Chapter Twenty: Words Cut Deepest
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The flat didn't feel real.
It was bright. Normal and familiar, and yet entirely surreal. Even Snowy's warm welcome left Harry feeling cold and muddled inside, as if his aching mind was stuffed with cotton. He felt insubstantial. Unreal. Like a piece of himself was missing. Perhaps it was the Dreamless Sleep, which lingered still in his veins, or perhaps it was simply the echoing pain of the hours before; but stepping into the flat felt like a waking dream. It wavered, somehow. Like the thin line on the edge of sleeping.
He supposed it was hardly surprising. Even with the potion, which had forced him into blissful, empty darkness, he had awoken with Dumbledore's burnt body etched firmly in his mind. And now it haunted him, along with memories of Ron, whose skin had been so pale it nearly matched the St. Mungo's linens while Hermione sat beside him in anxious silence. He thought of Robards' drawn face, more concerned than angry at his recounting of the events in Hogsmeade before the Healers had stalked in, forcing potions upon him. Harry would have preferred anger; had expected it when he told Robards of Rookwood's escape. Without it slicing through him, he could hardly elude his grief. It built up in him now as he walked into the flat with Ella trailing behind, wrapped in her own shroud of silence.
She had barely spoken a word since he had awoken from his spelled sleep in St. Mungo's — sleep he hadn't wanted, but was forced to admit he needed while his body healed, the pains of the day receding to a dull ache. It was uncharacteristic for her; this silence. But she had been falling into it more often over the past few weeks as her light humor faltered under the weight of her mounting grief. How much could she carry before she broke? How much could he?
He turned from the hearth, where the blaze of the fire he had spelled to life was dancing with a crackling intensity that seeped warmth into the room, and reached out a hand to Ella. She grasped it lightly before falling into his arms. She hugged him, her arms wrapping around him with such force that, had she been any stronger, she would have squeezed the air from his lungs. He hugged her back, running a hand through her tangled hair as she buried her face against his shoulder. He didn't say anything as he felt the wetness of her tears sting his skin through his shirt, simply held her tight. He let her weep until her silent sobs ran dry at last, leaving her cold and shaking in his arms.
"Are you going in to the office?" she asked finally, when she had regained control enough to pull away and sit down heavily on the couch.
"Tonight?" He frowned, meeting her eyes as he placed a tea kettle on the coffee table and filled two mugs. She looked away, her puffy eyes hooded in the firelight, as he passed a cup to her. She took it mechanically.
"No," he added when she didn't reply. It was an undeniable truth that the other part of his mind, the one that wasn't presently occupied with being there for Ella and sorting through his own grief was aching with the desire for answers. A small measure of understanding. Anything. A part of him wanted to run to Headquarters, to glean what he could from Macnair. He had always preferred action to standing still; would have loved to bury himself in it now, despite the pounding ache that beat against his skull like a muffled drum. But he wasn't a child anymore, running off at the merest whim of fancy. Ella needed him. Robards didn't expect him tonight. He was part of a team, and they would function without him. The answers could wait until morning.
"Macnair," she said abruptly, surprising him. "Will they question him today?"
He nodded. "They likely have already."
Her eyes flashed to his again before she looked down into her cup, seemingly surprised to find her hands clasped around it. She took a small sip, lowering the cup a little shakily before speaking again. "He'll tell them everything? They'll make him talk?"
"Whatever he knows," Harry said, eyeing her with an unsettled curiosity. "They'll get a Wizengamot order for Veritaserum if they have to. It can take some time… but with this? It's likely been done already."
"Right," she mumbled. "But if there was something… I mean, if he said something really concerning, would they… reach out to you? Do you reckon?"
Harry frowned again, still staring at her. "What do you mean?"
"I— nothing." She glanced towards the fire, seemingly lost in thought as she stared into the light.
He followed her gaze, watching the shadows the flames made as they flickered across the spines of the books stuffed into the shelves along the fireplace. There was a cold chill snaking its way through his bones that had little to do with Macnair or Rookwood or even Dumbledore, and everything to do with whatever Ella's silence was masking. It was more than simply grief; he could see it in her eyes.
Fear.
