Chapter Forty-Five: All The Things He Said
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The Recall led them directly to the holding cells in the heart of Level Two. Rookwood bared his teeth and hissed as he fell forward, his nose crashing against the dark tiles that comprised the floor of Holding's lobby. He cursed nastilty as Ernie dragged him back to his feet. His nose was bloody, but no one seemed terribly fussed with repairing it.
There was a gasp and a small, red-haired witch hurried toward them from the desk she had been manning at the edge of the lobby.
"Rookwood!" She raised her wand, pointing it loosely in their direction.
"We've got him, Ruby," Ernie said, pulling Rookwood forward. He grinned, puffing his chest out rather proudly. "Stand down."
"Right, right." She lowered her wand, still taking them in with large eyes. "Oooh, I can't believe it!" Rookwood shot her a murderous glare, but she seemed nonplussed. "Merlin, this is so exciting. Eddie said Auror Weasley got him, but I just wasn't sure—"
"Got me," Rookwood sneered, baring his teeth in a bloody grimace. "The pathetic fool is lucky if he's still breathing. Got me." He lunged, nearly knocking Ernie off his feet as he fell forward, stumbling against his magical restraints.
"Impedimenta!" Harry snapped. "Damn it, Ernie."
"Sorry." Ernie stopped grinning as he righted himself. He raised his wand, levitating Rookwood back to his feet. "Won't happen again."
Ruby's eyes were wide and staring.
"Where should we put him?" Harry said shortly.
"Right, sorry, of course." She flushed a bit, her eyes flashing to Rookwood before she nodded at Harry. "Room Two's free. Follow me." She hurried away. Ernie made to follow her before glancing back.
"You want to take him, Harry, or…?"
"You go on."
"Will do."
Ernie shoved Rookwood forward with his wand. Rookwood offered them another bloody sneer as he was forced down the corridor, but he could do little to resist. No wand. Hands bound. Wards all around them. It was fine. Fine. Harry sighed as he watched them vanish from sight, their voices fading. He leaned back against the wall, momentarily closing his eyes.
Nothing but darkness.
It left him empty. Betrayed. He shouldn't feel betrayal. He had never trusted Riddle enough for a betrayal. He should've known.
Hadn't he known?
"You all right?"
He looked up. Daniyel was watching him in the now-empty lobby.
"Yeah." He nodded.
"What about Ron, then?"
"Merlin." He dropped his face into his hands, his stomach clenching. "I hope so. They took him to St. Mungo's."
There was a silence. The lobby rang with it.
"Someone ought to tell Hermione," Daniyel said finally.
"Yeah." He couldn't quite bear to look up. Five feet away, the smear of Rookwood's blood blotted out the shininess of the stone tile. He stared at it as the silence stretched.
"How should we do this?" Daniyel asked, lowering his voice. "Should we question him now, before Robards comes back? You could get rid of Ernie, couldn't you?"
Harry glanced up at last, his eyes sweeping across the empty lobby before meeting Daniyel's. "I don't reckon it matters much. I already tried before you lot showed up."
"So that didn't go well, then?"
Harry managed a humorless laugh. "You could say that."
"Figures." Daniyel stepped back, bracing his head against his hands as he stared up, his gaze lost somewhere in the shadowy ceiling. "Twat. Can we Veritaserum him? No, I s'pose we can't. Can we?"
"Not without Robards. And he'd sack me if I tried." Not that he wouldn't be willing to attempt it anyway. But he didn't quite have the reach. And the job would still be useful. There was some distant part of himself, way in the back of his mind, that was reminding him that he loved the job. That it was a part of him. Living. Breathing. But he didn't have room for Idealistic Harry right then. None of that mattered, so long as they got Rookwood. Stopped Voldemort. Survived this. And there was, after all, one other way. Something that didn't involve Veritaserum. If it really came down to it.
"We question him," Harry said finally, raising his head. There was a coldness in his chest, which he steadily ignored. "Robards will be along soon. He'll want to do it. Rookwood won't admit anything, I'm sure. Then we'll see."
