003
CINDERED SPIRITS
Chapter III: Not a Puppeteer

The return to classes was a sombre and gloomy affair. News ran amok; rumours ran even faster. What had happened to Harry Potter?

Daily, the students could see important-looking wizards and witches, half of them wearing white coats with splendid swirls and intricate silver linings—healers, those of magical households confirmed—walking their way on to a room just to the side of the Great Hall, where the Weasley Twins confirmed led to an additional banqueting house, and back to the third floor.

If Dumbledore had warned the students at the beginning of the year about the dangers of going to the place, nothing compared to the tight security it was now. Not only was it physically inaccessible now, with mean-looking wizards in red coats guarding all the entrances of that part of the castle, but there was also a story going around that Prof. Quirrell had tried to invade it, succumbing to fatal injuries in the process.

It was an outrageously shocking event, to the point that some parents had expressed serious concerns to the Board of Governors on the safety of the castle. Prof. Burbage even tried to send in her resignation letter, choosing, at the end, to settle a deal with the Headmaster. The fact that remained was: at least two teachers had died and one of the students was …

Dead?

Was Harry Potter dead?

Nobody knew, and it was only for the occasional whisper here and there that information circulated about what was happening on that wing of the third floor.

To be succinct, albeit gossip wildly flew around, there were a few points here and there, common to most of the stories, that painted a general picture of the events that happened over Winter Break.

Prof. Sybill Trelawney had apparently engaged in a ritual that somehow involved Harry Potter in the process. By the brief and sobbing remarks some had been able to extract from Percy Weasley, it was Harry, in fact, who had gone searching for Prof. Trelawney, worried about his own predictions in Divination. The professor had betrayed the boy, and engaged in a horrible act that resulted in Harry Potter put on a catatonic state, which puzzled healers all around the world.

Draco Malfoy was surprisingly silent on the whole issue. He cracked a few jokes at the boy's expense once, when the students were returning from the holidays and were yet to be acquainted fully with the severity of the case, but one—or two, or a lot; passersby suddenly had claimed a faint memory of the event, despite their relaxed grins when asked—well placed hit by an enraged Ron Weasley, helped by his twin brothers, who'd held Crabbe and Goyle at the time of the event, was enough to keep him on a tight leash.

The Slytherins were all subdued, in fact. It didn't help that Prof. Trelawney had been one of them in her time. Granted, the majority of them were good people, and felt terribly sad about what had happened, but a few of their own just couldn't keep their mouths shut. One Slytherin in particular, was extremely irritated with the whole thing, and had been acting all weird since the break was over.

This Slytherin person—sorry, I think we'll get more familiar with this person soon enough, so I'll relieve you of this nonsensical suspense. I never had any remarkable talent in doing this kind of thing anyway.

It was just a few days into the school's return to classes that Daphne Greengrass was rudely dragged by her forearm by one of the Ministry's Aurors into the provisional ward enchanted by Prof. Dumbledore.

The healers, potioneers and assorted magicians that lined the desks in the corridor leading to the more private room looked at the little girl in long white robes with curiosity, and a moderate amount of indignation to the Auror that was pulling her. She looked down, making her hair fall over her face, trying to hide her embarrassment—and her identity!—but she didn't think she was fooling anyone.

The Auror knocked thrice before being allowed to enter, and for the first time since the classes had returned she chanced a glance—that many in the castle would kill for the chance to do—at the lying figure.

He was … he was breathing?!

No, it didn't—it didn't look natural. But it was so close to it that if she wasn't looking for it she wouldn't have noticed. It certainly was a masterpiece charm to keep such a natural flow. He wasn't dreadfully pale at the fingertips or at the lips either. Such good spellwork! She'd read that Healer Edirne had published such a spell, but she hadn't yet got her hands into it. And besides, she didn't think she would understand it, either. Or could it be—

"Miss Greengrass? Are you feeling well?"

She met the kindest blue eyes glancing down at her and she couldn't help but blush at Prof. Dumbledore's attention to her. She glanced around quickly and noticed that he wasn't the only one looking at her. In fact, everyone was! She wanted to bury her head in the stone floor and run as fast as she could away from there.

Wait! How would that even work? She would have to have a staggering amount of force in her upper body and neck, not to mention the best protecting shield on her face for that to even remotely function. But why would she even—

She shook her head and focused on the matter at hand. She had a plan, that she carefully thought over and over as soon as she understood the situation. She cleared her throat and shakily raised her hand to greet the Headmaster.

