004
CINDERED SPIRITS
Chapter IV: The Curse of Daphne
He left a bit too early than he intended before on purpose. He had to make a visit to his dear friend Hagrid. The man was inconsolable and not even the visits of Mr Weasley and Miss Granger had managed to drag him out of his hut. At first, Dumbledore didn't want to confront the man and see the far too generous trust that he had in him fade off his eyes, but, alas, it seemed his friends were far too good to him.
Hagrid was an absolutely broken man, and it made the pain he was also feeling all the more miserable. He let the man cry for as long as he needed, joining him at times when the gentle giant told him how he—Harry—adored the school and how he—Hagrid—loved having him as a friend.
It also gave Prof. Dumbledore time to sort out his own emotions.
Since he'd learned Occlumency sufficiently well in his young adulthood, he strove for a more subtle approach to it. One that wouldn't render his mind an all-enduring fortress, nor one that would make him detached and uncaring; rather, he felt it that if he ever had to give up his capacity to enjoy his own emotions to the fullest, whether they were as pleasant as they come or, as in this tragic hour, pulled from his most outlandish nightmares, he would rather not make use of this branch of magic.
Sure, charms could always be broken, and artefacts could always fade in their purpose, but he'd rather depend on them than on an unempathetic insensitive consciousness. From that pit there was only one way out, and sadly few had the chance to give themselves fully to it: the greatest magic that was love.
But as it was, he found himself using considerably unhealthy mechanisms to supplant his demolished protections. The pragmatic rational part of his mind weighed all the consequences and moved him forward on the terrible path he was dredging through. His wand still vibrated with excitement of the obliviation spell he'd used both on Madam Pomfrey and on Miss Greengrass. Its master was finally caving in to its power.
On Miss Greengrass, he still had his reservations about what he had done. The girl was killing herself on a blind search, the same one that had killed her great-uncle. It was an inspiring mission, but not a healthy, nor a fruitful one. He'd make peace with his soul later, but for now he thought that protecting hers was the ideal thing to do, given the circumstances.
On the Healer, he did so to protect her. Nobody should know what he would do; nobody deserved to live with that memory. Already he was feeling the taint in his magic that dark spell imprinted. An ingenious, if he dared to say so, variation of the Inferii awakening, that restricted the animated ghoulish nature of the spell, not permitting the pale imitation of a kinetic quasi-soul to take over his body; it permitted his organs to live, though, and be healed.
Or so he wished.
He discovered a lot of terrible things about the Philosopher's Stone when he used it. It made him wonder about the lengths Nicolas had gone through, to devise such a cursed artefact. The fact was: he was, now, doubtful about his chances. Rather than keep him alive, it had transformed him.
He annotated this as a consequence of the tragic accident that happened with Prof. Trelawney, and invited the most prestigious healers and scholars that he could to help him on this affair. None of them had the slightest idea, but one, who'd sent the letter just a few hours ago.
And it was his old mentor. He'd seen right through it.
It did pay off to live centuries in a scholarly manner, after all.
And while he was thirsty for answers, he had already done his research, too. He knew that if this didn't work, there was—there should be a way out; ony one way out.
'There must be a way,' he thought desperately.
He cleared his mind and bade Hagrid a good evening. He walked timidly through the forest as he prepared mentally for what he was about to do.
'A soul for a soul. Never different in worth, but equally defiant of their last enemy.'
Voldemort devised ways to escape death, making his own alias a mocking of it, in fact. But he wasn't the only one. There were, in fact, two worst offenders right on their way to this meeting, never mind the one that was, as per the consensus between the healers, already besides the tipping point lying in a hospital bed.
He didn't know yet what Voldemort had done to escape death. He had a few suspicions, of course. The pharaonic mark was one of them, Horcruxes were also a possible and intriguing alternative, the Promethean shackles were also considered to him. Right now, he suspected he had unveiled the secrets of Ouroboros, a feat that Albus himself was fascinated with when he began his studies in Alchemy. It explained the transformation in his magic and the corruption of his human features into an ophidian gargoyle, just to begin with. The fact that he was a parselmouth also could help him in his journey where Albus had found dead ends only.
