The war is over, but it has not yet ended

The war is over, but it has not yet ended.

At least, that's what Addison thinks to herself as she walks by the war's anniversary street celebrations with a tight lipped smile. Light and music flooded her path to work, stripping Hogsmeade of its usual cozy warmth and replacing it with a cold sort of joy instead.

"Miss Hwang, you're early!" Wendall squeaked with surprise, nearly slipping from the ladder he was perched on, when Addison entered her shop, a small apothecary at the outskirts of the village. "And happy anniversary—to six years of freedom."

Freedom . . . She always thought it was a strange thing to rejoice so brightly at the end of the war without recognizing all the loss they'd suffered and all the suffering that had followed through the years. Of course, it was nothing short of a feat that Voldemort had died in the Battle of Hogwarts, but the violence did not end with him. Instead, it had festered amongst those who survived him—the supporters who slipped through the Ministry's fingers and whose identities weren't so publicly associated with Death Eaters. But then again, the general public wasn't ever concerned with enemies whose faces weren't well known.

"Happy anniversary," Addison replied shortly, helping Wendall down from the ladder when he nearly dropped a handful of vials of acromantula venom.

Despite being a talented potioneer for his age, Wendall was the clumsy type. The first week after she hired him, Addison thought she might show up to the shop one day to find it burned to the ground because Wendall kept tripping over his feet when sorting stock.

"So do you have any plans for tonight, Miss?" Wendall didn't wait for an answer, charging ahead in his words as he checked each vial for signs of spoilage. "I know Hogwarts is holding a feast. My family's planning on attending. Oh, and I heard Mr. Harry Potter, bless his soul, might make an appearance. My mam says I'm not supposed to ask you about Mr. Potter. She thinks it's rude to prod friends of celebrities, but—is it true? Is he really as charismatic and kind as the books describe him to be? Do you think he'd take a picture with me?"

He looked at her expectantly, and Addison was quiet as she made her way behind the counter to prepare for the shop's opening. She had a couple of regulars on the books coming in for restocks. She'd probably have to brew another batch of Dreamless Sleep.

"If Harry says he's going to make an appearance, then I suppose he will, but," her eyes drifted to the charmed folder sitting under the money box, "But I have a feeling he'll be otherwise occupied tonight."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose if I were a war hero, celebrating today would be equally unenjoyable as it is enjoyable. Did you . . ." He trailed off as if suddenly realizing himself and the nature of the question he was about to ask. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Addison thought about the War. She thought of bloodshed and Dark Magic, and she thought of all the work she did to undo the darkness that bled into her present. "I didn't lose anyone in the war, but I lost a lot of people after it ended. Your family donated money, I heard."

"We did. We sent money from the States. And we petitioned to MACUSA to intervene," he answered. "But they didn't do anything in the end."

"Governments rarely do."

Wendall seemed to want to say something else, but he chose against it as Addison rolled her sleeves up, pinning them near her elbows. She brought out her wand and with a light handed wave, a flurry of vials and jars flew off the shelf and onto the table behind her.

“Now, let’s get to work, shall we? I have an inkling that today might overwhelm us.”

Addison hated being right. Almost as soon as she’d finished preparing the ingredients for the first batch of the Dreamless Sleep potions, the door chimes rang and in came a rush of people.

Back to back patrons were one thing. Back to back patrons on the Anniversary were another. Some came in teary-eyed and sorrowful while others all but galloped in with a facade of brightness. It was on days like these that the shop limited doses of Numbing Potion and offered vials of Draught of Peace instead.

Addison had just finished reading over the letter her owl, Kasper, had brought back when she overheard the conversation happening at the front of the store.

“You know I can’t give you another one, Mr. Weasley. You were in here just this morning,” Wendall said, thumbing his wand nervously as he stepped in front of the tray of Numbing Potions, blocking view of it.

Percy Weasley was a frequent guest at the Apothecary. He was surprisingly jolly and talkative on a normal day, but today was not any normal day.

“You—you can’t just bar me from buying something with my money!” Percy stumbled forward, leaning against his walking cane as he grew pale. “You have no idea—no idea!”

“Miss Hwang said—Mr. Weasley you can’t come behind the counter! I’ll have to stun you if you come any closer. This is a restricted area.”

Addison walked to the front just in time to see Wendall on the precipice of physically wrestling Percy away from the table full of vials. The older man was visibly tired, his usually bright red hair dulled to a lighter shade of orange while his cheeks hollowed, sunken in with exhaustion.

“Percy,” Addison placed a careful hand over his own resting on his walking cane. She broke his gaze from the tray, and it seemed his eyes softened at the sight of her.

“Today’s a difficult day,” he admitted, looking down.

“It doesn’t feel any better even with the time. I get it. I was there with you, remember?” She said softly. “But Wendall’s here to help, not berate. He’s got the patient of a saint, this one, but how many before you do you think treated him the same?”

Percy took a slow breath in, recentering himself. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”

“It’s no worry, Mr. Weasley,” Wendall said sheepishly, but Addison could see the stress starting to take a toll on him.

