The Song of the Trees

Chapter Four: Nocturnal Stroll

The night was clear and warm; the white marble of the graves reflected the moonlight and gleamed sinisterly all around Harry, as he walked across the small graveyard of Godric's Hollow. He swiftly made his way to a tomb in a distant corner, sheltered by a large beech tree.

The tomb was a simple rectangular slab lying on the ground; it was made of marble that used to be white, and upon it was carved the names James Potter and Lily Potter, née Evans. The marble was dirty and covered in damp spots and marks left by leaves that had rotted on the once smooth surface; ivy crept all around the slab, threatening to cover the names with its thick dark-green foliage. James and Lily Potter's tomb looked lonely and abandoned.

Harry silently sat on the ground, next to his parents' grave. As always he pulled off the ivy that had slyly advanced on the cold and hard stone since his last visit. He didn't know why he kept coming here - contrary to Hogwarts, this place wasn't helping him to feel better, far from it. He never felt so isolated and different from the living than when he went to visit that small godforsaken graveyard. But could he really consider himself as alive? He hardly felt like he was part of the world...

In the few months following Voldemort's fall, he had often found himself longing for death. He had craved peace, and he had had to use all his willpower to not let himself die - he was still needed to rebuild the wizarding world, after all. But the main reason why he had stayed alive was that a part of him clung desperately to life, no matter how bitter and miserable it had become. Having survived through all that, only to die at the end - it would have been so stupid, so pointless.

Harry felt suddenly oppressed by the deadly silence. Incapable of staying still any longer, he heaved himself off the ground and got to his feet. Leaving his parents' grave he strolled across the cemetery, distractedly reading the names carved in the hard stone of the tombs; it was strange to see those names, strange to think those long-forgotten people, who now lay reduced to ash and dust in the infertile earth, used to live and walk and - maybe - love... Until all that was left of them was a name carved in marble.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry almost bumped into the beech tree he had left behind him a few moments before. He had just walked round the graveyard; now he had nothing more to do here, except a last visit to two other friends.

Crouching on the ground on one side of the Potters' grave, he brushed away the ivy that seemed to be the only plant able to grow on this grayish earth, to reveal another slab - much more recent than the one covering his parents' tomb, but also considerably smaller. It was only a square of white marble, bearing the name Sirius Black. Sirius' body had never been found, but Remus Lupin had been insistent about putting a small slab bearing his name, next to the place where his best friend lay.

Harry stayed silent for a few seconds, gazing at the marble slab; he extended a hand and ran his thumb across the letters forming Sirius' name, remembering how Sirius had managed to survive - to go through countless hardships, only to die at the hand of a Death Eater while trying to save him. Had he been given the choice, Sirius would have chosen to live; even after twelve years spent in Azkaban he had still possessed that power Harry had lost - he had always seen the good sides to his life, he had never considered abandoning it; even when it had been frustrating and boring. And yet he hadn't hesitated for a second to give it to save Harry.

Harry wondered if he would be able to do the same. A few years ago, he would have been. Now he wasn't so sure.

Abruptly rising once more, he walked around the beech tree and brushed aside the heavy curtain of ivy greedily feeding on the sap of the tree. There, carved in the wood by his hand two years ago, was another name: the name of Peter Pettigrew.

The fourth Marauder had redeemed himself as a spy in the war, giving Harry the information which allowed him to complete his mission; he had not turned to Harry's side out of bravery - though he had needed it when stealing information from Voldemort -, but because he was actually more terrified by James Potter's shadow than by his Master himself.

Harry had heard Peter several times, when he was hiding under his Invisibility Cloak to enter a Death Eaters' base in order to gather more information about Voldemort's shattered soul. More than once, Harry had silently sat in a corner of Peter's miserable bedroom in the shabby house of Spinner's End, listening to the short man's frantic muttering.

"It wasn't my fault Prongs... I never realised... I cried, if you knew how much I cried that night... If I had died for you, what use it would have been? I thought I could be more helpful by staying alive... I wanted to prove myself to you, you and Padfoot... You were both thinking I was dumb and incapable... I wanted to show you I could be a useful spy for the Order... but in the end you were right of course. I couldn't stop giving information to him. What Snivellus achieved, I wasn't able to do.

