Chapter Nineteen: Of Heart and Souls

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The room hummed, buzzing with the unique clinical aura she had long come to associate with life hanging in the balance. Staying. Going. Happiness. Grief.

Hospitals… they were all the same.

Ella slipped silently out of the room after one last glance at Harry's face — resting, finally. Spelled to sleep — and walked briskly down the corridor. She tried not to think, not to let her mind wander into the shadows that had been growing darker all day, but it was near impossible. How could she not think of it? The weight in her pocket alone…

She drew in a breath. It was meant to be deep, calming; but it caught in her throat, only setting her more on edge. She was lost. She had no idea where to even begin. And Dumbledore. Oh, Albus…

Would it all be better if she paused? Took a breath? Cried? Oh, of course it wouldn't fix anything, she knew that. But then maybe for ten minutes she could let herself just feel it all, and pretend that pain was all it was.

But she didn't. As much as the pain hurt, her fear was greater. And fear was the greatest motivator she knew.

She slipped into the Uric Oddball ward — a long room that housed two rows of beds, one along each wall. The beds were about half full. There were partitions in place around each one, granting their occupants a modicum of privacy. She hurried down the center aisle, a flash of orange drawing her attention. Robert was already there — good. He was hovering at the edge of the partition that blocked the bed at the far end from view and caught her eye when he saw her approaching.

"How's Harry?" he asked softly.

"All right," she replied in a whisper. "They patched him up and gave him a short dose of Dreamless Sleep because he was refusing to rest. He should be discharged in a few hours. What about Ron?"

"In recovery," Robert said. "Hermione's all over the Healers. Ernie's all right too. They just discharged him."

"Good." She breathed in relief.

"Are you ready?"

"No," she said, fidgeting with the shape in her pocket. It was so heavy; heavier than something its size ought to be allowed to be. "Not even a little bit. But we haven't got a choice, have we?"

And she stepped round the partition, smiling weakly as her eyes met Daniyel's. "Hey…"

"Hey." His face was pale and hard, and she knew that it was too much to hope he hadn't heard them.

"What is it?" His voice was tight; a string stretched nearly to breaking point. "Has something else happened?"

She paused, reformulating her approach. She had been hoping to lead the conversation, to bring it — them — up slowly. But facing him now, she had no idea how to say it. The words stuck in her throat. She shook her head instead, slipping into one of the chairs beside his bed as Robert carefully drew the curtains closed around them.

"Are you all right?" she said softly. Her eyes drifted to the delicate orb that hovered above the headboard, glowing faintly green as it pulsed steadily in time with his heart. "They're keeping you…"

"I'm perfectly fine," Daniyel said. "They sorted me right out. They're just insisting I hang round for a few hours of monitoring."

"Good." She twisted her hands together anxiously.

"It's not good," Daniyel said. "It's a bloody mess. And Dumbledore… Ells, I'm so sorry…"

She nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. The wound still fresh.

"We'll track him down," Daniyel said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "Rookwood. We nearly had him today, before he pulled out the Blasting Curse. But we'll be prepared next time. Dumbledore will have justice. Ells, I promise."

The words, his belief, somehow made it all that much worse. She closed her eyes for a moment, channeling some other, less complicated, alternate reality where Rookwood killing Dumbleore was all it was. Horrible as it was, it was still easier. But it was no good — it didn't even scratch the surface of her inner turmoil. She glanced at Robert, the weight in her pocket unbearably heavy now. Burning through her robes, really.

"Muffliato," Robert said quietly, pointing his wand at the partitions around them.

Daniyel looked between them in question, his frown deepening.

"Dan," she said softly, stepping to the edge of the gaping cliff that sheared her mind. "Rookwood… didn't kill Dumbledore."

"What?" He stared at her blankly. "You mean he isn't dead? Aren't you lot the ones who found him?"

"He's dead." The words sent a chill down her arms. She kept going. "But we, that is Rob and I, don't believe Rookwood killed him. At least not directly."

Daniyel frowned at them. "What do you mean? Robards said that Harry and Rookwood got into a spellfight at the edge of Hogsmeade, and that Rookwood escaped into the mountains before Disapparating. Dumbledore was found there. He killed—"

"Mate," Robert said, "do you really reckon Rookwood could take down Dumbledore?"