On Harry, he was also not sure at all. The nature of the scar … When he'd looked upon it, when the boy was a child, he felt that he'd finally struck gold. It all made sense. It was, evidently, a manipulation of the Pharaoh's mark. He—Voldemort—had chosen his fate right there. He would die, so he could live again, rising like the sun upon Harry's demise. It would be a perfect plan, giving time for his enemies to die and for his image as a villain to fade, and he would take over the world as a storm, reborn by the the Mark of Sowilo. It was an absolutely brilliant spell, but one that could, Albus hoped, be reversed if the pace of innovations in Curse-Breaking kept ramping up each year as it was, supposing, of course, that it had worked. He hadn't accounted for Lily's protections, of course.
But when he heard the first rumours of strange bouts of dark magic in the Livonian Magical Community, something tipped him off. He was part of the ICW committee that investigated the heavy magic that was killing the animals and poisoning the trees. While all the prodigious and excellent wizards could recognize its power, they hadn't the opportunity to make the association he could.
It was Voldemort, and he was searching for something.
He hadn't died; worse, he wasn't neither in a limbo nor waiting for the right conditions necessary for his return.
He had known that he didn't die that night—not definitely, at least—but he supposed the world would finally be at peace now that he'd locked himself in a trap of ancient magic he hadn't predicted. He thought the ritual had failed, or at least it had greatly incapacitated whatever bit of him that was left on this plane. He thought the love of Lily Potter would have redeemed the world of that monster.
But, alas, he was still roaming.
And he had done so right under his nose. He didn't understand how Quirrell had concealed the malevolent presence. Although he noticed the changes on the bright young man, he thought they were born out of his outrageous encounters in the magical wildlands.
He would deal with this in a more detailed approach later. He had to think on the next two challengers of Death.
Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel, bless them both. Albus didn't deserve to call them friends. In fact, as much as he tried to maintain his obstinacy towards his grand objective, the more silly and megalomaniac he sounded. He hadn't it in him to do something like that. Not even for Harry, no matter how much he regretted not protecting him.
He unpocketed the dagger and put it into his forearm, in a handy holster he'd used since Gellert gifted him in his sixth year at Hogwarts. He tried to recompose himself and began to walk more resolutely towards his objective.
In a few hours or days at most, someone would die in Hogwarts Grounds. Again. He couldn't bear to think whose death would be the most terrible. Whichever one it would, there would be his hand guiding it.
They were already there glancing at his general position when he arrived. They were always too punctual and vigilant about these matters.
"Albus, my dear. Come closer."
It was Perenelle who had spoken. She was a kind-looking woman who didn't look a day older since she'd celebrated her fortieth birthday. Her eyes were as sharp as they come however, and were searching his.
'Natural Legilimency indeed!' He didn't need to be a Mind Healer to see the raw, effortless and involuntary talent in front of him. Not a thought on his mind was plucked away; it wasn't necessary. He could still feel her reading him like an open book, like he was young again. It was only in the fantastic and delusional minds of Unspeakables that caricature of legilimency—that gazed upon minds and souls unreservedly and inconsequentially—would ever exist in this plane.
She clutched his arms and crossed them, resting her hand on them and lightly running her jovial fingers on his old and wrinkly ones. Right behind her was Nicolas. He had a distinct presence, with an always present air of tranquillity and serenity about him. He preferred to have his hair grey and used a seemingly ordinary wooden cane that Albus knew was enchanted with a vast array of potions and runes. He didn't need to use it, of course, but always said it was more elegant to do so; he also occasionally lamented the disappearance of staffs and sceptres, something that Albus didn't miss the least if he was honest.
