Chapter Eighteen: What's Written is Stars
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The air had turned to stone. Had lost all its oxygen. And Harry was frozen. Silent. Breathless.
His mind was swirling; bouncing between looming mountains, between how different a church spire could look in the daylight versus the night, with a graveyard between them. His eyes were blurring, remembering sharp words printed years ago across a crisp white page.
The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it 'the Riddle House,' even though it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there…
He shouldn't have seen those words; shouldn't have known anything. It was illogical, a twist of fate. Some kind of cosmic mistake.
But he did. He did.
He was Frank Bryce, falling to the floor in a flash of green. He was awake, drenched in cold sweat 200 miles away. He was letting the dream trickle away through his fingertips, to vanish from his memory until he saw it again, splattered across the pages of a book in painful detail. He was fourteen and Cedric was dead at his feet, and Voldemort was staring down at him with cruel red eyes. Laughing.
And then there was only pain. Everything broken.
And how could he have missed it; how could he have walked through Brycetown — through Little Hangleton — and not recognized its pull? Its history of horrors. How could he have mistaken its facade for anything else?
He couldn't breathe. He was trapped in some nightmare. Last night, he'd dreamed there was something piercing his chest and there was no air, and now it was the same. He was inhaling the oxygen, his lungs working, but the air was empty. The world a lie.
He blinked, Hogwarts looming into focus around the bend; its tallest towers reaching for the dull grey sky. He placed a hand upon the icy metal gate, the sharp solidity of it bringing him slightly back to himself. Grounding him.
Ella's face beside him was hard, rendered to an unreadable mask. Hermione and Robert stood still in the silence, both gazing up at the castle with hooded eyes. Before he could raise his wand, Ella's dolphin swept past him with a whisper, vanishing into the feeble morning light as it sped off down the lane.
"I'm the one he's expecting," she said softly. Her eyes were trained ahead, locked on the castle walls with an intensity that was at odds with the light she usually carried. There was something in her gaze, in the dark looks she had exchanged with Robert, that set Harry's spine on edge. But Ella had been silent, her questions — all the ones that mattered — uncharacteristically bitten back.
The ones she did ask had left only more things unanswered.
How had Dumbledore done it?
He had provided evidence to the Muggle police, Hermione told them, that Tom Riddle Jr. had killed his father and his grandparents. A previously undetectable poison that could be identified with new technology. Dumbledore had provided proof that Tom Riddle had returned to reclaim his ancestral home by force. That Frank had intervened, had tried to stop him, and was murdered for it. Frank, who had minded the house all the while. Who had put up with hatred, assaults, bullying. Dumbledore had forged what evidence he required, had Confunded whomever he needed to Confund, and had cleared Frank's name. Had persisted until the village, dripping with three generations of shame and guilt, had voted to rename their small hamlet in his honor. Brycetown was born. The trail of its founding was in the Ministry records, in the Muggle history books, in the registry of deeds and national database. Readily available to anyone who chose to look. The story had even made the Muggle news. But it was only Robert who had stopped to notice. Robert, who had sought out Hermione and helped her scour through endless records for all hours of the night, until the story came together in bits and pieces.
What was his motivation?
They didn't know, Robert said. Could only guess. To set things right, perhaps. To give Frank peace.
It had felt true, for Dumbldore. They had agreed.
Ella had withdrawn the note, laying his cryptic warning flat across the coffee table. What did it mean, Harry had pondered quietly. What had he done?
What could he have done?
Robert and Ella had stared at each other, frozen.
"Maybe…" Ella had whispered.
"No," Robert had said. "No, Ella."
"But Rookwood…"
And she had fallen silent then. Mute to Harry and Hermione's questions.
"We have to go see him." Her face had been a mask of hard angles as she spoke the words. "Dumbledore. Now." And so they had went.
Now they stood before the Hogwarts gates, watching as a thin figure appeared in the distance and grew slowly larger as it approached. There was a hint of green. A tall hat bobbing in the breeze. A familiar face… but not the one they wanted.
"Professor," Ella said, her voice guarded. "Good to see you. I sent the Patronus to Professor Dumbledore…?"
