The Post-War Effort

Hi all! Did you think I'd up and moved to Antarctica? ;D I didn't. I'm still here, still writing. It's been a crazy year, so I barely have time, but I'd go nuts if I didn't write something. So, here it is, chapter 3. It hasn't been beta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Please bear with me.

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He probably should have guessed, when Hermione showed up in his room at half eight in the morning instead of in the afternoon like always, that something wasn't right. The fact that she kept throwing him worried little looks didn't really set off any alarms in his head either, since she'd been doing that since the minute he'd shown up at the Leaky Cauldron after his last fight with Voldemort.

It wasn't until Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came in, just after breakfast, with a sleepy-looking Ron behind them that he started to suspect something. He tried, as they settled themselves into chairs and forced smiles onto their faces, to think of some polite way to ask what they were doing there so early in the morning. Any words that came into his head, however, sounded rude, so he kept his mouth shut, reaching for the latest copy of the Daily Prophet.

The headlines would have been laughable, had they not been meant seriously.

Recovery effort going “swimmingly”, Scrimgeour announces

Ministry projects “Numerous and diverse”: Public galleons being “well-spent”

Tribute to the Fallen Announced: Public garden to be dedicated to those lost in battle

All were printed under the banner headline: Confirmed! You-Know-Who Dead! Body Destroyed by Top Ministry Officials

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “I could have told them that a week ago.”

“What's that, mate?” Ron asked, his voice rough.

“That Voldemort is dead. They act like that's some big story, when they've printed the same thing every day since. I think people have gotten the point by now.”

“It's their way of reassuring people,” Mr. Weasley said, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. “The public is necessarily nervous, since he's come back once before.”

Harry nodded. “Well, he won't be this time.” Inexplicably, Hermione let out what sounded like a sob and excused herself to the bathroom. Harry watched her go, frowning. “What's with her?”

Mrs. Weasley sniffled but shook her head. “Just tired, I expect. H-How's your leg feeling?”

Harry shrugged, shifting his injured limb experimentally. “It doesn't hurt quite so much now. I think it's getting better.”

Mrs. Weasley's face fell, but she nodded, looking at the floor. The room was quiet for a minute, until Hermione came back in, her eyes red and puffy and sank into a chair near the head of his bed. “Y-Your healer's on his way in,” she said, sounding like she had a rather bad cold.

Mrs. Weasley stiffened noticeably, reaching for her husband's hand. Harry barely had time to think about that before his door opened again and Healer Martin stepped inside. The look on his face sent a cold chill down Harry's spine. The man rarely showed any emotion at all, but today his face was set in a look of grim resolve. “Hello, Harry,” he said, and his voice was piped full of sympathy. “How are you?”

The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think about them. “I don't know. You tell me.”

The man smiled slightly. “Well, that's why I'm here. I'm—afraid I have some rather bad news. As you know, your leg was quite severely damaged. The muscle tissue you had left, once the spell was stopped, amounted to approximately twenty percent of what you once had. We've been working to restore the tissue, but I'm afraid we've done all that we can. We managed to get another forty percent back, but the rest has—well, we can't get any more back.”

Harry frowned. “I'm sorry. I don't understand. What do you mean?”

“I mean, the muscle is no longer rejuvenating or regrowing, no matter how often we perform the spell. What you have now is the most that you'll ever have again.”

Harry knew this was bad, but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. “Wh-What does that mean?”

“Well, given that you have only sixty percent of the muscle tissue that you're supposed to have, you may not be able to walk again. Not without aid, anyway. I'd say the odds that you'll ever walk at all, without the use of crutches, are maybe forty percent. The odds of you ever being fully mobile again are a million to one.”

Hermione sniffed again, but Harry couldn't even think of looking at her. “I—I'll never walk?”

“You might, but as I've said, the chances are slim. You could possibly manage to relearn once you've built up some strength. Unfortunately, with no more tissue than is left, you will undoubtedly end up needing crutches or something. You'll have a limp at the very least.”

Harry's chest had tightened as though someone had wrapped iron bands around it, and he had to fight to speak. “B-But I—I thought you said it was getting better?”

“It was. I'm afraid it's as good as it's going to get. I'm sorry.”