He thought back, again, to the morning, his weary mind struggling to make sense of Ella's cryptic statements, reframing them in the light of Dumbledore's death.
What was the connection?
"El…" he whispered, turning to look at her again. "Please…"
She looked up, her eyes glistening just a little bit. It stopped him cold, her refusal to speak. She talked endlessly. Always. There were few things Ella found too difficult to say.
"Please," he breathed. "Whatever it is. Tell me. Ella…"
"I…" Her voice was a whisper, barely more than a breath. She seemed to steel herself. "Oh, God, Harry, it's—"
But before she could finish, there was a bang on the door, echoing through the entire flat.
Harry and Ella jumped, Ella's mug of tea crashing to the floor, where the reddish liquid soaked into the area rug. Snowy let out a soft hiss, rising to stalk toward the door in one fluid motion. There was another bang, nearly louder than the first, and Harry's wand was clasped tightly in his fingers before his mind caught up enough to realize the sounds were knocks.
Someone was at the door.
He glanced sharply at Ella, who was staring at the door, her face ashen. There was no one they were expecting, no one who didn't already have access to the Floo or the interior Apparition Point.
For one wild moment, he thought of Rookwood, mad as it was.
"Wait here," he said, his voice sharp. He pushed Snowy back as he approached the entryway, his wand raised defensively as another loud knock rattled the door.
And then, before he could say a word, a voice hissed out, "Potter!" The word was muffled slightly by the metallic door, warped somewhat by the intervening years, but it had long etched itself into his memory. Had chained it there, secured with taunts and regrets and sacrifices. He would never forget it.
With a cold chill wrapped round him like a shadow, he slipped open the door.
Severus Snape stood on their doorstep, his thin frame cloaked in his customary layers of black. He looked much as Harry remembered him, his pale face expressionless save for his eyes, which were cold and hard as ice. His hair hung around his face perhaps a little more haphazardly than usual, but it had been years since Harry had seen him to really say. He stared as Snape lowered his arm, which had been poised to knock again, and met his eyes. His stare seemed to suck out every bit of Harry's remaining warmth, and his words froze on his tongue as he gaped at the Potions Master.
"Potter," Snape repeated, his voice a low rasp. He gave Harry an appraising look before adding, "Is your wife home?"
"What?" Harry said tersely, recovering a bit as Snowy let out a soft meow from behind him and pushed against his legs. He shifted, blocking the cat's access to Snape. "Yes. Why?"
"It isn't for your delicate ears, I'm afraid," Snape said, a bit of a familiar smirk creeping across his hard expression. "I have a message for your wife. From Dumbledore."
"What?" Harry stared, another cold chill stabbing through his chest. He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, which could only belong to Ella, but she didn't speak. His eyes raked across Snape again, trying to read something in the expressionless features of his face. Only his eyes seemed to glitter, as cold as empty tunnels.
"They may well be his parting words," Snape whispered, his voice softening at the edges. "It is not a conversation meant for thresholds, Potter. She'll want to hear it. You will too." His voice took on a grudging tone as he spoke the last bit.
Harry lowered his wand halfway before raising it again. "What was her name?" he asked, his voice hard as he felt Snowy's weight press against him. "The one you— who saved you."
Snape's eyes narrowed, but he gave no other indication that the question cut him.
"Sara," he spit out, his voice a bare whisper.
Harry stared at him for a moment more, then lowered his wand and stood aside, allowing Severus Snape to enter the flat.
He strode in, batlike, and was halfway into the sitting room before Harry had so much as closed the door. He turned, his eyes sweeping across Ella, who was wiping her face with one hand as she stared at Snape's thin form.
"What is it?" she said, her voice cracking over the words.
Snape looked at her, his eyes sweeping across her tear-stained cheeks impassively before he resolved to speak, his voice unreadable.
"It so happens that I was privy to Dumbledore's final words before he… passed. He instructed that I inform you directly, Miss Foster."
"You were with him?" Harry said sharply, drawing up beside Ella. His wand trembled slightly in his hand, his thoughts swirling wearily as he tried to force them into place. "What the hell happened to him? Why weren't you…"
Snape looked over at Harry coldly and said nothing.
