While England's wizarding world celebrates the death of Voldemort, Harry takes on a project that will change his life.
From the Unofficial Portkey Archive: https://portkey-archive.org/story/6442/
Prologue
The dawn broke over Diagon Alley, the sun rising above the clouds of black smoke and dust, glittering over the shards of broken glass and throwing into sharp relief the piles of rubble that had once been prosperous and bustling businesses. All along the narrow alley, the signs of destruction and tragedy were visible. A small fire still burned in the remains of Eeylops Owl Emporium, creating a shroud of smoke and embers that smelled sickeningly of baking poultry and charred feathers. The entire front of Olivanders had been blown outward, strewing small boxes and broken wands all over the cobblestone. Only Gringotts bank remained intact, relatively undamaged save the long, dark scorch marks spread across the white exterior.
Harry Potter emerged from Knockturn Alley, squinting against the light of the new day. He was shaking from head to toe, both from exhaustion and the sudden recession of the adrenaline that had been his only source of energy for the last two days. He stumbled out into the sunlight, looking around dazedly. He wasn't surprised by the destruction around him; he'd been in the middle of it the night before and had seen more than enough of it to realize that there would be nothing left once the fight was over.
A few survivors were moving about the rubble, looking every bit as stunned as Harry. He moved past them as though in a dream, watching their lips move as they spoke, but hearing nothing. Pain shot through his injured leg with every step and his whole body ached, making it almost impossible to think much of anything. The one thing he could focus on was finding Hermione and Ron, making sure that everyone was okay.
Halfway down the path, a little girl ran past him. He noticed, belatedly, that she was crying and found himself stopping to watch her go. Something tugged at him, and he followed her as she dashed farther down the road, watching as she stopped every few meters to look around again. Her voice floated back to him as she yelled, “Mum? Mummy?”
“Hey,” Harry called to her, his voice rough. “Are you okay?”
She turned to look at him, her green eyes wide. “Who are you?”
He almost laughed. He'd gotten so used to everyone in the wizarding world knowing him that it shocked him when someone didn't. “My name is Harry. Are you all right? Where are your parents?”
She eyed him almost suspiciously. “How do I know you aren't one of them?” she asked quietly, her eyes still darting around the alleyway.
“I'm not. Look,” he said, pulling his sleeve up to show her his left arm. “No mark.”
“Doesn't mean anything,” she said, backing away a few steps. “Leave me alone.”
He paused, then nodded. “All right then. What about this?” He hesitantly lifted his fringe back from his forehead, showing her his lightning bolt scar. “Does this mean anything to you?”
She stared at it for a minute, then shrugged. “How do I know it's real?”
“I guess you don't,” he said softly. “I just want to help you. Do you know where your parents are?”
She frowned, glancing around again. “No. Are you really him?”
“If by him, you mean Harry Potter, then yes, I'm him. Where was the last place you saw your parents?”
She pointed to the remains of Quality Quidditch Supplies. “They were there. They sent me along with some people who were running for the Leaky Cauldron. I didn't want to go, but they made me.”
Harry looked at the rubble that had once been one of his favorite shops, dread filling his heart. If her parents had been in or around that store, there was no hope for them. “Tell you what,” he said, swallowing hard. “Why don't you go on back to the Cauldron and I'll look around for them?”
The girl eyed him carefully. “I'm staying. How are you going to know who you're looking for if I don't tell you?”
Harry sighed. “Listen, um—what's your name?”
“Sophie.”
“Sophie,” Harry repeated. “I don't know where your parents are. I don't know how long it will take me to find them.”
“And you don't think they're alive.”
Harry winced. “I don't know.”
Sophie sniffled. “Even if you find them, you won't know it's them. I need to be with you.”
Harry started to argue again, then stopped. “Yeah, all right. But you stay back when I tell you to. Promise?”
She nodded, folding her arms over her chest. “I promise.”
