Mrs. Weasley did not seem entirely satisfied with Mr. Weasley’s answer. As her husband leaned over to shake Harry’s hand, she peered at the bandaging under his nightshirt.

“Arthur,” she said, with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, “you’ve had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn’t need doing until tomorrow.”

“What?” said Mr. Weasley, looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. “No, no—it’s nothing—it’s—I”—He seemed to deflate under Mrs. Weasley’s piercing gaze.

“Well—now don’t get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea… he’s the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in… um… complementary medicine… I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies… well, they’re called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on—on Muggle wounds—”

Mrs. Weasley let out an ominous noise somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolled away from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd around Mr. Weasley; Bill muttered something about getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt up to accompany him, grinning.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Mrs. Weasley, her voice growing louder with every word and apparently unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for cover, “that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?”

“Not messing about, Molly, dear,” said Mr. Weasley imploringly, “it was just—just something Pye and I thought we’d try—only, most unfortunately—well, with these particular kinds of wounds—it doesn’t seem to work as well as we’d hoped—”

“Meaning?”

“Well… well, I don’t know whether you know what—what stitches are?”

“It sounds as though you’ve been trying to sew your skin back together,” said Mrs. Weasley with a snort of mirthless laughter, “but even you, Arthur, wouldn’t be that stupid—”

“I fancy a cup of tea, too,” said Harry, jumping to his feet.

Hermione, Ron and Ginny almost sprinted to the door with him. As it swung closed behind them, they heard Mrs. Weasley shriek, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT’S THE GENERAL IDEA?”

“Typical Dad,” said Ginny, shaking her head as they set off up the corridor. “Stitches… I ask you…”

“Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds,” said Hermione fairly. “I suppose something in that snake’s venom dissolves them or something. I wonder where the tearoom is?”

“Fifth floor,” said Harry, remembering the sign over the welcomewitch’s desk.

They walked along the corridor, through a set of double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit.

“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked angrily, as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.

“’Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now—”

“Watch who you’re calling gruesome!” said Ron, his ears turning red.

“—the only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked at the full moon in a barrel of eels’ eyes—”

“I have not got spattergroit!”

“But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master—”

“They’re freckles!” said Ron furiously. “Now get back in your own picture and leave me alone!”

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Fred, George and Ron laughed; Hermione, however, looked reproachful.	\|	He rounded on the others, who were all keeping determinedly straight faces.

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