Chapter Six: Shadows Looming

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Ella stared, frozen into silence. Her world seemed to have shattered and rearranged itself within the space of a moment, the pieces falling neatly into place.

"Oh, Rob," she whispered, "I'm so sorry. I didn't… didn't know."

But she should have, she realized. All those years between them, and she had never wondered. He had never said a word, and she'd simply carried on in her self-centered oblivion, too caught up in her own relationships to consider anyone else's. She held on to his hand now, refusing to let it go, lest he slip away.

"No one knew," he said quietly.

"Why didn't you tell us? Rob… you know it makes no difference who you love. You know we'd love you either way… don't you?"

He nodded, his lips pressed tightly together, as if already biting back the words, as if wishing he hadn't let them fly free. "I know. But some things are just… hard to say. And you can't take them back."

She glanced at him seriously, her eyes meeting his. "You can always take them back," she said, deadpan, "if youObliviateus."

Robert actually laughed, the sound shattering the heavy atmosphere of the room. She let the lightness of it fill her, nearly lifting her up. How brilliant it was, to find the laughter buried underneath, despite the darkness swirling around them.

She held on to it — that light and hopeful feeling fluttering in her chest — wrapped it around herself like armour as she held on to him, listened, and finally hugged Robert goodbye and made her way back out into the corridor, where she nearly walked into Daniyel, who was leaning against the wall.

"Hey," she said. "I thought you left."

"I was waiting for you."

She hesitated, both relieved and disappointed to hear it. She had little energy to spare for anything other than Floo-ing back home and collapsing onto her bed; but the thought of facing the dark cloud that was threatening to engulf her once she did so was depressing enough that any distraction would do to keep it at bay.

"Harry said you might need a friend," Daniyel added, giving her a brief smile.

"Did he say why?"

"Well, no," Daniyel said, considering her. "But, Ells, is everything OK?"

She sighed. "No. But it's a long freaking story."

He smiled. "I've got time."

She nodded, the edges of her eyes burning again. She hoped they would stop doing that soon; hopefully tomorrow, after she saw Hannah. Daniyel was eyeing her with concern, his expression growing slightly blurred.

"Want to grab a tea?" she suggested, glancing up at the ceiling and blinking furiously until her vision cleared.

"Sure," he said. "I know the perfect place. C'mon."

And he draped his arm around her shoulders and led her out of St. Mungo's and into the dreary February afternoon.

The Ministry was a tangle of dusty shadows. Harry picked his way through the detritus of the sub-basement which had once housed the Department of Mysteries, trying not to inhale the dust that still weighed down the air. Now, it was home to nothing but a sea of broken things and the exhausted colony of workers trying to put it all back together.

"Reparo," he murmured, for what felt like the thousandth time, directing his wand at the broken remains of a cabinet, which flew partially back together. Half the pieces for it were simply gone, and there was no repairing them. And there was certainly no repairing its contents, which were smashed to bits across the floor.

"That was our entire stock of time-turners," said a familiar voice behind him.

Harry turned, his eyes meeting those of Penelope Clearwater, who was staring at the cabinet dejectedly.

"Years of research, that," she said. "All gone."

"Sorry," Harry said.

She shook her head, exhaling heavily. "It's hardly anything to complain about, what with everything else. Have you any leads yet?"

"Not yet," Harry said, pointing his wand back at the ground and sweeping its light across the wreckage. "The suspect was likely in here looking for something, so we're trying to see if anything's missing, but as you can see…" He gestured vaguely at the remains of the Time Chamber.

Penelope let out a short and humorless laugh. "Yes, I suspect it's a losing battle, isn't it? Trying to find what's lost when more than half of Mysteries has been decimated by the Love Chamber…"

She leaned down, pulling a mostly whole time-turner from the wreckage, and traced her fingers gently along its form.

"We won't know until we try," Harry said, turning back to sifting through the rubble. "We need a motive, Penelope. Were the Modus working on anything new here? Anything controversial?"

