"Quiet." Professor Storm grumbled, stood just inside the doorway of the Great Hall. His voice travelled over the chatter and the trampling of feet.

Students were filing in, wearing their school uniforms, their expressions a mixture of couldn't-care-less, worry and excitement. Either way the disruption following the hysteria about the dragon pox had made them all skittish, and this only made it worse to get the whole school-full of children, plus visitors, plus staff through the already agitated set of healers who had set up camp here.

Had he been inoculated for dragon pox? Merlin, it had been a long time and he could hardly remember the last time he'd been to a healer other than to have his hand reattatched or another bloody accident patched. He wasn't the sort to hug a student, so perhaps it didn't matter. Back when he'd been employed at Hogwarts, he'd had to answer those same boring questions about common illnesses - and he was pretty sure he'd just written a random date beside half of them supposing he must have been as a twenty year old, unsure whether vaccinations were for life or not.

Tsk. Students came first. However much he'd love to see a few of the more irritating ones covered in pox.

"Form a line with your housemates over here and await instructions from the St Mungo's healers. Dickens, I'm well aware of what a conga line is, and now is not the time." The Deputy Head snapped at a student dancing his way into the hall behind his housemates, aiming a hex at the boy's feet.

Figaro flinched and skirted past the stoic, grouchy-looking Professor Storm.  But other than his well-trained, momentary obedience, Figaro was the picture of mirth in the face of a serious community health hazard.  With all the excitement, he'd heard some Ravenclaw second years had all self diagnosed and worked themselves into a frenzy.  Someone from the so-called Hogwarts mafia had been selling fake Dragon Pox medicine to the Salem kids who'd been skeptical, but were so worried about being sent home they'd taken it and spent an afternoon sloughing off harmless scales from behind their ears.

"Braaaap!"  Figaro, loitering in line and taking up too much space in the crowded entry way,  pushed up a fat burp and just in front of his open mouth appeared a little tongue of sparks and fire.  Weasley's Fire & Belchstone.  A funny little tablet you swallowed which would give you fire-burps.  Most of them were small and disappointing, but he found if you took two and let it stew for a couple minutes, it'd deliver nicely.  He beat his own chest with his fist and coughed up some stinky smoke.

"Ugh, vanilla.  Why?"  His friends laughed and a few bystanders glowered at him.  Didn't he knew that this was serious? 

But the Great Hall was full of little cubicles and witches and wizards in Healer greens and blues.  One by one students were taken out of line and put in another line.  A form was filled out, and then you went into yet another line.

"Woah!" Ambrose admired at Figaro's belch. "Don't tell me burping fire is like a symptom or somethin'..?!" He asked a little loudly, and a couple of first year girls clasped their hands to their mouths and noses and looked panicked.

Ambrose's face was a picture, with great gaping mouth at the older boy. Gullible as he was, if Figaro had now confirmed it was, Ambrose would almost be happy to contract the pox for the novelty.

He too shuffled amongst the crowd with his tie dangling lopsidedly over his school shirt, and a lick of hair standing on end at the back where he'd missed it with the brush. He'd been hurriedly washing the smears of dirt off his face before they had to go down, having got particularly grubby from some practical lessons.

"What do you think they do to you? Heard if they're not sure they have to check if you've got a tail coming out the top of your bum..." He asked everybody and nobody in particular at the same time. Ambrose Pepper, idiot on tap.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!"  A knot of third years had collided with the aged Flying instructor in the corridor as she tried to budge in the queue.  "Called in for this?  Honestly, I don't know what the Ministry is thinking..."  she trailed off as the impatient old hawk grumbled under her breath.

They were all to be screened.  Yes.  Everyone.  Including Madam Hooch was was well into her nineties and clearly properly protected against the magical illness that everyone was in a fuss about.  She was quite sure she couldn't contract it now even if she tried!  But no, she had to fly into Hogwarts specially and get poked and prodded like she was a child again. 

Being cramped up in a very crowded Great Hall did nothing for her sense of claustrophobia and love of clear open spaces.  "I'll never survive this.  STRONG!"  Hooch barked an order at a fifth year.  "Put that down and be quiet!" 

"SELLAPHIX!"  Hooch snatched away a packet of candy from a student who should be old enough to know better.  "Set an example, would you?"

She found her way to Professor Storm who's face reflected her own emotions.  "Nonsense," she said to him, not especially expecting a reply.

Erin slouched in the Slytherin House queue and scowled about it. This was complete bollocks and everyone knew it, even Sellaphix with his fire-burps that Erin couldn't admire 'cos, well, it was Sellaphix. Even the professors were looking testy. It could be all right if Storm kept aiming hexes at other people's feet and, maybe, on a consistent enough basis that Erin could watch. But it was also terrible because he had some itching powder in his robe pockets just dying to be used, and whatever Erin did nowadays with his captain position he had to make sure no one saw him do it.

It was just a bloody waste of time. None of the other students had it, so why not just lock up the Salems 'til they got better? He'd happily lock himself in there with them if it meant he got to miss weeks an' weeks of class.