It would take time to secure the Veritaserum. Even by emergency order. There would be time, if he wanted to. If he decided…
Daniyel sighed. "Well, that ought to be good."
"Yeah." Good. He nearly laughed again.
Daniyel lowered his arms and glanced down the corridor. "We should get back. They'll wonder.
"Go on," Harry told him. "I'll be right there."
Once Daniyel had gone and the lobby was empty again, he withdrew his wand, drawing a swirling circle in the dim underground stag appeared, silently kicking one hoof against the shiny tiles as it lowered its head, waiting.
He spoke softly, though his quiet voice still seemed to scream.
The stag brushed its head against Harry's palm, and then it was off, galloping through the empty lobby. Up to the first floor, where Hermione was unwittingly waiting. Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe Robards had already informed her and she was long gone, in St. Mungo's with Ron. But if Robards hadn't told her yet, Harry surely had to. He owed her that much. It was his fault, after all, that Ron was at the mercy of the healers.
And he was hardly the only one.
When the stag had gone, he raised his wand once again. Another circle. Another waiting messenger.
"Ella," he said softly, "we got him." He paused there. Considered sending the stag away to gallop through plaster and brick, and a hundred feet of solid earth — out into the bright sunlight of London to streak through the Muggle-filled streets until it found her. But he knew that it wasn't enough. Knew he could hardly voice everything swirling tumultuously in his heart.
"Robards knows about Dover," he added, his voice dulling with the admission. "He's furious. I dunno what to tell him. And…" He swallowed. "Ron's in St. Mungo's. But they reckon he'll be all right. Don't… don't worry." He could feel the tremor in his voice echoing deep in his chest. But he pushed through. It was everything he dared to say. "How did you do? Have you got your number?"
This stag, too, galloped away, leaving him quite alone in the empty lobby. Just the dark walls pressing in around him, and distant silence. A suffocating sort of quiet.
One. Two. Sixty.
He counted the seconds. The minutes trickled by. Somewhere, just a scant quarter mile away, Ella would reach out her hand. Touch the stag where he had touched it; for that one moment, the bond between them almost physical. And yet all he had was empty silence.
And then, what felt like an eternity later, the lobby flashed with light as Ella's dolphin burst into being. It seemed to float, swimming through the empty air, its tail beating the silence away. Her voice shattering the darkness.
"Oh my God, Harry. That's… that's great, but… awful. Is Ron very bad?"
And then it was gone. Just like that. Darkness again. It took him a breathless moment to realize she hadn't answered the question, and his stomach clenched painfully.
He lifted his wand once again. Called forth another messenger.
"El, have you got it? The number? Ron should be all right, they said. Honest." The stag's watchful eyes met his, and it was gone. Silence again.
This time, the dolphin reappeared somehow faster, swimming around him before Ella's voice spilled from its snout.
"Sorry! Yes, I've got my number. It's good. It's really good." There was a pause, and for a moment Harry worried the dolphin would vanish once again, leaving the questions swirling. But then Ella's voice fluttered out in a waver. "Harry… It's twelve. Twelve!"
Twelve.
The dolphin vanished. It was dark again.
He didn't notice.
Twelve.
For a moment, none of it seemed to matter. Not Rookwood. Not bloody Riddle, who had lied to him all along, nor the impending knowledge of what he surely must do now.
Twelve.
He breathed. Didn't realize he had stopped.
Merlin. She was almost in the single digits.
He sat with that for a moment. Breathed it in. Let it flow through him, until his whole body hummed with the knowing.
Twelve.
She was going to be all right.
With or without him.
A surge of joy swept through him, so pure not even Rookwood could take it away. So large and overwhelming, it left no room for anything else. Not even a crack for Riddle to slither through.
The stag was standing before him, its large eyes gazing into his own. He had no memory of calling it forth once again, and yet there it was. How fantastic. How brilliant.
"That's great," he breathed. "I'm so sorry I'm not there. I'm going to sort this, all right? I'll deal with this Rookwood mess, and I'll see you at home as soon as I can. I—"
"Potter!"