"Did you kill him?" Harry gasped. His wand was decidedly pointed at Snape again. He reached out with his other hand, attempting to pull Ella behind him. "Did you do it?"
"No, Potter," Snape said coldly, contempt seeping into this voice to twist it into a mocking jeer. "I did not kill him."
"Then what the hell happened?" Harry nearly yelled, his voice rising in the small confines of the flat. It made his head ache all the more, but he forced the pain out of mind. "You were with him, you— you didn't help?"
"Harry—" Ella said softly, but Harry shook his head, the words pouring out in a swarm of bitter anger.
"You just left him there? Left him to die?!"
"Be quiet, Potter," Snape hissed. His face was, if possible, even paler. "You are speaking nonsense. It was too late. He was gone."
"Then why didn't you inform the Auror office immediately?" Harry snapped. "Why did we find him alone? You left him there…"
"The situation was beyond my control." Snape's voice was flat, with just a trace of boiling anger underneath.
Harry ignored it. "Who killed him?" he shot back.
Snape's expression soured. "That question is far too vast for your mind to comprehend its intricacies, Potter. In short, the fool did it to himself."
Harry stared, too stunned for words. In the ensuing silence, Ella laid a hand lightly on his arm before stepping toward Snape.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please."
Snape turned back to her, his face impassive once again.
"He didn't call you in time," she said quietly. It wasn't really a question. "You couldn't save him."
"No," Snape said, the faintest trace of regret seeping into his voice. And then he drew back his cloak, removed the sword of Gryffindor, and laid it on the coffee table before Ella. Harry stared, uncomprehending. His eyes raked its sharp edges, the metal glinting in the firelight. The tip seemed to be darker — black as soot. The darkness trailed up along the metal, staining it halfway to the hilt. Like dark, black blood.
Ella's face went white as parchment at the sight of it. "No," she gasped, dropping down heavily onto the sofa.
"Ella!" Harry hurried to her side, breaking out of his shocked trance to lay a hand on her shoulder.
She shook her head at him and spoke again, her eyes trained on Snape. "You destroyed it?" A question this time. One that seemed to cost her all the air in her lungs.
"He destroyed it." Snape's voice was cold as ice. "When his message reached me… when I arrived," he drew in a sharp breath, "the curse had spread to his heart. I could not contain it. He had breath enough left to give me the sword, and a scant explanation." He glanced at the sword again, his next words barely more than a whisper. "The old fool."
He fell quiet then, the silence falling around them all like shadowed shackles. It hung in the air, heavy. The way Ella's hand trembled as she reached for the sword made Harry suddenly afraid of what he would hear when the plaster was ripped away; of whatever was festering underneath.
"What did he say?" Ella's words were so soft, Harry had to strain to hear them. He could practically feel her holding her breath
Snape was silent for just a brief moment, seemingly composing his words. Finally, he glanced at Ella again, his hard gaze set resolutely on her face. "He said to tell you that the pieces have been awakened. He does not know how many, but he suspects… suspected… all. The horcruxes are alive."
Ella dropped her face into her hands as Snape delivered the rest of his message, his voice a chill whisper.
"He hopes you can forgive him."
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The next hour was one Harry would remember for the rest of his life.
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His questions had seemed to fall on silent ears. Instead, he'd stared as Snape and Ella broke into a terse exchange, the heat of it all but burning Ella's tears away.
"What do you mean, alive?" she had snapped. "What else did he tell you?"
"Not much," Snape's voice was a drawl, growing quieter in contrast to Ella's fire. "He seemed under the impression that this would mean something to you. And quite concerned for the wellbeing of your… husband." His eyes had narrowed in Harry's direction, his expression calculating.
Ella had shot Harry a terrified glance before Snape added softly, "But I am no fool, Miss Foster. I do understand the scope of the problem. Does he know?"
And Ella had shaken her head, tears gathering at the edges of her eyes again. And then she had turned to Harry at last, grasped his hands in her own, and whispered, "Harry… I think maybe it's time you… read the books," and the truth of it all came spilling out.
She sat there, her hands clasped together in agitation, and spoke of Voldemort and the shattered pieces of his soul that had once tied him to the earth. The pieces that had been destroyed… and the ones that hadn't.
