The Song of the Trees

Chapter Nine: Headmasters of Hogwarts

The Forest was always full of noise at this time of the year. The autumnal wind caused the thick branches to swing heavily up and down, and the dead leaves piled at the trees' feet rose in swirling circles in the air, chasing one another in wild ballets. And the wind wailed as it brushed past the hard and rough bark covering the tree trunks. But in the midst of the creaking of branches, rustling of leaves and moaning of the wind, could also be heard a whispering that did not usually belong there. Issued from the far away core of the Forest, a cold breeze blew among the more tame trees of the edge, coiling around the trunks, exploring, searching, and bringing with it the old voices of the wild trees.

Never before had the voice of the hundreds-years-old trees ventured so far away from the dark heart of the Forbidden Forest. Never before had it left the shelter of the trees and come to caress the stone walls of Hogwarts castle. Barely noticeable as it travelled among the furious blasts of the autumn wind, the whispering breeze went round the imposing towers and headed for a window on the fifth floor, as if drawn by a commanding voice. The windowpanes rattled as the voices of the old trees hit them and lingered there, searching their way around the glass obstacle.

But the library windows were protected from the assaults of the bad weather by many old spells; and no matter how much the voices of the trees insistently whispered against the glass, all they could do was cause the flickering of a candle floating in the library, above the head of a dark-haired man bent over severable open books scattered across his table.

Harry turned another page of a venerable book, stifling a huge yawn of boredom as he did so. He was beginning to think he would never find anything about the Forbidden Forest in the Hogwarts library; he had gone through almost all the books that were even remotely related to Hogwarts' history and foundation. But none of them mentioned anything particular about the Forest. From what he had been able to gather, the Forest had stood for as long as the castle itself, if not longer, and it had always been seen as a dangerous place for wizards.

Those guesses had led him to rewrite on a piece of paper one of the many questions Hermione had asked, that fateful day when Ron had been shot. Why had the founders of Hogwarts chosen for a school a place so openly hostile to their own kind?

The problem was, since he had figured that out, he hadn't made any progress at all; and he would have given up a long time ago if it hadn't been for the intriguing whispering he occasionally heard when he was at Hogwarts, a whispering sounding a lot like the voices of the old trees in the core of the Forest.

He had dutifully devoted one night out of two to his researches about the Forbidden Forest; the other nights were spent in a disused classroom, practicing all sorts of new spells he found in the books of the library. Harry had to admit to himself that he was having fun like a schoolboy on those nights of practice; it reminded him of his Hogwarts years, of the time when he used to plan lessons for the members of the DA...

Harry mentally shook himself. Tonight was not a night of practice; he still had to go through two enormous books before he could call it a night and go wandering in the castle or on the grounds. He pushed The Magical Creatures of European Wizarding Schools aside and grabbed a hefty tome titled Headmasters of Hogwarts: Their Lives and Feats.

"Forest," he mumbled tiredly, drawing circles with his wand over the book. "Search for forest..."

Every time it was the same routine; choose a book, and use the Key Word spell to find the pages in which the word 'Forest' appeared. Most of the times of course it wasn't of any use: sentences such as 'Mandrakes are usually to be found deep within forests...' were too frequent...

The book opened of its own volition and the pages started to turn lazily under the influence of the Key Word spell, stopping only whenever the spell found the word 'Forest' -- which, Harry noticed with some surprise, seldom happened.

"...The sycamores of the southern edge were planted by unfortunate Eric de Pallas' successor, Sir Amadeus Philacteria, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from 1086 to 1122, the very first day of his time as Headmaster. The trees were magically grown in the greenhouses and transplanted there in order to counter or at least control the evil spirit of the Forest. Many spells and powerful charms were used to give the sycamores greater resistance; and even if they were finally corrupted, those trees never allowed the Evil to spread beyond the boundaries of the woods. The Forest was declared forbidden to all, students and staff alike. To these days, Sir Philacteria is still considered as one of the greatest headmasters of the school for countering the danger of the Forest. His other actions..."

This was about all the interesting information that Headmasters of Hogwarts: Their Lives and Feats had to give about the Forbidden Forest; the rest of the paragraph was a detailed telling of Philacteria's life, along with his wife's and sons', none of which had anything to do with the Forest. Harry let out an exasperated sigh as he leant back in his chair, bringing both hands up to the sides of his head and pressing the heels into his temples as he did so, as if it could help him to bring under control the hundreds of ideas swirling in his mind and to draw the logical conclusions. God, he wasn't good at this. The thought of Hermione crossed his mind but he drove it away with a slight shake of his head. Even if she had been willing to help him, this was something he wanted to do alone. Closing his eyes, he compelled himself to think again of what he had just read.

Philacteria had been the second Headmaster after the last founder, Helga Hufflepuff, had died; if Harry got his dates right, that meant his predecessor -- Eric de Pallas -- had barely lasted four years. His stay in the Headmaster position was hardly mentioned in the old book. He was merely said to have died in mysterious circumstances... Then Philacteria had become Headmaster, and the very first measure he had taken was planting sycamores at the southern edge of the Forest... Had his haste had anything to do with Pallas' death?

Harry straightened up and pulled the book closer to him. For a few seconds he reread the few paragraphs about Pallas and Philacteria, absentmindedly chewing on his lip in concentration. Why was the author so elusive as to Pallas' death, while he seemed to take pleasure, only a few lines further down, in detailing Philacteria's most fastidious actions? It didn't make sense...

Harry slowly ran his hand over the page, carefully smoothing the old parchment. The move was reflexive; he didn't have the faintest clue as to what he was expecting... A hint, a clue, that would tell him the author knew more about Pallas' death and was simply hiding it from curious eyes...

All of sudden, a faint sizzling sound disturbed the still air of the library; a sound that seemed to be coming from the page his fingers were brushing. He withdrew his hand and the sizzling instantly stopped. Harry froze, his hand still held up in the air, and stared at the book lying innocently on the table. But the parchment covered in the author's narrow handwriting looked exactly the same as before.

His heart racing, Harry hesitantly brought his fingers down to the page and ran them along the lines of faded black ink. He caught the sizzling sound again as he reached the end of the extremely short paragraph dedicated to Pallas' stay at Hogwarts as Headmaster. If his senses hadn't been unnaturally sharpened, Harry doubted he would have been able to hear anything.

Pulling out his wand, he bent over the book and examined it closely, with an almost professional concentration that contradicted the excitement running in his veins. Falsified documents were an everyday occurrence in an Auror's life, and learning revealing spells was a huge part of their training. There were about as many of those spells as there were ways of tampering with anything that could be used as exhibit...

Harry lifted his head and quickly scanned the library. It was half past four in the morning and the room was predictably deserted; but he knew Madam Pince didn't trust him with her precious books, no matter what Headmistress McGonagall said, and charms designed to warn her if he used magic on a book were to be expected. Harry quickly cast a Calfeutre Curse on the door of her office, which was barely visible between two long bookshelves stretching in front of him, and thus ensured she wouldn't hear anything even if a magical alarm went off. Then he brought his attention back to Headmasters of Hogwarts.