"Albus isn't here," Professor McGonagall said, glancing between them through the metal railings. She motioned outwards with her hand and the gates creaked open. "I took your message instead. Come in."
Harry felt the brush of magic splintering around him as the wards parted, allowing them entry. They stepped through the gates, but even the nostalgia of home that hung over this sacred ground didn't put him at ease.
"Where is he?" Harry asked.
Professor McGonagall frowned. "I do not know. I daresay you know that Albus does as he pleases, and informs us all when he feels necessary. He left late last night."
"When will he be back?" Ella asked. Her voice was neutral, but Harry could pick out the shadows of strain trailing between the words. "He sent me an urgent note yesterday requesting a meeting."
Professor McGonagall gestured at the castle and turned down the lane, forcing them to follow. "I do not know," she said. "But I do not believe it to be a lengthy trip. He has left me in charge until he returns. What is this about? Is it anything I can help you with?"
"He didn't specify," Ella said truthfully. She glanced at Harry and the others, her eyes wells of shadow.
"Is it related to your research?" Professor McGonagall asked.
"We… aren't sure," Ella said carefully.
"I see." Professor McGonagall paused and glanced back at them, her face quite unreadable. "If you are certain only Albus can assist you and it is urgent, you are welcome to wait in the castle. But it may be hours yet before he returns. We are still serving breakfast in the Great Hall if you would like to join us. Most of the students have left for Hogsmeade so it is rather quiet." She resumed her walk down the lane.
"Professor," Harry said, struck by sudden inspiration as he hurried after her, "can we wait for Professor Dumbledore in his office?"
"Wait in his office?" she repeated with a frown as she stopped and turned to look at them again. "I'm afraid not, Potter. Aurors cannot simply go where they please… even if they are you."
"Er—" Harry said, momentarily thrown. "I didn't mean—"
"He may have left us additional information," Hermione cut in quickly. "Please, professor, it's terribly important. We've discovered something and we need to discuss it with Professor Dumbledore right away."
Professor McGonagall sighed. "Miss Granger — Hermione — it is not simply a matter of propriety. I want to help you, but I cannot. Only the headmaster can grant entry to his office, and if he is not present, the office will seal itself until his return. So you see, it is quite impossible. But you are all welcome to wait in the staff room instead."
"All right," Harry began, "then we'll—"
"We can't."
Harry broke off, glancing back at Ella, who had stopped a ways behind them.
"We can't wait," she said. "I'm sorry. Professor, can you send us a Patronus as soon as he returns. We… have to go."
"Certainly," Professor McGonagall said, still frowning. She sighed, and the severity of her mask faded slightly. "You are not schoolchildren anymore." Her voice was surprisingly soft. "Isn't it past time to stop playing games? Albus does not always have all the answers. And his priorities may be… larger than yours. I thought you, of all people, would know that, Harry."
"He… did what he had to," Harry said, his mouth uncomfortably dry. He couldn't believe it was Professor McGonagall, Dumbledore's staunchest supporter, standing there, uttering these words. It was as surreal as Hermione's revelation. As worrisome as Robert and Ella's silent looks. Surely the world they had awoken to was upside down, because everything felt wrong. Off-kilter.
"What needed to be done," he added weakly.
Professor McGonagall nodded. "It is never the world that need fear Albus Dumbledore. Only its savior. I will send the Patronus. I trust you will see yourselves out… Good luck."
With a last parting nod, she turned around and strode off towards the castle, leaving them alone in the middle of the lane, where Dumbledore's shadow loomed in all the cracks. And how could it not? It was true… Harry knew it. Dumbledore had left him, all of them, hanging in the balance. Had gambled their lives for the whole of the world when they were only fifteen. Children. But Harry had long forgiven him. They had all forgiven him. The world had been on the edge of breaking, after all. Pulled at by Voldemort. And he had been prepared, even then, to sacrifice his life if that was what it took. If that was the toll the world required of him to keep turning. And Dumbledore was done gambling… wasn't he? Wasn't—
"Come on."
