The next morning, as pale sunlight filtered through London's clouds, Harry followed the Weasley family back to the hospital again to visit Mr. Weasley, whose condition remained serious.
Standing in the crowded hall in front of the inquiry desk on the first floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, looking around at the place still thoroughly shrouded in an oppressive atmosphere of gloom and misery, Harry hesitated before proceeding further.
Sirius had finally forgiven him for his reckless actions on the battlefield, though it had taken most of the previous evening and several tearful exchanges.
And despite everything that had happened, they hadn't forgotten his birthday either.
Mrs. Weasley, bless her generous heart, had brought the children back to Grimmauld Place from St. Mungo's specifically to celebrate his fifteenth birthday at dinner, insisting that some joy needed to exist even in dark times.
Although the birthday cake that Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Hermione had hastily made for him in the old kitchen wasn't very 'impressive' by any objective standard as the icing was uneven, one side had collapsed slightly, and the candles were mismatched—the genuine gesture and effort behind it still deeply moved Harry to his core.
It was undoubtedly a memorable birthday—though in another, darker sense than he'd ever imagined a birthday could be.
Sirius, Hagrid, and the other Order members gathered around the table had tried not to spoil the celebratory mood, forcing smiles and raising glasses. But they simply couldn't help discussing the enormous losses they had suffered in the war that had just ended mere hours before.
Almost every single member of the Order of the Phoenix who had participated in the war had been injured in some capacity—some seriously, others less so, but all bearing scars.
Emmeline Vance had died in a duel with the Carrow siblings. And Kingsley who had courageously avenged her, had lost his left leg in the process.
Mr. Weasley had nearly lost half his life.
And Dedalus Diggle, who had always been so enthusiastic and cheerful, had died at the hands of a Death Eater.
"It was Greengrass—"
Under the flickering candlelight, though Sirius's tone was controlled, his gray eyes revealed deep-seated hatred that burned like coals.
"I was chasing Lucius Malfoy at the time because Moody suspected Voldemort had given him some specific task. But halfway there, Greengrass suddenly jumped out from behind rubble and blocked my path. We exchanged a few blows—I managed to smash his mask with a curse, revealing his identity and then—"
Sirius's voice grew blocked with emotion.
Harry was certain he saw tears gathering in his godfather's eyes.
"Dedalus was nearby fighting several of Voldemort's minions. He saw I was going after Malfoy, so he came over to help me—"
Sirius suddenly couldn't continue speaking. He closed his eyes tightly, leaned back heavily against his chair, and clenched his jaw so hard the muscles stood out.
Harry opened his mouth but didn't know how to comfort him, what words could possibly help. He wasn't much familiar with the adult Greengrass. But he knew his two daughters who attended Hogwarts very well: Daphne Greengrass, who was in his year in Slytherin, and Astoria Greengrass, the younger sister.
Especially Astoria—she was Professor Watson's youngest student in PE Class, and they could all see clearly that Professor Watson thought highly of her.
"Will the Ministry arrest him?" Hermione's eyes were somewhat dazed and unfocused as she asked the question. She too had immediately thought of Daphne and Astoria.
"The Ministry will definitely take action against him—" Remus was also rubbing his brow wearily, his voice was slightly hoarse from exhaustion and emotion.
"But I'd bet my last Galleon he's already fled from his home and gone into hiding. All the Death Eaters whose faces were revealed during the battle will do exactly that. They know what's coming."
"If I were Professor Watson—" George said with hatred edging his voice, his hands clenched into fists on the table.
"When next term starts at Hogwarts, I'd round up all those Death Eater brats whose parents fought for Voldemort, then force their parents to show themselves to save their children. I bet that would work better than threatening them with seized gold!"
"That kind of thinking is dangerous, Fred—" Hagrid, who had accidentally mixed up the twins again, looked flushed and spoke in his booming voice that filled the kitchen.
"If we did that, what difference would there be between us and the Death Eaters?!" George fell into silence, but from the expressions visible on the Weasley children's faces, they seemed to agree with George's suggestion despite Hagrid's words.
"All right, let's cut the cake, Harry—"
Perhaps sensing that these topics were far too heavy and dark for a group of underage young wizards to be dwelling on, especially on what should be a celebration, Mrs. Weasley forced a bright smile onto her round face and handed Harry the knife with deliberate cheerfulness.
"You're fifteen now!"
After eating the somewhat lopsided cake which tasted better than it looked—Mrs. Weasley had firmly insisted they all wash up properly and go to bed at a reasonable hour.
Though Harry very much wanted to have a long, heart-to-heart talk with his godfather about everything that had happened, considering that Sirius had been through a brutal war just that day and was injured and clearly needed proper rest for healing, Harry had reluctantly refrained from asking.
Back in the bedroom he shared with Ron, Harry immediately collapsed onto his bed with relief.
Although he had slept through most of the previous day while unconscious, he still felt extremely exhausted in body and soul.
Ron had also completely lost his usual boundless energy and mischievous spirit. He sat quietly at the head of his bed, bathed in warm candlelight, staring at nothing.
"I actually think—" After a long while of heavy silence, Ron, looking unusually gloomy and serious, suddenly spoke into the quiet. "George's method is pretty good."
"Mmm—" Harry mumbled in vague agreement, not committing fully. He wasn't particularly surprised Ron would think this way, given what his father had suffered.