"H-hi! I'm the … Harry Greengrass! I mean—I'm Daphne Greengrass," she blurted, getting redder and redder as the whole room glanced curiously at her. Some even chuckled, but she straightened herself and took Prof. Dumbledore's firm handshake vigorously.

'Hmm, perhaps a bit too vigorously,' she thought as she observed his glasses droop a little further down his nose—why didn't he use a spell on it?—and let go of his hand like it was on fire and glanced down in shame again. She stole a glance at Harry again, and at his friends—they both looked gobsmacked. The Headmaster chuckled too, but not unkindly as the healers that were currently leaving the room had done so.

"Miss Daphne Greengrass! It's a pleasure to meet you, then. I must say I've already met you before, of course, and if you don't remember I would at least be pleased to inform you that pink robes certainly are more fashionable than I thought they had any right to be. It was good advice, but I must also inform you that it sadly isn't, still, my favourite yet."

She blushed at his words. He must've seen her before when she was little, she supposed. She could see the mirth in his eyes as he told that tale to everyone around them. She, herself, couldn't help but smile at the remarks. Well, she still maintained that opinion. That grey robe he used to favour lately really didn't compliment him. But that was a silly thought; she had more important things to do.

"I understand, sir. It isn't my favourite anymore, either."

He laughed at her and invited her to come closer to the group. She took tentative steps towards the bed and glanced nervously at Harry Potter's friends. Now that the shock had passed, Ron Weasley was looking very suspiciously at her. It wouldn't surprise her if he'd been gripping his wand in his pocket. Blaise Zabini told her that the boy had been a pile of nerves ever since Prof. Quirrell tried to attack Harry. The coward! The teacher, of course.

Hermione Granger on the other hand was analysing her with a measured stare. She had been the talk of the school ever since her parents agreed to act as teachers of 'Muggle Studies'. There was an uproar at the Ministry, and there were even a few people condemning her for breaking the Statute of Secrecy, by inviting her parents to Hogwarts, wanting her to be trialled. Prof. Dumbledore rushed in to her defence, and, according to her father, who had attended the session, pulled rules and old books on top of Lucius Malfoy, rendering him unable to continue his crusade. It was an unusual—one that only Prof. Dumbledore could somehow make—arrangement, but not such a bad one, if you could believe the thoughts that a few of the more open-minded Slytherins who took the elective had shared in the Common Room. Prof. Burbage agreed to act as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts until Summer Break. She hadn't taken the news of Prof. Quirrell's betrayal too well, since he was her mentor for a considerable while before he left for his sabbatical year.

"Now, it is from my understanding, and from Mr Shacklebolt's words, that you were a friend of Harry's," Prof. Dumbledore said, while inviting her to sit on a comfortable chair beside him. She saw Hermione Granger sit upright in her chair and begin to glare at her. Ron Weasley was now blatantly wielding his wand, trying to hide it beneath her field of vision, under Harry's bed. Professor Dumbledore intertwined his fingers and looked at her probingly. "Tell me, Miss Greengrass, do you really believe that an ageing potion would be enough?"

She hung her head in shame, and the words of the headmaster cut deeply into her. Of course, it wouldn't work. She'd been stupid when she'd ordered the potions, and had been even more stupider when she ordered healer robes thinking nobody would notice. Never mind the spells protecting the makeshift infirmary, and the aurors, and the puddle in the corridor just before the main door that she was sure now was made from the same substance they'd coated their family in Gringotts one time, and—

"You're not Harry's friend. There isn't a chance he would make friends with one of you, with the way you've been treating him!" Ron Weasley said to her, his words unusually calm, but his eyes remarkably expressive. She looked away from his eyes onto Granger's but there was no sympathy there either.

"It's not like we didn't see you with Parkinson, Greengrass. You were laughing at him, when he never even did anything to you!" She had gotten up and Daphne moved uncomfortably in her seat. "You know, he even remarked one time how you must be one of the good ones, since you hadn't laughed at Neville when he'd fallen from his broom, but it didn't take too long and there you were mocking us again."

Prof. Dumbledore then was up and gently made her sit again. He too was looking gravely at her again.

"I didn't mean—" she began to say, but then stopped. She swallowed hard and took a second to formulate her thoughts before opening her mouth again. "Look, I was—I was wrong when I said those things. I would be wrong in saying I was only following Pansy, but I didn't think too much about it either. Now, I've heard everybody saying those things about him … I regret thinking that way, too. Many of us do. Even Draco, but you wouldn't believe me."

