2. Bad behaviour [Tuesday, August 3rd 2004]

Draco loved the summer holidays. With the students home from school, there were so many broken bones to fix and cuts to heal, often made worse by the parents' futile attempts at mending them themselves.

Just now, he was looking at the effects of a botched home-brewed love potion, the self-assigned summer project of three giggling sixteen-year-old witches. They had apparently tried to test it on their neighbour, who was now emitting pink fumes from his mouth and nostrils while humming Celestina Warbeck's greatest (which was to say worst) hits.

Strictly speaking, this was a case for the Potions Ward. But since this happened on such a regular basis and the cure was fairly easy, Trauma usually just handled these cases too. Easier than listening to the Potions people bitch about the transfers.

"I'm assuming you didn't break the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery by doing the separating spells for the potion yourselves?" Draco asked casually while making a note on his clipboard.

"Er – no, right. We didn't, of course," one of them answered while the other two exchanged nervous glances.

"He's of age," Draco said, indicating the young, handsome man in the hospital bed. "Maybe he assisted you? A group project, perhaps?" he offered.

All three of them were nodding profusely.

"You do know, of course, that the effects of love potion are not permanent?" he asked, "And that it's a crime to exploit the… erm… willing test subject while they're under the effect, or to erase their memories when they come to their senses and regain their true feelings?"

The witches had gone very pale.

"We would never," one of them whispered hoarsely.

"Splendid!" Draco exclaimed, "I really wouldn't want to report you and get you expelled from school. Not fun at all."

They were definitely not giggling anymore, but looked rather subdued now. Draco summoned the antidote from a supply closet down the hall and was able to discharge the confused young wizard five minutes later.

He looked at his chart, which was bewitched with a Protean Charm and linked to the front desk. His next assignment was another Quidditch mishap, which seemed to make up half of his cases every summer since he had started medical training five years ago. Those were always fairly easy to fix, since there was rarely any magic involved – provided there hadn't been a well-meaning amateur Healer present.

"Training to get on your house team next term?" Draco guessed as he stepped around the curtain separating him from his next patient.

"Er – no," said Potter, sitting on the bed in what appeared to be joggers and a short-sleeved t-shirt. Not exactly his Quidditch get-up.

Draco, who had not expected to see him again that soon, took another look at his chart. Yup, there he was. Bed No. 5. H. J. Potter, wizard, age 24.

"Don't tell me you got injured in bed – again," Draco said, eyeing his right arm, which was completely black and blue.

"Will you shut up?" Potter was looking at the curtain suspiciously, as if he wasn't sure who could be lurking behind it. "It says Quidditch on your chart, doesn't it? Don't tell me you haven't seen the Prophet already?"

"Could be a cover, no? And I try to keep away from that rag. You should too." Draco motioned at Potter's torso. "Let's see it, then. Lose the t-shirt."

"Can't," Potter grumbled, "Why do you think I'm still in my pyjamas? This is as far as it will go," he added, lifting his battered arm a few inches.

Draco drew his wand, making slow, deliberate moves. The first time he had treated Potter, five years and what felt like at least a thousand injuries ago, the stupid git had petrified him for drawing his wand unannounced. Nowadays, Potter barely even flinched, but it was always better not to take chances with him.

When Potter's t-shirt was vanished ("Hey, that was my favourite, you tosser!"), Draco got a good look at the whole extent of his injuries.

"What did you do – get hit by both Bludgers at once? Maybe the Quaffle too?"

"I got hit by McCarthy, who got hit by a Bludger, that stupid hag. Wouldn't have happened if she had just dodged. Probably did it on purpose," Potter grumbled, brushing away some hair that had gone astray.

Draco honestly didn't know why he even bothered. But he did recall having heard that Felicity McCarthy, the Falcons' Reserve Seeker, had come in with a concussion the day before.

"Yes, I'm sure you're completely without fault here," Draco agreed sarcastically and pressed his hand against Potter's ribcage, causing him to spout a long list of obscenities.

"Fuck, what did you do that for?" he snarled finally.

"To see if it hurts."

"I could have bloody told you, you wanker!"

"You should've come here directly instead of sleeping on it first. Do you really have zero self-preservation instincts?"

"Well it didn't hurt that much yesterday," Potter tried to vindicate. "And I put your stupid essence of Angela on it, but it obviously doesn't do shit."

"Arnica doesn't mend bones, you flipping idiot," Draco replied. "I told you to be at least a little bit careful, didn't I? I remember it vividly. 'Potter,' I said, 'do try to keep away from Bludgers. Freshly healed bones re-break easily.' Those were my words!"

"And I just told you, I didn't get hit by a Bludger! Why is it that every time I see you, I'm having the worst time?"

"Perks of being a healer"

"Is there no one else working here? Where's Dayal?"

"Well, I could fetch Lockhart for you if you insist. I seem to recall he does have first-hand experience at tending to your broken bones."

"I hate you." Potter looked about ready to murder him. Draco was enjoying himself immensely.

"No, you don't," he said, aiming his wand at Potter's ribs. "Costas emendo!"

He waited for the crunching noise and Potter's inevitable expletives before adding, "Two days bed-rest, apply essence of arnica every three hours. I would keep you here for the night, but let's face it – you'd just bail as soon as I turn my back. Again."

He looked at Potter reproachfully, but the bastard didn't even have the good grace to look ashamed and just shrugged in agreement.

"Also, I'm banning you from Quidditch for a week," Draco added.

"WHAT?" Potter was on his feet in an instant. "We've got a match in three weeks! I can't miss that much practice!"

"It's just a friendly, that doesn't even count," Draco replied cooly and took out his Quick-Quotes Quill.

Blaise had already invited Draco (who didn't follow Quidditch at all anymore) to that particular match. He had gotten the tickets from Potter himself, who had come by Zabroomi's first thing Monday morning and let himself be talked into test-flying the prototype of Blaise's newest broom. Since the teams had to fly their official racing brooms at league matches, Blaise had apparently inclined Potter to demonstrate the Lightning Blast at the friendly match against the Tutshill Tornados.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Potter said, watching the quill suspiciously. "Don't you dare write that down!"

"He that will not hear must feel," Draco replied, nodding at the quill, which began to fly over the chart (much to Potter's protest).

"An owl will be sent to Matthew Greyson," Draco said and turned on his heels.

He definitely could not rely on Potter to deliver this note to his coach himself. Draco expertly dodged Potter's jinx (which burned a scorch mark into the curtain) and left him there to sulk in silence.