A/N: Ron learns about his injuries and about what really happened in Kakoge. Warning for survivor's guilt, PTSD, violence.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.


The Healers told him that he had demolished the muscles of his shoulders and caused some spinal injuries that could take months to recover from. "The spine is not like the other parts of the body," explained his Healer, a small black woman in lime-green robes. Her name was Holly Davis, and she spoke kindly to him despite knowing of everything he had done. "The unique connection of the nerves there cannot be fixed like a bone can." She conjured a glowing image of a human body, waving her wand so that it expanded to view the figure's back. The spine glowed in white while the muscles were outlined in yellow. "This is an average twenty to twenty-five year old male with your height and weight." Striking her wand against the image, it flipped and morphed into another man, slightly hunched; the spine was split by a needle of red or pink in several places, and the muscles were a deeper, violent shade of fiery orange. "This is you. Due to your other injuries, your body is already suffering immensely, and these back problems, caused by multiple herniated disks and torn muscles..."

Ron wasn't listening anymore. He'd stopped listening a long time ago, for how could he care about his own well-being when Harry was dying on the other side of the hospital?

Ron… Ron was barely worth a Sickle, let alone a life. It didn't make sense that he should live and Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the abandoned orphan who had pulled himself up from nothing into something, the savior of the European Wizarding world, the father-to-be… It didn't make sense that Harry was bloodless and unconscious in that fucking room while Ron stood alive and well with Hermione, listening to this stupid Healer babble on about he would never be able to use his right arm again and how it would have to be removed.

Wait. Although Ron had already sunk into the bowels of his brain, his guilt ensnaring the flesh of his legs and dragging him down to the ocean floor, Hermione's voice clasped him by the throat and wrenched him back into the vulnerability of reality.

"Removed?" Ron, constrained to the real world once more, turned his aching neck to look at his wife. Her voice was strained. "Are you—are you mad? This is his wand arm!"

"I know, Ms. Granger," stated the Healer. "You must understand that Ugandan dark magic is something so precarious, so treacherous, that once it enters the body it is almost impossible to remove. The magical community of Uganda, you see, is incredibly peaceful, so most of their magic is mundane, unable to be used combative forms. Therefore, any magic that is developed for a belligerent use, like to maim or murder, is dark and catastrophic. It is a permanent curse once it is this far inside of the body, Ms. Granger."

"Isn't there a cure?" Hermione pressed on. "A spell or potion that could remove it from the flesh, perhaps transfer it to—"

The woman only shook her head. "I'm afraid not." She reached for Ron's arm, the one that had been crushed (and all Ron could hear was the grinding of his broken bones; surely the pain would engulf him and swallow him whole). With pink-white bands of healing magic encircling it like ribbons, it was fully confined in a thick cast, not an inch of bruised flesh to be seen. "Currently, this is the only solution we have to rid a human body of Ugandan dark magic. I know it may seem brutish, Ms. Granger, but it is the only way. Unless you want it to spread, then the amputation must occur." To Ron, his arm was numbed by the magic, so it was nothing but a useless, dangling slab of meat up to the shoulder, and its absence was so bizarre that he tried to flex his fingers in vain. "You're quite lucky, Mr. Weasley," she assured him, pushing her glasses up her nose with her knuckles. The gesture itself, of adjusting glasses like that, was so vividly Harry that Ron reeled for a moment, his mind whirring like a Muggle machine. "Many victims of Ugandan dark magic do not survive. Once the magic reaches the core of a person, it always—"

"Thank you," Hermione interrupted, her face suddenly hard. "That will be enough."

Healer Davis continued to speak about Ron's many injuries, of which he had more than he could count. Torn tendons, lacerations, burns, bone fractures… Some of the more physical injuries were solved with simple healing spells and potions, but the more magical ones resisted any magical fix and had to heal slowly, the Muggle way, with stitches and chemicals.

After Healer Davis left, first reminding them that the surgery was scheduled for that evening, Hermione took his left hand in hers and swore she would love him no matter what.

Ron knew that Hermione loved him more than anything, but after what he had done, he knew he couldn't love himself.

The magical infections caused by Ron's injuries could be easily cut away, sliced off like the unwanted peel of an apple. But Harry was suffering… Harry couldn't escape his fate. How was that fair?

"I want to see my parents," he told Hermione, his voice shaking. "And my brothers."

Hermione gnawed on her lip. "You can't, sweetheart. They only allowed one emergency contact per survivor, Ron, and I was the first on your list."

Ron's heart twisted. "Do Mum and Dad… Does everyone know I'm okay?"

She nodded furiously. "Of course, sweetheart, I told them everything. They're just not allowed to come here to see you, that's all."

An odd feeling of injustice, of anger and frustration, swam through his mind. "Why not?"

