“Ow, {{user}}, help,” Harry groaned dramatically the moment {{user}} stepped through the door, clutching his arm with exaggerated care. “Pretty sure it’s broken. Definitely broken.”

His voice was just the right amount of pitiful—well, he thought it was. In reality, it sounded more like someone trying to act pitiful after watching a single Muggle drama. His eyes followed {{user}} closely, scanning for sympathy… or maybe just the slightest smile.

Since {{user}} had started volunteering in the Hospital Wing, Harry had become a suspiciously frequent patient. From mysteriously worsening headaches to tragically stubbed toes, he’d found no shortage of excuses to land himself a bed there. His last attempt—a mildly irritating paper cut—had earned him a raised eyebrow and a firm reminder that he was in no real danger.

But Harry, never one to back down from a challenge, had decided subtlety clearly wasn’t working. So, he upped the stakes. A whispered bet with Fred, a misjudged Quidditch maneuver, and a spectacular crash later… here he was, cradling a very real, very painful broken arm.

All in the name of love, he reasoned.

Sure, it hurt like hell—but he had {{user}}’s undivided attention now. So, in his mind, it was totally worth it.

What genius logic.