"Prongs, the night you made me Secret Keeper was the worst night of my entire life! I didn't care about Padfoot, he thought I was useless and he only bore with me because of you. He could die for all I cared, he could be sent to Azkaban for his arrogance, his scorn and his way of acting as if the world revolved around him! But not you, Prongs! You and Lily... you were my only family...

"But of course you had each other... I was lonely Prongs. How was I supposed to handle the Dark Lord on my own? You were too busy with your newfound family to care about your dumb, short and fat friend... I couldn't resist. How I cried the night you died, Prongs! I was there, as a rat. Under Lily's favourite armchair, which was so old she was sinking in it because there were no springs left; remember Prongs? I saw you fall to the ground, dead, and I fled...

"I thought no one was going to believe my little act about Sirius. I thought they would all think he was incapable of betraying his best friend. There would be a trial and he would tell everything about me, me the traitor... Oh he loved you too, I knew it, and I was sad because I could never have with anybody - and especially not with you - a bond such as the one the pair of you shared... He was like your brother and I was just the stupid little lump of a boy, trotting behind you, wasn't I Prongs? They all knew this. They all knew he would have died rather than hand you over to the Dark Lord...Why did they all believe he had betrayed you?

"Why did Moony, wise, brave and faithful Moony, believe it? Why didn't they all think, afterwards, that Moony was a coward too because he had never paused to consider the events of that night? He believed at once Sirius was the traitor, when he knew better than anybody how much you meant to him. But whatever happened, Moony still was the good, faithful friend, wasn't he Prongs? When Padfoot broke free, he forgave Moony. Why do I always have to be the only culprit, Prongs?...

"I'm so sorry, so, so sorry Prongs..."

Harry had used Peter's burning remorse. He had soon taken the risk to show himself to the small, rat-like man, though always staying in the shadows so that Peter would not be able to make out the details of his face. He had called out his name in that joyful, slightly drawling voice his father used to use with his friends when he was his age. He had talked about insignificant things - Quidditch, Lily Evans and taunting Snape.

Either his imitation of James Potter was flawless, or loneliness and remorse had already driven Peter to insanity; probably both worked towards the result of Harry's imprudent act: soon Peter was addressing Harry as James or Prongs, believing him to be the apparition of his long lost friend. At times Peter would talk to him as if they were back at Hogwarts; at other times he would sob quietly, stammering his apology for what he had done. Harry had soon found his hatred for Peter dissolving, to be replaced by a deep pity for the sad wreck he had become.

Step by step, taking his time, Harry had convinced Peter that helping to defeat Voldemort was the only way to release him from the remorse that had been slowly eating him for years. Peter had tried his hardest to retrieve the information Harry needed; and surprisingly enough, he had succeeded beyond Harry's hopes. Peter was thought to be a weak and cowardly man, and therefore he was never suspected. Harry knew Peter had realised who he really was; the last time Harry had seen him, Peter had handed him the last bit of information he had found, before whispering:

"They're suspecting something this time; I don't think I'll see you again... Good luck, Harry."

Peter had killed himself the following day, before Voldemort had had a chance to make him pay for betraying the Dark Mark.

Harry had never found his body; doubtless it had been cruelly maimed by the Death Eaters. But he had carved Peter's name in the bark of the beech tree towering above his parents' grave, feeling that, after all these years, Peter had finally deserved to rest there.

Harry ran a hand on the bark of the tree, smoothing the old inscription. Then with a sigh he turned away and Disapparated.

***

He Apparated at Hogsmeade, out of habit; the ruined village had been one of his favourite thinking spot over the past years. As he wandered in the deserted streets, he was struck by the unusual lack of movement and noise. It was very late, of course, but the silence that lay over the empty streets wasn't peaceful or drowsy; it was tense and fearful.

Harry paused, frowning. Never before had he sensed such terror filling the atmosphere of Hogsmeade. Gathering his Invisibility Cloak around him, he hurried out of the village and towards the gates of Hogwarts. There was a danger lurking at Hogsmeade, and he had to make sure Professor McGonagall knew about it. Hogsmeade and Hogwarts had suffered enough from the war.

