Chapter 3 - Defensive Strategy

Ron had experienced many sleepless nights before, but he had since developed ways of dealing with them. Years of experience helped him overcome restlessness the night before a big Chudley United game. Harry suggested an orthopaedic pillow to help him cope with dodgy hotel mattresses. Nights away from Lavender were hard, but Ron could always revert to a skill he had mastered in his teenage years. Having a wank.

Tonight, Ron found himself rendered immobile, forced to lie on the bed with his neck and back strapped down as he struggled to make himself comfortable. He couldn't roll over, flip his pillow over to the cooler side, or even touch himself. So Ron resorted to staring at the illuminated clock on the wall. He watched as the clock moved from midnight to one, two, three and four AM, but sleep still had not come.

Sighing into the darkness, Ron imagined what his life would be like over the next six months. Learning to walk would be a daunting task, that was obvious. Yet, it was the possibility of never playing football again that ate away at him like a thousand tiny ant bites. Each hypothetical bite caused him to experience a different wave of emotion.

The looks of sadness from his family as they recounted his injury.

Jealousy towards his teammates who would go on to Wembley without him.

Bitterness at having been the one to make the sacrifice to get them there. It resulted in wave after wave of anger at the universe for dealing him the lousiest cards in life.

Ron felt the tears start to trickle down his face, and it wasn't long before the strength in his body abandoned him. He blinked once, twice, and three times, unable to wipe away the tears before finally succumbing to sleep.

It felt like his eyes had only closed for the briefest of seconds before the screeching sound of a chair dragging across the hospital floor wrenched him from his slumber. Unable to look around at the assailant who had disturbed his sleep, he called out into the darkness.

"What's going on? Who is that?"

"Morning, mate," came the reply of a familiar voice. "Good to see you're awake. I thought I may have interrupted your sleep there for a second."

"Harry? Of course, I was asleep. Why are you here so bloody early? What's the time?" Ron groaned.

"It's almost nine," Harry replied, leaning over Ron to turn on the light switch behind the bed.

"Almost nine? Visiting hours don't start until ten, so how did you get in here?" Ron asked, finally able to see Harry.

Ignoring the question, Harry placed a cup of coffee and a packet of biscuits on the small table next to the bed. Ron glanced up at the illuminated wall clock, which read 8:27—Harry had somehow sneaked in early.

"Harry," Ron called, trying to sound stern. "How did you get in here before the visiting hours?"

Harry shifted around on his feet, a guilty expression on his face.

"I walked in through the A&E and took the lift here," Harry explained before taking a seat. Ron thought he noticed a change in his expression.

"The Charge Nurse spotted me, but I was able to sweet-talk her into letting me in. I gave her the coffee I got for you," he said, smirking at Ron, who immediately saw through his charade.

"You told her you were an orphan and that I was the closest thing you have to a family, didn't you?" Ron asked in mock disgust.

"Yup," Harry replied. He took a sip of his coffee before exaggeratedly wiping pretend tears from his dry eyes. "Worked like a charm. She was sympathetic and let me right in."

"I can't bloody believe that tactic still works. You used it all the time at school. Well, it's good to see you, at least. I've had the lousiest night, barely slept a wink."

He released a loud yawn as his eyes fell on the packet of biscuits Harry had placed on the table.

"I don't think you can eat those. The nurse, Norma, told me they'll serve you a liquid breakfast today before they examine you again. If all goes well, you'll be allowed to sit up and eat solid food." Harry grabbed the packet and shoved a whole biscuit into his mouth. "These are for me," he added, spraying crumbs over Ron's bed.

Letting out a groan of frustration and closing his eyes, Ron attempted to go back to sleep. A slight cough from Harry forced him to open them and look towards the black-haired man, who had a conflicted look upon his face.

"What is it, Harry? I know you want to say something," Ron asked.

"Everything's going to be okay, you know? You'll get through it all. Lots of people survive back injuries." His tone was unconvincing. "What part is it that's broken? Do you have a picture of it, and can I see it?"

