Plagued

"You're all right, shhh."

With some difficulty, Harry Potter forced one eye open. Ginny Weasley was sitting at the edge of his bed, the afternoon light from an open window outlining her in yellow. A surgical patch covered her right cheek and she moved somewhat stiffly to squeeze his arm. It hurt.

"Where...?" Harry sat up and instantly felt sick. His head neatly missed the short wooden beam supporting the bunk above him. He looked around him and saw that the entire room was filled with nothing but multi-tiered bunk-beds. All were occupied with what he hoped were sleeping lumps under white blankets.

"Hospital wing," Ron Weasley said, pushing him back against the pillows. "Half the school's in here."

Harry sat up again, pushing his sheets aside with a hand that refused to unclench. His legs kicked them away, and he was dimly aware of Hermione Granger and Dean Thomas trying to talk to him.

It wasn't until he reached for his shoes that he noticed.

His right hand, tightly wrapped in pink-tinged bandages, was missing its fingers. He was short of breath. Each pull of air was like broken glass in his lungs. Horrified, he turned to the person closest to him and groped for the wand at his bedside.

"Did Voldemort do all this? I need to talk to Dumbledore --"

The lumps under the beds began to stir. Heads were groggily rising from pillows. Eyes, eyes all around, blinked at him. He saw slings, half-empty bottles of Skele-Gro and unfamiliar metal instruments hovering near some beds with the tell-tale scent of dried blood. He tried not to think about who may be missing from these beds. Surely, surely, the rest of the student population wasn't dust in Hogsmeade...

"Well?" Harry swept his gaze around.

"Harry..." Hermione was wringing her hands.

"Are you going to bloody well tell me, or just continue to stare?"

"Harry," Hermione started again, her voice more firm, "Harry, he's gone. You killed Voldemort."

PLAGUED: Chapter One

"The part can never be well unless the whole is well." -- Plato

It took more than two months for classes to resume.

After a school-wide attendance check, Slytherin and Ravenclaw houses were lucky to discover that all their students were accounted for. Though many had to stay in the hospital ward to recover, such losses were nothing compared to Hufflepuff's or Gryffindor's. A fourth of Hufflepuff's third and fifth years were dead. Ginny's year was cut down to half, and no one knew what had happened to the Creevey brothers. Two fifth-year prefects were uncovered behind Madam Puddifoot's, not too far away from where Harry faced the Dark Lord.

Harry didn't know whether to be grateful for the school's overall survival, or bitter for its losses. He didn't think that far ahead. He thought he wouldn't need to.

11 December 1997

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named confirmed dead at Hogsmeade Massacre

By Liam K.W. Bennett
Daily Prophet Correspondent

Ministry Aurors confirmed last night that the body found at the epicenter of a necromantic ward at High Street was indeed that of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

The body had been unrecognizable on the day of discovery, said Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. Harry Potter, the survivor of the dangerous duel, had allegedly hexed the Dark Lord beyond recognition. Accusations of his alleged use of dark magic will be investigated, officials say. As to whether he will be charged for casting illegal spells remains yet to be seen.

The testimonies of several top-ranking Death Eaters in custody and highly classified tests enabled Ministry officials to identify the body. Concerns that the Dark Lord may have transported his élan vital to another avatar have been discounted. Kingsley's staff had collected the charred remains of his wand and its core. The death of one of the century's most-feaed wizard puts an end to more than two decades of terrorism.

But critics of the administration and Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore say the casualties came at an unnecessary cost.

Wizarding London, Hogsmeade and pockets of magical communities in Wales and Scotland were hit simultaneously during the Dark Siege, with casualties that haven't been seen since the days of Grindenwald. In London, the death tally climbed to more than 60 -- a great loss for a wizarding community that is already historically the smallest in the British Isles. Teams of mediwards, Aurors, obliviators and law enforcement have been dispatched to hot zones for relief and security details.

More distressing are the deaths among the student ranks of Hogwarts. Twenty students have been confirmed dead, and more than half the school population is currently at the hospital ward or checked in at St. Mungo's.

