Seamus Finnegan wanted to die. He wanted a blessed wand-wielding angel, preferably one with long dark hair and large soft breasts, to walk through the infirmary door, throw his bed curtains aside and blast him to hell using whatever horrible curses they deemed necessary. Anything had to be better than this, even the Crutiatus curse. His head throbbed so intensely it was a wonder he could feel any of his other aches. His vision had blurred to nothingness hours ago, and now he was left in a hazy fog through which he could sense only his pain.
His chest burned as if his heart itself had caught fire, a fire which was now ripping through his ribs and settling in his stomach. The worst however, was his shoulders, which was where all this torture had originated. The stinging had started lightly, like a hard sharp rain, during Transfiguration, and he had chosen to ignore what he assumed were violent muscle twinges, in favor of changing the shoe before him into a bird. McGonagall had yet to specify what kind of bird, and Seamus had wracked his brain to come up with the flashiest, most over-the-top fluttering creation he could, because that was what everyone expected of Seamus. He had narrowed his choices down to a phoenix and a muggle parrot, when the "sharp rain" feeling began progressing towards small bits of hail.
It then worked its way up to a swarm of hornets stinging away at his flesh, and now felt as if a million microscopic hooks were sinking deep into his muscles only to rip themselves back out a millisecond later and start the process again. That's how it had started, and that had been bad enough, but then it spread, not in a slow leak, but rapidly jumping to new flesh upon which it could leash unholy terrors anew. Yeah it had started with the stinging, of that he was sure, and moved to the throbbing, which was kind in comparison to its next move, the burning. He had begun sweating and panting, the shoe now long forgotten, and when the burning began he had screamed. A small scream, not the sound of a boy enduring unendurable agony, but more than enough for McGonagall to dismiss class and lead him by his arm to the infirmary.
Seamus screamed and thrashed about like a wild animal on the small infirmary bed as a bewildered Madame Pomfrey looked on in terror. She had tried everything, checked for every known curse, and when that failed tried a simple restraining spell, only to have the blue light rebound off the squirming form before her and hit the stone wall. She had thought the arrival of Professor Dumbledore would solve things, but after a series of spells as unsuccessful as hers the aged headmaster stood back in shock. Immediately plans were made for moving the young man to St. Mungo's, but before they could reach a decision they were faced by another scream, this time so agonized it could have easily put a banshee to shame, then utter silence.
When, through the haze of torment, Seamus felt the burn in his chest and belly spread to scalding needles running through his groin Seamus Finnegan passed out.
Later that same day Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall sat down in Madame Pomfrey's office for a conference with Mr. LeMoine, a healer sent over from St. Mungo's in hopes of finding a solution other than transportation (always risky with and unconscious patient). The healer's quick magical scan had, like Pomfrey's, revealed absolutely nothing, but it was quite obvious from his continuous moaning and shaking that the boy was still in great pain.
"Are we certain there is nothing else to be done? Perhaps we could have another healer, one specializing in dark curse, travel here to take a look. Healer Geraghty is excellent I hear, and I'm certain…"
"No. With all due respect I am the head matron of this infirmary, and that boy needs to be at St. Mungo's!"
"Surely you don't think the boy is under the influence of a dark curse." Upon hearing this all eyes turned towards Professor McGonagall, who spoke again "Well you did just say sir that perhaps a dark curse specialist…"
"Would be appropriate, yes I did" the healer finished for her "A conviction in which I am very firm. I have worked at St. Mungo's for over 40 years, and in that time have treated many patients, and I have yet to come across something of this nature. He responds as if under the Crutiatus Curse, but there is no caster within sight, the boy is suffering, and he needs help! I cannot however, comfortably take the risk of transporting him in this condition." The last was said with a cold look at Madame Pomfrey, making it clear exactly how he felt about the mediwitch's ineptitude at controlling this situation, and conveniently ignoring his own inability to solve the problem. "If additional aid is needed…"
"Why don't we" the Headmaster interjected, instantly hushing the low bickering which had broken out across the table "allow young mister Finnigan to decide for himself?" The words had no more left the old man's chapped lips than every pair of eyes turned towards the boy in question, whose renewed shaking increased with every passing moment.
Both healers rushed toward the boy's bedside, followed more slowly by the two staff, each hoping for some sign of improvement. They watched in horror as a pool of sticky warm wetness began to seep out around the prone figure of Seamus Finnigan, who promptly rolled over and sicked up on the floor.
As he lay curled on his side, the four other occupants of the room stared in abject horror, as the deep long gashes in the boy's back began to grow and, puzzlingly enough, bulge. The gut-wrenching screams began anew as Seamus felt the flesh on his back being flayed open from the inside out. Had he been fully cognizant he might have been able to recognize the numerous, and quite ineffective, healing and blood replenishing spells the adults were casting on him. As it was, the Irish lad was aware only of the utter anguish wracking his body for what seemed an eternity, and the abrupt end of it, which came upon him so suddenly that for a few moments Seamus was mute. After hours of suffering the sudden loss of any sensation, even the full-body soreness one would expect after such a trying ordeal, was too much for the boy's mind to handle. For the second time that day, Seamus Finnigan passed out.
The Headmaster, the Transfiguration Professor, the Medi-witch, and the Healer all stared on, their faces contorted in varying degrees of horror and shock. For the first time in quite a long time, 17 years to be exact, McGonagall uttered words reserved, in her mind at least, for only the most dire of circumstances : "Oh bloody fuck." It wasn't said with any true vehemence, but with the reluctant resignation of one who realizes that something undeniably horrible and entirely out of their control has occurred, and can never be undone. "Quite", whispered the, by then, pale as snow headmaster. The other two occupants of the room could only nod in mute agreement.
