"You should've come earlier, Miss Parkinson!" Madam Pomfrey said sternly. Forcefully pulled down Pansy's hand covering her face. "Look at yourself, foolish girl! This was easy to solve! How long has it been? Yesterday afternoon? Last night?"
Pansy asked with trembling voice, "Was...?"
"Was!" Madam Pomfrey said irritably. Clinked and clanked dabbing gauze with some potion. Gently applied it to Pansy's face. The red swollen edges immediately miraculously reduced.
Anthony looked around the Hospital Wing. Roger's bed curtains were already drawn. Seemed he'd fallen asleep again. Tracey wasn't in the ward. Probably had class.
Before Pansy came in, a student wanted to secretly sneak in to visit Ravenclaw's tragic Quidditch hero Roger. Was chased out by Madam Pomfrey. Besides that, no one else visited the Hospital Wing.
Madam Pomfrey applied medicine while asking, "What's this about now, Professor Anthony?" She looked at Anthony somewhat reproachfully. As if asking why he always brought her injured students.
Pansy sat stiffly in her seat. Asked urgently, "Will it scar, Madam Pomfrey?"
"Acting on your own like this, scarring's a small problem! You should worry if the festering will spread!" Madam Pomfrey said. Then looked at disheveled Pansy and sighed. "Takes some effort. But if we work hard enough and are lucky enough, no."
Pansy breathed a long sigh of relief. "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey." She glanced at Anthony beside her. Voice lowered. "Thank you, Professor."
Anthony smiled at her. By then Madam Pomfrey already came over with a large pile of metal cans, glass bottles, and ceramic cups. The tray was full of strangely colored ointments, viscous potions, and herbs soaking in weird liquids.
Pansy's face paled again. Interesting—when a person's face was so colorful, you could still clearly see that old lime wall gray-white beneath those reds, purples, greens, oranges.
Madam Pomfrey obviously saw too.
"This is the price for dragging your feet not coming to me, Miss!" she said. Put the tray on the small table beside the seat. "I really can't understand why anyone would do this. You should've already heard Professor Sprout say in class—Bubotuber pus can treat acne, but must go through strict dilution procedures... She said it, right?"
"You're this young. I don't believe your acne is that severe. You think your face is dragon hide, Miss Parkinson?" She said this while smearing various ointments on Pansy's face and neck.
Pansy grimaced in pain. Hands gripped chair edges tightly. Had no time to care what she was saying. But Madam Pomfrey seemed completely unconcerned if she could answer. While continuously asking questions, directly stuffed an herb into Pansy's mouth. "Bite down. Bite tight."
Anthony watched amazed as inflamed festering areas rapidly fell off. Exposed parts were also quickly corroded by something smeared on. But before blood could gush out, new medication already firmly covered the fresh wounds. Skin and flesh grew rapidly. In no time, what Madam Pomfrey handled were freshly healed scars.
During this he wanted to leave several times. But when Pansy sat down, she pressed on his robes. And now she seemed to be using all her body's strength restraining herself from jumping up and fleeing in pain. Anthony tugged his clothes several times. Couldn't overcome this first-year girl's stubborn will—she was practically glued to the chair—finally even Madam Pomfrey said, "Just stay here, Professor Anthony... or use a Severing Charm. Depends how expensive your robes are."
However, when Madam Pomfrey treated wounds at Pansy's collar, Anthony naturally still used a Severing Charm. Madam Pomfrey tightly drew curtains surrounding them. Anthony lifted Roger Davies' bed curtains to look.
As soon as he lifted the curtain, he met a pair of bright eyes. Roger lay pale in bed. Eyes open looking at him. Looked completely sleepless.
"Shh," Roger said softly. "Please, Professor. I don't want to drink more sleeping draught."
Anthony took a chair. Sat by his bedside. "How are you awake?" He looked at scars on Roger's body. They showed no signs of improvement. Unlike simple herb corrosion, Dark Magic damage was often harder to reverse.
