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CINDERED SPIRITS
Chapter VI: Light Amidst Night and Fire Bright

There was nothing; there were not even eyes to open or hands to touch. It was—and nothing more.

Time seemed like a distant memory, a wisp of a thought that went out like smoke of a candle blown. It was there, up there, and off it went, never to come back.

But sometimes, when everything aligned and the candle had the memory of the burning flame, some of it clinged still; like mere vapour or the tiniest cinder, and a deft hand would only need to light it—to lit it again, sparkling it to life once more before it died.

And then there was fire.

And it burned: hotter as it could and yet more. He felt the pull of something tearing him from the inside as rot, skin, flesh and bone remade him: and burned again. At first he could not do anything, but soon enough he had his hands: to claw, to shake and to contort; and he got his eyes: to see that nightmare take shape and form; and he got his face, to taste ash and blood; and he got his ears: and then he heard his screaming.

And that went for an instant, but it was far too long already, and time hit him again.

When he opened his eyes, there was no fire anymore: a cold darkness prevailed and he was the only source of noise, of life.

He got up and looked around warily.

There were all around him crooked trees, all contorted branches and menacing roots looming over and under him, at all sides, at any glance. There was a cool wind going through the small clearing where he had woken up but yet no branch, leaf—dried or not—pebble or bird made a sound.

The wind went and came back; it went and came back, and let him off, alone.

Harry could hear every step he took, every pulse behind his ears, every creaking and squeaking of his bones, and every thought in his head: loud, clear, urgent.

Fear gripped his heart as he looked at every tree, at every odd branch, at every small source of light, searching: for shelter, for a cover, for anything but that cursed silence, for anything but the grotesque face of Prof Trelawney.

His steps were measured and his will was all but demolished but yet he tread on, away from that place.

The stars were feeble and there was no moon to guide him, but he still went on and on, as far away as he could from that miserable clearing.

He chanced upon, finally, at something different—different, but yet supernatural.

Always uphill, miles away from where he had started there were some rock formations enclosing a still pond. There was no river, wet soil or waterfall nearby so he approached it cautiously.

Prof Quirrell had commented once how there were some swamp creatures that were able to create an illusion so powerful as to create a lake in the middle of the desert when they were desperately hungry and far away from home.

But he was desperately thirsty, hungry, and cold. For the briefest of moments, he wished for the fire again, but that pain—brief as it was—had been imprinted in his memory.

He encircled it, looking warily at whatever sign of danger, but there seemed to be none nearby.

There seemed to be no sign of anything, in fact. The trees, tortuous and scary looking as they were, were of the same species. That dark grass that grew around him, grew in patterns strange but predictable, the stars repeated themselves over his head, and there were far too many of them, and yet they did not give enough light.

And most importantly: none of them were familiar to him.

He dreaded thinking about what had Prof Trelawney done to him, and, when he was most desperate, cursed her name in a low voice; that sounded—however—clear and loud all around him.

He tried not to think of his thirst, but it was beginning to become unbearable.

There was something, too, that plagued him all the way up there: he dreaded looking at his image reflected on that still water; he dreaded seeing that cursed reflection he had seen on the mirror.

He waited, and waited, and could no longer bear it anymore.

He went for it, cautiously, slowly. He got in front of it and looked down below.

For a fleeting moment, he felt relieved.

Not a moment later, he jumped backwards, frightful. He had caught only a glimpse, but he was not the only one reflected in the water.

He had to see it again. One last time, he supposed. He got tentatively close to the water again.

"Mum, Dad …"

Their reflections put their hands upon his shoulder and smiled at him. His father mussed up his hair, and Harry again felt it: the wind blew across the pond, rippling it, till it finally touched him, and his hair.

Their eyes were watery, but they both had smiles on their faces as they watched over him.

"I—I missed you so much …"

He couldn't stand it anymore. Whatever had happened to him was just not fair anymore—it was too torturous now.

"I miss you. I want you back. I want to be with you …"

The image of Lily Potter smiled sadly at his figure and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. He felt the wind caress him for just the fleetest, short moment, and off it went. James, too, was crying as Lily fondly brushed the reflection of Harry's chin and his soft cheeks. She looked longingly at him, and though she was happy there was also a deep sadness in her gaze.

James Potter brushed the hair on his forehead aside and, too, planted a tender kiss on his son. Harry closed his eyes, trying to enjoy the memory, to fix it and never forget it, for as long as he lived.

He hadn't the slightest idea what this was, but he would treasure this opportunity forever.