He reached the gates to find them closed. He blinked one or twice, before cursing under his breath at his own stupidity. His truly stupendous ability to forget so easily and repeatedly that the gates were closed and protected by the most complicated spells at night, especially when one of his best friends knew by heart Hogwarts: a History and never missed an opportunity to quote whole paragraphs from it, would stay a mystery to him.

Fortunately he knew the weak point of the gates - he had used it to come in and out of the grounds in his seventh year. The passageway was very difficult to spot and almost impassable; Harry doubted even Remus Lupin knew about it. Nevertheless using it would be quicker than sending a Patronus to McGonagall - admitting she was even there, awake and ready to answer him immediately, which was highly unlikely at three in the morning.

As he started to walk round the gates, in the shade of the big trees of the woods lining Hogwarts grounds, he felt suddenly that he was being watched. He wheeled around, holding his wand at the ready, and peered into the darkness surrounding him.

Nothing moved at first under the thick trees. Then Harry's eyes, blessed with a capability for unusually good night vision, distinguished the shape of an animal - four legs and two shining yellow eyes, eyeing him. A split-second later he heard a twig creaking under a paw on his left, followed by a low growl. He soon realised he was surrounded by a whole pack of those animals, whatever they were. As much as he could tell from their dark shapes, barely visible between the trunks, they looked a lot like dogs.

Or wolves.

His heart skipped a beat; he raised his head to look at the moon, which was shining dully in the black sky and casting its silvery light in patches at Harry's feet. It was full.

Werewolves.

Harry's grip on his wand tightened. He pointed it straight at the first werewolf he had seen; this one was bigger than the others and looked like some sort of leader. When werewolves gathered in packs - which seldom happened, they were quite a lonely kind - there was always a leader; a leader to find a prey and give the signal for the attack.

The werewolf slowly stepped out of the shade of the trees and into a patch of moonlight; a threatening growl was rumbling in its throat and its yellow eyes were warily fixed on Harry's hand. It looked old - whole tufts of brownish hair had been pulled out and its back and paws were bearing innumerable scars. Its chops were curled over its sharp yellowing fangs, and it was almost panting with greed as it surveyed Harry, its blood-red tongue slipping in and out of sight between its long and pointed canines.

If Hell had had a wolfish face that would have been it.

The werewolf hadn't attacked yet, though the hungry growls of the pack were urging it to jump at Harry's throat. It was slowly turning around Harry, without taking its eyes off the wand still held firmly in his right hand.

Harry had no idea how on earth he was going to get away this time. Though he wasn't in Hogwarts itself technically speaking, he was just beside the gates and it was impossible for him to Apparate or Disapparate. It was he who had suggested extending the protective spells to a wide strip of land around the gates outside the school grounds, as an extra precaution in case Hogwarts was to suffer more assaults from desperate Death Eaters. Thus they would be forced to Apparate further from the school and would be sooner detected.

Now thanks to that smart decision he was trapped in a wood just outside Hogwarts, surrounded by at least thirty starving werewolves.

He knew that as soon as he would use his wand, the whole pack would rush to him in fury. However if he didn't use it, he could as well sit on the ground and apologize for not having tomato sauce so that the werewolves could enjoy more their dinner...

But did werewolves like tomato sauce?

Harry violently shook his head. It's in crucial moments like this that I always have those stupid, stupid thoughts.

The werewolf's growl rose to a bark as it was startled by Harry's abrupt jerk of the head. The herd of werewolves growled in response and moved closer; some of the beasts started to slowly turn around Harry as well, panting with hunger and excitement.

Then Harry did the only thing he could do. Raising his wand above his head, he shouted:

"Fulmen intona!"

There was a deafening bang that echoed on the distant mountains, as a flash of harsh white light erupted from the tip of his wand, blinding the werewolves. A herd of normal wolves would have fled in front of the light alone, but the werewolves were so hungry Harry only succeeded in badly startling them. The most timorous gave a yelp and jumped backward, howling madly, and dashed away in the darkness as the oldest roared with fury. The leader huddled up, ready to jump at Harry's throat.

But Harry was already running.

His spell had disorganised the pack of werewolves, which had been pitilessly drawing closer and closer so as to not leave a single gap he could have used to escape; seizing his opportunity, he ran among the panic-stricken and blinded werewolves and succeeded in stepping out of the deadly circle they had formed all around him.

