"Rose," I asked, somewhat resigned to the vibe of her answer, "Why is your scalp bleeding?"
"Is it?" she reached up to touch her forehead and examined the blood on her fingertips. "Oh. I suppose it is." She said in a faintly surprised manner before pointing her wand at her hand to clean it. She pointed her wand at her head next, and before she could do herself some permanent damage (pointing one's wand at one's head never ends well), I grabbed her wrist and relieved her of her wand.
"Rose, why are you bleeding?"
"I was attacked by a malignant book."
"Oh. I see. You couldn't find a ladder so you were climbing the bookshelves and accidentally dislodged a book which then hit you on the head."
"It's not like this is a recurring course of action on my part."
"No. The last time, you fell off the top shelf. You're lucky I was there to stop you from breaking something."
"Can I have my wand back? I'm still bleeding if the liquid dripping down my forehead is any indication."
"There's no way in hell I'm allowing you to point a wand at your head and start performing magic on yourself." I said as I pressed my cuff to her hairline. "especially when you're bleeding from the head." I added.
"You do realise your shirt just became a pathogen risk." Rose pointed out, deadpan. "How do you know I'm not host to a complement of nasty diseases?"
"Call it a hunch. Anyway, this," I pointed at my wrist, "is safe magic. That," I pointed at her head, "is not safe magic." I took my sleeve off her cut to see if it was still bleeding. It was. "Did you even end up needing that book?" I couldn't see a book large or pointy enough to cause damage.
"No. It wasn't what I was looking for."
I rolled my eyes. "Come on. You can't turn up to detention bleeding."
My wrist still pressed to her forehead, I towed her to the fifth floor boys bathroom – the one closest to the library. As we left, Madam Pince gave us a filthy look as if to imply that she thought Rose had been intentionally bleeding on the books and I had been abetting her.
Pushing the bathroom door open, I led Rose over to the sinks. "Have a seat." I said, indicating the bench in which the sinks were set.
"You cannot be serious."
"Who has the head wound?" Rose narrowed her eyes. "Exactly. That would be you. And who doesn't have the head wound? That would be me. Take a seat."
Making a noise which in a girl with less poise would have been called a derisive snort, she jumped onto the bench.
"Seriously, Scorpius. Can I have my wand back? I feel really nervous without it. There's a limit to my capability without my magical twig."
"Rose, there is no limit to your capability with or without your wand."
Rose winced. "Is it cleaned yet?"
"Yes. I'm just getting rid of the rest of the blood. I can't believe you didn't even think of summoning the stupid book."
Rose gave me a withering look. "After the first bookshelf incident, I always summon first. This one wouldn't budge. Thus, I reverted to a more traditional approach. Anyway, I can't believe I'm in the boys bathroom letting you clean my wound."
"You're in the boys bathroom letting my clean your wound because you know I'm not giving you back your wand until I'm done. Anyway, you know I enjoy the chivalry stuff. It's the Eton schooling showing through."
"You're a chauvinistic ass." Rose said with a smile.
"You don't mean that."
"Not entirely." Rose was being suspiciously accommodating.
"And you're not just saying this so I'll give you your wand, are you."
"Is it working?"
"No, but I'm done." I said after removing the blood from my sleeve. I leaned in.
"This is weird. We're in a bathroom. Let's go." She said, jumping off the bench and heading for the exit. She practically pranced up to the seventh floor, at which point she knocked on the door of the Arithmancy room. After a few moments, professor Robertson opened the door and looked at us in a disapproving manner.
"You are aware that you brought this on yourselves."
I shrugged non-commitally.
"Well, to be entirely honest, I had forgotten about you two miscreants. I really can't be bothered actually devising some variety of ironic punishment, because it's bound to just bounce off of your hardened teenage psyches. Just… don't do it again, alright?"
"Ummm… yes professor." Said Rose, sounding as confused as I was. That had been somewhat unexpected.
"Well go on then!" he said, shoo-ing us out of the room.
We backed out, somewhat apprehensively. When we reached the corridor, we glanced at each other, noted the identical looks of absolute hilarity on one another's faces, and exploded into mirth.
About a minute later, professor Robertson exited the room. He saw us, collapsed against the wall, gave us a dirty look and then walked off down the hall.
"Mood swing." Pointed out Rose, who had clearly recovered faster than I had. "Come on." She went on. "Let's enjoy the one Sunday we have without hours of Quiddich."