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und maybe three inches long, but deep, its edges puckered like a little mouth. Blood began drooling from it. “It’s like a knife wound, but bigger.” “That’s probably because it was done with something like a knife, but bigger.” “A sword?” Butters said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “The Council’s old school,” I said. “Really, really, really old school.” Butters shook his head. “Wash your hands the way I just did. Do it thorough—takes two or three minutes. Then get a pair of gloves on and get back here. I need an extra pair of hands.” I swallowed. “Uh. Butters, I don’t know if I’m the right guy to—” “Oh bite me, wizard boy,” Butters said, his tone annoyed. “You haven’t got a moral leg to stand on. If it’s okay that I’m not a doctor, it’s okay that you aren’t a nurse. So wash your freaking hands and help me before we lose him.” I stared at Butters helplessly for a second. Then I got up and washed my freaking hands. For the record, surgeries aren’t pretty. There’s a hideous sense of intimately inappropriate exposure to another human being, and it feels something like accidentally walking in on a naked parent. Only there’s more gore. Bits are exposed that just shouldn’t be out in the open, and they’re covered in blood. It’s embarrassing, disgusting, and unsettling all at the same time. “There,” Butters said, an infinity later. “Okay, let go. Get your hands out of my way.” “It cut the artery?” I asked. “Oh, hell no,” Butters said. “Whoever stabbed him barely nicked it. Otherwise he’d be dead.” “But it’s fixed, right?” “For some definitions of ‘fixed.’ Harry, this is meatball surgery of the roughest sort, but the wound should stay closed as long as he doesn’t go walking around on it. And he should get looked at by a real docto