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CINDERED SPIRITS
Chapter VII: Contemplate the Fire
From his relatively short stay in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, already Mr Gordon Granger had many a moment of wonder, of happiness, of sadness and of great joy; he had more than sufficient reason for trepidation and apprehensiveness, too.
The decision for him and his wife to become lecturers of Muggle Studies had not been an easy one; they would not have given even an ounce of consideration for it, if it were not for Professor Dumbledore's more than unremitting attitude.
They had a life outside that place: clients to tend for already in January 6, bills to pay, meetings to attend and projects needed finishing already. Jean was resolutely against the idea before—
Well …
Before Professor Dumbledore ran his magic over everything and settled every loose end, every uneven notch and every little quarrel, exhausting any other possible excuse for them.
It was not like they did not considered the position—especially after he and Jean had a remarkable conversation with one Virgo Greenhalgh, a sixth-year student from Slytherin (Hermione did take her time to explain the house rivalry and the blood prejudice it fully to them just so they were aware).
It was absolutely a mind-boggling conversation—though Miss Greenhalgh did seem to be interested in "their" world and customs, the way she referred to muggles did leave a bad taste in their mouths. It was so full of preconceptions and callous prejudices …
They had talked, too, with Prof. Burbage, but the now Acting Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts was a defeated woman. She had explained to them the rather enclosed Wizarding World and how they saw "their" kind—the irony was not missed by any of the Grangers—as almost a separate species, a kind of bright pet that knew how to open a nut without help or to peel an orange without cutting themselves. It was so belittling and insulting. And yet, at the same time, he could understand the beginning of their whole world-view.
They had accompanied once Madam Pomfrey and her new apprentice—apparently another Greenhalgh; or was it Greengrass?—fix a severe case of edentulism after a bad batch of teeth-whitening potion—the poor girl lost all of her teeth!
"Twelve galleons? And you believed it? My poor dear, it would cost much more than that to have those kind of teeth from the magazine. Yours were already so pretty. Now, let me see here if I still got that special batch of Skele-Gro. Professor Snape have not managed to finish yet that new recipe, but this here will do just fine for now. It will be a bit longer, you'll have to eat more soup for the next few days, but you will be fine in a month or two. Miss Greengrass, please go and inquire Professor Snape about these potions here, and tell him—"
Gordon and Jean looked in apprehension as the Medi-Witch simply conjured some temporary dentures for that poor girl to use, while she explained the correct regimen to apply that "Skele-Gro" potion. Jean got a hold of the bottle. It, it—
It did not make sense at all! Boomslang, ashwinder, mummy-ash, griffin bone, grinded feather … How could that thing be made to regrow teeth? It promised even more: it could regrow—and apparently not just mend, but in fact, make it new—even long bones!
Oh, if they could get a hand of that for their practice! There were many elders who would love not to depend on dentures, there would be many children who would not be required to have painful procedures. Even that bad batch of potion could have its uses.
But—they took it for granted, still.
They had their problems, of course. He and Jean were terrified of this Dragon Pox thing, which had apparently no cure and its transmission was yet not understood fully. They had some kind of allergies that were simply unmanageable; they did not even know the full extent of magical diseases. It was not so easy as they had once thought.
But yet …
They could reshape reality as they saw fit. A first year could manage to levitate strong burdens with a swish and flick of a wand—he thought about the many men and women working in ports and customhouses loading heavy cargo. A seventh year would learn how to put to sleep a healthy, fully grown and aggressive man—with a pointing of his wand and the mutter of some silly Latin phrase.
These people were very dangerous, and to deny them something could spell quite the trouble if they were not careful enough.
Professor Dumbledore alone, with his sweet and gentle talking and his meticulous wand-waving, guaranteed not only that their clients would come back to them when they finally re-opened their practice, but that their dental problems, as urgent as they were, would not have any impact on their health until they had the chance to come back. And the same was done to their other enterprises and projects.
The easeness through which he had just put a stopper on their whole professional life was incredible; it was incredibly daunting, too.
They could not refuse him after that. Not after he fixed that little, tiny, wittle faux-pas of their daughter breaking the Statute of Secrecy after inviting muggles to the castle—which was rather hogwash in their opinion, since they already knew much about their world because of Hermione; it was absolutely not her fault, too, as they had not warned her of that before that terrible man, Argus Filch, took them into the castle; but it seemed even in that fairy tale world, laws failed to make sense at times.
They tended dutifully to their new—albeit temporary, hopefully—profession. Jean had been floored when she saw how masterfully they simply dismissed many of their world's problems. It was a sobering experience that they would never forget.
They did feel wary in the first few days when the students came back. A simple flick of a wand and they would be at their mercy! But Professor Dumbledore himself came to enchant their coats and clothes so as to repel any spell and warn others if they were ever put on a charm or curse.
It all seemingly came back to that man. That civil, gentle, and yet powerhouse of magic and politics that was Professor Albus Dumbledore.
