How Are You, Really? (Drarry)

Chapter Eight: Pensives

Harry stood outside the door without making any effort to open it. He hadn't wanted to come, still didn't. But he had to attend sessions if he wanted to graduate. The Headmistress had made that abundantly clear when Harry had gone to see her.

            Sighing, he pushed open the door. Stepping inside, he took in the room. Two overstuffed armchairs were facing each other in the sunlit room. The wall opposite the door was floor to ceiling windows, giving the observer a breathtaking view of the grounds and lake.

            "I was beginning to think you'd never enter, Harry," a soft voice said from his left. He turned and found a minuscule woman, no taller than five feet, if she even was that, in a long flowing skirt, gazing up at him warmly.

            "Oh, well, umm," Harry stuttered, unable to find any words to justify his desire to run the other way.

            "I understand, dear boy. I understand exactly. Please, take a seat," she gestured towards the chairs. Harry took the one on the left. "Tea?" She waved her wand, and a tea service appeared floating between them.

            "Um, no thanks," Harry declined, his stomach turning over on itself. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I never got your name?"

            "That's because I never gave it," the odd woman said. "But I am Healer Althea. We will be working closely together over the next year."

            Harry shifted uneasily and stared at his hands. He didn't want to be reminded of how much time he'd be spending in here.

            "Today, we'll just get to know each other. Yes, I think that's best."

            Harry's head shot up. "Aren't you going to just do some charm work and let me go?"

            Althea shook her head slowly. "Charms can on do so much and don't last very long. No, true wounds, wounds on the soul like all those who suffered in the Battle now have, take far more than just magic to heal them."

            "Then what's the point of seeing a Healer if you aren't going to do anything to help?" Harry snapped, anger boiling inside him. What a waste of his time.

            Althea stared intently at Harry. "Because sometimes you need help to feel okay again. There's no shame in that."

            Harry dropped his gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

            "I think you do, Harry. It's okay to feel the way you do now, but know it won't last forever."

            Staring at his hands, Harry said nothing.

            "Now, let's talk about ourselves for a moment. I'll start – I've been a healer for sixty years now, and I've never wanted to do anything else with my life. I have two dogs and a potbelly pig at home. My husband is no longer with us; he died in the Battle. But I couldn't be prouder of him. My hobbies include painting and wood carving. Now, Harry, I think it's your turn to tell me about yourself."
             "I'm Harry Potter. I fought and won against Voldemort six months ago. I -," he broke off. He had nothing left to say. The silence was deafening in the room, at least to him.

            "I see," Healer Althea said. "And who are you besides that?"

            Harry stared at her, unseeing. His link to Voldemort had been his identity since he was eleven, always dodging death or destruction. Who was he without that part of himself? "I don't know," he admitted, feeling lost within himself - hollow.

            "That's okay, Harry. You've been fighting for everyone else for so long, I'm sure it feels wrong now that you have time to yourself. It isn't."