The Song of the Trees

Chapter Two: On the Way to Recovery

The apartment was small and dark; the closed shutters let inside a thin ray of sunlight that fell on the dusty floor, scattered with various things-clothes, books, travelling bags, empty plates and bottles. The room smelled slightly stuffy, and had that abandoned look which usually goes with places seldom inhabited.

The sound of a key rattling in the lock suddenly echoed in the dark, messy room. A second later, the front door opened and Harry Potter stepped in. He didn't pause to consider the mess all around him, and he didn't think of opening the shutters. Letting his travelling cloak fall to the floor, he walked to the bedroom and hastily took off his Muggle clothes, muddy and torn in some places from his excursion in the Forest. Once he had changed into the black robes he was used to wearing whenever he had to go to the Ministry, he went to his desk, covered in broken quills and bits of paper; he chose a blank scroll of parchment and, after a while, discovered in a drawer half a quill whose point was still sharp.

He paused, his quill suspended above the parchment, thinking. After a few seconds, he determinedly dipped the point of his broken quill in a bottle of black ink and started to write.

Dear Hermione,

I'm finally back from Siberia; the trip was pretty eventless, and I was more bored than anything else. I'm glad to be home, and I'm looking forward to seeing you and Ron again. How about having dinner somewhere on Diagon Alley? If Ron can escape duty, of course. Tell me which day you're available.

I really must be going now; I'll see you soon, I guess.

Love,

Harry

Harry reread his letter, frowning slightly. He hadn't seen Hermione and Ron in a while. As a matter of fact, he hadn't really stayed in touch with any of his Hogwarts friends lately. They hadn't tried to impose their company on him in the past two years, for which he was grateful; they must have understood he needed to be alone. He didn't know why he was suddenly taking the initiative of seeing his two best friends again.

Maybe he was back in one of his strange moods, seeking company when he was alone, craving for calm when he was surrounded by other people... Or maybe he was slowly recovering. Harry had surprised himself when he had been about to reveal so much about his new personality and the events of his seventh year at Hogwarts, first to Hagrid, second to Professor McGonagall. He had never before felt the need to talk about it; quite the contrary, he had hidden it, as he would have hidden a shameful disease.

Harry raised his head and stared at his reflection in the small and cracked mirror hanging above his desk.

Who would be friends with someone who was barely human?

Hermione and Ron would, said in his head a small voice he hadn't heard in a long time.

Harry nervously bit his lip. Would they still be his friends if they knew...?

There is only one way to know it. Tell them.

Harry stayed still for a minute or so, gazing at the mirror.

"I'll deal with that in time," he finally said aloud. Turning away from the mirror, he went back to the small drawing room, swooped down to pick up his travelling cloak and flung it over his shoulders as he headed for the front door once more.

The letter lay forgotten on the desk.

***

Harry Apparated in the gigantic Atrium buzzing with the comings and goings of witches and wizards, all of whom looking extremely busy and conscious of their importance. He made his way to the security wizard's desk, vaguely nodding to acknowledge the eager waves and greetings a few people were sending him.

"Potter," he said in a toneless voice as he reached the desk. Eric the security wizard, who was deeply buried in the Daily Prophet, jumped and hastily straightened up in his chair.

"Of course! Harry, how are you?" he said cheerfully, holding out his hand.

"Same as usual," said Harry curtly, shaking Eric's hand very briefly. "I can't stay, I've been summoned to Robards' office. See you later."

He walked past Eric's desk without even waiting for his answer. Eric's forced familiarity was a bit annoying, especially when you knew he was keen on spreading as many rumours as possible about the weirdness of the Boy Who Lived. Harry had heard him an evening, when he was silently having a drink in a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron, unseen and unheard by any of the customers-all of whom apparently convinced that Harry Potter was fabulously rich and went to much smarter and more expensive places than the dusty pub of Diagon Alley.

Harry went through the golden gates into the smaller hall where Ministry workers and visitors were gathered, waiting for a lift. At the sight of him, the loud talking, laughing and arguing stopped abruptly, as if someone had turned off the volume control. Harry leaned against a wall, resolutely looking at the ceiling, and slowly the murmurs of conversations rose again all around him. People were careful in keeping their voices down, though, as if they were afraid of disturbing him-or of awakening a dangerous beast.

