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CINDERED SPIRITS
Chapter VIII: Health and Redemption

In any other circumstances, Daphne Greengrass would be overjoyed to have the opportunity for a personal lesson with Healer Graham Swords—her heart was heavy in that day, however. She still did the best as she could, and she certainly paid attention to it and showed interest; she even managed to impress the famous creator of the Mind Puncture Spell.

And Healer Swords did notice it—he wasn't one of the best Mind Healers of the world for nothing. He did not need any fancy spell or potion to see the sadness in which the little studious girl in front of him seemed to be seeped in.

Grafrath and Edirne, his closest colleagues, seemed to find it very funny that he had entertained the healer apprentice and taken her so seriously. Well, they graduated from Durmstrang, after all; they would not understand the weight behind Professors Dumbledore and Snape's recommendation.

He, himself, had only managed to pinch a spot at the Tyrsholt Læknarskóli Institutes because of the apprenticeship with Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape—their approach using tailored and extensive regimens of potions and simple magical markers was not something to be scorned at; it was very difficult to manage, indeed, but it could mean the difference between life or death to a victim of accidental magic; or—in his professional practice—the difference between someone being capable of ever hugging their child again or simply staring into space until the organs failed.

Miss Greengrass showed a very thorough knowledge about the basics of the art of healing, and no more than that. She did mention at times some of the new research—which intrigued and amused him—especially in Healer Douglass's area—blood affections—and Grafrath's, which was Poisons, but she could not hope to even explain it to him beyond the basics—and he certainly did not expect her to.

She was, of course, not even six months into her formal education, yet—that she already learned the basics … it was that impressive, even if his colleagues found the whole thing amusing at best. But he had to confess: he frankly did not understand the reasoning for this early of an apprenticeship yet. He would not question Professor Dumbledore, though.

If she kept up that grit and that interest she would certainly be a great healer.

She had already in her some of that problem-solving—she managed to quickly round in many scenarios which he had hypothesised for her, given her limited background of course. She was very sharp and learned things quickly too; she was also very careful and attentive with her fellow students—which put her above half of the staff at St. Mungo's already in his opinion.

But today she had something else in her mind.

He tried to talk to the girl, but she was very reserved and did not want to entertain his questions at the moment—it really was not an appointment, but Healer Swords was worried either way; he made a note to Madam Pomfrey to keep a look on the girl and to call his office whenever she had noticed any persistent signs or red flags. He could not expect her to know much about his field—mental health was still an underdeveloped area of study, after all—but he would be sure to warn her, nonetheless.

He was known for being a bit of a over-worrier, but he had learned to trust his instincts after many years dealing with secretive high ministry officials and reluctant old wizards. What was a chip in the glass could mean something much more severe underneath all of that facade.

And the girl did show some worrying signs already. That hesitation, that great of an ambition so early in her life, those particular fields of study … Perhaps this was Professor Dumbledore's attempts to help the girl—at least for now. He'd known that some of those pureblood families were resistant to the prodding of Mind Healers; to the interference of anyone in their affairs, really; beyond themselves, of course.—he wondered what kind of trouble had the girl gone through already; he'd already seen so much that he wouldn't put it past them anything at all.

But he should not. He would work with what he had for now, and he would make sure to give her ample opportunity to come to him or to Madam Pomfrey whenever she needed, of course.

For now, he had another patient—one that many of his colleagues had sent incessant letters inquiring about; one that the whole world was watching in trepidation; one that he had to swear vows upon vows already upon the customary oaths to treat.

Graham Swords would be the healer to first examine the mental state of someone who had come back from the dead.

Or rather: of the someones … Or was it the some twos? Or the some people?

Argh, give him your heaviest textbook on Occlumency and he would do fine; do not make him write one though.

He did not understand where had that baby come from yet. And Professor Dumbledore was obstinate in keeping that one an absolute secret.

"In a few days, with Harry Potter coming back from his … coma, I expect St. Mungo's will call me back."

Daphne nodded dejectedly at him.

