A scene in the school hospital

"You should have come here earlier, Miss Parkinson!" Madam Pomfrey said sternly, forcefully pulling Pansy's hand away from her face. "Look at yourself, silly girl! This could have been easily fixed! How long has it been? Yesterday afternoon? Last night?"

Pansy asked in a trembling voice, "Originally..?"

"Originally!" Madam Pomfrey said angrily. She dipped gauze into some kind of magical potion and gently applied it to Pansy's face. The red and swollen areas around the edges miraculously subsided.

Anthony glanced around the hospital wing. The curtains around Roger's bed had been drawn, and it seemed he had fallen asleep again. Tracey was not in the ward, likely because she had classes.

Before Pansy entered, a student had attempted to sneak in to visit Ravenclaw's injured Quidditch hero, Roger, but Madam Pomfrey had promptly kicked them out. Other than that, no one else had visited the hospital wing.

As Madam Pomfrey continued applying the medicine, she asked, "What happened, Professor Anthony?" She shot him a look of mild reproach, as if wondering why he always brought injured students to her.

Pansy sat stiffly in her chair and asked anxiously, "Will it leave a scar, Madam Pomfrey?"

"It's a minor issue considering you made such decisions on your own! You should be more worried about whether the ulcer will spread!" Madam Pomfrey replied. She glanced at the now-embarrassed Pansy and sighed. "It will take some effort, but if we're careful and lucky, no, it won't."

Pansy let out a long sigh of relief. "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey." She then glanced at Anthony and lowered her voice. "Thank you, Professor."

Anthony gave her a reassuring smile. By this time, Madam Pomfrey had returned with an assortment of metal jars, glass bottles, and ceramic cups. The tray was filled with strangely colored ointments, sticky potions, and herbs soaked in peculiar liquids.

Pansy's face turned pale again. It was almost comical; despite the colorful mix of red, purple, green, and orange hues on her face, the grayish pallor underneath was still visible, like an old plastered wall.

Madam Pomfrey noticed it too. "This is the price you pay for not coming to me sooner, Miss Parkinson!" she said, placing the tray on a small table beside Pansy's chair. "I can't understand how anyone would do this. Surely you remember Professor Sprout's lesson in Herbology? The pus from Bubotuber can treat acne, but it must be carefully diluted. Didn't she say that?"

"You're old enough to know better. I don't believe your acne was that severe. Do you think your face is dragon hide, Miss Parkinson?" she scolded while applying various ointments to Pansy's face and neck.

Pansy winced in pain, gripping the edge of the chair, unable to respond. Madam Pomfrey, however, seemed unconcerned whether Pansy could answer. She stuffed an herb into Pansy's mouth and said, "Bite down, tightly."

Anthony watched in amazement as the inflamed and ulcerated skin quickly peeled away. The exposed area was rapidly treated with the salve, preventing any bleeding as the new medicine sealed the wound. The skin regenerated swiftly, and within minutes, Madam Pomfrey was dealing with freshly healed, crescent-shaped scars.

During this process, Anthony wanted to leave several times, but Pansy had inadvertently pinned his robe when she sat down, and she seemed to be using all her strength to resist the urge to jump up and flee. Despite his attempts to tug at his robes, nothing could overcome the stubborn will of the first-year girl—she was practically glued to the chair. Eventually, even Madam Pomfrey remarked, "You can stay here, Professor Anthony, or use a severing charm, depending on how much you value your robes."

When Madam Pomfrey began treating the wounds near Pansy's collar, Anthony finally used the severing charm to free his robes. As Madam Pomfrey drew the curtains tightly around Pansy's bed, Anthony opened the curtains surrounding Roger's bed to check on him.

As soon as the curtain parted, he was met with a pair of bleary, shining eyes. Roger lay on the bed, his face pale, looking drowsy.

"Shh," Roger said softly. "Please, Professor, I don't want any more Draught of Living Death."

Anthony pulled up a chair and sat beside his bed. "Why are you awake?" he asked, noting that Roger's scars didn't seem to be healing well. Unlike simple herbal treatments, injuries caused by dark magic were often more difficult to reverse.