The man exuded an aura of calmness, wisdom, tranquillity; but to Gordon and Jean, who were so often helpless now, they could only see him at times for simply who could the man be, if he ever gave himself the chance; or succumbed to it—to speak more clearly.
And it was as simple as that to them.
A swish and flick and they would know no more.
Gordon and Jean discussed many times by the light of a candle if they had been right in their decision to send their little girl to this place; if they were right in accepting that position and what their options were. This was a wonderful, whimsy, magical, but very dangerous place. They had talked about it deep into the night, but yet they could not deny it:
Hermione was one of them, no doubt of that; and if they wanted to be a part of her world, they had to face their challenges, insurmountable as they seemed to be, now. And she had already her fair share of trauma, of joy from it. She had, in the short time that she was enrolled there, already passed through solitude, through grave danger, through friendships, through great tragedy. They could not remove her out of that.
Trolls would still roam out there—at least their little girl would be prepared.
They comforted her after she gave her marvellous speech honouring her short-lived but absolutely precious friendship. They would tread carefully in this place, but they would not let her go.
While he listened to it, Gordon remembered a particular conversation with Professor Dumbledore he had just a few days ago: on the limits of magic, and how it could put even complex professions and trades in the muggle world forever out of need.
The man had a tired look on his face, and his answer seemed to carry much more meaning to him than what Gordon and Jean could understand.
"There are limits, indeed; one above all: magic cannot cure Death …"
Those words carried a weight indescribable. And yet—
This was the "Boy-Who-Lived", the only one capable of defying it, a legend in Hermione's world. Was Gordon a fool for not giving up hope? For not giving up the expectation that a gentle boy, his daughter's first friend, would manage to worm a way out of that ruckus?
Magic could do so much, after all. It could do almost anything!
The whole of wizardkind would surely be resigned to that grand mystery, to that final question, to that common tragedy for all: they would witness Death once more.
In that evening, however, two muggles would bear witness to a grand and outstanding event.
"Contempla Hadriane! Contempla Thoma! Ipsum Regnum! Superus sicut Infernus!"
A cold voice claimed them out of the fire and Harry hugged the frightened and trembling Tom, the now perfectly formed toddler, without a blemish or bruise, or fangs or claws, only innocent eyes and fear. The boy clinged to Harry as a storm of fire overtook all the landscape and transformed every leaf, branch or bush into a fire so great that it burned with a terrible might and a terrible song of destruction.
Fawkes was no more. The tree shrivelled and caught on fire. Harry ran with the toddler in his arms, the latter crying for both of their sakes. He heard a cold laughter behind him, and great steps coming closer, more and more, almost touching him.
The earth trembled, the ground shattered, there was almost nothing but smoke and stone, and yet the fire consumed all, crossing his path and languishing at him from all sides. He looked behind him and saw, as precious gems in a background of destruction, as cubes of ice in a raging inferno, two eyes, empty and focused on him, coming closer and closer.
Tom cried harder, and yet Harry went on, faster and faster. Something lunged at him but he jumped. Something tried to trip him but he was not the youngest Seeker in the century for nothing and so he went on.
And desperation did not win in the end. Suddenly came the crying of a phoenix, and a fire more gentle and splendorous dominated his path, and Fawkes descended from the skies as a mighty beast, blinding his pursuer, carrying in his talons water to quench that fire indestructible.
But that was not water. It was—
Fawkes let it go over him and Tom, and suddenly he heard a cry in the distance, a growling sound and a great roar, before the Invisibility Cloak covered them.
He heard that mighty song again, and the phoenix gave them hope once more.
Once more, before everything went black.
When Harry's casket burst into a great fire, Percy Weasley was one of the first to get close to the boy.
Maybe it was because he was still feeling guilty into sending Harry in the direction of Professor Trelawney, maybe it was because he could not stand anymore people bothering him to give details before he ultimately went and got himself in that situation.
He, amongst few others, could claim to have gazed upon them both, lying among the ashes: Harry Potter, reborn, and—his son? It was like a mini-version of Harry. In the chaos of the fire, their pale skin and their dark hair brought forth immediately the association to the forefront of Percy's mind.
Professor Dumbledore was with him immediately and quickly produced out of thin air a flimsy cloth over the smaller one. Percy blinked as he could swear there was nothing in his hand before he had done so; and just like that he covered the child, and he disappeared. Percy was alarmed at first but a quick look from Dumbledore had him silenced—whether he had used magic to do that, he did not know. The professor went quickly to feel Harry's pulse on his neck and let out such a relieved laughter that Percy's heart began to hope; began to dare to hope; he wished that …
"Harry Potter is alive!"
Dumbledore exclaimed weakly with a wide grin on his face, but it was enough for the commotion to start. People suddenly got off their seats and tried to approach them. The Aurors and Hit-Wizards snapped out of their dazed state and promptly began to form a line in front of them and put up shields before the surprised crowd. Madam Pomfrey quickly whipped out her wand to run her usual spells over the boy, her face pale and scared, but a quick jab from Dumbledore in her direction saw her wand flying in his direction.
