Chapter 324: Chicken Claw Bone Removal Spell

An accident still occurred.

Harry’s blurred vision and intense desire to win drove him to charge toward the Golden Snitch beside Malfoy’s ear without seeing the other Beater’s ball.

“Watch out, Harry!”

Fred shouted.

With a splash, Harry crashed into the mud, tumbling off his broom.

His arm hung at a grotesque angle.

Amid waves of searing pain, he heard whistles and shouts as if from far away. He squinted—the Golden Snitch was clutched tightly in his uninjured hand.

“Ah ha,”

he mumbled,

“We won.”

Then he passed out.

On the stands, wizards held their breath in shock at the sudden turn.

Wizard Sean silently lowered his wand; Harry’s luck was clearly poor.

“Harry!”

Hermione cried out and rushed down from the stands with the crowd.

On the Quidditch pitch, Wizard Sean saw the Gryffindor team in a strange state—some far off cheering their victory, others frantically flying toward Harry.

When Wizard Sean reached the Quidditch pitch, Lockhart had already surrounded Harry.

Wizard Sean saw that the moment Harry opened his eyes, Lockhart flashed a row of gleaming teeth.

Then everyone heard Harry’s voice tremble:

“Oh no, not you.”

Harry groaned.

“I have no idea what he’s saying,”

Lockhart shouted to the anxious Gryffindor students gathered around,

“Don’t worry, Harry. I’m just going to fix your arm.”

“No!”

Harry said,

“Leave it like this, thank you…”

He tried to sit up, but the pain in his arm was too severe.

“Lie still, Harry,”

Lockhart soothed him,

“It’s a simple spell—I’ve used it countless times.”

“Why can’t I just go to the infirmary?”

Harry gritted his teeth and spoke through them.

“He really should’ve gone to the hospital,”

Wood said, covered in mud, yet unable to suppress a grin despite his Seeker’s injury,

“That catch was brilliant, Harry—never seen you do anything so perfect.”

Through the dense thicket of legs around him, Harry saw Fred and George Weasley struggling to shove the rogue Beater’s ball into a box.

The ball still thrashed violently.

“Step back,”

Lockhart said, rolling up his emerald-green sleeves.

“No—don’t—”

Harry whispered weakly, but Lockhart was already twirling his wand.

…

Harry’s bones were healed—or perhaps gone.

Either way, Wizard Sean was far away, and Lockhart’s spell had been cast too swiftly for Wizard Sean to stop it.

As Harry’s arm became a pitiful, lifeless thing, Wizard Sean suddenly wondered whether such a spell even existed.

He mentally flipped through the Standard Spells series and concluded it was Lockhart’s own invention.

This realization left Wizard Sean startled.

“Chicken Claw Bone Removal Spell?”

Jia Jia Siting suddenly blurted out.

Wizard Sean gave him a strange look.

“Well, Wizard Sean, if you’re not worried, I guess I shouldn’t be either…”

He blinked.

The remark made no sense, but Neville, who had been shaking like a sieve beside him, stopped trembling.

Jia Jia Siting glanced casually at Neville, and only then did concern flicker in his eyes.

Lockhart hadn’t set Harry’s bones—he’d removed them entirely.

When Wizard Sean and the others brought Harry to the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey was furious.

“You should’ve come straight to me!”

She snapped, lifting the limp, lifeless thing that had been a fully functional arm just half an hour ago,

“I could’ve reattached the bones in a second—but regrowing them—”

“You can do that too, right?”

Harry asked urgently.

“It’ll be agonizing. Drink this—bone regrowth is excruciating.”

Madam Pomfrey held a large bottle labeled Bone-Growing Potion and poured a full cup, under the curious stares of everyone around.

Harry took a sip, gagged, and nearly vomited.

“Did you think it was pumpkin juice?”

Madam Pomfrey shot him a look.

As far as she knew, only one person had ever tasted anything peculiar from a Potions Master’s brew.

She glanced at the young wizard holding an ancient book, his fingers revealing the title on the cover:

*Simple Introduction to Empty Glyphs*.

At that moment, the infirmary door burst open—the Gryffindor Quidditch team came to visit Harry.

They were all muddy, like drowned chickens.

“Harry, you flew brilliantly,”

George said,

“I saw Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy, saying the Golden Snitch was right above his head and he couldn’t see it. Malfoy didn’t look happy.”

The team brought cake, sweets, and several bottles of pumpkin juice.

They gathered around Harry’s bed, ready to celebrate, when Madam Pomfrey stormed over, roaring:

“This boy needs rest—he has thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! Out!”

She stood like a hawk protecting her chicks,

“Of course, not you, dear Wizard Sean—we need to discuss the Potions you’ve been neglecting lately…”

Thus, only Harry and Wizard Sean remained in the infirmary.

Wizard Sean counted potions for a while, and Madam Pomfrey left happily:

“Don’t alter the taste of the potions, child. If they get a taste for sweetness, who knows what the hospital will turn into.”

Wizard Sean now understood why most hospital potions tasted so awful.

He looked toward the curtain—Harry tossed and turned, unable to sleep; regrowing bones was no easy ordeal.

Yet interestingly, Harry had a connection to Bone-Growing Potion.

The Potters’ ancestor, Linfred of Stinchcombe, invented many potions—one of which evolved into Bone-Growing Potion.

Now, it was working on his descendant.

If magic were a matter of faith, how could one explain these peculiar magical bloodlines?

Wizard Sean pondered, then noticed something odd.

Only the bloodline abilities of powerful wizards seemed to have survived—like Dumbledore’s affinity for phoenixes, or Slytherin’s Parseltongue…

At least, Wizard Sean had never heard of a “Snotling Tongue” bloodline, or “Maggot Affinity” as a magical trait.

Logically, magic is vast—if bloodlines are truly mutations passed down, then unusual ones should exist.

But in reality, there was no record of them.

That meant only the unique bloodlines of great wizards endured.

So, when a wizard reaches the highest levels, what exactly happens to them?