"Woke from pain," Roger said hoarsely. Tone quite relaxed. Gently shook his head refusing water Anthony offered.
Anthony asked, "What does Madam Pomfrey say?"
"She knows," Roger said. "She's the one who told me it would hurt more and more. I just—just didn't expect it to hurt this much." He raised his hand touching his collarbone. Hand just touched. Rolled his eyes and quietly sucked in cold air.
He even joked pointing at his neck. "Tell me, Professor. Did Professor Flitwick use cursed fire? I must tell him—if burning something, better not start from the thin parts."
Anthony slowly pressed the back of his hand against Roger's neck.
"Does it feel better?" he asked.
"Better," Roger said. "Professor Anthony, taking this opportunity, can I know why your hands are so cold?"
Anthony smiled. "Tell me your guesses." He looked at Roger's expression. "All professors know you like making various hypotheses about professors privately. This isn't a secret anymore. Go on."
"Alright," Roger said softly. "Besides various theories with almost no support, we mainly have two."
"Mm?"
"The first thinks you have magical creature or even fantastic beast bloodline... maybe some cold-blooded animal."
Anthony asked without expression, "The second?"
"The second thinks you cast a permanent charm on your hands because you previously worked as an ice cream shop clerk in the Muggle world," Roger said. "They think it's professional dedication."
Anthony asked surprised, "Who said I was an ice cream clerk before?"
Roger was so surprised he almost sat up. "You weren't?"
When Madam Pomfrey called loudly "Gentlemen, you know one of you should be sleeping," Roger still said incredulously, "Everyone says you lived in the Muggle world before. Even worked at an ice cream parlor over a month before coming to Hogwarts."
Anthony roughly knew where this rumor came from.
"First half's right," Anthony clarified. "But second half's wrong. I just stayed at the Leaky Cauldron then. Occasionally went there for ice cream."
When Madam Pomfrey went to the medicine cabinet searching for stronger painkillers and sleeping potions, Pansy with face and neck wrapped in gauze walked to Anthony's side. Poked her head curiously looking at the patient in bed.
She was startled by Roger's pale face. Roger also looked surprised at the bandaged girl.
"Which unlucky soul are you?" Roger smiled. "Also the neck?"
He obviously stepped on Pansy's sore spot. Pansy almost immediately jumped up. Said shrilly, "I'm the unlucky soul almost killed by Davies!"
"Davies? Tracey?" Roger looked at Anthony puzzled. Looked toward where Madam Pomfrey left. Asked hoarsely, "What happened to Tracey?"
"Your fragile pitiful Tracey..." Pansy said through gritted teeth (from her voice, her injuries were completely fine now). "Broke into my dormitory. Carefully poured some pus from who knows where onto my neck. Tried to murder me—at least disfigure me."
Roger propped himself trying to sit up. "Impossible. You're talking about Tracey? Why would she do that? Do you have evidence?"
"Evidence?" Pansy sneered. "I am the evidence. I say she tried to kill me. That's what she did."
Anthony also said, "Murder is a very serious accusation, Miss Parkinson. I'm afraid even if the Headmaster were here, he'd require more evidence from you."
"I knew it," Pansy said. "I knew it. Being soft-hearted has no benefit. They don't know gratitude at all... Mother was right..." She glared at Anthony. As if betrayed by him.
"Very poor word choice, Parkinson," Anthony said. "I suggest you apologize. Regardless, Mr. Davies is innocent."
Roger asked, "Professor, is what she said true? Did Tracey really...?"
"Even if Parkinson can't produce corresponding evidence, I think she probably didn't fabricate the dormitory and Bubotuber pus story. Just exaggerated the motive somewhat," Anthony said. "No, don't worry about this. I'll talk with Miss Davies."
"Motive?" Roger asked. Carefully examined Pansy. "Wait, I know. Are you from some pure-blood family? Who are you?"
Even lying in bed, he still stared hard at Pansy. Seemed trying to figure out which pure-blood wizard made Tracey lose patience.