"If the Ministry paid any heed to the intelligence and ciphers uncovered by its departments, all this could have been prevented," said Tien Chang, vice-chair of the Coalition for Muggle-Wizarding Affairs based in Manchester. "Restrictions would have been put in place to limit student visit to Hogsmeade. Moreover, this show of unpreparedness may have cost us the alliances of the goblin, mer and fey races. The ministry has put itself in the awkward position of doling out 'justice' too late."

The Minister declined to comment.

"Did you find what you needed, Mr. Potter?" Madam Pince asked as she levitated a thin leather folder marked 1997, January to an empty gap in the shelf above Harry's head. It brushed the Current Events sign hanging at the entrance of the aisle, disturbing the dust enough for it to pepper his unkempt hair.

"Yes, thank you," he said. He stared at the photograph accompanying the short article -- mediwizards and Aurors scurried in the background while Kingsley Shacklebolt gesticulated to a section of the street sectioned off with glowing string. A smaller headline - Lestranges still at large: did the Ministry exterminate the rest of the Dark Lord's East European cells? -- ran alongside the image. He shut 1997, December with his left hand and pushed it back in the shelf, taking care to untangle the chain that bound it to the section.

Madam Pince's buzzard-like face stretched to a watery smile. The gratitude in her long eyes bothered Harry more than all the reprimands she issued him in the last seven years. Mandy Brokcklehurst and Li Su whispered their "hellos" as he passed them on his way out of the library.

He tried to ignore the stares when he entered the Great Hall. His eyes raked the Gryffindor table until he spotted Ron and Ginny, who were sitting with the remains of their Quidditch team and Hermione.

"-- And I simply don't know where to start, I've got so much catching up to do. Don't you roll your eyes at me, Ron Weasley. NEWTs are four months away..."

"Hermione," Ron said, "good news: NEWTs are four months away."

Dean, Seamus Finnigan and Neville Longbottom snickered. Hermione glared.

"You're all hopeless," she grumbled, retreating behind her Transfiguration book.

"You all ought to show more respect to the Head Girl," said Terry Boot, who limped by to pass a stack of parchments to Hermione. "You'll soon be finding yourselves asking for her help for the Potions NEWTs. I heard Professor Snape shan't be holding back."

Seamus waved around his fork, accidentally flicking gravy everywhere. "Boot, we're having a tough time as it is catching up with December's work."

Terry merely shrugged, before moving on to his table.

"What're these?" Ron asked, snatching the first sheets of parchments by Hermione's elbow.

"List of volunteer tutors," she answered. "Most of the students are having a hard time catching up with lessons. We're already two months behind instruction."

"Are you mad? When are we going to find time to study? Between Quidditch and --" Ron flushed as he caught Harry struggling to pick at his kidney pie using his left hand. "Anyway, there are more Slytherin volunteers than necessary."

"And lucky for you too," sneered Pansy Parkinson. She was escorting two fifth years recently released by Madam Pomfrey. "If your class average is any indication of your success, your highest aim would be for mediocrity."

She watched Harry eat, her expression inscrutable. Harry chewed particularly hard. Above the din of the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy called out to Pansy.

"Stupid cow," Hermione said as the three walked to the Slytherin table. Ron looked amused. "If you don't stop looking at me like that, I will assign her to you!"

"Better watch out, mate," Dean said. "She means it."

****

Dean's assessment proved almost accurate. The next day, Hermione and Terry posted their tutoring pairs on the community bulletin board.

"Millicent Bulstrode!" gasped Mandy Brocklehurst, who was first to read the assignments. She looked close to tears.

For the most part, the Head Boy and Head Girl tried to match students from different houses who would be most compatible. Ginny and Luna Lovegood, for example, were paired to help each other with Astronomy and Transfiguration. Terry voted for Draco Malfoy and Sterling Fawcett, relying on Malfoy's marginally better tolerance for the new Ravenclaw Seeker. And then, there were cases like Mandy's.

"All for the sake of inter-house peace?" she repeated to an uncomfortable-looking Terry. "You... you better know what you're doing, Terry."

"I was just about to ask you the same thing, Brocklehurst," Millicent said behind her, "because Potions isn't like gardening."

Mandy, a foot shorter than Millicent, looked about ready to faint.

"See? You see what she's doing?" Ron ranted to Harry on their way to Transfiguration.

