Chapter 324: The Gilderoy De-Boning Hex
The accident happened anyway.
With his vision blurred by rain and his heart pounding with an intense desire to win, Harry didn't see the second Bludger. He lunged blindly for the Golden Snitch fluttering near Malfoy's left ear.
"Look out, Harry!" Fred bellowed.
There was a sickening thud, a massive splash of mud, and Harry went spinning off his broom, tumbling into the muck. His arm was hanging at a very strange, unnatural angle.
Through waves of blinding pain, he heard whistles and shouting that sounded like they were coming from miles away. He blinked, focusing on his good hand; the Golden Snitch was held fast in his fingers.
"Aha," he croaked, his voice thick with mud and exhaustion. "We won."
Then, the world went black.
Up in the stands, the crowd held its collective breath at the sudden turn of events. Sean silently lowered his wand. It seemed Harry's luck was as temperamental as ever.
"Harry!" Hermione screamed. She was the first to vault over the railing, charging down to the pitch with the rest of the spectators.
On the field, the Gryffindor team was a picture of chaos. Half of them were still cheering the victory in the distance, while the others were diving toward the spot where Harry lay. By the time Sean reached the center of the pitch, Professor Lockhart had already pushed through the crowd to reach the boy.
As Harry drifted back to consciousness, the first thing he saw was Lockhart's row of dazzlingly white, perfect teeth. Everyone nearby heard Harry's voice tremble with dread.
"Oh, no... not you," Harry groaned.
"He doesn't know what he's saying," Lockhart told the anxious circle of Gryffindors with a patronizing smile. "Don't you worry, Harry. I'm just about to fix that arm for you."
"No!" Harry gasped, trying to sit up, but the movement sent a fresh bolt of agony through his shoulder. "Just leave it, thank you... I'll go to the hospital wing..."
"Lie back, Harry," Lockhart said soothingly. "It's a very simple charm. I've used it countless times."
"Why can't I just go to Madam Pomfrey?" Harry hissed through gritted teeth.
"He really ought to be in the hospital," Oliver Wood said, landing nearby. Despite his Seeker being injured, he couldn't keep the triumphant grin off his face. "That catch was legendary, Harry. Truly spectacular. I've never seen you fly better."
Through a forest of legs, Harry saw Fred and George desperately wrestling the rogue Bludger back into its crate. The iron ball was still fighting them, vibrating with a murderous energy.
"Stand back," Lockhart commanded, rolling up his emerald-green sleeves.
"Don't—please—no—" Harry whispered weakly.
But Lockhart was already twirling his wand.
Harry's arm was healed. Or rather, it was gone.
Sean had been standing too far back, and Lockhart's casting was surprisingly swift. There hadn't been time to intervene. When Harry's hand became a limp, lifeless thing—resembling nothing so much as a thick, pink rubber glove—Sean found himself pondering the nature of the spell.
He quickly scanned his mental library of The Standard Book of Spells. Nothing matched. This was a Lockhart original.
The realization left Sean genuinely startled.
"The Great Chicken-Wing De-Boner?"
Justin's voice came from behind him, sounding strangely specific. Sean gave him a quizzical look.
"Right, well, Sean... if you aren't worried, I suppose I shouldn't be either," Justin said, giving a quick wink. It was a bit of a non-sequitur, but it seemed to do the trick—Neville, who had been shaking like a leaf, suddenly stopped trembling.
Justin cast a quick, worried glance at Neville when he thought the boy wasn't looking.
Lockhart hadn't mended Harry's bones; he had vanished them entirely. By the time they carried Harry to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey was in a towering rage.
"You should have come straight to me!" she shrieked, holding up the floppy, boneless limb that had been a perfectly functional arm thirty minutes prior. "I can mend bones in a heartbeat—but growing them back—"
"You can do it, can't you?" Harry asked desperately.
"It will be a very painful process," Pomfrey warned. "Drink this. Regrowing bones is a nasty business."
She pulled a large bottle labeled Skele-Gro from a cabinet and poured out a steaming goblet. Harry took a gulp and immediately gagged, nearly spitting it back out.
"Did you think it was pumpkin juice?" Madam Pomfrey snapped.
As far as she knew, only one person in the castle had the privilege of drinking potions that actually tasted pleasant—and that was thanks to a certain Potions Master's favoritism. She glanced over at the young wizard sitting in the corner, who was currently engrossed in an ancient text. The spine of the book read: A Beginner's Guide to the Void Rune.
Just then, the doors to the infirmary burst open. The Gryffindor team filed in, still caked in mud and looking like a flock of drowned rats.
"Brilliant flying, Harry!" George shouted. "Flint was screaming at Malfoy. The Snitch was right over his head and he didn't even notice. Malfoy looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole."
The team had brought cakes, sweets, and jugs of pumpkin juice. They were just about to start a victory party around Harry's bed when Madam Pomfrey charged back in, roaring.
"This boy needs rest! He has thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! Everyone out!"
She hovered over the bed like a mother eagle. "Except for you, Sean, dear. We need to discuss the inventory of the latest batch of healing draughts..."
And so, the ward was cleared, leaving only Harry and Sean.
As Sean finished the inventory, Madam Pomfrey bustled off, looking satisfied. "Don't you dare go changing the flavor of the hospital stock, child. If the students start liking the taste of medicine, I'll never get them to leave."
Sean finally understood why hospital potions were intentionally foul-tasting.
He looked toward the screen. Harry was tossing and turning, his face contorted in pain. Growing bones was a grueling experience.
Ironically, Harry had a historical connection to the potion he was currently taking. An ancestor of the Potter family—Linfred of Stinchcombe—had been a pioneer in potion-making, and his work had eventually evolved into the modern Skele-Gro. Now, his legacy was working to mend his descendant.
If magic is a form of belief, Sean mused, how do we explain the inheritance of magical bloodlines?
He noted a curious pattern. Only the bloodlines of the truly powerful seemed to endure as distinct traits: the Dumbledore affinity for phoenixes, the Slytherin gift of Parseltongue... Sean hadn't heard of a "Slug-tongue" bloodline or a "Caterpillar affinity."
Magical history was a blank when it came to the mediocre. It suggested that only a wizard who reached an extraordinary level of mastery could actually alter their essence enough to pass it down.
So, Sean wondered, when a wizard reaches the pinnacle... what exactly changes within them?
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