He jumped, his hold on the stag wavering, and it broke away, streaking through the opposite wall. Robards was storming down the corridor, a seemingly-permanent scowl etching itself deeper into his face with every step.
"Why aren't you minding Rookwood?"
"Ernie and Dan are with him," Harry said, falling into step besides his furious boss. "Sorry, sir. I was checking in with Ella."
"Is she all right?"
"Yeah, she's great." Harry allowed himself a small smile.
"Good." Robards sighed, the scowl lessening slightly. "Where is he?"
"Room Two," Harry said, keeping pace.
"Good," Robards repeated. He drew abruptly to a halt and turned, giving Harry a once-over.
"Look, sir, I'm—"
"Not now." Robards sighed again. "We're going to have words. But, I need you focused on this. Are you focused, Potter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is there anything else I should know before we go in there?"
Harry considered that, the words brewing silently on his tongue. Rookwood might have brought back Voldemort, sir. With a horcrux. He's made seven, and I'm one of them. He can't be truly killed until I die first.
"No, sir. There's nothing."
Robards gave him a long, hard look. "All right then," he said finally. "Let's go."
And he took the last few steps down the dimly lit corridor and pushed open the door to room number two.
Rookwood was scowling. It was an ugly scowl. His teeth were sharp, and cracked, and bloodstained from the residue still trailing from his crooked nose. His narrowed eyes, slightly blue in the glow of the Record Sphere, were brimming with anger. And despite his silence, they screamed obscenities across the room. The very air seemed to crackle, charged with his fury.
"Augustus Rookwood," Robards said finally, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair, directly across from the elusive death eater. "We've been waiting a long time to have this little chat."
"Keep right on waiting then," Rookwood spat, his eyes narrowing further as he glared at Robards, who said nothing else, letting the silence grow once again.
It thickened, like a miasma. Oppressive. Harry was content to feed into it. To sit in the quiet beside Robards and let it grow as he watched Rookwood bristle with anger.
Good, he thought savagely. Let Rookwood be the one to feel trapped for once. To be scrambling for a way out. What he would give for some answers right now, no matter the damage they might cause.
Finally, it seemed like the silence had gone on too long.
"What?" Rookwood spat, his voice biting. As biting as it could be through his probably-broken nose. "What do you want me to tell you? You want me to say I blew up your bloody Ministry? Is that it?"
A flash of excitement shot through Harry, but he kept his face hard. Mask-like. Robards said nothing, merely leaned forward a bit and braced his elbows on the table. His eyes bored into Rookwood's.
"Well, I didn't." Rookwood scowled, his eyes blazing. "Unfortunate for you, Gawain. Really, bloody unfortunate." And he spit a wad of blood onto the scrubbed metal table.
Harry bit the inside of his lip in frustration. How long would Rookwood go on, holding to the same adamant lie?
"Really?" Robards said evenly, choosing to ignore the undignified display. "So you had nothing to do with the explosion?"
"That's right." Rookwood leaned back as far as his restraints allowed and smoldered.
Robards managed to look bored. "And you'll attest to that under Veritaserum?"
"I sure bloody will," Rookwood said savagely.
"You're awfully eager for a very invasive potion," Robards observed. "Now why is that?"
"To stop your damned witch hunt. I've got nothing to hide."
"We'll see about that." Robards picked up a stack of parchments from the table and shuffled through them. The rustling echoed around the small room. "Where were you the night in question, Rookwood? February 6th."
Rookwood glared, before finally spitting out, "Home."
Harry scoffed, unable to help himself, and Robards shot him an annoyed glance before lowering the parchments back to the table. "Now we know that isn't true."
"You don't know shit," Rookwood spat, shooting Harry a nasty look. "Any of you."
"It's interesting you say that," Robards said, leaning back in his chair again, "because we went to your house, Rookwood. Where the Tracker said you were. And you weren't there. No trace of you for weeks. Potter walked into quite the defensive setup. All illegal, of course. Care to tell Rookwood what you found, Potter?"
"Cripple you, did they?" Rookwood spat at Harry before he could say a word, a flash of malice lighting up his eyes. "Didn't drown, I see. How'd you like my boggart, then? Level five. Trapped 'im myself." He barked out a short, savage laugh.
