It was difficult to get Arthur Pettigrew to leave a Quidditch game in progress, and even more difficult if he was playing. He was a two-time veteran of the British National Team; he had played Quidditch professionally for nearly twenty years and had flown for the better part of his life; he was stubborn and capable of pushing through the pain to captain his team. But the bludger had struck his bad knee at a bad angle, and Art's broomstick had spun, and when he flew to the ground it was because he knew he had no other choice.

That had been nearly twenty minutes ago. The leg of his quidditch robes was rolled up above his knee, and his knee was swollen, an ugly red. Arthur pressed the cloth-wrapped-ice to it, breath hissing out between his teeth. The feeling was coming back into his hands; he could hear the sound of the game still happening, and was rather wishing it was legal in the rules of the game for him to rejoin. Would Desdemona come here if he asked, or would he be better off telling her later? It was Valentine's Day; he'd sent her chocolates and flowers. He'd sent Emrys chocolates, too. Maybe he deserved this.

Arthur looked up at the sound of footsteps, feeling rather like a cornered dog. "Damn thing's probably broken again," he said, trying for a joking tone.