[video/action]
[ a gasp of hard breath and Harry has rolled, snapped on to his knees, with nothing but the aftermath of a bludger to the head reminding him of the pain of a few moments ago, or so it seems
he could nearly grasp it in his hand, the pain of your skull sliding in to two and the way your stomach draws up your throat, as if the hole in your head means that your insides leak upwards. but all there was to feel was the hard ground and the absolute anger in his chest.
if he had found McLaggen that very second he would have hexed him in to a fucking puddle. only that, the next second the anger waned and fizzled out on his dry tongue. his wound, it seemed to rushed fingers, had healed and he was no longer clad in quidditch robes; rather, the greying pyjamas that Harry associated with the hospital wing.
a city, so far away from the turrets he knows that he cannot begin to say, and he's here wandless and cloakless. the one moment he didn't have both of them on him. --Ron, and Hermione and Dumbledore.
Harry Potter is a boy blinking a bit stupidly at the communicator and slotting his glasses back up his face. treat him nicely, he's got all the sense as someone who's just received an angry meteorite to the back of the head ]