Ella's voice cut through his tumbling thoughts, shattering them to fragments. She was already turning, walking back toward the gates with a stiff determination. They hurried after her, matching her stride.
"Are you planning to track down Dumbledore?" Robert asked her quietly.
"Don't you reckon we should?" she said. "We can hardly wait around."
"You think he's there?" Hermione pressed. "Bryce— Little Hangleton?"
"Yes." Ella's expression was hard. "I'm sure of it. I'm not sure exactly what he's doing there, but if I'm even a little bit right, then… then this could be really bad. Really dangerous. We need to go and—"
"Hold up," Harry said quickly, and Ella fell silent, the three of them turning to look at him. "Ella, you're not going anywhere near Little Hangleton. None of you are going there. It's still an active crime scene, and now you're saying it's dangerous. Have you all lost your minds?"
His words were met with angry outcries.
"You're out of order, Harry," Hermione said, her voice tight. "I think I can handle a crime scene, I work in Kingsley's office, in case you forgot. I was just there not two days past!"
"And you haven't slept since Friday!" Harry shot back. "Neither have you, Rob. And Ella, you're two days out of chemo. None of you are going anywhere near that Merlin-forsaken place until we sort out what's going on."
"You don't understand—" Ella began.
"So explain it to me," Harry said, glaring between her and Robert. "What are you not telling me? What do you suspect Dumbledore of doing? … El, please?"
"I…" She glanced helplessly at Robert. "I can't." Her voice had fallen to a near whisper, ragged, as if the words were slicing through her on their way out. "I have… a thought. But until I see Dumbledore, I can't… But it could explain why Rookwood, I mean if he did…" She trailed off again, her fingers curling into fists. "But it's mad. I'm sure I'm wrong."
"I know what you're thinking, Ella," Robert said. "But I'm certain it's not possible. Otherwise Harry and Dan couldn't have…" He glanced helplessly at Harry.
"Dan!" Ella said, her eyes lighting up. "He can go then. He's an Auror. Are you fine with that, Harry?"
For one maddening moment, Harry wondered if he was going to lose his mind.
"I couldn't have what?" he said, exasperated. "What about Dan?"
"We need to talk to him," Ella said abruptly. "And then you — that is all the Aurors you're allowing into your crime scene — need to do an extended search of the village and the surrounding area. And if Dumbledore's there now, we really need to hurry."
"Bloody hell," Harry said, his thoughts swirling with the uncomfortable realization of the source of their sudden well of knowledge. He had never had to resist the pull of his acquired Legilimency skill quite as hard as in that moment. But he bit the desire back with a merciless resolve. "You two really need to—"
A bright light flashed across his vision and he broke off, whirling toward the gate to see a familiar Patronus bounding in their direction. Ron's crup. A cold chill cut through Harry's stomach. Ron was on duty at the office, along with Daniyel. He wouldn't send such a message on Harry's day off… not unless it was bloody urgent.
The Patronus cut straight to the point. Ron, it seemed, had not minced words.
"Harry, Rookwood's been spotted in Hogsmeade. Sources place him at the Hog's Head with a group of three men. We're on our way. Requesting backup."
Harry cursed. "I have to go," he said, reaching for his wand. The timing couldn't have been worse. And to top it all off, the village was teeming with students enjoying a weekend out. "Stay here. Please. Please don't go to bloody Little Hangleton." And he tore off down the lane, running for the gate, which marked the end of Hogwarts's boundary and, by extension, its wards.
Hogsmeade was idyllic when he whirled into being at its edge. The high street was filled with chattering students, colorful hats and scarves draped over their black cloaks. A small group of girls stood beside the tall wings that still towered above the village, enjoying the early March sunlight. Harry swept his wand through the cool air, wordlessly magicking a hat into being and pulling it low over his eyes as he stepped briskly into the village.
He slipped between the students unimpeded, his hand closed firmly around his wand beneath the cover of his cloak, his senses tuned to seek out the slightest disturbance. The village was quiet. Calm. It was a relief; he hoped Ron had made it in time. Had taken Rookwood without resistance. They didn't need another Brycetown… Little Hangleton.