"Why would I have a picture of it?"

"It's common practice to fucking get pictures of shit now! Everyone wants pictures of their freaky shit, then they post it on Facebook or Instagram, or start one of those GoFundMe campaign things."

"Yeah, well, I don't have a picture of it. I saw it once, and I don't want to see it again," Ron snapped.

Harry slumped back into his seat and let out a huff of disappointment. "Okay, so what are your odds? They must have some sort of timeline for you to recover. What did that bloke, Doctor Randall, say?"

"He said it was fifty-fifty," Ron replied with a sigh. "Rubbish odds if you—"

"That's not that bad. You're going to be fine. That's better than I thought. You're young, healthy, and in the prime of your life. You got this, man!".

Ron looked on as Harry reached for another biscuit and took a sip of his coffee before speaking again.

"People recover from spinal injuries all the time, and young people are always recovering from all sorts of crap. Look at Superman, Christopher Reeve, he fell off his horse, and he's doing fine after a spinal injury, and he was a lot older than you."

"Christopher Reeve?"

"Yeah, the guy who played Superman. Remember? We watched it on your dad's old VHS player when we were twelve," Harry said.

Ron smiled at the memory of Harry's first visit during the summer holidays, the year they met at school.

"I remember, but dude, the guy's dead," Ron corrected, horrified at Harry's lack of knowledge. "He never walked again. He lived out his life in a wheelchair and had problems breathing for the rest of his life," he finished, staring at Harry.

"What?" Harry exclaimed with a look of shock on his face. He buried his head in his hands and muttered, "I really thought he had survived, recovered, learnt to walk again. That's—that's really fucked up. I didn't know that."

As the pair looked back up at each other, Ron could see that Harry's eyes were now watering slightly behind his round glasses. Meanwhile, Harry's naive comment had only worked in agitating Ron.

"Don't even think about him. Don't worry about that. Forget I said anything about him," Harry added. "We've got to look at the bright side here—"

"Bright side?" Ron snapped. "What's the fucking bright side of this, Harry? I won't be able to fucking walk again, football's fucking never going to be possible for me, and my sodding dick might be limp for the rest of my fucking life! Where's the bloody fucking bright side of that, then? Huh?"

Every bit of anger, resentment, jealousy, and pure loathing within Ron erupted forth at that moment, directed towards his best friend.

The sheer weight of the emotions and bitterness he had bottled within him overwhelmed his body. A tightness began to form in Ron's chest, and his neck and back started to throb with intensifying pain. Remembering Doctor Randall's advice, he let out heavy breaths, trying to regain his composure.

It was a useless endeavour as the pain continued to worsen.

Harry scrambled to his feet, the pack of biscuits in his lap falling to the floor.

"Ron? Are you okay? I'm sorry, forget I said anything. I was talking nonsense," Harry said in a panicked voice. When Ron's distressed state did not subside, he turned on his heels and ran from the ward. "I'll get a nurse!"

Ron closed his eyes, biting down on his lip as he tried to ignore the pain radiating from his neck, but it was all too much for him to disregard. He began to scream as his torso started to thrash against the bed, the straps holding him down barely containing him.

Harry returned seconds later, followed by a nurse, who pulled out a syringe and plunged it into the cannula fitted to Ron's hand.

Slowly, Ron felt the pain ebb away from him as his thrashing subsided. The tightness in his chest is now replaced by a numb, airy sensation—this is what levitating must feel like.

Ron spent the next few minutes watching as the nurse continued her ministrations. Whatever was in the syringe had eased away all the pain. Regaining some clarity, Ron allowed himself to analyse the situation from a few moments prior.

He had blown up at his best friend for not being able to handle a sensitive subject. Ron knew that he would have struggled with something like this if the situation had been different. Harry had been the one unfortunate enough to be in the room when Ron finally broke down, and he didn't deserve that.

"Listen, Harry, I'm sorry. The way I reacted, I'm sorry. It was awful, and you didn't deserve that," Ron said.