"But do not hesitate to contact me, you hear? And keep up that passion. Everyone knows how sorely we need some better healers," he continued while smiling at the girl.

"Thank you, Healer Swords, both for the opportunity and for—" 'for trying to help me.'

It was left unsaid, but he understood nonetheless. He hesitated for a bit, before continuing.

"I have a cousin in Ravenclaw. He's in his third or fourth year if I'm not mistaken. John Swords, have you heard about him?"

Daphne shook her head. Healer Swords laughed.

"No, I don't suppose you had. He is a bit of a Gobstones professional, but it seems kids these days don't like that game too much. Well, anyway, if you ever need me—somewhat more urgently, please do not hesitate to bother him to call me. He has a special way to get through directly to my office, okay?" He continued looking directly at her.

Daphne nodded mutely.

"Thanks, Healer Swords. Thank you—for everything," she said with a small smile. As she waved goodbye at him and turned, he saw, sticking from a pocket in her coat a fancy letterhead parchment, something that he only ever saw pureblood families writing in.

His suspicions about the girl's unhappiness increased tenfold. He felt a bit useless and unsure what to do, but he hoped he had let all the venues open to the girl if she ever needed his assistance.

He hoped it was enough, for now.

Suddenly came an urgent tapping at his door. He waved it open, and one of those Weasley boys—Ronald, the best friend of his patient—suddenly panted.

"Healer Swords, he is awakening. Professor Dumbledore will soon lift the wards off the tower and has called for all healers."

He promptly got up and ran after the boy.

He tried to clear Miss Greengrass off his head for now. He had more pressing matters to attend just at that moment.

Daphne took the long way back to the Slytherin Common Room, her mind repeating the conversation with Healer Swords and the wording of her parents's letter.

She felt absolutely … useless. She had such grand plans when she came to Hogwarts. She would excel in classes, she would show interest and petition for a pass to the Restricted Session, so she would learn more about curses and blood affections; so she would be able to—

So she would be able to help Astoria, her little sister, to get rid of that damned blood curse that did not let her even sleep in peace these days.

She had been overjoyed when Professor Dumbledore did not punish her for trying in to sneak into Harry Potter's infirmary to talk to the healers. He even incentivised her, letting her help Madam Pomfrey in her everyday job. Two times a week she would be accompanying the witch. She was allowed to modify her schedule a bit, so she could accompany the witch. She would be having more classes with Gryffindor than her stomach could really manage, but it was worth it:

'For Astoria!'

And yet, what was she playing at?

Healer Douglass and Healer Swords had been very kind to her, but she was a fish out of the water near them. Healer Swords, above the others, seemed to read her right through—his eyes were like a hawk's, even if he did his best to accommodate her—she knew Mind Healers enough to know that gaze—that stare that tried to puzzle you out, even if it was to help you; she had seen enough of them when they came to evaluate the madness in her great-uncle's eyes—she shuddered as she remembered her promise to him and tried to bottle up everything again.

Healer Douglass, a former Hufflepuff beater was much more interesting. She even said it was refreshing to see a young girl take such a keen interest in her field—there was only so many men she could tolerate teaching anymore. Daphne had been ecstatic when she had promised to send her a favourite book from her collection.

But she had to leave soon. They were only here for Harry Potter, and he was soon going to wake up; and Healer Douglass would return to Southern Europe.

For a fleeting moment, Daphne wished that the boy would not awake yet, that he would be sick for a few more days, weeks, years even, just so that she could pick the brains of the famous Healers that came to overlook his case.

But she regretted it just as quickly.

What had indeed happened to him, she wondered. Not only he did not die to the Dark Lord's spell, but he had conquered Death again when that weird Professor Trelawney used him in some sort of sacrificial magic ritual. Poor Harry!

Oh, how he hated that woman, even if she recognised some of it was misdirected. Professor Dumbledore said many times in the papers that it was too soon to draw conclusions and to judge harshly the Professor for what had happened, but talk went around enough to get everyone worked up against the former Divination professor.

