Dumbledore scowled as Bonbon arrived in his office on Sunday morning, rather than on Saturday night. She set the week’s stupendous report on his desk, and sat down. “Well, Norbert’s been taken care of,” she told him. “Went out with a bit of a bang, if you ask me. Bit Ron on Monday, then Hermione on Thursday. Fortunately, by the time Hermione was bitten, they knew Norbert was venomous, so she went to Madam Pomfrey right away- and has a much shorter expected recovery time, according to Madam Pomfrey, making for minimal disruption of her duties. Madam Pomfrey has confirmed that she knows what really bit them, and tells us that had Ron come to her more than four hours later than he did, she’d have had to ship him off to St. Mungo’s.
“In any case, Alastor teamed up with Harry last night to carry him to the top of the tallest Astronomy tower at midnight, where some friends of Charlie Weasley’s picked him up to take him away by broom. Thanks to Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, which I understand Alastor had to remind him about, they made it back to their dormitories without being seen.” She sighed. “Apparently, the only reason Harry went as Harry was because he’s stronger than Hailey. We’ve elected not to take any action, since we theoretically don’t know it ever happened- and besides, they didn’t really have many other options.
“Aside from that, exactly as expected, Hailey has taken our Defense Against the Dark Arts instructors by storm. We’ve had several students telling us that their instructors suddenly seemed to know what they were teaching, and indeed what to teach, and overall satisfaction with the course- and grades- have been skyrocketing. We have been told that well over half of the instructors have been asked by their students if Quirrell was finally doing something useful for a change.” She chuckled softly.
“In other news, Ron has hit his stride, we think. He’s still somewhat uneducated, having not learned nearly as well in his youth, but he’s definitely got the brainpower, and now he’s using it. We expect he’ll make a great Student Instructor next year, but we don’t think he’s ready for that this year.”
Dumbledore listened as her report continued to wash over him, paying just as much attention to her facial expressions as to her words. As he’d noticed a long time before, she was obviously a professional, and very used to this kind of thing- so she almost never showed much emotion at all. Today was no different, but the little bits that she did show added flavor to the otherwise ordinary report.
It was amazing, whenever he considered it, just how much they had gotten done in so little time. Nearly a full half of the student body had been tried as Instructors, and they had finally found enough instructors to work suitably for the rest of the year.
It didn’t exactly hurt that, after sitting in on several of their instructors’ classes, including at least two of Bonbon’s own and one of their Instructor Training classes, Professor Snape had revised his teaching methods and was now getting glowing reports from his students, including the upper years. As a direct result, Potions grades had shot up school-wide to more resemble the average set by the other classes, and even exceed them in a few cases. Dumbledore had, out of curiosity, sat in on one of Snape’s new classes- and found that, even without participating in the new, dynamic flow of the classroom, he’d still learned quite a bit that he hadn’t known before- and even Snape seemed to be enjoying himself. Following that, several of the other instructors had performed sit-in experiments of their own- except only Professor Quirrell, who didn’t seem to care- to see if there was somewhere they could improve as well. Their improvements hadn’t been nearly as dramatic, but Bonbon’s management team had still noticed them.
Speaking of which, their team had even suggested that he consider Hagrid as a potential Care of Magical Creatures instructor, once Professor Kettleburn retired. Apparently, he definitely knew enough about them, and had all of the traits and aptitudes they were looking for in their instructors- and so would merely need a little training on how to teach and they expected he could be a great teacher.
Madam Pomfrey jumped when a sudden crash yielded a surge of students into her infirmary.
“Madam Pomfrey!” one of them began- Lee Jordan, the third-year that Professor McGonagall had tapped to commentate the Quidditch matches. Behind him came Fred and George Weasley and Alicia Spinnet, who were carrying between them the limp, heavily bleeding form she recognized as Angelina Johnson. Another couple of students brought up the rear- Marietta Hearth, with a nasty gash on her arm, was leaning on Thomas Gorgon’s shoulder as he helped hold her up, but she was still awake.
She rushed forwards. “What happened?” she barked.
“No idea,” Fred told her quickly. “Something happened in the other room during our History of Magic exam, then something clipped Marietta’s shoulder before driving into Angelina.”
It took her only a quick glance to know the girl was close to dying, even without any magic- and she brandished her wand quickly to make sure she wasn’t already dead.
She wasn’t, but she was closer than she’d expected. If she tried sending the girl to St. Mungo’s- which looked like what she needed- she’d die before she got there.
