Chapter Eleven: Recovery

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"But what about your play?" Harry said, frowning. "Your rehearsals?"

"Taking a sabbatical," Daniyel said. "They'll get along without me."

"But, Dan," Harry said, "you… left the Academy. You can't just... er—"

"I know." Daniyel sighed. "Look, I'm not asking you to make me an Auror or anything. I know it doesn't work like that. I just want to do what I can to help. At least with Rookwood. I've done freelance work with other departments in the Ministry before, why not here? I was nearly done with my training when I left. I'm not entirely useless."

"Of course not," Harry said quickly. "It's just that it's been a while since you've done anything like this. Things here can get… well, bloody. Are you sure you're up for it?"

He stared Daniyel down, searching for some kind of explanation, as if it would be etched into the lines of his face. Daniyel had never really said why he left the Academy, had simply cited other interests as the reason, but deep down, Harry thought he understood. The Auror training program was painstakingly rigorous. After two years of preparation and aptitude testing at the Academy, at which Daniyel had more than excelled, the third year of training involved shadowing teams of Aurors in the field. Daniyel's team had been tracking a holdout cell of Death Eaters — a dangerous mission that culminated in a bloody spellfight. Alicia Spinnet had ended up in St. Mungo's with nearly enough spell damage to take her life. Daniyel had walked away unscathed — or so they had thought. But when he left the training program shortly after, the look in his eyes had been reminiscent of one Harry had often seen in the mirror after Shadow Hogwarts.

He searched Daniyel's face for its remnants now, but saw only steadfast determination.

"I am." Daniyel's words were laced with resolve. "I want to do something that matters, Harry. For Rob. For… for everyone. I want to help catch the fucking tosser who did this. You don't even have to pay me. I'll volunteer."

"All right," Harry said. If Daniyel really wanted to do this, he was certainly not going to stand in the way. "I'll pitch it to Robards. C'mon." And he led Daniyel past the rows of cubicles full of curious eyes, to the small office at the very back of the floor, where Head Auror Gawain Robards was holed up, inundated in Mysteries paperwork. They had not taken on anyone new in nearly five years, and it could not be denied that the Auror department was stretched thinner than Dumbledore's DADA teaching appointments before Remus had reclaimed the post. Daniyel would be the best addition they could hope for.

Luckily, Robards was easier to persuade than Harry had imagined.

"I'll allow it," he said, crossing his arms in a somewhat intimidating way and looking between Harry and Daniyel from across his desk. "You will temporarily work with the Aurors until we resolve the present crisis. You will report to Harry and defer to him at all times. And we will certainly be paying you. Don't be ridiculous. You will sort out the paperwork with W.R. first thing."

"Yes, sir," Daniyel said.

"And when we have moved past the present crisis," Robards continued, as if Daniyel had not spoken, "you and I will be having a conversation about your future prospects at this office. This is not negotiable."

"Yes, sir," Daniyel said again, but in a slightly more resigned tone.

Satisfied, Robards waved them from his office, Daniyel wearing a tentative grin as Harry led him to the Department of Wizarding Resources. An hour later, Harry, Ron, Ernie, and Daniyel sat around a long table in the main conference room, digging through the increasingly frustrating list of the makeup of 115 confiscated wands.

"There is hardly anything connecting them," Ernie said to the group at large, sorting various pieces of parchment into piles. There are ten willow, one maple, two poplar, seven larch, eleven hawthorn… and eighty-four others of varying wand woods. And the cores vary tremendously. Aside from the three that are considered the golden standard, some of these wands contain cores as obscure as dragon scales, sphynx feathers, and even kelpie hair. None have been identified."

"What's the connection to the attack?" Daniyel asked, staring around.

"We aren't sure yet," Ernie said, still in presentation mode. He eyed Daniyel seriously. "But it's a good question. Welcome to the team. But I must say, we're going to have a real job telling you and Harry apart."

"But I have this excellent goatee," Daniyel said. "And I don't wear glasses!"

Ron let out a choked laugh. "Make sure you don't ever shave, mate, and you're good."

