Rosabella's Point of View:
Uncle Ted was gone.
Another family member gone.
Like Dad, we couldn't even bury him.
Aunt Andromeda was inconsolable for many days. Barely eating. It took a lot of effort to get through to her. Tonks, just as upset as her mother, was not as talkative but she continued to take care of herself, I'd not for the sake of her unborn child.
Remus and Tonks had decided not to find out the gender of the baby but to keep it a surprise.
I couldn't stop thinking of all the times Uncle Ted was there for me.
Teaching me to fight.
Teaching me to depend on myself.
Teaching me it's okay to rely on other people but to never lose you're independence.
I rember all the times he took me exploring in the woods to see fairy's and bowtruckles and all sorts of different creatures.
I remember all the times Unvmcle Ted would coincidentally 'look the other way' as Tonks and I set up booby traps for my brothers.
It was hard to believe I would never see his kind face again.
That he would never again pretend to scold me with Andromeda but then wink at me when she wasn't looking.
This just led me to think of everything I've lost.
A mother.
A father.
A brother.
A uncle.
How much more will I lose before this war is over?
The only thing that seemed to keep any kinds of smile on our faces was Roseanna. She was nearly two and could say a few sentences now and could say pretty much all of our names. Roseanna constantly played with Winter and because Winter was so big, Roseanna could practically ride her lime a pony. Winter would sometimes trot around the house slowly with Roseanna laughing on her back.
This war was still far from over and I hated the fact she was growing up in it.
(A/N: I'm skipping the Malfoy Manor Chapter because it's basically the exact same. For those of you reading this who have only watched the movies, Dean was also there but escaped at the same time as Luna and is now at Bill's house. Also Pettigrew died by strangling himself with the hand Voldemort gave him because he hesitated to kill Harry.)
Harry's Point Of View:
It was like sinking into an old nightmare. For an instant I knelt again beside Dumbledore's body at the foot of the tallest tower at Hogwarts, but in reality I was staring at a tiny body curled upon the grass, pierced by Bellatrix's silver knife.
"Dobby. . .Dobby. . ." My voice was still saying even though I knew that the elf had gone where I could not call him back.
After a minute or so I realized that we had, after all, come to the right place, for here were Bill and Fleur, Dean and Luna, gathering around me as I knelt over the elf.
"Hermione, where is she?" I said suddenly.
"Ron's taken her inside. She'll be all right." Bill said.
I looked back down at Dobby. I stretched out a hand and pulled the sharp blade from the elf's body, then dragged off my own jacket and covered Dobby in it like a blanket.
The sea was rushing against the rock somewhere nearby. I listened to it while the others talked, discussing matters in which I could take no interest, making decisions, Dean carried the injured Griphook into the house, Fleur hurrying with them. Now Bill was really knowing what h was saying. As he did so, I gazed down at the tiny body, and my scar prickled and burned, and in one part of his mind, viewed as if from the wrong end of a long telescope, I saw Voldemort punishing those we had left behind at Malfoy Manor. His rage was dreadful and yet my grief for Dobby seemed to diminish it, so that it became a distant storm that reached me from across a vast, silent ocean.
"I want to do it properly," were the first words of which Harry was fully conscious of speaking. "Not by magic. Have you got a spade?" Were the first words of which I was fully conscious of speaking.
And shortly afterward I had set to work, alone, digging the grave in the place that Bill had shown him at the end of the garden, between bushes. I dug with a kind of fury, relishing the manualwork, glorying in the non - magic of it, for every drop of my sweat and every blister felt like a gift to the elf who had saved our lives.
My scar burned, but I was master of the pain. I felt it, yet was apart from it. I had learned control at last, learned to shut my mind to Voldemort, the very thing Dumbledore had wanted me to learn from Snape. Just as Voldemort had not been able to possess me while Rosabella was with me or when I was consumed with grief for Sirius, so his thoughts could not penetrate me now while I mourned Dobby. Grief, it seemed, drove Voldemort out. . .though Dumbledore, of course, would have said that it was love.