He looked expectantly at Harry as he did so and made a sign for everyone to lower their wands.
"Do not use magic. We must tread carefully here."
He called for Hermione's parents out of all people to help carry Harry out of the ashes unto the castle. He had his arms arched in a funny way, while he told them their instructions. He turned to Percy, at last, looking gravely into his eyes and deposited something into his arms, with his back to the crowd, that was avidly trying to follow the Grangers into the castle. He made a signal for Percy to follow an elderly pair who was looking with great apprehension at the commotion.
The man looked severely at him for a moment before pointing with his cane to one of the wings of the castle. The woman looked deeply into his eyes and unto his arms before encouraging him to move forward. While they walked the man tapped in a repeated pattern over the ground with his cane, and the woman sung a sweet lullaby. Percy felt as if they were opening the way somehow, and lifting off some kind of veil from his vision. They finally got to a dead end, with only a single painting that was snoring softly.
The gentleman murmured some strange word to a painting of a stocky bearded man that blinked to him and opened a tall passage for them to cross. The passage widened into a corridor brightly lit with candles that gave a soft red light.
Halfway through this corridor, the gentle lady that was accompanying him retracted a bit of that … invisibility cloak? Invisibility Cape?
What Percy saw made him stop in shock.
There in his arms was a young boy—a baby or a toddler; he did not yet know what to call it precisely—with the most silky black hair he'd ever seen and a most curious thing:
Right above his right brow laid a single scar, vividly red, like a lightning bolt.
Like the scar on Harry Potter's head.
Percy couldn't hope to understand what was happening—was this a younger version of Harry? If so, who was the one the Grangers had carried towards the castle? And why Professor Dumbledore was so hasty in getting this baby hidden by that Invisibility Cloak?
He was very worried about it all, and rightfully so.
When he'd finally deposited the little boy in Madam Pomfrey's care, the woman who had accompanied him gazed at him with an unreadable but yet kind gaze. She linked her arms with his and closed her eyes before beginning to sing. Percy felt a bit out of place but imitated her, feeling already a calmness wash over him.
He never saw the gentleman behind him moving his cane in an odd pattern before lightly touching the top of his head. He did not need to see it, too.
He would never remember it, after all.
Acting as a babysitter was not on the description of the job when Gordon and Jean Granger agreed to help Professor Dumbledore that term, but unexpected circumstances required unexpected arrangements.
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, apparently had done it again, in quite a spectacular fashion, given the hysterics outside the castle's walls.
He glanced at the peaceful and lying form of the boy and he could not believe that such a fragile child could've gone through so much. How could this child have died and lived again? Not once, but twice now.
And that time he brought someone else.
A precious little creature that was currently peacefully asleep in Jean's arms suddenly made a distressed noise. She shushed him and kept an eye open towards the boy lying in the Hospital bed.
It was three days ago that Harry Potter and a small baby appeared in that great fire, and neither of them had woken up yet.
There were so many people calling from every part of the world for explanations and for help. Albus Dumbledore was being hailed—even if he did take his time to loudly proclaim that he had not done anything in relation to that strange phenomena—as the inventor of the cure for death.
Daily, people pleaded to him. Governments all around the world sent their diplomats and spies towards the castle—to learn what had indeed happened.
Britain showed a rather vigorous response towards it, maybe as an answer to the mocking frontpage that ran around the world of the "Boy-Who-Lived-Who-Died", maybe as a sign to remind the world of their might, and that the isle was not yet broken by the many civil wars that oft seemed to plague it in recent history. There, breathing peacefully in front of them was the "Boy-Who-Lived-Who-Died-Who-Lived-Again"; some daring authors were already making trendy names and titles to describe the event.
None of them mentioned the toddler that was with Harry in the moment the fire ceased, and Headmaster Dumbledore asked them to keep that secret for now.
Jean and her husband were chosen to be the ones overlooking the pair. Gordon had commented with her that it was Fate or something else that had brought them into the castle, because apparently the only ones that could sustain themselves in the presence of the pair was them both, since they had not any magic.
"Gordon, it is almost time again. Check his eyes, please."
The man got up from the chair and went on to carefully lift the boy's eyelids. Jean did the same with the baby in her arms. Both of their irises were a bright colour of gold, that was, however, fading day after day, and more recently, rapidly diminishing by the hour.
Gordon went on to write a letter towards the other tower, where Professor Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey and a special team were keeping a look at them with a telescope. Hedwig took the letter gracefully and left.
He turned back and looked at the scene: he did not miss Hermione at that age if he was honest, but it was such a precious visage seeing Jean rocking that baby. The poor thing had nightmares almost every hour.
He looked at Harry Potter and wondered again what had the boy gone through. Hedwig came back.
According to the letter, at least it was all coming to an end. A lump formed in Mr Granger's throat. Soon enough, they would know.