The name still set him on edge.
He slipped down the side street which housed the inn, was feet away from the door when it exploded outward with a BANG, debris bursting out into the street.
"Protego!" Harry yelled hurriedly, his shield sweeping through the narrow alley, trapping the bits of wood and brick before they could crash into him or the few passersby, who let out shocked cries as they gaped round.
"Get back!" Harry yelled, his wand trained at the door. "Out of the alley, go!"
The stragglers took off, running for the high street. He dispelled the shield with a wordless wave, the debris slamming to the ground, and made for the doorway again, through which a wild cacophony of shouts and shattering crashes were now pouring through.
The dim interior of the Hog's Head was swirling with dusty smoke; visibility almost non-existent. Flashes of spells lit up the space in instants, illuminating chunks of structural wood littered across the floor. The jagged edge of the partially collapsed bar. Shattered tables. The air was thick with furious shouts. With terrified screams.
"This is your last warning!" he heard Ron shout through the swirling shadows. "Drop your bloody wand!"
And then another voice cut through the space; a rough, familiar croak that transported Harry right back into the midst of another, long-forgotten, battle.
"Go fuck yourself, Weasley! Confringo Exedo!"
The room exploded in a furious orange blaze; heat swelling to a breaking point as the air turned solid as steel, smashing violently into the walls as it tore through the space. It crashed into Harry, flinging him backwards with blinding force, until he was twirling through the air. His mind was blank, still partially trapped at Shadow Hogwarts where this same curse had crashed into the solid castle wall until a balcony had come tumbling down, sparing Ella by inches. Her terrified face was splashed across his mindscape now. And then he thought of her. Sara.
"Obtego!" Harry gasped, the fiery, acrid air seeping into his throat, his lungs, as he choked out the call of her protection spell. Powerful enough to split apart worlds. He felt it well up in his heart, felt it rise in pieces of himself that were not flesh but soul, slicing through his entire being as it burst forth in a blinding flash of white. It rushed outward, dancing through the fiery flames, through the shards of steely air, leaving him breathless. Dizzy.
The world slowed, the room lit up in tangled shades of orange and white. The smoke was thin now, transparent. He could see every particle of dust swirling within. Glinting with the reflections of colliding magicks. He saw Ron, crashing backward into the remains of the bar, the impact shattering the wood into pieces. Aberforth was crouching behind the structure, calling forth a shield, his teeth bared. Daniyel and Ernie were weightless, grappling for purchase as the wall behind them drew menacingly closer. Drops of blood swirled through the air, mixing with the dust as they splattered to the grimy floor. A cloaked figure was crawling for the door. Several more were crouching by the far wall, hiding beneath broken tables, hands thrown over their heads in a feeble attempt at protection as a woman flung herself at the stairs behind them in terror, her long curls flying. Dust swirling still. The magicks fighting furiously, the entire inn hanging in the balance. And Rookwood. Frozen at the center of it all, his robes swirling madly in the turbulent air, his posture so reminiscent of Voldemort and the Union that it cut through Harry with a fresh wave of terror.
It all flashed before his eyes in an instant. Shorter than a breath, and yet longer than a lifetime. And then he was crashing to the ground, the impact reverberating through his whole being, his vision flashing to black.
The entire world reduced to pain.
He blinked, the darkness receding slightly. The acrid smell of burning and iron heavy on his tongue. His very lungs were coated in dust. His face was sticky, grimy; his skin buried beneath layers of dirt and blood. He coughed, struggling weakly to his knees, trying to gauge the passage of time as the room swayed around him in a dim, ringing silence.
"Harry!"
He turned, trying to find his feet, and spotted a flash of orange nearly buried between a film of dust. Ron. He was half sitting, leaning heavily against the shattered bar, blood running down his face.
"Ron," Harry gasped, stumbling toward him. He felt sick, shattered to pieces. His stomach was clenching painfully. He couldn't get enough air.
"He's gone!" Ron managed, his teeth bared in a bloody grimace. "He's run. Go!"