"If my dad or mum were Death Eaters, I wouldn't have the nerve or the stomach to continue attending Professor Watson's classes!" Ron said bitterly again.
This time, Harry made no sound in response. He lay completely motionless on the bed, covering his eyes with his forearm, as if he had already fallen asleep and couldn't hear.
In the dim bedroom, Ron sat alone in the candlelight for a long time, wrestling with dark thoughts. After releasing a heavy sigh that seemed to come from his very soul, he too collapsed back onto his bed and fell into sleep without even bothering to turn off the light.
...…
"Hurry up, Harry, they've moved Arthur to a different ward. He's on the fourth floor now."
Harry, who had been staring blankly at the disturbing bloodstains still visible on the hall floor—uncleaned overnight and now dried into brown spots that looked almost black came suddenly to his senses.
He hurried to catch up with the Weasleys who were already heading toward the staircase to go upstairs.
"I need to get my bandages changed and my wounds examined. I'll join you all later."
When they reached the second floor landing, Sirius patted Harry affectionately on the shoulder and walked into the second floor corridor, heading toward the treatment rooms.
As they passed the third floor landing, Harry quickly poked his head curiously into the third floor corridor.
He noticed immediately that the long row of stretchers covered with white sheets he had seen lined up in the corridor yesterday were all gone now. They must have all been claimed by grieving family members for burial.
Harry pulled his head back and, seeing everyone staring at his odd behavior with concerned expressions, cleared his throat awkwardly and asked his question. "Ahem, why exactly did they move Mr. Weasley to a different ward?"
"I think it's because he's recovering well—" Mrs. Weasley pressed her lips together in a thin line.
When answering Harry's question, her tone wasn't very confident or certain. "Arthur was in the intensive care unit yesterday. Perhaps the healers at St. Mungo's feel his injuries have stabilized sufficiently, so they moved him out to make room for others in more critical condition—"
"They shouldn't be moving him around like baggage!" Ginny said indignantly, her face flushed as she stood up for her father. "He's already been so badly injured, hasn't he? He should be left to rest!"
"Oh, we can't be too selfish about these things, Ginny dear. Maybe they've received patients with even more critical injuries who need that intensive care—"
Though she spoke these words to comfort Ginny, Mrs. Weasley's own expression looked resentful and dissatisfied with the situation.
"But honestly, St. Mungo's really should consider expanding their facilities significantly. Every time I come here it's overcrowded to the point of being ridiculous. And being located in Muggle territory like this, patients can't even get some proper sun or fresh air, which are crucial for recovery."
Listening to Mrs. Weasley's continued complaints and criticisms, they climbed slowly up to the fourth floor, navigating around other visitors.
The thick, metallic smell of blood in the air on the fourth floor was somewhat fainter than it had been on the third, but the various complex potion scents used to treat magical injuries were all mixed together in an unpleasant combination, still making the entire group frown and wrinkle their noses.
The corridor was almost completely filled with anxious families of the injured, packed shoulder to shoulder. It was difficult to even squeeze one more person into the crowded space.
"I'd better come back another day—"
A woman holding a treatment form looked at the overcrowded corridor and sighed heavily with resignation.
As she made her way carefully back downstairs, Harry noticed with shock that this person's feet had been magically reversed by some spell.
With each awkward step she took, her two feet were actually fighting each other for position, making her progress slow and painful to watch.
"Neville?"
Harry, who had been watching the woman's strange downward gait, heard Hermione's surprised cry and quickly turned his head around.
"Is that really you?"
Neville, squeezing his way out of the packed corridor with difficulty, was equally surprised to run into his Hogwarts classmates here.
"Your parents?"
It went without saying why people were at St. Mungo's right now—the war had touched everyone.
Hermione looked at Neville with genuine concern etched on her face. She had witnessed Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom waking from their long coma with her own eyes, and had seen Neville's first real reunion with his parents after so many years of separation.
"Oh, don't worry, Hermione, they're fine—" Neville's raised eyebrows lowered, his eyes were showing some darkness and lingering fear. "Just some external injuries, cuts and bruises mostly. Bellatrix didn't manage to do much serious damage to them this time, thank Merlin. But the healers at St. Mungo's want them to come in and change their dressings every single day—"
Neville held up the small bottle of potion in his hand as evidence.
"They're on the second floor. I'm getting medicine for them. By the way, I heard them mention—"
Neville explained his parents' condition in more detail, then turned his concerned gaze to Ron and the others, clearly having heard about Arthur. "How's your father, Ron?"
"His life was saved." Ron said glumly.
"That's already something to celebrate, Ron!" Mrs. Weasley raised her voice sharply to express her dissatisfaction with Ron's negative attitude, then softened her expression and smiled warmly to greet Neville. "Your parents fought—"
CRASH—
Something caused a sudden commotion downstairs.
The sound of many feet moving, voices rising in excitement. Standing at the stairwell, the group could hear from below seemingly from the first floor entrance—the sound of enthusiastic applause and cheering.
The atmosphere seemed quite excited and celebratory.
This seemed very out of place at St. Mungo's, where everyone usually looked sad and spoke in hushed tones.
"Minister Bones!"
The group curiously stuck their heads out over the railing, and in the noisy clamor rising from below, Harry vaguely heard many different voices shouting.
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