"I…" Daniyel faltered, glancing between them. "All right, it's odd. But then who killed him? What the hell happened?"

"This happened," Ella said, her voice shaking now, and she plunged her hand recklessly into her pocket, drew out the ugly gold ring with its cracked back stone, and slapped it down, hard, onto the edge of the bed.

It lay there, looking altogether like a useless trinket long worn out of style. The gold glimmered slightly in the pale light of St. Mungo's, reflections curving across its edge. Daniyel's eyes widened as he stared at it, his mouth dropping open.

"Is that what I fucking think it is?" he managed finally, his voice a rasp. He raised his eyes slowly, his gaze meeting hers. Her own panic was mirrored on his face.

She couldn't answer. Couldn't form the words, even though the words, the word, was right there, looming in her mind like a forgotten, deadly stranger. The shape of it filled her with terror. In silence, she picked up the ring again, twisting it around until the stone atop it was clearly visible. A deep crack ran through its surface, splitting it nearly in two. She held it out to Daniyel as an offering.

He took it lightly, grimacing as he twisted it in his fingers.

"It is," he whispered, his voice a barely smothered gasp. "The horcrux… it has to be."

The word cut through her entire soul. She dropped her head. Nodded.

"Bloody hell," Daniyel managed. The glowing orb beside the bed shifted slightly, its pulsing motion quickening as the green tinted very faintly to orange. "Where did you get this? How do you know it's safe?"

"Off of Dumbledore's finger," Ella said, trying to keep her voice steady as she looked up again. "He was bloody wearing it. He was burned to a crisp, Dan. Not just his hand. Everything. Rookwood didn't do that."

Her words were like a shroud, wrapping them all in tense silence.

"But how?" Daniyel whispered finally. "I don't even… is it… active?"

"It has no magical signature," Robert said, speaking at last. "I ran the entire gamut of Dark detection charms. Look, it's broken in half; just a stone now. Well…" He faltered. "Maybe it isn't just a stone, but it's safe."

"But when he put it on, it was a horcrux? A piece of… of Voldemort's bloody soul?"

"We… don't know," Ella admitted. "But it killed him. We're sure."

"How are you so sure?" Daniyel said. "You know he wanted the Resurrection Stone. He could've gotten it ages ago. He could've had it all this time, and just happened to be wearing it when Rookwood—"

"Unfortunately, there's more," Robert said, and Daniyel fell silent, staring between them again. "I'm guessing you haven't heard about Brycetown…?"

By the time he had, Daniyel's face had paled so considerably that Ella was glad he was sitting down. The glowing orb above him was pulsing rather quickly, shifting firmly to orange, and she was sure that any Healers monitoring it would burst into the room momentarily. Not that she could blame Daniyel, her own heart was pounding nearly out of time. Following her gaze, Daniyel took several deep breaths, until the orb's color returned to green once more, and spoke in a strangled whisper.

"So Brycetown is Little Hangleton, and you reckon the attack was related to the horcrux, is that it? You think Rookwood tried to take it?"

"Yes," Robert said. "And likely set off its protective enchantments. The mist…"

Ella closed her eyes, her heart thrumming. It was impossible to deny the connections now, as much as she had been trying to all day. Ever since Robert and Hermione had burst into their flat at 8 bloody am and whispered the magic words: Little Hangleton. A missing Death Eater, determined to avoid capture. An attack on the village that had birthed Voldemort. A Dark miasma of magic screaming of defensive rebounds. And in the center of it all, a horcrux. It was too much to be a coincidence. And Dumbledore had said… had said that everything was connected.

"Dumbledore must have realized," she said softly, flashing back, once again, to the mysterious note. The last one Dumbledore — Albus — would ever write her… "When he found out about the village. Oh, he knew it was Little Hangleton — he's the one who had Frank's name cleared. He must've… must've run to the village when he… when he didn't hear from me…" She felt her chest clench painfully. Tears were working their way to the edges of her eyes, growing heavy as they pooled across her lashes. "Oh God, it's all my fault. If I'd only gone to see him Friday, this wouldn't have… I could have warned him not to… I mean we've discussed the horcrux theory before, but I didn't mention the stone, what with Ariana—"

"Ella, stop," Robert said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "It isn't your fault. You couldn't have known."

