The Post-War Effort

Okay, I'm going to go ahead and post this without having it betad first. It's a bit like working without a net, but I can't keep you all waiting too long. The mistakes are all mine. I take full responsibility for them. My dearest beta, HarrynHermione4eva, is really, really busy at the moment and I can't stand to put anything more on her shoulders, so you'll have to forgive me if there are any problems with it. :D I hope you like it. Thanks, by the way, to Shazzman: You just rock!

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Harry shifted in his bed, sighing. The last three days, which should have been the best of his young life, had been miserable. The sun coming through his open window was bright and warm, glaring harshly off the white walls around him. He could hear the sounds from the street, cars passing, people talking, an occasional peal of laughter. He should have been out there as well, enjoying the beautiful day.

No such luck. He sighed again, pushing the stiff white sheets off of him as best as he could without moving too much. Pain flared through his leg and he sucked in a breath through his teeth, flinching. At least he hadn't screamed this time. That was a bonus.

He looked down at his leg, wrapped in bandages that were, yet again, slowly turning pink and set in a stiff splint that was supposed to prevent him from moving it. So far, he thought, it had only managed to make the pain worse as it pressed against the damaged muscles.

His entire leg, from the tips of his toes all the way up to his hip, throbbed, causing his stomach to clench. The ache, the healers had said, was a good thing. “If it were numb, we'd be worried,” one woman had said in the same reassuring tone that everyone seemed to adopt just for him. “The pain means the nerves are still functioning.”

He'd heard the hushed conversations between the St. Mungo's employees and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. At first, no one knew anything for certain. Whatever spell had been used on him, it was progressive. The damage would continue to worsen until an appropriate counter-spell was found. All they could do was wait, research and hope.

By the time they'd finally found the spell they needed, the damage was severe. Harry had been barely conscious by this time, the pain too terrible for him to withstand awake. He'd heard, through his delirium, the discussion of possible amputation. Thank God that Mrs. Weasley had insisted they not do anything so drastic unless it was absolutely necessary.

Now, thankfully, it was healing. Not quickly, and not well, but any improvement was something.

Three days on and it was almost bearable now.

His eyes drifted to the clock on the opposite wall and he ground his teeth, planting his hands flat on the bed on either side of him. Then, he pushed. He couldn't bite back a low moan as he moved this time. Had the pain been only in his leg, he might have been okay to move. The fact that he ached all over, though, made even the tiniest bit of shifting absolutely miserable.

Finally, he managed to get himself almost upright. He caught his breath just in time for the door to open, admitting Hermione and Ron.

“Hello!” Hermione beamed at him, coming over immediately to hug him. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face. “Bored.”

She laughed, sitting carefully on the bed beside him. “Well, we brought you a few things to keep you busy. I don't know when you'll be released, do you?”

He shook his head. “No one's told me anything.”

“Yes, well, they will. I'm sure they just don't know yet. How's your leg? Oh, is it still bleeding? For heaven's sake, I thought they'd fixed that.”

“Lay off him, Hermione,” Ron said, pulling up a chair and flopping down. “You don't have to ask every question at once.”

She frowned at him, shaking her head. “I was just curious, Ron. We haven't seen the healer yet, have you? Richmond was supposed to be in to see Fred early this morning, but he never showed. You'd think that healers would be more responsible than that, wouldn't you? Has yours been in, then?”

Ron rolled his eyes behind her back and Harry bit back a laugh. “Not yet. They'll be in soon to change the bandages, I'm sure.”

“Have you eaten? Mrs. Weasley sent some soup and bread for you, but it will keep if you don't want it right now. She said to tell you that she'd be up in a while to check on you.”

“How's Fred?”

“Much better. Still a little shaken up, but he's healing nicely. Oh, who sent you flowers?”

He followed her gaze to the small table that sat beside his bed. “Those are from Sophie. She brought them to me this morning.”

Hermione gasped, beaming. “That's so sweet! Aww. How is she? Did they ever find her parents?”

Harry nodded, leaning back into his pillows. “Yeah. Well, her mother anyway. Her father was killed. Someone saw him fall, although they haven't recovered his body yet.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” Hermione sighed. “How is she?”

“She's doing all right. Her grandmother's taking care of her until her mum gets out of here.”

Hermione stared at the flowers, chewing her lip. “I was reading in the Prophet yesterday that there have been several Wizarding children placed in Muggle orphanages in the last few days. It seems the Ministry is `too busy' to handle that problem right now.” She ground her teeth slightly, shaking her head. “I'd be amazed if they've done one thing to help anyone but themselves. Well, not all of them obviously,” she added as Ron cleared his throat loudly. “Scrimgeour seems to be working mostly on press releases lately.”

Harry laughed. “And you're surprised? He's always been all about public relations, hasn't he?”

“Yes, but I can't understand why they aren't at least trying to do something. These kids need a place to stay, don't they? They're wizards. They need to be raised understanding that, if it's at all possible.”