On I dug, deeper and deeper into the hard, cold earth, subsuming my grief in sweat, denying the pain in my scar. In the darkness, with nothing but the sound of my own breath and the rushing sea to keep me company, the things that had happened at the Malfoys' returned to me, the things I had heard came back to me, and understanding blossomed in the darkness. . .
The steady rhythm of my arms beat in time with my thoughts. Hallows. . . Horcruxes . . . Hallows. . . Horcruxes. . . yet no longer burned with that weird, obsessive longing. Loss and fear had snuffed it out. I felt as though I had been slapped awake again.
Deeper and deeper I sank into the grave, and I knew where Voldemort had been tonight, and whom he had killed in the topmost cell of Nurmengard, and why . . .
And I thought of Wormtail, dead because of one small unconscious impulse of mercy. . .Dumbledore had foreseen that. . .How much more had he known?
I lost track of time. I knew only that the darkness had lightened a few degrees when I was rejoined by Ron and Dean.
"How's Hermione?" I asked.
"Better. Fleur's looking after her." Ron said.
I had my retort ready for when they asked me why I had not simply created a perfect grave with my wand, but I did not need it. They jumped down into the hole I had made with spades of their own and together we worked in silence until the hole seemed deep enough.
I wrapped the elf more snuggly in my jacket. Ron sat on the edge of the grave and stripped off his shoes and socks, which he placed on the elf's bare feet. Dean produced a woolen hat, which I placed carefully upon Dobby's head, muffling his batlike ears.
"We should close his eyes." A familiar dreamy voice said.
I had not heard the others coming through the darkness. Bill was wearing a traveling cloak, Fleur a large white apron, from the pocket of which protruded a bottle of what I recognized to be Skele - Gro.
Hermione was wrapped in a borrowed dressing gown, pale and unsteady on her feet. Ron put an arm around her when she reached him.
Luna, who was huddled in one of Fleur's coats, crouched down and placed her fingers tenderly upon each of the elf's eyelids, sliding them over his glassy stare.
"There. Now he could be sleeping." Luna said softly.
I placed the elf into the grave, arranged his tiny limbs so that he might have been resting, then climbed out and gazed for the last time upon the little body. I forced myself not to break down as I remembered Dumbledore's funeral, and the rows and rows of golden chairs, and the Minister of Magic in the front row, the recitation of Dumbledore's achievements, the stateliness of the white marble tomb.
I felt that Dobby deserved just as grand a funeral, and yet here the elf lay between bushes in a roughly dug hole.
"I think we ought to say something. I'll go first, shall I?" Luna piped up.
And as everybody looked at her, she addressed the dead elf at the bottom of the grave.
"Thank you so much Dobby for rescuing me from that cellar. It's so unfair that you had to die when you were so good and brave. I'll always remember what you did for us. I hope you're happy now." Luna said and she turned and looked expectingly at Ron, who cleared his throat.
"Yeah . . .thanks Dobby." Ron said in a thick voice.
"Thanks," Dean muttered.
I swallowed.
"Good bye Dobby." I said.
It was all I could manage, but Luna had said it all for him.
Bill raised his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rose up into the air and fell neatly upon it, a small, reddish mound.
"D'ya mind if I stay here a moment?" I asked the others.
They murmured words I did not catch. I felt gentle pats upon my back, and then they all traipsed back toward the cottage, leaving me alone beside the elf.
I looked around.
There were a number of large white stones, smoothed by the sea, marking the edge of the flower beds. I picked up one of the largest and laid it, pillowlike, over the place where Dobby's head now rested. I then felt in my pocket for a wand. There were two in there. I had forgotten, lost track. I could not now remember whose wands these were. I seemed to remember wrenching them out of someone's hand. I selected the shorter of the two, which felt friendlier in my hand, and pointed it at the rock.
Slowly, under my murmured instruction, deep cuts appeared upon the rock's surface. I knew that Hermione could have done it more neatly, and probably more quickly, but I wanted to mark the spot as I had wanted to dig the grave.
When I stood up again, the stone read:
HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.