"What have you got to complain about?" Harry grunted. "Padma Patil was assigned to you."

"She hates me."

"You have got to let it go," Harry said, stuffing his right hand in his robe pocket.

Funny advice, he thought, coming from me.

High-pitched giggles sounded from the end of the hallway, darkening Harry's already foul mood. He turned around in time to catch Malfoy hobble by - he was still on crutches - with his Slytherin court. Harry entertained the idea of knocking out the fancy mahogany sticks holding up Malfoy just to watch that pale face smash on the stone floor. As though reading his mind, Malfoy stopped in front of him.

Despite his growth spurt during their fourth year, he and Harry retained the same superficial proportions: the height, slender build and long limbs.

Except Malfoy was whole.

"Just thought I'd shake your hand, Potter," he said coolly. "For saving us yet again. Say, who's your tutor --"

Harry kicked at the crutch closest to him, and was satisfied to hear it crack. The bottom half flew and hit Blaise Zabini in the stomach. Malfoy crashed to the ground, but not before taking down Vincent Crabbe and Pansy, who both tried to keep him standing a little too late. Harry shoved them aside and began to pummel Malfoy.

"Expelliarmus!" Malfoy gasped as Harry struggled to hit him and reach inside the breast pocket of his robes. The spell connected just as Harry found his wand. It flew and clattered between the feet of those gathered around them.

Harry, red-faced, drew back and struck Draco's nose. Each impact shot zigzags of pain up his right arm.

Malfoy flipped back, pushing his knee between Harry's fists and his chest. He kicked out viciously, hitting Harry at the sternum. He threw himself forward, using his upper body to propel him far enough to strike Harry repeatedly in the jaw until he was pulled away.

"Malfoy -- Harry!" Hermione cried as Harry launched himself against the blond to continue his assault.

"POTTER!" Professor Severus Snape descended on the tight knot of students like a crow. He grabbed Harry by the neck of his robes and shook him savagely. "What do you think you're doing?"

Malfoy had passed out after a particularly nasty punch to the side of the head.

"I..." He winced. The bandage around his hand had loosened, revealing pink scar tissue and the ball of one exposed knuckle. It gleamed white.

"Malfoy insulted him," Ron said.

"And Potter knocked him down," Pansy continued, furious. "He knocked him down!"

"I have heard enough," Snape interrupted in a voice both soft and threatening. He turned to the other students. "If I'm not mistaken, you are all late for class. I do hope none of you are under the impression that this scuffle will exempt you from house point deductions."

The students dispersed, casting looks at Harry and Draco that alternated between pity and repulsion. Hermione lagged behind.

"Professor --"

"Granger! Must I repeat myself?"

Hermione looked worriedly at Harry. She shouldered her bag and ducked into History of Magic just as Professor Minerva McGonagall hurried down the hallway, her robes fluttering behind her. Even from far away, Harry could tell that her nostrils were flared with ill-concealed anger.

"You will go to Professor Dumbledore's office," Snape growled before pointing his wand at Draco's unmoving body. "Mobilicorpus."

Harry stayed quiet as McGonagall scolded him. Draco's levitating body cast a long shadow on the wall. Even unconscious, he couldn't wipe that smirk off his face.

****

Dumbledore's office remained unchanged over the years. The circular room glowed as sunset seeped through the stained-glass ceiling like a rain of jeweled light.

The portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses watched Harry with interest. Phineas Nigellus stared coldly from his ornate frame. Harry watched a miniature lunascope twirl on its tripod.

"I'm tired," he said to no one in particular. Fawkes warbled at his perch.

"I'm sure you are, Harry," Dumbledore said mildly. The Headmaster climbed down the spiral stairs, his pale blue eyes trained on the teenager sulking in his favorite chair.

"Malfoy started it." Harry knew it sounded childish, but he didn't care.

"How, Harry?"

"He asked to shake my hand."

Dumbledore stared serenely at him.

"My hand!" Harry's temper broke. He held up his right hand, with its sloppy bandages and felt not for the first time a surge of hatred for the old man. The grief of the last three years eroded more than a decade's worth of consolidated misery. Seventeen and in the belly of this round room: awaiting a sermon on patience, a detention sentence, reprisals from Snape?