"The diary," she said softly. "The one you destroyed in second year. Do you remember?"
He did. He would never forget.
It was almost foolish to look back on it now and not realize it. How could the cold, hard eyes of Tom Riddle have been powered by anything but a fragment of his soul?
She had withdrawn a ring from her pocket. Gold and broken and familiar. It sparked something within him — a vision of a flash of gold on Dumbledore's hand, atop skin burned black as cinders.
It was laying now upon her palm, cracked from the hard force of a sword poisoned by strength.
"This killed him," she explained, holding it out to them. "A horcrux. And it nearly killed him before." She had turned to Snape then, her eyes hooded. "You saved him."
"This was magic of the Darkest caliber," Snape countered, his eyes on the ring. "How did I manage it, Miss Foster? There is no stopping it, once it has taken root."
She nodded. "It wasn't forever… but you gave him time. You contained it to his hand. And then, after, he asked you… to kill him. When it was time. For a year, we thought you a traitor."
Snape looked unsettled, saying nothing.
She listed them all — the diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem, and the snake — the relics Voldemort had made and their methods of destruction with a detached efficiency. And then she turned to Harry and whispered, "but there was another. One he didn't plan or expect…"
And he knew, then. Didn't need to hear her say it. His mind flitted away, remembering words he himself had spoken nearly twelve years ago. On that day when everything ended… and everything else began.
"But you gave me something too, don't you remember? The night you first tried to kill me. When your curse backfired, and you broke. You put something of yourself in me then. And now that's enough."
It had been a victory. The fulcrum upon which the Union had spun to set Voldemort within its sight. And now… it was a curse.
It wasn't just Voldemort's power he had been carrying all the time. There had always been something more. From nearly the beginning…
"How did it happen?" His heart had all but stopped beating, had frozen in his chest as if he were dead and still already, buried beneath solid ground. But his voice was steady.
"You let him do it," Ella whispered, tears streaming silently down her cheeks once more as she spoke of the forest. "You sacrificed yourself, Harry. For everyone you loved. You did it. But you came back." She nodded, as if to steel herself. "He took your blood, and that kept you safe. You came back, and Neville killed Nagini. And she was the last one. And then you fought. Just you and him. And it was done."
"I killed him?" The words were sharp. They seemed to slice through his frozen chest on their way out, leaving him even colder. Had he really done it, in any version of this world he knew? Murdered in cold blood?
"No," she said, with the smallest of smiles. "You only ever used Expelliarmus, Harry. It was his own curse that did it. A rebound."
Killing Voldemort indirectly… perhaps it was his destiny, worlds over.
A destiny he could neither escape nor comprehend.
"If the horcruxes were meant to keep Voldemort alive," he said finally, "then how could the Union have killed him? And if he's dead, then how can they still be alive?"
And here Ella fell silent, the question hanging heavily in the air. No one quite daring to answer.
He could see the shape of it, though. Looming in the silence until it twisted into something else entirely. Until the air was thick with knowing. Too dense to breathe.
When he spoke again, his voice had weathered. "Are you saying that Voldemort… could come back?"
The silence thickened. It closed in around them, almost solid now. They were underwater, the depths uncharted. His lungs strained to breathe past the tightness in his chest, but the air seemed to have gone from the room. Even the fire looked darker, its edges falling into shadow.
Snape cleared his throat before he spoke, his voice low and tinted with just a trace of honest fear. "That is what Dumbledore… appeared to have feared."
Ella cursed, her fist slapping hard against her thigh. The sound cracked the silence, shattering it to pieces. Harry felt it resonate deep within him, cutting right into his heart.
"Miss Foster," Snape said cooly, regaining his composure to wrap himself in scathing bluntness once more. "Contain yourself."
"It's Mrs. Potter," she snapped, gesturing impatiently at the entryway. "I'm married, Severus, in case you forgot. You called me Harry's wife there just a moment before."
"You are acting like a child," Snape said impassively. His voice seemed to grow calmer as Ella's panic bubbled to the surface. Harry wondered, with an odd curiosity, whether it was his own form of armour in the face of crisis. "Dumbledore has led me to believe that you were to be trusted with this information. And yet here you are, throwing a temper tantrum worthy of a Mandrake."