She shook her head, clutching the time-turner to her chest. "No. We weren't. There haven't been any new developments in Time for nearly a decade; this room was practically becoming storage. And all the time-turners"— she swept her hand around the glittering remains of the room —"are here. What's left of them, anyway."

Which told Harry nothing, other than whoever had broken into the Ministry was, at least, not interested in messing around with the fabric of time.

"So you have no idea what they've taken?" Robards barked at him when Harry relayed the results of his search an hour later.

"Not yet."

"I've got fourteen dead Unspeakables, Potter. I need something."

"Sir," Harry said, "half the department's been destroyed. I reckon we need a different approach."

"Maybe so." Robards turned to face Ernie, who was making his way toward them, his robes entirely coated with dust. "Macmillan, have you found the records?"

Ernie shook his head. "Sorry, boss. Destroyed, looks like."

Robards cursed. "Have Clearwater walk you through everything she knows. We'll have to question Murphie again, see if he left out anything."

"I'll do it," Harry volunteered.

"Fine," Robards said. "And, Potter, track down Weasley. See if he got that list of Azkaban releasees yet. I want them all brought in. Tonight."

"Sir," Harry said with a nod, and he hurried away, out of the sub-basement and back up to the Atrium, where he intercepted Ron and Hermione, who were on their way down.

"Thanks," Harry said wearily, glancing over the list Hermione was holding out as his thoughts strayed, once again, to Ella. He had not expected to be gone for so long, and if this list was any indication, the night was far from over. Looking at it filled him with a mounting sense of dread. How quickly could he and Ron get through this list? It was long — perhaps he could divert additional resources to track them all down. "Robards wants them all…" He paused, his eyes widening as they reached the bottom of the parchment. He stared.

"Harry, I know what you're thinking," Hermione said, her voice sounding oddly far away as a familiar anger sparked suddenly in his chest. "And I've already discussed this with Ron. But just because he's been released doesn't mean he was involved in this."

"But he was an Unspeakable,wasn't he?"His words sounded hollow, forcefully calm. Inside, a storm was brewing within him, prickling at the edges of his skin. A rising serpent at its head.

"He was," Hermione confirmed, eyeing him carefully. "And we should definitely talk to him. But, Harry, you can't just arrest him without any evidence."

"He's aDeath Eater, Hermione!" Harry choked out, his voice ragged as it scratched past the edges of his restraint. He cursed inwardly, tamping the anger down. Burying it. How long had he been fighting it now — thisgiftVoldemort had once given him. This power he resisted daily that fed off the darkness the Union had bound to his soul. He had grown long accustomed to suppressing it, and most of his visions alongside, but was it a surprise that now, with a fallen Ministry at his feet and Ella and Robert in pieces, it would resurface? He shoved it away, steeled himself into calm with force of will.

"We're not arresting anyone yet," he said, forcing his voice into the realm of reasonable volume. "We're just interviewing him —them— seeing if they've got an alibi for Friday night. That's all, Hermione. And this can't wait; we need to catch them off-guard in case they have something to hide. Robards' orders."

Hermione was still frowning, her eyes searching his. "But have you found something in the D.O.M. to suggest—"

"Hermione, you've seen it, haven't you? I doubt we're going to find anything for months — if at all!" He took a breath, turning away from her and forcing his thoughts to drift to Sara. To the light that Slytherin and his power held too, even if Voldemort had carried only shadows.

"Oh," Hermione said finally, her voice tight, "fine. But, Harry, please don't forget that they've all served their time. And they have rights. I understand why Robards wants them questioned, but you can't just drag him in and throw him in a cell. If this isn't done properly, it could invalidate his entire testimony if hedidhave something to do with it."

"We'll be careful," he promised, relieved that his voice finally sounded normal. The anger was fading, sinking into shadows again.Thank Merlin. He needed a clear head if he was going to do this right. He grabbed Ron by the elbow and pulled him along. "Everything by the book, all right?"

"What he said," Ron added, allowing Harry to drag him away as Hermione scowled at their retreating forms.

"Served their time…" Harry repeated, perusing the list again as Ron fell into step beside him. "Bollocks. How the hell did he get out so fast?"