"It hurts," Roger whispered hoarsely, though his tone remained light. He shook his head slightly, declining the glass of water Anthony offered.

"What did Madam Pomfrey say?" Anthony asked.

"She knew," Roger said. "Or at least, she told me it would get more and more painful. I just, I didn't expect it to be this bad." He raised his hand and touched his collarbone, rolling his eyes and quietly taking a breath.

He pointed to his neck, making a joke: "Tell me, professor, was Professor Flitwick using hellfire? I should tell him that if you want to burn something, you shouldn't be so careful. It really hurts."

Anthony gently placed the back of his hand on Roger's neck.

"Will it get better?" he asked.

"Better," Roger replied. "Professor Anthony, may I take this opportunity to ask why your hands are always so cold?"

Anthony smiled. "Tell me your guesses." He looked at Roger with interest. "All the professors know you enjoy sharing your various hypotheses with us. It's no secret. Go on."

"Alright," Roger said softly. "Setting aside the wild theories, we have two main ones."

"Go on."

"The first is that you have the blood of a magical creature—or perhaps a magical animal—maybe something cold-blooded."

Anthony raised an eyebrow. "And the second?"

"The second is that you once cast a permanent warming charm on your hands because you worked as an ice cream vendor in the Muggle world," Roger continued. "Some believe it's a mark of your professionalism."

Anthony blinked in surprise. "Who said I worked as an ice cream vendor?"

Roger looked shocked, almost sitting up. "Wait, you didn't?"

As Madam Pomfrey's voice rang out—"Two gentlemen, one of you is supposed to be resting!"—Roger still muttered in disbelief, "But everyone said you lived among Muggles before coming to Hogwarts, and even worked at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour for over a month."

Anthony chuckled, realizing where the rumor had come from.

"The first part is true," Anthony clarified, "but the second part? Not quite. I did live at the Leaky Cauldron for a bit, and I may have gone to Florean's to buy ice cream a few times, but I certainly didn't work there."

...

As Madam Pomfrey went to the cabinet to find stronger painkillers and sleeping draughts, Pansy—her face and neck wrapped in gauze—walked over to the supposedly sleeping patient and looked curiously at Roger, who was very much awake.

She was startled by Roger's pale face, and Roger, in turn, stared at Miss Mummy in surprise.

"And who's the unlucky one this time?" Roger smiled faintly. "Got it on the neck too?"

He had clearly hit a nerve. Pansy jumped back, almost immediately, and snapped, "I'm the unlucky one who was nearly killed by you, Davis!"

"Davis?" Roger looked puzzled, then glanced at Anthony and the direction Madam Pomfrey had gone. "What happened with Tracey?"

"Your pathetic and pitiful Tracey," Pansy spat, her voice tinged with fury (though her injuries had clearly been treated). "She snuck into my dormitory with some sort of pus—who knows from where—and tried to pour it on my neck. She wanted to murder me—or at least disfigure me."

Roger struggled to sit up. "Impossible. Are you saying Tracey did this? Why would she do that? Do you have any evidence?"

"Evidence?" Pansy sneered. "I am the evidence. She tried to kill me, and that's exactly what happened."

Anthony interjected, "Murder is a very serious accusation, Miss Parkinson. I'm afraid even the Headmaster will ask you for more proof."

"I knew it," Pansy hissed. "I knew there'd be no use in being soft-hearted toward half-bloods and Mudbloods. They never show any gratitude. My mother was right." She shot Anthony a fierce glare, as though she felt betrayed by him.

"Very poor choice of words, Parkinson," Anthony said firmly. "I suggest you apologize. Regardless, Mr. Davis is innocent."

Roger asked, "Professor, is what she's saying true? Is Tracey really.?"

"Even if Parkinson can't provide concrete evidence, I don't think she fabricated the story about the dormitory and the pus from a Bubotuber," Anthony replied. "But she might have exaggerated Tracey's motives. Don't worry, I'll talk to Miss Davis."

"Motive?" Roger asked, carefully observing Pansy. "Wait, I understand. Are you from a pure-blood family? Who exactly are you?"

