‘The shoes don't prevent you reading, do they?’

‘The shoes don't prevent you reading, do they?’ said the blonde witch, irritably pointing at a large sign to the left of her desk. ‘You want Spell Damage, fourth floor. Just like it says on the floor guide. Next!’

As the wizard hobbled and pranced sideways out of the way, the Weasley party moved forward a few steps and Harry read the floor guide:

ARTEFACT ACCIDENTS...................................... Ground floor

Cauldron explosion, wand backfiring, broom

crashes, etc.

CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES........................ First floor

Bites, stings, burns, embedded spines, etc.

MAGICAL BUGS.................................................... Second floor

Contagious maladies, e.g. dragon pox,

vanishing sickness, scrofungulus, etc.

POTION AND PLANT POISONING...................... Third floor

Rashes, regurgitation, uncontrollable

giggling, etc.

SPELL DAMAGE..................................................... Fourth floor

Unliftable jinxes, hexes, incorrectly

applied charms, etc.

VISITORS’ TEAROOM / HOSPITAL SHOP.......... Fifth floor


IF YOU ARE UNSURE WHERE TO GO, INCAPABLE OF NORMAL SPEECH OR UNABLE TO REMEMBER WHY YOU ARE HERE, OUR WELCOMEWITCH WILL BE PLEASED TO HELP.

A very old, stooped wizard with a hearing trumpet had shuffled to the front of the queue now. ‘I'm here to see Broderick Bode!’ he wheezed.

‘Ward forty-nine, but I'm afraid you're wasting your time,’ said the witch dismissively. ‘He's completely addled, you know—still thinks he's a teapot. Next!’

A harassed-looking wizard was holding his small daughter tightly by the ankle while she flapped around his head using the immensely large, feathery wings that had sprouted right out through the back of her romper suit.

‘Fourth floor,’ said the witch, in a bored voice, without asking, and the man disappeared through the double doors beside the desk, holding his daughter like an oddly shaped balloon. ‘Next!’

Mrs. Weasley moved forward to the desk.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘my husband, Arthur Weasley, was supposed to be moved to a different ward this morning, could you tell us—?’

‘Arthur Weasley?’ said the witch, running her finger down a long list in front of her. ‘Yes, first floor, second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn Ward.’

Thank you,’ said Mrs. Weasley. ‘Come on, you lot.’

They followed her through the double doors and along the narrow corridor beyond, which was lined with more portraits of famous Healers and lit by crystal bubbles full of candles that floated up on the ceiling, looking like giant

soapsuds. More witches and wizards in lime-green robes walked in and out of the doors they passed; a foul-smelling yellow gas wafted into the passageway as they passed one door, and every now and then they heard

distant wailing. They climbed a flight of stairs and entered the Creature-Induced Injuries corridor, where the second door on the right bore the words: ‘Dangerous’ Dai Llewellyn Ward: Serious Bites.Underneath this was a card

in a brass holder on which had been handwritten: Healer-in-Charge: Hippocrates Smethwyck. Trainee Healer: Augustus Pye.

‘We'll wait outside, Molly,’ Tonks said. ‘Arthur won't want too many visitors at once ... it ought to be just the family first.’

Mad-Eye growled his approval of this idea and set himself with his back against the corridor wall, his magical eye spinning in all directions. Harry drew back, too, but Mrs Weasley reached out a hand and pushed him through

the door, saying, ‘Don't be silly, Harry, Arthur wants to thank you.’

The ward was small and rather dingy, as the only window was narrow and set high in the wall facing the door. Most of the light came from more shining crystal bubbles clustered in the middle of the ceiling. The walls were of

panelled oak and there was a portrait of a rather vicious-looking wizard on the wall, captioned: Urquhart Rackharrow, 1612-1697, Inventor of the Entrail-expelling Curse.

There were only three patients. Mr. Weasley was occupying the bed at the far end oi the ward beside the tiny window. Harry was pleased and relieved to see that he was propped up on several pillows and reading the Daily

Prophet by the solitary ray of sunlight falling on to his bed. He looked up as they walked towards him and, seeing who it was, beamed.

‘Hello!’ he called, throwing the Prophet aside. ‘Bill just left, Molly, had to get back to work, but he says he'll drop in on you later.’

‘How are you, Arthur?’ asked Mrs. Weasley, bending down to kiss his cheek and looking anxiously into his face. ‘You're still looking a bit peaky.’

‘I feel absolutely fine,’ said Mr. Weasley brightly, holding out his good arm to give Ginny a hug. ‘If they could only take the bandages off, I'd be fit to go home.’

‘Why can't they take them off, Dad?’ asked Fred.

‘Well, I start bleeding like mad every time they try,’ said Mr. Weasley cheerfully, reaching across for his wand, which lay on his bedside cabinet, and waving it so that six extra chairs appeared at his bedside to seat them all. ‘It

seems there was some rather unusual kind of poison in that snake's fangs that keeps wounds open. They're sure they'll find an antidote, though; they say they've had much worse cases than mine, and in the meantime I just

have to keep taking a Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour. But that fellow over there,’ he said, dropping his voice and nodding towards the bed opposite in which a man lay looking green and sickly and staring at the ceiling.

‘Bitten by a werewolf, poor chap. No cure at all.’
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