Diving on his broom was always an exhilarating experience. Free fall was different. Free fall was terrifying. The wind was tearing at his robes—his heart was in his throat—he heard Fred yell, but couldn't see him—Fred's broom whipped by only a couple seconds later, far too soon, and he flailed for it, but couldn't reach it—the air was rushing by too fast for him to breathe—Fred was diving, but Harry was falling faster—George was flying to intercept him—Harry reached for the broom—his fingers wrapped around it—YES!—but the broom suddenly, unnaturally lurched, and the handle was wrenched out of his hand—he was tumbling—the ground was getting larger—the only thing keeping him from vomiting was the knowledge that it'd just splatter all over his own face—Fred and George were both diving, outrunning the Beater's bats they'd dropped—the crowd was screaming—his Nimbus still hung in midair—there was some sort of commotion in the teachers" section—the ground was far too close—huh, that was the Snitch above him—in the unlikely event he survived this, he'd be looking up spells for surviving long falls the moment he could walk to the library again—Fred was right there, yelling something he couldn't hear—