Harry looked around, shaking his head. He didn't really even know where to start. The chances were all too high that her parents were dead and buried somewhere in the massive piles of stone and wood, some of which were three times his height. “You said they were at Quality Quidditch Supplies?”
“Last I saw them, yes.”
“Well, I guess we'll start there.” He heard someone yelling his name and turned to see Bill Weasley dashing toward him, a wide grin on his face.
“Oh, thank God! Mum was going spare wondering about you! You all right? Nothing hurt?”
Harry laughed softly. “I'm okay. He caught my leg with some sort of burning spell, but it's not too bad. Is everyone else all right? Your family, I mean?”
Bill's smile faltered slightly, and Harry cringed. They'd lost Ginny almost two months ago when they'd been ambushed by Death Eaters. Ginny had always been Bill's favorite, and Bill, Ginny's. It was undoubtedly still hard on all of them to think about her. “They're okay,” Bill said, nodding. “Fred's going to be in St. Mungo's for a few days, I reckon, but he'll live. Otherwise, it's just some cuts and bruises. So, did you get him? Is he gone?”
Harry smiled slightly. “Yeah, he's gone.”
Bill let out a whoop, jumping up and punching the air with his fist. “YES!” he cried, throwing his arms around Harry and giving him a bone-crushing hug. “Yes! Thank God! You did it! I have to tell you, Harry, I thought you were nuts going up against him alone, but—you did it!”
Harry stumbled a bit in Bill's firm grip, his body aching severely. When Bill finally let go, Harry had to grasp his shoulder for a minute to keep his legs from giving out.
“Harry? Are you all right?”
He'd almost forgotten that Sophie was even there. He forced a smile, nodding. “I'm fine. Just—tired. Bill, this is Sophie. Sophie, Bill Weasley. Sophie can't find her parents. I was going to help her look.”
Bill's face paled and his eyes widened as he looked from Harry to the little girl. “Oh. Uh, I think maybe both of you should—get back up to the Leaky Cauldron. They've got Healers there looking everyone over. You know, just in case.”
“I was just at the Leaky Cauldron,” Sophie said, her tone sharp. “I'm not hurt, and I want to find my parents.”
Bill stared at her for a minute, then laughed. “Sassy little thing, aren't you? Reminds me of—Ginny.” He frowned again, then shook it off. “All right then. I'll help. Harry, you really should go and let someone take a look at that leg.”
“I'm fine,” Harry said softly, turning back to the mass of building materials that had once been the Quidditch shop. “Help me out?” he asked Bill, motioning to a particularly large pile where the front door had once been.
Sophie sat down in the middle of the alley, watching as they shifted as much of the rubble as they could. Harry was painfully aware of how close she was, and kept his voice low as he spoke to Bill. “Not much chance, is there?”
Bill shrugged, sighing. “We lost a lot of people. It's likely they were among them. It could take days to find them.”
“I can't leave her alone here, and she refuses to go.”
Bill glanced back at Sophie then shook his head. “Look, I know how hard it's going to be for her, but we really should get her back to the Cauldron. You need to be looked over and she needs to—well, to not be here, anyway. Go see if you can't convince her to go with you. I'll get some help and keep looking.”
“You don't know who you're looking for,” Harry said, almost laughing when he realized that he was using the same argument Sophie had used on him.
“I know, but we're going to have to start the recovery eventually. Someone will recognize them, I hope, and we'll go from there. Just try to get her to go back with you, all right?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. You'll let me know if you find anything?”
“Absolutely. Go on, have that leg checked out.”
Harry stuffed his wand into his back pocket and walked back to Sophie. “Hey,” he said, trying to kneel down in front of her. His leg seized up halfway down and he bit back a cry, dropping harder than he had intended to onto the cobblestones. She watched him, glancing at his leg. “I think we should go back to the Cauldron, all right? I really need to have my leg looked at, and Bill said a lot of people are meeting there. Maybe your parents are already there and looking for you.”
Sophie shook her head. “They aren't. They would have passed me on my way here. Is he going to keep looking?” she asked, motioning to Bill.