Harry heaved a sigh. Most of the wizards who had never known him personally were treating him like a bomb that could explode any minute. The others were eager to emphasize any connection, no matter how vague or ancient, that they thought they shared with him; but at the same time, they never tried to get closer to him. The relationship the wizarding world had with Harry Potter was based on a strange mixture of admiration and fear.

Half a dozen lifts came into view, clattering noisily. The crowd awaiting them rushed forward as soon as the golden grilles had slid back, and they filled the lifts so that not even a mouse could have crawled in them. Yet, when Harry reached the grilles, the people crammed in the lift miraculously found the ability to press themselves even more against the walls, leaving an empty space for him. Harry stepped in and the golden grilles slid shut in front of his face.

The lift began to rise; the grating and creaking noises accompanying the ascension were the only sounds in the crowded lift, as everybody seemed to hold their breath. Harry didn't turn around to look at them; he knew they would avoid his gaze or look terribly ill-at-ease if he did so. The fact that he was standing straight without being in physical contact with anybody, when the rest of them were nearly suffocated from the proximity, was eloquent enough.

As the lift ascended, people slowly filled out. Harry could hear them resume their talking as soon as they had turned round a corner. By the time the lift reached the second level, where the Aurors Headquarters were, it was almost empty. Harry walked out of the lift and in the busy corridor; people here were more accustomed to his presence and he got many waves and cheerful 'Morning, Potter'. He vaguely mumbled something in answer, without really paying attention to whoever had addressed to him. He soon reached the oak doors opening on the Aurors' Headquarters.

The place was almost as busy and noisy as the Atrium. Harry headed for the Head office at the opposite end of the room, Aurors and apprentices bumping into him as they passed him. Once or twice Harry felt-rather than saw-an Auror he had involuntarily knocked into turn back, ready to tell him off. As a rule, Aurors were keen on shouting at apprentices; any other apprentice who would have banged into a fully-fledged Auror should have expected a massive bawling out, terrible enough to make them wish they could disappear on the spot. But Harry never got to be yelled at.

As he opened the door at the furthest end of the hall, he found himself in a small room where Gawain Robards' young secretary was sitting at a small desk, her face bent very low upon the parchment she was frantically writing on. He coughed lightly and she jumped in surprise.

"Mr Potter!" she squeaked, fumbling with an armful of documents sprawled on her desk. "You... erm..."

She took a piece of parchment and held it in front of her face, then timidly glanced at Harry from behind it.

"You were expected twenty minutes ago," she said in an apologetic voice.

"I know," said Harry. "I was delayed. Can I still see Mr Robards?"

She looked at him with round eyes.

"Of course you can!" she protested in an indignant voice, as if it was positively shocking that Harry Potter could be denied a meeting with his boss for the mere reason that he was twenty minutes late. Knowing Robards, he would be able to fire an apprentice for a two-minute lateness. "I'll go in and-and tell him you're here, sir..."

She sent him a shy smile and went into Robards' office. Harry didn't have to wait ten seconds before Robards' booming voice rang through the small room.

"He's here? What the hell are you waiting for then? Send him in!"

The secretary literally shot from the office, white with fear and tears rapidly swelling in her eyes. "You should go in, sir," she said in a quavering voice. Harry nodded in her direction and walked through the door of the Head Auror's office.

Robards was sitting at a very large desk, which was covered in countless reports, maps, sweet wrappers and bits of cigars. A cloud of smoke was hanging at the ceiling, dimming the light and blurring Harry's vision. Squinting, he distinguished the red and sweaty face of his boss, who was scrutinizing him through narrowed piggy eyes while forcefully drawing on his stupendously long cigar.

"Potter!" barked Robards. "You're late, goddamn! Do you actually think I've all the time in the world to wait for bloody apprentices? What the hell are you thinkin' at? The world doesn't revolve around you!"

Harry had to suppress a smirk as he sat down on the hard, straight-backed chair facing the desk. It was common knowledge Robards had no liking for him, but he had to put up with the Minister for Magic's demands. Scrimgeour had expressly ordered him to treat Harry with consideration-if consideration was possible for that rude, red man, well known for his dreadful tantrums. Harry wondered how the secretary could survive when she had to be so close to the Head Auror all day.

"I'm sorry sir, I was delayed," Harry answered. "You wanted to see me."

"I was obliged to see you," Robards corrected, dislike etched all across his red features. "I wouldn't see you willingly; d'you think I've got time to spare for stupid apprentices?"

