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CINDERED SPIRITS
Chapter II: The Mistakes of Dumbledore

Hermione Granger was having a great Christmas, even if she missed her two best friends. She had never felt as emotionally attached to someone that weren't her parents as she was to Harry and Ron. Even if she loved spending the break with her family, she couldn't help but wish she could've spent at least some days with her friends.

Since the 'Troll Incident', her life had been decisively changed. The anxiety that had disturbed her since she entered that new, wonderful magical world had been finally dispelled when she became friends with Harry and Ron. She thought she would just go through all those years alone, once again. She'd rapidly accustomed with the idea, at first—or so she thought—but she couldn't help but feel like an inadequate person seeing everyone around her making friendships, leaving her behind.

Even Neville Longbottom, who'd graciously shared his compartment with her on the way to Hogwarts—when her father had insisted that he could get to King's Cross in time, even if they left the house a few minutes late—didn't bother with her anymore. She remembered how she'd felt relieved when she thought she'd found a friend in him, and how she'd been even happier when he was sorted into Gryffindor, too. She had gotten up earlier on the first day of classes, and waited for him to leave the dormitories. She saw Harry and Ron, who were then nothing but acquaintances to her, leaving for the Great Hall, and soon after, Finnigan, Thomas and Neville passed by her. She waved goodbye to Neville, to which he just flushed and nodded back at her.

But he left and didn't mind her any further.

She'd tried to strike up a conversation here and there, but it was for nothing. Either he clammed up or just seemed to find an excuse to get away from her. She tried for weeks to convince herself that it didn't hurt, but it sure did. It wasn't his fault, she supposed, but she couldn't help but feel that way.

Anyways, things didn't turn all that great from that point onward either. Some of the Ravenclaw boys liked to talk to her, but she'd been angry with them when they laughed at her during one of their class discussions. She didn't try to talk to them any further, feeling humiliated about the whole thing.

And she had been right. That infuriated her even more.

She tried to talk to the quieter ones in their house too, like Dunbar and Fawcett, but they mostly kept to themselves.

So she was very lonely, in a world strange to her, away from her parents, away from everything she'd grown up around with. She had half a mind to just go to Prof. Dumbledore and ask to leave the school. But she didn't.

She didn't do so because, above all those things, the concept of magic kept her fascinated. She devoured books and books on a whole variety of subjects. There were so many things to do, so many research fields, so many spells to discover.

And there were so many things without an answer. She was thrilled at the prospect of studying magic with a more rigorous approach. It was only a few centuries ago that the snowball of research projects began to develop. There were so many potential discoveries to be made, there were so many possibilities ahead of her …

Only for them to be crushed by the immediate and harsh reality of a world not only closed and mysterious, but, at times, openly hostile to her. She'd thought it barbaric how one of the world's most developed nations could have a parallel society so antiquated. Imagine her surprise when she read on a Mageography book that Magical Britain, despite its recent history with blood purists, was one of the most progressive societies towards her … kind. Even though things seemed to be changing, she was still in an enviable position.

It helped ease the burden she was feeling, especially when the likes of Malfoy and Parkinson felt the need to remind her that she didn't belong there. She did belong there, and she wouldn't be shunned out by bigots like them. The alternative possibilities she'd been entertaining before—like forfeiting her right to magic, subject herself to obliviation and go to an independent school her father had been hopeful she'd go—were quickly dismissed, giving place to a righteous anger that had been bubbling inside her, since they began to shun her.

She had the right to magic just as much as those of 'pure' blood. If she didn't have the right, she wouldn't have been born with that wonderful talent. And it was for this reason that she didn't quit before Halloween.

She'd known about those rumours before. Prof. McGonnagal had made it clear to her and to her family what kind of challenge she could face entering this new world.

At the time, her parents had been so marvelled with the idea of magic, that they thought it was a minor aspect of this new society. They thought it was a footnote in this wonderful world.

But, oh, they had been wrong.

Hermione smiled as she remembered the discussions she and her parents had at the dinner table. Sometimes she envied how they were so intelligent, but also at the same time rejoiced on how she was privileged to be their daughter. Her father talked about the wizarding world as this 'post-scarcity' utopia, and said to her that these people just had to keep creating problems to entertain themselves. She couldn't understand it very well yet, but she humoured her father nonetheless. She knew for a fact that they'd only let her go to Hogwarts when they learned that, with a full magical education, she'd have little trouble providing the basic necessities for herself in the future. She was then free to pursue whatever career she'd chosen.