"We had a run in," Harry said shortly. The dementor-boggart surged up in his mind like a giant shadow, its coldness stealing through him, but he ignored it. His reality was far more terrifying than any boggart could dream up.
"We know that you disabled your Tracker two months before the incident, Rookwood," Robards said.
Rookwood laughed again. "Good for you. Finally caught on, have you?"
"What have you been doing all that time?" Robards pressed.
"What's it to you, eh?" Rookwood scowled, his eyes blazing from across the table. "Got nothing to do with your precious Ministry."
"No?" Robards crossed his arms. "I see. Then does it have to do with the wands and illegal defenses in your home?"
Rookwood offered another smoldering glare and said nothing.
"Come on, Rookwood," Robards said, a trace of frustration breaking into his voice. "Break it down for me. You want me to believe you didn't do this? Walk me through it."
Rookwood continued with his defiant glare. The silence grew.
Surely, he didn't actually believe they would buy it. Harry thought back to their conversation in the alley — to Rookwood's pointed remarks about ghosts and hauntings. That knowing little smirk.
Robards sighed. "Here's what I reckon, Rookwood. I reckon you fancy yourself quite the wand collector, don't you? We recovered 115 wands from your residence. Was there another wand you wanted from Mysteries?" He braced his arms against the table. Learned forward until his face was inches from Rookwood's, and spoke with such intensity that the words left Harry quite cold. "Or were you collecting something else?"
Something clenched in Harry's stomach, sending shivers down his arms. Collecting something else. Was that what Rookwood had been doing after all? Collecting relics of Voldemort? Was it Voldemort he was protecting with his silence?
"And this is where you're wrong, Gawain." Rookwood's voice was full of disdain. Untroubled. Unaware of the leaps Harry's mind had just taken. "I'm not a collector. Never have been."
"So what are you, Rookwood? What the bloody hell are you?" Robards' voice had gone up in anger and he paused, seemingly steeling himself before adopting his cool tone once again. "We know you're a thief."
"Thief." Rookwood scoffed, his eyes flashing with malice. "Hardly. Those wands were pulled from the earth. They were free for the taking!"
A flash of excitement shot through Harry, and he leaned in, hanging on to every word of this sudden confession.
"The dead have no claim to magic," Rookwood hissed, his cool voice practically dripping with entitlement. "I had every right to take them."
"We know you're distributing the wands," Robards pressed, latching on to the opening. "How many criminals have you armed, besides Mulciber, Gibbon, and Macnair? And yourself, of course."
"Criminals," Rookwood spat with an ugly sneer, and his voice grew louder now in his anger. "Because your corrupt system says so. Because your Ministry condemned us to this pathetic existence where we must grovel and beg for scraps and permissions and survive on your allowances. Who are you to restrict my magic? Our power is our birthright."
"And you believe in defending this birthright?" Robards said, unfazed.
"That's right." Rookwood bared his bloody teeth.
"Were you defending it when you blew up the Department of Mysteries, and the courtrooms atop it?"
"Bullshit!" Rookwood hissed, his eyes narrowing. He slammed his fists against the table as disappointment surged through Harry. "You're reaching, Gawain. I've been collecting wands. Selling them. I'll admit it. How else am I to survive when you've taken my gold. My properties. Everything. So what? I haven't been to Mysteries since that spineless fool Karkaoff betrayed me,That pathetic cesspool. It should be—"
"Burned?" Robards supplied, his voice icy. And from the stack of parchments, he carefully withdrew a familiar notebook. Rookwood watched, his eyes blazing, as Robards deliberately flipped several pages and then began to read. "The fires of absolution shall fall upon the Ministry. They will pay for their treachery. They will — Pardon me." He slowly flipped the page, his eyes gazing directly into Rookwood's rather than at the notebook. "Burn."
The words seemed to throw Rookwood. He glowered for several silent moments before speaking. "Stealing a man's journal, Gawain? How beneath your morals."