'But that's not why you are here. Focus, Daphne!'

She straightened herself as she was getting close to Slytherin Common Room. She lived a solitary life in her house—a great part of that her own fault, of course.

It seemed so fitting in the beginning—she could not waste her time around colleagues and stupid games. She had a mission!

But it seemed Healer Swords was just that good; she could not help but to consider his words with care: it would not be in the best interests of anyone to sacrifice herself and to spend the whole of her efforts for nothing. She had to be healthy and stable if she was to continue in her mission.

Her parents letter weighed heavily on her coat even as she put on a proud face and entered in Slytherin Common Room.

"Hey, Daphne, come over here. Sit with us!"

Normally she would have made up excuses. Not today, not to Pansy. The girl was specially shook when the accident with Harry Potter happened, and felt very guilty about the whole thing. Malfoy, who was sat quietly near the fire perked up and went to join them.

Daphne didn't like the boy very much, but he had seen a bit of that which had affected Pansy in his eyes, too. In all of them.

There were of course a bunch of loud mouths everywhere, specially in the upper years, of course—the likes of Selwyn, Flint and McNair; but most of the Slytherins (that is; those that were not fanatics) were decent people and felt the loss with the whole school.

"So, our favourite healer. Got any gossip to share with us?"

She shook her head negatively.

"I heard that he is already up, but that he is off his rockers and forgot everything that ever happened to him and is acting like he was a newborn all over again," Millicent put in.

Malfoy let out a little laugh.

"Could you imagine that? Harry Potter, the big baby!"

Some of them snickered. Daphne did not. Maybe it was because of the recent talk with Healer Swords, maybe because it had touched her to see how in such a short time the boy had managed to get so many people to care about him. It was boggling for her to think how many people were desperate when the boy seemingly died.

It was a tragedy, of course; but she wondered …

What if it was Daphne who had died? Would the school have such pomp and mourning? He was the Boy-Who-Lived, of course, but he had true friends. What about her? Would someone care just as deeply?

Would he, Harry Potter, even care for her? Did he even know her name? She felt so sad for the boy … Was it foolish to think that if roles were reversed, she would be given the same kind of thought?

Something snapped in front of her.

Blaise Zabini waved his fingers over her face. She batted his hand out of her face playfully, fully aware now that the first-years were looking at ther.

"So?" Nott prompted her.

She blinked.

"So what?"

They looked towards one another before Nott continued.

"So, have you got any news of Potter?"

Ah, of course. That was why they were so interested in her, of course. Well, friendships had to begun somewhere, hadn't they? She sighed as she told them what she could.

But she wouldn't overstep. The first lesson Madam Pomfrey had given to her ringed on her ears: patient confidentiality. She would not betray her patients, if she ever turned out to be a Healer. She gave them only what Professor Dumbledore—his magical guardian—allowed to be communicated; and even Professor Dumbledore couldn't decide over all.

Harry Potter was alive, after all. He still would be able to exercise his autonomy—when he woke up, that is.

And as they turned to menial and everyday matters—the next Ravenclaw x Slytherin match (Gryffindor postponed theirs as they had to find a Seeker yet—Oliver Wood went everyday to the Hospital Wing to look for information on Harry's health), the winner of the Vienna Duels, the way Longbottom managed to make his potion smell like farts in the last Potions class, etc.—suddenly it hit her like a truck.

Harry Potter died.

Harry Potter came back from the dead.

The Boy-Who-Lived-Who-Died-Who-Lived-Again.

Maybe it was fate or something grander, maybe it was magic making a trail for her, maybe it was something else, but she felt it on her whole being: she was meant to be this close to it all.

She remembered feeling so inadequate she could not manage to even open her father's Dark Arts library. She was so weak, so useless, she couldn't even bring herself to touch those books, and yet—

She had been given the opportunity of a lifetime: to train with Madam Pomfrey, to look eventually—when the healers left the castle—over Harry Potter's health.

Maybe it was because she was so tired or stressed, but she would not discard it as accidental. She understood her failures, but the smallest of an idea wriggled its way inside her brain.