I looked at my handiwork for a few more seconds, then walked away, my scar still prickling a little, and my mind full of those things that had come to me in the grave, ideas that had taken shape in the darkness, ideas both fascinating and terrible.
They were all sitting in the living room when I entered the little hall, their attention focused upon Bill, who was talking. The room was light - colored, pretty, with a small fire of driftwood burning brightly in the fireplace. I did not want to drop mud upon the carpet, so I stood in the doorway, listening.
". . .lucky that Ginny's on holiday. If she'd been at Hogwarts they could have taken her before we reached her. Now we know she's safe too." Bill said and he looked around and saw me standing there.
"I've been getting them all out of the Burrow." Bill explained.
"Moved them to Muriel's. The Death Eaters know Ron's with you now, they're bound to target the family – don't apologize." Bill added at the sight of my expression.
"It was always a matter of time, Dad's been saying so for months. We're the biggest blood traitor family there is." Bill said.
"How are they protected?" asked Harry.
"Fidelius Charm. Dad's Secret - Keeper. And we've done it on this cottage too. I'm Secret - Keeper here. None of us can go to work, but that's hardly the most important thing now. Jake is apparently going to move there to, temporarily. He once to provide some extra protection. I personally don't think it's necessary but he insisted.
Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we'll move them to Muriel's too. There isn't much room here, but she's got plenty. Griphook's legs are on the mend. Fleur's given him Skele - Grow. Could probably move them in an hour or –" Bill said.
"No, I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It's important." I said and Bill looked startled.
I heard the authority of my own voice, the conviction, the voice of purpose that had come to me as I dug Dobby's grave. All of their faces were turned toward me looking puzzled.
"I'm going to wash. Then I'll need to see them, straight away." I told Bill looking down at my hands still covered with mud and Dobby's blood.
I walked into the little kitchen, to the basin beneath a window overlooking the sea. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, shell pink and faintly gold, as I washed, again following the train of thought that had come to me in the dark garden. . .
Dobby would never be able to tell us who had sent him to the cellar, but I knew what I had seen. A piercing blue eye had looked out of the mirror fragment, and then help had come.
Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.
I dried my hands, impervious to the beauty of the scene outside the window and to the murmuring of the others in the sitting room. I looked out over the ocean and felt closer, this dawn, than ever before, closer to the heart of it all.
Still my scar prickled, and I knew that Voldemort was getting there too. I understood and yet did not understand. My instinct was telling me one thing, my brain quite another. The Dumbledore in my head smiled, surveying me over the tips of his fingers, pressed together as if in prayer.
You gave Ron the Deluminator. . .You understood him. . .You gave him a way back. . .
And you understood Wormtail too. . .You knew there was a bit of regret there, somewhere. . .
And if you knew them. . .What did you know about me, Dumbledore?
Am I meant to know but not to seek? Did you know how hard I'd feel that? Is that why you made it this difficult? So I'd have time to work that out?
I stood quite still, eyes glazed, watching the place where a bright gold ray of dazzling sun was rising over the horizon. Then I looked down at my clean hands and was momentarily surprised to see the cloth I was holding in them. I set it down and returned to the hall.
As I did so, I felt my scar pulse angrily, and then flashed across my mind, swift as the reflection of a dragonfly over water, the outline of a building he knew extremely well.
Bill and Fleur were standing at the foot of the stairs.
"I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander." I said.
"No. You will 'ave to wait, 'Arry. Zey are both too tired –" Fleur said.
"I'm sorry, but it can't wait. I need to talk to them now. Privately – and separately. It's urgent." I said without heat.
"Harry, what the hell's going on? You turn up here with a dead house - elf and a half - conscious goblin, Hermione looks as though she's been tortured, and Ron's just refused to tell me anything –" Bill asked.
"We can't tell you what we're doing. You're in the Order, Bill, you know Dumbledore left us a mission. We're not supposed to talk about it to anyone else." I said flatly.
Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look at her. He was staring at me. His deeply scarred face was hard to read.
"All right. Who do you want to talk to first?" Bill said finally.