"Son, I'm sorry that this should happen …"
He hesitated a great deal, his arm undecided on the next move, before finally giving up—social skills never came easy to him; after a few short seconds later Nicolas stood taller and cleared his throat before grasping Albus's shoulder firmly for a few seconds before giving him a firm pat on his back. He nodded to himself and went back to what he was doing before Albus came to the clearance.
He gazed upon the tree, that cursed tree. It was—
"She's dying Albus," Perenelle said softly to him. She let go of him and linked arms with her husband.
Albus strode carefully towards it. It was—past tense—a magnificent specimen, with intricate branches and golden leaves. Rather than an unpretentious bush or a patch of wildflowers, the ritual—which he hoped he'd guessed correctly—had transformed Sybill Trelawney into a proud and tall writhed tree. An interesting observation, but he was not sure what he should do with it.
A tree that was now as dark as the forest it surrounded, and its leaves as bleak as the gold that were now the colour of Harry's irises, unnatural and brilliant at first, but rapidly dimming and becoming all the more despondent by the second.
"The Curse of Daphne! How … odd," Nicolas exclaimed. Although his voice was measured, Albus identified immediately the interest his old mentor had in this new phenomenon.
He walked around the tree in circles, with Perenelle and Albus in tow. She had linked her arms with Albus again and glanced at a golden leaf she was carefully stretching with her free hand. She frowned while inspecting it. Albus, on the other hand, looked fixedly at the tree, trying to think what he had done wrong.
The Curse of Daphne! But she's not a laurel … To think that the Divination professor chose, of all whimsical and dangerous rituals, this specific ritual … And a few days later, Miss Greengrass just happened to barge herself onto Harry's fate, whatever it was. Granted, it could be only a coincidence—it was a somewhat popular name some hundred and fifty years ago—but experience taught him never to ignore such simple clues.
He knew that was it, but it was only when Nicolas had spoken that he had finally made the connection.
Was he reading too much into it?
"Say, Albus. You wouldn't happen to know if this Miss Trelawney was a Mrs perhaps?"
He had stopped and was looking at him, even if his eyes weren't necessarily focused on him. Perenelle dropped the leaf that she was holding—it had slowly turned to ashes under her inspection.
"Not that I know of. And it wouldn't necessarily matter to the ritual, either would it?"
"Not particularly. It always pays to reference the classics, nonetheless. We could have missed something, after all."
A golden leaf detached itself from a branch and began to quickly spiral towards the ground. Albus summoned it and inspected it.
It creaked in his hand. It felt unusually warm, too. He suddenly had a suspicion. He gently disentangled himself from Perenelle and touched the bark of the tree. He caught hold of an edge and pulled.
As soon as it came off, he dropped it on the ground. It had burned his fingers. Nicolas quickly came to his side and pulled an intricate and bulky telescope, through which he gazed at the burning piece. His comically magnified eye was visible at the glass at the end of the telescope.
"Absolutely … weird," he commented, puzzled. "I've never seen this happen."
His mind raced with the many possibilities. The Curse of Daphne: similarly to the use of unicorn blood, it gave an extended life to its user, albeit a cursed one, and, in this present case, one poorly understood. Few creatures could understand the whispering of the trees, after all. If its agents participated willingly in the process, it could operate extraordinary wonders; if they didn't …
"I take back what I've said. This is not the Curse of Daphne. This tree will never spread its seeds, nor will these ashes ever serve to make new life. What happens to Miss Trelawney after the tree is consumed is the object of, at most, speculation now. The Curse failed. Why, I can't even begin to think."
Perenelle stood close to him, with her hands on her hips, looking at the hole in the trunk.
"A soul reduced to cinders, to be lost forever. Immortality in its own way, from nothing to nothing," she hesitated, before continuing. "That still doesn't explain it."
Albus looked at her puzzled. She continued.
"You say this was done in front of Erised?"
He nodded solemnly, not quite understanding what she meant. He had a guess, though, and voiced it.