"Don't talk to me about stealing," Robards snapped. He stood, leaning over the table. "Just so you know, Augustus, wand trafficking is a criminal offense under section 15 of the Code of British Wizarding Conduct. Punishable by up to twenty years in Azkaban. But who's counting?" He stepped back in disgust, choosing to pace around the room. Back and forth before the bare stone wall behind which Daniyel and Ernie waited, the other side magicked into a window.
"Yet theft and trafficking are hardly the bulk of your crimes, are they? You cast a blasting curse in the Hog's Head. Multiple Aurors and eyewitnesses confirm it. Do you deny it?
Rookwood said nothing, merely glared.
"I didn't reckon so," Robards said shortly. "You cast another just now in Dover. Three Muggles are dead. Do you deny that?"
Rookwood bared his teeth in silent anger.
"Albus Dumbledore was found dead outside of Hogsmeade, feet from the location to which Potter chased you. Did you—"
"I didn't bloody kill him!" Rookwood's voice rose into a near shout. "There isn't a shred of evidence—"
"You are dangerous, Rookwood." Robard's voice had grown colder in comparison. "Reckless. You are a liar. A thief. A murderer."
"I didn't—"
"There is going to be no more house arrest, do you understand?" Robards stopped to lean over the table again, his face inches from Rookwood's. "No more leniencies. No more good behavior. You are never leaving Azkaban again." He paused, letting the words sink in. Across from him, Rookwood's face grew harder. More furious.
"But there are ways you can improve your situation," Robards said quietly. "Certain… privileges. Visitations. Access." He paused. "Now, we can involve the Wizengamot, but once we do, all that goes away. We can get the emergency order for Veritaserum. And it will be invasive. Uncomfortable. We'll talk about Mysteries. We'll talk about Brycetown and Hogsmeade and Dover, and your little cache of safehouses. And there are ways you can defend yourself from its effects, so we'll keep you detained long enough for any antidotes you may have taken to wear off. We can do all that. But I hear you're quite the Occlumens, Rookwood. Veritaserum or no, how can we really trust anything you say?" He paused again, considered the wizard before him. "Best to just keep you in Azkaban, really. No privileges, nothing. Keep the wizarding world a little safer."
"You can't do that," Rookwood spat. "Not without proof. All those so-called explosions? I was defending myself! There's provisions for that. You've been hunting me from the off when there isn't any—"
"You're not listening, Augustus," Robards said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I don't need to bargain with you. You can tell me the truth about Mysteries or not. I'd like it. But I don't need it. I have plenty to lock you up for without your confession. We hardly even need go to trial. A closed hearing. The Wizengamot will revoke your privileges and return you to Azkaban. Maybe we'll even dig a dementor out of retirement."
"You can't," Rookwood said, but his voice sounded less sure.
"I can," Robards insisted. "Especially when I'm motivated. And I'm motivated, Augustus. Very motivated. So tell me. What happened at Mysteries?"
Rookwood glared in silence.
"Fine," Robards snapped. "Let's talk about Saul Croaker. What's your relationship with him?"
"He's an uppity little shite." Rookwood's eyes blazed.
"Was Croaker involved in the Mysteries explosion?"
"How the fuck should I know?"
Robards slammed his hands on the table in frustration. "So you have no desire to cooperate, is that about it?
"I don't know, Gawain," Rookwood spat mockingly. "I just don't see the fucking point. Go on and send over that bloody dementor so I can get all settled in."
"I see." Robards's voice had turned cold again. He tapped the Record Sphere and the blue glow vanished, its soft hum fading into silence. "I'll let you stew on that, Augustus. Let us know if you change your mind. Let's go, Potter."
Harry stood, the legs of his chair grating horribly against the stone. His eyes met Rookwood's as he stepped out of the room, the hatred in them burning hard enough to set the small room ablaze.
Mind swirling, he shut the door, closing off Rookwood's furious face. His heart was thrumming, beating in a frantic rhythm against his chest. There was no reason to lie. Not with the privileges Robards had offered and the threat of Azkaban hanging over his head. No reason except one.
