Part 4: The Secret of the Old McLaggen
The next morning, Pomfrey quickly explained to us the circumstances under which the student had found himself in the hospital wing. She was perhaps hoping to separate herself from the investigation as rapidly as possible; no doubt her natural female hormones were going wild simply by being in my presence.
The boy's name was Dennis Creevey, and was the current seeker on the Gryffindor quidditch team. After a particularly violent match with Slytherin, half of the players involved had ended up in the hospital wing for various injuries, wounds, or just because they were lonely now that all their friends were together in this room. It was like a camp out, but with fractured skulls in place of activities, and pained moaning in place of sing-a-longs.
'I had to clear out all the beds once I found him,' Pomfrey informed us. 'Not that I minded, we've been overcrowded in here for weeks. Before the incident, visitation up here was pretty much restricted to teachers and students bringing homework assignments. And as for this morning, we can hardly tend to cuts and bruises while a boy lies bleeding on the floor.'
'Of course not,' I said in my most sincere of voices. 'And may I just add I wouldn't mind lying bleeding on the floor with Susan, if you know what I mean.'
'Bleeding?' Asked a visibly aroused Susan.
'I can be a little rough. And clumsy. And I get nose-bleeds a lot.'
I could tell by the way Pomfrey lead Susan away to explain the situation to her in private away from me, that they were working out the logistics of the sexy threesome they were both fantasising about. Not me though; I'm not into old chicks. And I'm a man who stands by his convictions. I live my life according to two very strict rules: One, I never speak in the third person, and two, Cormac McLaggen is never a hypocrite.
The one student who was still taking up residence in a hospital bed, since it wouldn't make a difference either way, was the temporarily blind and deaf Aspertame Flack. Little Aspertame was the Gryffindor keeper, and was struck by lightning midway through the game. Sure, there were certain keepers of the past who wouldn't let something like lightning stop them from dominating the game, but those keepers shall remain nameless out of respect for Mr Flack. But for the record, those keepers are me, Cormac McLaggen.
To let him know I was there, I slapped his face. He spluttered awake, assuming blind people can sleep, and started flailing his arms around. To let him know where I was, and that I was a friend, I slapped his face. I think he was appreciative of that. Oh sure, doctors may well tell Flack that his condition will make communication difficult, but doctors also say that boys can't get periods. And what do you know, happy thirteenth birthday McLaggen.
I wanted to ask him if he knew anything about the murder, so I spoke in a raised voice and used hand gestures to emphasize my words. He didn't respond. I was certain that the culprit had gotten to young Mr Flack before myself, forcing him into silence. In all likelihood a threat had been made against his family, or he had been told he could only eat hospital food for the next month. Either way, the boy wasn't talking.
I thanked Aspertame with a slap to the face before moving on with my investigation. Aspertame looked an unlikely culprit, but the other quidditch players were certainly not off the hook.
Bones rushed over at the pace at which women tended to move towards me.
'Pomfrey gave me a list of the students who were staying in the hospital wing the night Creevey was found dead. I say we go and question them right now, before any of them have a chance to organise a defence or alibi.'
The chance of one of them organising a defence or apple-pie was concerning, so I immediately sprung into action.
'Great idea Bones, let's get some breakfast.'
Has McLaggen bitten off more than he can chew? Is Susan finding his theories a little difficult to swallow? Should I be writing these when I'm so hungry? The answer to that last question is no, but the answers to the others will have to wait until our next instalment, where McLaggen learns the true meaning of the term 'fact-checking'.