What if she could help Astoria in another way?

Not to cure her, but to—

To help her … come back when she—

When she—

How pathetic she was. Not even in thought she could manage to say it …

When Astoria died …

Suddenly she was overcome with a trembling. Tracey Davis—one of the softest and most charming girls in her year—suddenly hugged her.

"Is everything alright, Daphne? You seem awfully tired."

She gulped.

"I just—yes, I am just so tired. You would never believe how much of a tyrant Madam Pomfrey can be," she said while faking a small laughter.

Tracey looked at her and Daphne saw her lies reflected upon her kind blue eyes.

Blaise and Malfoy laughed.

"By the way, how could you manage it? Is Dumbledore just rewarding people for rule-breaking now? I might as well just bring in my Nimbus to school to see if the old man gives me a position on the team," Malfoy quipped.

They laughed. Tracey did not.

"I think it would be best if you took a shower and rested, Daphne. We have Herbology early tomorrow," she said, while helping her get up.

"Ah, I had forgotten to tell you all. My schedule will be changed up a bit—so that I can help Madam Pomfrey in the week. Most of my classes will be with the Gryffindors now, can you believe me. And I lost my Wednesdays free time."

They winced. Malfoy laughed at her predicament.

"Well, good luck to you, then. And don't let Weasley or Granger step on you. Good night, Daphne!"

They said their goodbyes as she and Tracey went to the dormitories.

They walked in silence for a moment before Tracey spoke up.

"Is everything alright with you, Daphne?"

Daphne nodded. Tracey did not see her face but she felt her hair bobbing as they went on.

"You know—we never talked much, but I would be happy to help you with anything, alright?"

Daphne smiled at her.

"Thank you, Tracey. Truly."

Tracey smiled back at her.

"If you ever need anything just hit me or Millie or Lily or even Pansy up. Hell, even Goyle. Just … just don't—well …"

"Pretend that you don't exist?"

Tracey grinned.

"Something of that sort. C'mon, you were tough as nails to talk to, all pampered and prim and cold."

Daphne paused.

"Really, that's how you saw me?"

"That's how everyone saw you, Daphne. Although if you don't mind me saying—and I only say that because you will soon know that he is a sweetheart—Goyle was much more handy with his words: you were kind of a—well—a bit of a weirdo."

Daphne stared at her in shock.

Tracey blinked.

"What?"

"Goyle called me a weirdo? Goyle?"

Tracey laughed, and Daphne joined her. She felt a bit lighter.

"As I said, he is a sweetheart, even if a bit callous. Now, go on, see you tomorrow."

Daphne smiled and prepared to sleep. She came back relaxed from the shower and promptly put on her pyjamas. As she hanged her cloak, the letter fell from its pocket, and that familiar weight settled upon her heart again. The words reverberated inside her head as she drifted off to sleep.

They were going to France to try a new treatment. 'Very low chances, please come home to Easter.'

Tom had so many toys and they had none. And they would have none because all of them were his and his only.

He was sitting at a room in the orphanage when suddenly there came a knocking on the door. He put down the pig plushy and the toy giraffe he was holding as the person opened it.

It was a very large person that came through, with watery blue eyes, balding fair and thin hair and a very well combed moustache. It was Mr Vernon—how he did know that, he couldn't say, but he knew.

"Riddle, there is a new boy coming to play with you today. You treat him very good, you hear me?"

Tom screamed and used his hands to seal off the door on the big man's face. He would not let anyone get close to his toys. They were theirs and no one else's. It was his, and he would not share them.

The man suddenly let out a roar and began pounding on the door, trying to break it in.

"You will give the toys to your cousin, you little thief!"

And he repeated the phrase over and over again, but Tom would not open the door. He used his magic to put the bed in front of it and screamed as he felt his magic make a lock impenetrable over it. He let out a smile.

Magic solved everything!

