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With Ron’s arm draped over his shoulder, Harry helped the limping auror out of the elevator and to their office. A wand in his hand and a nonverbal spell opened the door. A grunt and a thud and Ron was deposited in a chair. Harry dragged his wrist across his forehead and caught his breath before declaring, “I’ll call Hermione.”
“No!” Ron reached out to grab Harry and stop him, but both his hands were bandaged up.
Harry paused, halfway to the desk. “No?”
“Come on… nobody has to know.”
“Ron! You’re hurt!” He sat down on the edge of their desk. “If you were anyone else, we’d already be at St. Mungo’s. But somehow you convinced me it wasn’t all that bad, that you’d heal.”
“Because I will!”
“But your wife… Hermione isn’t stupid; she’s going to notice.”
“Not if I get better before she gets back. She’s away overseeing those hearings, remember? Five more days.” Suddenly he frowned. “Five days… Merlin… how am I going to wank?”
Harry gave a start. “Ron, your hands are burnt and your leg is twisted. We very nearly got killed by the last two known Death Eaters at large and you’re concerned about wanking?”
Ron shrugged. “Hey, it’s your fault for mentioning Hermione.”