Whatever Voldemort was planning had to remain in the dark. And whatever hold he had over Rookwood was either far more lucrative than life in Azkaban, or far more terrifying. And Harry suspected he knew just which it was.
Rookwood wouldn't talk. He simply wasn't going to. The realization was not unexpected, but it still cut him.
He wasn't going to have a choice.
Robards nodded toward the adjacent room, where Daniyel and Ernie waited. They were both standing by the window, gazing at Rookwood through the magicked one-way glass, and turned at the sound of the door.
Robards leaned against the wall, his hand drifting thoughtfully to his chin. "What do you reckon?"
As they watched, Rookwood banged his palms against the table, hard enough for the magicked glass to shake. It was the look of a desperate man; one quickly losing favor with his master. And Harry knew quite well what Voldemort did to traitors.
"He's angry," Ernie said, startling Harry out of his reverie. Ernie's eyes were trained on the window. "Indignant."
"Yes," Robards agreed. "And?"
"It's odd, isn't it?" Ernie turned from the window to face them, seemingly chewing something over. "How he's boasting about the wands and going on about his birthright, but he's so quick to deny any involvement with Mysteries?"
"He's a liar," Harry said shortly. He glanced at Daniyel, briefly catching his eye before looking away. "He's hiding something." Something he needed to discover, no matter what.
"A fantastic liar, if so. I'm just not sure why." Ernie was frowning, considering the man before them.
"We know he's a fantastic liar." Harry stepped toward the glass. There was a hole in his stomach. A Voldemort-shaped hole, sucking up everything inside. "What are you trying to say, Ernie?"
"I just…" Ernie paused, glancing at the window again. "I'm not sure that…"
"Spit it out, MacMillian," Robards said, sighing. "What, you don't reckon he's guilty?"
"Of course he's guilty!" Harry whirled away from the window, his hands clenching into fists. "Bloody hell, Ernie, you've no idea—"
"He has a point," Ernie said, raising his hands placatingly. "We haven't got any hard evidence tying him to the scene. None."
"Now this bothers you? Now?" Harry's voice rose, echoing around the small room with a frantic sort of anger.
"Harry—" Daniyel began, but Harry ignored him.
"We haven't got any hard evidence, period! The entire place was trashed because someone destroyed it." He glared at Rookwood through the glass.
Ernie's face had turned a shade of red that would have made Ron proud. "You're being a bit ridiculous, Harry. Just because we've been focused on him the entire time doesn't mean—"
"Exactly! All the evidence points to him. He's got motive and opportunity. Just look at all the people he's killed! And now you want to back off just because he said he didn't do it?" Harry was inches from Ernie's face without quite being aware of how he got there. "What the bloody hell did you expect him to say?"
"Stand down, both of you." Robards said, stepping between them. His voice was firm. "Potter, calm the hell down. This isn't helping."
An uneasy silence fell across the room. Harry's hands were curled into fists. He fought to keep his voice steady. "I just reckon there's more to the truth. Something else at stake. Some plan, or…"
"Did he say something to you, Potter?" Robards's voice was sharp. "In Dover."
"It was… more what he didn't say." Harry's nails were digging into his palms. Must be hard, living with a ghost. He fought to unclench them.
Robards gave him a sharp look, then sighed again. "I'll put in the order for Veritaserum. If I hear one more argument out of either of you…" He paused, seeming to consider his words. "I won't be hearing another argument.." And then he strode to the door.
Harry, Ernie, and Daniyel all stood in silence for a second. Then Ernie abruptly hurried after Robards.
"Sir!" he called as the door slammed shut behind him.
"Bloody idiot!" Harry whirled from the door in frustration.
"Harry—"
"I mean, did you hear him?" Harry strode to the far wall. Back to the door. Back again. He couldn't bear to stand still, not with all this nervous energy frothing within him like a clawing vortex. "No hard evidence. How about those dead Muggles today?" His voice caught. "What, they don't matter?"
"I hear you," Daniyel said, stepping back slightly to avoid the path Harry was wearing into the floor. "It's just from here it looked a bit like—"
"And he doesn't know, all right?" Harry continued, undeterred. "He's got no idea. Doesn't know what Rookwood's really doing. And he knows. Rookwood. He bloody knows."