Harry merely raised an enquiring eyebrow. Robards glared at him for about a minute, puffing out clouds of thick and billowing smoke. Then he removed the cigar from his mouth and said slowly:

"You are quite a pain in my ass, Potter, what with your rubbishy fame and your goddamn arrogance. But you're not too bad at task. I just got the report from your head of patrol-I'd say your performance is decent. You're not a total disgrace to the profession. Though I can't see why every single one of those idiotic journalists is raving about your brilliant abilities. Strictly speaking, there is nothing to be drooling about."

He fell silent again and surveyed Harry for a few seconds through the haze of cigar smoke. Harry didn't say anything.

"I have also heard," Robards went on, "that you have some very strange characteristics we're not accustomed to see in apprentices. For instance, your unusual resistance to pain or your permanent insomnia. I don't like that."

"Why not?" Harry asked, mildly surprised. "I would have thought these things were advantages for Aurors."

"I do not have to explain myself," Robards spat out. "Especially not to you! Who do you think you are?"

He watched Harry closely at this question, as if he expected him to claim his past exploits.

"An apprentice," Harry answered in a bored voice.

"Exactly," agreed Robards with a vicious grin. "Only a bloody apprentice. Therefore you'll do as I say. And I don't want weirdoes in any of my teams, Potter. I request that you get rid of those rubbishy abilities of yours."

"Easier said than done," Harry pointed out, feeling now a little annoyed. He hated wasting his time.

Robards' eyes bulged in fury, and he began to swell literally as his face turned a bright purple. Harry was so suddenly reminded of his Aunt Marge he had blown up in a moment of fury, back when he was thirteen, that he couldn't help smiling slightly.

This was quite the wrong thing to do. Robards seemed to think Harry was making fun of him; his mouth opened wide and his thundering voice made the floor tremble.

"WHO THE HELL D'YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO, POTTER? I'M GIVING YOU AN ORDER, NOW GET YOUR ASS OFF THIS CHAIR AND GO TO THE HOSPITAL AND DON'T COME BACK UNTIL YOU HAD YOURSELF FIXED, AND I DON'T GIVE A DAMN HOW YOU DO IT, JUST DO IT!"

Robards had to stop yelling for lack of air; breathing heavily, he furiously crushed the smoking end of his cigar on the ashtray. Harry decided it was time to go before Robards tried to treat him in the same way; he got to his feet and bowed his head as a goodbye.

"I should be going, then, I guess," he said. "Goodbye sir."

As he turned his back on Robards, his boss found his considerable voice again and a flow of swear words accompanied him out of the office. The young secretary, who was cowering behind her desk, watched him with an expression close to awe as he crossed her room; Harry suddenly pitied the poor girl and he sent her an encouraging smile. He was surprised to see her blush to the roots of her hair.

The hall divided into cubicles was completely silent, except for the obscene shouts still erupting from Robards' office. Every Auror and apprentice had frozen, their head turned towards the Head Auror's office and their eyes widened in wariness or fear. Harry strode across the hall, feeling on his retreating back the furious glares some Aurors were shooting him. Admittedly, he had done nobody a favour by awakening Robards' foul temper.

Two apprentices near the door, who were busy trying to shrink in the wall so as not to be the next victim of the Head Auror's wrath, looked at him in admiration. They probably thought he was uncommonly brave to put up with Robards' spectacular bawling outs; truth was, if Harry had not been near-insensible to emotions, as well as to physical feelings, he would probably be trembling now from head to foot. All he was feeling now was a mild irritation at Robards' absurd order.

Once he had left the Aurors' Headquarters behind him, he turned right and followed the corridor until he reached a small, battered door on the left side. The door was covered in peeling painting and graffiti, such as 'Welcome in the anteroom of Hell' and 'Dump all hope at the entrance'. A sign on the door, dusty and lopsided, was bearing the words Apprentices Quarters.

Harry pushed the door open and stepped in the noisy room. Thick ropes were hanging from the ceiling, twitching and swinging as boys and girls climbed up them. Several apprentices were practising their aim, firing hex upon hex at targets painted on the wall. Others were duelling, occasionally sending misplaced curses that bounced off the walls and ceiling, filling the room with colourful sparks.

"Potter! Where've you been?"