Harry walked back over to Ron's side and gripped the bed rail, his face pale and panicked. He looked down and said, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—" before trailing off and staring blankly at the floor.

His eyes began to water, and it was with a quivering lip that he said, "It's fucked up, and I don't expect you to have to bottle it up. We can forget we both said anything. I just know—know it's going to be fine. You'll be fine." Harry gave him a pat on the leg, an action which Ron couldn't feel but chose not to mention.

"You'll have to tell them, you know?" Harry said, returning to his previously occupied seat. "Your family. I know you don't plan to tell them."

"I don't want to. I wasn't going to, but you're right. I kinda have to. I just—I just know how my mum's going to get, and I don't want to deal with that," replied Ron. "She's already dealing with my dad's injury, and you know how she gets."

"Exactly, so she'll understand it better than most people. You have to tell her. Tell them," Harry stood up and towered above Ron with an uncharacteristically stern look upon his face.

"The club is paying for you to have the best options of care and medicine in the country. Don't waste it away or hide it from your family and make them feel like shit. You deserve the care, and you're worth every penny spent. They'll find out eventually anyway because you play for Chudley United, so the injury and your recovery will be on all the back pages. Let them hear it from you and not some tabloid rag."

Ron wasn't able to offer any sort of counter-argument. Harry was right. He would have to tell his family, as the whole situation would be too high profile to keep hidden away from them.

"Your odds are fifty-fifty. Well, those are great odds. You either fucking do it, or you don't. Fifty-fifty." Harry took his seat once more before adding, "If you were a betting site, you'd be offering the best odds!"

Ron chuckled as the pair made small talk for the next few minutes before the nurse informed him she was done and that it was time for his check-ups and breakfast. Harry promised to wait until he returned as Hagrid, the burly porter, once again wheeled him off around the hospital.

It was shortly after ten when Hagrid returned Ron to his cubicle. Harry was waiting for him as promised, but he was now joined by Ron's mother, Molly, who was examining various pamphlets.

Catching sight of Ron, she discarded the pamphlet and hurried to his bedside. Molly immediately began fussing over Ron's state, running her hands through his hair, attempting to neaten it.

"Honestly, Ron, you need to tell these nurses to freshen you up in the morning. I'll be having a word with them, leaving you in this unfit state," she said wistfully. "Did they feed you? Have you had enough to eat? I can always pop back to the house and cook up some fresh onion soup."

"Hi, to you too, mum," Ron grumbled. He had long learnt to accept his mother's fretting, but that didn't stop it from being a difficult task to not react when she did. "I ate a good breakfast, and I like my hair like this. Can you sit down? I need to tell you something, but you have to promise me you won't freak out."

His mother straightened up to look at him, a fearful look on her face.

"What is it, Ron? Did the doctor tell you something?" she asked as she took a seat.

"Promise me, mum," Ron repeated, a little more sternly.

"You make me out to be some sort of madwoman. Fine, I promise," she replied, rolling her eyes at his request.

Ron spent the next few minutes recounting every moment since he had left the ward the previous night. As each minute of his telling went on, Ron watched as his mother slowly came undone from his revelations. In the end, she was struggling for air as tears cascaded out of her bloodshot eyes and mixed with the snot from her runny nose, leaving her face blotchy and smeared.

She reached into her handbag and withdrew a packet of tissues. Blowing her nose, she turned to Ron, her face set with determination, and said, "You're moving back to The Burrow. I'm taking you back to Devon as soon as they discharge you, and I'll take care of you until you're back on your feet."

"No. That's not happening. You already have to care for dad, and I'm not going to take away from his needs. He needs to recover," Ron argued, matching his mother's look of determination.

"Nonsense! Your father will make a full recovery in a few weeks, and then I'll be giving him a piece of my mind. Lad's trip to the Sahara. What on earth were they thinking? I've already called Kingsley, Remus, and Sirius and given them an earful. Once Arthur has recovered, he'll wish he was still injured when I'm through with him," she let out a huff before blowing her nose once more.