He willed his magic to make some more toys. The problem was: he did not know what they looked like. He only got those because they were Amanda's and Gerald's toys. It was not fair that they had more toys than him. He had magic, he was special. He should have more toys than anyone.

As a matter of fact, nobody but him should have toys. He should have all toys in the world!

But he did not know anymore of them. He wished that someone was there to teach him. To give him everything in the world.

Suddenly the corner cupboard's door opened. Tom lifted up his hands and made a sign to the direction of it.

The cupboard's door shut in, but it was already late. Someone had come out of it.

It was a boy his age. He had round glasses, a funny scar on his forehead and black hair like his.

"Hey there!"

"Hi," Tom replied timidedly.

"What's your name?"

"Tom, and what's yours?"

"Harry."

Tom nodded. There was silence for a short time.

"Can I play with your toys?"

Tom sneered.

"No you cannot. Go away, I don't want you here."

Harry seemed scared of him, and Tom was happy that at least one person was scared of him.

"Those are your toys?"

Tom nodded, but something at the back of his mind tugged at him. They were not really his, were they? They were from the other kids at the Orphanage.

Suddenly there was a fire in the room and all of his pretty toys were gone. He looked at the scene and began crying. Harry felt weird watching the scene but quickly got closer to the boy and gave him a hug.

"Hey, don't cry. I can give you some of my toys."

Tom dried his eyes as he looked expectedly at the boy.

"Really?"

Harry nodded enthusiastically.

"Really!" He began rummaging through his clothes. Tom had just now noticed how badly he dressed, all in dirty and unkempt clothes. He always used a pretty black cloak, much more dignified than what the boy was wearing. He then produced a little toy broom and gave it to him. Tom looked at the toy with marvel in his eyes—nobody had ever gifted him anything!

"Thank you," he said, a bit tearful. "It is mine now!"

Harry was shook, but yet just waved it off. Tom began playing with the broom—his broom, that Harry gifted to him.

Then he looked up and noticed that Harry was playing with another toy. He suddenly became angry. Why had not he given that toy to him too? And his was much better than the stupid broom.

He was playing with a plushie spider. Tom chucked the broom over to the other side of the room and grabbed Harry's toy.

Harry protested but watched as Tom played with it.

Tom was overjoyed. It was such a cute toy and now he had two toys. He then looked up and saw something.

Harry was riding the broom! How could he do that? Was he magic too?

He was overcome with anger, and wanted to take Harry's broom off him, but then suddenly the roar came back. He noticed Harry's terror as the voice came back.

"Dudley is asking for his toys back. Give them all to me, Tom!"

Harry looked panicked at the sound! Tom was tranquil—magic would not let anything happen to him. Tom laughed at the other boy as he was looking at the door with fear in his eyes.

And the pounding continued and the roars increased and Tom just cackled and found the situation even funnier.

Harry went with trembling legs in his direction.

"We—we cannot give the broom toy to Dudley because it is magical. Please give him the plushie. If you do not give the toy to Dudley we will be punished."

"We?"

Tom ran from Harry and sticked his tongue at him. He turned on the spot and appeared at the top of the cupboard. Harry tried to jump to get the toy back, but he couldn't reach him. Tom laughed even more.

The boy seemed resigned, but he tried once more.

"It is my toy. It is not fair what you're doing to me. I am going to be hurt."

"I don't care. It is my toy now. It is all mine!"

Harry looked at anger at him for a second.

"You do not have the right. I am going to be punished for your cause."

"I don't care."

"Stop being greedy and give it to me!"

"I won't, I won't."

Harry began to cry and Tom did not even care.

"I gave you the toy and you are being so mean to me. Why are you so mean?"

"Because it is all mine. I am special, I have magic."

"I have magic, too."

"But I am better!"

And then the door opened. And Tom was scared—it was not supposed to open. In place of Mr Vernon there was a skeletal figure looking at him—it remained with his eyes glued at him even as he dragged Harry out of the room.

And then came the screamings. That thing was hurting people out there. It was not only Harry. It was a bunch of people.