He opened his eyes and promptly was alarmed when they seemed to be fading. Where there were once tears, there were now more stars, brighter, stronger, and seemingly moving forward, deeper into the lake. He looked at the direction they were going, and found himself surprised to see a small stream going downhill from this elevated lake. He was almost sure there wasn't anything there when he had looked before.

It was a sign, at least. And it was his parents who had pointed it out to him.

He decided to follow it.

He took one last look towards the lake and was startled.

Where before there was an angry red scar on his forehead, there was now clear smooth, pale skin.

The small stream soon began to grow in flow—from what source, he didn't know, as he had only seen it coming down from the lake—and in noise. Soon he couldn't hop over it to cross sides and had to choose which side of the river he would have to stay on before it got too wide and too deep. The stars had stopped right on top of where he was and moved no further. He began to wonder if they were a distraction away from the place he had seen his parents, luring him into a trap, and began to ponder upon the possibility of returning uphill.

A deep discomfort began to grow in his stomach as he recognized what this was, and he cursed the day he had ever gone up that trapdoor.

This was another crossroads, this was another important decision he had to make.

He tried to look for a clue, for anything to help him with his decision, but it didn't come to him. Suddenly the stars moved to a side of the river. He thought he had his answer then, but they hadn't moved at all when he began to, so he went back to the place.

Suddenly a cool wind hit him on his back, from uphill.

He looked back at the looming mountain he had descended from and felt a queasy feeling. There was something off with that, and he began to grow fearful again. The wind was nothing like the one who had hit him up on the lake. This one was different. It felt … violent, demanding.

The winds began to howl louder and the stream increased and roared. He had already decided to go over to where the stars were overlooking when he heard it, faintly.

He could not believe his ears! His heart beat faster and he grew anxious as he darted towards it.

He did not look behind him. If he did, he would have seen the two stars growing bright and following his steps; he would have seen four eerie pale orbs glowing behind the trees.

He could not believe it. Who would be the monster to even dare consider doing such a thing?

There was a baby, all covered in cuts and bruises, with flesh out in the open and patches of skin missing. They flailed around, crying inconsolably as he got closer.

He tried to calm them down, and soon took off his tattered robes and encircled them for warmth. It was not enough for even him to warm himself on this never-ending night, but he had readily spared the baby his cloak. He looked sadly and desperately at the wounds. Though they did not seem to be oozing blood, they were severe.

The baby was … not very pretty. Some monster had truly made something awful out of that innocent creature. Harry's own tears soon joined his—it was a boy—and the infant seemed to subdue at last, even if for a short moment. It looked back at Harry with such an intelligent and curious glance.

He tried to cry again, but he couldn't. He made some aggravated noises again, but couldn't seem to scream no more.

Harry thought of his own thirst and promptly began to turn back to the river. He wondered if babies could drink water; he had heard that they could only do so after a certain age. But he was desperate, and he had to get some help—quickly.

He ran back, as fast as he could, as safely as he could. The baby had gone quiet—too quiet, in fact.

There was already someone waiting for him there.

Or rather: someone and his steed.

Upon a pure white horse sat up a man dressed in plain black clothes. He did not seem to carry any weapon, bridle, saddle or even a wand with him, but he didn't need those to make Harry feel threatened. He paused, hesitantly, and weighed his options quickly.

His desperation won in the end.

"Sir, please Sir. We need help: someone gravely injured this baby and left him to die in these woods. We have to get to the hospital—"

The figure lifted one finger off, and—as if by magic—Harry was silenced.

Harry glanced at the stranger's face, but the more he tried, the more confused he became. His lips were full and thin, contorted in a smile and a grimace, and his nose was wide and tall, and was just a slit just the next moment; over his head there was a hood that hid its hair, but not his face—it did not need to, however. His face did not change per se, it just—never remained.

It was, and it should be impossible to explain it clearly—its comprehension yet evades us even today.

But his eyes—his eyes remained: cold, foggy, blind, void of pupil, irises and emotion—gazing fixedly at him; as were his steed's.

The horse was just a horse for those curious—minus the eye thing, of course.

"I will take care of it. Give it to me, Harry Potter."

It extended its hands—its bony, dreadfully pale and clawed hands towards him—and waited.

Harry took a step backwards, a growing fear burrowing the way into his heart. The baby clung to the hem of his shirt as the figure extended its hands towards it.

"Who—who are you? Will you promise to help him?" He stammered; 'and how do you know who I am', went unsaid. And just then the possibility occurred to him: had this man been the one who had done this to that baby?