"Er— what?"
"Rookwood!" Harry repeated, fully aware that he sounded every bit the madman. "He knows." He gestured wildly, grabbing at his head. "About him. Riddle."
"What?" Daniyel's voice was sharp.
"He told me in Dover." Harry finally stopped pacing, and turned to face Daniyel. "He said…" He paused, recalling the chilling words. "He knows Riddle's talking to me. Haunting me."
"I just… what?" Daniyel brought his hands to his face. "Bloody hell, Harry."
Harry started pacing again. "I know."
"You didn't say anything." Daniyel's voice was accusing.
"I know," Harry repeated, avoiding his eyes. Staring down at the uneven stone floor.
"What does he know exactly?" Daniyel asked, lowering his voice. "That you're a… horcrux?" He barely breathed out the word, and still it sent tremors through the room. "That you're talking? Are they talking?"
Harry said nothing, searching for the answer in his mind. Finding only silence. Rookwood's silence. Riddle's silence. They pressed down on him. Suffocating. Why wasn't Riddle there? Why wasn't he gloating? This final revelation, and he had nothing to add. Well it was Rookwood's silence that mattered now. The only one he could break. How ironic, that Riddle had been the one to give him the tools.
"Then why give you Rookwood's location?" Daniyel was still talking quietly, frowning. "We caught him. So did he fall out of favor, d'you reckon? Or is this some sort of trap?"
A chill swept through Harry at these words. He willed his feet to move faster. To think; when nothing made sense. When he couldn't bear to think at all.
"All I know," he said finally, "is that we can't doubt him like Ernie. He knows something, Dan. He's probably got the tiara. We've got to get him alone. And we can't rely on Robards and the Veritaserum." He drew in a sharp breath, still not quite believing the thing he was considering. The words were sour as they gathered on his tongue. "I'll do it. I'll get him to tell us."
"How?" Daniyel said evenly.
"Legilimency."
The room was suddenly still. Cold. Gooseflesh flared across his arms.
Harry turned to stare at the man across the window, his fingers curling tightly into fists. Tight enough to push out the cold. "I'll get into his mind. See what he's really up to."
Daniyel was frowning, his expression unreadable. "I didn't know you could do that. When did you—"
"I didn't." Harry turned from the window, bitterness swelling in his throat. "It happened back then. With the Union."
He thought he saw Daniyel pale slightly, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. "You got that power? You can do that?"
Harry nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. He had never told anyone the specifics. The full scope of the Union. Only Ella had ever known. And Dumbeldore, of course.
Daniyel's next words seemed hesitant. "And you're… all right with that?"
"Does it matter?" Shame welled in his chest, making it hard to swallow. He looked away, unable to meet Daniyel's accusing eyes. "Do we have a choice?"
"I suppose not."
And they didn't, he knew that. This was it. The end of the road. What he had done to Malfoy, he would now do to Rookwood. But willingly this time. Intentionally. And then there would be no going back. Riddle had won. Had finally succeeded in turning Harry into the monster he despised himself to be. And how long would it be now before Ella, too, looked at him with those eyes?
"Are you coming?" He turned towards the door.
[No, I don't think that I will.]
He froze. The voice was too cold. Too close, to have been Daniyel's.
Riddle seemed to shimmer before him in the semi-darkness of the room, his expression knowing. Smirking. There was something else there. Something Harry couldn't decipher.
[You know,] Riddle said conversationally, [I have never known anyone quite as tortured, as self-afflicted, and as blatantly stupid as you are, Harry Potter. Not even Dumbledore.]
"Liar!" Harry snapped, his self-loathing sharpening into fury. He wanted to scream. To blast Riddle from the room. To curse him into oblivion. There he was, at bloody last. Just in time to see Harry throw away the very last bit of himself that remained. Finally taking everything.
[Oh, I wanted to,] Riddle admitted, his eyes faded. Distant. [I did want to. Take everything, that is. But you, Harry Potter, are a wall. Immovable.]