And now he was running, as hard as he could, toward a spot where he would be able to Disapparate.

He was a fast runner. He had already proved it.

Only this time he was not hunted down by four Death Eaters, but by a herd of howling, furious and bloodthirsty werewolves. The remains of the pack had already recovered from the shock and were now chasing him; the fastest had already caught up, but instead of trying to stop him they were running on his left side, preventing him from getting away from the gates. He couldn't escape them. He was forced to follow the gates all around Hogwarts, until he fell to the ground from exhaustion...

But he was difficult to exhaust. Gritting his teeth, he aimed at random a Stunner over his shoulder; a yelp told him he had hit one of the animals, but unfortunately a werewolf couldn't be stopped by a simple Stunner. The spell would only dazzle it for a few moments; it was part of a werewolf's nature to be able to resist simple curses.

Yet Harry had no choice. Every time he thought of a stronger and often Darker spell, more likely to stop the howling herd, he thought of Lupin. Those people were under the terrible influence of the moonlight; they didn't have a clue what they were doing - with the exception of Fenrir Greyback, who was still at large. Maybe Harry would have considered harming them or even wounding them mortally, if he hadn't known Lupin.

So he went on sending Stunners and Full Body-Binding curses, and the sound of a body falling to the ground came more and more often to his ears. Now there were but two or three werewolves blocking his way to a place where he could Disapparate. The others, infuriated even more by the jinxes they had received, were a little further behind him.

If all he could do was slow them down, it was still better than running until they caught up, hurled him to the ground and -

There was suddenly a terrible roar and a heavy mass crashed on Harry's shoulders, knocking the wind out of him and sending him rolling on the ground.

He didn't take the time to consider his situation and found himself on his feet within two seconds, facing the werewolf leader, which had, by the look of it, just jumped on his shoulders.

The werewolf didn't waste a second either; Harry had just straightened up, hastily pushing back in place the glasses that were dangerously slipping down his nose, when it jumped again - but now it was aiming for the throat.

Harry had to throw himself to the ground again to avoid the werewolf, who was quite unfazed by his dodging the attack and turned again to him. This time it was on top of Harry before he could get up.

The frightful jaws clapped loudly, inches from his throat. Harry shot a Scorching Spell that narrowly missed the werewolf's head - Harry could smell the acrid scent of burning hair. He heard a ripping sound and felt a thick liquid trickle down his sides, and realised the werewolf was clawing at his torso and stomach, tearing his robes and his shirt in the process.

The werewolf kept snapping its jaws just in front of Harry's face, growling in frustration every time it missed: Harry's left hand clutched the thick fur just under the beast's throat and prevented it from coming close enough to actually sink its fangs in Harry's flesh. Yet the animal was so close Harry couldn't even hex him.

The man and the beast wrestled on the ground, growling and grunting in effort. The pack of werewolves - those that hadn't been scared away by the spells Harry had used - had reformed around them; about twenty pairs of yellow eyes were avidly staring at the struggling pair. The fur of the werewolf and the skin and clothes of the man soon were coated in the same thick mixture of dirt, sweat and blood. As the fight lasted, twenty snouts rose to the moon, which was serenely casting its cold light over the scene, and a long complaint flooded out of twenty throats.

Harry couldn't believe what he was living was real. He was locked in a hand-to-hand, deadly fight with one of the most dangerous creature known in the wizarding world; a fight he could only lose, given that even if he did defeat the werewolf leader, he was still surrounded by twenty other bloodthirsty beasts. And his ears were filled with the sad, desperate and angry cry echoing on the distant mountains. It was just surreal.

The werewolf with whom Harry was wrestling chose that moment to dive again, with a furious bark, for Harry's throat. Harry clumsily held his wand very close to his face, trying to point it just between the beast's yellow eyes - but he didn't need to say a spell. As the werewolf plunged towards him the tip of the wand drove into the left eye - deeply.

A terrible howl of pain rang in the valley, cutting in the werewolves' mournful cry. The leader threw its head backward, snatching the wand out of Harry's hand. As the beast yelped in pain and tried to get rid of the wand jabbed in its eye by rubbing its head with its paw - only driving the wand deeper in the eye -, Harry scrambled to his feet, shaking from head to foot. The werewolves had not started closing all around him again, probably flabbergasted by the outcome of the fight.