Harry moved his wand over the page, muttering a flow of incantations as he did so; and soon colourful beams of light were dancing across the page, sneaking between the inky lines and investing the old leather binding like luminous worms. The book shuddered, quivered and trembled. Harry gritted his teeth and concentrated on maintaining the spells. It was becoming more and more difficult, as he felt magical obstacles violently fighting his intrusion. After only a minute an odd hissing sound coming from the hand clutching the wand made him look down in surprise: his wand was overheating so much that it was burning his skin, and a little smoke was escaping his tightened fingers. His palm was probably covered in blisters, his skin like cardboard...

The magical protection on the book made it extremely hard to keep up his assault, but it had reinforced his curiosity to the point where the mere idea of giving up seemed absolutely ludicrous. The unusually strong resistance met by his revealing spells was enough to prove that the book had indeed been modified -- maybe the answer to his questions was just there, at the tip of his wand... Just hold on a little longer...

A loud wail suddenly came from the book and Harry felt the pattern of spells tighten to the point of breaking. The book started to shake violently, glowing in the light of the spells, as a sickening smell of burnt flesh came from Harry's hand. His wand was seconds away from exploding...

The beams of brightly coloured light abruptly vanished, causing the pressure at the tip of Harry's wand to lift. Caught off guard, Harry fell forward and collapsed on the table which promptly yielded under his weight, sending Harry and the dozen books spread across it crashing to the floor. Harry instinctively threw out an arm to break his fall, but he couldn't prevent the table from hitting the floor with a deafening sound; nor could he efficiently shield himself from the heavy books showering down on his head.

Half knocked out, Harry lay on the floor for a few seconds, stars popping in front of his eyes and his ears still ringing with the thunderous sound of books hitting the floor. He eventually straightened up, groggily pushing his glasses back up his nose and looking around at the books scattered across the floor. Headmasters of Hogwarts lay at a few inches near his left foot, looking just as dusty, old and worn out as ever. He extended his hand to grab it.

"What's going on here?"

Madam Pince's sharp voice had on him the effect of an electrical discharge. The Calfeutre Curse had most likely been lifted when Harry had dropped his wand, and the old librarian had been alerted by the noise. If she ever found him sitting on the floor in the midst of a pool of dilapidated books, she would most likely try to skin him alive with a paper knife; most importantly, she would forbid him access to the library from now on. And that wasn't an option.

Hastily getting to his feet, Harry tucked Headmasters of Hogwarts under his elbow before putting the various books back on their shelf with a single wave of his wand; then, not waiting to be found by Madam Pince, he wheeled around and walked a little faster than usual towards the exit.

It wasn't before he found himself in the corridor that he opened the book again.

"What the..." he muttered disbelievingly.

A huge splash of ink now spread all over the page he had used his revealing spells on; it drenched the parchment, stretching right between Pallas' short biography and the endless considerations about Philacteria's uninteresting life. It was as if a reserve of ink had suddenly poured out of the parchment, pushing both paragraphs aside.

Harry stared at the black and wet page in bemusement. Not only had they used a concealing charm, but they had also blended the words together in a single splash of ink to ensure the meaning would remain hidden...

The damage was irreparable. There was no way he could make out words from this mess. In frustration, Harry threw the book against the stone wall; it bounced off it and crashed on the floor, several torn off pages lazily fluttering down to the wooden boards around it.

Leaning against the cool stone wall, Harry closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths in an attempt to soothe the burning anger boiling inside him. He had been so close...

Harry let himself slide down the wall into a sitting position. Headmasters of Hogwarts, grotesquely spread on the floor at a few feet from him, seemed to mock his feeling of helplessness. He glared at it, and his fingers literally itched with the urge to grab it and throw it out of a window. His arm was half outstretched when a sudden thought came to his mind, causing him to freeze in his tracks.

There were people who remembered the events told in this book. Their spirits had remained in the castle, long after their deaths. Maybe they would be able to tell him...

Harry sprang to his feet and, snatching the book back from the floor, hope swelling again inside his chest, he set off at top speed in the direction of the Headmistress' office.

Where the portraits of the Headmasters of Hogwarts still talked and remembered.

***

The Head office was dark and empty, and the silence was only disturbed by the deep breathings of the portraits hanging off the wall. Harry quietly closed the door behind him. Professor McGonagall was away for the night; she had made sure he knew the passwords and locking spells she used on her doors before she went, though, in case he needed anything from her office. Harry had the feeling she considered him as worthy of the Headmaster position as she was -- something she had implied once in front of her entire staff, while looking as vindictive as if she had wanted to forcibly impose her absolute faith in him on all the teachers. The look on Snape's face had been priceless.

Harry quickly focused back on the task at hand. Lighting the candles with a lazy flick of his wand, he walked up to the huge mahogany desk, making sure to bump noisily into a few pieces of furniture on his way. He settled in the wide armchair and spun it around so that he was facing the wall of portraits. They were now snoring with a little too much enthusiasm to be credible. Harry was a tad annoyed to see that even Dumbledore's portrait was feigning sleep, with as much subtlety as his predecessors.

"Professor Dumbledore," he called loudly.

Dumbledore let out a chuckle as he finally opened his eyes and smiled widely at Harry.

"Forgive me for that little act, Harry," he said lightly, his eyes twinkling like in the old days. "I couldn't resist."

A half-grin stretched Harry's lips in response, but he was far too impatient right now to enjoy a nice long chat with the former Headmaster. He needed answers.

"Professor," he began, "I was wondering if I could have a word with... err... Headmaster Philacteria, please?"

Dumbledore rested his elbows on the frame of his picture and put together the tips of his long fingers. His smile was still lighting up his old face but he was staring at Harry with an intensity that almost caused him to bring up his Occlumency shield; which would have been a waste of energy, since a portrait could not perform Legilimency.

"Sir Philacteria?" he repeated softly. "That's quite an old colleague of mine, Harry. Very old indeed."

"Yes," said Harry, more curtly than he intended -- he was actually squirming with impatience in his armchair. "I, err, I read something interesting about his time here as a Headmaster and I'd like a few clarifications..."

"Clarifications?" interrupted an old wheezy voice. "Ask and you will receive, o young alumnus of Gryffindor."

Harry looked around, searching for the source of the voice; soon he had spotted an old blackened portrait in the top left hand corner of the wall. The thin old man inside was peering down at him, an eager smile on his wrinkled and bearded face. Harry rose and walked a few steps to the left; out of the corner of his eye, he caught an annoyed and almost alarmed look on Dumbledore's face as he drew closer to Philacteria's portrait, and a feeling of wariness tightened in the pit of his stomach.

"What do you wish to know, alumnus?" the old Headmaster asked with an expression close to glee. "You are the first to resort to my knowledge and wisdom in many, many years, you know. How can I help such a brilliant young wizard, I wonder?"