Even while lying in bed, Roger's gaze remained sharp, as though he was trying to figure out which pure-blood family Pansy belonged to that would push Tracey to such extremes.

Anthony had to speak up for Pansy—since the incident, she hadn't troubled Tracey or deliberately bullied other students of lower status, as far as he knew. In fact, Professor Sprout had once mentioned a first-year pure-blood student stopping another student from bullying a Muggle-born based on blood status. Pansy's words during that moment had been, "It's so boring. Do you really think you're better than him? You don't think we know your family history?"

Anthony added, "I believe Miss Davis's actions might have something to do with why you're lying here."

"What do you mean?"

Anthony glanced at Pansy, who was biting her lip and staring at the bedpost, refusing to answer. So Anthony explained, "The enchanted snake was customized by her."

"No!" Pansy protested, turning her head sharply. "I only ordered the Slytherin banner! I didn't know anything about the snake! The shopkeeper must have misunderstood and added the manor's protection magic!"

Anthony corrected, "The enchanted snake was accidentally customized by her."

Roger sighed. "Well, that banner was a bit much—we almost thought we were going to lose."

But the intensity in Roger's expression had softened. In fact, he now looked more embarrassed than angry.

At that moment, everyone heard Madam Pomfrey returning from the medicine cabinet. As bottles clinked together, Roger quickly said to Pansy, "Alright, then I apologize—for misunderstanding you, and for Tracey's reckless behavior. She didn't really mean to hurt you, you know that, right? But it was still wrong, very wrong. I'll speak to her about it, though I'm not sure if she'll listen. Still, I apologize on both our behalves. Are you alright?"

"It's fine," Pansy replied stiffly.

Madam Pomfrey frowned as she approached. "Move aside, the patient needs to rest." She handed Roger two potion bottles. "Drink this one first—it's a painkiller. Then this one—it should help you sleep. If that doesn't work." She hesitated. "We may need to contact St. Mungo's."

Pansy asked nervously, "What do you mean? Can't you heal him?"

"This is a Dark Magic injury, Miss Parkinson," Madam Pomfrey said, clearly displeased with Pansy's tone. "If Dark Magic were easy to cure, it wouldn't be called Dark Magic at all."

Pansy stared at the traces of Dark Magic on Roger's neck, watching silently as he swallowed the painkiller in small, uncomfortable gulps.

"You'll need to wait a bit for it to take effect," Madam Pomfrey said.

Roger grimaced. "Is it just me, or are the potions getting worse? I'm starting to worry that their numbing effect comes from them wrecking my stomach."

"Don't sacrifice the effectiveness of the medicine for taste, Davis," Madam Pomfrey chided, lifting Roger's quilt. "Now, let me check the wound. Good, there's no further deterioration."

"Does it hurt?" Pansy asked softly, her voice trembling slightly.

"Not too bad," Roger replied.

Madam Pomfrey frowned. "I told you it would get worse," she muttered. She then turned to Anthony. "Do you know where Professor Flitwick is, Professor Anthony?"

"This morning, he said he was visiting some old colleagues and students," Anthony explained. He recalled that Professor Flitwick had mentioned a friend from the Department of Mysteries.

"Hopefully, there will be good news," Madam Pomfrey remarked.

Roger pointed weakly at Pansy. "You're scaring her, Madam. Professor."

Anthony glanced down and saw that the small part of Pansy's face visible through the layers of gauze had turned pale.

"She looks younger than Tracey," Roger said, shifting uncomfortably as he pulled the quilt back over himself. "Tracey would be frightened."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention," Anthony said. "Let's go, Miss Parkinson. Would you prefer to rest here in the hospital wing or return to your dormitory?"

"No." Pansy began, then suddenly shouted, "No! I'm sorry, Davis!"

Roger was silent for a moment before saying, "Since you didn't mean it just don't bring us any more Slytherin flags at the next match, and I'll forgive you. I believe you didn't do it on purpose." He added quietly, "You look younger than Tracey. She's at least a head taller than you."

"No, no," Pansy said desperately. "I... I wrote home... Davis, I'm sorry."