“Why don’t I send you away with some Draught of Peace. I’ll even throw in a Pick-Me-Up for free. Two of each—one for you and one for George,” Addison said, aiming her wand at the appropriate shelves for each potion.

Percy nodded after an initial pause. “He’s locked himself in his study. But he’s left the bathroom mirror uncovered this time, so I s’pose it’s a step up from last year.”

Addison helped Percy with the rest of his list—mostly ingredients for new Weasley Wizard Wheezes products. And it was only after he’d finally left that she turned to Wendall, eyes flickering to the clock up on the wall behind him.

“Today’s been rough,” she said. “Why don't you take the rest of the day off? You can meet with your family early to head to the Feast.”

“I don’t mind staying the rest of the day, Miss,” Wendall said weakly, but she could tell by his expression, he was already contemplating it.

“Just head home, Wendall. I won’t dock your pay.”

“Well, if you put it like that . . .” He summoned his jacket and things. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning Miss Hwang, or tonight at the Feast?”

She shook her head. “I have a couple things to attend to tonight, but I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

The door jingled as he left the shop, and Addison allowed her a short moment to breathe. There was still an hour and a half before the apothecary was set to close, but the streets of Hogsmeade had significantly emptied compared to this morning. She didn’t expect any more customers, but she left a bell at the counter and a sign to ring just in case anyone did come in. She took the charmed folder from under the money box and disappeared into her study at the back of the store.

Flayed corpses, trails of blood, and dental samples of what once was human—Addison flipped through the heavy folder in tense silence. This is what she meant when she thought the war was over, but it had not yet ended.

In the aftermath of Voldemort’s fall, the Wizarding World thought they recovered. Hogwart was rebuilt. Missing persons cases were resolved. And Death Eaters who hadn’t died were sought after and sent to Blitzine, a new prison specifically made to house the most severe criminals of the War.

But Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic, had kept under wraps the development of what the public would surely understand as the return of Darkness. In the past few years, the Ministry’s Auror Department noticed a pattern in patients admitted to St. Mungo’s.

More and more cases were appearing where people showed with bloodied feet, broken fingernails, glazed vision, and most interestingly, changes in their front teeth from incisors to canines as they appeared dazed and violent. Only one patient had been returned to their original state, and the Healers on scene hadn’t an idea of how. They were beginning to call it the Plague.

And Addison was tasked by the Head Auror and his partner to find an antidote to the plaguing condition before it exploded across the population.

Speaking of which—the front door chimed, and Addison re-charmed the folder before walking to the front.

“Harry,” she greeted, glancing at the small badge emblazoned on his jacket’s left breast pocket reading Harry Potter, Head Auror. “You’re early today . . . and alone. Where’s Theo?”

He conjured his wand, casting a plethora of muffling charms no doubt, before locking the front door and charming the window curtains to stay down. “Blaise is sick. He went home early to tend to him.”

“Anything serious?”

“Hopefully not.”

She nodded. “Well, I haven’t had the chance to put on a pot, so I’m afraid you’ll have to go without tea this evening.”

He waved away her concern, following her back to her study. “Not an issue at all, Addie. We’re imposing on you anyway by meeting here instead of at the Ministry. And Merlin knows the work you do is aiding the community exponentially.”

She uncharmed the folder again. “I’m not sure I’m of much help considering the little progress I’ve made since you’ve brought me on.”

“It’s more progress than we’ve had since opening the case,” he answered, running a stressed hand through his hair. He surveyed the papers and the instructions for new trial antidotes she’d thought to try. “No bezoars in these.”

“I’m entertaining the possibility that the Plague is rooted in transformation and not poor reactions to poison, especially with the recent admissions. They’re growing more violent, more unhuman.”

He paused. “Zombies—Addie, please tell me you’re not suggesting to me that the Wizarding World has zombies on their hands.”

“Potentially.”

“I’ll have to alert the Minister—Shacklebolt, he won’t be pleased.”

She shook her head. “It’s a big possibility, but it’s one of many I’m exploring, so I wouldn’t get ahead of myself, Harry.”

“I’ll have to call Ginny, tell her I won’t be home tonight. I’ll have to bring Theo in, skip the Feast and—”

“You are not skipping that Feast.” Addison sent a pointed look his way. “My apprentice is looking forward to meeting you tonight.”

He blinked. “Wesley?”

“Wendall,” she corrected.

“And I don’t expect you’ll be the one to introduce me,” he asserted, thumbing through the pages as if looking for something. “You’re not going to the Feast.”

“I have to forage,” she said, ignoring the sort of sympathetic gaze he was giving her, pretending not to see how his eyes dipped to her shaking hands. “Boomslang skin I can ask the Ministry to supply, but fluxweed, fluxweed I like to find myself. And since tonight is a full moon, I’d like to take advantage of it.”

Harry didn’t say anything afterwards, and they worked in silence while she brewed and while he theorized. They worked in silence all the way up until he had to go to the Feast.

“The war is over, Addie. These are just . . . aftershocks,” Harry tried, a hand on the door after he unwarded the shop.

But she could only scoff. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the war is far from its end. It’s only a matter of who knows it and who doesn’t.”