the most Quidditch-obsessed person in the entire school was practically flying across the muddy ground.

Wood slid the last several feet on his knees like a victorious footballer, coming to rest at Harry's side with excitement.

"Harry! Are you alright?" he asked breathlessly, his face showing an expression of excitement mixed with concern.

"That was the most incredible catch I've ever seen! But that Bludger—Are you hurt? Can you move? Should we get Madam Pomfrey?"

"Absolutely no problem!" Harry replied with a laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest.

But even as the confident words left his mouth, Harry's gaze drifted down to take in the rather alarming sight of his right arm. What he saw there made his stomach lurch slightly—the limb was definitely crooked, bent at unnatural angles.

"...Although I hate to admit it," He added, "I'd probably better make a quick visit to the hospital wing before we start celebrating."

Before Wood could respond, Fred and George Weasley emerged from the crowd like a pair of red-headed genies. They placed themselves on both side of Harry.

"Come on then, careful now," Fred announced in a voice pitched to carry over the noise, adopting the tone of a professional medic despite his obvious excitement. "The Chosen One is injured! We've got to get our star Seeker safely to Madam Pomfrey before he bleeds out or something equally dramatic."

"Can't have our hero dying of a broken arm after pulling off the catch of the century," George added with a grin.

Harry was opening his mouth to respond to their dramatic concern when a new commotion erupted from the opposite end of the rapidly growing crowd.

"Make way, make way! Please, everyone step aside and let me through!"

The voice that rang out across the pitch was instantly recognizable. It was a voice that made sensible people want to roll their eyes and look for the nearest exit.

That's right, it was Gilderoy Lockhart in all his boastful glory.

Lockhart emerged from the crowd of students and staff like a peacock strutting through pigeons, somehow managing to look perfectly groomed despite the heavy rain that had left everyone else resembling drowned rats.

"Let me handle this delicate situation," Lockhart announced grandly, dropping to one knee beside Harry. His voice was pitched to address not just Harry, but the entire crowd of onlookers who had gathered to witness the aftermath of the match. "There's absolutely no need for Madam Pomfrey to be troubled with such a simple matter. I can handle this with ease."

He turned his head to beam at the surrounding students showing his perfect smile.

"Don't be afraid, Harry," He continued in tones of reassurance. "I only need one small spell to completely heal your injured arm."

As he spoke, Lockhart's gaze again swept across the crowd of students. His teeth seemed to gleam even brighter in the rain.

Upon hearing Lockhart's confident statement, Harry's survival instincts immediately kicked into high gear. He struggled to push himself up from the muddy ground. The prospect of letting Lockhart attempt any kind of magical healing filled him with a cold dread that had nothing to do with the rain soaking through his robes.

Let Lockhart treat him?

Allow this incompetent fraud to wave a wand at his already injured body?

What absolute nonsense!

Harry knew Lockhart's true abilities—or rather, his complete lack of.

Allowing Lockhart to attempt healing magic would be like asking a troll to perform brain surgery: well-intentioned perhaps, but likely to end in disaster.

"No need, Professor Lockhart!" Harry said quickly, shaking his head with enough vigor to send droplets of water flying in all directions. "Really, I'm fine! Madam Pomfrey will sort me out perfectly well!"

"Don't be shy, my dear child," Lockhart replied smoothly, reaching out to place what he no doubt considered a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. "This is truly just the most simple magic for someone of my caliber. A simple wave of the wand, and you'll be right as rain! It won't hurt a bit, I guarantee it."

Without waiting for Harry's permission, Lockhart rose smoothly to his feet and drew his wand. He began muttering something under his breath, the words too quiet to make out clearly.

As he waved toward Harry's injured arm, a crooked spell flew out from his wand.

Then, with a final grandiose gesture, Lockhart released his spell.

"!"

Somehow, through some combination of well-honed survival instincts and recent training, Harry suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of imminent danger.

During his summer training sessions with Adrian, Harry had felt a similar aura emanating from certain spells Adrian had casted.

There was absolutely no doubt in Harry's mind that whatever was flying toward him was definitely not a normal healing spell. In fact, it felt more like something that belonged in a dueling manual than a medical textbook.

Harry instinctively dodged to the side, barely avoiding the spell—just like he had always practiced.

The spell grazed his right arm and hit the ground, exploding into a small splash of mud and water.

The spell's effects were immediately obvious to everyone present: rather than any kind of healing magic, this had clearly been something much more aggressive and destructive.

If Harry had to guess, he would say it resembled a weak Blasting Curse.

In an instant, every person present turned their attention to Lockhart.

"Oh my, don't move around so much!" Lockhart said with a frown, his tone carrying a note of genuine irritation, as if Harry's life-saving evasive maneuver had been nothing more than an inconvenient interruption to his grand performance. "You're making this much more difficult than it needs to be! Now hold still while I try again."

Without the slightest indication that he had learned anything from his first catastrophic attempt, Lockhart began waving his wand again.

Seeing yet another potentially lethal "healing" spell about to be launched Adrian, who had quietly arrived nearby, felt his eyebrows twitch.

Honestly, not knowing the full context of what was happening, a casual observer might think they were witnessing an actual duel between Harry Potter and Professor Lockhart!

The scene had all the marks of magical combat: spells flying, people diving for cover, craters being blasted in the ground.

'This was really enough...'

Adrian sighed and finally intervened.

He lightly waved his wand, sending a spell toward Lockhart that precisely hit his wrist. Lockhart's wand was knocked high into the air, drawing an arc before landing in Adrian's other hand.

The surroundings instantly fell silent, and Lockhart stood bewildered in place. He looked at his empty hand in confusion, as if completely unable to comprehend what had happened.

Seeing this intervention, Harry breathed a long, heartfelt sigh of relief.

That had been entirely too close for comfort. If Adrian hadn't stepped in when he did, there was no telling what kind of damage Lockhart's next "healing" attempt might have caused.

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