"He's not really out, mate," Ron said, scowling. "Still under house arrest. But 'good behavior.' Really bloody excellent, apparently. And overcrowding."

Harry scoffed, momentarily revisiting the battle at Shadow Hogwarts, watching in his mind's eye as the bloody man's spell brought down the balcony that had trapped and nearly killed Ella. Not to mention that he had been one of the select few who had kidnapped Daniyel, Ron, and Hermione from the lakeshore. The thought of him walking free in any sense burned, threatening to overwhelm him at every step, but the anger he felt now was his own.

Rookwood had worked in the Department of Mysteries once. Had been an Unspeakable and a spy, in fact. And if Rookwood had repaid the idiots who released him early by burning down the Ministry and killing fourteen Unspeakables, there would be hell to pay. And Harry would most definitely make sure that he paid it.

The knock echoed through the dilapidated house with such force that Harry was almost surprised it didn't shatter from the vibration alone.

"Open up!" he called. "Magical Law Enforcement!"

There was no answer. He glanced at Ron, who frowned.

"He's supposed to be here." Ron drew a shimmering circle in the air with his wand and eyed the glowing orb, which had appeared within its confines. "The Tracker indicates he's in the house."

"Homenum Revelio." Harry's spell brushed against the edges of the door and vanished, as if absorbed into the essence of the house itself. Protective wards, then. A violation, but Harry wasn't surprised. At least the house was important enough to warrant protecting. He contemplated it for only a moment —Legilimency. Another 'gift' that he had forced away. It could stretch past these walls, past the enchantments. Could freeze Rookwood in place, trapped in a cage of his own mind.But no, he couldn't use it.Wouldn't. He was Harry. Harry,and that was all.He wouldn't trade pieces of himself to the darkness chained inside; not for this.

He knocked on the door again, which shuddered under the impact. "If he's here, he's not too keen to talk to us. Check the back."

"Sure thing." Ron raised his wand and trudged off, vanishing into the shadows as he rounded the perimeter of the house, which stood alone, surrounded by nothing but the remains of the last snowfall, which coated the field and trees around it in half-melted patches.

Harry kept his wand trained on the door, contemplating its rough wooden frame as his wandlight cast it into sharp relief.Decrepit. That was the word that came to mind as he eyed the structure. With its missing roof tiles, overgrown yard littered with chunks of fallen asphalt, and a door frame so rotted, it looked like termites had eaten the best of it years ago, the house seemed on the cusp of falling apart. Was Rookwoodreallyliving here? Harry found it hard to believe that someone could find the comforts of home in a place that made his old cupboard look like a five-star hotel… especially when confined to it at all hours of the day. But, he supposed, anything was better than Azkaban.

"Nothing." Ron had returned, his wand casting a harsh beam of light across the ground. "The back door's rusted shut. All the lights off."

"Right," Harry said, raising his wand again. "Stand back."

"Are you breaking down the door?" Ron hissed. "Harry, we don't have a warrant. You heard Hermione—"

"Rookwood is under house arrest and he's not answering to a law enforcement officer," Harry said evenly, training his wand on the door. "That's plenty for probable cause. Stand back, Ron."

Ron stepped aside, his wand hovering at chest level in anticipation. Harry settled on the door jamb and took aim, pushing his internal conflicts aside. It was toeing the line, but not strictly out of order, to enter Rookwood's house — if it evenwas,which Harry had doubts about — by force. And while securing a warrant in these circumstances would be a non issue, it would waste precious time. Time he wasn't sure they had, if Rookwood was indeed inside and forestalling their arrival. Time that Ella sat waiting, home alone as night fell with its cloak of darkness. And Harry knew all too well what darkness brought. Their tragedy, the tragedy at the Ministry — it all felt bundled together in his mind. Personal. And he was not prepared to give Rockwood even a second to plan an escape.

"Confringo!"he snapped, infusing the spell with the force of his will, and the door flew off its hinges with a bang, crashing forward in a cloud of dust.