Harry cleared his throat, feeling now a little apprehensive as all the portraits gave up on pretending and curiously peered down at him, some of them whispering behind their hands like students anxious to go unnoticed.

"Sir," he began. "I have recently heard about your being considered as one of the greatest headmasters the school ever had..."

Harry paused for a few seconds, giving the old man the time to swell with pride while his neighbours scowled or, out of spite, went back to feigning sleep.

"I do believe I was a good headmaster," Philacteria said modestly. "My efforts to keep the school united were in continuity with the founders' policy, and--"

"And you were especially appreciated for countering the danger of the Forbidden Forest," Harry smoothly went on, cutting across him. "The sycamores of the southern edge... Your doing, isn't it?"

Every Headmaster instantly woke up again and the tension in the room grew palpable at the mention of the Forbidden Forest. Harry tensed as well, his hand automatically coming to brush against his wand pocket, as he firmly kept his eyes fixed on Philacteria's face.

"The sycamores... Yes, the sycamores, yes..." the old Headmaster said, sounding a little as if Harry's interruption had thrown him off balance. "Yes... The Forest... Well, it was dangerous... Evil, you see... And the poor Chevalier Eric de Pallas... When you see what happened to him..."

"What are you talking about, Amadeus?" suddenly boomed a broad-shouldered wizard whose portrait was a few feet from Philacteria's. "That imbecile died in the mountains, didn't he? He fell in a fissure and broke his neck. Ha, he always was a foolhardy man."

"That's right! That's right!" squealed a witch, two rows of portraits lower. "He only lasted four years before going to explore the mountains of Hogwarts, from what I have heard."

"Exactly," agreed the broad-shouldered wizard. "Amadeus, you must be confused with someone else."

"Well... I must say... My dear young friends..." stammered Philacteria, his eager smile having faded to be replaced by a puzzled expression. "I really thought -- but you must be right, of course... That memory of mine can be tricky sometimes. Old age, heh!"

The portraits all simultaneously burst out laughing at this, and for a whole minute jokes and peals of laughter resounded from every direction.

"But you planted the sycamores!" Harry half-shouted in order to cover the portraits' voices. "You tried to control the Forest! To counter the influence of its spirit!"

"Old Amadeus has always had a soft spot for sycamores, haven't you, Amadeus?" the witch that had spoken earlier called out promptly. "Of course this Forest has no spirit. It's a Forest! There are a few foul creatures in it but trees in themselves--"

"SILENCE!"

All noises instantly died away as Dumbledore's powerful voice rang through the office. Harry turned to him, shocked to feel how much power Dumbledore's mere presence still held, even as he was only a painting, hanging off a wall among dozens of other paintings. Albus Dumbledore had straightened up in his frame and his eyes were cold and hard.

"Harry," he said sharply in the ringing silence. "I do not think you gullible enough to believe a word of what my predecessors just uttered. I will not insult your intelligence by claiming there is nothing more than dangerous beasts in that Forest. You guessed right, some trees in the Forest used to have a spirit. An evil spirit. That spirit was fought against, and conquered, over the years... Now the only thing remaining there is a mere memory of the old hatred. That's all, I promise you."

"But what was it?" Harry asked eagerly. "That spirit? Were the trees alive, or was it something else?"

"You do not want to know..."

The raspy, sepulchral voice was barely above a murmur but it echoed around the room in such a sinister way that a shiver ran along Harry's spine. Dumbledore's face had frozen in an expression of irrational fear that matched the look on the faces of all the other Headmasters. Dozens of terrified eyes slowly turned to gaze at a portrait hanging next to Philacteria's. The very first portrait that had ever been hung on the wall.

The painting had been black and seemingly empty a few minutes before, but now it glowed with a dull and morbid grey light, revealing intricate branches and tree trunks. Between the knotted branches appeared a pale face framed with long and dirty hair, the only visible part of a body held captive by the roots and branches that coiled around it like tentacles. The man's pale blue eyes found Harry's, and he felt the same irrational fear chill his entrails.

"Oh no, young man, you don't want to find out what slime hides in the depths of the Forest," the man whispered again. "They are them... The third kind, the forgotten, the beaten, but the hateful kind... They hate us... They would crush you, crush us, crush this entire castle and the whole wizarding world if they could!"

The man's voice grew louder and more urgent as he reached the end of his sentence, his eyes still glued to Harry's, who found himself unable to look away; and the raspy voice rose to a scream.

"CRUSH YOU!" the man in the portrait bellowed as he desperately struggled against the branches that tightened around him. "CRUSH YOU! CRUSH US ALL! DESTROY EVERYTHING WE'VE BUILT AND FOUGHT FOR! THEY WILL CRUSH US! CRUSH US!"

The trees in the portrait swung their branches around with an ominous hissing sound as the Chevalier de Pallas screamed and thrashed. His eyes popped out of their sockets and drool and blood trickled down his gaping mouth while the branches circling his body squeezed him tighter and tighter, until he looked as if he was about to snap in half. Harry suddenly realised he had backed away and was firmly pressed against the opposite wall, as if he was trying to go through it and escape the horrifying sight, but he still couldn't avert his eyes from the screaming portrait.

The other portraits were now screaming as well, covering their ears and sobbing hysterically, and the rare ones who were silent looked scared out of their wits. A witch started to pull out handfuls of her hair, suddenly struck by a fit of madness, and a few others turned their back on the room and fled from their frames.

"Harry!"

Harry's head snapped down and he met Dumbledore's scared eyes.

"You need to go now!" shouted the old Headmaster. "Or it will only get worse! Go!"

Harry numbly nodded and crossed the office in a few strides. As he wrenched the door open, the portraits' screams echoed briefly in the spinning staircase before he cut them short by slamming the door shut.

Harry took a few minutes to catch is breath. His heart was racing and the hand still holding Headmasters of Hogwarts was sweaty and slippery.

The fear... The fear in the eyes of those great and powerful wizards and witches... The terrified look on Dumbledore's face... Pallas being suffocated by dark and thick branches...

He couldn't get rid of those pictures. They caused other images to flash again in his mind, images he had tried to block out. Bellatrix Lestrange screaming and struggling against the deadly grip of the trees... Rodolphus Lestrange's body jerking uncontrollably as the roots pitilessly drowned him into the mud of the river shore... The sickening sound as Nott's body was ripped apart...

Harry shook his head in an attempt to get rid of those gruesome thoughts and, eager to put some distance between the office and him, quickly walked down the spinning staircase and stepped out in the corridor. From there, after a second's hesitation, he decided he needed some air and started walking towards the stairs.

He had already walked down two floors when a voice unexpectedly sounded in the deserted corridor.

"Psst! Boy!"

Startled, Harry wheeled around with his wand in his hand, to find Armando Dippet waving at him from a drunk monk's portrait.

"Closer!" called the frail Headmaster in a low voice, something like excitement shining in his large brown eyes. "Come closer!"