"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" He was too weary for words. Somewhere in the background, Daniyel was speaking. Harry closed his eyes, letting Riddle grow brighter in the darkness. [What the fuck do you want anyway?]
Riddle shrugged. A barely noticeable motion. [I'm just wondering how many times poor Augustus there] —he smirked in clear amusement— [needs to tell you he's, what is it? Ah, yes. Innocent. Before you take him at his word.]
Harry stared blankly. There was a buzzing in his brain. He couldn't seem to form any coherent words.
[I wonder if there's a number that may do. No?] Riddle frowned, seeming to ponder the question. [I suppose you'll just have to try Legilimency after all. Maybe you'll even manage to stumble into the right memory this time. I wouldn't know. I've never fared so poorly myself.]
[Don't bother lying,] Harry managed finally. [He knows about you. He said it himself.]
[Did he?] Riddle seemed amused. [Because here I thought he was letting you know how tortured, self-afflicted, and absolutely stupid you are. I'm hardly the one haunting you. You do a fine job of that all by yourself, Harry.]
[What the hell are you trying to say?]
[I'm not trying to say anything,] Riddle said, his amused tone shifting to one of annoyance. Even anger. [I am saying it. You're simply too stubborn to understand. Do you need everything spelled, Potter? Are you a child? Rookwood does not know of me. We have not communicated. And if he knows of my creations? Well, he's learned that on his own. Because none, and I do mean none, of my loyal followers were privy to that information.]
[You— You're lying.]
[Why lie.] Riddle shrugged again. [I've long had my doubts. I mean, Augustus? Really? Useful, but not particularly bright. Not one I would expect to discover my greatest secret. I did offer to tell you, Harry. But you didn't want to hear it, did you?]
Harry simply stared, his mind barely stumbling into sentences. [Are you saying he didn't do it?] he whispered finally. [He didn't bring you back? He wasn't in Mysteries?]
[I wouldn't know.] Riddle shrugged again, his voice disgusted. [How would I, Harry Potter, when your mind, and only yours, is the one at my disposal. Do go on and break into his. Another would be so refreshing.]
[Why are you telling me this?] Harry couldn't comprehend it. [Why are you helping me?]
[Why?] Riddle hissed, his eyes narrowing. [Because, I'm tired. Tired of watching you stumble around. Tired of you being too stupid to listen. How do you expect to fulfill our bargain when you can't even find the so-called villain who's supposedly brought me back?] He turned away, a disgusted look flashing across his face. [How is it, Harry Potter, that after all this time, all I have is you. You and your suffering. You and your morals. I can't stand another minute of you.]
He turned before Harry could conceive another word and faded into the black, leaving it perfectly untouchable.
Empty.
Harry opened his eyes.
Daniyel was standing barely inches away, his arms crossed beneath his frown. "What the bloody hell was that? Riddle?"
"Yeah," Harry muttered, his head swirling. "It was Riddle."
"Well?" Daniyel raised his arms in an open shrug. "So, what'd did he say? He admit to the lot? Or are we still mind-invading this maniac?"
Harry glanced back at the enchanted glass. Rookwood was staring daggers at the table as if it had personally imprisoned him. "Not exactly…"
"Bloody hell, Harry, spit it out already."
"It might be that… that Rookwood doesn't know about Riddle after all." Harry scowled, uncertainty flooding through him. If that was true. Then Rookwood…
Then everything…
"All right?" Daniyel frowned. "So then…?"
Harry sighed, and forced himself to meet Daniyel's eyes. "He seemed to think Rookwood wasn't lying."
Daniyel's eyes widened slightly. "Are you saying he didn't do it?"
"I'm not saying it." Harry hesitated, his eyes shifting to Rookwood once again. "But…"
"But he is."
He turned, meeting Daniyel's eyes once again. "Right."
"Right," Daniyel repeated, seemingly chewing over the word. Chewing over the last four months. Had they wasted them all chasing the wrong man? When Daniyel spoke again, his voice seemed to betray that very thought, too. "Well then who the bloody hell did?"