Trauma Roulette
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On his way back to Hogwarts Castle, Sargeras made a short detour to Hagrid's hut, where he picked up the batch of Flobberworms he had previously asked the gamekeeper to help him collect.
And as a token of gratitude, he deliberately left a small pouch of Galleons on Hagrid's wooden table.
Although Hagrid waved his hands again and again, trying to refuse the payment, Sargeras firmly insisted. After all, some of the materials involved were quite valuable — offering appropriate compensation was only fair and proper.
The next day, during class, Sargeras walked into the room carrying a large basket of Flobberworms. Since it was a hands-on session, there were no auditors allowed… except for Hermione Granger. So, apart from her, there were only a few dozen students in the classroom.
"Today's class will be practical," Sargeras announced, his voice calm yet subtly laced with anticipation. "Each of you will be given a chance at redemption."
The students immediately perked up, a ripple of excitement passing through the room. With a casual wave of his hand, Sargeras sent the slimy creatures hovering through the air, and one by one, the Flobberworms landed with a faint squelch atop every student's desk.
Flobberworms were soft-bodied, unremarkable magical creatures — fragile and utterly boring. Their bodies constantly secreted a layer of viscous mucus, which gave them a rather repulsive appearance. Still, they were harmless things, with no real means of attack or defense.
"Listen carefully," Sargeras continued, his tone turning subtly ominous. "If anyone's worm meets a tragic end because of poor treatment or a botched spell, that student will be required to take part in the Trauma Roulette."
No one in the classroom quite knew what Trauma Roulette meant yet — but from the look on Sargeras's face, it was clearly no game.
Pacing slowly across the platform, he looked out over the students, all of whom now wore expressions of eager curiosity. Even the ones usually quiet in class were sitting up straighter, clearly intrigued and ready to test their skills.
"In the last two sessions," he said, "I've already taught you the fundamental applications of healing spells. If you've actually been using your heads and paying attention, you'll find today's exercise isn't difficult in the slightest."
He gave a flick of his wand in the air. Instantly, a fresh wound opened on every Flobberworm's glistening body — sharp, shallow cuts that oozed faint blue liquid. The creatures squirmed in pain, twisting their sluggish bodies in slow agony.
Sargeras added in a measured tone, "Oh, and just to be clear… because we're testing your actual ability today, I won't be applying Mechanical Mind. That's standard procedure, by the way."
At her desk, Hermione Granger gripped her wand so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
Her gaze was fixed on the wounded Flobberworm lying before her. The creature's glow-in-the-dark green skin was marred by a deep, startling gash, from which a thin stream of pale blue fluid was slowly seeping, as if its life were gradually draining away.
"Begin, everyone," Sargeras's voice echoed through the classroom, composed yet cold. "You've got thirty minutes. If you fail to save your patient within that time… then you'll be taking part in the Trauma Roulette."
Tiny beads of sweat began to gather along Hermione's brow, glistening beneath the classroom lights. She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself, and silently recalled what he'd taught them in the last lesson. "Your wrist needs to move like it's drawing a spiral…"
The tip of her wand trembled as a faint, flickering glow emerged from it, just barely illuminating the space around the injured worm.
All around the classroom, spell incantations began to rise and fall like waves — some steady and focused, others confused and panicked — punctuated by sudden gasps and frantic outbursts:
"Reparo!— Wait, no, why is its leg growing out of its back?!"
"You're supposed to stop the bleeding first! Hang on… why is the wound glowing?"
In the back row, Oliver Wood's Flobberworm gave up entirely — it rolled over dramatically, as if saying, "Just let me die already."
Half an hour passed. Then came a sharp thump as Sargeras tapped the edge of the lectern with his wand.
At once, all the Flobberworms rose into the air and slowly drifted toward the front of the classroom, hovering silently above the platform.
With a flick of his wand, Sargeras divided them into two piles: one made up of the surviving worms, still sluggishly squirming; the other filled with those that had gone stiff and motionless, curled like brittle twigs.
"A disappointing high casualty rate," he said coldly, nudging one of the 'fallen' Flobberworms with his wand. The moment he touched it, the creature crumbled into ash and scattered across the table's surface.
"Looks like some of you are better suited to becoming executioners rather than healers."
Then, from among the pile of 'survivors,' he picked out a few malformed ones — cases of magical treatment gone awry. One had somehow grown six pairs of abdominal legs, like a centipede, while another had technically healed, but its body had twisted grotesquely into the shape of a butterfly bow.
"As for these unfortunate few…" Sargeras murmured, casting a Levitation Charm on the bow-shaped worm, lifting it gently into the air for the entire class to see. The poor thing hung there, its head drooping low, the very picture of despair.
"If this one could speak, I imagine it'd be begging for an Avada Kedavra right now."
Hermione quietly bowed her head, her cheeks flushed with shame. That distorted, ribbon-shaped Flobberworm… it was hers.
Sargeras raised his wand again, and with a sweep of silver light through the air, the walls of the classroom began to stir.
The walls of the classroom began to ripple and shift like living flesh, their surfaces squirming as they slowly started to reshape themselves.