“Yes. He'll look until he finds them or passes out from exhaustion. Trust me. He won't give up.”
Sophie chewed her lip, considering the situation. Then, she nodded. “All right. I'll come with you.” She stood up, then reached out to help Harry to his feet. “Is your leg really okay?”
He laughed softly. “I think it will be. It hurts pretty badly at the moment, but it will heal.”
“Did he do that to you? You-know-who?”
Harry hesitated. “Voldemort did, yes.” The girl, to her credit, didn't flinch when she heard the name.
“Did you kill him?”
It was an innocent question, considering who had asked it. But it still caused a cold chill to run down Harry's spine. “He's gone.”
Sophie was quiet as they walked the rest of the way towards the Cauldron, Harry limping more than he wanted to. His right hand had started to shake, and the shake was quickly becoming a full-out tremor that ran all the way up his arm. He started to reach for the door when he felt Sophie's hand on his. “I'll get it,” she said, staring at his quaking hand. “What's causing that?”
Harry blushed, shrugging and dropping his hand again. “I'm just—tired. I'll be fine.”
He followed her inside and froze as all conversation in the pub suddenly stopped. All eyes turned to him, and several people actually gasped. Then, without warning, someone was grabbing him, and he found his vision obscured by a great deal of curly brown hair. “Harry! Oh God, Harry! I was—we were all so worried! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Oh God! Did you get him? Is he gone?”
Harry wondered how many more times he was going to have to answer this question. “Yes, he's dead.”
Hermione cheered, hugging him tighter. “Oh thank God! Are you all right? Oh, you should sit down!” He barely had time to look at her face before she was dragging him to a chair. He glanced back at Sophie, motioning for her to follow as he allowed Hermione to nudge him into a chair. Sophie hung back slightly, watching their reunion. Harry caught Hermione's shoulder as she leaned over him again, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “There's a little girl over there—don't look or she'll know that I'm talking about her. She's lost her parents. Help me keep her busy while she's here, all right?”
Hermione leaned back, frowning. “Are you sure they aren't here?”
He shrugged. “They might be, but I doubt it. I have a feeling they're—gone.”
Hermione glanced at Sophie, then nodded. “I'll do what I can. What happened to your leg?”
He sighed. “It's fine. Where's Ron?”
“He went to St. Mungo's with Mrs. Weasley and Fred. I'm supposed to let Molly know that you're all right, by the way.”
“Yeah, you can later,” he muttered, trying to push himself out of his chair.
“No, sit,” Hermione insisted. “I'm going to get someone to look at that leg. What's her name anyway?”
“Sophie.”
“What's her last name?”
“No idea.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You didn't ask her?”
“I didn't think about it. Hermione, I really want to lie down.” Harry was becoming uncomfortably aware of the crowd of people surging ever closer to them.
Hermione looked around, frowning. “Come on, we'll talk to Tom and see if we can't get you a room.”
“What about Sophie?”
“She can go with us and help me look after you.”
Harry started to argue that he didn't need looking after, when someone called out “Sophia! Oh, my baby, there you are!”
He turned just in time to see an older woman hurrying over to Sophie and gathering the girl up in her arms. “Gramma!” Sophie cried, burying her head in the woman's neck.
Harry laughed softly. “Well, that's something, anyway.”
Hermione wrapped her arm under his and helped him stand. “I just hope that they find her parents. Alive, I mean.”
Harry didn't bother to say so, but he had a feeling that wasn't going to happen.
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Welcome to my newest venture! I know, I know, the summary isn't the greatest, but I really don't want to give anything away. :D This story is still in the very early stages, despite having been in my head for—oh, at least a year. I haven't written several chapters ahead as I usually do, so the updates may be a bit slower (okay, a LOT slower) than they were on The Good, the Bad and the Drunk. I hope you'll be patient with me.
Thanks for reading!
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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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Reviews are always nice. :D Thanks for reading!
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.”
**************************************************************
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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