Harry put his wand back in his pocket and complied, wondering what Dippet wanted with him -- especially now, right after he had caused most of the former headmasters to go completely crazy.

"That's a boy," said Dippet in an approving voice. "Now, I would have talked to you in the office, but the others would have shut me up. You see what they did with poor old Amadeus -- the man must be still wondering if he's going senile."

Harry had a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back, his interest aroused by Dippet's mysterious hints.

"Professor, do you know something about the Forest?" he muttered cautiously, checking out of the corner of his eye that the other portraits were asleep.

"Yes and no," was Dippet's answer. "I know something about... About the Third Kind."

"The Third Kind?" Harry breathed.

"Yes. Those Pallas was telling you about... The ones that used to dwell in the Forest..."

Dippet no longer looked excited or mysterious. A very serious expression had set his face into a hard mask as he stared intently at Harry.

"We fear them," he went on sharply. "And because we fear them, we decided to erase them from our memories, and delete every mention of them in our books. Merlin knows I was against it..."

Dippet let out a sorrowful sigh. Harry didn't interrupt him, not wanting to spoil everything. He held his breath as Dippet finally resumed.

"When I was Headmaster," the old wizard slowly began, "books were my passion. I had hundreds of them. I had read them all, and I cherished them more than I would have cherished my own children. Among those books, an original copy of History of the WizardKind. The jewel of my collection...

"This book was one of the very few that mentioned the existence of the Third Kind. Most wizards have been avoiding saying their names for centuries, for fear they would come back. History of the WizardKind was the only one in which the war between the Third Kind and the wizardkind was told in detail. But I had just been appointed as Headmaster when the Minister for Magic came here and ordered me to hand over my book."

Dippet sighed again, pain etched in every line of his old face, as if he was telling the tale of his first-born's death. Harry drew a little closer to the portrait, heart pounding wildly in his chest, at the same time pulling out his wand and casting another Calfeutre Curse to avoid being overheard.

"She burnt it!" Dippet suddenly wailed, making Harry very glad he had thought of the Calfeutre Curse. "The filthy hag took my book and burnt it! Aaah! And I had to watch as the flames devoured my most precious possession!"

Dippet theatrically seized handfuls of his white hair and pulled on it, though not strongly enough for it to hurt. Harry shifted his weight from one leg to another, biting his lip in annoyance, and waited for the old man to stop his act.

"Professor?" he finally burst out -- Dippet seemed to enjoy sobbing and lamenting too much to stop anytime soon --, "I'm very sorry to learn about your book being burnt, but please, could you give me more information about the Third Kind? Who are they? Why are they called so? What--"

"Patience, young man!" cried Dippet, sounding downright offended. "The Third Kind. Yes. Why are they called so? Because there are three kinds. The Muggles, the wizards, and them..."

At this point, Dippet's face suddenly went blank and the light in his eyes vanished. It only lasted for one fleeting second before he went back to looking exactly like his usual self -- but Harry noticed it nonetheless.

"Now, you could have figured that out by yourself, couldn't you?" Dippet went on in a whining voice. "And who they are? Why, they're just that -- the Third Kind. You're asking stupid questions, boy. Stupid questions indeed."

Harry surveyed Dippet closely for a few seconds. He was startled by the sudden change in his attitude -- from serious to childish. The old Headmaster's face wasn't hard and solemn as it was a few minutes ago: on the contrary, it looked slightly confused, as if Dippet had received a violent blow on his head.

Had a charm gone off, preventing Dippet from saying too much...?

"Professor," said Harry prudently. "Can you tell me more?"

Dippet looked at him with a helpless expression on his face, which accentuated his growing resemblance with a lost child.

"They made me swear," he whispered, his brown eyes filling with tears. "This knowledge is lost for ever. Even now I'm dead, the Unbreakable Vow prevents me from saying all I know. No one will ever remember. That's horrible! Horrible! And my books, my poor books..."

Dippet went on mumbling to himself with tears in his voice, but he was no longer making sense. Harry sighed dejectedly. He wouldn't learn anything more from the confused portrait. He bid Dippet goodnight, though he doubted the old Headmaster heard him, and lifted the Calfeutre Curse before walking away.

***

The sky outside was completely black; it was one of those dark nights when Harry doubted the sun would ever rise again, even though he knew the morning was a mere hour away. He walked at random on the grass bordering the lake, enjoying the feeling of the wind blowing forcefully around him and clearing his mind of all the jumbled thoughts that had been swirling around in it, ever since he had opened Headmasters of Hogwarts.

But his respite was short. As he stood on the muddy shore of the lake, his gaze wandering over the troubled waters, he caught a whispering sound in the middle of the hissing and the wailing of the wind. A shiver of recognition ran up his back. Those whispers had been following him around at Hogwarts for a few nights now; they somehow sounded both patient and urgent, and though he couldn't catch the words, he still sensed how enticing and seductive they were... He would probably have thrown all caution to the winds and followed the voices to wherever they led a long time ago, if it hadn't been for the icy sensation of fear that twisted his stomach every time he heard them.

Fear...

Harry turned around to gaze at the imposing castle towering over the whole Hogwarts valley. The fear came from there. There, the whispers stopped sounding enticing. There, Harry felt dread chill his blood every time he thought of the dark trees in the core of the Forbidden Forest. Every stone of that castle was impregnated with the same fear that had driven the portraits to madness in the Headmistress's office.

And from the Forest came the hatred. The hatred of everything that was related to the wizarding world, except Harry. A hatred that, no matter what Dumbledore had said, had not subsided with time... It was just as fierce now as it had been the day when Pallas had died. It was palpable, literally oozing from every crack in the trees' bark.

Harry now stood precisely between the Forest and the castle. Between the hatred and the fear. Between the Third Kind and the wizardkind. In his mind and soul, they met and clashed.

And he had no idea which voice he should follow.

Hogwarts...

...or the Forest?

***

"The one time I looked half as bad as you do now, I had been forced to drink only water for a month."

The heavy pile of papers Harry was carrying around was towering over his head and prevented him from seeing what was in front of him. As he tried to steal a glance at the owner of the sarcastic voice, the papers swayed dangerously in his arms, almost causing him to let go -- which would have probably been a greater disaster than his getting killed in a deadly mission. Cursing under his breath, he steadied the wavering tower of papers before peering carefully around it. Lance was sitting on a desk, blatantly unoccupied, and gazing with mild amusement at his working colleagues.

"Wonder why," grunted Harry as he staggered past him. "I've been carrying files and books all morning. Haven't eaten anything since yesterday night."

Passing by Lance Colman without a backward glance, Harry cautiously made his way in the busy Aurors Headquarters, all the while casting looks of longing at the individual boxes on either side of him -- how much time before he would finally be able to leave the young Aurors' communal box and get one of these?

However, he hadn't taken three steps before he heard Lance jumping off the desk and joining him in a few strides.

"I pity you," said Lance lazily, falling into step with him. "Carrying files and books? And on an empty stomach? Ouch."

