Chapter Text
Susan Bones hated a lot of things about her job. Like the long hours and her overbearing boss. She hated how Smyth Murray dropped by on random week nights with some made up illness so he could get a pain-relieving potion—one she charged for every time. She really hated when parents brought their kids in and tried to tell her that little Alice or little Timmy had fallen down the stairs and that’s why they had bruises of various ages in various places.
Working at the hospital was a political minefield on some days, an emotional one on others. Often it was satisfying, if exhausting, work that made it easier to get up in the mornings. And other times… well let’s just say she was late to shift on those mornings.
Mostly she hated that she achieved her dream of one day being a Healer, and the person who made sure that could happen wasn’t around to see it any more.
Today, she hated when her old school buddy, Ron Weasley, who was presumed dead for near three weeks, was dragged into the front room surrounded by a haggard group of friends and redheaded Weasley’s. How he wasn’t dead, Susan didn’t know.
Normally she would have found a quiet room for her to work in. The bottom floor of the hospital was equipped with several such rooms for immediate, emergency healing that needed getting done as soon as possible. But in Ron’s case, she didn’t bother despite their nearness. He needed attention, and by her initial guess, he was seconds away from death.
She simply pushed her long red hair over her shoulder and instructed the nearest Healer’s Aide to summon a stretcher. Two tall redheaded men she would later come to realize were Ron’s brothers laid his battered body in front of the receptionist’s desk, where she got to work.
One firm, “Quiet!” effectively silenced the massive group and she got down on her knees and spent the next hour closing up the hundreds of cuts across the man’s body. Two more Aides appeared during that time, helping her staunch the bleeding and setting broken bones. Her wand flicked out with strong, repetitive motions that would have her laid out and exhausted later.
But there was no time to think about later, only now. She powered through the physically demanding casting and weaving required to stitch Ron's body back together.
The Aides guided her motions so she could focus on her magic, a gentle ‘there’ and ‘here’ as they continuously told the group to keep silent on threat of being removed from the hospital. Susan didn’t say anything other than to request potions when needed, all her focus on keeping the man beneath her alive. His body was emaciated to the point his muscles had atrophied, nothing but bone underneath his freckled skin. Skin that was too pale to be healthy.
Skin covered with dirt and grime and what she knew to be fecal matter.
Magic took a toll. It drained her, the wand her conduit and the Healing Charm a song on her lips. At one point she was directly leaning over Ron, wand moving over his shattered shoulder, when his dull blue eyes blinked open. In them, Susan saw a helpless pit of pain and sorrow. The look of a man who thought he was going to die.
She reacted on instinct, grabbing the back of his head. Her fingers gripped mostly bloody hair. “Fight to live, Ron. You have to fight.”
Pain pushed him back into unconsciousness, and she continued to work.
.
Uncommon for a patient at St. Mungo’s, Ron stayed for a full week. 7 long days he spent in bed, in a deep healing sleep, surrounded by his friends and family. Susan watched from afar as they came and went, all of them making a fuss to ensure he was never left alone and getting the care he needed. From them she gleaned some information.
The woman Ron was dating had done this to him. Taken him hostage, cut him up among other things. She had him for 18 days. And she was dead. Killed by the sister.
After the initial damage was taken care of, Susan wasn’t responsible for his health, the focus shifting to the magical curse that was eating away at his insides, though she continued to drop by just to check on him. Physically, he would be fine. No lasting damage. But there was only so much magic could do. He was still pretty banged up.
Mostly he slept. His body needed energy to heal. Three times a day he was given a high protein, high calorie meal spoon fed to him by family or an Aide. More than half of those he would pass out before finishing.
One night, on the second day of his visit—such a pleasant word for a hospital stay—she overheard Hermione Granger crying over Ron’s bed. She told the man he better survive otherwise she would be very, very cross with him. He hadn’t responded, his trauma soul deep, but the next day he seemed to be slightly more responsive to treatment.
She debated telling Hermione that her encouragement worked, even if not as well as the woman expected. But Susan knew better than to comment on Ron’s health before she knew anything for certain. Even the slightest bit of hope could destroy a person in the long run.
And she was no longer his Healer. Her specialty was in physical injuries. It was magic wrecking his insides and there were those that were much better suited to treat him than Susan Bones, Wound Maven.
