Chapter 14 – Convalescence

"Shan't!"

"But Mr Weasley," Professor McGonagall said in her lilting Scottish accent, "for just those few months and nothing more. Surely you can see it's for the best?"

"No, I can't!" stated Ron emphatically.

"Come now, Ronald," coaxed Hieronymus Massingbird in his most reasonable tones. "I was remarking to Madam Pomfrey just this morning that I have seen not one, but two Dark Lords defeated in my day; this conflict can't go on forever, can it? What will you do afterwards without your N.E.W.T.s? What about your very laudable ambition to be an Auror? Best all round if you stay on and finish them off, wouldn't you say?"

"No, Hero - I wouldn't," stated Ron, stressing Professor Massingbird's name to illustrate that the older man was no longer his Deputy Headmaster. He would have folded his arms over his chest to emphasise the point had it not been swathed in bandages. Instead, he set his jaw as he leaned back into his pillows and turned his head away from them. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care. They were being 'capital A' adults, after all. They couldn't possibly accept that he had made his mind up, could they? It would be impossible to acknowledge that somebody less than fifty-years-old might actually have an opinion of their own, wouldn't it?

"Well, I can see that we're wasting our time here, Professor Massingbird," huffed McGonagall. "Perhaps we ought to come back when Mister Weasley is in a more reasonable frame of mind!" She stood up and gathered her robes about herself as if she were in high dudgeon. Ron's blood was up and he wasn't about to back down so it came as a shock to him when, instead of the slap he had been half expecting, Minerva McGonagall instead leaned down and pecked him on the cheek. As the old witch hurried from his bedside, he seemed to notice for the first time just how short and thin his Head of House really was.

"I hope you feel proud of yourself, Ronald," snapped Massingbird as soon as the door closed behind her.

Turning to look at Hero, Ron felt a rare old blush beginning to climb his cheeks. He was surprised to see that the old man's face was not angry as he had expected it to be, but realised that he hadn't escaped scot-free either. He found himself looking into an expression of surprise and disgust on the face of the older man.

"I asked you a question, young man; do you intend to answer it or continue acting in a manner which would shame your father?"

Ron felt as if the slap to the face that he had expected to receive had been delivered times one thousand. The blush that had been climbing to the roots of his hair now fled as his face turned pale and his chest constricted so much that he couldn't breathe. Swallowing against a rising tide of bile, he coughed uncontrollably and tried to blink away the tears in his eyes.

"Ronald!"

The world turned black.

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"In all of my years as a Healer, Professor Massingbird, I have never seen the like. Why, not even Professor Snape even dared to assail the students under my care!"

"Assail?" protested Massingbird in outrage.

"Yes; assail, I say!" shrieked Madam Pomfrey, slapping her hand down on her desk.

"Preposterous!" Massingbird thundered back.

"The Headmistress shall hear of this, you –

The silence that followed was more than complete; it was magical. The elderly healer actually continued to shout at the top of her lungs for a few seconds before she realised that she was not hearing her own voice. At first she cast a suspicious glance at Professor Massingbird, but his hands were empty and he too looked perplexed. It was when she looked towards the door of her office that she finally located the culprit – if one could call the Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that.

Her lips had been drawn into a very thin line indeed and she was gimlet-eyed as she stared at the two miscreants. Hieronymus in particular was not looking forward to the telling off he was undoubtedly about to receive. He had known Minerva McGonagall for over sixty years and for every single one of those years the two of them had been friends. If he were to be pressed to name her bad points, however, chief among them would be her acid tongue. He sighed heavily, unhappily noting that he could actually hear it.

"Poppy, I would like to see you in my office at your earliest convenience after you have arranged alternative cover for your patient," she said icily. "Deputy Headmaster Massingbird, I require the pleasure of your company forthwith!" With this, she turned on her heel and marched out of the office.

Massingbird groaned. He was in for it now.