He stared down at the sheets covering his leg, an overwhelming cold sweep over him. “I—Can I—still be an Auror?”

The healer shrugged. “I don't know, but—I would say probably not. It will require more agility than you'll ever have again. You have to understand, Harry, you're going to have to struggle just to stand for any length of time, if you can at all.”

His mind seemed to be stuck on one thought: This can't be real. He can't really mean this. It can't be real. “B-But M-Moody was an auror, and he was missing a leg. Ca-Can't I—I mean, if I had a prosthetic, would that help?”

“No. Your muscles are ruined all the way up to your hip. None are strong enough to hold a prosthetic.”

Hermione was crying full out now, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. Ron was white as a sheet, but his expression was blank. Harry forced his eyes back to the healer. “So—that's—that's it then? I may never walk again, and I'll most likely end up crippled either way?”

The man nodded. “I'm sorry, Harry. I wish I had some good news for you, but—that's the truth. If you have any questions, let me know.”

Harry nodded, dropping his eyes back to the bed. “Right. Thanks.”

He heard the door shut as the healer left, and then the room fell into silence, broken only by Hermione's continued sobs. He felt numb, as though he'd fallen asleep and was merely dreaming all of this. If so, he wanted to wake up. He almost pinched himself just to check.

“A—A forty percent chance. Th-That's something, right?” Ron asked, his voice soft. “Th-That means you may actually--.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded. “It's something. We'll have to—try to get you up and—see how you do. M-Maybe tomorrow.”

Harry could only nod again. There seemed to be a large lump stuck in his throat. He suddenly wished that they would just go away. He didn't want company, especially not when they were going to try to be cheerful and optimistic. He had never felt less optimistic about anything in his life.

As though he'd read Harry's mind, Mr. Weasley stood up. “Well, Molly, maybe we should step out for a while. I think Harry needs some time to think. Ron, come on. Let's go have some breakfast, all right? Hermione?”

Ron stood, but Hermione merely shook her head. “I-I'd like t-to stay,” she sniffed. “If Harry doesn't mind.”

Mr. Weasley looked to Harry, who could only shrug. “All right then. We'll be back in a while, okay?” He stepped over and patted Harry's shoulder. “You just take it easy, all right?”

Harry couldn't even manage a nod this time. He flinched when Mrs. Weasley pulled him into a tight hug, her shoulders shaking against his cheek. She wouldn't meet his eye when she pulled away and wiped furiously at her eyes as she turned toward the door. Ron raised a hand in farewell, but even he looked teary-eyed.

When they left, Harry slid down in his bed a bit and rolled onto his side, dragging his leg with him. He'd never counted on this. He'd never even imagined that his leg wouldn't heal. He'd believed the nurse when she'd said that the pain was a good thing, believed the healer when he'd said his leg was getting better. Now, he felt stupid for not having realized…

The tears welled in his eyes again, and he let them come, rolling down his cheeks as the ache in his chest grew to an insufferable peak. I'll never walk again. I'll be crippled. I could end up in a wheelchair. I don't want to live like that. If that's the way it's going to be, then I wish he'd have just killed me.

He jumped when a hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up to see Hermione standing over him, her eyes puffy, and her cheeks tear-stained. “Oh, Harry,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I'm so sorry.”

He couldn't stand her sympathy. It was too much. “Don't be. He's wrong. I'll walk again.”

She stared at him, apparently unnerved by how calm his voice was. “I-I'm glad that you're—taking a positive line on this,” she said, forcing a smile. “I'll do whatever I can to help you.”

He shrugged. “It'll work out.” He felt like it was a lie, because he'd never been so uncertain about anything in his life.

She nodded, looking just as uncertain as he felt. “It will. We'll get through this.”

Determined not to talk about his leg anymore, he searched his mind for something to say. A question popped up, and he asked it before really thinking about it. “Why didn't you go with them?”

She frowned. “I'm sorry?”

“The Weasleys. Why didn't you go with them?”

“Oh. Well, I thought you might—need me. Did you not want me to stay?”

He shook his head. “No, it's fine. I just thought—well, they're bound to be better company than I am today.”