((OOC: Here's me doing my best not to refer to other stuff that happens to Casey this month, unless a date is centered on))

Casey tended to disbelieve certain things about himself. Not that he had low self esteem, no, it would be harder to find someone more smug in their image than a O'Doherty. But whenever Casey faced a moment of weakness that was beyond his control his disbelief was a means to not accept it.

Like right now. The Mysterious Bumps on His Back and Arms had better be nothing to do with Dragon Pox or else! No matter what the talk of a plague from the Americans was, or how likely it would be for the sickly Slytherin to catch it.

No. Unacceptable. It must be some allergy he previously didn't know about that could be added to the extensive list. Scratching at it would only make it worse and the crackles of flame into his breath could only be from Floo Powder. Even if it wasn't Floo Powder green. Ye gods, Casey could feel himself feeling more ill the more he tried to not think about the potential outbreak.

"Nonsense." Hooch muttered.

"Agreed." He replied gruffly, watching the throng of students entering the Great Hall. "We're more likely to have had an outbreak of headlice or influenza at this time of year than Dragon Pox." He folded his arms and shifted his weight, looking down to the shorter witch.

"Unfortunate to draft you in, Xiomara, apologies. Not my call, but good to have you here all the same, even if its to deal with hypochondria." His eyes caught sight of O'Doherty amongst the sea of heads, one such student who seemed to get everything going.

"Absolutely, it's a symptom, my good Mr. Pepper," Figaro turned to assure Ambrose.  But before he could go on, Madam Hooch had flown in and pilfered the rest of what he had on him.  He took the reprimand with a shrug and very quietly jumped the queue a few space.

"Oh, hello, I'm back.  Thanks for saving my space," he fibbed to a couple of Salem girls.  It wasn't long before he was being drawn into a curtained cubicle by a bored-looking wizard in pale blue robes.   

"State your full name," he said, barely looking from a scroll.

"Figaro Flamel Sellaphix.  Is this going to be an injection?"

"No.  It's a screening.  You'll only have to take a potion if we find something," came the flat response.  "Shirt and shoes off."

"That's all? We've been waiting awhile.  I figured we'd actually get to do something fun for all the trouble," Figaro said as he peeled off his house jumper and white button-down all in one go.  His blond hair was turned all static-y.  The Healer was not amused.  If Figaro had been waiting twenty minutes in the line, this Healer had been here all day.

"Just take off your shoes and socks."

Figaro slipped off his shoes and them pulled off his socks and stood there bare-chested in his stocking feet.  The Healer left the scroll on a little cart and began inspecting Fig's back, occasionally tapping his skin with his wand.

"Have you or anyone in your family had Dragon Pox before?"

"Uh, no.... Don't you always die from it?"

"No.  Have you ever eaten dragon meat not come from a liscened ranch?"

"No?"

"Have you got any spots?"

"No! Well, no, not lately."  Figaro had his spots same as the next teenager but he was alright lately.

"Are you experiencing scalding hot vomit or nausea?"

"What? No - that's real?"

"Do you have hardened, scaly patches of skin anywhere on your arms or legs?"

It went on like that for two dozen more questions, the Healer then moving on from inspecting Figaro's back, neck and scalp, to looking between his toes.

"You'll drink this now. Then you can get dressed and get in the next queue."

"What is it? There's more?"  Figaro asked as he pulled on his socks.

The Healer sighed.  "Look, there are a lot more of you left to see.  The potion helps us makes sure you're clear of it.  You'll need to queue and wait for it to take effect before you see the next screener."

He tore off a perforated form from the bottom of the scroll and handed it to her. "Get in the next queue and hand this to the next Healer."

Figaro was ushered out of the cubicle where he was promptly collected and stood in another line. 

Casey was fretting enough about not having Dragon Pox that he could feel his throat getting warm and tight, burning that suggested some kind of soreness if not the cinder coughing associated with advanced stages of pox. But he didn't have scales across his face!

There had been the day his body had been swapped for Alvis Norling's, the blowup last weekend over the family wand and now this. Clearly Novemeber was not going to be his month. Casey was so lost in thought he didn't realize that he was being prompted to a screening cubicle.

"Just a few questions," the healer began. "State your full name."

"Casey O'Doherty will suffice."

This earned a look before the healer continued. "Have you or anyone in your family had Dragon Pox before?"

"Not in the last three generations."

"Have you ever eaten dragon meat not come from a liscened ranch?"

"I wouldn't dare to risk eating dragon meat."

"Have you got any spots?"

"Not from Dragon Pox. An incident in Charms involving grub worms." Technically not the same ones.

"Are you experiencing scalding hot vomit or nausea?"

"Not today."

"Do you have hardened, scaly patches of skin anywhere on your arms or legs?"

"Of course not."

"Oh, sorry." The Healer flipped through pages, the itinerary out of order. "I need you to remove your shirt and shoes."