He could feel him behind her, tapping her fingers nervously against the handles of the wheelchair. "There were a lot of people who died fighting in Uganda, sweetheart. They haven't released the news to the public yet. They're afraid it will cause a...a negative reaction in the rest of the Wizarding community. If all of the families of all of the victims visited St. Mungo's, it'd be a disaster." She sighed. "They're supposed to release all of the information in two days. Until then, I'm the only one who can visit you."

Ron felt as though he was five years old again, tugging at his mum's skirt. "I want Mum," he whispered. His words were weak, sobs threatening to spill over. "Hermione, please…"

Hermione was in front of him now, blocking his view of Harry. "I'm sorry, Ron. I really am."

The Aurors came next, unblemished and trigger-happy morons in purple robes, followed by a bald Healer in green ones and a reporter in a pale blue suit. "We want to talk to Mr. Weasley," said the first, an impossibly small woman with fierce, gold eyes. "My name is Auror Georgina Thompson, and this is my partner, Auror Gianna Russo. We're interviewing everyone who returned from Uganda."

Hermione was wary, as was the Healer next to her. "Interrogating, you mean?" she suggested coldly. "Why?"

"To make sure we have the whole story, Ms. Granger," stated the second, an olive-skinned woman with pitch-black curls. "We have to understand everything that occurred between Kakoge and the forest of Lwamata so that we can be better prepared for any future activity from Nguvu and her followers."

"The Ukamilifu," murmured Ron.

The small woman, most likely half-elf, jerked her head at the other man, clearly the superior of the group. "Write that down," she ordered to the reporter.

Before they could move any closer, Hermione intervened, placing herself between the Aurors and Ron. "You're not talking to my husband today," she declared. "He's not ready for that. "

Wholeheartedly grateful to her, Ron relaxed, the tension in his shoulders ebbing. Perhaps he wouldn't have to talk about—

"You don't seem to understand, Ms. Granger," said the third, the Healer with green eyes. "I'm Healer Livera, the one in charge of Mr. Potter's case. I need Mr. Weasley's testimony of the events in Uganda in order to fully treat Mr. Potter."

Time seemed to subside in that moment; of course, he would do anything to help Harry stay alive, but this was his nightmare, his skeleton in the closet. Not only would Hermione and Ginny know the extent of his failure, but the world would know as well.

Hermione's obstinance slackened, and she sat at the end of the bed, gripping the rail with white knuckles. "Will it help him?"

He couldn't read the Healer's expression; he saw no desperation, yet no despair either. Only fatigue. "I hope so," he said.

Hermione was still hesitant to leave him. "But—"

"It's fine, Hermione," Ron told her. His eyelids were heavy with Pain-Reducing Potion. "I have to do this."

Although his wife was astonished by the resignation in his tone, still she left, led away by the dark-haired Auror. Honestly, Ron felt like a piece of prey with the world as his predator; after hours and hours of being chased and maimed and pulled apart at the edges, he wanted nothing more than to collapse and give in into the world's razor sharp claws, just so it would be over. He sat up on the hospital bed, struggling to do so with only one working arm and numbness spiraling down his spine. Dread trickled down his neck.

They gave him the Veritaserum first, in something that looked like a shot glass, and it tasted like regret. And then they sat around him in their cold, hard chairs with their cold, hard smiles to begin the interrogation.

Ron flexed the fingers in his good hand, watching the burn on his palm wrinkle with the motion. He had a matching one in the other hand, but he couldn't feel it. He'd taken that pain for Harry, using that stolen wand countless times, but now it was meaningless. "Mr. Weasley?" It was the reporter, dressed in pale blue and false concern. "My name's Liam Perkins. I work for the Daily Prophet. I'll be recording your answers. May I begin with the questions?"

It wasn't like he had a choice in the matter, so he mumbled, "Sure."

"Thank you." He cleared his throat. "Describe the battle, if you would, starting when you arrived at Kakoge."

Pain slithered up Ron's back, icy and slick. The words spilled from his mouth—blood spilling from Harry's mouth, his teeth red—and then took flight as Ron hid in the back of his mind, going deeper and deeper until he couldn't hear the reporter anymore.

He spouted descriptions of blood, war, and death in a calm monotone, so detached from the situation that his words held no meaning. He explained how he and Harry had escaped from the Ukamilifu by running deep into the forest and seeking refuge in an abandoned Muggle house. He told them about three Ukamilifu who had discovered their hiding place and tried to kill them.

"And how did you know they would have killed Mr. Potter?" asked Perkins. "Would they have let you carry him along the path if you hadn't fought back?

"They cut off the right foot of everyone they killed," he heard himself say. "Anyone who couldn't keep walking anymore or tried to fight back. They killed them all."

"Can you name the people that Nguvu killed?"

Ron stared at him.

Liam Perkins glanced away, unnerved by Ron's empty gaze. "Not all of the bodies could be identified, Mr. Weasley. Some were maimed so beyond recognition that it's impossible to know who they were before. We're asking all of the survivors to recall anyone they can who died during the slaughter of Kakoge."