"I—"
His eyes trailed across Ron's hand, clenched firmly against his side, at the bloody, jagged edges of the bar behind him. At Daniyel, stirring weakly by the wall, which had cracked from the impact. At Ernie, rising shakily to his elbows, his wand trained on a semi-conscious man, the familiar face of Walden Macnair shining through beneath his torn hood and filling Harry with fury.
He couldn't leave them. How could he leave them there, with their blood painting the floor? He was shocked the inn was still standing, that it hadn't collapsed around them.
"Go, Potter," Aberforth Dumbledore choked out, crawling out from behind the bar. "I've got them. Catch the bleedin' fucker."
Harry cursed, locked eyes with Ron, who shot a firm glance toward the door, and stumbled out of the pub.
"Oh my God, Harry!"
Ella's voice nearly froze him in place. She was running towards the Hog's Head, Robert and Hermione by her side, her eyes wide and terrified as she caught sight of him. They hadn't bloody stayed. Of course they hadn't.
"Harry, we set anti-disapparition wards!" Hermione cried, panting as they hurried toward him. "We saw Rookwood! But—"
"He went that way," Robert cut in, gesturing toward the mountains on the far side of the village. "Just now!"
"They need help!" Harry shot back, pivoting in the direction Robert had indicated. His eyes locked with Hermione's for the briefest moment, and he saw her face pale by degrees as he held her gaze. "Inside," he choked out. "Hurry!"
And he ran before they could say anything more, each breath stabbing, dagger-like, at his chest. Each footfall echoing jarringly through his bruised body. He flung himself around a corner, onto another small street, then another. He was back on the high street now, darting through fleeing students who rushed past him in terror, staring with shocked eyes as he ran past. And then he saw Rookwood, his dust-strewn robes standing out harshly against the crisp Hogwarts uniforms. He was running, wending through the terror-stricken students and villagers, who scurried out of the way. Harry's heart was in his throat, pounding mercilessly. His hand clenched around his wand, but he didn't raise it. Couldn't. If he fired a spell, called out a warning, if he did anything… Merlin, all these kids would be right in the crossfire.
The thoughts were icy shards, stabbing at his insides. And every step he took was agonizing. Every moment put more and more distance between them.
He sped up, ignoring his body's feeble protests. Walling up the pain in a corner of his mind. Up ahead, Rookwood cut sharply to the right, leaving the thoroughfare of the high street behind. Harry darted after him, feeling a momentary stab of relief when he glimpsed the emptier street. But it was fleeting; Rookwood was almost at the stile that marked the edge of the village, with only the mountains up ahead. He wasn't sure how far Hermione's wards extended. How long would it take until Rookwood realized he could Apparate away?
"Stupefy!" Harry gasped, aiming his wand at Rookwood's retreating back.
Rookwood reacted faster than should've been possible. He whirled to the side, the Stunner flying harmlessly past and crashing into the stile, and sent another Blasting Curse at Harry, who wordlessly threw forth a Shield Charm. The spells collided with a tremendous bang, the shield shattering from the impact of containing the curse. Shards of magical energy flew in all directions, burning across Harry's arms like scorching glass. Rookwood took off, running again before Harry had time to draw breath.
"Stop!" Harry cried, shooting off a silent Freezing Charm. It missed Rookwood by inches as he darted left and right, weaving across Harry's line of sight.
"Fuck you, Potter!" Rookwood spat, shooting a Stunner over his shoulder.
Harry flung himself sideways, feeling the heat of it graze his cheek. He hit the ground hard, rolled onto his shoulder, took aim, and shouted, "Glacius!"
The ground beneath Rookwood iced over instantly, and he slipped, skidding along until he landed with a shattering crash. His wand flew out of his hand and skittered away across the icy surface. Breathing hard, Harry stumbled to his feet and sprinted forward, halting at the edge of the ice as Rookwood clambered to his knees. Harry raised his wand, training it on the kneeling man with a satisfied fury.
"It's over," he said, his wand hand quite steady despite his trembling body. "You've nowhere to go. Augustus Rookwood, you're under arrest and will now be taken into Ministry custody. Immobulus."