Ron couldn't help feeling a little glad the attention had already moved away from him. Arthur Weasley and his three best friends must have been going through midlife crises when they decided to venture off to the Sahara desert for a week. The exact circumstances were unknown, but the group had returned to the country with an injured Arthur, bitten by a snake and having suffered a heart attack.

Ron's mother had been apoplectic, and the family was left shaken by the events. Yet, once it became clear that their father would recover, the hilarity of the situation became a lot clearer, and the joking and teasing had commenced.

"Grown men getting lost in the desert, suffering from heatstroke and deciding to play with venomous snakes before your father gets bitten. Then, to top it all off, he goes and has a cardiac event," Molly said, continuing her tirade.

Ron failed to stop the chuckle that escaped his lips as his mother recounted the events, and neither could Harry. Molly glared at Harry, who backed away, before turning back to Ron with her nostrils flaring.

"Why are you refusing to come home?" she asked in a quiet voice, the glare falling from her face to be replaced by a look of sadness.

"Ottery will always be my home town, The Burrow will always be home, but I have to recover. This is the best place to do that, near the club, the hospitals, and the doctors," Ron said, imploring her to understand why he had made this decision.

"But who's going to look after you? Cook, feed, and clothe you? Drive you to your appointments and therapy?" she asked. "You don't even drive. If I move in with you, just until—"

"Absolutely not—"

"I will," came a voice from the entrance of the cubicle, drowning out Ron's protest.

Molly whirled around to see Lavender standing there with the same determined look on her face from last night. Lavender took a deep breath, walked over to Ron's bedside, and placed her hand within his. Ron looked up and gave her an encouraging smile, which she returned.

"I'll be moving in and taking care of Ron," she announced. "We'll get through this together."

Molly Weasley said nothing.

Harry looked like he wanted to leave again, but Ron was grateful when he didn't.

Turning his gaze back to his mother, Ron saw she was pale and sitting stock-still. The only indication that she wasn't dead was the movement of her hand, which trembled uncontrollably. Ron felt uneasy as he tried to anticipate his mother's next move.

After what felt like an eternity, she stood up, chewing her lip as her eyes welled with tears. Ron watched, horrified, as his mother broke down in front of him and let out gut-wrenching sobs.

"Mum, please!" Ron yelled out to her. "Don't cry. I promise, I'll do what I can to get better, and I know you'll be there if I need—when I need you."

Unable to comfort her, Ron looked imploringly to Harry, who scrambled to his feet and moved to Molly's side. Harry put his arm around her and attempted to coax her back into her seat.

"It's okay, Molly. He'll be well looked after. Chudley United is paying for the best, and that's what Ron will get. I promise," Harry said, trying to reassure her. "Ginny and I will be close, we'll keep an eye on them and help out wherever possible, and you know Percy, Fred, and George will do whatever it takes too."

Harry rubbed her back and continued to offer her reassurances.

"This hospital is the best for this kind of thing, and you'll be able to see for yourself. I'll be more than happy to drive you down anytime, any day, to check on Ron."

His words seemed to work as Molly's sobs subsided into slight hiccups. She removed herself from Harry's embrace and strode over to Ron's bed before leaning down to place a watery kiss on his forehead.

"As soon as you need me, I'll be there. You just have to call, promise me, Ronald?" she asked with an air of desperation.

"I promise," Ron replied.

She straightened up, looking squarely at Lavender as she said, "You look after my boy." Although her tone was not menacing, the implications of her words were clear.

"Of—of course, I will, Mrs Weasley," Lavender replied, her voice quivering.

As Molly gave her a watery smile in response, Harry stood up and said, "Molly, Lavender, shall we go grab a coffee? You both look like you could use one." He motioned for them to follow before winking at Ron as they left the cubicle.

Ron smiled to himself as he watched them leave. Fifty-fifty. They were starting to look like good odds.