The 'Troll Incident' did shake them, though. Hermione didn't want to talk about that to them, at first, but Prof. Dumbledore, personally, had insisted they knew what happened. They had been so angry with the Headmaster, she couldn't help but feel that perhaps she'd have to go back to her old world, but when the Headmaster finally appeared back at his office, he was sporting a calm and comforting smile. He encouraged her to keep studying, to keep her friends out of trouble and dismissed her.

At that moment, she was one of the happiest girls in the castle. Even the snide remarks some of the Slytherins sent her way didn't bother her. She finally had her place in this world, and she had two loyal and wonderful friends.

She didn't know what she would do without them, if she was honest with herself. They had saved her, they had made her laugh, they had defended her against Malfoy's ilk. They even had their project, their own little research about Nicolas Flamel.

Things were good for Hermione Granger.

But unfortunately they didn't stand that way any longer. It was just a few days after Christmas, and she was reading the book Ron had gifted her in the living room. Her mother and father had been looking into a travel magazine, already planning themselves to take the famed trip to Switzerland that they never got the opportunity to.

A few taps on the window interrupted her reading session. She looked annoyed at first, but quickly got up once she saw it was Hedwig.

Did Harry and Ron discover something on Flamel?

She excitedly opened her window and let Hedwig in. The awful cursive on the outside of the envelope was not Harry's though. It was Ron's. Her mother cooed to Hedwig and set her near the fire. Hermione was just coming back to the kitchen with some left overs for Hedwig—she deserved, after flying all the way from Scotland, of course—when something made her pause.

Hedwig didn't want to take nothing. Not the rashers, not the sausages, not anything. She looked dejectedly at the plate, but didn't move any further. Hermione wondered if she was sick, and made a mental note to write that in the letter back to Harry—or Ron, in that case—should she even try to send it back through her. She opened the letter and began to read it.

Her father who'd been looking curiously at the beautiful snowy owl suddenly snapped his head in the direction of his daughter. She was trembling while clutching the letter at her hand with a death grip. She began to tear up as her eyes quickly scanned it.

"Hermione! What happened, my dear?"

He tried to look over her, but she fled him. His wife left from where she was sitting on the floor and made her way to her daughter. They found her sitting at the bottom of the stairs, weeping and drying her tears with the sleeve of her shirt. She said nothing as she handed the letter to him, and began to cry even harder. Her mother sat down with her and tried to comfort her daughter, while at the same time looking worriedly at the letter in her husband's hand.

Here and there, the letter was so blotched he couldn't even discern the words. But it didn't matter, because he understood the overall meaning of it. The boy was, for all intents and purposes, at his last breath. Attached to it was yesterday's newspaper. It had a moving picture of Prof. Dumbledore at the first page, scowling at a gathering. He almost couldn't associate the gentleman he'd met with the one in the picture. The man in the picture was, simply putting, a defeated man pleading to the crowd. He read the titles of the different articles and his heart sank. He grimaced and passed the news to his wife, who took it with trembling hands.

"Fatal Accident at Hogwarts!"—"The Life of Professor Sybill Trelawney"—"What Happened to Harry Potter?"—"St. Mungo's Chief Trauma Healer Weighs in on Potter's Case: 'Chances Slim to None'"—"What do we Know about the Life of the Boy-Who-Lived?"—"An Accident? What Happened to Prof. Trelawney?"

His wife covered her mouth in shock, and pulled Hermione closer to her, rubbing her shoulders. It did nothing to appease her.

"Dad, we have to—we have to go to Hogwarts! He won't die. He can't die! I—I have to see him myself!"

He nodded firmly, and took back the newspaper from his wife. As he sat down in front of the steering wheel, waiting for the pair, he couldn't help but have a quick read at one of the articles, the one with the Healer. He sighed and closed his eyes, wondering just what a mess he'd gotten his family into.

He wondered, too, how would he handle his little girl now that one of her best friends would probably die.

They were halfway through London already, but he was growing more and more nervous as time went on.