The slaughter of Kakoge. That's what they were calling it now; it wasn't a battle anymore. No. Too many people had died. Too many men, women, and children had their lungs ripped from their bodies and their feet sawed off. Too many bloodstained beds and burned buildings. Too many arms smashed to a bloody pulp. Too many people, dead and living, with empty gazes. Too many people drenched in trauma and blood, unable to ever scrub it clean. "Mucamatara Oliveira," he said. He'd heard Antonio saying her full name when doing last rites over her corpse. "Catherine and Elliott Robinson." The names erupted from a place he'd shoved down so far inside of himself that he'd forgotten it existed. He named friends, enemies, colleagues, people he'd met once and never spoken to again… Now they were all dead, and their relationship to Ron didn't matter. "I don't know every name," he confessed. His tongue was liquid truth; he wanted to wash it clean. Saying the names of the dead out loud felt like swallowing thick chunks of tar. "A Makoutoro witch and a Beauxbatons wizard."

Perkins rifled through his briefcase and pulled out two albums of photographs. "Do you think you could recognize them from these photos?"

Both albums were black leather, filled to the brim with pictures. Ron took the first one into his lap, opening to the first page. He almost dropped it then and there. A tidal wave of nauseating dread overtook all other senses. The first photo was of a man Ron vaguely recognized, stripped naked on what Ron knew was the path to the forest of Lwamata. His bottom half had been torn from the top of his body, pink organs spilling from his middle, and it lay a few feet away from his torso. His right foot was missing, and his face was contorted in a permanent expression of terror. Beside the photo, he had been identified as a fifty-one year old Auror named Oliver Ricks.

Ron didn't want to look. He couldn't look. He couldn't. But the Veritaserum forced him to answer the question he'd been given: Do you think you could recognize them from these photos? And the answer was… "Yes."

Perkins cleared his throat again. "The first album is of all human remains that the search-and-rescue teams located between Kakoge and the forest of Lwamata. The second one contains the most recent picture of every known witch or wizard who accompanied Mr. Potter and yourself to Kakoge. The photos were given by the families, so we know that they are accurate. We just need to connect as many as we can to the photos in the first album. Anyone already identified by their family and someone else has an X beside their name. We'd like you to help us figure out some of the blank spaces, Mr. Weasley, so we can give some of these grieving Wizarding families some closure. There are so many people missing and so many unidentifiable remains that we can't know for sure who has died and who is still escaping Nguvu." Perkins patted the second album. "But you do."

Ron's voice came out as a weak croak. "Can—can't you ask someone else?"

Perkins glanced helplessly at the two Aurors behind him. Auror Gianna Russo stood at the doorway with her arms folded, while the other, Auror Georgina Thompson, paced back and forth along the wall opposite Ron. As soon as she met Perkins' worried gaze, she halted, turning to face Ron. "Mr. Weasley," she said, her face hard, "have you received contact from any other survivors of the...of what happened in Kakoge?"

He couldn't lie. "No," he responded. "I thought… I thought they…"

"Do you know how many returned from Uganda alive, Mr. Weasley?"

Ron didn't like where this question was heading. The cast on his right arm suddenly felt like a chain, locked around his wrist to prevent him from ever getting free again. "No," he whispered.

"Twelve," said Auror Thompson simply. "There were twelve survivors."

Ron was Atlas, straining to carry the world on his back. With Thompson's words, something inside him tore, shredding against the sharp edges of the sky, and he collapsed, the world crushing him piece by piece. As Ron slumped, the universe shattered beneath him, fragments of ocean and land scattering around him. The delicate balance of the world (water and earth, life and death, good and bad) was broken, and nothing could be done to fix it.

Thompson was still talking. "Five of them succumbed to their wounds sometime after arriving here. The Healers tried to save them, of course, but it simply could not be done. Ugandan dark magic is different, as you know, and we were unequipped to deal with their extensive injuries. There are seven of you left now: you, Harry Potter, Ms. Catarina Soares, Mr. Reo Murakami, Ms. Aadvika Khatri, Ms. Daiena Tasarla, and Mr. Antonio de la Paz."

Ron could barely think, let alone process what Auror Thompson had said, but he did understand one word: Antonio.

A fleeting flutter of hope rose inside of him. Antonio was alive.

The rest of his chest sunk into a horrible, dark corner. Five hundred and five corpses, empty and cold. Five hundred and five holes carved into the wombs of five hundred and five mothers. Five hundred and five headstones before five hundred and five fresh piles of dirt.

Five hundred and six, once Harry...

Ron's head flared wildly with pain, so he ground his palm into his eye sockets as though to grind his grief to dust.

Five hundred and five people's blood in the earth of Uganda. Not to mention the countless civilians who had been slaughtered before Ron's eyes.

"Seven," he whispered, his voice an unrecognizable croak.


A/N: Thanks to everyone who's sticking with me! I appreciate the reviews so, so much.

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Fanfiction Writing Month: December [2923]

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