IV

Resolution

Ron had never been good at accepting injustice. 

It wasn't that he was naïve.  He knew the world wasn't fair, he had learned not to expect it to be.  But when he was confronted with a situation devoid of sense or justice, he just couldn't let it be.  Couldn't accept it.  It was the way he had always been, and probably always would be.

So when the healer witch at St Mungos had stepped out of Harry's hospital room and begun to speak in soft, sad tones, he had scarcely been able to comprehend her words.

"We've done what we can to make him comfortable, but... he has taken a direct hit from a powerful and uncontrolled Obliviate curse.  I'm afraid his memories are completely shattered.  Permanently.  His eyes can take in images but his mind can't store them long enough to process them.  The damage can not be repaired by any known counter-spell.  I'm … so sorry."

All the Weasleys were present, together with Hermione and Sirius Black, their faces drawn and white with shock.

The effects of the healer's words were not immediate.  For a long, terrible moment, everyone just stood there in the hospital corridor, silent and unmoving. 

Then Mrs Weasley let out a short, choked sob, and everyone was jolted into response.

Mr Weasley put his arm around his wife's shoulders, and Hermione dropped her face into her hands.  Sirius strode forward to argue furiously with the healer, who bore the full force of his angry accusations with all the calmness and patience she could muster. 

Ginny stood amongst everyone, touching no one.  Her eyes were closed, her face pale, and her hands clenching and unclenching by her sides in silent paroxysms of pain.  Bill and Charlie exchanged glances that spoke wordlessly of grief and horror.  Percy reached out to place his hand on Hermione's shoulder in a gesture of comfort, and the twins stood quietly, looking eerily pale and serious.

Ron stood apart from them all, and watched in silence.

A kind of sickly numbness had come over him.  He looked at his family and friends and realised with dawning horror that this was real, and it wasn't going to go away. 

Harry was really gone.  His almost-brother, the last light in Sirius's dark life, his sister's first love, Hermione's best friend…  They were never going to get over this.  They would hover by his bedside, all their joys muted, and they would weep and plead and grieve…  And it wouldn't do the slightest bit of good.

Harry would not even know their names.  Every time they stepped out of his line of vision he would forget their very existence.  He was gone.  'Lost to them.'

And it wasn't fair.  Damn it!  It wasn't right.  Voldemort was gone.  Harry ought to be here, they ought to be celebrating their victory at last.

But he wasn't.

But he should be.

It wasn't fair.

He wished his mother would stop weeping.  He wished Hermione's shoulders would stop trembling.  He wished Ginny would open her eyes.  He wished Fred would crack a smile.  None of this was helping.  Nothing they could do here would help.

They could and would grieve at Harry's bedside for the rest of their lives and it wouldn't make a damned difference to anything.

There was nothing anyone could do to make a difference.  They were so bloody helpless.

Frustration and anger swelled up inside him with such burning ferocity that he caught his breath.  Dizziness overwhelmed him for a moment, but when it cleared, the fire was still there. 

Searing him. 

Driving him on.

He knew at that moment that he there was nothing more he could do here, in these quiet, pain-heavy hospital corridors.

So there was no known counter Curse to an Obliviate spell?

Well, that would have to change.

Hang on, Harry mate, he thought grimly to himself as he turned without a word and strode away down the corridor.  I don't care what it takes.  You're coming back to us.  I swear to you, I'm not coming back to this place til you can look me in the face and say my name.  Even if I have to climb inside your head and put the pieces together myself.  Just hang on…