Harry turned round to see Lancelot Colman jumping off the rope he was climbing on and walking in his direction. Though they were in the same year, Lance was a year older than Harry; he had repeated his first year of Auror training, something understandable given his well known laziness and his liking for alcohol. Lance was the only friend Harry had made since he had left Hogwarts. He wasn't one to ask questions, and he always had a bottle of Firewhisky to thrust in Harry's hand when he found him particularly gloomy. Though Lance couldn't possibly become as close a friend as Hermione or Ron, Harry trusted him and enjoyed his company.

"Been busy," answered Harry when Lance reached him. "How come you're already at training? I thought you would have celebrated our return from Siberia."

"I have," said Lance nonchalantly. "I'm currently suffering from one hideous hangover. Too bad you weren't there last night, you would have enjoyed yourself. I was with Amy Redburn."

"Great," Harry muttered distractedly. "Where's Hampton?" he asked, referring to their head of patrol.

Lance raised an eyebrow at him. "I have no idea. Not that I want to, mind. That slimy rat should be there, normally... but if I survived this long this morning without being yelled at or threatened to be dragged to Robards' office, that probably means he wasn't there all morning," he said thoughtfully.

"I need to see him," said Harry. "Robards is sending me to St Mungo's, I need to check out before I go or I'll be in trouble. I don't want Robards to hear I don't scrupulously follow his rules, he isn't very happy with me already."

"As if he had ever been happy with you," Lance snorted. "Don't worry about Hampton, I'll tell him where you've gone. You'll come back here after, right?"

"Guess so. See you then," said Harry, gladly turning on his heels to leave the noisy and crowded room.

"See you... oh and Harry, if you can grab a bottle of anti-hangover potion while you're at St Mungo's-"

"Yeah, okay, I'll take it for you," Harry called back over his shoulder. He closed the door behind him and hurried along the corridor to the lift that would take him back to the Atrium.

***

The reception hall of St Mungo's looked quiet and almost empty after Harry's visit of the Ministry of Magic. A year ago the Hospital was still snowed under with victims of Voldemort's followers, suffering for horrible injuries or mental damaged, inflicted during the war itself or in the following months.

The fall of their master hadn't stopped the Death Eaters' sinister activities; quite the contrary, most of them were convinced Voldemort had just fled once more and would return to power one day, and those of his followers who had escaped capture right after Voldemort's death had done their best to retrieve him. For a year after the end of the war, the wizarding world had heard from time to time about murders and kidnappings.

Now that most of the Death Eaters were captured or killed, no one heard such grim news any more; and there was a confident, peaceful look about the Healers walking from patient to patient in the reception room, which contrasted with the atmosphere of anxiety and nervousness Harry had felt whenever he had had to go to the Hospital, in the few months following the war.

Harry hardly had the time to marvel at this change of ambience before a tall and skinny man, wearing the Healers' lime-green robes, suddenly appeared at his side.

"Mr Potter," said the man with a somewhat hungry glint in his big pale-blue eyes. "I have been informed that you would be coming... I'm always so glad to see you, you are such an extraordinary case, you really should have come sooner. When was last time we met? Six months ago at last?"

Harry nodded, not bothering to answer. He had known Merlin Parletoo, the Head Healer of St Mungo's, for now two years and he knew very well Parletoo didn't need his interlocutor to speak. He had the stupendous ability to make a conversation entirely on his own, saying both the questions and the answers.

"-yes, yes six months, I think it was February the tenth, actually; I had a very remarkable case of a badly brewed Sleeping Draught the same day, the poor girl's face had turned orange with violet spots and her eyelids were glued shut, and she couldn't breathe without snoring loudly-"

"Did you think of any cure that could rid me of my... symptoms, sir?" asked Harry loudly over the Healer's endless blabbering.

Parletoo stopped dead in mid-sentence and reproachfully glared at Harry.

"Don't talk about this here, Mr Potter!" he hissed. "This is classified Ministry information-quite apart from the violation of the medical secrecy, which, come to think of it, you don't have to keep, after all you're the patient and not the Healer so technically speaking-"

Harry closed his eyes in despair as Parletoo rambled on. As he opened them again, he looked around for a nurse or a Healer that would be able to interrupt him; at last he caught the eye of a pretty intern, standing at a few feet and watching the pair of them uncertainly, her hands full of strangely-shaped bottles. The intern blushed scarlet when he looked at her, but managed a timid smile which Harry awkwardly returned. He slightly jerked his head towards the still talking Head Healer, looking at her enquiringly. Her eyes widened in understanding and she giggled, almost dropping her bottles. Harry patiently waited for her to regain her composure; at last her fit of giggling ended, leaving her breathless and quite red in the face. Then she began fanning herself with her hand, before securing her bottles in her arms and finally walking towards them.