Rookwood smirked, his eyes narrowing. "Fool!" he hissed, his voice morphing into a laugh. He abruptly raised his hands, sweeping them toward the sky in a cutting motion, and the ice around him exploded outward, slicing through the Freezing Charm and shooting at Harry with the force of a thousand frozen bullets.
"Protego!" Harry gasped, stumbling backwards in shock as chunks of ice pelted endlessly at his shield. He cursed, letting more energy flow into the shield, strengthening it as the ice continued to bear down on him. His arms were shaking from the effort, his feet barely holding him up. It wouldn't do; the shield wasn't enough, he needed to redirect the flow of magic.
"Expulso!" he gasped, too exhausted to focus without verbalizing the spell. His shield exploded outward, the pressurized blast pushing the ice away, scattering its chunks across the ground. He sagged to his knees, black spots flickering across his vision. His breaths were deafening echoes in his mind. He inhaled slowly, exhaled, repeated the motions, until his vision finally cleared. Until he could clamber to his feet without falling.
And when he finally did, Rookwood was nowhere in sight.
He turned slowly on the spot, searching, but there was only one logical place for Rookwood to go. He walked gingerly towards the stile, his eyes peeled for signs of movement, unlikely as they were now. The flash of a cloak. Anything. His mind was in turmoil, swirling between fear, guilt, and anger. The thoughts nearly paralyzed him. Wandless magic. He hadn't been expecting it. Hadn't been prepared at all. Rookwood was right — he was a bloody fool. He'd had him there, cornered. Robards would be furious. And every bit of his anger would be justified. Every word he'd say, Harry was already screaming at himself.
The wind picked up, chilling him to the bone as he approached the mountain path. The very air seemed to tremble, his anguish so thick and heavy it almost played back at him like a song.
"Harry!"
He glanced back. Robert was running toward him from the village, Ella at his heels.
"Where's Rookwood?" she panted. "What happened?"
"Gone," Harry said bitterly, slapping the stile and achieving nothing but a stinging pain in his palm.
"Are you all right?" Ella said, drawing to a halt beside him. She reached out a hand, trailing it across his cheek. "You look a real mess…"
"I'm fine. How are the others?"
"Hurt. But they'll be all right," Ella said, her voice shaking slightly. She lowered her hand, her fingers now smeared with dusty blood. "The Mediwizards were patching up Ron when we left. They're transferring him to St. Mungo's. Dan and Ernie aren't too bad. They've got Macnair in custody..."
He turned away, gazing resolutely down the path that led to the mountains.
"Harry…"
"I'm fine," he repeated, the words catching in his throat. Guilt flared again, hot and angry. "It's my fault. They're my team, and I couldn't do anything to help. And I let Rookwood get away, too." He slipped a leg over the stile, hopping it. The jarring motion echoed painfully through his bruised and battered body.
"Harry, the wards only extended to the village edge," Robert said carefully. "He'll have Disapparated. You need to have a Mediwizard look you over, mate…"
"He might not be aware of the boundaries," Harry said, fully aware that he was grasping at straws as he peered into the distance. "There are caves up ahead. Sirius used to hide in one. Rookwood might be doing the same."
He pushed adamantly onward.
"Harry, c'mon, this is stupid," Ella said gently, following him over the stile. "You know this isn't your fault. You're hurt. Let's go back."
"Don't follow me," Harry said, turning to her. "It isn't safe."
"Are you mad?" she said, her voice rising incredulously. "It isn't safe— Have you seen yourself? You're in no state to go anywhere except St. Mungo's." She took hold of his arm, her grip gentle but firm. "Let's go, Harry. No objections. Please."
He hesitated, guilt fueling his resolve. "You're the one who wanted to run off a second ago, El. Have you forgotten?"
"And you wouldn't let me," she said firmly, her hand still on his arm. "Because it's dangerous… and we weren't prepared." She looked at him, her eyes pleading. "Please, Harry, I can't lose you…"
She stared him down, her eyes boring into his as she pulled him into a silent battle of wills, until...
