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You’d think that useless phony would’ve learned his lesson from the first time… But alas.
My friends and I were fooling around on the school grounds and practicing Levicorpus on each other, when the one who was casting the spell on me levitated me just a tad too close to the Whomping Willow, and, well, we all know what that tree’s temperament is like.
I would’ve been able to handle it if it had just been that one sucker punch to the gut, though it did knock the wind out of me. As I was hunched over on my hands and knees trying to catch my breath and clear my vision of the dizzying sparkles, however, I heard sharp inhales and screams and turned just in time to see another tree branch come soaring at my head. I instinctively snapped up both arms in a feeble attempt to protect my head as I braced for impact. I heard the sickening cracks long before I felt any pain, and then there it was: my arms felt like they were on fire.
I was only vaguely aware of what was happening, as loud noises of bustling and shouting surrounded me. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I gathered that I had hit my head pretty hard on the ground at the second hit and that there was quite a bit of blood. Someone was shaking my shoulders and sobbing in panic, but that voice was sounding more and more distant by the second, until I couldn’t hear anything anymore.
The next thing I knew, Madam Pomfrey was gently patting my cheeks and trying to wake me. “It’s better if you drink it yourself, love, unless you want to risk aspiration pneumonia from me forcing it down instead.” There was a not-so-subtle hint of annoyance and anger in her voice.
I tried to prop myself up on my arms, expecting the inevitable pain that would come with the movement. Instead, I toppled right over, and my head hit the pillow once more. Shocked at both the fall and the relative lack of pain, I looked down at my arms, only to see something grossly resembling two flesh-colored stuffed kitchen gloves.
My friends (who I quite frankly didn’t realize had been worriedly gathered around my bed) came forth to help me sit up in the infirmary bed. One of them grimly explained that Lockhart had been nagging Professor Sprout outside the greenhouses when they heard the screams and rushed over. Lockhart, against Professor Sprout’s heated protests, attempted to fix my broken arms with Brackium Emendo, certain that the failed attempt on Harry Potter had just been a fluke. Of course, all the bones in my arms are now gone. Professor Sprout levitated me back to the castle, all the while lecturing Lockhart, who scrambled after her brisk pace like a pathetic kicked puppy all the way up the stairs to the infirmary.
There was a disgust in the mediwitch’s voice as she not-so-kindly remarked on Lockhart’s intelligence, followed by snickers all around the room. I couldn’t help but smirk, but all humor was gone as soon as I took a sip of the Skele-Gro that Madam Pomfrey had put to my lips.
It was so vile it took all my self-control not to spit it right back out. It tasted like bleu cheese, if it had been left out for too long and was mixed with overcooked brussels sprouts and pickle juice, then fermented until there is a slight hint of alcohol. It burned on the way down, and I could already feel my stomach churning. I glared at the offensive smoking yellow fluid in the mug and miserably asked Madam Pomfrey of much of this I would need to drink, to which she only raised her eyebrows and replied with a hint of amusement, “All of it. If you want all your bones back, that is.”
Madam Pomfrey kicked everyone out of the infirmary as it was coming to the end of the visiting hours. She helped me finish the remainder of the potion, which took half an hour and all my energy to swallow and keep it down. She laid me back down and warned me for a very uncomfortable couple nights. Exhausted, I resigned myself to my fate.
Uncomfortable was an understatement. I would have rather stayed on the grounds with the Whomping Willow. The bones grew in ragged points and tore at the sensitive soft tissues. My muscles were at first rigid with the pain, then with cramps from the prolonged contractions. The burning sensation spread throughout my body, and I found myself sweating profusely throughout the night. I became feverish, and Madam Pomfrey checked on me every hour to replace the cold rags on my head and for pain relief treatments. I tried my best to stifle my sobs by biting the pillows so as not to disturb her so often, but it was feeble effort. I did not sleep well, if I truly slept at all. In my feverish half-dreams, I saw myself inflicting similar pains on Lockhart and relishing in his cries of pain. Finally, early morning of the second day, the pain and burning sensations ebbed as the last of the bones grew in, and I fell into an exhausted sleep.
It took another couple hours for my fever to break, and I woke with uncomfortable stiffness in my whole body, far from rested. I raised my arms and was appalled by the bruises covering them from regrowing the bones: there were more black and purple than there were my normal skin color. I turned my still tender arms around and saw two mostly healed welts of what must have been nasty gashes where the Willow had whipped at me, both glad that that was not my face and incredulous at our stupidity. Madam Pomfrey came then with a tray of breakfast, bottles of ointments, and rolls of bandages. She covered my arms thoroughly with thick layers of bruise removal paste and bandages while I ate and told me to sleep for a few more hours. I happily obliged.
That evening I woke with unusual alertness. I let Madam Pomfrey fuss over my arms, which are now free of bruises and are sporting only two mildly angry-looking welts, while I finished my last meal in the infirmary. Happy with the progress of my healing, the mediwitch discharged me that same night.
“Say, Madam Pomfrey,” I casually said as I stretched and cracked the joints in my hands, “how opposed would you be to having Lockhart here in the infirmary for a few days?”
She looked up from stripping the bedding and raised her eyebrows. With a very teacher-ly expression, she warned, “Don’t. You. Dare.”
We looked at each other for a second more before both bursting into laughter.
“Seriously though. Please don’t. I can’t stand to have to cater to him,” she said seriously when the laughing fit was over.
“Got it. St. Mungo’s can take care of him,” I responded brightly, and the mediwitch rolled her eyes at me. I thanked her one last time and started heading back down to the Slytherin dungeons.
That dimwit could use a lesson, and we have a common room full of masterminds to teach it to him.