She began casting spells on her, fighting to stabilize her, even as she guided the girl’s classmates to put her on a bed. She didn’t care that Angelina was bleeding all over the sheets; sheets could be cleaned. Just like her classmates’ robes- they had also ignored the blood, and were all covered. At least, she hoped that’s what it was, and not further injuries… or splashes from another injured person.
Angelina’s classmates watched silently- even the injured one, who was looking more and more delirious by the minute- as she fought to save her life.
Finally, she managed it. It took her several minutes, and a couple potions summoned from her office, but she managed to stabilize the girl- and judged that St. Mungo’s would be unnecessary after all, though the girl only might be able to go home with the rest of the school. The problem was that not only had the projectile- it looked like a piece of a chair leg- punctured multiple vital organs and gotten lodged in her spine, but it carried a strange, unstable spell as well- looked like residue from a disaster. She hadn’t been able to remove the piece of wood just yet; unfortunately, that would take a couple more hours of work, as she’d have to fully cancel the spell first- but she could wait a few minutes to do it.
She let out a sigh. “Alright.” She looked up, at where Marietta was only barely awake. “Your turn.”
Marietta took only about five minutes to stitch up, but would need to stay the night so Madam Pomfrey could make sure her damaged muscle healed up properly. Finally, she checked on the others- ensuring that there were no injuries- and asked after any more, but George readily told her Angelina and Marietta were the only ones they knew had been hurt.
Then she realized that there were quite a few more ‘others’ than just Angelina’s classmates, who must have entered while she was working. They were all first-year foreigners, with some bearing some small injuries, but nothing significant. She raised an eyebrow at them. “What happened?”
Twilight Sparkle looked up at her. “Sweetie Belle,” she answered simply. “Botched her Charms examination- made her desk explode. Sent about twelve of us home, and one piece went through the wall.” She looked at Angelina. “She’s… She’s going to live, right?”
Madam Pomfrey nodded. “She will be okay,” she confirmed.
Twilight took a deep breath. “Good. Sweetie was one of the ones that got sent home, but she’s going to be desperate to hear that she didn’t kill anyone. In any case, several of our class that didn’t get sent home were still hit by her exploding desk, but it’s just small cuts and bruises, so we can wait.”
Oliver Wood looked at Angelina, then back up at Madam Pomfrey. “H-how long?” he asked again, refusing to believe what he’d just been told.
“At least a week,” Madam Pomfrey repeated. “She likely won’t be able to go home with the rest of the students.”
He looked at his Chaser again. “Will… Will she be fit to play Quidditch?” he asked, hopelessly.
Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she stated sadly.
He took a deep breath. “Alright.” He let it out. “I… I guess we can do without. It’s not like we can’t play if we’re down one chaser, but…” He shuddered. “We’re going to be at a disadvantage.”
“Hey, Lyra?”
Lyra Heartstrings, the foreigner that Wood knew was part of the team managing the first years’ Student Instructor program, looked up. “Hmm?”
“I’m down a Chaser,” he told her bluntly. “And I don’t have a reserve. Any idea who might be able to fill in real quick? Even if they’re not that good at it, one’s better than nothing.”
She scowled. “Well,” she muttered, rubbing her chin. “Anyone I’m going to be able to recommend isn’t going to have a broom of their own; we haven’t been watching the upper-year students, except scholastically for a baseline to compare ourselves against.” She looked up at him.
He shrugged. “Angelina keeps her broom in the shed by the pitch,” he told her. “I… I don’t think she’d mind- much, at least- if someone borrowed it.”
Lyra snorted. “As long as it’s returned in the same or better condition, isn’t it?” She rubbed her chin. “Hmm…” She scowled. “Presumably, you’d need them to join you in a quick training session tomorrow, before the match on Saturday?”
He nodded. “Ideally, yes. Though we can do without if we have to, but…” He shrugged.
She scowled. “Then the only candidate I can think of that meets that requirement would be me. And…” She sighed. “And of course, I’m technically not a candidate, thanks to an agreement by our elite- which includes me- to not participate in any sports or other competitions. I’ll see if the others are willing to grant an exception, and get back to you in the morning.”
He scowled. “The practice will be at seven o’clock,” he told her.
She nodded. “Then I’ll get back to you by no later than six,” she told him. “Shall I meet you in the common room, or at the pitch?”
“At six?” he asked, tilting his head. “Probably breakfast.”