"Malfoy! As if! He was downright happy when he heard what had happened to Harry! Had to take a fist to the face to think clearly again, didn't he?" Ron Weasley yelled at her.

She lifted her hands in a placating gesture.

"I know it is hard to believe, but none of us thought that—you know—"

At this she glanced at Harry, and took a good look at him again.

"—that he would die …"

She glanced at his abnormally pale face and at his unnaturally moving body. It was even more uncanny when she looked at him up close. There were scars on his face and his arms, she was sure of that. She couldn't see them, but she'd studied medical concealing charms well enough to see their signs, even if she wasn't capable of doing them yet. She then felt a surge of anger running through her body, wondering what sort of people would do this to his body. He wasn't healing, he wasn't improving, he was … almost like a puppet. There was no way he was alive yet. She thought about Healer Douglass, Healer Edirne, Professor Grafrath, Healer Swords, Professor Dumbledore and all the others that she knew were on the case or had participated in it somehow, many of whom she'd dreamed of meeting. That they had been participating in this … this nightmarish act! It disgusted her!

Hermione Granger broke down crying and Ron Weasley's eyes got all watery as he looked away from Harry Potter.

"He's not dead … yet, Miss Greengrass."

Her head snapped quickly to Prof. Dumbledore. He had a calculating glance as he looked at her. He looked deeply in her eyes as he asked his next question.

"If I may ask, what made you think that was the case?"

She looked at him, and then at Harry's friends, her mind racing quickly. From the way that he worded his phrase, she was missing something. So, he would die, but he was still alive. But then, why was he reacting so uncannily to critical care spells? He looked like a sickly puppet, reanimated by magic. How hadn't he died yet? There was something wrong. He tore her eyes away from Harry and looked at Professor Dumbledore.

He had his wand out and was calmly expecting her answer. She glanced at Weasley and Granger and noticed how they were suddenly seemingly uninterested in their conversation. She quickly puzzled the pieces together and looked apprehensively at the Headmaster. She opened her mouth but she couldn't think of anything to say. Prof. Dumbledore then spoke.

"Have you wondered why I permitted Auror Shacklebolt to bring you here, Miss Greengrass?"

She looked at his now tired eyes, and felt even more confused. Although he still had his wand out, he wasn't so threatening anymore. She couldn't point out what had changed, but she felt more at ease with him now. Was she—

She suddenly took out her wand and cast a counterspell on herself. Prof. Dumbledore looked at her curiously, with a renewed interest.

"Miss Greengrass, that won't be necessary. I haven't used my wand to cast a single spell, but one for protecting this conversation."

He then took her hand gently, making her get up from her chair. He waved his wand and banished both of their chairs. Next, he made a flourishing move with his wand and a door appeared at the opposite side of the room.

"Banishing Charm, fourth year of Transfiguration, and a secret spell privy to the Castellan of Hogwarts. We need to talk, Miss Greengrass."

Daphne crossed the threshold, and a weird sensation arched over her body. It was similar to the times when their family took a portkey to places with great differences in altitude and their agent hadn't put a lot of effort into the customary protective spells. Only it hadn't been in her ear, but in her—magical core? There wasn't such a thing, but it was the best she had to try to explain the sensation.

The phoenix had begun to softly sing to her as soon as she sat down in her chair, and she had been entranced by it. Its eyes were complete black, not even reflecting the light from the room, but were somehow so inviting, so enchanting. She only had seen a phoenix one time when Mr Ollivanders had asked the permission of her parents to search the grounds of one of their properties in search for one. She was only allowed to look from afar while Mr Ollivanders went to greet the beautiful creature. But she remembered the feeling of its singing.

A feeling that was only heightened given the close proximity of the regal bird in front of her. She felt at rest, finally.

She felt hopeful for the first time in a great while. The singing ended, and the bird crooned at her one last time before tucking his head. She felt at peace, even if it was over.

She heard soft claps all around her.

"Bravo, mister!"

"Wonderful, wonderful! Bis, Monsieur!"

"Thank you for this, my old friend."

This last one was Professor Dumbledore's, who was making shushing gestures to the enthusiastic assemblage of the portraits of former Headmasters and Lords of Hogwarts behind him. His eyes were filled with merriment, and a few tears landed on his fine beard, which he absently smoothed with his hands.

"Music! Truly a magic beyond all we do here, wouldn't you agree, Miss Greengrass? I couldn't remember, off the top of my old head, the last time he put so much effort into it. It's a comforting reminder to mind my actions."