She scowled, a retort clearly brewing on her lips. "You—"
"Ella," Harry said. His voice was muted, as if a thick fog separated his tongue from his heart. She froze, turning to him. Her eyes were dark, swirling with anger. But he could see the true face of it. Fear.
She was afraid for him. Terrified, even. It grounded him somehow, her terror cutting through the numb fog that swirled around him.
He understood now. Everything was clear. His entire life had been spent pushing death back, again and again. Carving out small moments of happiness. Borrowed time, all of it. And here it was, catching up to him at last. His life had never been his own. Never.
And now he may well have to make the final sacrifice for this world, which just kept on taking. And there was no guarantee that it would give anything back.
He was almost surprised at how steady his voice sounded when he spoke.
"So the Union killed Voldemort, but the horcruxes remained, is that it? And until those last pieces of his soul are destroyed, they can still call him back?"
"Remarkably concise, Potter."
"The diary and ring are gone," Harry continued, as if Snape hadn't spoken. His words seemed to be the only thing holding back the storm brewing inside him. "Nagini's dead too, since the Battle. So that leaves the locket, the diadem, and the cup. And"— his voice cracked slightly —"me."
He felt an ache then, a painful longing somewhere deep in his heart. A want to hold on to this world, cruel as it was. It had hurt him, again and again. And yet it was full of people he cared about. His entire chest clenched, the thought of leaving them cutting through him with a visceral pain incomparable to any he had ever felt before. The pain in his head, in his bones, was nothing compared to this. He could barely feel it anymore; could barely feel anything anymore besides the clenching in his chest that echoed through him whole.
"Stop it," Ella said, clasping his hand. "You aren't going to die, Harry…"
Die.
The word resonated through him, sending tremors down his arms. Even back then, when he had faced off with Voldemort during the Union, tipping the scales of death itself away from him by sheer force of will, he hadn't believed he would die. Not really. Even then, he had been so sure of his claim on life. Ready to throw it away in a reckless battle, sure, but still resolutely believing somewhere in the depth of his heart that the world would catch him. Throw him back into the ring. Even marked as he was, he had skirted death so many times, a part of him had felt invincible.
But this, this cold, unshakable knowing of the end circling in the wings, like a noose tightening around his heart, was more than he could stand.
He felt her arms around him, pulling his leaden body against her small frame. She was holding him, her arms pressing him to her with every bit of her strength. Her voice a soft whisper in his ear.
"It'll be all right." Her voice was gentle now. Soothing. "We'll figure this out, OK? All of us, together."
He didn't speak. The tightness in his chest had moved, forming a painful lump in his throat. It was itching at the corners of his eyes. He drew in a ragged breath, tasting her hair on his tongue.
"You can't just give up, Harry. Please…"
"I'm sorry," he choked out, blinking rapidly as he pulled away from her. His voice was unbearably thick. "I just… I…"
He trailed off, the words breaking on his tongue. I don't want this. He didn't have room for childish fears. He had learned how unfair life could be before he was old enough to remember.
"I know," she whispered gently. "I know it's hard. You don't have to be sorry. But you have to keep fighting. I am, aren't I? I'm not giving up. So you can't either."
She glared at him, fierce determination blazing in her eyes. It shocked him back to his senses. This was not a time for wallowing. He didn't have the luxury to fall apart. He squeezed her hands, silently conveying his gratitude, and glanced around to see Snape observing them both with an expression of utmost boredom.
"Thank you, Potters," he drawled, "for that touching display. It's always so reassuring to know love is not dead for this world."
Ella turned, directing her glare at him instead.
"Please," he continued, his tone dry, "don't stop on my account."
Harry ignored him. "In what way could he return?" he said instead through slightly clenched teeth. He was relieved to find his voice sounded mostly steady. "How would it work? It can't be as simple as before, or Dumbledore wouldn't have been satisfied with the Union."
"Ah, Potter," Snape said, and he actually sounded almost pleased. "You are finally asking the right questions." He sat down on the armchair across the sofa, his black robes folding in around him. "You are, shockingly, correct. It is not simple at all."
