Once we had had our Christmas lunch, we were planning to pay Dad another visit, escorted by Mad-Eye and Remus. This would be Demelza, Amy and Hermione's first time seeing Dad since the attack. Mundungus turned up in time for Christmas pudding and trifle, having managed to "borrow" a car for the occasion, as the Underground did not run on Christmas Day. The car, which we doubted very much had been taken with the knowledge or consent of its owner, had had a similar Enlarging Spell put upon it as our old Ford Anglia; although normally proportioned outside, ten people with Mundungus driving were able to fit into it quite comfortably. Mum hesitated at the point of getting inside; her disapproval of Mundungus was battling with her dislike of traveling without magic; finally the cold outside and our pleading triumphed, and she settled herself into the backseat between Fred and Bill with good grace, which made for a welcome change. It was certainly more comfortable than the alternative, the Knight Bus, would have been!

The journey to St. Mungo's was quite quick, as there was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of witches and wizards were creeping furtively up the otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. We got out of the car, and Mundungus drove off around the corner to wait for us; we strolled casually toward the window where the dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one, stepped through the glass. The reception area looked pleasantly festive: The crystal orbs that illuminated St. Mungo's had been turned to red and gold so that they became gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway, and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less crowded than the last time we had been there, although halfway across the room Harry found himself shunted aside by a witch with a walnut jammed up her left nostril.

"Family argument, eh?" smirked the blonde witch behind the desk. "You're the third I've seen today … Spell Damage, fourth floor …"

We found Dad propped up in bed with the remains of his turkey dinner on a tray in his lap and a rather sheepish expression on his face.

"Everything all right, Arthur?" asked Mum after we had all greeted Dad and handed over presents.

"It's great to see you sitting up and talking" said Demelza

"We really feared the worst when Ginny was sent here right after it happened" added Amy

"Fine, fine," said Dad said, a little too heartily "and thank you for your concerns, you two, I really do appreciate it. You — er — haven't seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?

"No," said Mum suspiciously, "why?"

"Nothing, nothing," said Dad airily, starting to unwrap his pile of gifts. "Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry — this is absolutely wonderful —" For he had just opened Harry's gift of fuse-wire and screwdrivers. Mum did not seem entirely satisfied with Dad's answer. As her husband leaned over to shake Harry's hand, she peered at the bandaging under his nightshirt.

"Arthur," she said, with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, "you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow."

"What?" said Dad , looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. "No, no — it's nothing — it's — I —" He seemed to deflate under Mum's piercing gaze.

I thought Mum was being a bit unreasonable here. So what if it had been done a day early? She wasn't a healer, there was surely a good reason for it?

"Well — now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea. … He's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in … um … complementary medicine. … I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies … well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on — on Muggle wounds —"

Mum let out an ominous noise somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. Remus strolled away from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd around Dad; Bill muttered something about getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt up to accompany him, grinning. I didn't think it was very funny, personally. What was wrong with trying a Muggle solution if a magical one wouldn't work?

"Do you mean to tell me," said Mum, her voice growing louder with every word and apparently unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for cover, "that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?"

"Not messing about, Molly, dear," said Dad imploringly. "It was just — just something Pye and I thought we'd try — only, most unfortunately — well, with these particular kinds of wounds — it doesn't seem to work as well as we'd hoped —"

"Meaning?"

"Well … well, I don't know whether you know what — what stitches are?"

"It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together," said Mum with a snort of mirthless laughter, "but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid —"

"I fancy a cup of tea too," said Harry, jumping to his feet.

We almost sprinted to the door with him. As it swung closed behind us, we heard Mum shriek, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?"

"I feel for him, he was only trying something different" Amy said

"Yeah, like what does he have to lose?" added Demelza "If no wizarding remedy was working, why not try a Muggle one?"

"They do work well on non-magical wounds," said Hermione "I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something. … I wonder where the tearoom is?"

"Fifth floor," said Harry

We walked along the corridor through a set of double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As we climbed it, the various Healers called out to us, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit.

"And what's that supposed to be?" he asked angrily, as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.

'Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now —"

"Watch who you're calling gruesome!" said Ron, his ears turning red. "The only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked by the full moon in a barrel of eels' eyes —"

"I have not got spattergroit!"

"But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master —"

"They're freckles!" said Ron furiously. "Now get back in your own picture and leave me alone!"

He rounded on all of us, and we were keeping straight faces with great difficulty, me especially considering the fact that I also had freckles on my face and a tattoo of a Hipogriff's arse, yet they'd not said a word about me.

"What floor's this?"

"I think it's the fifth," said Hermione.

"Nah, it's the fourth," said Harry, "one more —"

But as he stepped onto the landing he came to an abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the double doors that marked the start of a corridor signposted SPELL DAMAGE. A man was peering out at us all with his nose pressed against the glass. He had wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a broad vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly white teeth.

"Blimey!" said Ron

"Oh my goodness," said Hermione suddenly, sounding breathless. "Professor Lockhart!"