"Professor Parletoo?" she said confidently when she reached them.

Parletoo sent her the same annoyed, slightly scornful look the Aurors were shooting at the apprentices at the Ministry.

"Yes, Miss? What is it?"

"I was sent to tell you your appointment with Miss Bulstrode has been confirmed," the girl answered sweetly, batting her long eyelashes at the old Healer. "She will come here at eleven."

Parletoo grunted, looking at the gigantic clock inserted in the wall above their head. "That doesn't leave me much time with Mr Potter," he snapped to the intern. "And Mr Potter is far more interesting a patient than Miss Bulstrode! Tell Wishnak to postpone her."

"I don't think that'll be possible, sir," murmured the girl in apparent shyness, though Harry could see the hint of an amused smile on the corner of her lips. "Miss Bulstrode has already been postponed twice and-"

"Fine, fine!" barked Parletoo. "We'll have to botch up this consultation, Mr Potter. We have only forty-five minutes left."

"I'm sure we'll be able to review the subject in that amount of time, sir," said Harry. But predictably, Professor Parletoo didn't seem to hear him as he strode towards the double doors behind the welcomewitch's desk, complaining loudly about what a busy man he was.

Harry followed him in silence, feeling the intern's eyes on his back; he would have to thank her later.

They climbed the rickety staircase up to the fourth floor, where a sign bore the words SPELL DAMAGE. Parletoo pushed the double doors open and led him through several wards where Healers, nurses and interns were bustling about, none of them failing to respectfully salute Professor Parletoo. Harry felt many gazes following him as he walked alongside the old Healer; he just gritted his teeth and walked on, refusing to spare them a glance.

They finally arrived at Parletoo's large and luxury surgery. Parletoo sat in his armchair behind a desk made of dark wood; a single white sheet of paper lay before him on the desk, which was otherwise haphazardly covered with piles of notes, phials and notebooks. Parletoo grabbed a long and fluffy white quill and laid it carefully on top of the sheet of paper. Then he motioned Harry to take a seat.

"So," he began when they were both settled. "It seems that Mr Robards wishes you to make a complete recovery from the various symptoms we've both been working on for the last two years. And he seems to think we will have accomplished such a feat by the end of the week."

It was clear from the tone of his voice that he thought Mr Robards was a complete ignorant of the ways of magical medicine.

"That's what I gathered from my encounter with him," Harry shortly agreed.

Parletoo snorted derisively. "Fine, then. Let's do what we can," he sighed. "Ready?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the quill lying on the white sheet. At once the quill jumped up and stood on its sharp point on the paper, swaying slightly as it waited for the Healer to start talking.

"Mr Potter's file. Consultation number sixteen," Parletoo announced, and the quill started dancing on the sheet as it took notes. As always, Harry was irresistibly reminded of Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill and he slightly shook his head to get rid of that unpleasant memory.

"Let's start, Mr Potter," said Parletoo. "We have tried several cures on you since the end of the war, and thank Merlin we've been able to rid you of your most serious symptoms. I believe you don't have headaches anymore, do you?"

"No," Harry answered. That had been a relief. For several months after the end of the war, he had suffered from such terrible headaches that he had been forced to spend several days lying on his bed in the dark.

"You've also lost your disgust for food and your occasional dizziness. Those were the most disturbing symptoms, as they made you totally unable to have a normal life or follow your Auror training. Alas, I fear that those symptoms were but the most external signs of a much more deep-rooted disease. Permanent insomnia, insensibility to pain... even your emotional abilities seem to have been lessened. It sounds as if all your sensitive nerves have been severely harmed, and maybe killed, though by what I am unable to say."

The Healer suddenly straightened up in his armchair and observed Harry very seriously, his pale blue eyes looking even wider and rounder than they usually did.