I hesitated.
I knew what hung on his decision. There was hardly any time left; now was the moment to decide.
Horcruxes or Hallows?
"Griphook, I'll speak to Griphook first." I said.
My heart was racing as if I had been sprinting and had just cleared an enormous obstacle.
"Up here, then." Bill said, leading the way.
I had walked up several steps before stopping and looking back.
"I need you two as well!" I called to Ron and Hermione, who had been skulking, half concealed, in the doorway of the sitting room.
They both moved into the light, looking oddly relieved.
"How are you?" I asked Hermione.
"You were amazing – coming up with that story when she was hurting you like that –" I said.
Hermione gave a weak smile as Ron gave her a one - armed squeeze.
"What are we doing now, Harry?" Ron asked.
"You'll see. Come on." I said.
Ron, Hermione and I followed Bill up the steep stairs onto a small landing. Three doors led off it.
"In here." Bill said, opening the door into his and Fleur's room, it too had a view of the sea, now flecked with gold in the sunrise.
I moved to the window, turned my back on the spectacular view, and waited, my arms folded, my scar prickling. Hermione took the chair beside the dressing table. Ron sat on the arm.
Bill reappeared, carrying the little goblin, whom he set down carefully upon the bed. Griphook grunted thanks, and Bill left, closing the door upon us all.
"I'm sorry to take you out of bed. How are your legs?" I said.
"Painful, but mending." The goblin replied.
Griphook was still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and wore a strange look. Half truculent, half intrigued. I noted the goblin's sallow skin, his long thin fingers, his black eyes. Fleur had removed his shoes. His long feet were dirty. He was larger than a house-elf, but not by much. His domed head was much bigger than a human's.
"You probably don't remember –" I began.
"– that I was the goblin who showed you to your vault, the first time you ever visited Gringotts? I remember, Harry Potter. Even amongst goblins, you are very famous." Griphook said.
The goblin and I looked at each other, sizing each other up. My scar was still prickling. I wanted to get through this interview with Griphook quickly, and at the same time was afraid of making a false move. I had never wished for Rosabella to be here more, not just because I missed her more then I could put into words but she knew how to deal with magical creatures. She knew how to get through to them. She knew how to befriend them. I tried to think what she would do in this situation.
While I tried to decide on the best way to approach my request, the goblin broke the silence.
"You buried the elf, I watched you from the window of the bedroom next door." Griphook said, sounding unexpectedly rancorous.
"Yes." I said.
Griphook looked at me out of the corners of his slanting black eyes.
"You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter." Griphook said.
"In what way?" I asked, rubbing my scar absently.
"You dug the grave." Griphook said.
"So?" I said.
Griphook did not answer.
I rather thought I was being sneered at for acting like a Muggle, but it did not matter to me whether Griphook approved of Dobby's grave or not. I gathered myself for the attack.
"Griphook, I need to ask —" I started to say.
"You also rescued a goblin." Griphook said.
"What?" I said.
"You brought me here. Saved me." Griphook said.
"Well, I take it you're not sorry?" I said a little impatiently.
"No, Harry Potter, but you are a very odd wizard." Griphook said, and with one finger he twisted the thin black beard upon his chin.
"Right. Well, I need some help, Griphook, and you can give it to me." I said.
The goblin made no sign of encouragement, but continued to frown at me as though he had never seen anything like me.
"I need to break into a Gringotts vault." I said but I had not meant to say it so badly.
The words were forced from me as pain shot through my lightning scar and I saw, again, the outline of Hogwarts. I closed my mind firmly. I needed to deal with Griphook first. Ron and Hermione were staring at me as though he had gone mad.
"Harry –" Hermione said, but she was cut off by Griphook.
"Break into a Gringotts vault?" The goblin repeated, wincing a little as he shifted his position upon the bed.
"It is impossible." Griphook stated.
"No, it isn't. It's been done." Ron contradicted him.
"Yeah. The same day I first met you, Griphook. My birthday, seven years ago." I said.
"The vault in question was empty at the time. Its protection was minimal." Griphook snapped.