The figure paused as it pondered his question. It tilted its head to the left, gazing deeply into him.

"I've been called many names. To all that have the barest of intents, I am the hand in the dark, the shadow cloaked, and the darkness; to the prideful, I am nothing and the most formidable; to creatures of good spirit, I am but a stone to step; to you, Harry Potter, I am a friend and a guide; to this wretched creature that clings to you, I am a stalker and an executioner."

It retreated its hands back and gazed at the bundle in Harry's arms.

"I am your last enemy, Harry Potter. Today, I am but a messenger; I can help you, but not this thing you carry."

It took slow steps towards him, while fixating its glance on his face.

"Give me the boy and you shall be spared. Now you are parted; your fates are disjointed. Leave and don't look back. "

Harry trembled as he scurried back, looking at the … baby in his arms. Now that the stranger had spoke, he could see it: its eyes were dark, tinged with red, its hands ended in claws, its skin—where it had any—was pale and clammy, its nose was thin and set back. It looked at him with far too much intelligence. And yet—

And yet its fear could not be denied.

He was dealing with magic beyond his capabilities here. It would do nothing to try and reason with that wizard—with that thing, whatever it was. And nothing he would ever learn in Hogwarts would prepare him for that kind of situation.

He did the only thing that could ever be expected of him.

He ran as if his life depended on it.

He ran and ran, as fast as he could, as safely as he could make it for the bundle in his arms.

And down there, he heard it still, and his heart stilled for a moment as the voice sounded all around him—cutting, jarring.

"You willingly part from me, and yet expects difference. What was separated may come together again. Have your binds Harry Potter, and have all the consequences of it. Today I am your stalker."

Harry stopped and hid behind some laurel shrubs. He closed his eyes and tried to think. He prayed for something to happen, for some help, but nothing came.

He looked above him and noticed two stars particularly bright. They shone brilliantly, ever more so. All the lights of the sky paled in comparison to them.

And then they exploded.

And for an instant, all was more beautiful, more bright and vivid. But they rapidly faded. He felt as the light rained upon him a warm embrace.

And then came darkness.

He was stumbling in the dark, guided only by his bruised and scratched hands and his ears. Every now and then he thought he saw something in the distance. A glimmer of hope, but it was what was keeping him from going insane.

He was thirsty, hungry, and would be ready to give up at any moment.

But something stopped him. He looked down below and saw two red orbs peering at him in the dark, curious, pleading.

It never spoke, it never made a noise since then, but that wasn't necessary to him.

He heard water again and walked slowly towards it, ever mindful of his steps, looking all around him for any clue.

He moved his arms in a wide angle and just then he felt something.

Just out of his reach, whenever he walked, there seemed to be something. He jumped upwards, forwards, backwards and tried to grasp it. As if he was in a bubble, he finally got to touch it, once.

He felt as if he was touching a very soft fabric, cool and delicate. And as he pinned down that sensation more and more, he finally understood it for what it was. Invisibility Cloak!

He had only used his father's cloak a few times, but he didn't forget that queer feeling. He reached around it and pulled.

And then there was fire.

All around him, as he bunched up the cloak around his shoulders, he could see—just where worn out trees and cutting grass had been, there was now nought but stone, smoke and fire.

And in the distance, he saw him again: the rider had come back. Harry meant to pull back the cloak, but the rider shouted.

"Wait! I have a proposal for you, Harry Potter."

Against all his instincts, he let the rider approach him. In all truthfulness, he was becoming very tired, and—after assessing the situation—he just could not see a way out. He had not given up yet, but at the back of his head, there came a distant calling, for him to give up, to plea with that … being, to negotiate, to take him instead of the baby.

He saw green flashes at the corner of his eyes and felt a trembling overtook him as the stranger got closer. The rider approached, but Harry was too weak to do anything now. He was trembling, feverish, his throat was dry and he was seeing blurry.

It extended its clawed fingers towards him and touched his head.

He heard screaming, as the creature in his arms drove his claws in his chest, in its face, trying to get a hold of him. He saw the stranger try and take the cloak off him, but he pushed him.

He backed away again, and made to pull back the hood, but the stranger exclaimed again.

"Wait! You have to know what you are staking. That, and nothing more I am owed to you."

He paused, looking at that entity with mistrust, but eager for some explanation—or a way out.

"In your arms, clinging not to life, but a pale impression of it, is a corruption of the man once known as Tom Riddle. You stake your life to a vile murderer, to a creature willingly parted from all things good, remade out of his own will into a malevolent being: if you do not help me and part from Ignotus's gift, I shall have no option but to claim you both. You and that which named itself Voldemort."

