Harry accidentally spat out a bit of butterbeer.
¡°Gryffindor hasn't won for seven years now. Okay, so we've had the worst luck in the world ¡ª injuries ¡ª then the tournament getting called off last year.¡± Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to his throat. ¡°But we also know we've got the best ¡ª ruddy ¡ª team ¡ª in ¡ª the ¡ª school,¡± he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye. ¡°We've got three superb Chasers.¡±
¡°We can explain afterwards!¡± snarled Black, trying to throw Lupin off. One hand was still clawing the air as it tried to reach Scabbers, who was squealing like a piglet, scratching Ron's face and neck as he tried to escape.
Black was bleeding; there were gashes across his muzzle and back, but at Harry's words he scrambled up again, and in an instant, the sound of his paws faded to silence as he pounded away across the grounds.