I understood that even though Griphook had left Gringotts, he was offended at the idea of its defenses being breached.
"Well, the vault we need to get into isn't empty, and I'm guessing its protection will be pretty powerful. It belongs to the Lestranges." I said.
I saw Hermione and Ron look at each other, astonished, but there would be time enough to explain after Griphook had given his answer.
"You have no chance. No chance at all. If you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours –" Griphook said flatly.
"Thief, you have been warned, beware . . . yeah, I know, I remember. But I'm not trying to get myself any treasure, I'm not trying to take anything for personal gain. Can you believe that?" I said.
The goblin looked slantwise at me, and the lightning scar on my forehead prickled, but I ignored it, refusing to acknowledge its pain or its invitation.
"If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain, it would be you, Harry Potter. Goblins and elves are not used to the protection or the respect that you have shown this night. Not from wand - carriers." Griphook finally said.
"Wand - carriers?" I repeated.
The phrase fell oddly upon my ears as my scar prickled, as Voldemort turned his thoughts northward, and as I burned to question Ollivander next door.
"The right to carry a wand, has long been contested between wizards and goblins." The goblin said quietly.
"Well, goblins can do magic without wands." Ron said.
"That is immaterial! Wizards refuse to share the secrets of wand - lore with other magical beings, they deny us the possibility of extending our powers!" Griphook said furiously.
"Well, goblins won't share any of their magic either. You won't tell us how to make swords and armor the way you do. Goblins know how to work metal in a way wizards have never –" Ron said.
"It doesn't matter. This isn't about wizards versus goblins or any other sort of magical creature –" I said, noting Griphook's rising color.
Griphook gave a nasty laugh.
"But it is, it is precisely that! As the Dark Lord becomes ever more powerful, your race is set still more firmly above mine! Gringotts falls under Wizarding rule, house - elves are slaughtered, and who amongst the wand - carriers protests?
"We do!" Hermione said defiantly as she had sat up straight, her eyes bright.
"We protest! And I'm hunted quite as much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I'm a Mudblood!" Hermione said.
"Don't call yourself –" Ron muttered.
"Why shouldn't I? Mudblood, and proud of it! I've got no higher position under this new order than you have, Griphook! It was me they chose to torture, back at the Malfoys!" Hermione said, as she spoke, she pulled aside the neck of the dressing gown to reveal the thin cut Bellatrix had made, scarlet against her throat.
"Did you know that it was Harry who set Dobby free? Did you know that we've wanted elves to be freed for years?" Hermione asked.
(Ron fidgeted uncomfortably on the arm of Hermione's chair.)
"And its not just us! Our friend is at Hogwarts doing everything she can to destabilise the Carrows and Snape! She believes in all this just as much we do! You can't want You - Know - Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!" Hermione finished.
The goblin gazed at Hermione with the same curiousity he had shown me.
"I believe, Rosabella Black, is the friend you speak of. Admirable, but I doubt it will last much longer. What do you seek within the Lestranges' vault?The sword that lies inside it is a fake. This is the real one." He looked from one to the other of them. "I think that you already know this. You asked me to lie for you back there." Griphook said abruptly as he looked from one of us to the other.
"But the fake sword isn't the only thing in that vault, is it? Perhaps you've seen other things in there?" I asked.
My heart was pounding harder than ever. I redoubled my efforts to ignore the pulsing of my scar.
The goblin twisted his beard around his finger again.
"It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers." Griphook said.
The goblin stroked the sword, and his black eyes moved from me to Hermione to Ron and then back again.
"So young, to be fighting so many." Griphook finally said.
"Will you help us? We haven't got a hope of breaking in without a goblin's help. You're our one chance." I said.
"I shall. . . think about it." Griphook said maddeningly.
"But –" Ron started angrily.
Hermione nudged him in the ribs.
"Thank you." I said.
The goblin bowed his great domed head in acknowledgement, then flexed his short legs.
"I think, that the Skele - Gro has finished its work. I may be able to sleep at last. Forgive me . . ." Griphook said, settling himself ostentatiously upon Bill and Fleur's bed.