That was more than enough for Harry. He did not need to hear any more of that rubbish. He pulled the cloak back on, ignoring the cries from that being as he was plunged into darkness again.

He scurried away quickly and stopped once more. He heard his heartbeat again and his deep breaths, and his teeth chattering, loudly, reverberating. He did not hear any crackle of flame or anything but himself or where his hands touched.

He didn't hear anything from the thing in his arms. Not even in that supernatural silence he had heard: not a single heartbeat, not a single breath, not even a wail or cry since the last time they were approached by the rider. He sat it up on his knee as he gazed at him.

Suddenly, as if he was reading his mind, the thing began to bauble and to touch his face where it had before clawed. It looked at him with such precious eyes. Its red eyes were the only thing he could see in the dark, little points of light amongst darkness.

But what the rider had said was engraved in his mind. Voldemort? How could this be Voldemort?

There was too much intelligence in its eyes, too much intent, he realised.

His head hurt as he looked at it again. He pondered what to do.

He bundled it again, and took off his hood again.

There was no flame this time. And the rider already was waiting for him.

His steed grazed at some dead grass; he was sitting at a smooth stone table, looking directly at him, as if he was able to spot exactly where he had once been, no matter the cloak.

The bundle in his arms did not protest it this time, though it did grasp at him as Harry spoke.

"Who, really, are you? And how do I get back to Hogwarts? And how can you prove what you're talking about?"

The rider looked at him with an odd expression—at least that's what Harry thought that was.

"You are at the brink of death, at the end of your journey, and yet insist, demand something from me. Have I not given you more than you deserved?"

He got up and paced around him. Harry glued his eyes on the being and moved his body to face him. And, just then, in the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something.

A magnificent golden tree sat on top of a small hill, dividing a path into two. It sat upon the entrance of valley, and from where he was he could see as it opened to vast expanses of the wild, trees high and a cool wind, that waved that tree's golden branches all about the entrance.

"You took body in places immaterial, you gaze upon realities above and beyond you, you step on the stone your forebears stood, you glance at the way off the road and the parting, you look at the threshold and yet return. Not once now, but twice; but this one was of your own making and decision. Your mother's love and protection, your father's relinquishing upon his birthright earlier than any would have thought possible, your young age or a mad man's spell concoction will not take your agency this time: you have to decide it, Harry Potter. How are you going to die?"

Harry looked as it pulled back the hood, revealing the rest of his face. It was pointless, however because he looked like everyone and the same. Only its gaze remained: colourless, blank, luminous fixed on his own and glancing at the baby in his arms.

"I am going to die, then? You will have to kill me to get your hands on the baby!"

The being got up and began speaking quickly again before Harry could put on the hood once more.

"You are already dead, Harry Potter, for you already gaze upon me and realise, if not in your mind, in your feeble heart, at least what I am: I am death, one of the ends and the watcher over the passageways. What I give you is but a glimpse of what should be, of what there is for a grand adventure of yours. Do you not wish to go? You cannot remain, even in part on where you once were. You can part with Tom Riddle and go, for the fire that will envelop you is warm and comforting and there will be then a final return."

Harry hesitated.

"And what about this Tom Riddle? What will you do with him?"

It straightened and looked at Harry's arms. One expression, among others, prevailed for a bare instant. Harry recognised it instantly: disgust, contempt.

"He called himself Lord Voldemort, I have already told you. I will do nothing that he has not done to himself already. I only execute the deed. His actions were his own."

Harry looked down and back towards the stranger. He was sitting down at the table, again.

"If this is really Voldemort, why is he …"

Harry couldn't finish. Why is he hurt? Why does he clings to me? Why he had this form?

"Because this soul that tries desperately not to suffer its own consequences went on to make one of the gravest of injuries. It corrupted itself for vanity and ephemeral power. It suffers now, for it longs for itself, but cannot see any way out but the corruption. It demands control, even if it is only to further separate itself from what makes it essential, from what is good and from what matters truly. There was once a soul. There is now in your arms the seventh part of it."

Harry blinked, not really understanding. This was part of Voldemort's soul? That meant that he—was a soul, too? It was difficult to make sense out of the whole situation.

"When Tom Riddle attempted to kill you Harry Potter, the curse rebounded. It did not kill him, but it further corrupted him. A piece of its soul latched unto you, weak, devoid of power and magic. It does not speak in my presence because it fears I may hunt the other pieces down, but it had spoke to you already, undoubtedly. Tell me, Harry Potter, have you thought of bargaining your life for his own? For a creature that so freely and unrestrictedly brings misery and tragedy? That keeps you apart—even now—for your heart's true wishes?"

