I hate war. I hate even more how necessary it is.
I hate seeing Ginny at the hospital door, staring in at her brother whose sleeping on a cot. Ron's hair was long before he was put in Mungo's, but (since he's been in here for such an extended length of time) it's nearly shoulder length now.
It's so stringy that when he has an episode it clings to his face from sweat and saliva.
As we walk down the hall and Mrs. Weasley opens the door to the ward, I can't help but feel responsible. Nobody in their right mind want to see their best friend on the fourth floor for spell damage. Not in the Janus Thickey Ward. They must not have liked old Janis very much to name this ward after her.
Mrs. Weasley does not have a strong stomach, even though she is a mother and she has seen a lot. I once saw her pale at the sight of her husband's blood. I don't think she wants to visit Ron in his current state, but her love surpasses her squeamishness.
Of course, I can't help but feel responsible.
I had a dream about Ginny yesterday. It wasn't the kind that I had when I went to Hogwarts. She was standing in a bloodied field with corpses and skirmishes all around. She held a sword in one hand, and she was covered in armor. She was wearing a pretty dress, but it was all armor. And it was fluttering in wind that smelled like iron. She walked over to me and stared at me with a stony visage. She took a deep breath.
When I see her in Mungo's, standing on her toes to glance into the small window on the door to Ron's room, I feel like everything is my fault. When she walks away and doesn't look at anyone.
She visits the door, and leaves for the tearoom.
She hasn't even confronted Ron in his new state yet. She walks away with a furrowed brow. Even in my dreams her brow is always furrowed. I can't tell when they stand normal now, because small creases are budding in her forehead.
She's eighteen, and she has wrinkles.
Hermione visits him. I stand against the door as she strains to kiss his forehead. He swings his head violently away from her lips, and his body lies as if it were paralyzed.
She shakes her head and walks away. Her fingers unconsciously play at the band around her ring finger. "I love him," she said to me, "But I can't… like this..."
She can't mean that. It's just the intellectual in her talking. And she too walks away from Ron's room as he throws himself into another fit.
Ron's head thrashes against the headboard. And as his arms begin to flail, two nurses rush forward to give him a sedative. Mrs. Weasley leaves the room as soon as she sees the nurses take a needle to Ron's veins. See? She loves her son, but she just can't stand that.
Mr. Weasley and I are the only ones left. Ron's brothers are in the tearoom, they decided to come down after the rest of the family went.
Mr. Weasley begins to cry.
It's a pathetic site to take a grown man in your arms like a child. To see a grown man weeping before his child. His child whose eyes now look glazed and roll lazily around the room. Every time Ron blinks, his eyes stay shut longer and longer. And then he is stagnate.
Mr. Weasley collapses to the floor, and I can't stop it. Blimey, I can't stop anything. Mr. Weasley is on the floor crying into his hands like a wretched mess. My heart breaks for them.
I step over to Ron's bed and sit on the edge. I lean forward on my knees and sigh pitiable words to him. Mr. Weasley cries more violently when I start talking to Ron.
"Dean said the Chuddly Cannons have a good line-up for next year. You know how good he is with his Quidditch predictions, so I think they might have a better chance than last year's humiliating lost, eh? And howabout Ginny catching the Snitch last week. Honestly, your sister is amazing on a broom."
Mr. Weasley started to get quieter between hiccups.
"Your mum made another casserole yesterday. That one you hate with the ham. I mean, she had good intentions, but… Your neighbors, their grandmother passed away, so she made the casserole for them, to help with their loss. Petunia always made casseroles for people, only to come back and gossip about them. You're blessed to have a good mum. When I—"
"You're talking to him like he can hear you," Mr. Weasley snapped. "Are you crazy?" he added from his pathetic position on the floor. "He may never get better…"
"Well if he does get better," I reply, "Let it never be said that pity healed him."