"I didn't make an effort," she gasped. "He said it was important, and I all but forgot about it."

"Ells, you had just finished chemo," Daniyel said gently. "You can hardly—"

"I should've gone to see him instead of going to class," she whispered. "I should've… No, I should've done all sorts of things. But it's too late. He's gone." She pressed her palms roughly to her eyes, pushing the tears away. They wouldn't do her any good now. Dumbledore was dead. And she wasn't fool enough to think that the problem had died with him.

The problem they were all avoiding, even now.

"Dan," she whispered, her eyes meeting his as she forced herself to ask the question she hadn't asked him for twelve long years, had promised herself she would never ask again. "Are you… sure that He is dead?"

The space around them turned to silence, her words hanging oppressively in the air. They were smothering. Daniyel's hand shook slightly upon the bed, betraying the stoic mask on his face, but that was all. She felt the guilt rise within her, clawing at her chest as it surged to the surface. She knew how much the fight had hurt him; how long he had taken to heal; how much it still cut, even now. But she kept her eyes on his. She felt Robert draw in a sharp breath at her side. Waiting.

"He's dead," Daniyel said finally, his voice cracking slightly over the word. "There was a body. I saw it. There was nothing left… no heartbeat, no soul. Nothing."

"All right," Robert said, gripping Daniyel's shoulder. "So he's dead."

"It isn't like last time, with Harry," Daniyel added, his hands clenching into fists atop the bedspread. "He didn't cast an A.K. and disappear… there's a body," he repeated, almost as if to himself. "The Union killed him. There was a different prophecy, it's all changed. It's been thirteen years…"

"OK," Ella whispered, nodding as a trickle of relief seeped through her. "You're right."

"This ring..." Daniyel said, picking it up again and rolling it between his fingers. "It's nothing now, you said it yourselves. No Dark magic. If it was a horcrux and killed Dumbledore, then why's it broken? You didn't do that, did you?"

"No, we didn't," Ella said slowly. She glanced at Robert again, the hopeful feeling intensifying.

"It's definitely possible it wasn't a horcrux when he found it," Robert said carefully. "It was the protective enchantments that killed Dumbledore when he put it on… at least the first time. We don't know that they're actually powered by his soul."

"So," Ella said slowly, "you reckon he found it, put it on, and… Snape wasn't there to help this time. But why? And why would Rookwood be looking for it?"

"If he is," Robert said.

"Oh, totally, I'm sure it's all a giant coincidence," Ella said, her terror lashing out into scathing sarcasm. "I'm sure he attacked Harry, Dan, and Ron for no reason at all. Sure thing."

Robert sighed. "Ella, calm down. I'm just saying we don't know exactly what's happening. We need to look at this objectively."

"I know," she said shortly, "sorry. It's just hard, when this might be, when Harry might be…" She broke off, the thought too terrible to voice. Robert and Daniyel glanced at each other.

"We don't know that anything is anything," Robert said finally. "Least of all Harry. Look, it's completely impossible to say when the stone was cracked. It might have even happened during the Union, when Voldemort was killed. We know that horcruxes existed, because Harry still destroyed the diary… It's likely every horcrux that remained at that moment was broken. Rookwood could have been looking for this ring for any number of reasons, if he was even looking for it at all. Maybe he wanted it for his collection. Maybe he's been looking for the Hallows and found it out. Maybe he hasn't even been to Little Hangleton, and the defenses were activated on their own. And Dumbledore might just have panicked when he heard, and—"

"I dunno," Ella said, frowning. "That doesn't add up, Rob! Rookwood was feet from Dumbledore's body when it happened. And he was definitely on the offensive in Hogsmeade. Why would he even be there otherwise? And what about the others? Macnair?"

"Maybe they fancied a drink?" Daniyel said lightly. She shot him a glare and he backtracked. "Voldemort never told the Death Eaters about his horcruxes, you know that."

"Do we?" she shot back. "Everything's changed, remember? What if they know?"

"And so what if they do?" Daniyel said. "What are they going to do for them? They're useless now… aren't they?"