"You're lucky my arms are unavailable at the moment," snarled Harry in answer. "No need to rub in my face the fact that you've showed up here only an hour ago--"

"And that I got a sample of our dear Head Auror's melodious voice for the past half an hour," Lance finished lightly. "Massive bawling out. Impressive, really."

Harry merely grunted in answer; Lance fell silent and, to Harry's utter annoyance, proceeded to follow him as he entered one box after the other, each time leaving on the desk the file destined to the occupant of the box. By the time he had gone through a dozen boxes, Lance still idly trotting alongside him, his quite short reserve of patience had long run out.

"Okay!" he said loudly, dropping the still high pile of papers on a desk. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Lance quirked an eyebrow.

"What a way to address your--"

"Not in the mood," growled Harry. "Spit out whatever you have to say, and quick."

A smirk spread on Lance's long and pale face, giving the normally placid Auror such a devilish expression that Harry's curiosity was aroused in spite of his irritation. He then noticed, for the first time, that Lance was holding a folded piece of parchment and was carelessly tapping the edge of a desk with it; the would-be absentminded gesture was obviously designed to attract Harry's attention.

"What's that?" he said curiously.

"Oh, this?" asked Lance in fake surprise, glancing down at the parchment with his eyebrows raised as if he was seeing it for the first time. "Nothing, really... Just a search warrant."

Lance pocketed the parchment and clasped his hands in front of him, an innocent and cheerful grin plastered on his face.

"So, Harry!" he said in a voice higher than usual. "You really look tired, have you had a rough night or--"

"Accio search warrant!"

Lance laughed as the parchment flew out of his pocket and straight into Harry's outstretched hand.

"I knew you wouldn't resist the temptation...," he remarked idly. He put his hands back in his pockets and leant against the desk, watching Harry unfold the piece of parchment.

Harry scanned the parchment. It was indeed a search warrant delivered to junior Aurors Amy Redburn and Craig Johnson; they had to search Malfoy Manor some time on the afternoon, since Malfoy was suspected of keeping illegal potion ingredients.

"Amy and Johnson are searching Malfoy's house today?" He raised his head to stare at Lance, who was wearing a satisfied smirk. "So what?"

"When was your birthday?" Lance asked loudly, covering Harry's voice.

"Last July," Harry automatically answered, bemused by the unexpected question. "Why?"

Lance's smile widened, and he flicked his wand towards the parchment.

"Happy belated birthday then," he said lightly.

Completely mystified, Harry looked down at the parchment again.

Where a few seconds before was written Amy Redburn and Craig Johnson, the words Lance Colman and Harry Potter shone, the black ink still wet.

"I had to convince Amy and I gave a couple of bottles of Vodka to Johnson -- and Robards' secretary took care of the rest," explained Lance as Harry stared at the parchment with wide eyes. "Amy and Johnson both said they were unavailable. We're in charge for the search of Malfoy Manor."

Harry looked up into Lance's face, which was alight with mischief.

"We're going to search Malfoy's house," he repeated slowly, a grin stretching his own lips.

"That's right," agreed Lance with a short laugh. "Would you, by any chance, be feeling like abusing your Auror power?"

"You have no idea," Harry retorted.

And leaving there the pile of files, he pocketed the search warrant and followed Lance out of the box, feeling more light-hearted than he would have thought possible when he had come back from Hogwarts.

The image of the murderous trees was far from his mind now.

***

Lance let out a whistle.

"Lord, Malfoy does himself proud, doesn't he?" he muttered, sounding vaguely disgusted.

"Tell me something I don't know," Harry replied distractedly as he observed the grounds and manor through the bars of the iron gates.

Indeed, the stone house nestled in the middle of neatly kept grounds screamed arrogance and wealth. Though massive and obviously from a time when strength mattered more than harmony, the imposing manor had an undeniably lordly look with its sharp lines, its stones gleaming as if they had been polished, and the colourful banners hanging from the lower windows. The grass of the grounds was as well kept as Petunia Dursley's once was: not a single blade escaped the impeccably smooth green carpet. A broad road of sandy gravel crossed the lawn from the gates to the main door of the manor.

Lance shook Harry out of his contemplation by seizing the handle of an ancient bell and tugging on it with all his might. The bell emitted a mournful, low-pitched note that trembled in the air for a few seconds; but before it had entirely faded, a house-elf appeared at the gate with a loud crack.

"Master Malfoy is having lunch with guests," squealed the small creature without even looking at them. "Master Malfoy can't receive you now. Come back later."

And before Harry or Lance had the time to say a word, the elf vanished.

Both Aurors exchanged a look, their eyebrows raised.

"Try again," Harry finally said; and as Lance reached for the handle, he took a few steps backward and pulled his hood over his head. It would probably be better if the elf didn't recognise him.

"The brat will pay for that," Lance muttered angrily. He pulled on the handle repeatedly this time, forcing the bell into a frenzied dance and sending a stream of panicked notes reverberating around the grounds.

After a whole minute of this the elf reappeared, its hands clasped over its ears and its face screwed up. Harry quickly reached through the bars and seized the house-elf's filthy pillowcase. The creature squeaked in shock and pain as it was pinned to the iron gates.

"Good afternoon," Lance said coolly to the terrified house-elf, still pressed against the gates by Harry's firm grip on its pillowcase. "We are Aurors, and we'd like to have a word with Mr. Malfoy. We don't care if he's having lunch with guests or if he's shagging his housekeeper in the attic -- we want a word with him, now."

The house-elf was obviously too scared of Harry's menacing stance and too scandalised by Lance's crudeness to give a clear answer: all that came out was a tiny squeak. Then it started to shake its head frantically, its giant ears flapping, but neither Lance not Harry were in the mood to wait any longer. Just as Harry threateningly tightened his grip, Lance pulled out his wand.

"Just. Open. The gates," growled Lance, his wand pointed at the elf's throat.

With a strangled sob, the elf raised a shaky hand and snapped its fingers; and the gates were slowly pushed open by an invisible force, causing Harry to let go of the pillowcase. Abruptly freed, the house-elf fell to the ground and remained there, a dirty little heap shaking with sobs and wailing in despair. Harry felt a stab of pity for the miserable creature -- but the fleeting feeling was quickly stifled when the gates suddenly froze and were violently slammed shut at another snap of the elf's fingers. Harry threw out an arm and seized the bars just in time; he forced his way through the closing gap between the two sides of the door, quickly followed by Lance. The gates closed right behind them with an angry grating noise.

The house-elf let out a frightened squeal at seeing them both inside the grounds and hastily disappeared with another crack.

"Like master, like servant," muttered Harry, mechanically brushing his shoulder.

Lance answered with a stream of curses involving the elf's reproductive organs, its mother and its grandmother, and he strode along the road with an expression suggesting he was about to demolish the manor stone after stone. Harry drew his wand out of its holster and followed his fuming team-mate along the road leading to the castle. This search looked promising.