She tried to speak, but a croaked 'yes' was all that she could manage.

Prof. Dumbledore, perhaps sensing her flustered state, excused himself in search of tea and something for them to, as he put it, peck while they talked. It was enough to Daphne recompose herself and analyse again the situation. Despite the graveness of the situation, she couldn't help but scan the gallery of portraits avidly. She counted twenty in the first row, twenty-seven in the second, scanned up and down, and she finally got it.

A young gentleman, with closed eyes that she knew were blind and an elegant short ponytail suddenly made a short bow to her, before lifting his gloved left hand and kissing the side of his index finger, smiling. She recognized the gesture and did the same, her lips encountering the band of an ordinary silver ring, one that was sadly not present in his picture. She'd only read about the tragically short and brilliant life of Alston Greengrass, though that wasn't their name at the time, yet, but it was enough to look up to him even if he was usually dismissed both by the historians and by his own family, even to this day.

"I see that you recognized Alston, my dear," said Prof. Dumbledore from behind her. She jumped in her chair, making the Headmaster chuckle as he set the tray in front of her. "It's not always that we have an opportunity to have a conversation, but the few times we can, I can say I always leave my office wiser than when I entered it. I regret to say, however, that I sometimes overlook opportunities for his counselling. The world was never easy to those with impairments, especially this world of ours where a single wave of a wand should, as the muggles so eloquently put it, 'do the trick'." He poured them both a cup and fished a few biscuits for himself, while reclining in his chair. He lifted his cup to the portrait. "To Prof. Alston, and his inspiring efforts into building the Hogwarts we dearly care for today!"

Daphne did the same and smiled at the embarrassed figure in the portrait. He bowed to them both again and sat down in his chair. She noted a few of the other portraits chuckling dismissively at the scene. One scrawny hag even dared to roll her eyes. The—

"He's been worried about you, also. Even if he's not, strictly speaking, part of your family, your actions, Miss Greengrass, have been rather concerning to say the least."

She glanced at the Headmaster and noticed the mirth there was rapidly fading, as fast as the weight began to increase in her stomach. She set the cup down and looked fearfully at Prof. Dumbledore.

"My … actions? Prof. Dumbledore, I don't understand."

He set his cup down, too, before lifting his wand and making a jabbing gesture. She didn't understand what he was doing as he lifted himself from the chair and fumbled rather clumsily with the locks of a round window that overlooked the lake.

"I sometimes ponder upon the necessity of security spells on windows. It seems to me that a soul brave enough to escalate this tower ought to have, at least, a comfortable place to stay before I inevitably call the Hit-Wizards on them, don't you think? Ah, I think I finally got it." He unlatched it and creakily opened the window. It was just in time, too, because just then a few books flew quickly to the top of the table.

She had been so amused at his actions that she failed to notice which books those were. But there was one in particular, the second last to come flying to the little pile, that she was able to recognize from a mile away. It was a horrid brownish yellow book, and she was sure that the stains throughout its contents were not artistic ornamentation; she bet it was vomit; she thought it so because it was her book, and that was how she felt like doing while reading some of the passages. Those were all hers, in fact. Some were stolen from a few of her friend's houses, some were her family's, some were even her grandfather's and great-uncle's, the former giddy because she was finally getting interested in the dark arts, the latter because he was a much better person than any of his relatives deserved. All those books shared a characteristic, though. They were highly restricted and some were even strictly forbidden to own; some of them were, in fact, reason enough for a few months of Azkaban.

She trembled and got up, dashing at the door. She found it locked. She felt fear grip her heart as Prof. Dumbledore looked gravely at her. She felt tears begin to prickle her eyes as the gravity of the situation imposed itself more and more. The fact that she tried to sneak into Harry Potter's ward in his most vulnerable situation was surely enough reason, in her mind, for a Dementor's Kiss!

She had to make him understand! She didn't—she didn't want to lose her soul! She had to—

"Miss Greengrass, sit down please. I'll not let them haul you to that horrid place. It's been years since I've been advocating for its destruction, in fact. Not even Voldemort would deserve to live in Azkaban." Professor Dumbledore took firm steps in her direction and directed her to the chair. She was trembling, but now that she was seeing an opportunity, she seized it.

"I'm sorry, Professor! I didn't mean to use anything to—"

"Stop, please!"

She was frightened by the way he interrupted her. He sat down leaning forwards toward her, looking deeply into her eyes.

