And he fainted.

Through a haze of rain and pain he dived for the shimmering, sneering
face below him and saw its eyes widen with fear: Malfoy thought
Harry was attacking him.

"What the -" he gasped, careening out of Harry's way.

Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and made a wild snatch;
he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only
gripping the broom with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd
below as he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass
out.

With a splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off his broom. His
arm was hanging at a very strange angle; riddled with pain, he heard,
as though from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He
focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand.

"Aha," he said vaguely. "We've won."

And he fainted.

He came around, rain falling on his face, still lying on the field, with
someone leaning over him. He saw a glitter of teeth.

"Oh, no, not you," he moaned.

"Doesn't know what he's saying," said Lockhart loudly to the anxious
crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. "Not to worry, Harry.
I'm about to fix your arm."

"No!" said Harry. "I'll keep it like this, thanks ..."

He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar
clicking noise nearby.

"I don't want a photo of this, Colin," he said loudly.