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When he had been a young man, Hieronymus had been 'on the carpet' more than once. Seldom did people use this expression anymore to refer to being in trouble with authority. In fact, he was sure that most of the pupils at the school wouldn't have any idea what it meant. For this reason he found it particularly ironic that, as he stood in front of the Headmistress' desk and awaited her attention, he was standing on a small patch of carpet. It hadn't been there when this had been Albus Dumbledore's office, so he could only assume that she had seen fit to have it put there. Minerva was scratching away at a parchment, making the point that he was here under her terms; stamping her authority and making it clear that she was in charge. Had the situation with Ronald not been so serious, the image of an old man standing like a naughty child in front of the Headmistress might have been a funny one.

Wishing he could take out his tiny pipe for a quick smoke, he distracted himself by taking a good look at the office. At first glance, little had changed. The pictures of the Headmasters and Headmistresses of old still adorned the walls. Whereas the occupants of these portraits ordinarily pretended to be asleep in order that they might be privy to any interesting gossip, today the vast majority of them were wide awake and paying attention: they knew good theatre when they saw it. He also noted that those fascinating little machines that Albus used to fuss over were now stored in a wonderful mahogany cabinet just to the right of Minerva's desk. Little was known of their function and it was likely that things would remain that way for at least the time being.

Albus had always refused politely, but firmly, when asked by the Ministry of Magic to sit for a magical portrait. Even his close friends and allies were puzzled by his reluctance as no one had ever before refused to do so. It had been speculated that he had not wanted to leave any shadow of himself behind for fear of retribution on the part of You-Know-Who or his followers. This in turn had sparked a heated debate on whether or not portraits were capable of feeling pain, pleasure or any other emotion; on the very sentience of portraits. Others had pointed out that, putting the disputed sentience of painted witches and wizards aside, they undoubtedly had the memories and knowledge of their human counterparts. Under no circumstances would any right-minded person want the Dark Lord to lay his hands on the memories of Albus Dumbledore. Who knew what secrets would be laid bare to the world's most powerful Dark wizard if that were to happen?

Minerva was overdoing it, Massingbird thought to himself, as she reached for yet another stack of parchments which required her signature. Usually it was enough to ignore the felon for just a couple of minutes; enough time to impress upon them that they were in trouble, but not enough for them to begin to formulate excuses for their transgressions. However, whereas she was well accustomed to disciplining students, she was new to the post of punishing members of the teaching staff.

He turned his attention back to the portraits. He had never given much thought to the idea of having such an image made of himself; not even now that he was approaching the end of his life. Unlike the former occupant of the office in which he now found himself, he had never been so sanguine about his own mortality. Indeed, if anyone had listed five adjectives they would use to describe Hieronymus Massingbird, hypochondriac would have featured somewhere in the list. Oh, it was nothing he didn't have control of and it certainly didn't interfere with his day to day life. Once every six months, though, he did take himself off to St. Mungo's for a thorough check-up.

Still, the thought of being...trapped...inside a painting for eternity made him squirm. Come what may, when he died he would face it as Dumbledore had chosen to do; without a portrait. He swept his eyes over the echoes of Headmasters and Headmistresses past and sighed.

"Go in peace, my friends, wherever you now may roam," he thought to himself.

When he looked back down to the desk in front of him, he was met by Minerva McGonagall's steady gaze. It wasn't an angry one.

"Oh do sit down, Hero," she said in an exasperated voice.

Flicking her wand at a chair standing against the wall, she pulled it over to the desk for him. He sat down gratefully, painfully aware of the dull ache in his legs and lower back.

"What happened in the hospital wing?"

"I was trying to bring our insufferably young friend down a peg or two," he answered.

"And that needed to be done when he was in a bed with a hole in his chest, did it?"

He paused before answering, carefully weighing his words. He delighted in Minerva's Scottish accent, but sometimes it made her mood hard to gauge.

"I'm sorry, I lost my temper."

