Harry Potter 05 - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Mungo’s was quite quick as there was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of witches and wizards was creeping furtively up the otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. Harry and the others got out of the car, and Mundungus drove off around the corner to wait for them. They strolled casually towards the window where the dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one, stepped through the glass.
    The reception area looked pleasantly festive: the crystal orbs that illuminated St Mungo’s had been coloured red and gold to become gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway; and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each one topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less crowded than the last time they had been there, although halfway across the room Harry found himself shunted aside by a witch with a satsuma jammed up her left nostril.
    ‘Family argument, eh?’ smirked the blonde witch behind the desk. ‘You’re the third I’ve seen today … Spell Damage, fourth floor.’
    They found Mr Weasley propped up in bed with the remains of his turkey dinner on a tray on his lap and a rather sheepish expression on his face.
    ‘Everything all right, Arthur?’ asked Mrs Weasley, after they had all greeted Mr Weasley and handed over their presents.
    ‘Fine, fine,’ said Mr Weasley, a little too heartily. ‘You – er – haven’t seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?’
    ‘No,’ said Mrs Weasley suspiciously, ‘why?’
    ‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Mr Weasley airily, starting to unwrap his pile of gifts. ‘Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry – this is absolutely wonderful !’ For he had just opened Harry’s gift of fuse-wire and screwdrivers.
    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