"It seems the mirror gave her courage to do it. If it showed, as I imagine, a way to keep the legacy of her clan, a way to gaze at the possibilities of this world, forever—that would surely be tempting."
Nicolas got up from his position and dusted his knees. He had a humorous undertone to his voice now.
"As a tree, but yes, forever—very tempting. This also, but not only courage, Albus! Let us entertain, for a moment, this possibility: what would the happiest man in the world see reflected on the mirror?"
Albus thought at first that was a ridiculous question. He would see himself alone, of course. But that wouldn't be it, would it? It was an answer far too easy. He couldn't think of anything. He voiced this.
"I don't know either, Albus. From now on, it is pure speculation, but I have just an absolutely interesting theory."
He paced back and forth in front of him as he began to explain his thoughts. Albus just now noticed where he himself had acquired that habit.
"Suppose Miss Trelawney's clairvoyant gifts were far more advanced than any of us dared to think. She didn't even need to know the extent of her talents, I would dare say, for this to work. Suppose that the mirror is not, in fact, constructed on Mind magic, but rather on a more—to some—sinister foundation," he let out enthusiastically. "Soul Magic, Albus. It never bodes well to tamper with this field, but we both know a fair amount of it to know that a simple enchanted mirror wouldn't pull your most precious, most painful, most hidden—even to yourself— desire. It's not a want of the mind or the body, it's a lack of the soul that it reflects."
Perenelle suddenly had a realisation, and looked worriedly at her husband.
"She would go mad before anything happened. There's not a chance of this working …"
"She wouldn't if she saw the clear path to sanity! The chance of madness and hysteria would be far too great, but would never touch her as long as she saw the possibilities. All possibilities become potentials for the start of a journey; they all become, also, the final step, the deep desire. Endless goals and ambitions meet infinite iterations and choices to be made. Different universes that are all possible, but don't exist, are suddenly accessible to her, and her alone. All she had to do was act upon it. She saw at the same time the choices that would born the most miserable of men, that would born the most happy, that would make them both the same person."
Albus considered it for a long time.
"This seems … excessively far-fetched. Also, I fail to understand how this would relate to what happened."
Nicolas nodded absently but continued.
"Suppose that, as the Greeks have long before understood, man would never become satisfied. Whoever the most complete and satisffied of men was, he would still lack his other half, his pair in duality. Much like the Curse of Daphne, which springs forth life from life, this could also be an attempt to spring forth what she missed as she gazed upon a world of possibility. Imagine being able to oversee all that was possible and how to achieve it, only to discover that at the end of desire, there lies an integral and missing part of herself. She knew completeness, but lost it."
Perenelle covered her mouth with her hand.
"Through the mirror! Souls that suddenly saw themselves as halves reaching towards one another, destined to never meet, destined to be uneven even as they try. Which means …"
Nicolas Flamel suddenly struck the tree with its cane. Its bark shone brightly red, before ashes dropped from where he'd struck it.
"That the price was somehow paid. This is not the Curse, this is the price. It also means there were not two souls looking at the mirror. But there weren't many more of them."
Dumbledore trembled at the realisation.
"A third soul? But if Harry and Prof. Trelawney are dying, who gets to live?"
Perenelle shook her head.
"Not a third soul, Albus. Daphne struck Trelawney out, which means that someone lives by her sacrifice—or whatever it is that happened to make her take this form. By the way Mr Potter is in his last breath, that could only mean one other thing."
Albus knew what she was implying, but he'd reserved that thought for such a long time … The fact that Harry was carrying one inside him all along made him sick.
"Daphne struck again, Albus. But her aim is blind because all she knows is the winds, the soil, the sky, the water. She doesn't know fire; she just waved her branches."
Dumbledore nodded. The dagger in his forearm was as useless as the golden leaf that was burning in his hands.
"So Harry must outlive Tom Riddle to survive?"
A few tears escaped Perenelle's eyes, and Nicolas looked solemnly to the tree's roots.
"Not to survive, Albus. To burn with him."