"Blood traitor filth."
Arthur and Molly Weasley kept their heads down as they crossed St Mungo's reception hall as quickly as they could without breaking into a run, pretending the Death Eater stationed at the entrance simply wasn't there. How far the Wizarding World had fallen, Arthur thought ruefully, that such men could wander about unmasked without a care in the world?
They joined the long queue at the reception desk. Arthur tapped his foot nervously, while his wife clutched his arm tightly. Slowly but steadily, they edged forwards, until at last— nearly half an hour later— they reached the front of the line, by which time Molly was on the verge of tears.
"We got an owl saying our son was here," said Molly anxiously to the Welcome Witch, a thin, reedy woman with sallow skin. "We—"
"Sorry, I'm on break," said the Welcome Witch most unhelpfully, reaching across her desk to flip a placard that bore precisely the same words she'd just spoken. She tapped it with a pointed look. "Come back in 'alf an 'our."
And with that, she reached beneath her desk and drew out her boxed lunch. But as she stood to leave, Arthur slipped a hand into his pocket and produced a few bronze coins, which he slid across the desk with a meaningful wink. The Welcome Witch stared at him, bemused, and Arthur winked again… then a third time, just to be sure, though it only made him look as if he'd got dust in his eye.
"Was that supposed to be bribe?" the Welcome Witch sighed. She then tapped a different sign hanging in front of the reception desk. "Read the sign."
The placard read: the Welcome Witch accepts bribes— five Galleons minimum.
"That's preposterous!" Arthur spluttered. "With five Galleons, I could buy—"
"That's not the point, Arthur!" Molly said shrilly. "OUR SON HAS BEEN HOSPITALISED!"
"But I don't carry that much on me—"
"I can cover five Galleons," said a familiar voice from behind them.
Arthur and Molly goggled as Percy Weasley strode across the reception area, his long black coat swishing neatly around his legs. He scarcely spared his parents a glance as he pushed his round spectacles up his nose, before turning his attention back to the Welcome Witch, slamming five golden coins down upon her desk.
"We'd like to see Ronald Bilius Weasley," said Percy coolly, as the Welcome Witch greedily swept the Galleons into her pocket. "Now, if possible. I'm on my lunch break."
"Weasley, eh?" the Welcome Witch said distastefully. She consulted her chart. "Second floor, Magical Bugs ward." She looked up at the three and smirked. "You're wasting your time, you know," she added. "Spattergroit, it says here he's got. Highly contagious. You won't be allowed anywhere near him. Unlikely to be in any state to speak, too."
Spattergroit was the magical fungal disease the Weasleys claimed Ron had caught, to spare their family from punishment under the decree introduced after You‑Know‑Who's takeover of the Ministry, which made it a crime for Witches and Wizards of school age to miss Hogwarts.
It was a ghastly affliction that covered the infected skin in pustules and, in the most severe cases, caused pale fungus stalks to erupt from every part of the body. Left untreated, the roots would burrow ever deeper into the flesh until their tendrils reached the blood‑brain barrier and seized control of the mind, much as the mundane cordyceps fungus may turn an ant into something resembling the living dead— like the Inferi employed by Dark Wizards, for instance.
Mrs Weasley's mouth fell open in shock.
Taking her mouth's soundless flapping as her cue to leave, the Welcome Witch gathered up her boxed lunch and wandered off towards the cafeteria, leaving Arthur and Molly standing there, stunned, and their son Percy, more-or-less nonplussed.
"Spattergroit?" Molly squeaked, her face paling. "Arthur, do you think…?"
Was this a warning? A punishment? Did the Death Eaters know what they'd knowingly done!?
"I don't know, dear," Arthur replied, his voice trembling. "I don't know."
They knew Ron had gone with Harry and Hermione, yet no word had reached them of their youngest son since. He wasn't the only child who'd slipped out of touch after the wedding raid; Charlie was still unaccounted for, though with any luck he'd made it back to Romania. As for Ginny, she hadn't written them once since leaving for Hogwarts in September. Their owls were probably getting intercepted, they'd told themselves.
So, for now, Arthur and Molly were still in contact with Bill, their eldest; Percy, who Arthur occasionally saw at the Ministry; and the twins, Fred and George, who were somehow still operating their business in Diagon Alley. U-No-Poo, as it turned out, was still the constipation sensation that gripped the nation… albeit under a different name, nowadays.
In the end, thanks to the Weasley family clock— with every hand permanently fixed at mortal peril— they could at least take comfort in knowing all of their children were still alive.
"Let's get this over with," said Percy, setting off towards the stairs. "Dad's meant to be back at work already, and I've only got half an hour."
…
Predictably, Molly burst into tears the moment she peered through the observation bay window and saw what appeared at first glance to be a log, sprouting thin, pale mushroom stalks and crowned with tufts of red hair. It was hard to tell where man began and fungus ended.
"I can barely even recognise him," Percy murmured to himself. "Is that really Ron?"
Although he was no longer Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic, Percy still had plenty of connections at the Ministry. One acquaintance, now working in the newly formed Department of Propaganda, had confided that Ron's hospitalisation was to be widely publicised within days— as part of a campaign to eradicate, quote, "the afflictions brought on by associating with the Mudblood," end quote.
Apparently, Percy's superiors now meant to pin the blame for magical maladies in general on the Muggle-Born— never mind that there were none of their kind left where Ron had been taken from: Hogwarts. That being the case, he couldn't help but wonder if there was more to this story, so he'd decided to pay his little brother a visit.
"Ah, Weasleys, I daresay? You must be Ronald's parents," said a Wizard in lime‑green robes, emerging from his office a few doors down. "Terrible thing, Spattergroit."
Arthur extended his hand as the man approached. "Arthur. This is my wife, Molly— and… my son, Percy."
The Healer's eyes widened at the name.
"Asclepius Stroud," he said, eyeing the offered hand with some apprehension. "You'll forgive me if I don't shake— best to avoid contact in my line of treatment. But, did you say your name was Arthur…?"