He couldn't help but feel a little bitter thinking about this whole other world where people could teleport, build houses on a whim and make clean water spring out at their command. It would greatly ease many of the world's most terrible problems. And if they couldn't do it, he was certain that they had a pushing spell of some sort that they could at least use it to blast those cars out of his way.

His wife was sitting behind him, trying, in vain, to comfort her daughter. He'd stashed the newspaper under his seat and told her he'd forgotten it at home when they left, not wanting either Hermione or Jean to read that article. Apparently there wasn't the slightest chance Harry Potter would survive. He would deal with the situation when they were at the Hogwarts Castle, if they could even get there, that is. He'd been at a loss first on how they would get there; he'd been at a loss even on how they could get to Scotland. It had been years since he visited family up there, and he remembered very little of it. Go North, he supposed, and pray that Hermione knew enough directions when they got to, according to her, the Highlands. Jean had suggested sending Hedwig to ask them for help on teleporting—was it apparating?—there, but Hermione cut her off, telling them to go to Charing Cross. He trusted his daughter, and chose not to ask questions for now on how they would proceed from there. She was already traumatised enough.

The owl, Hedwig, was—as his American colleague liked to say—riding shotgun with him. He wondered, not for the first time, how intelligent these magical creatures were compared to humans. He supposed Hedwig must at least be as intelligent as a human child, because it had followed them when they decided to go to Hogwarts, and had even glared—or was it his imagination?—at him when he tried to take her out of the car. He hoped no police officer stopped him on the way to the Leaky Cauldron!

When they finally got to Charing Cross, Hermione jumped out of the car, as his wife and the snowy owl frantically followed her, while he tried to find a place to park it.

He finally got to the place, but was left standing between the middle of two shops, until suddenly he could see his wife's arm pulling him by the collar of his shirt.

"Sorry about that. Couldn't let go of the door without locking us both outside!" Jean said, smiling, despite the absurd situation, at her husband's frightened face.

He adjusted his clothes and followed her deeper inside.

Hermione was quickly exchanging words with the barman. She'd been growing so independent since she'd gone to Hogwarts … He was a little uncomfortable with the whole thing still, but he would do whatever it was necessary to help her.

The barman came to greet them, shaking both his and his wife's hands.

"Mr Granger, Mrs Granger. I'm deeply sorry about this whole situation. Your daughter tells me she was a good friend of Mr Potter." Jean didn't miss the 'was', looking worriedly at her husband. He nodded and she braced herself for the incoming crisis. "She tells me you want to go to the castle, yes? I'm sorry, but I really don't suppose they'll let you enter; your daughter, though, is adamant on this. I'm afraid Prof. Dumbledore locked all entrances. And with great reason too! You wouldn't believe the audacity and lack of respect on the part of our press." He said as he wrunged his work cloth. "I would also like to warn you that they may not take kindly to seeing … er, you know, muggles trying to enter the castle, so be careful if you ever—you know," here he cleared his throat and dabbed his eyes with the dirty cloth. "Have a chance to see him."

Gordon appreciated the warning he gave them, but worried at the increasing paleness on his daughter's face. The barman guided them to a green-lit—or so it seemed—fireplace.

"This here is what we call a Floo Connection. It won't be very pleasant at all, and the more you move, the greater is the chance that it will spit you all out in the wrong living room. But close your eyes and go with it and you will be there in no time," he glanced then at Hermione. "My dear, I think it would be best if I put you all in a weak binding spell. They may have a laugh or two at you at Rosmerta's, but I think, for the first trip …"

Hermione meekly nodded at him, and croaked a muttered thanks to the barman. He then smiled at her and turned to Gordon and Jean.

"If you do not mind, I'll put a spell on you that will help keep you steady on your first trip. You'll still be able to talk, and Rosmerta is kind enough to undo the spell. I've done this before and so she expects it, already."

He could tell Jean was a little afraid, but he supposed if Hermione trusted this gentleman, so he could.

"We thank you very much, Mr—" Gordon said, while Jean shook his hands.

The barman gave him a toothy smile and waved his hands dismissively.

"Tom will suffice. Always a pleasure to help, Mr Granger, Mrs Granger."

They exchanged pleasantries one last time, and Tom managed to find a cage of some sort so they could tie Hedwig to them, and suddenly the Grangers were falling face-first into a pub jammed with people. Someone shouted something at them and the pub suddenly exploded in laughter.