Anthony had to speak for Pansy—like she said herself, since detention, he indeed hadn't seen or heard of her troubling Tracey. Hadn't even deliberately bullied those students with different backgrounds.
If he remembered correctly, Professor Sprout even mentioned hearing about a first-year pure-blood student stopping another student from bullying Muggle-born students based on blood theory.
Anthony said, "I think the reason Miss Davies did this has some connection to why you're lying here."
"What?"
Anthony glanced at Pansy. She was turning her face biting her cheek glaring at the bedpost. No intention of speaking. So Anthony said, "That alchemical snake was custom-ordered by her."
"No!" Pansy said. Sharply turned her head. "I only ordered Slytherin banners. I had no idea about that snake! Must be the shopkeeper misunderstood. Added manor protection magic!"
Anthony corrected, "That alchemical snake was accidentally custom-ordered by her."
"Oh, that's really..." Roger was momentarily speechless. "That banner was really underhanded. We almost thought we'd lose."
But he no longer glared at Pansy. In fact, he looked somewhat embarrassed. And guilty.
Then everyone heard Madam Pomfrey close the medicine cabinet door. In the clinking of bottles, Roger quickly said to Pansy, "Alright, I apologize to you—because I misunderstood you. Also for Tracey's rash action. She didn't really want to kill you. You know that, right? But that was still wrong. Dead wrong. I'll talk to her. Then have her..." He frowned somewhat distressed. "I don't know if she'll listen to me. But anyway, I apologize for her. Your injuries are fine now?"
"Fine now," Pansy said stiffly.
Madam Pomfrey walked over frowning. "Everyone move. Patient needs rest—" She handed two potion bottles to Roger. "Drink this first. Painkiller. Then this. It should put you to sleep. If neither works..." She hesitated. "We'll contact St. Mungo's."
Pansy asked, "What does that mean? You can't cure him?"
"This is Dark Magic damage, Miss Parkinson," Madam Pomfrey was extremely dissatisfied with Pansy's tone. "If all Dark Magic could be easily cured, they might as well not be called Dark Magic."
Pansy stared at Dark Magic marks on Roger's neck. Watched silently as Roger drank that bottle of painkiller in several sips.
"You might have to wait a while for it to take effect," Madam Pomfrey said.
Roger said, "Can't potion taste be adjusted anymore... Is it my imagination? They seem increasingly hard to drink. I'm starting to worry if the pain relief effect is traded for my stomach."
"Don't sacrifice efficacy for a bit of taste, Davies," Madam Pomfrey said. Lifted Roger's blanket. "Come, let me check the wound... Good, no further development..."
"Does it hurt badly?" Pansy asked quietly. Voice had a tremor.
"Not bad," Roger said.
Madam Pomfrey complained, "I told you it would hurt more and more." She looked at Anthony. "Do you know if Professor Flitwick has any progress, Professor Anthony?"
"This morning he said he was visiting some old classmates and students," Anthony said. He guessed those were friends from the Department of Mysteries Professor Flitwick mentioned before.
"Hope for some good news," Madam Pomfrey said.
Roger raised his finger pointing at Pansy. "You scared her, Madam, Professor."
Anthony looked down. Saw that small part of Pansy's face showing through layers of gauze had turned deathly pale.
"She looks even younger than Tracey," Roger said. Uncomfortably moved his arm wanting to pull back the blanket. "Even Tracey would be scared."
"Oh, sorry. I didn't notice," Anthony said. "Come on, Miss Parkinson. Would you rather rest in the Hospital Wing or return to your dormitory?"
"No..." Pansy said. Then she suddenly cried out. "No! I'm sorry, Davies!"
Roger was silent for a moment. Said, "Since you didn't mean it... Just don't pull any more Slytherin banner stunts on the pitch. I'll forgive you. I believe you didn't mean it." He repeated somewhat sadly. "You look even younger than Tracey. She's at least a head taller than you."
"No, no," Pansy said desperately. "I... I wrote home... Davies, I'm sorry..."
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