"Yeah, of course." I said, but before leaving the room I leaned forward and took the sword of Gryffindor from beside the goblin.
Griphook did not protest, but I thought I saw resentment in the goblin's eyes as I closed the door upon him.
"Little git. He's enjoying keeping us hanging." Ron whispered.
"Harry, are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you saying there's a Horcrux in the Lestranges vault?" Hermione whispered, pulling us both away from the door, into the middle of the still - dark landing
"Yes. Bellatrix was terrified when she thought we'd been in there, she was beside herself. Why? What did she think we'd seen, what else did she think we might have taken? Something she was petrified You - Know - Who would find out about." I said.
"But I thought we were looking for places You - Know - Who's been, places he's done something important? Was he ever inside the Lestranges' vault?" Ron said looking baffled.
"I don't know whether he was ever inside Gringotts. He never had gold there when he was younger, because nobody left him anything. He would have seen the bank from the outside, though, the first time he ever went to Diagon Alley." I said.
My scar throbbed, but I ignored it. I wanted Ron and Hermione to understand about Gringotts before we spoke to Ollivander.
"I think he would have envied anyone who had a key to a Gringotts vault. I think he'd have seen it as a real symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world. And don't forget, he trusted Bellatrix and her husband. They were his most devoted servants before he fell, and they went looking for him after he vanished. He said it when he came back, I heard him." I said and rubbed my scar.
"I don't think he'd have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though. He never told Lucius Malfoy the truth about the diary. He probably told her it was a treasured possession and asked her to place it in her vault. The safest place in the world for anything you want to hide, Hagrid told me . . . except for Hogwarts." I said.
When I had finished speaking, Ron shook his head.
"You really understand him." Ron said.
"Bits of him. Bits . . . I just wish I'd understood Dumbledore as much. But we'll see. Come on – Ollivander now." I said.
Ron and Hermione looked bewildered but very impressed as they followed me across the little landing and knocked upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur's. A weak "Come in!" answered us.
The wandmaker was lying on the twin bed farthest from the window. He had been held in the cellar for more than a year, and tortured, I knew, on at least one occasion.
He was emaciated, the bones of his face sticking out sharply against the yellowish skin. His great silver eyes seemed vast in their sunken sockets. The hands that lay upon the blanket could have belonged to a skeleton. I sat down on the empty bed, beside Ron and Hermione. The rising sun was not visible here. The room faced the cliff-top garden and the freshly dug grave.
"Mr. Ollivander, I'm sorry to disturb you." I said.
"My dear boy, you rescued us, I thought we would die in that place, I can never thank you. . . never thank you. . . enough." Ollivander said, his voice feeble.
"We were glad to do it." I said sincerely.
My scar throbbed. I knew, I was certain, that there was hardly any time left in which to beat Voldemort to his goal, or else to attempt to thwart him. I felt a flutter of panic. . . yet I had made my decision when I chose to speak to Griphook first. Feigning a calm I did not feel, I groped in the pouch around my neck and took out the two halves of my broken wand.
"Mr. Ollivander, I need some help." I said.
"Anything. Anything." The wandmaker said weakly.
"Can you mend this? Is it possible?" I asked.
Ollivander held out a trembling hand, and I placed the two barely connected halves in his palm.
"Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple." Ollivander said in a tremulous voice.
"Yes. Can you –?" I said.
"No, I am sorry, very sorry, but a wand that has suffered this degree of damage cannot be repaired by any means that I know of." Ollivander whispered.
I had been braced to hear it, but it was a blow nevertheless. I took the wand halves back and replaced them in the pouch around my neck. Ollivander stared at the place where the shattered wand had vanished, and did not look away until I had taken from my pocket the two wands I had brought from the Malfoys'.
"Can you identify these?" I asked.
The wandmaker took the first of the wands and held it close to his faded eyes, rolling it between his knobble - knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly.
"Walnut and dragon heartstring. Twelve - and - three - quarter inches. Unyielding. This wand belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange." Ollivander said.