Harry's head snapped back to Death's. How had he—

"I know much of what there is to know, and especially of the mirror—it pertains to my domain, after all. Tell me, Harry Potter, is it worth it? To keep yourself from you heart's wishes for this?"

Harry looked down and saw the creature gaze back at him. It had sad little eyes and a resigned expression. His skin—

"He's healing! What is happening to him?"

Death did not seem surprised about this.

"It is healing indeed. It should not be me the teacher of this lesson, but you will learn it better in time: it is love and sacrifice—especially more potent, because it is you, child. I do not know the circumstances which brought you into the Curse of Daphne, but what remains is: through the burning of the fire, it seemed that someone tried to give a new chance to Tom Riddle. They failed, still, for even if this part may be healed in completeness, there are six more already parted from it."

Harry touched his cheeks, and a little giggle escaped from the baby. While the eyes still had that red, it seemed to have lessened; he lost some of that acute watchfulness, too—he gained a new light on his eyes for it, at least.

"It will never not be a tragedy, but alas, my mission remains."

It suddenly got up again and moved towards him. Harry was alarmed and quickly put on the hood over himself.

And then there was darkness. He could not see even the eyes of Tom Riddle this time.

There was silence, only broken by the sounds of his and the baby's heartbeats. And then, Death spoke.

"I wished for another way. It does not please me to do so, but if you insist, today I am your stalker. I have already given you the option to peacefully part with it, but you still chose not to do so."

It sounded like the voice was all around him, reverberating in the dark, overpowering the senses, instilling fear and shame upon him. The baby whimpered as it burrowed itself further on to him. He sounded so much like a child that Harry's heart could not bear it anymore.

"Please, you talked about a bargain, didn't you? Could you—take me instead, take me and leave … Tom?"

"Part with it, Harry Potter, part with it."

"He is getting better, he is healing, he is not suffering anymore, I can help him, please."

It bellowed back to him.

"Part with it. Take the cloak off and bring him to me."

Harry gulped and got angry.

"You will have to take me, then, before you get to him!"

There was silence for a long moment. Harry grew anxious and fearful as the time went on, but it finally spoke again.

"So be it, then. Know this: I will not stop. Through night and fire bright I walk unseen, unrestrained and untouchable. Have your fate, Harry Potter."

And then there was silence. And the silence stretched, and stretched. Even his heartbeats sounded like a distant memory to him. The baby made minimal noises. Desperation began to settle within him. It seemed to go on for a moment or for days still, and there was only darkness. His hope was strained and his will was fainting. He plead for someone, for his parents, for Prof. Dumbledore, for whatever good entity that was, but nothing came. The baby did not make a noise for the last part of it.

But it came to an end.

He made to remove the hood off the cloak, but he heard the crackling of the fire before he did it. At first, his hands trembled as he could already imagine those pale grey orbs peering at him from the flames, but suddenly a thrill sounded. He looked up.

A magnificent bird suddenly exploded in a ball of red, hot fire. It burned and illuminated the whole world. It burned, but it didn't hurt. Harry kept his eyes open as he gazed upon that beauty. Its tail feathers were tinged with gold and his face was proud and imperious. It looked at them—at both of them, as Tom looked mesmerised by it also—before calmly settling down before them.

Harry could not speak, could not even think straight. It was too much already, and that treacherous idea began to bubble up in the back of his head: was this someone sending help?

It cocked its beautiful head towards Tom and cried over his bruises and over his pretty face. It closed its eyes as the pearly, voluminous and brilliant tears dripped over his forehead, over his eyes, over his little nose, over its mouth and down to the earth. He blinked and made a stupid face that made Harry laugh and the magnificent bird thrill.

It suddenly took off and Harry could see, then, now that he finally got his attention off Tom, the brilliant golden tree again. It flew towards it and Harry took a moment longer to appreciate it again. The bird stepped on one of the low branches and looked expectantly at them.

Two paths beyond it, one back, and one under the tree. Harry could simply not help but see it. He sighed, but mustered his courage, finally.

Harry got under under the tree and appreciated the beautiful landscapes that opened before him—nature unmarred, unsurpassed. There was fire again and the bird was gone.

And suddenly came a twiddly, wiggly, spiralling, twisting little golden leaf. Harry, a brilliant seeker that he was, caught it expertly between his fingers.

And then there was fire.