Harry sighed. "Let's stay on topic, please. It is a good question, and that's one of the things we're trying to sort out. If we can track down the origins of the wands, then maybe—"

There was an echoing bang, and he whirled around, his hand automatically reaching for his wand, but it was only Hermione hurrying towards them along the length of the table. Her hair was escaping its bun in messy tendrils, and her robes were swirling about her with purpose. She looked positively gleeful.

"Eloise Mintumble!" she said triumphantly, slapping her stack of parchments down on the table. Her eyes traveled across their faces and landed on Daniyel. "What are you doing here?"

"Freelancing," Daniyel offered, grinning at her look of confusion.

"Never mind him," Ron said. "What are you on about, sweet wife of mine?"

Hermione shot him a look that seemed equal parts annoyance and endearment and turned to Harry. "The maple wand," she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Twelve and a quarter inches, swishy, with a single scale from the back of an Irish Sea Dragon. It belonged to Eloise Mintumble, Harry!"

"Who?" Harry said blankly.

"For the love of…" Hermione sighed. "She invented the time-turner!" Harry raised his eyebrows and waited for Hermione to get to something relevant. "She traveled back to 1402 in 1899 and became trapped there for five days. It was a disaster. Her body aged five centuries after her return, and she died in St. Mungo's shortly after. All Time experiments were stopped after that."

They started at her blankly and Hermione looked around in frustration when this speech did not have the desired effect.

"And?" Ron said. "Are you saying Eloise Mintumble returned from the dead, gave her wand to Rookwood, and they destroyed the Department of Mysteries together for old times sake?"

"Of course not!" Hermione cried, exasperated. "Haven't you been listening? Eloise Mintumble died in 1899!"

"So?" Ron said.

"So the wand scanner wasn't—"

"Wasn't invented until 1902!" Ernie said, catching on excitedly. "Eloise Mintumble's wand wouldn't have been entered into the database!"

"Exactly!" Hermione said, pleased. "Ollivander said the wands were 'antiquated.' And that's not to mention they use cores that are no longer popular today. Perhaps it's not that the wands appear old — they actually are."

"Right," Harry said. "So where would Rookwood have gotten Eloise's wand?"

"Well," Hermione said, shuddering slightly. "There's only one place he could've done. It was buried with her. At Highgate."

"Blimey," Ron said. "He's a bloody grave robber."

"Or a collector, perhaps," Ernie said. "The other wands might belong to other witches and wizards who passed before the wand scanner was implemented. We'll need to widen our search. Check old records."

"There's more," Hermione said, glancing at them all seriously. "I've just confirmed this with Rob, and there was a wand being studied in Mysteries for years. A rather famous wand. Levina Monkstanley's — she invented Lumos. If he is a collector…"

She trailed off, her unspoken words hanging resolutely in the air. If Rookwood was indeed some sort of wand collector, perhaps his reasons for entering the Department of Mysteries and tearing it down were motivated by greed rather than hatred. Perhaps he wasn't quite as much of a madman as they suspected. And that, Harry thought, might well make him even more dangerous.

.

The sinking sun was just beginning to brush the edges of the bare treetops as they raised Eloise Mintumble's century-old coffin through the cracked and frozen earth of Highgate cemetery. The dirt tumbled off in clumps as Ernie and Daniyel levitated it to a clean patch of snow-covered grass. It sat there, threaded together by the faintest traces of magic and looming like some great intimidating mystery.

"Open it," Harry said, unable to stand the anticipation, and Ron wordlessly pointed his wand at the ancient wood. There was a splitting sound of wood shattering, and the top creaked slowly open. They leaned in, their eyes landing upon the perfect skeleton at the same moment as the fading sun hit it. It stood out harshly, tinted golden in the light, which illuminated the shadowy corners of the wooden box.

As expected, it did not contain a wand.

"It was the custom, back in the olden days, to bury the wand of each witch and wizard upon their person when they were laid to rest. A long-standing tradition. It is less common now, though it does still happen."