He had a choice between running now, hoping they would be destabilized by their leader's defeat - which meant leaving his wand where it was; or he could go and retrieve his wand, praying that the other werewolves didn't attack him in the meantime, and that he didn't get bitten by the leader while he tried to pull a thick bit of wood out of its bleeding eye.

As much as Harry hated leaving his wand behind him, he had no choice. Turning on his heels, he ran away.

The werewolves seemed to take no notice of his departure and he ran harder and harder towards the edge of the zone protected by the anti-Apparition Spell. He still had a mere few feet to go when a dark shape shot up from his right and blocked his way. Harry let out a scream of frustration as he ducked; he was so close to his goal and another werewolf had to appear and attack him...

Harry tried to gather speed but found out, to his horror that his legs refused to go any faster. Maybe the gashes that the leader's claws had dug into his flesh were deeper than he thought - he couldn't tell, he didn't feel the pain - anyway he seemed to have lost too much blood. His clothes were soaked with the thick liquid; the scent of it surrounded him and drowned his mind.

Noticing his weakness, the werewolf quietly walked ahead of him and blocked his way again. Harry tried to go round it, but the beast wasn't easily fooled. It was obviously starving; Harry could almost make out the ribs under the sparse and dirty fur. Still, the werewolf was still stronger and fitter than he was now...

Harry and the skinny animal stayed still for a few minutes, eyeing each other. The werewolf leader's yelps of pain could still be heard, somewhere in the wood behind Harry, along with the angry howls of others. Some of them were still baying at the moon. Harry found it hard to concentrate on the task at hand while so many noises pounded in his ears and rang in his skull, and as the sickly scent of blood filled his nostrils.

He wasn't quick enough when the werewolf leaped. His legs felt like lead and refused to move. The werewolf landed straight on his chest, knocking him down, and for a second he felt on his neck the hot and fetid breath of the beast. With a huge effort he straightened in a sitting position, forcefully pushing the werewolf off his chest with both hands. The werewolf yielded at first - before attacking again at full speed.

Harry grabbed the fur of the werewolf and tried to pull it off of him with a cry of effort. But the werewolf wouldn't budge - it had an incredibly strong grip on Harry. Actually Harry felt like his right shoulder was taken in a vice.

Panting with the effort, he twisted his neck to look down at his right shoulder. The werewolf had sunk its fangs into the flesh and was gripping it so tightly Harry could hear the bones creaking and breaking one by one under the pressure of the lethal jaws.

Harry desperately tried to force the animal to let go. A fresh flood of blood poured from his shoulder, soaking again his already deeply cut torso. Harry was losing the feeling in his right hand and suddenly feared the werewolf would tear off his arm. This thought renewed his failing strengths and in a violent effort that surprised even himself, he rose to his feet, the werewolf still dangling from his shoulder and sinking its claws in his torso so as not to slide to the ground.

Harry staggered to a nearby tree and slammed his shoulder into the trunk with all his might; the werewolf took most of the blow and let go of him with a yelp. As soon as it had rolled away from him, Harry let himself fall to the ground again. His right arm hung limply at his side and blood was still flooding from the wound. Little stars popped in front of his eyes.

Yet the werewolf didn't seem to be through with him; it stood up with a snarl, shaking its head experimentally as if trying to get rid of the slight dizziness its fall had probably caused, and advanced towards Harry. Harry watched with a kind of fascination the muscles rolling under the dirty fur at every step the animal took. As he defiantly held the beast's gaze, who had now stopped and seemed to be readying itself to another attack, his left hand clenched upon a heavy, sharp-ridged stone that lay between the roots of the tree he was leaning against.

It happened, once again, very fast. The werewolf leaped - the stone flew out of Harry's hand - and a howl of pain tore the still air of the night as the werewolf fell again, stopped brutally in mid-jump. It staggered between the trunks, blindly rubbing its head with one of its front paws. The stone had hit its skull, digging a deep gash from which blood poured into the eyes.