"I never asked you what exactly happened two years ago. The tests proved you had been the victim of several Cruciatus Curses, and I didn't need any test to know you've been possessed by the Lord of the Death Eaters. I'm experienced enough to recognize a man that has been possessed-it shows in the eyes, you know, even months after the possession. Mental possession is one of the most traumatic experiences existing in the wizarding world, it leaves deep scars. Once I came across to-"

"What's your point, Professor?" Harry asked, cutting across what was without doubt the telling of long reminiscences.

Professor Parletoo looked startled, but quickly recovered his composure. "Oh, yes, I was forgetting, we don't have much time. My point is, I didn't need your telling me everything in order to cure the most obvious symptoms. But now we're talking about uprooting a very rare and apparently very nasty disease. I need to know everything-everything-you can tell me on the subject."

Parletoo leaned back in his armchair, still staring intently at Harry. Harry bit his lower lip for a few seconds, his brow furrowed in concentration, then he abruptly raised his head to lock eyes with the old Healer.

"All right," he said, almost brutally.

He closed his eyes and started to speak, slowly and distinctly, carefully choosing his words as the memories came back to him.

"You remember that, in January the last year of the war, the Death Eaters started to isolate Hogwarts from the rest of the wizarding world. They cut all the ways of communication between the school and the Ministry, blew up the Hogwarts Express along with a good part of the railway line, and finally they forced entry in the circle of mountains around Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. They burnt the village to the last straw and then attacked the school itself. They succeeded in entering the grounds in mid-April.

"I was there; it was my last year at Hogwarts. I had returned to the school a mere few weeks before the attack; before that time I had been travelling. I tried to put up the best defence possible against Voldemort's army. I don't think I need to elaborate... Only a few of us were able to fight them. What could first-years or even fourth-years do against fully trained Death Eaters? I would never have let them fight, anyway. It would have been a slaughter.

"The Death Eaters won, as you know. They gathered the students and the teachers in front of the castle. They killed a few students and tortured a few others, just for the fun of it. Then they chained all of them and they sent them to the entrance of the grounds, where other Death Eaters were waiting to take them to Voldemort. The only ones they didn't chain were the teachers, my friends Hermione and Ron and myself."

Harry paused, his eyes still shut. The room was completely silent, and even the scratching noises Parletoo's quill was making had stopped.

"They told the teachers to sit down and watch the show. Then they started teasing my friends and me, saying how strange it was that three miserable dirty-bloods had defied the Dark Lord for so long. They also said they were keeping us alive so that Voldemort could kill us himself, exactly the way he wanted to. Then Bellatrix Lestrange said it didn't mean they couldn't have a little fun with us first. And she told me to run."

Harry's eyes shot open. He had thought that story would be difficult to tell but strangely enough he couldn't stop talking now. He had to get to the end of it.

"She said she wanted to hunt me down, and it would be funnier if I ran. At first I thought I wouldn't give her the satisfaction, but then I realised maybe it was an opportunity-my only opportunity-to escape and lose them in the Forest or something... I hesitated in leaving my friends though. But they had understood too I had a chance to escape the Death Eaters, and they took the decision for me. My friend Ron managed to kick Bellatrix Lestrange's wand out of her hand, and I ran. Ron was brought back under control immediately, and he paid a very high price for helping me... if he hadn't done that, Bellatrix would have cursed me before I had the time to move a muscle.

"I was running as fast as I could, and I was-I still am-quite a fast runner. They just couldn't catch up, and as they were afraid of losing me they started firing hexes in my direction, but they were too slow, I was dodging all of them. The only thing I could have dreaded was an Unforgivable Curse, because it was the only thing powerful enough to reach me when I was running so fast. I didn't have to dread an Avada Kedavra, as they had to keep me alive, and I can resist the Imperius Curse."

There was again a short silence.

"Which leaves only the Cruciatus Curse," Parletoo murmured, his eyes gleaming.

Harry nodded. "Yes. The first one was from Bellatrix. It hit me when I already was at the edge of the Forest. But I didn't stop; it was as if-as if I had lava instead of blood in my veins and all I could think of to forget the pain was keep running. So I ran even faster than before.

"The second one was from Rodolphus Lestrange, shortly after the first. He and his wife were both running after me, and by the sound of it they were having fun... The third was from Nott. By the time it hit me I wasn't even able to see and I kept banging into trees and bushes, but I was still running. Then there was a fourth curse. There were four Death Eaters hunting me down."

"Do you actually mean," said the Healer slowly, his eyes bulging in disbelief, "that you were under four Cruciatus Curses... at the same time?"