A woman in tight, elegant clothes soon came to their rescue. Jean was flushed with all the attention, but tried to look dignified. Hermione glared daggers at all the people merrily laughing at them. Gordon profusely thanked the woman and tried to gather some information with her on how to get access to the castle.

She eyed them suspiciously and then at Hermione. Her eyes softened a little when she saw her teary eyes. She cleared her throat before speaking to them.

"Well, it couldn't hurt to try, at least. You could use this beautiful owl of yours to contact someone inside." She served them something absolutely delicious called butterbeers, while she went on to find a paper and a quill for Hermione to write a note. She quickly scribbled something, which Hedwig was just as quick to fetch and fly away.

They waited for a few tense minutes, while Mr and Mrs Granger eyed the pub around them with great curiosity. Gordon had been on his third butterbeer when Hedwig came back. Hermione glanced quickly at it and grabbed her parents' hands dragging them outside. Jean had the wit to quickly drop a golden coin on the counter before leaving.

"We have to find Gambol & Japes. They said that we should enter the blue door behind the store and wait there."

They quickly scanned the place and soon enough they found it. They waited apprehensively, looking fixedly at the door.

Suddenly a noise behind them made the trio turn.

A hideous man was coming from a rectangular hole on where the wall was previously. Hermione gave a step back involuntarily, getting closer to Jean. The man sneered at them and ordered them to follow him. Mr Granger was worried, but led the way nonetheless.

After a very long time, they finally reached a wall. The man pulled out a sharp blade, making Mr. Granger put himself in front of his family, raising his hands to him. The man, that he would later learn was called Argus Filch, laughed at his reaction and jeered at him.

"A smart mudblood, for a change. Beware yourself, mister. I still got the instruments from when our legislators were sane, you know." He cackled and risked the wall, making it split open. Hermione took no time in dragging her parents away from the man.

Both of the adult's eyes began to prickle at the moment they set foot out of the passage. What he saw, at first, was shocking. They were walking through a corridor full of rubble and mouldy half-torn walls. Mr. Granger glanced at his wife and saw that she was, too, horrified with the place.

Was this the place her daughter studied?

But as they moved along the stone labyrinths, they saw that, slowly, they could see it wasn't so bad—it was an illusion! It was impossible to describe, but he was sure that even if he stood at the same spot, he would see the magnificent hallways and stonework take its current form, while not seeing a gradual change. They would love to take a look at the impressive architecture, but their daughter dragged them along an infinite amount of stairs until they finally got to a white door.

Hermione breathed in deeply and knocked on it.

A haggard-looking but kind face glanced behind a small opening at the door. She glanced at the three of them and quickly got out of the room. Hermione tried to question her, but the matron simply shushed her and began to wave her wand around them.

"Mr Granger, Mrs Granger. You've been exposed too drastically to the Muggle-repelling charms of the castle. I'm afraid that I'll have to ask the both of you to sit down for a minute, just so I can run a quick check on the both of you."

Hermione looked guiltily at her, but the matron was quick to reassure her.

"The worst that could happen didn't, Miss Granger, you don't need to worry. You can go inside, if you wish. Beware of what you say, and look for Prof. Dumbledore if you've got any questions, do you hear me?"

"Th-thanks Madam Pomfrey."

"Just one more thing, though," Madam Pomfrey said as she touched her wand to the top of Hermione's head. Hermione felt her skin hurt and then cool off, as if she had a scrubbing all over and suddenly someone doused her in gel.

Hermione steeled herself and pushed the door open.

Albus Dumbledore did nothing to comfort the sobbing girl. He would reprimand himself about this later, but he wasn't sure if he was even capable enough to help poor Miss Granger. Much like hers, his eyes were also bloodshot. He hated himself for crying, but he couldn't stop the tears from falling.

He didn't hate himself because he loved his students, or because crying for Harry's certain death was a weakness. He hated himself because, once again, his arrogance got the best of him. Harry didn't deserve his tears. Once again he put the life of an innocent and happy child at the aim of his deadly spell. He tried to act in the best possible way, but it seemed to have backfired against him. Again.

He didn't dare to look at Messrs Weasleys's faces, fearing the shameful glare of broken trust that he would find in their visages. Though forgiving as they may be, bless their hearts's goodness, he didn't believe he would ever be understood, much less pardoned by them. And he certainly deserved neither. They didn't know, of course, that the mirror was his property, but it shouldn't take too much time for them to realise who was the man responsible for this tragedy.

