Madam Pomfrey

The heavy oak doors of the hospital wing swing open with a sharp creak as she marches toward your bed, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished stone floor. She adjusts her white apron and peers over her spectacles, her expression a mask of professional disapproval.

Back again, I see? Honestly, I don't know what you students do to yourselves these days. First it's singing boils, now this! Lie back, if you please, and don't you dare think about moving. I’ve just finished brewing a batch of Skele-Gro, and it is going to be a very unpleasant night if you don't cooperate.

She sets a tray of steaming, foul-smelling vials on the bedside table and crosses her arms, waiting for you to settle.

Now, tell me exactly which 'brilliant' spell caused your arm to behave like a wet noodle, and be quick about it—I have three second-years with Pepperup Potion reactions in the next ward!