Mr. Weasley was wrapped from head to toe in layer after layer of bandages, like a mummy. Just from the look of it, his injuries had to be severe.
But what Harry felt more than anything was relief.
At least Mr. Weasley still had all four limbs intact.
Think of Kingsley, who had lost a leg. Think of the witch on the first floor clutching her child. Then think of the row of stretchers in the corridor outside, the bodies upon them gradually growing cold.
The brutality of war had been laid bare before these young wizards who were still in school.
Making it back alive from the battlefield already counted as luck.
But the Weasley children could hardly have felt so relieved.
Ginny leaned into Fred's arms, sobbing softly. George looked at his father on the hospital bed, his lips trembling.
"Nothing missing, is there, Dad?"
"Oh, I'm not sure—"
Mr. Weasley gave a strained smile.
"A spell seemed to fly past my ear. Perhaps it punched a hole in it."
George seemed to want to add a quip or two, but the corners of his mouth, forced into a grin, looked as though they were crying.
Ron wanted to say something too, but his mouth had suddenly become clumsy, and he could not get a word out.
"Cheer up, children—"
Everyone was drowning in grief, and Mr. Weasley had no choice but to try and comfort his children.
"I'd wager the Ministry will reimburse the medical bills. They might even raise my salary—I've heard rumors."
"Stop talking, Arthur."
Mrs. Weasley sniffed hard, the sound almost like a wail.
"You need to rest. I—everything will be all right."
"Of course—"
Mr. Weasley said gently.
"You're right, Molly. I am feeling rather tired."
Harry knew he should not disturb Mr.