And though he brooded about these matters, he tried his best not to turn his actions the focus of attention. It was already hard enough for them to grieve for their friend. They should be rightfully rested and at peace to learn about the atrocities that he permitted occurring, resulting in the death of Harry Potter. And he would accept their judgement; and he would finally meet his deserved punishment.

So much for rejecting Grindelwald's ways, only to insensibly gamble an innocent life on his warpath. He was the 'Chess Master', he thought darkly, shuddering at the memories. He could hear the mocking tone even as he tried to suppress the terrible reminiscences.

'But a pawn, Albus, but a pawn!'

For what? A tactical advantage? A winning position?

No, it was for nothing. Harry's death was meaningless and he'd caused it.

He closed his eyes and let the tears flow freely.

They burned, and he ignored the way they made his heart clench. He was allowed to feel, for now. He would deal with the consequences later. He would indulge in his capacity to love, even if he didn't deserve it.

He dared to look up for a moment. Mr Percy Weasley had a terrible expression permanently etched onto his face since the moment he learned about the incident. Albus had tried to reason with the boy time and time again, but he saw in Percy a little of the way he saw himself in his younger years. Always carrying a burden, always withstanding a world of responsibility. The boy quietly left the room with Mr and Mrs Granger, offering to take them to the kitchens, where they could grab something for their daughter.

They hadn't wanted to leave, but they looked upon Mr Ron Weasley and their daughter, and thought it was better if the two of them could share this tragic moment together.

Mr Ron Weasley, much like his family, was also a mess. Albus was extremely concerned about the boy's mental health, and how he was blaming himself for this catastrophe. He wanted to grab the boy's shoulder and demand he look him in the eye and understand that he was not to blame; this was solely Albus's fault.

But he didn't do so, mainly for two reasons.

The first was that he was a coward.

He got away from Harry's bed and conjured a chair so that he was on the opposite corner of the room. He couldn't stand the shame of looking at his lying form again.

The second one was that he was a terrible, terrible man. A hopeful, but terrible man.

A long time ago, three brothers of extraordinary magical prowess chanced upon the mysterious and ever-complex field of Death Magic. Did they look Death in the eye and win its favour by conquering its challenge, though? In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if it had indeed happened. Stranger things happened every day in this blessed world.

The Elder Wand, the most powerful weapon ever to exist on this plane; the Cloak of Invisibility, who shielded the bearer even from the gaze of its own creator; the Resurrection Stone, an abominable link between this and the Next Great Adventure, poorly understood given its destructive nature. Three items of immense and pernicious power, two of which had been in his possession for almost ten years, and so were again today.

He'd felt the pull. It increased ever more with each passing day. Each time he thought about Ariana or those that Fate struck down far too early, he felt the pull growing stronger. It was a relief to finally give Harry's cloak back to him. But now that he was certainly on his way to his next great adventure, it had returned to him.

He was far too conscious of these artefacts not to notice the way they called for him. It was lulling, deceptively simple, but effective nonetheless. He felt the power, he felt the possibilities at his fingertips. He felt the will to inflict upon this world what it deserved. If he could only find the stone … He clearly remembered the exact moment he had taken his decision, and finally went too far.

He was glancing at Harry's lying form, taking the place of an inconsolable Poppy Pomfrey in cleaning the wounds and mending the tissues, as the execrable, eldritch, macabre and monstrous idea hit him.

What did it mean to be the Master of Death?

What did the Hallows serve to, when the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death?

He felt the agitation of the cursed objects when he held in hands the object of his shame.

He didn't have the Resurrection Stone, but he did have an equally arcane artefact. His blue eyes flashed red on the surface of the stone as he looked at his pitiful image. Not the Resurrection Stone, but the Philosopher's Stone—an object of life in a ritual of death. Much similar to the mirror, his reflection seemed to be looking at his soul, and it was weeping for what he'd done.

He'd imposed the memory of his heathenish proposals on Poppy Pomfrey, but he also swore to himself that he'd later forfeit her of this burden. No one, but two people deserved to know of this wickedness, of the time he'd dabbled, finally, into the Dark Arts.

He would try to reanimate Harry Potter.