"It didn't last long," Harry said wearily, "we were running very fast and the run reduced the effects of the curses."

"What happened next?"

"The Lestranges and Nott were killed in the Forest, causing three of the four curses to be lifted. I don't know what happened to the fourth Death Eater. He or she left me in the Forest, where I hid for a week or two."

"You were still under the fourth curse, though," Parletoo pointed out.

Harry nodded, drumming his fingers on the desk. "The fourth curse was less strong than the others," he said, his eyes fixed on his fingers tapping the polished wood one after the other. "Maybe because the caster of the curse wasn't near me anymore. The pain was permanent but it was dull.

"It was then I found myself unable to sleep; I was constantly doing something, because when I kept still for too long the pain grew stronger, and it felt as if it was eating me from the inside. When the curse was suddenly lifted, two months later, I was able to stay immobile without feeling pain but I still couldn't sleep."

"It was lifted? How? When?" Parletoo asked sharply.

"The day after Voldemort's death," Harry answered, feeling suddenly very tired. "I was talking with Professor McGonagall when I felt a shock and everything went black. When I woke up, the pain had gone. I guess I had grown used to it, and when it disappeared the transition was too brutal."

"Most definitely," Parletoo agreed. "But four Cruciatus Curses, even if one of them lasted two months, aren't nearly enough to make you insensible to pain. As strange as it sounds. You should have gone insane," he added with obvious bewilderment, "you definitely should have gone completely mad; but even the insane victims of Cruciatus Curses can still feel pain."

Harry looked at his watch. He had five minutes left to finish his story, which was a relief because he didn't think he would stand it much longer.

"I think," he said, "this particular symptom is due to my last... duel, for lack of a better word... with Voldemort."

"The possession," said Parletoo, the hungry glint back in his eyes.

"Yes and no," said Harry impatiently. "Voldemort did try to possess me, but then something very strange happened. When I was struggling to repel him, I summoned all the magical strength I had left. And it felt as if Voldemort was using all his own power to force entry in my mind... But then our powers escaped both of us."

Silence. The Healer repeated slowly, as if he wasn't sure he understood very well: "Escaped you?"

"Yes," said Harry, rubbing the scar on his forehead in an absentminded gesture. "I felt... something leaving me... and then I felt like a big mass of hot air rising up in the sky, leaving me cold on the ground. And I realised I wasn't able to use my wand anymore. I thought there was no hope left for me then, alone and without any power against Lord Voldemort; but when I looked at Voldemort, I saw Tom Riddle."

"I beg your pardon?" asked the Healer, looking rather lost.

"Voldemort," Harry explained patiently, "had the face and the body of the boy he used to be at Hogwarts, before he immersed himself completely in dark magic. And by the look of it, he couldn't use his wand either; his power had left him just as mine had left me. It reminded me of what happened in the graveyard during the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament: our wands had refused to fight one another; it was the same thing, except that this time the conflict was so violent our whole magical power refused to obey us any longer."

Harry smiled. "Ironic, isn't it? The fate of the world, depending on the result of the fight of two non-magic teenagers..."

"But you killed him!" Parletoo cried out, obviously struggling to keep up with Harry's story.

Harry had a split second's hesitation before answering coldly: "Even Muggles are able to kill."

There. Simple. Now Parletoo is probably picturing me strangling Voldemort with my bare hands... and technically speaking, I didn't even lie to him.

"When Voldemort died, all my magical power returned to me," he went on before the Healer had time to recover from the shock of his 'revelation'. "It was as if I was caught in a violent wind... and right after that I could use magic again. I can't explain what happened. It just did."

Parletoo nodded absentmindedly, unaware that the quill had got bored while waiting for instructions and was now drawing on the sheet of paper.

"So that would be the loss, then the recovery of your magical power, that caused the trauma..." Parletoo said at last, his gaze lost into space. "It makes sense... it would be even more violent than a possession, causing the entire internal disturbance..."

He went on muttering to himself for a few seconds, during which Harry kept his hands in the pockets of his robes, his fingers crossed, hoping that the Healer wouldn't spot a flaw in his incomplete story and start asking awkward questions. There were things he couldn't reveal. Not now. And not to Professor Merlin Parletoo.

"Professor? I really should be going," he said at last.