He glanced at Robert, who worried his lip before turning back to Ella. "You don't think Rookwood killed Dumbledore," he reminded her. "You said it yourself…"

"OK," she said. "Fine. But what about this— this ring. Where does that leave us? Without Dumbledore to explain why he did whatever he did… I mean, what are we supposed to do then? Should we be concerned about the rest?"

"The rest of the horcruxes?" Daniyel said slowly. "You think we need to go horcrux hunting?" He cursed lightly, bringing his hands to his face. "I mean, this is mad… Have you told anyone about this? The Aurors… Harry?"

"No," she whispered, her heart clenching painfully in her chest again. Harry. It was a road she couldn't go down. "How can I… What am I supposed to say? And we don't even know if they're… well, if they have… if they are…"

"It may not be a terrible idea to try and track another one down," Robert said slowly. "Just to… to see. Before we do anything. The one in Hogwarts would be easiest. We know how to get into the Room."

"Right," Daniyel said, his voice measured. "Whatever else they are, they'll be Dark magical objects we need to get rid of before they kill anyone else. Once we find the tiara and confirm that it's not… well… actually a horcrux, we can tell Harry where the rest are and destroy the lot. Assuming Macnair hasn't already told Robards as much. I reckon they're questioning him now. And they'll use Veritaserum if they have to. He'll tell them everything."

"And what if… if they are," Ella whispered, after a rather lengthy pause. "What then?"

But there was no answer, not a single one that was satisfactory. Not a single one that made sense and kept her world in order. For all the words Daniyel and Robert had to offer, they might as well not have spoken at all.

Horcrux.

The word echoed through the swirling chaos of Daniyel's mind long after Ella and Robert finally left him to the mercy of the Healers. It seemed to grow larger and larger as he lay in the empty ward, looming in proportion to everything else until it seemed to comprise the entire makeup of his brain. Rocking him to the core.

How could it be?

He couldn't fathom what it meant, though he had thought of little else for hours. Surely, surely there couldn't still be pieces of Voldemort's soul left somewhere out there… because if there were, then what had it all been for? All the pain, the battle, the… murder that he and Harry had committed together. No matter what brush he painted it with — self-defense, heroism, war — the truth of it gaped up at him with accusation from every shadow. From every nightmare. Had done so for twelve long years. And now, he wondered, had it been a murder at all?

He couldn't face that question. Anything but that.

And there were countless more. He thought about them endlessly as he finally made his way home in the falling darkness. Dumbledore; what had he known? What had he wanted to tell Ella? Why had he run off to grab a ring he couldn't have destroyed on his own. Had it been unbroken to break? Dumbledore had slashed it with a sword once — in another life that he would never know. But there had been no sword laying beside him. Was it still there, in his office, or had it done its job after all and winked out of existence to search for another brave soul to wield it? Dumbledore had said the sword would present itself to any worthy Gryffindor, but in the end it was Harry's… wasn't it? How could it really belong to anyone else?

But thinking of Harry now did nothing but send a winterlike chill through his chest. He shuddered, turning away from the reflection that stared back at him from the pitch-black window of the tube as it swayed through tunnels buried deep beneath London.

"No magical travel," the Healer had told him, signing off on his release papers with a cursory scribble as he led Daniyel out of the ward at last. "No Apparition, no Floo. No jarring or strenuous activity until tomorrow earliest. Is someone waiting to take you home?"

Daniyel had shaken his head in silence, causing the Healer to frown before adding, "There is a travel counter in the basement where you can arrange appropriate transportation. We have an agreement with a Muggle taxi service."

But Daniyel didn't go to the basement. He couldn't bear the thought of walking down there, of interacting with some witch or wizard who would order him a Muggle taxi, of all things. The normality of it was mind-shattering. He had never needed a punching bag more than in that moment. But that would probably be considered a strenuous and/or jarring activity. So the kickboxing gym was definitely out.

Which left him with nothing but the emptying London streets, the pavement thudding beneath the soles of his boots as his mind whirled endlessly. The cold night air was a welcome reprieve. He abandoned it for the tube only when he admitted to himself that it was too far to walk to Camden from St. Mungo's. Not unwalkable, by any means, but the exhaustion of his body was stronger than the fervor of his mind.