"All right." Harry lowered his wand, his shoulders sagging as the last of his resolve slipped away. He had known from the beginning that it was a losing battle. Rookwood was a master of vanishing; he wouldn't stick around. They'd have to pursue other inquiries. Little Hangleton… The wind blew roughly past them again, its cry cresting to a wail that chilled his heart.
"What is that?" Robert said sharply. "Did you hear it?"
"What?" Ella said nervously. She let go of Harry, reaching for her wand.
Robert hopped the stile and joined them on the path, his eyes darting around. He stepped slowly forward, listening. The wind howled again, keening, until goose bumps rose on Harry's arms despite the layers of fabric.
"I don't hear anything," Ella said. "Just the wind. Rob, c'mon. We should get Harry back."
"It isn't." He slipped past them, stepping further down the path.
"Rob," Ella said, frustrated.
"Wait here." His voice was quiet but sharp. He hurried ahead, vanishing around an outcropping of rock.
Ella glanced at Harry, her expression drawn into a frown, but Harry was already hurrying after Robert, his hand clenching around his wand once more. The wailing of the wind grew louder, swelling painfully in his chest. His whole body seemed to hum with it. He was trembling now, his eyes suddenly stinging, growing blurry for reasons he couldn't explain.
He blinked, clearing his vision as they rounded the corner, and spotted Robert up ahead, crouching before something splayed out among the sharp-edged rocks. A dark shadow. The edge of a cloak. Ella drew in a sharp breath beside him.
"No…" she whispered, her voice catching. Her face pale as death. "N-no!"
The hem of the cloak was an endless blue. Dark like midnight. Trailing with stars. How many times… had he seen it before? Harry stumbled forward, his breath caught in his throat. His chest heavy with knowing, even though he hadn't seen, hadn't really seen…
He was barely aware of moving.
Robert turned, his face so white he looked nearly translucent. As if he would vanish any second. It made the scene behind him only more ghastly. More contrastingly gruesome. Harry dropped to his ground, his eyes trailing across the… the body — was it? Had it been human? But it was wearing his robes.
It looked hardly human; a gruesome doll with only a slight approximation of what humans should look like. Coal black and shriveled, as if all his flesh had been burnt off, until nothing but the shape of him remained. Still dressed in those robes. With those spectacles still… those familiar half-moons...
Ella let out an anguished sob beside him, collapsing to her knees.
And Harry stared, silent, frozen, his heart beating so hard that he was sure it would burst from his chest and shatter. Sure that he would stop breathing, just as the world had stopped turning. This was all a dream; a bad, horrible dream. He would wake up now, any minute, with Ella in his arms. They had enough tragedy. It was too much. It wasn't possible for everything to pile up and up and up, when just a few weeks ago everything was perfect. No one was dead. They had been expecting a baby.
Had he Traveled again? Had he switched places with another Harry trapped in some dystopia where everyone was dead and everything was broken?
His eyes trailed across the body (No, it couldn't be his body.); across the hands, the face, the neck, all burned to cinders beneath the robes, which were painfully immaculate (It couldn't.); across the small, wrinkled bird clawing weakly at the robes above where the heart should be, thick tears falling fruitlessly from its eyes like pearls as its keening song called out to the wind, to the air, to the sky. To the depths of his heart.
"Fawkes," Harry whispered, his voice breaking. "Fawkes, he's gone… You can't… you can't fix him…"
He was shaking, tears gathering thickly at the edges of his eyes. Ella was sobbing, her own tears splashing down her face with wild abandon as she reached forward, searching for Dumbledore's hand.
"Don't," Harry said, grabbing her. "He could be cursed. Ella..."
She shook her head, seemingly incapable of forming words. She shrugged out of Harry's grip. Reached out again, her hand trembling. Searching.
"It's all right," Robert whispered, his voice as rough as broken glass. "He's—"
Ella grasped firmly at what remained of Dumbledore's right hand, blackened and shrunken beneath the weight of a large gold ring, and covered it with both of her own.
"He isn't cursed," Robert choked out finally. "Not anymore."
.
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A/N: I'm so sorry for this, but also I'm really excited about it. Hope you guys are too!
Rina