.
.
The search for Hermione was fervid. The Daily Prophet covered the investigation. Students and teachers joined the search. There were speculations and gossip, including one that proposed the Dark Lord had returned and enacted revenge of justice on the mudblood.
Weeks went on with no progress in the search or the investigation. The air brumal and brisk, shaved with prickly razors and chafed with the tongue of distant current wailed the arrival of winter. The chances of finding her alive were getting slimmer as many whispered among themselves, agreeing that the witch was long dead. Some students even decided to have a small ceremony to say goodbye to her. Ron refused to attend even though Luna tried hard to convince both Ron and Harry to come to terms with the loss and start healing.
"She is not dead," Ron insisted. "There is no way Hermione is dead. She is smart. She is capable. She would fight and there would be the evidence of her fight left behind. She must be somewhere, hiding. She must be in trouble unable to get in touch with us, but she is definitely alive."
Harry remained silent. Hiding away in the library for days. Some said that was his way of coping with her death. Others wondered if the boy who lived had finally gone mad. Everyone could see that Harry Potter had changed. There was something strange going on with him.
He spent most of his time alone, away from his friends, no longer playing quidditch or visiting Hogsmeade.
"Are you listening, Harry?" Ron's voice was getting hard to ignore. It was like someone was trying to blast a dynamite inside his skull.
"I am sorry," Harry shut the book and glared at Ron. "I can't listen anymore. I am tired Ron. I am tired of hearing everyone speak and speak and speak like there was nothing else to do. I am bloody tired of everything and everyone. I wish I disappeared and Hermione was here."
"Mate..." Harry left.
His hands were shaking. He could no longer function. He had tried to cover the wound on his torso, but it kept tearing and it kept gushing stream of fresh blood. He walked into the first lavatory and sealed the door shut behind him. His green eyes were almost tea green. He was sweating and had fever and his skin was getting paler and paler.
Harry pulled his robes and stared at the wound. It had appeared one morning. At first it small and manageable, but it was getting larger and larger every day. He had tried to heal it with various spells and potions, but nothing had worked. He had went as far as use crude muggle stitching supplies to stich the gaping wound together.
Harry stared at it with pained expression, but the pain soon turned into horror when he felt something moving inside the wound.