Malfoy, obviously warned by his house-elf, was waiting for them on the doorstep of the manor. Harry was pleased to note that his normally pale face was red with anger and his disdainful features were twisted into an ugly frown.

"How dare you trespass into my land?" Malfoy shouted as soon as the two Aurors were within earshot. "What are your names? I'll talk about this to your superiors, count on that! Now tell me whatever it is you want, before I have you thrown out of the grounds! What--"

"My name is Colman," Lance interrupted coldly. "And I have a search warrant for this house."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed as he eyed Lance's grim face.

"A search warrant?" he repeated disdainfully. "And you think I'll believe--"

"You'd better believe it, Malfoy," said Harry brusquely. "Here it is."

Reaching inside his pockets, he got the warrant out and tapped it once with his wand, conjuring an exact copy of it. He handed the copy to Malfoy; but his former enemy didn't take it, busy as he was scrutinising Harry's hidden face.

"And you are...?" he asked curiously. "Your voice sounds familiar."

"Does it?" Harry asked in a nonchalant voice that was worthy of Lance himself. And throwing back his hood, he allowed the dull grey light of the cloudy afternoon to fall on his face.

Malfoy's eyes widened in recognition before narrowing again in dislike, and his hand jerked compulsively at his side, as if it longed to grab the wand resting in his chest pocket.

"Potter," he snarled; and that was all he said, to Harry's great surprise, before he grudgingly stepped aside to let them in.

Harry and Lance entered the manor, both holding their wands at their sides and ready to use them if Malfoy tried anything.

"Leave the door open," Harry sharply ordered as Malfoy reached toward the doorknob. Malfoy's pale features twitched in fury but he complied.

Harry had never entered Malfoy manor before. He found himself in a dark hallway, lit by torches fixed to the walls in bronze brackets, while the loopholes piercing the thick stone walls here and there half-heartedly let inside a feeble ray of pallid light. The tapestries hanging off the dark walls fluttered as a draught brushed past them, and he thought he caught a few malevolent eyes staring at him from the faded textile.

Malfoy's drawling voice pulled him out of his contemplation.

"Well, gentlemen, you'll excuse me while I'm informing my guests of your presence; then I'll be at your entire disposal."

He seemed to spit out the last words as if they tasted bitter in his mouth; something Lance noticed and took immediate advantage of, by uttering a condescending "Please do, my good man," that caused Malfoy's face to turn bright red. Harry coughed to hide his laughter -- in which he wasn't very successful --, making sure Malfoy had heard him. The Slytherin snarled and abruptly wheeled about, both Aurors on his heels.

Malfoy led the pair of them to a large dining room, where about a dozen people were gathered around an immense table loaded with dishes. The room was filled with the buzzing of their conversations; but all sounds quickly died away as the guests took notice of the two Aurors standing behind their host.

"Well, dear friends and relatives, I have to leave you for the time being," Malfoy announced. "I have an unexpected... visit... and you'll understand that I can't leave these gentlemen on their own."

"Hurry up, Malfoy, we have a house to search," Lance said in a drawling voice.

Harry bit his lip to keep from smiling at the outraged expression on Narcissa Malfoy's face. The other guests, he noticed, were mainly friends of Malfoy's from school -- Crabbe, Goyle, Milicent Bulstrode and her husband, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and his wife, and a girl Harry thought was called Daphne Greengrass -- plus a shady lawyer whose name Harry couldn't remember, and finally one of Harry's fellow Aurors, a former Ravenclaw called Vincent Mastine.

Mastine averted his eyes when Harry's gaze fell on his face. The lawyer himself looked fidgety. Harry made a mental note to watch the pair of them carefully; the last thing they needed was Malfoy having contacts inside the Ministry.

"Harry?" called Lance's voice.

Harry turned his head to cast a questioning look at him; in answer, Lance gestured towards the guests frozen with surprise with a gracious smile.

"You do it," he pleasantly said.

Smiling slightly himself, Harry nodded and, turning to face the guests again, he spoke up.

"Nobody is to leave this room until the search is complete. You will all be kind enough to stay in your seats for a couple of hours. We may need to search each and every one of you, but I'll merely take your wands for now."

A quick collective disarming spell caused eleven wands to fly out of their owners' pockets and straight into his hand. He wordlessly handed them to Lance, who dropped them inside the bag he was carrying, before adding:

"Enjoy your meal."

And turning his back on the stunned guests, he followed Malfoy and Lance out of the dining room. Lance took care of closing the door and locking it with a couple of spells, visibly enjoying Malfoy's obvious fury as he did so.

"Perfect," Lance cheerfully said. "Now let's start this search."

And so they did.

The search was long and tedious. The manor was huge and concealed many passageways, niches and secret rooms; and if it hadn't been for Harry's sharpened sight and audition, which made him quick to notice a stone slightly out of place in a dark room or a hollow revealed by a different sound as they tapped walls and portraits, they would have missed half of the secrets of the house. Malfoy was barely able to contain his rage when Harry discovered a hidden cupboard full of prohibited ingredients -- precisely what he had been suspected of hiding in the first place. Harry's smirk and Lance's idle comments only served to fuel the pure-blood's anger.

It went on for about an hour and a half until they started to search the south tower; the place was cold and damp, and visibly unoccupied.

"There's nothing here," grumbled Malfoy as Harry proceeded to rap the stones one by one with his knuckles.

"That's what you said for the cupboard and the fake ceiling," Harry retorted without even looking at him.

"True," said Malfoy in an oddly calm voice.

A cold feeling of wariness settled in Harry's stomach at Malfoy's sudden change of tone, and he and Lance both turned around to face him, their hands on the handle of the wands tucked in their belt.

Malfoy's hand was resting on a small carving on the wall, the satisfied smirk Harry knew so well and hated so much back on his face. Harry sprang forward, wand in his hand, but too late: Malfoy pushed the carving into the wall and the floor abruptly disappeared under the Aurors' feet.

Harry and Lance fell with similar screams of shock and horror, and the sound of Malfoy's triumphant laughter followed them as they dropped like stones in the darkness.

The fall seemed to last an eternity; time had stopped, black obscurity surrounded them, and the strong wind blowing around them was taking their breath away. Then, without warning, they reached the bottom.

The shock was terrible as they hit a surface that seemed harder than stone. Harry felt the impact reverberating into the marrow of his bones, and for a second a mist clouded his mind and veiled his vision.

A grumbling sound and a foreign pressure against his eardrums brought him back to his senses. What he had hit was the surface of a deep pool of stagnant water. Muddy, foul-smelling water, in which he was now sinking.

Harry convulsively jerked as the dirty water filled his mouth and nostrils. Extending both arms above his head, he swam upwards -- or what he guessed was upwards, since he could barely see his hand outstretched in front of him; even his catlike sight wasn't of much help in the cold blackness of the tower. As he lowered his arms again, his fingers suddenly brushed against a large object floating in the water next to him.

Harry's first reaction was to swim away from the object; only Merlin knew what was rotting in this filthy water. Probably the corpses of--

Corpse. Lance. Where was Lance?