Harry scrambled to his feet once more, feeling now an immense weakness spreading to the very ends of his limbs and weighing them down. He knew he wouldn't be able to Apparate in his current state; yet he had to get closer to the inhabited areas of the valley, otherwise he would be emptied of his blood before someone thought of strolling in those dark, hostile woods, if the werewolves didn't finish him off first, of course.

Just as he stumbled a few steps closer to the edge of the wood, he heard a whimper of pain behind him. The werewolf leader had staggered in the small clearing where he had fought the second werewolf, the wand finally out of its eye - which was now no more than a blind, bleeding hole - but still sticking to the fur matted with blood and dirt. The wand emitted sparks every time the werewolf tried to make it fall off of its head, causing it to jump in fright.

A growl on his left made Harry laboriously turn around to face the second werewolf. He was getting tired of fighting and he wanted it to end; yet the skinny werewolf he had hit with his stone didn't seem to think along the same lines, and once more Harry saw him ready to strike.

A surge of fury, astonishingly violent as well as unexpected, suddenly took over him; holding out his left hand in the direction of the one-eyed leader which was still piteously whimpering between the trees, he reflexively screamed:

"Accio wand!"

His voice sounded hoarse, strained and hateful; it rang in his ears like a stranger's. He was taken aback to see the wand obey at once the harsh order and fly right in his outstretched hand; at the same minute the werewolf attacked, and Harry raised his wand.

"Atram noctam time!"

The old, menacing words echoed in the woods as if they had been yelled; yet Harry's voice had been barely louder than a whisper. From his wand pointed firmly at the werewolf's head, a shadow erupted. Thin wisps of black smoke lazily encircled the werewolf like thin bounds. The beast gave a strangled yelp and tried to escape the deadly ribbons, idly enlacing its skinny body and barely caressing the dirty fur in an almost tender move.

Soon the werewolf's gestures became jerkier and more frantic, but suddenly it looked like a great weight had dropped on its shoulders. It fell on its side on the ground, still bound by the billowing curls of black smoke, and its eyes fell shut. It began to wail softly, and soon it was thrashing on the ground without ever opening its eyes, as if it was having nightmares - nightmares it couldn't escape.

Harry's hand fell back to his side. Without sparing another glance to the two defeated and wounded werewolves, he managed to stand up once more and walked away.

It was becoming more and more difficult to walk. His feet were glued to the ground, and he was reduced to drag them pathetically as he stubbornly went on towards Hogsmeade. The mountains, the woods and the village were spinning before his eyes and his ears were filled with a high-pitched hissing. He heard a dull thud in the distance; a few seconds later he realised it was the sound his knees had made when they had collided with the ground.

Harry dragged himself on his hands and knees for a few feet before collapsing completely on the warm grass-covered earth. It felt comfortable. The scent of grass was now mixing with the sickening smell of blood and sweat. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky. Everything was dark and blurred. Lifting with a great effort a shaking hand to wipe some of the blood off his eyes, he realised he no longer wore his glasses. He must have had lost them during the fight...

The sky had gone pale pink in the east now, and the stars began to fade. A bird timidly shot one or two trills, as if testing the acoustics, before starting to sing joyfully in the semi-darkness.

Harry smiled as he heard the bird. He didn't know if he was going to be found and cured - not that he cared anymore about that. He felt peaceful and drowsy, and all he wanted now was to sleep. He had two sleepless years to catch up with.

Just before he slid into unconsciousness, he turned his head slightly to the right and considered the bloodied shoulder the werewolf had bitten. He slowly raised his gaze to the sky once more; the full moon was low on the horizon.

That's when it hit him.

"I'm a werewolf," he whispered in amazement.

His eyes widened to their fullest extent as they stared unseeingly at the paling sky. Then he let out a burst of laughter, unfeeling the protest of his broken ribs.

"Great," he laughed, "To cap it all, I'm a werewolf."

His laughter was ringing strangely at his own ears; it sounded very unlike his own and oddly faraway. He was suddenly shaken by a violent coughing fit that left him drained out and panting for air. The world was spinning faster and faster above him; finally everything went black and he knew no more.

**************

A/N: My knowledge of Latin used to be quite decent. But that was before the baccalauréat (i.e, end of highschool). I can just hope what's left of my knowledge in the subject isn't offending the Latin-lovers who may have read my pitiful attempts at inventing curses...