"I have one condition, however. You'll agree to not lie to me. I will refrain from judging you preemptively, but I insist upon this. I'll keep your secrets, you have my word on this, but I also wish to impress on you the severity of this. You may find it arbitrary, but I will not back down from this, are we understood?"

She meekly nodded. She had a question, however.

"I'll not lie. I—I only wish to understand, though. I thought that the contents of our trunks were entitled to secrecy." She felt deeply ashamed as she continued, but she had to know because a lot of what she had planned relied on this as a fundamental cornerstone. "Especially, given that— given my—" She gulped, ashamed of what was left unspoken. The Headmaster responded rather flatly.

"Given the array of privilege that wizarding gentry had been able to amass for centuries to protect themselves by illegitimate, unfair and thankfully rapidly being made worthless separate statutory law, you mean?"

She felt as his words cut deeply into her.

"Yes," she replied meekly. There was a long silence before she looked up again.

Prof. Dumbledore had sat his glasses down and was rubbing his temples. From this close she could see all the wrinkles and marks of a far-too-old wizard. It would be difficult to associate this man with the most powerful man in Britain if this was what they would see for the first time.

"I—forgive me, Miss Greengrass. That was uncalled for. I sometimes forget that you're still a child. I merely wish not to make the same mistake again," he said, sighing and looking far away as he finished it. "I was afraid of what I would do when I finally gathered the courage to unravel this, but I gained a bit of hope, again."

She didn't know what to say to that, and waited for him to continue.

"Miss Greengrass—Daphne, if you will allow me—please answer this, only this question truthfully, from a criminal, because that was what I am for barging into this, to another. Did you ever cast a single spell from these books?"

Daphne was sure she never had. She sometimes chastised herself about this. She wasn't courageous enough, she wasn't intelligent enough, she wasn't this resourceful. She simply wasn't enough for this, and it pained her everyday.

"Never."

Prof. Dumbledore closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. He took a deep breath before opening them again, gazing upon the girl with a new resolution. The pale, fragile, scared and dreadfully lost girl hadn't yet lost her soul. He would help her, he wouldn't permit another tragedy anymore, not now that there were already so many of them on his shoulders.

He answered her final curtsy with a short bow of his as they finally got to the end of their conversation. Pomona was kind enough to accompany her to the Slytherin Common Room and not ask too many questions. She was always far too gentle for her own good. He stretched, wincing as the bones in his body protested the strenuous movements and looked at the grounds.

He kept looking through the windows for what seemed to him like hours on end, but it couldn't be more than a few minutes. He dreaded his next actions, and dreaded as he doubted his decisions.

Miss Greengrass was a remarkable, brave girl. She was a painful reminder to him about the dangerous terrors that insisted on roaming this world, plaguing old men and children alike. She didn't have to live with the responsibility, but he would help her nonetheless. She would hopefully be more wise in her judgement when she finally would be confronted by the unfair reality thrust upon her.

She would make an excellent Healer, he was sure of that. She had such a capacity for love, for compassion!

And that would heal her also, he was certain of that. Though she hadn't yet been lost, that spark of interest for the Dark Arts wouldn't ever be sated. He hoped she was strong enough to resist it, however; he hoped she would see the luring prison before it contained her. He would be there for her, whenever she needed him.

She would need friends, also. No one deserved to carry that burden alone.

Perhaps he could exchange a few words with Miss Davis on how she planned to cater to—

'Stop, Albus!'

He took a deep breath and forced himself to think about another thing. His shameful puppeteering nature had only brought misery to those he cared about. He wouldn't intervene unless it was necessary to prevent a catastrophe. He wasn't a master of crossroads, and his good intentions wouldn't hold up to the judgement he would one day have to face.

He couldn't save Gellert; he couldn't save Tom; he couldn't save Harry—at least not yet.

He could save Daphne. He only hoped he was doing the right thing.

And about Harry …

He glanced at the Forbidden Forest. There, a few miles northwest, walking from Aragog's nest was something he wished never happened. The cursed tree that sprung forth from Harry's life, in the middle of a stone castle.

He felt foul as he moved the entity. He felt the anger coursing through his arms, and his wand had been eager for the cursed fire. But he refrained himself from doing anything too brash.

He had a meeting there in just a few minutes. He dreaded it; he dreaded even more the man that would leave it.

Albus Dumbledore opened his drawer and produced a revolting dagger, before pocketing it and leaving the room, trying not to look at his ever-loyal phoenix companion.