Hermione smiled, one side of her mouth turning up more than the other. “Honestly, I don't think I'd be good company either. And, I'd rather be here with you.” She blushed slightly. “I worry about you quite a lot when I'm not here. Just—being here and knowing that you're okay makes me feel better. So I suppose it's a bit selfish of me.”

He felt a smile grow on his face, despite his situation. “I won't hold it against you.”

She laughed. “Very kind of you. I—I didn't want to say anything earlier, but—Luna came by the Burrow last night. She wanted to know if she could interview you for The Quibbler. I told her I'd ask, but you don't have to do it, of course. I'm sure she'll understand.”

Harry chewed his lip for a minute, thinking. Luna had been immensely helpful to him over the years, and her father had allowed him to tell his own story about Voldemort in his magazine in fifth year, when most people insisted he was a raving lunatic. He supposed the least he could do was grant them an interview. “All right,” he said softly. “Tell her to come by whenever.”

Hermione was watching him carefully. “You're sure?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I'm sure.”

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Luna came by two days later, her wand stuck behind her ear and a quill and parchment stuffed into the pocket of her robes. “Hello, Harry,” she said, giving him her always-vague smile. “Hello, Hermione.”

“How are you, Luna?”

“Me? Oh, fine, thank you. I've been busy, you know. Father is putting together the largest issue of the Quibbler that we've ever had. Well, it's important, isn't it?”

He frowned. “What's important?”

“The heliopaths,” she said, settling herself into the chair next to his bed. “You were in Diagon Alley. Surely you saw them.”

He bit back a laugh as Hermione made a “tchah” sound. “I must have missed those.”

“Yes, well, they attacked quickly and then fled. We're having trouble finding one single person who saw them.” She seemed bemused by the idea. “So, how are you? Hermione said your leg won't ever heal.”

She said it in a conversational tone, as though it wasn't anything to be upset about. And, oddly enough, it made him think that maybe there wasn't anything to be upset about. “I'm doing all right, thanks. I should be going home in a few days.”

“Oh, well, that's good then. This place isn't safe, you know? The Ministry uses the patients here for experiments. I don't think they would use you, because people know you. Others, though. Sad thing, really.”

“Very,” Harry said, having gotten so used to Luna's theories that this one seemed rather tame in comparison. “How's your dad?”

“Oh, he's well, thank you. He told me to tell you that an infusion of powdered Graphorn horn in Gurdyroot tea is very good for damaged muscles.”

“Right. Thanks. I'll try that.” Harry had never heard a Graphorn before, but given that Hermione didn't roll her eyes or make any sound of dissent told him that they might actually exist. “Hermione said you wanted to interview me.”

She nodded. “Yes, that's right.” She pulled the quill and parchment from her pocket and perched them on her leg. “Daddy will be so disappointed that you didn't see the Heliopaths. He was so hoping you could tell everyone about them. People would believe you. He wrote some questions for you, if that's all right.”

“All right,” Harry said, a little nervously. He could only imagine what kind of questions they would ask. “Go ahead.”

It wasn't as painful as he'd thought it might be. The question were bizarre, certainly, things like Did You-Know-Who's use of Glumbumbles and Blithering Humdingers affect you while fighting him? but Harry knew it could have been worse. She seemed disappointed that he couldn't give her better answers, but the truth was, he still didn't know how he'd won. It all seemed a blur to him now.

“One last question,” Luna said, pushing the parchment forward to see the bottom more clearly. “What are your plans now that You-Know-Who has been defeated?”

Harry paused. He hadn't really thought about it. He wanted to get back on his feet again, certainly, and help with the recovery effort as much as he could. That was all short-term though. He'd never given himself permission to think about the long-term. He hadn't been sure there would be a long-term. “I—I don't know, really. I'd like to do something for the orphans. The Ministry isn't doing much for them at the moment and I think someone should.”

Luna nodded, scratching her quill across the paper in a way that made Harry wonder if she was actually writing or just doodling something while he spoke. She looked back up at him, smiling again. “That's a lovely idea. What would you do for them?”

Again, he had to think. “I don't know. They shouldn't be stuck in Muggle orphanages though. They were raised with wizards, and they should be with someone who understands them.”

“Someone like you?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. I suppose. Someone needs to do something.”

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