Chapters 231-240

Life and Fire

Winky stared miserably at the scene in the living room. The girl lay on her master’s favourite armchair. She was not quite dead yet, but the house-elf thought she would be shortly. She was barely breathing and hoarfrost covered her body from her lashes to her toes. And that bad phoenix, that ungrateful skived-off Sunday roast, was nowhere to be seen.

oooOooo

Woodstock spread her wings wide. For the first time, she was truly flying. She did not mind the gloom around her. She was fire. Just as sunlight needs the night, Woodstock realised that she needed Death. She needed His darkness to burn a brilliant spark of Life. And under her wings, the two became one. The shadows above the River of Death mingled with her fiery feathers and Woodstock shrieked with glee. No long winter night of circling and swooping above the high chimney of the Old Mill at Spinner’s End had prepared her for this.

Her muscles strained with the weight of the two wizards and the young witch. Their bodies and their pain dragged her down. But she knew she could carry far heavier loads. She was a phoenix, after all!

Yes, she was a phoenix—and she soared.

The river and the dim twilight of its skies disappeared. Blackness surrounded her, an infinite abyss. Ever higher she flew, trailing sparks behind her like shooting star.

And higher. Higher still.

Suddenly something changed. Far ahead, colour infused the lightless black of this unsky. The darkest shade of indigo. The air changed, too. For the first time since the River of Death had disappeared, Woodstock could feel air under her wings, currents of air twirling away under her movements.

She flew on. Indigo turned into ink, a deep hue of Prussian blue. The wind tasted cool and fresh. Light suffused the now powdery blue. First white, then a rose-coloured sigh of morning. A first tendril of warmth swirled around the tips of her feathers.

Peach turned to gold, warmth to fire, dawn to the sun in all its glory.

Woodstock wanted to sing and she wanted to burn. She wanted to lose herself in the fire of Life. But somehow the phoenix knew that this would destroy the fragile humans she carried. Not this time. Not yet. She must not burn yet, no matter how much she wanted to. That thought lodged firmly in her mind, she plunged into the sun.

oooOooo

With a blinding flash of light, the phoenix burst into the room. Shrieking, Winky jumped back. Sparks were flying everywhere, and she needed all her elfish magic to keep the books and the house from catching fire. Oh, that flaming chicken of a phoenix was back! And this time she’d put it into her oven, make no mistake! Almost setting Master’s house on fire and his beloved books, what did that bird think in its pea-sized brain! Winky opened her mouth to tell the phoenix just that, when the smoke lifted.

On the ground next to the armchair where the girl lay curled up, her Master lay on the ground in a puddle, his robes tattered and torn and soaking wet. He was unconscious and holding on to the wizard that Dobby had worshipped so much—Harry Potter. A Harry Potter that was just as wet and dirty as her Master. To make things worse, the frost had melted from the girl’s body, leaving dark, damp spots on the leather. But even worse than the water and the dirt on the floor and the armchair and the sparks bursting from the wings of the agitated phoenix were nasty shadows of death and dark magic that clung to her Master and to Harry Potter like mould to old bread.

oooOooo

After the glory of flight, the living room at Spinner’s End closed in on her stuffy and grey and cold. Woodstock ached for fire, for flames to consume her…But then she looked at the humans. They lay motionless, all three of them.

She glanced at her Namegiver. Alina was barely breathing. And the others? Woodstock folded her wings and hopped towards Spicyscent, the wizard that had freed her from her prison. Shadow was consuming him, growing on him and inside him, devouring bone and body, heart and soul. The phoenix shuddered, ruffling her feathers. So much pain. Such dark, dark shadows. Barely any light left, and no fire. Just grey ashes of what had once been a brilliant burning soul. She opened her beak in a silent wail. But that was not enough to express her grief. She bent her head and cried, tears rolling along her beak and dripping down on his face, to his lips. His lips twitched when her tears touched them, moved. His tongue tasted her tears. He swallowed. Once, twice, three times. Then he shivered convulsively and lay still.

Woodstock stopped crying and regarded the wizard. The darkness had lifted, and somewhere deep inside of him, life was glowing again, a burning ember of fire hidden under the ashes of death.

Satisfied, she turned to the other man. He was younger and more resilient, the darkness hadn’t reached so deep. But there was something else, a spell gone nearly wrong. Deep inside, he didn’t smell human anymore, but like stone, like black volcanic rock. Woodstock hummed deep inside her throat. Something told her that stone and human didn’t mix well, and if nothing happened, the Stoneman would wake up only to die a few weeks later. She also sensed that Stoneman was important to Spicyscent and that both of them were important to Namegiver. She couldn’t help herself—another sob rose in her throat. Instinctively and slightly embarrassed, the phoenix lowered her head. Her eyes overflowed. Soon tears glittered on the wizard’s lips. A moment later he swallowed.

When Woodstock couldn’t cry anymore, she lifted her head. Looking down at the young wizard, she crooned happily. The stone inside him was gone, leaving only a certain hardness where he’d been soft before.