Harry reached out again until he found the large floating object. He was starting to feel dizzy from lack of air and his lungs were in fire; but he couldn't bring himself to leave Lance to die here -- supposing that was Lance. He drew closer to the object.

Harry found a clothed arm -- the object was indeed a body. His hand clenched around a wrist and he thought he could feel a pulse there, but he didn't trust his almost non-existent sense of touch. It may have only been him hoping there was a pulse. Unfortunately he couldn't continue his investigation, not here, not now -- he needed air. The pressure on his lungs was quickly becoming unbearable. Grabbing his wand with numb fingers, he silently cast an Expelling curse on the body floating next to him, sending it hurling towards what he hoped was the surface. He followed, swimming as fast as he could. His head felt as if it was about to explode.

Harry unexpectedly broke the surface of the pool and avidly swallowed a few gulps of air. It rushed in his lungs, hissing past his teeth and drying his throat, but he needed to breathe too much to care. As his racing heart slowed down to a normal pace, he tried to take in his surroundings; and to his deep relief, he noticed his eyes seemed to get accustomed to the obscurity. He was able to distinguish the body floating next to him.

Reaching out, he grabbed it and pulled it closer to him. The body was face down, the clothed back being the only emerged part, and Harry turned it around with some effort so that the face was out of the water.

It was indeed Lance. His pale face stood out in the darkness, water dripping from his dark hair and running in muddy streams on his forehead and cheeks. His eyes were shut and Harry couldn't hear him breathing.

Harry raised his wand and shakily pointed it at Lance's chest.

"Respiro!" he croaked out.

Lance's ribcage swelled as the air was forced in his lungs by the spell. Harry repeated the word several times, until Lance's body suddenly jerked and he started to cough out the dirty water filling his lungs. Harry helped him to hold himself up as he took deep, rattling breaths.

"What the h-hell happened?" Lance coughed out at last.

"Something that probably wouldn't have happened if you had watched Malfoy carefully enough," Harry answered curtly.

Lance took the rebuke in silence, though he was clearly vexed by Harry's remark.

"H-how were y-you able to s-stay conscious af-after that f-fall?" he stammered, shivering all over.

"I'm tough," Harry answered distractedly. The lit wand he was holding over his head could barely pierce the darkness. He was just able to make out something that looked like a narrow stone jetty, at a few feet from them.

"Here, try to swim that way," he called at Lance over his shoulder.

"Try being the k-key word," Lance replied from behind him. "B-bloody hell, I'm freezing."

"Yes, it's cold, isn't it?" said a triumphant voice, coming from the jetty Harry was aiming at.

Upon hearing the familiar drawl both Harry and Lance stopped swimming, only making the indispensable moves to hold themselves up in the water. A shadow standing on the jetty unveiled a lantern and a golden light fell on Malfoy's joyous face. Behind him, the open stone wall slid back into place, blocking the exit. Malfoy had obviously only just got in.

"Expelliarmus!" Malfoy chanted nonchalantly.

Harry and Lance were too busy doing everything they could to stay at the surface to counter Malfoy's spell. With an icy feeling of dread Harry felt his wand escape his slippery fingers, just as Lance's shot out of the water and came to rest in Malfoy's palm as well.

"Here we are," said Malfoy lightly as he pocketed the two wands. "Now it's time for payback."

He stepped forward and crouched on the edge of the jetty, eyeing the two Aurors with an expression that was nothing short of gleeful.

"Potter," he laughed as his eyes met Harry's. "Potter, Potter, Potter. Always where you shouldn't be. I doubt you will ever understand that you can't beat me."

"Can't I?" growled Harry. "Disarmed and swimming in your filthy pool, maybe I'll have a hard time fighting you, though I don't doubt I can still win. With my wand and on the same ground as you are, I don't give you ten seconds."

"I bet for seven," Lance added, "but you let me finish him off."

Harry glanced furtively towards his team-mate and was startled to see the look of pure hatred twisting his normally calm features. He didn't doubt Lance would kill Malfoy with his bare hands at the moment.

Malfoy let out a derisive peal of laughter that echoed in the dark belly of the tower.

"Beat me?" he repeated scornfully. "Finish me off? Gentlemen, I only have to do that--" He raised his wand, and an invisible power suddenly pushed on top of Harry and Lance's heads, almost forcing them underwater, "--and no one will ever see Potty and his new lapdog again."

Malfoy maintained the spell, laughing as the two Aurors struggled against it.

"Potter, you're pathetic. I have reduced you to a wreck, an only half-human monster, and yet you still come to taunt me? Bow to your master, you freak."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Harry panted, concentrated on throwing off the power pressing down on his head and shoulders.

A strange glint came to illuminate Malfoy's grey eyes at Harry's words.

"Unable to sleep?" he whispered, his eyes glued to Harry's, something like avidity in his voice. "Unable to feel any physical pain? Or the cold, or the heat? Haunting the cemeteries at night? You're a freak, Potter..."

Harry took a sharp breath at Malfoy's detailed description of symptoms he thought were classified information.

"How--"

"I have good contacts at St. Mungo's, Potter," Malfoy murmured, self-satisfaction dripping from every word he uttered.

"And why do you assume you have anything to do with my -- with all that?" Harry snarled.

"Can't you remember, Potter?" Malfoy asked pleasantly, coming to sit casually on the edge of the jetty. "Don't you remember what started it all? The war? The taking of Hogwarts? The race in the Forbidden Forest? The four Cruciatus Curses?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat. Few knew of the mad pursuit that had followed the Death Eaters' victory. Even fewer knew that Harry had been submitted to four Cruciatus Curses. Neither Ron nor Parletoo had had the time to spread that knowledge around before being plunged in a deep coma. Hermione wouldn't have said anything either. And the four other people who knew about it were the casters of the curses, and they were dea--

Not all of them. Three were killed by the trees. The fourth one...

"You're the fourth Death Eater," said Harry, watching incredulously Malfoy's gleeful face. "The caster of the fourth curse."

"Indeed I am," answered Malfoy, a fierce joy now illuminating his pale face.

He lowered his wand and the pressure on top of Harry and Lance's heads vanished. He then leant forward and rested his weight on his forearms. His head was level with Harry's. He would have touched him if he had outstretched his arm.

"It was almost sensual, Potter," he whispered. "Feeling your pain at the tip of my wand. There was one single second, at the beginning, when I was able to see your face before you started running again. It's the best memory of my life. And all this time my wand was vibrating slightly in my hand, feeding on your pain. I loved the feeling so much I didn't lift the curse. I kept you under the curse for two months, Potter.

"Then that day, after the Dark Lord vanished, I was hiding among the other students... and I was watching you, pale and skinny, and half-crazy from the pain I inflicted upon you. I enjoyed the sight for a few moments before I understood someone was bound to track the spell from you to me. So I lifted it. You were talking to McGonagall, remember? And you fainted. For a few minutes I really hoped I had succeeded in killing you... But you had to survive, didn't you?"