“I wasn't raised knowing about it,” Harry reminded her. “And neither were you. What difference does it make if they find out now, or when they get their Hogwarts letters?”

“It makes all the difference in the world. You of all people should understand that, Harry.” Hermione turned toward him, her brown eyes serious. “No one ever told you what really happened to your parents. You thought that they'd just died in a car accident.”

“I know that, Hermione. I was there, remember?”

“Yes, so you should understand. If you had the choice, wouldn't you have rather known what really happened to them? Wouldn't you have rather known what you were, and who you were?”

Harry shrugged. “I suppose so. Dumbledore had a good reason for putting me with the Dursleys, though.”

“Well, maybe so, but you were a different story. These kids were born to Wizard parents. They've lived with them all of their lives. And now, they've been shoved into Muggle institutions, and are being cared for by people who can't possibly understand them. It's just wrong that the Ministry doesn't care about them.”

Ron shifted in his chair, slumping slightly. “What can you do, though? I mean, really, Hermione. I doubt anyone has the time or energy to start a Wizard orphanage right now.”

“It's people like you, Ron--,” Hermione started, but Ron held up a hand, cutting her off.

“Stop right there. I'm not trying to start a row with you. Harry doesn't need to listen to that right now, and frankly, I don't feel like it either. If you can think of something to do, then do it.”

She huffed, but fell silent. Harry turned his attention to the window, the tension in the room causing his head to ache. He tried to take a deep breath, to relax, but the effort caused his chest to tighten worse than normal. He must have grimaced because Hermione leaned over to look him in the face. “What's wrong?”

He shook his head, forcing another weak smile. “Nothing. I'm fine.”

She studied him carefully, chewing her lip. “You aren't telling the healers everything that they need to know, are you? Harry, they can't help you if you don't let them.”

“I'm fine. Honestly.”

She continued to frown at him. Thankfully, Ron came to his rescue. “There's talk of starting the Quidditch leagues up again. The Tornadoes are holding open try-outs next month.”

“Really? That's brilliant! Are you going?”

Ron looked at him incredulously. “Hardly. Even if I were good enough to go professional, I wouldn't want to play for the Tornadoes. They suck.”

“This coming from the guy who supports the Cannons,” Harry chuckled to Hermione. “Pot, Kettle…”

She shrugged. “To each his own, I suppose. Diagon Alley is coming along. Of course, everything but Gringotts and the Cauldron will have to be taken down and rebuilt. Tonks said that they've been able to remove over half the—bodies. That's something, at least. I don't know when they'll be able to begin rebuilding again.” She continued to talk and Harry nodded and pretended to listen. He didn't really want to know about Diagon Alley, or the recovery of the victims, or any of it really. He wished he could be helping, doing something other than lying in bed, staring out the window.

His mind had been rehashing the same memories the last few days: the attack on the Alley, the knowledge that, finally, his time had come, the fight itself with his certainty that he was never going to be able to win. The fluke, when his spell had knocked Voldemort into the brick wall. It was all as clear in his mind as if he were still there, still fighting.

“How did I survive?” he muttered, not realizing that he had spoken out loud until Hermione's voice died off.

“W-What?”

He blinked at her, feeling a blush grow on his cheeks. “What?”

Hermione and Ron were staring at him, their mouths open, their eyes wide. “H-You said something. What—did you say?”

He shook his head. “I don't—I didn't say anything.”

“Yeah, you did, mate,” Ron said softly, pulling his eyes off of Harry.

“You said—`How did I survive?' Don't you—remember?”

He chewed his lip, turning his eyes back to the window. “Yes,” he said softly. “I remember. I just don't understand. I don't know how I could have possibly beaten him.”

Hermione shook her head. “I don't know. I wasn't there.”

“You made damn sure of that,” Ron grumbled.

“Now is not the time, Ronald,” Hermione said, her voice low. “Harry, are you—are you all right?”

He wanted to tell her the truth. No, he wasn't all right. He suddenly felt very lost, and very—uncertain. He knew he should have been happy, but he wasn't. His pride wouldn't let him admit that though. Instead, he shrugged. “Yeah, I'm just tired.”

She nodded, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “Well, we should let you rest then. Would you like us to come by again later?”

“That would be nice, thanks.”

“Okay then. You rest, and we'll see you after bit.” She leaned forward and caught him in a hug. “Take it easy, Harry. All right?”

“I will,” he said, returning the hug nervously. “You too.”

She pulled back, looking at him for a long minute, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. “See you later, then.”

Ron watched them carefully as she stood and started for the door, his eyes narrowed slightly. He followed her out of the room without a word to Harry.

Harry slid down in his bed, gritting his teeth as his leg throbbed viciously. When he was finally settled in, and the pain had died away, his mind went back to Hermione. It wasn't the first time that she'd kissed him, but he had to wonder if he was imagining that there was more to it than there had been before.

He drifted off into a restless sleep, with her face in his mind.

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