"What would you have us do, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, watching Harry kick at a delicate-looking globe standing under a cluster of floating perpetual motion instruments. Shards of thin lapis lazuli littered the floor. "What would you have yourself do?"

"I don't know. Stop looking at me. Leave me alone."

Dumbledore paused in front of Harry. He saw himself reflected in the lenses of the half-moon spectacles. His scar was a livid gray, his face contorted with discontent. This is what victors look like. This is what they look like after a war.

"Haven't you noticed?" Dumbledore asked gently and with sadness. "We are cognizant of that. But it is hard to bat away the gratitude of others. Would you turn away those who feel indebted to you? It is a hard place to be, living after the confrontation you faced. The next phase for you now is to let yourself heal."

****

"He couldn't be arsed to move," Ron reported. "And no one else wants to practice."

Hermione looked up from her studies. The common room was unusually empty.

No. As usual these days, it was empty.

There was time when she and had to negotiate a seat by the fireplace; it was not the case anymore. Many Gryffindors still found it hard to stay in the Common Room. They have accepted the loss of friends - but facing their absence in daily life was a deeper and rawer sense of grief. Hermione sometimes wondered what compelled her to sink into the well-worn cushions of the squashy armchairs, solitary in her studies and lonelier than she could bear.

"He needs some time for himself," she said, pushing her glasses on top of her head. She started wearing them halfway through sixth year. A stack of books balanced precariously at the end of the table.

Ron's eyes softened. "How about skiving off for a bit to watch us practice?"

She shook her head. "I have a lot of reading to do."

Ron tilted his head sideways to examine the book spines. He recognized the color-coded notes and Arithmancy charts sticking out from the closed textbooks like bright tongues. They were over-run with Hermione's second- and third-year penmanship.

"These are notes from four years ago. Don't tell me you're re-reading everything?"

"I'm skimming."

He dropped his broomstick against her armchair and tugged her to standing position. "Come on."

Seamus clattered down the stairs from the boys' dormitories, tugging his jumper on and managing not to impale himself on his broom or breaking his neck.

"He must've got enough sleep last night," Seamus said cheerfully, nodding at Ron. "He's actually not antagonizing you, Hermione."

Hermione looked at Ron. "Sleep? How many hours?"

"Enough to keep us awake with his snoring." Harry walked past Seamus and seated himself in one of the couches. He eyed the Cleansweep. "Four-man Quidditch?"

Ron nodded. "Me, Gin, Seamus and Zacharias Smith."

"Cheers," he grumbled.

"Ron," Hermione said, shaking him off. "What if I come see you after I finish this chapter?"

"You better," he said.

Seamus nudged Ron on his way out. "Ginny's waiting."

"Did he really sleep last night?" Hermione asked after the portrait hole shut.

Harry looked up from his copy of The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet and nodded.

"When do you want to start studying?"

Hermione stopped writing. "Whenever you're ready."

She forced herself not to look at him. A couple of first years walked past them, their black winter cloaks smelling of melted snow and wool. Were they really that small, that hapless-looking when they retrieved the Philosopher's Stone? Hermione thought back to their earlier years and smiled.

"What is it?" Harry asked. He had moved into the chair next to her.

"I was just thinking about us."

She heard him exhale slowly. "What about us?"

"We always see each other through," she said lamely, reining in what she really wanted to say.

Harry looked at her blankly, his green eyes the darkness of shaded leaves. It wasn't only she who noticed how subdued Harry had been since the official declaration of Voldemort's death. Though his injuries weren't the most severe -- Eloise Midgen lost an eye, and the Ravenclaws caught in the Death Eater ambush at Hogsmeade were still in rehabilitation -- Harry had the look of someone who had lost more than his hand.

He was just lost.

In an uncharacteristic display of affection, Hermione pressed her hand against the nape of Harry's neck. His hair, neglected, was long enough to brush past the collar of his shirt. It framed a face that had lost its childhood roundness, a face that would be handsome had it not been for the sharpness of his gaze and the unbecoming jut of his jaw.

Harry stiffened at first, then relaxed. He shifted his weight toward her, his chin resting on top of her head.

"I can't see what's ahead for me," he said.

Neither could she.