Harry kept his eyes fixed on Malfoy's. As his enemy advanced in his telling, the shock of learning his current state was mainly due to the man crouching in front of him was now slowly giving way to a burning hatred. It was boiling in the pit of his stomach, spreading into his limbs and running in his veins. It was infecting every particle of his brain. It was audible in every beat of his heart pounding in his ears. An animal desire for revenge was taking over his reason; and Harry now wanted nothing else than tear Malfoy's throat open with his bare teeth and watch as the blood spurted out of his mutilated body.

"...You had to survive... I was so disappointed when the Healers announced you would live. But it doesn't matter... Your life was miserable enough for me to be satisfied... And I'm going to kill you now..."

Harry became suddenly aware that the water was swirling around him, and small waves were rising and coming to lick the top of the jetty. It was as if his anger poured out of him and troubled the calm of the water. The air was starting to swirl around his head too, obeying a commanding voice that it was the only one to hear.

It mattered not if Malfoy was armed and he was not; the power growing inside him and enveloping his whole body was stronger than any wand. It mattered not if he was neck-deep in water and Malfoy was on the firm ground; the water was under his command. Malfoy was going to die.

"...I'm going to kill you, you and your pathetic new friend, but before that I'll make you feel sorry you ever crossed my threshold. Crucio!"

The red beam of light hit Harry on the forehead and his scar exploded. For the first time since the end of the war, his body regained its former sensitivity, his sensory nerves came back to life and allowed the atrocious, searing pain to course through him -- for one single second.

As quickly as it had appeared, the pain vanished; and it was as if the last seal maintaining Harry's young power enclosed within him had just been broken. A roar filled the tower as a fierce wind began to swirl around, biting at the ancient stones and angrily tearing off Malfoy's cloak. An enormous wave arose from under Harry's fingertips and hurled itself at the jetty; Harry caught Malfoy's wide and fearful eyes and his terrified scream before the wall of water crashed on him, drowning the lantern.

Harry wasn't hampered at all by the complete darkness. A second wave flung him on the jetty, where Malfoy lay, coughing and spluttering and groping around for the wand he had dropped. Harry fell on top of him and pinned him to the drenched stones. For a fleeting second he distinguished in Malfoy's horrified eyes the reflection of a green-eyed white wolf, howling with fury; then he attacked.

A horrible scream echoed in the dark tower, but it soon died in a sickening gurgling as blood poured out of Malfoy's severed artery. Harry leapt off his enemy's body, which was twitching convulsively as life flowed out of his open throat, and mechanically ran his tongue over his lips. The insipid taste of Malfoy's blood filled his mouth.

The fury that had been running in his veins like scorching lava was now fading away. A tad sobered, Harry looked down at the fur-covered paws, strikingly white against the dark stones, which supported his weight. He had unconsciously transformed. And not only was the full moon a week away, but it also was the middle of the afternoon. It didn't make sense.

A heavy breathing made him turn around; Lance was hauling himself up on the jetty. His team-mate met his eye and instantly froze, fear visible on his face.

Harry averted his eyes with a noisy sigh. He could feel the power slowly leaking away from him. The wind had ceased and the water was now lapping peacefully at the walls of the tower. It was over.

Harry now felt so weak he could barely stand; he knew he was about to transform back into a man. His legs shook, threatening to yield under his weight, and he had to lie down on the floor drenched in water and blood. As a shudder shook his whole body, he rolled over on his back -- just in time to see Lance pointing a wand at him, a hex on his lips.

"Inc -- Holy shit!"

Lance dropped the wand in astonishment, and Harry understood his transformation had finally ended. He sighed as a little strength came back to his limbs and as he found himself able to prop himself up on his elbows. He pushed his glasses back up his nose in a mechanical motion and sat up, catching his breath.

He lifted his head to stare at Lance, who stood stock-still, mouth gaping and eyes wide open. He had rarely seen him lose his composure so completely.

"I doubt I really need to say it," said Harry tiredly, "but I'd appreciate it if you could keep that to yourself."

Lance nodded, the ghost of a smile grazing his lips, and hesitantly outstretched his hand to help Harry to his feet. Harry gratefully took it and hauled himself up with some effort.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side," said Lance in a hushed voice.

He was looking at something behind Harry. Turning on his heels, Harry caught sight of Malfoy's mutilated body, bathing in a mixture of muddy water and of his own blood.

"I see what you mean," murmured Harry.

Walking round the corpse, he reached in a few strides the opposite wall, which had been forcibly opened under the combined influence of the furious wind and the near-tidal waves. He and Lance ventured in the dark passageway beyond, hoping it would lead them out of the manor.

They hit a cul-de-sac after about twenty minutes of climbing worn-out stone steps in an almost complete darkness. Harry felt around him until he had found a wooden trapdoor above his head. It easily swung upwards and the sunlight flowed inside the passageway, forcing them to shut their eyes against the sudden aggression.

Once they had got used to the daylight again, however, they lost no time in getting out of the dark and damp tunnel, emerging in what looked like an inner courtyard.

"Well, this wasn't a complete waste of time," Lance commented as he looked down at his muddy robes. "We found the ingredients--" Here he held up the bag still containing the guests' wands and the vials they had found in the secret cupboard. "--And we made the little scumbag wild with anger for an hour and a half, until we were... invited to visit that tower the hard way."

"And we rid the earth of the blonde and stinking wart it had on the ass," added Harry, bent double and his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

"Very true," Lance agreed with a faint smile. Then he let out a noisy sigh as he considered his bag. "Should we get back inside and give those wands back to their owners?" he asked, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

Harry shook his head. "No. We're going back to the Ministry. We need to report Malfoy's death... He fell down to the bottom of the tower and some unknown animal cut his throat down there before escaping through the open passageway. An animal he was probably keeping illegally, come to think of it. They can easily check that out. If Malfoy's guests want their wands back, they will have to fetch them at the Ministry."

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Lance answered with a thoughtful nod of his head.

But even now that he was apparently back to his lazy, infuriatingly nonchalant self, Harry felt in Lance's stance and in the furtive glances he sent his way that he would never be the same around him. He honestly couldn't blame him -- it wasn't everyday one saw his team-mate transform into a wolf and rip out another wizard's jugular artery.

Still, he thought as he headed back for the iron gates, he would miss Lance's discreet but loyal friendship.

***

Her eyes snapped open.

The soft breeze that had been blowing since the beginning of times was unusually troubled; it hissed in panic-stricken whispers as it rushed through a broken windowpane into the deserted corridors of the old house.

The wind was bearer of important news...

He had used his power. His full power

Perhaps he had even transformed.

Their deliverance was near.

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

A/N: Writer's block is gone, as I hope it was visible in this last (and long) chapter. Unfortunately this beautiful surge of inspiration will have to wait until I can find again the time to write. Lately I've been revising during the day and typing at night, and I'm afraid I just can't keep up that pace.

I hope you liked it.