Like a great beast awakening, the stone walls rippled and twisted, their surfaces slowly shifting shape, as though the room itself had come alive and begun to breathe. The brick floor sank gradually, creating a shallow depression at the center, while all around it, a circular spectator stand began to rise from the edges.
In the blink of an eye, the classroom had transformed into a miniature magical dueling arena.
"All those who failed to heal your patient," Sargeras said evenly, "step into the ring and form a circle."
At his command, several students began to shuffle forward hesitantly, their faces pale. As they obeyed, Sargeras gave his wand another flourish.
A sudden gust of magical wind swept through the arena, catching everyone's hair and robes. In the very center of the ring, ten beams of red light flickered into existence, crackling with a sinister energy—these were curse markers, hovering ominously in the air like floating daggers waiting to strike.
"The rules are simple," Sargeras explained, his voice calm and resonant, echoing across the stone walls. As he lifted a slender finger, the names of the ten curses began to ignite one by one in the air above the arena, each letter burning with bright, flickering flame:
[Densaugeo]
[Pimple Jinx]
[Jelly-Legs Curse]
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"For each round," he continued, his wand tracing a slow arc through the air, "one of these curses will randomly strike someone in the ring." As he spoke, the glowing red lights began to drift across the arena, slowly weaving unpredictable paths in midair.
"The person standing directly to the left of the cursed student," he said, smiling just faintly, "has twenty seconds to cast a proper healing spell. If they succeed, then congratulations… they've entertained the crowd. But if they fail…"
His eyes narrowed slightly, and the corners of his lips curled with a subtle, meaningful smile.
"…then the curse becomes theirs to bear, and it will remain until someone manages to dispel it."
The students arranged themselves in a wide, anxious circle around the arena. Some of them were already trembling, their knees visibly unsteady as they desperately tried to recall the spells Sargeras had taught in the previous two lessons.
And then it happened… without warning, one of the red curse markers shot forward like a venomous snake, striking straight at Terence Higgs's face. The moment it hit his nose, angry red pimple began erupting across his skin, swelling rapidly across his cheeks and forehead with terrifying speed.
"Merlin's beard!" he cried out hoarsely, the words distorted by the swelling blisters blooming across his face.
To his left, Marcus Flint gasped and instinctively took a step back, his wand nearly slipping from his hand. He only had twenty seconds to act — yet his mind was still full of images of Flobberworms and their twisted little bodies, and no spell came to him.
The twenty seconds passed in a flash, and chaos was beginning to erupt across the arena. The Pimple Jinx had just finished transferring from Terence Higgs's face to Marcus Flint's. The moment it did, the Slytherin Quidditch captain let out a raw, guttural scream that no longer even sounded human.
To his left, Angelina Johnson was already in position, her wand raised and her body tense, ready to act.
"Reparo!"
Green light burst from the tip of her wand, but the curse only responded with cruel defiance. For a brief second, the swollen pimples on Marcus's face seemed to subside… then, with a furious surge, they came roaring back. This time, they rose even larger and more violent, inflating like miniature volcanoes across his skin. Sparks of red fire began to spurt from their tips, as if his entire face had turned into a field of erupting craters.
The next twenty seconds flew by, and the curse leapt again — this time to Angelina herself.
To her left stood Oliver Wood, gripping his wand with white-knuckled tension. His hands were shaking so hard that his wand was trembling like the handle of a battered broomstick.
"Vulnera Sanentur!"
The words spilled from his lips in a rush as his wand sent out a nervous flash of magic. But instead of relief, the boils on Angelina's face swelled even larger. They ballooned to the size of baby fists, each one steaming at the top with sulfurous smoke, as though her skin had become a landscape of tiny, smoking mountains.
The stands exploded with laughter.
Peals of it rang out, deafening and wild, echoing off the enchanted stone walls. Even Percy Weasley, usually so serious and stern, had doubled over with laughter, unable to contain himself.
A second curse had already joined the game.
Marcus Flint, who had just barely survived his fiery torment, was now frantically clawing at the thick black hair sprouting uncontrollably from his nose. Meanwhile, Angelina stood next to him, her face still riddled with volcanic boils, struggling to focus as she raised her wand for another try.
Every time the curse passed to someone new, the healing spell would follow… and fail.
A few lucky students managed to break the cycle and escape the ring, earning the right to watch from the safety of the stands. But most of those still inside the circle fared poorly. Their spellwork was messy and imprecise. Again and again, they inherited the curse, stumbled through panicked incantations, and failed—every single time.
Yet even in that whirlwind of curses and botched spells, something was quietly changing.
With each new trial, their movements became a little more fluid, their wandwork a little more precise. The flickering spell-light that had once sputtered now began to glow with steadier, cleaner brilliance. Slowly but surely, their instincts sharpened, and their hands grew more confident.
Some even began improvising.
They cast cooling charms and soothing spells to dull the pain, or countered the rapidly growing hair with a precise Hair Loss Curse. Their fear hadn't vanished, but they were learning to push through it.
"Now that's more like it."
Watching the spellwork settle and the flickering lights steady into something more controlled, Sargeras gave the faintest nod, a barely visible motion of quiet approval.
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[Chapter End's]
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