Ciarán's brothers had always joked that he was a bit thick, and after taking so many bludgers to the head throughout his Hogwarts' quidditch career, he was starting to believe that they might have been right.

Having said that, he felt that sustaining certain injuries on the pitch was arguably more impressive than sustaining others. There was a lot more shock and awe in response to one being able to take a bludger to the head as opposed to, say, one accidentally flying into a massive glumbumble hive and getting stung enough times to warrant a visit from an off-campus healer.

Still clad in his red and gold quidditch robes, Ciarán laid on his designated bed of the hospital wing in a fashion similar to a dying Victorian child. The pale expanse of his neck and cheeks was clustered with red, irritated glumbumble stings. If their venom wasn't currently resulting in unimaginable melancholy, the youngest O'Rourke might have felt inclined to be mildly embarrassed about the incident.

Instead, he was staring at the ceiling with a vacant expression, eyes half-lidded as he vaguely addressed the healer assigned to him.

"I'm a gobshite," he announced, soft-toned and entirely unprompted. "I'm a feckin' gobshite and my whole career is banjaxed."

Slick with sweat from the day's practice, dark tufts of hair swept across his forehead, falling so that they partially covered his eyes. He didn't bother to remove them. In fact, he acted as if he didn't notice at all.

"Got nothin' goin' for me now."

He stood obediently in place while Starling Inkwell piled books into his outstretched arms. "This one's a journal. No idea whose, but it's got mention of various puss-filled sores that you might find intriguing." Tadhg peered at the healer over the growing mountain of bound information. He had no idea how old Starling was; she had what he would call an ageless presence. Her face was clear, her skin perfect and smooth, save for a little line that appeared between her dark brows whenever she looked at him, or a book, or one of her patients. But Starling's eyes were a storm of grey, her clever gaze when upon him felt all-knowing - all-seeing. Like she could pull out the litany of the many things that ailed him just by spearing him with a canny glance.

"'Marvels of Mucus and it's Many Applications'," she said, dropping it with a flick of her wand. "And my own personal favourite - now you must remember to return this one to me, Healer Ó Briain - 'I have an itch and I daren't tell my missus'."

Tadhg liked her very much.

They were interrupted by some rather insistent moaning (and bemoaning), spoken in a familiar accent and coming from a nearby bed. Tadhg's professional curiosity merged with the personal, and he found himself moving over toward the poor soul's cot, keen to get a closer look at what ailed him. The corners of his mouth twitched upward just a little when he clocked the telltale irritation spread across his neck and cheeks. "It appears you have a glumbumble hive on the grounds, Healer Inkwell."

"You don't say, Healer Ó Briain. Have you forgotten why I asked you here in the first place? It certainly was not to loan you all of my most disgusting literature." She gestured toward the bed and then fixed her hands to her hips, robes flapping with the motion, and the space filled up with her sudden, put-upon sigh. "See to him, would you? I'm allergic to melodramatics."

He might have laughed, but Tadhg was far too conscious of the melancholic state the student would be in. Carefully, he placed the pile of books on the ground and moved toward the cot, one hand already reaching into his pocket, searching for his notebook.

"Sure, ye have yer charm, do ye not?" He asked the boy, his tone light and easy in response to the assertion that the young man had nothing going for him. "And all limbs still attached. Need those, very useful."

Tadhg leaned in a little closer, peering at the red welts with a practiced eye. "Now, young fella. Tell me what happened. Where were ye when ye were set upon by the fearsome furries and how did ye manage to get away? Ye must be very fast."

Best to build him up, poor lad. Butter him up a wee bit before he slapped on a salve that would leave him singing from the stinging. With notebook in one hand he slid his wand into the other, etched a quick spell into the air and cast a diagnostic charm. A general, full-body scan first, followed by something a little more specific; focused on Ciarán's magical headshot.