I hate St. Mungos. In fact, I hate all hospitals, Muggle and wizard alike. The Muggle ones smell of death and blood, and those poles called IV’s. St. Mungos smells of death and blood, too, but there are no IV’s. Instead, in every corner, every bedsheet, lurks the scent of Pepperup Potion, Calming Draught, and potions too complex and secretive to name.
Hospitals have sounds, too, that can and will tear even Snape’s heart apart. Patients, moaning in pain; family, waiting, and permeating the loudest noises of all: stiff silence and uncontrollable sobs. Those are the noises my family is making.
Dad is leaning against the wall, trying to hide his face. But I can see that his face is coated with a layer of tears, and more are streaming out of his eyes, and they may very well never stop.
Mum isn’t the quiet sort. She’s hunched over on the sofa, sobs wracking her entire body. Mum was always a strong woman, standing up when everyone fell, lighting the candle in the darkness, but I’m afraid that those sobs, those expressions of emotion, will tear her apart and bring down the light of our family.
Fleur is with Mum, perched awkwardly on the armrest, dry-eyed. But, she doesn’t need tears to show her fear and grief. Her eyes, so bleak, and her face, so drawn, show the pain that fills her because of one lousy werewolf.
George, he’s hovering near the door, looking half-complete. That’s probably because Fred is behind that door, and that’s who George is waiting for. His face is dark, his eyes, once so full of mischievous twinkles, are full of only pain and anger now.
Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, they’re all behind that door. Bill, fatally wounded from fighting Greyback. Charlie, four stunners in the back. Percy, a minute under the Cruciatus Curse. And Fred, a Cutting Curse across the chest.
But not all the Weasley boys are behind that stupid door. Ron’s out here, with Hermione, of course. He’s holding and rocking her, while she cries into his chest. He’s rocking her gently and stroking her hair, while she buries her head in his chest, away from the world, away from the hospital and the pain.
Damn it! I can’t look at them any more! Every time I look down the row of chairs, and see Ron holding Hermione, it kills me. Every time I look, my heart dies, because I could have someone to cry on. I could have someone to hold me and stroke my hair. That someone could be Harry. That someone could be Harry bloody Potter, who’s behind that stupid door with the rest of my brothers. But Harry, he had to run off and kill Voldemort, then land himself in the Emergency Ward at St. Mungos with four of my brothers.
The door opens, and a Healer steps out. Everyone looks up. Mum, Dad, and Hermione stop crying.
“Don’t worry, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, you’re boys will make it,” the Healer said in a carefully controlled voice. “Mr. Potter, though, I’m afraid he won’t…”
With those words, my heart broke in half.