Who:Harry Potter and Ron Weasley
When: Sunday Evening
Where: Gryffindor 7th Year Boys' Dormitory to start and then...who knows where
What: Broken arms and bruised hearts mean - time to get dead pissed!
Rating: PG for Underage Drinking (gasp!)
Status: Complete
Harry sighed, watching Ginny limp her way out of the boys' dormitory; she glanced back once more at Harry, as if he would develop a new injury in the time it took her to walk away, and he waved weakly back with the arm that was not in the sling. Just minutes ago, he had finally returned to the room after being confined to the hospital wing to repair the disaster of his body after the Quidditch match.
It was no secret that Madame Pomphrey was a skilled healer, but she had nearly worked a miracle on Harry's arm, healing the three awkward breaks.
Still hurts like a bloody bitch though - and I'm pretty sure that 'deep tissue injury' is codeword for 'agonising pain just for the bunk of it.' He rubbed at his eyes, his face radiating pain from the mass of bruises and scrapes on it; it was astounded that Ginny even kissed him, looking like this. Like a lorry had run him over, followed by a good squashing by a large, rather grumpy packaderm. Which was fine: Harry would rather think about the pain in his body than how raw the anguish was over losing the game.
He looked over at Ron with a rueful smile. "I got her to go get her ankle looked at," he said. Harry sighed again. "This sodding blows."
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