"That is the one thing, Hero, which you must never do with children." Before continuing, she patted the tight bun of hair at the back of her head as if to ensure that it was still there and in good order. "Although, I must admit that it seems strange to be categorising Ronald Weasley as children," she added ruefully.

"But he was behaving..."

"He was behaving as children do, Hero," she interrupted. "The more you scold them, the more they resist you. I swear, at times it seems to me as if this school were full of donkeys as opposed to human beings. It all comes down to ego; we, as adults, can control ours and act for the greater good whilst those younger than us are unable to do so."

"Minerva, practically everyone is younger than us," Massingbird offered quietly.

She looked up sharply, unsure of whether or not he was offering humour at such an inopportune time as this. However, when she met his eyes they were tearful and full of regret.

"I sought only to help him see things as they are, Minerva. He is young and has his whole life ahead of him. I only want to help him avoid making mistakes; to let him be happy."

They sat looking at one another for long moments before the silence was broken again.

"When I see the young faces in this school, I want to curl up and die," he said. "They are so young, Minerva. Adolescent love affairs and Quidditch matches are the sum total of what they ought to be worried about; not the death of their families. Even the arrogant little Slytherins seem unable to comprehend the true horror of what would await even them under the Dark Lord's reign. He cares not for the purity of their blood or their ambitious natures - his sole concern is how much he can use them before he discards them! Voldemort is a cancer who must be cut from society. He must!" he shouted, curling his hands into tight fists.

She had remained silent while he spoke. He obviously needed to unburden himself.

"Hero, you and I know that we cannot make them see the world for what it truly is. They have to discover it for themselves and in the same manner as did we: by trial and error. I know that you are out of practice and can only offer you a piece of advice which Albus, in turn, offered to me; namely, to be patient with youngsters."

She paused, waiting to see if he would add anything. He did not.

"Go and speak to him, Hero. Explain what you were trying to do and, perhaps more importantly, why you were trying to do it. However," she warned, "this time there shall be no shouting!"

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The next morning found a pale-faced Ron sitting up in bed again. It had taken a direct order from Professor McGonagall to have Madam Pomfrey grant Hero access to her patient again, despite the profound and sincere apologies he had offered her the previous night. The two of them had sat up talking into the small hours, trying to re-establish the bond that had until recently been growing between them. Each had their own reasons for doing so, but they were anxious to heal their bruised relationship.

Ron not only needed a link back to his own father, but he also needed a surrogate to help ease the pain of his passing. He simply couldn't approach either Bill or Charlie; they didn't have that type of relationship now and had never done so in the past. What was more, Hero was able to give Ron access to a side of Arthur Weasley that he had never seen. His father had been quite a tearaway in his youth at Hogwarts, a fact that gave Ron no end of satisfaction. He felt that he at last come to know his father.

Hero was also satisfying a very basic need in that he was an old man without a family. He felt an affinity for the young Gryffindor beyond anything he had felt for any one individual for such a long time. Never one for flights of fancy, he could nevertheless not help but indulge in fantasies of an extended family including grandchildren and, perhaps, great-grandchildren. Though he knew that he was indulging in self-pity, he could not help but feel sorry for himself.

"What I said was unforgivable, Ron; Arthur would never have been ashamed of you," he had said. "Arthur was a gentle man who always found the best in all people. Please say that you forgive me?"

"Gentleman?" said Ron, puzzled. "He wasn't a gentleman, Hero; I mean, I know he was pureblood and all..."

"Not 'gentleman', Ronald - 'gentle man'."

Ron had raised his head from his pillows and looked at Hero for the first time. He smiled.

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In the end, Ron refused to go back to his dormitory, his roommates and his beloved Gryffindor Tower and had insisted on signing the forms to drop out of Hogwarts. Such was his ire in the face of their continued resistance that they had chosen to humour him.

He went to his dormitory when his friends were in class and collected all of his things. He left for the Fifth Common Room without ever looking back.

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