The reception area looked pleasantly festive:

The reception area looked pleasantly festive: the crystal orbs that illuminated St. Mungo's had been coloured red and gold to become 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 one topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less crowded than the last time they had been there, although halfway across the room Harry

found himself shunted aside by a witch with a satsuma 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.’

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

‘Everything all right, Arthur?’ asked Mrs. Weasley, after they had all greeted Mr. Weasley and handed over their presents.

‘Fine, fine,’ said Mr. Weasley, a little too heartily. ‘You—er—haven't seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Weasley suspiciously, ‘why?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Mr. Weasley 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.

Mrs. Weasley did not seem entirely satisfied with Mr. Weasley'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 Mr Weasley, 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 Mrs. Weasley's piercing gaze.

‘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—’

Mrs. Weasley let out an ominous noise somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolled away from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd around Mr.

Weasley; Bill muttered something about getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt up to accompany him, grinning.

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ said Mrs. Weasley, 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 Mr. Weasley 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 Mrs. Weasley 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.

Hermione, Ron and Ginny almost sprinted to the door with him. As it swung closed behind them, they heard Mrs. Weasley shriek, ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?’

‘Typical Dad,’ said Ginny, shaking her head as they set off up the corridor. ‘Stitches ... I ask you ...’

‘Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds,’ said Hermione fairly. ‘I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something. I wonder where the tearoom is?’

‘Fifth floor,’ said Harry, remembering the sign over the welcomewitch's desk.

They walked along the corridor, through a set of double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, 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 at 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 the others, who were all keeping determinedly straight faces.

‘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 on to 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 them 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, also staring at the man.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Hermione suddenly, sounding breathless. ‘Professor Lockhart.’
gucci outlet
burberry outlet
chanel 2.55
gucci shoes for men
cheap uggs on sale