There was a rumbling roar that swelled in an instant; the sudden rushing sound of an immense body of water, and Harry barely had time to throw forth a Protego before a wave crashed over them with the ferocity of an entire ocean. He barely registered Ron's harried curse behind him as he focused all his efforts on maintaining the shield, diverting the unending stream of water in two.

The water was filled with jagged pieces of rock that crashed against his shield, sending cracks through the invisible barrier. His wand shuddered in his hands as he tried to hold it steady.

"Immobulus!"Ron cried from behind him, the blue spark of his spell flying at the raging water, which simply absorbed it. It was like trying to stop the Hogwarts Express by throwing a rock on the tracks.

Undeterred, Ron screamed"Incendio!"and brought forth a fire of impressive proportions, which transformed the edges of the water into tendrils of steam before it was extinguished.

Too small. The magic was too small. It gave Harry an idea, though. "Ice!" he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the roar. "Freeze it on three! Together!"

"All right!"

Harry counted out the numbers, inhaled sharply, and broke off the Shield Charm, which had been on its last breath. "Glacius!"

He heard Ron's echo behind him as their synonymous beams of glistening blue shot at the water, melding together, colliding with the roaring wave moments before it crashed into them. There was an earth-shattering crack and, somehow, magically, the wave froze in place, the tips of its immobilized edges glistening like a latticework of icicles.

"Blimey," Ron gasped as Harry let out a painful breath. "Some wards."

They moved away from the door, Harry eyeing the frozen wave, which was now glistening menacingly in the moonlight and looking altogether ready to impale them with its icy spears.

"Evanesco!"he said, vanishing its remains. The frozen wave did not put up a fight, and he was grateful.

"Well, it's not as strong as Dan's snowstorm, but we did all right," Ron said, recovering.

Harry nodded. "It was a good try with the fire. I reckon Fiendfyre would've done it."

"Probably," Ron said with a shrug. "But I didn't reckon we were at that level of mad. Shall we?"

Harry stepped carefully into the house, wand raised, with Ron at his heels. His eyes were peeled for further signs of magic.

Dark and damp, the inside was as forsaken as the exterior. The harsh beams of their wands fell across frayed and peeling wallpaper, a sagging sofa, a chipped table. Harry drew a hand to his face as the dust from his earlier explosion settled, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth as it coated the back of his throat. And yet it wasn't strong enough to mask the pervasive scent of mildew that seemed ingrained in the very framework of the house. It was a home that had long overstayed its welcome, had fallen apart as it stood devoid of love.

It took them only minutes to ascertain that it was empty.

Harry cursed as they finished their circuit of the house, his wandlight casting its trappings into sharp relief. The only upside was that nothing else had jumped out at them with murderous intent.

"He's gone," Harry said. "Must have Confunded the Tracking Spell. This is a bloody mess."

He sighed, continuing his trek around the sitting room. They would have to inform Robards right away. Whether or not Rookwood was involved at the Ministry, this didn't bode well. He would have to get in contact with the law enforcement officer who managed his case and — he froze, staring at the contents of the cabinet his wandlight had just illuminated.Shit.

"Ron," he said slowly, "look at this."

"What?"

There was a sound of hurried footsteps, slightly muffled by a carpet slathered in decades of dust, and Ron appeared at his side. The beam of his wand joined Harry's, trailing over the pile of wands that was unceremoniously stuffed into a glass-fronted cabinet barely large enough to contain them. Ron cursed.

"He's not even supposed to haveone, and he's got that many?!" Ron said, aghast.

Harry's stomach filled with dread as he cast the light over them all. More wands than he could count. What on earth was Rookwood doing? Was this connected to the Ministry? His head was starting to pound just thinking through the possibilities. Was Rookwood still using this house as a base if all these wands were here? Was he planning some kind of revolt? Were other Death Eaters involved? Would it never end?

"Robards will want to know," Ron said. "We'll have to get a full team in here right away."