That caused Casey to momentarily freeze. Even if he didn't want the suspicious lumps on his back seen that wasn't the real excuse. The Healer could tell if they were something else. But Casey was not comfortable getting undressed. With the amulet around his neck that wasn't going to reveal anything. But still, that meant being top half naked!

"I can take my shoes off. But as for removing my shirt," his words were dangerously becoming loud and carrying outside of the cubicle, "That will be a NO."

The young witch Healer jerked her eyes up from the questionnaire - this was odd.  Most people, nearly everyone, just did what a Healer asked.  I wasn't often at all that someone flat out refused such an easy request.  The Healer wasn't quite sure what to do.

"Erm, it's alright, dear.  No one can see in.  This is very routine.  Come on now, just your shirt and shoes and socks is all, said the Healer gently as possible.  No need to frighten the lad, but they really had to get on.  There were several hundred students and staff to see.   She gestured for Casey to comply and assumed he would.

If Casey had wanted to be especially snarky, he would have made a scathing question as to whether examination cubicles were scry-proof and resistant to the kinds of spying devices that could see through walls.

"It may be very routine to you," he told the witch. Bad enough that his healer was a witch. It just felt...weird, the kind of weird Casey could never phrase in coherent sentences. Not because he was worried about what a woman would think looking at a 'boy', Casey had been under the care of female Healers before. If anything his mind was making him uncomfortable leaping to the conclusion of what would happen if he had no means of disguise for his body. After the shirt, would she ask for the amulet to be removed? Better to stave of that risk by not even removing the shirt.

"...But it's an inconvenience that is not routine to me or any other student here, not one I like to frequent." He tried reasoning as he removed his shoes and socks, to show he was in part compliant. "Don't you have a spell or a potion that could indicate my susceptibility? Or where do you have to look; could I pull back a sleeve or lift my shirt jest enough for you to look without removing the garment?"

The Healer furrowed her brow at the little boy's insistence then his barrage of questions.  Why did he have to be so difficult? Didn't he know how dangerous Dragon Pox could be, how they had to be very thorough to make sure that everyone was clear and safe?  Merlin, she wasn't paid enough to put up with this.  She pursed her lips and sighed through her nose.

Not saying anything to the boy, she moved to the curtain and poked her head out.  Casey would have been able to hear her whispering to someone.  "...not going to remove his shirt... deal with this... procedure..."

Then she outright left the curtained cubicle and another voice was pretty clear.  A raised voice rose over the din.  "Can I get a professor over here?  Thank you!"

Figaro was walking along the aisle with his hand over his stomach wondering just what the potion he just drank was supposed to do.  He wondered if it was like one of those potions that actually caused the illness it was supposed to treat if you didn't actually have the disease.  If he got sick now then they'd know he didn't have Dragon Pox, but if he didn't get sick they'd know he was sick.  As he handed over the form to a Healer who asked for it, and got sat in a chair, he heard an announcement.

"Can I get a professor over here?  Thank you!"

Figaro leaned forward in the chair with great interest.  He was jealous.  He wanted to have to have a professor to get called over.  Who was the genius who was getting all the attention, holding everyone up and making a spectacle.  He stood up and craned his neck, but all he could see was the Healer who was beckoning someone over, not the the student who had cheesed someone off.

Hooch was closest.  She frowned and made her way toward the important-looking Healer who'd met her eye-line.

"I'm Madam Hooch," she said.  "What's wrong here?"

They were outside one of the curtained cubicles, Hooch, the Head Healer and another Healer who looked a bit flustered.

"He won't take off shirt.  He's refusing.  I tried to tell him that nothing was going to happen, but he just won't.  If we can't screen him here, I don't know what we do."

"If we don't screen him here, we have to take him back with us.  And there are forms..." interrupted the Head Healer. 

"I'll talk to him.  Who is it, then?"

Hooch drew the curtain aside a few inches, fully expecting to see one of the trouble-makers, or perhaps a first year too confused to know better, but ...

"O'Doherty?"  That was perplexing.  The boy was by all counts agreeable, if not a bit strange.  He didn't go for Quidditch, so she didn't know him very well.  But he was well-kept, well-spoken and hadn't come up in the staff room all that often.  For him to be holding up a leg of this whole operation? Well, there'd better be a good reason.

"What's the trouble now, lad? Why won't you do as the Healers ask?"

Disdain fouled the air around Casey's head. He figured it was a reasonable request, something that would slow his examination but not delay. Yet the healer screening him went off in a tizzy to procedure with a face as if she had swallowed nothing but Plimpy legs. Utter coddswallop.

Casey restrained from flinching when Hooch entered. He couldn't determine if this was an improvement or further malady to the situation. Casey wasn't frequently on the Slytherin team when he could play, so time spent around Hooch had been minimal. His current quidditch track record since he'd been placed on reserves for the team was mostly practice sessions, few matches.

"I'm not refusing," Casey said with gritted teeth. "I understand they need to look at my skin. I was postulating if they could do it without making me strip."