The reflection in the dark glass now was hard. Sharp. Fleeting; sputtering for moments as the train roared through patches of light, until they pulled into the station and it vanished entirely. How easy it was to see it wink out. Abruptly. Inevitably. Crumbling in the blink of an eye, as if the edges of the growing lights had served as ample warning.

The light burst through the windows either way, until the mirrored shadow was gone and nothing but the harsh brightness remained.

He was steps from the door to his flat when he spotted her. She had been sitting in a shadowed corner of the stairs that led to the sixth floor, and she stumbled to her feet when he approached.

"Dan!" His name on her lips was a choked whisper as she threw her arms around him.

"Siggy…" he gasped, hugging her back. A warmth had flared in his chest at the sight of her. "What are you—"

"I heard about Hogsmeade." She drew back, her eyes glistening in the dim light of the landing. Her hands were clasped around his, squeezing tightly, as if feeling out the shape of him; ensuring its solidity. "I was so worried. I went by St. Mungo's, but they said— they said you'd already gone. Are you OK?"

"Hanging in there," he said softly, twisting his hands around until his fingers twined with hers.

"Did you get hurt?" Her eyes locked on his resolutely, as if searching for wounds deep within his soul. Her expression was braced, seemingly afraid of the answer but determined to hear it anyway. It had only been a few short weeks since she had last lost someone to Rookwood's fancy, and he knew she would want the truth now, no matter how painful or unpleasant.

"I'm all right, honest," he said, squeezing her hands in reassurance. "Rookwood knocked me into a wall and I banged my head a bit, but the Healers sorted me right out."

"Are you sure?" she pressed, stepping closer. She freed one hand, running it gently through his hair as if searching for residual injuries. It made him smile weakly.

"I promise," he said, infusing intent into every word until his voice sounded sure and calm and confident. Until it felt like it was someone else speaking through him, because these things were so far from what he felt inside.

She simply looked at him, silent, as if she knew it all for lies but would accept it nonetheless. Whatever he wanted to say. And for a moment he yearned to tell her. Everything. To puncture the bubble of the storm roaring in his chest; the one that filled up his lungs until there was barely room for air. But he couldn't. Some things simply weren't his to say, or simply couldn't be said — and even if they were, how could he give her that burden to carry just to make his own load lighter?

Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her, planting his lips firmly against hers. She hesitated for only a fraction before kissing him back. Her lips parted slightly in invitation, her kiss gentle at first, then firm… then fire. And then she was kissing him like nothing mattered, and it felt like her lips chained him to the earth. Like he would float away without her.

Her hands grasped at his hair, ran through the strands before twining around his neck, and his trailed down her back, pulled her closer. She let him, her breath coming out in a sharp gasp against his mouth. Her hair was dancing across his cheeks, the strands cold and crisp where they brushed his skin, and they filled his nose with the fresh scent of winter; like a late spring snowfall. Unexpected, and all the sweeter for it.

She let go of his neck to cup his face, kissing him harder. Her tongue danced with his as desire burned sharply through him, the fear of before momentarily blazing away. Somehow in that moment, with his arms wrapped around her and her heartbeat pounding in rhythm with his own, it was hard to be afraid of shadows. In that moment, nothing seemed too big to conquer come morning.

He wasn't sure of the precise moment they stumbled into the darkness of his flat. Could not imagine the mechanics of working open the door or leading her inside. He remembered only the soft feel of her lips against his; the shape of her breasts, pale in the moonlight that shone through the windows; the gentle yield of her skin as he trailed his hands lightly against her stomach, down past her hips to brush against the curls at the apex of her thighs. He remembered the way she shuddered at his touch; her gasp the smallest inhale as his hands explored her skin. She lay bare before him, her eyes dark pools that reflected his own desire like a mirror.

And nothing else mattered then. The darkness of the day was lost to the moonlight. Buried beneath the love he found in her touch.

She cried out softly when he slid inside her, her body slick and hot around him, her back arching like a bow against the soft sheets. Her breasts pressed firmly against his chest as the rhythm of their motions drew him to the edge.

He wondered later, as they lay atop tangled sheets with her warm back pressed up against his chest and her head resting on his arm, whether the activity had been more strenuous than what the Healer ordered. But he didn't care. There was no better place to leave his doubts than outside the circle of her arms, where no more than two souls could fit. Even in pieces.