Dumbledore placed his hands together in his familiar way of deep contemplation and looked intently at Ella, who sat across from him in a chair that had, over the years, grown as familiar as home.

"Makes you think twice about it now, I suppose?" Ella said neutrally. "Seems like a terrible place to leave your wand — anyone could find it, really."

Dumbledore inclined his head in her direction. "Indeed, I daresay that it does. To take your wand beyond the veil. It appears safe at first glance, but a resting place is only as sacred as one's ideals of humanity's boundaries. But, alas, that is neither here nor there. Have they found a connection?"

"Nothing concrete. But Levina Monkstanley's wand was being studied in Mysteries. If he's some kind of wand collector, perhaps he was after it. That's what they're investigating now."

Dumbledore nodded, seemingly deep in thought. "Possible, of course. I take it, then, that the wand has not been recovered? And what of the rest? I understand that the damage to the Department of Mysteries has been quite substantial. Has anything been salvaged?"

"Bits and pieces mainly," Ella said, biting down the wave of feeling that these words brought up. "They just finished repairing the structural damage last week, and they're sorting through the remains now. But nearly everything is gone…"

"Quite a loss," Dumbledore said. "The scope of that work… this will have devastating consequences." Ella hung her head, unable to disagree. It was a crushing defeat for magical science. "And what of our Stone? Has it been recovered?"

"Not yet," she said wearily. "I did ask Harry to put it on the list, but I don't think it's really a priority for them, what with everything else. Half our team is…" She trailed off, not quite able to say the words. Half our team is dead. She only prayed that she was not somehow responsible; that they had not stayed at the office late because of her research. She didn't think her conscience could take that weight. But it didn't matter. Nikolai. Kevin. Alison. They were just as dead either way, and no one who mourned them had any room for her guilt. Robert had said as much last Friday night, when she confessed her feelings over takeaway from his favorite Phở shop.

"None of this is your fault, Ella."

But Robert would have never blamed her, not even if she had wrenched open the door to the Love Chamber herself.

"No one's to blame but Rookwood. Everyone was just doing their jobs, Ella. You too. We couldn't have known… or we would have stopped him before he got in."

Logical, yes. And yet, she still couldn't let go of the guilt.

"It matters not," Dumbledore said, his voice cutting across her thoughts and dragging her sharply back to the present. She glanced up, meeting his somber eyes across the table again. "There is not much we can do under the circumstances. The Ministry is not currently in a position to review our research and cannot issue the permits required, but we have achieved what we set out to do. Everything else is simply fine-tuning. However, it would be ideal to recover it if it has not been destroyed, and store it here until the Ministry sees fit to revisit the concept of Traveling."

Ella nodded, watching Dumbledore as he laced his fingers together, seemingly staring off into a world she couldn't see. Fawkes let out a soft cry from his perch that went unanswered.

"Have you any theories, Albus?" Ella asked, after the silence had grown so heavy, the whole office seemed to hum with it.

"Many," he said softly, looking at her once more. The bright sunlight caught his face as he turned, casting each line across it into sharp relief, and it struck Ella how old, how frail, he looked. "Each more unlikely than the last, I fear. However, I will continue to give the matter my full consideration." He sighed. "I fear that this may be but a beginning."

"What do you mean?" The words caught in her throat.

"Alas. A question that requires more answers than I have at my disposal." He gave her a small smile. "But when they are mine, they shall be yours as well. And Harry's, of course."

"Harry," Ella said slowly. "He's… been having dreams again. He hasn't said a word, but I can tell. Is it… do you think it's concerning?"

"That Harry's powers are still present despite his best efforts to suppress them? Certainly not. As for the dreams themselves… who can say. Who but Harry."

Who but Harry, indeed. And yet he was silent. Probably, she thought, some misguided effort to protect her. He meant well, her sweet husband, but she was also entirely aware that he could be an idiot of uncontested proportions.