"You haven't told us everything," Ella said accusingly. "What else did Albus say?"
Snape gave her a pointed look before continuing. "Albus didn't say anything. The information he provided was scant and full of holes, and altogether lacking. I cannot blame him, I suppose. Time was a luxury. But, unlike several others, I have not spent the remainder of the day licking my wounds and idling my hands, Miss Foster. There are many places where information can be found, if one simply chooses to look."
"And what did you find?" Harry growled, ignoring the jibe.
"Many things. Most of them do not concern you, Potter." Snape smirked, seemingly pausing to enjoy the effect of his words. "But, the Union you accidentally took control of was a form of ritualistic magic that called forth immense energy. It is an art of which most of the wizarding populus remains woefully ignorant. You included, Potter."
"I know what I did," Harry said softly.
"Do you, now?" Snape said, and his eyes seemed to glitter. "Can you describe to me the magical energies involved, their properties, and volumes?"
Harry was silent.
"Go on," Snape pressed. "Break it down for me, Potter. How many parts dynamic conversion were added to the innate confluence of energy in the Union when you diverted Voldemort's Killing Curse?" He bared his teeth slightly as he spoke the name he once feared, forcing it out. "How long would it have taken for the Union to come to a crux at baseline, had Voldemort not attempted to murder you first?"
Harry was speechless as Snape continued to pepper him with questions.
"Were you aware that, had you overloaded the circle with too much energy, it could have burst beyond its boundaries and decimated the surrounding area? How far would the damage have reached?"
"I…" Harry muttered. "The prophecy said—"
"The prophecy said," Snape repeated coldly. "Yes, the prophecy said, and you threw caution to the winds and hoped for the best. And everything magically worked out for The Boy Who Lived without him ever understanding why it happened.
"Well, Potter," Snape continued, when Harry didn't reply, "as I said, the Union called forth immense magical energy. It would have acted as a force of unrivaled power on its own, and that energy was further compounded by every spell both you and Voldemort cast within its confines. The addition of the Killing Curse only sped up the inevitable. And the amount of energy that killed Voldemort was enough to sever the link to every horcrux remaining, thus disrupting their magical properties and rendering them inactive. The pieces of soul remained, of course, but they were asleep. Disconnected from the source. So once the Union was completed, our Dark Lord was dead and they were useless."
A short silence followed these words. Finally, Ella broke it.
"Then I don't understand the problem," she said, voicing Harry's unspoken words. "If they're useless, how can he return?"
"Were useless," Snape repeated, stressing the word. "Why do you think I am here, Miss Foster? It appears they have been reawakened."
"How?" Harry prompted, when nothing else was forthcoming.
Snape shrugged, his expression vastly unconcerned. "What is not destroyed can be reborn, Potter. Dumbledore was a fool to leave them all these years. A fool not to realize that Dark magic and intent know no bounds. Finding the spell that did it is an undertaking that will require more than a scant day of research. In the meantime, it will suffice to know that it has been done."
"And how do we even know that?" Ella said frankly.
Snape actually raised his eyebrows. "Surely, Miss Foster, even you can see what is right before your eyes. But if you do not believe me, perhaps Dumbledore can confirm it for you." He gave her a level look.
"But it might've— I mean, Voldemort's protective spells…" she sputtered.
Snape's expression almost looked pitying as he said, "The protection around the horcrux is powered by the soul fragment inside it. Without that, it is nothing. Surely, you must have realized this…"
She didn't reply, her mouth opening and closing once in silence.
"Whatever do you think happened in Brycetown?" Snape said incredulously. "All those years as an Auror, Potter, and you cannot recognize the residual Dark energy of a ritual spell? Dumbledore understood it. Why do you think he took off in such a panic? Lost all his senses and his life for it."
Ella let out a ragged breath. "He had his reasons for putting on that ring," she whispered.
"And they cost him his life," Snape said harshly. "I hope you will not throw yours away so easily, Potter. And I am here to make sure you don't do just that."
Harry and Ella gaped at him.
"That's right," Snape said flatly, his dark eyes flashing with something Harry couldn't read. "I am here to help you, Potter. Insufferable as you are, I am here to keep you alive."