It was the 5th day when he rose to full consciousness, disoriented and frightened. Susan wasn’t present, but the hospital gossip mill was in full swing about how he apparently asked for her over anyone else. Something that made sense when she thought of the way he’d woken up when she first treated him.
She wouldn’t soon forget that look of despair in his eyes. He’d been looking directly at her, and something like that, in such a dire situation, was bound to stick.
It was with that cheery thought in mind that she made her way to his private room and faced down his family. Nothing like keeping her head high as she parted through a sea of Weasley's and rather famous witches and wizards who called themselves Ron’s friends. Likely because of their names, a slight leeway was allowed when it came to visiting hours.
But they were on her turf, not the other way around. She didn’t care that they were confused why it was her name Ron said when he first woke up instead of one of theirs. The mind was a peculiar thing, inexpiable, even with magic. And Susan would not be cowed on her own turf. She met their eyes and said, “Visiting hours ended 25 minutes ago. Of course the parents may remain.”
Healing was prickly business for more than one reason.
They grumbled and left one by one as Susan approached the bed, glaring at a few unmistakable Weasley Brothers, before she met Ron’s frantic gaze. He gestured to his mouth, which was hanging open and slanted slightly to the left, betraying the amount of pain he was in. Without hesitating she pulled out a pain reliever and a large syringe, which she used to feed him the potion so he wouldn’t need to move his mouth.
He liked that about as much as anyone. That is to say, not at all.
Sadly, the homely, older couple Susan assumed to be Ron’s parents watched the entire thing. They both had a look of pity and horror on their faces, but Susan couldn’t do anything about it. Ron might be comfortable enough to be so vulnerable in front of his parents, but in her experience most grown men wouldn’t be.
Afterward, she gently placed her hands on his pale, sunken cheeks and felt along his jaw with as soft a touch as she could manage. The Pain Reliever had him relaxing under her touch. “You’re having problems speaking because your jaw was dislocated, Mr. Weasley. It’s been set properly but might be sore for a while yet because the surrounding muscles swelled. I assume you’ve been informed you’re at St. Mungo’s? That means you’re safe, certainly safe in my care.”
He tried several times to speak, but couldn’t quite move his mouth correctly. He pinched his fingers together and moved his hand back and forth, the universal symbol for writing. She summoned a ballpoint pen and a piece of parchment for him. Lifting off the bed slightly, he messily scribbled a name: CHARLOTTE. Then he underlined it three times.
The older gentleman came forward. “Dead. She’s dead, son.”
Ron didn’t seem very relieved though. His pen went crazy again. SHE’S DONE IT BEFORE.
“Oh, Arthur,” the woman gasped, clutching onto her husband.
“I’ll take care of it, Son. Rest for now.” He patted Ron’s leg gently before turning and walking away quickly.
“Your brothers are right outside the door,” the woman told Ron. “So is Harry. We won’t leave you alone, dear.”
Susan watched Ron’s face crumble a bit, the pen falling from his fingers. Susan dipped down to retrieve it. When she came up, she caught Ron staring at her intently with a pair of dull blue eyes that she remembered being much brighter during school.
“I saw you,” he bit out, his consonants soft and slurring together due to the inability to move his jaw much. “Saved me.”
“Me and several others,” she informed him with a forced smile. Then she looked at his mum. “Mrs. Weasley, if you don’t mind, Ron is due for his nightly check-up, if I could have the room for just a few minutes?”
It was obvious from her posture that Mrs. Weasley was reluctant to leave her son. She kissed the top of Ron’s head and whispered a few more words into his ear before finally exiting the room. Ron seemed miserable when he looked at Susan. He made the same gesture as before, wanting the pen back.
She placed it in his hand and held the paper still as he wrote out, Do your worst—
Barely off his deathbed and he was making jokes. Cute. Susan forced a laugh, but she didn’t have to try all that hard.
“No examination just yet. I can tell you need some time alone, rather, some time without family gawking at your distress,” she admitted softly, as the door wasn’t completely closed. “Healing is prickly business, Ron. And it’s better done without an audience. You’ll make a full recovery, but it’ll be painful and long. Sleep while you can and know you’ll wake up safe.”
A single tear leaked from his eye and ran down his cheek. Thanks, he scribbled.
And that was the last time Susan saw Ron Weasley for eight months.