Ella sighed, watching as Dumbledore raised himself slowly to his feet and reached out a hand to stroke Fawkes, who looked peaky — likely nearing Burning Day. His falling feathers seemed a metaphor for the sorry state of her life if she had ever seen one. Teetering on the edge of burning down. She could only hope that she would be reborn too, after it was all over.

"Have you been having dreams again, Harry?" she asked that night, as she slipped into bed beside him. "I hear you, you know…"

He didn't speak, his green eyes meeting hers in guilty silence. She kept her gaze steadily on his, digging the truth out of his eyes until his defenses melted away.

"I dunno what they mean," he admitted. "Just abstract visions, really. I can't make sense of them."

"You've never had trouble making sense of them before…"

"I know." He glanced away, seemingly ashamed. "They've changed. Maybe they only made sense when I dreamt about Voldemort."

"I don't fancy him for pillow talk," Ella said lightly, meeting Harry's raised eyebrows with a grin. "You can sort out your dreams without him, I reckon."

"I suppose I'll have to," Harry said, amused. "Though I'm fresh out of ideas at the moment."

"Maybe you just need to stop resisting them and they'll make more sense?"

"I dunno. Maybe…"

He reached out a hand, brushing it lightly across her cheek. She felt chills blossom across her skin at the contact, along with the realization that she couldn't remember the last time he had touched her like this — the last time they had been intimate. It had been one thing after another ever since she'd found out she was pregnant. First she had felt too sick, too nauseous to touch him. Then too devastated, in too much pain, shedding too much blood. Harry had understood, she knew. He'd never pushed; had respected her boundaries while holding her tightly. But now, finally, she was wading out of that pool of sorrow, finding her footing once more.

With those thoughts firmly in mind, she leaned over and pressed her lips hard against his. He kissed her back, his arms snaking around her back, pulling her closer. Every kiss was like fresh kindling for a long-abandoned fire. And she yearned for it. To feel it again. To revel in it until she lost her breath and her senses.

The world seemed to fall away, until nothing existed but the two of them. Nothing but Harry's mouth — hard and firm upon her own, the minty taste of his toothpaste dancing across her tongue — and the solid pressure of his hands on the small of her back. And the fire, burning ever hotter. Her body was tingling, aching for his touch; equal parts fear warring with desire, and desire was winning. Desire was dulling the scars that held her together. She trailed her hand along his side, angling it until she brushed against him. He gasped and pulled away, his eyes meeting hers once more.

"Are you sure?" he said softly, his gaze holding hers. "You're all right? You're ready?"

"Yes," she breathed. She had never wanted him more than in that moment, had never been more ready to forget everything that came before — to throw her doubts, and her fears, and her pain into a black hole behind her from which it could never climb out again. "Just be careful." If he was careful, there was no need to be afraid.

He nodded, her meaning clear, and brought his lips back to hers. She melted into his embrace, pushing her hand against his pyjamas — against the proof he still wanted her, despite everything. She gasped as he gently slipped his hands beneath her oversized t-shirt, trailing them across her stomach before cupping her breasts.

She pressed herself tightly against him, craving the feel of him between her; terrified, and yet yearning to tear away the layers of cloth that separated them, until there was nothing but skin. She kissed him harder, slipping her hand inside his boxers as he gently trailed his fingers down her stomach again, and then further. Her mind went blissfully blank, everything but Harry falling by the wayside as she trembled at the cool waves of pleasure echoing through her. It had been so long since he had touched her, her whole body was pulled taut as a string, already hanging on the edge. Her problems felt so far away, as if there were a million miles between them.

"I need you," she gasped. "Please."

He pulled back at her words, a smile grazing his face as he removed his clothes and silently cast the charm that would form the smallest shield between them. Enough to keep her safe from the jaws of another painful pregnancy. She felt the relief of it flood through every inch of her, leaving nothing but fiery passion. The final worry gone. She slipped out of her clothes, the cool night air brushing against her burning skin for just a moment before Harry enfolded her in his arms, his body hot against hers. He slipped gently inside her, the length of him filling her up, until there was no room for fear or sadness.

For the first time since everything broke, in his arms, she finally felt whole.