"Please, spare him, spare him."—"No my lord, not my daughter, please."—"I will betray him, I promise, him, I will betray him."—"Not my child, please."—"Please kill me, please."—"Not Harry, please, not Harry …"

Harry!

Oh, he was feeling something inside him and he did not like it. He did not like it that Harry was being punished for what Tom had done. He jumped from the cupboard and went to the door to give the plushie to the skeleton and get his friend back.

Suddenly a snake with red eyes appeared in front of him. He knew how to talk to snakes because he was special.

"Don't go there Voldemort, that was only a small toy broom. I know a lot of better toys."

Suddenly his head was filled with images of precious goblets, of silver swords, of beautiful studded crowns, rings and amulets, and old books.

But those were not toys!

He swatted the snake away from him and went towards the door. He heard screaming. This time it was Harry that it was screaming.

Harry was suffering because of him. He had not done anything and even went in his place. He did not tell Mr Vernon or the skeleton that it was him that did not want to give the toy away. He had to help his friend.

Suddenly the door opened and a deep voice came from the dark corridor.

"Do you regret it, Tom Riddle?"

He saw then in his mind a sea of fire being inundated with rivers of gold and precious stones. He heard screams in the distance as people jumped on the rivers to rescue …

He could not believe it. The Sceptre of Morrigan, the Staff of Merlin, the Sword of Siegfried, the Lance of Albion, the Book of Aton, there were so many precious things currently wasting away into the fire. He suddenly wanted to lunge at that river and get them, but he heard something more terrible.

He heard Harry screaming and a green light illuminated that dark place as he saw Harry in the distance. A malevolent warlock turned on him. He was holding his little broom as he looked at the figure in confusion. He looked at that man. It was him!

"Do you regret it, Tom Riddle?"

It was Harry, that had given him the toy, that had gone out of his way to keep him out of that horrible place and was suffering because of him. Oh, he felt so bad!

"I regret it!"

A fire enveloped everything and he suddenly saw a white room. It seemed like the Great Hall of Hogwarts but he could not be so sure. Suddenly someone called him.

"Tom, give me your hand!"

It was Harry. But he was older … Had he suffered so much time that he was now that tall? Oh, Tom was a horrible person!

He heard the roar in the distance and felt the heat before he properly saw it. Something broke over the doors of the Great Hall. A being of fire with icy eyes smiled menacingly at him. Harry trembled.

He would not let that thing get to Harry. He put up his hands and prepared himself to deter it. He saw suddenly a redhead in the corner of his vision.

"You! Take Harry and go! Run! I'll hold him off"

But it was only a languishing of the fire that he'd seen. Nobody would help them this time.

He jumped backwards as the thing brought a hand upon them. Harry jumped too.

"Take my hand, Tom!"

He looked back with defiance.

"No, you go. I'll hold him!"

The being laughed at the both of them.

"It is not necessary, Tom. I only come to take one of you today!"

Tom then put himself in front of Harry, with his little fists balled at that thing.

"Then take me, take me, instead!"

It laughed even more.

"No! I will not permit it! Tom, please trust me, I will protect us. Give me your hand!"

And Tom looked back. And Harry had changed. Suddenly he saw an adult wizard—stronger and taller, but it was the same weird Harry! Even the glasses were the same. Tom looked at him suspiciously, but decided to trust; he accepted the hand.

And then they were off, flying through the ceiling, never to come back to that place again—hopefully.

Someone knocked over his door—Percy wanted nothing to do with anyone and shouted for them to go away. He had this terrible headache that just would not subside.

But that didn't stop them, because soon they opened it anyway. He was ready to scold whomever had dared to invade the fifth year dormitory, but he stopped.

It was Fred and George. In other circumstances, he would scold them even harder—just because it was a Weasley overstepping the rules, but now—

They had two giant smiles on their faces. Percy's heart did a somersault.

"He came back fully, Percy!"

He did not know how they could know that, but he preferred not to ask at that moment. For now, he only wanted to see Harry Potter—to beg for his forgiveness. He quickly ran after them.