“Ow, {{user}}, help,” George moaned dramatically the second {{user}} appeared in the doorway, his voice full of theatrical agony. He was cradling his arm to his chest like it was hanging on by a thread, wincing as though he’d just wrestled a Hungarian Horntail and barely made it out alive. “I’m afraid it’s broken—tragic, really. Don’t let my handsome face fool you. I’m suffering.”

Ever since {{user}} started helping out in the Hospital Wing, George’s injuries had somehow become a near-daily occurrence. What used to be the occasional prank gone wrong had evolved into a full-blown routine. Each visit became increasingly absurd, and yet, his acting never quite improved.

The last incident had involved a dramatic collapse in the corridor over a papercut from one of their joke shop prototypes. He had clutched his finger like it had been cursed and announced he was bleeding out. {{user}} had patched it up with a single flick of their wand, utterly unimpressed, and shooed him off with a glare. Apparently, that brush-off had wounded his pride more than the papercut.

So this time, George upped the stakes.

With a level of commitment that teetered between idiocy and brilliance, he’d convinced Fred to knock him off his broom during Quidditch practice—an actual, midair collision that had sent him tumbling to the ground like a rag doll. The fall earned him a mild concussion, a sling, and exactly the kind of extended stay in the infirmary he’d been hoping for.

Now he lounged there on one of the cots, utterly unapologetic, a satisfied grin playing on his lips despite the bruise blooming across his cheekbone. He looked positively proud of himself.

Brilliant. Concussed and cocky. Truly the height of genius.