Parletoo jerked as if Harry had woken him by yelling in his ear. Looking quite confused, he nodded as he pushed back his armchair and stood up to accompany Harry to the door. As Harry swung his cloak back on his shoulders, Parletoo said:

"I suggest you should come to an arrangement with your Head of Department-" he scornfully sniffed at these words "-so that we could see each other regularly... Contact me by Floo network."

"I'll manage. Goodbye, Professor."

"Goodbye Mr Potter. It was a pleasure, as always."

Harry shook Parletoo's hand and turned to leave; but then Parletoo's voice held him back.

"Oh, one last question, Mr Potter... How do you explain the fact you didn't go mad with all those Cruciatus Curses? This is one of the most intriguing facts... the most intriguing, indeed..."

Harry turned to look at the Healer, his expression purposely blank. "You're the expert, Professor. How am I supposed to know?"

Parletoo nodded. "Another mystery we'll try to solve, then," he said cheerfully, as if he was contemplating having his favourite meal. "See you very soon, Mr Potter!"

Harry wheeled about and hurried towards the staircase. Once more, he had succeeded in avoiding the question without even lying. Truth was, he had a very precise idea of what had kept him sane through Bellatrix Lestrange's cruel games.

The explanation, he had to admit, was all but rational; but this wasn't the reason why he had kept it from Professor Parletoo. When he thought about that day, all he could remember after the three Death Eaters' deaths was the slow, soft murmur of the breeze in the trees, filling his ears even as he should have felt his reason slipping away.

He had been in the old core of the Forbidden Forest then. In that place lay the secret of his miraculous survival, and the secret of Voldemort's death. He wasn't the one who had killed him, but as they had fought they had come close to the core of the Forest. It was there it had happened.

He wondered why the old trees kept trying to save him.

He stopped dead in his tracks and violently shook his head. Trees trying to save him? He must have gone mad after all. The trees were odd, but that didn't mean they were alive...

...Or were they?

"So, how did it go?"

Harry started and found himself face to face with the pretty intern who had saved him from Professor Parletoo's endless babbling. She was much shorter than he was and had to crane her neck to smile up at him.

"Very well, thank you very much," he said, managing a small smile. He thought she was going to move out of his way but she stayed rooted to the spot, eyeing him through her long eyelashes, her eyes half-closed.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" she said with a small smile, tilting her head to one side.

Completely nonplussed, Harry didn't answer. What was she talking about?

"I would never have thought you would ask for my help one day," she went on, laughing slightly. "And I bet you would never have thought so either, two years ago, would you?"

"Erm..." was all Harry could think of as an answer.

How embarrassing. He wasn't very gifted with girls as it was, but this one seemed to actually know him and in spite of all his efforts he could not remember who she was.

The intern was still chattering, batting her eyelashes at him and apparently not noticing his blank expression. "Of course, our relationship had started on a wrong basis, what with Cedric's death and everything..."

Harry mentally smacked himself on the forehead. "Cho Chang?" he said incredulously.

She looked at him with her painted eyebrows raised. "Of course! You hadn't forgotten me, at least?"

"Kind of," said Harry truthfully. He was horrified when he saw Cho's eyes watering and her chin trembling like a child's, evoking memories of terrifying disasters. "You know, I'm quite... hum... out of it, lately," he said hastily. "I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts in ages."

"Not even Hermione Granger?" she asked, her voice already high-pitched and almost quavering.

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, not even Hermione Granger," he said exasperatedly. "Honestly, Cho, I'm not fifteen anymore and I really have to go."

He made to walk round her but she blocked his way, her sweet smile back on her face as she quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, "it's just that it's very disturbing, seeing you again after all these years... I stop working at five thirty, maybe we could go somewhere and... talk... try to catch up with all we missed..."

She was furiously batting her eyelashes at him. Trying hard not to laugh, he answered: "I'd love to, but I'm seeing Hermione tonight. I haven't seen her in at least seven months and-"

"OK, I got it, don't bother saying one more word," said Cho very fast.

She walked away from him as quick as she could, until she reached a door on the right side of the corridor. She put her hand on the doorknob, then turned back to him and said dramatically:

"I guess I will never know why you enjoy so much hurting me."

With those words she dashed in the room and slammed the door shut behind her.

Smiling from one ear to the other, Harry finally reached the staircase and started going down, feeling more cheerful than he hadn't felt in a long, long time.