"Can you send the Patronus?" Harry asked, stepping closer to the cabinet. He sent a pulse of exploratory magic from his wand, searching out more protective enchantments. They had not run into any other maleficent magic in the house, but it was too much to hope that Rookwood would leave his illegal stash of wands unprotected, even if he was relying on the initial wave to keep out most intruders.

He felt the edges of his magic brush up against a magical presence and hurriedly drew back his wand.

"Ron! There's something here!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when a familiar coldness swept through the room, seeming to seep out of the cabinet itself as if it were engulfing them with its icy breath. The lights at the end of their wands dimmed, faltering. Harry drew back, watching as a dark, hooded figure rose out of the cabinet, turning the shadow of its face in his direction. He felt the cold take him, wrapping around his wrists, his ankles, his heart. He let out an involuntary gasp, his breath fogging the air before him.

A dementor.He had not seen one in nearly a decade — not since the war and their removal from Azkaban.

He could hear the screams building in his ears, painfully familiar, growing louder with every second.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please!"

How long had it been since he'd last heard his mother's voice? He raised his wand, searching for a spark of happiness; a bit of kindling to mount his defense. If only the memories he was seeking were not hidden beneath a mound of bodies.

And then the voice changed.

"I am done playing games, Harry. Get on the altar."

He gasped, his hand shaking as the cold voice of nightmares long forgotten echoed through his being once more, the words building to an angry hiss. It seemed to slice right through him — through every shield that time, and love, and Abstract Healing had built up.He was back.He was fifteen again, lying on the stones, bruised and bloodied, and Voldemort was standing over him, Voldemort was drawing nearer…

"Expecto Patronum!"he gasped, searching for the light of Ella's face.

With a tremendous effort that nearly left him breathless, the stag burst forth, showering the room in sudden light as it charged the dementor.

And then, somehow, it galloped right past it, drawing to a soundless halt at the opposite wall.

Harry stared, his breath caught in his throat. The dementor had shifted, following the stag's progress. And when it turned to face him once more, it wasn't a dementor at all.

It was Ella.

"Harry," she gasped. Her face was a harsh canvas of shadows, but he could see the glimmer of her eyes — the way the tears hung off the edges of her lashes before breaking free to trail down her cheeks.

He heard Ron calling him, but his voice was soft, distant. Harry could barely make it out over the pounding of his heart, over the shallow gasps of his own breathing.

There was a flash of light. He dimly registered it; could not imagine what it was connected to.

"Harry," Ella said again, her voice breaking. "It's over." She was crying now. Sobbing. "My fault."

"No," Harry managed. He was blinking furiously, trying to untangle the disparate threads of his reality. His head was throbbing. The room seemed to shimmer, but he could not make sense of it. She was there, standing before him, real as anything. "No… It's not your fault. It's not…"

"It hurts," she moaned, her voice growing fainter. "Harry, it hurts…"

And then he saw it. The blood. It was everywhere, pouring from her like a river, soaking through the thin fabric of her pyjamas, the white turning to red.

"I love you," she whispered, the words seemingly costing her the last bit of her strength. She was falling, her long curls tumbling through the air as she collapsed. "Know that… all right?"

He gasped, trying to form her name with lips that would not move. "N-no…" He couldn't breathe. "No…"

He was fumbling for his wand, searching for a spell as she lay before him, her life bleeding out, seeping into the dirty carpet. But what could he do?What could he do?

He had killed Voldemort, had saved more lives than he could count. Why could he not think of a single spell to save her?

He was not aware of falling to his knees, could not remember grasping her face. He only realized he had done it when he brought his forehead to hers, pressed his lips against the ice of her cheek.

"No," he whispered, his voice shaking so badly he couldn't recognize it as his own. "Please. No. El, stay with me."

But it was too late.

She was silent. Gone. He knew it with a certainty he could not push away, and the despair of the empty space she left behind wrapped around him more painfully than any dementor. The smell of iron was overwhelming. He could taste the metallic bitterness of it on his tongue. He could feel the slick sliminess of it smeared across his fingers. He had left her. Had left her, and now her blood was on his hands.

And she was gone.Gone.

And without her, all was darkness.

All was black.