"And this one?" I asked.
Ollivander performed the same examination.
"Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco Malfoy." Ollivander said.
"Was? Isn't it still his?" I repeated.
"Perhaps not. If you took it –" Ollivander said.
"– I did –" I said.
"– then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of taking matters. Much also depends upon the wand itself. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its allegiance will change." Ollivander said.
There was a silence in the room, except for the distant rushing of the sea.
"You talk about wands like they've got feelings, like they can think for themselves." I said.
"The wand chooses the wizard. That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore." Ollivander said.
"A person can still use a wand that hasn't chosen them, though?" I asked.
"Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand." Ollivander said.
The sea gushed forward and backward. It was a mournful sound.
"I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force. Can I use it safely?" I said.
"I think so. Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but the conquered wand will usually bend its will to its new master."
"So I should use this one?" Ron said, pulling Wormtail's wand out of his pocket and handing it to Ollivander.
"Chestnut and dragon heartstring. Nine - and - a - quarter inches. Brittle. I was forced to make this shortly after my kidnapping, for Peter Pettigrew. Yes, if you won it, it is more likely to do your bidding, and do it well, than another wand." Ollivander said.
"And this holds true for all wands, does it?" I asked.
"I think so. You ask deep questions, Mr. Potter. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic." Ollivander replied, his protuberant eyes upon Harry's face
"So, it isn't necessary to kill the previous owner to take the possession of a wand?" I asked.
Ollivander swallowed.
"Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill." Ollivander said.
"There are legends, though. Legends about a wand – or wands – that have been passed from hand to hand by murder." I said, and as my heart rate quickened, the pain in my scar became more intense.
I was sure that Voldemort has decided to put his idea into action.
Ollivander turned pale.
Against the snowy pillow he was light gray, and his eyes were enormous, bloodshot, and bulging with what looked like fear.
"Only one wand, I think." Ollivander whispered.
"And You - Know - Who is interested in it, isn't he?" I asked.
"I – how? How do you know this?" Ollivander croaked, and he looked appealingly at Ron and Hermione for help.
"He wanted you to tell him how to overcome the connection between our wands." I said.
Ollivander looked terrified.
"He tortured me, you must understand that! The Cruciatus Curse, I – I had no choice but to tell him what I knew, what I guessed!" Ollivander said.
"I understand. You told him about the twin cores? You said he just had to borrow another wizard's wand?" I said.
Ollivander looked horrified, transfixed, by the amount that I knew. He nodded slowly.
"But it didn't work. Mine still beat the borrowed wand. Do you know why that is?" I went on.
Ollivander shook his head slowly as he had just nodded.
"I had. . . never heard of such a thing. Your wand performed something unique that night. The connection of the twin cores is incredibly rare, yet why your wand would have snapped the borrowed wand, I do not know. . ." Ollivander said.
"We were talking about the other wand, the wand that changes hands by murder. When You - Know - Who realized my wand had done something strange, he came back and asked about that other wand, didn't he?" I asked.
"How do you know this?" Ollivander asked.
I did not answer.
"Yes, he asked. He wanted to know everything I could tell him about the wand variously known as the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, or the Elder Wand." Ollivander whispered.
I glanced sideways at Hermione. She looked flabbergasted.
"The Dark Lord, had always been happy with the wand I made him – yes and phoenix feather, thirteen - and - a - half inches – until he discovered the connection of the twin cores. Now he seeks another, more powerful wand, as the only way to conquer yours." Ollivander said in hushed and frightened tones.
"But he'll know soon, if he doesn't already, that mine's broken beyond repair." I said quietly.
"No!" said Hermione, sounding frightened. "He can't know that, Harry, how could he –?" Hermione said, sounding frightened.
"Priori Incantatem. We left your wand and the blackthorn wand at the Malfoys', Hermione. If they examine them properly, make them re-create the spells they've cast lately, they'd see that yours broke mine, they'll see that you tried and failed to mend it, and they'll realize that I've been using the blackthorn one ever since." I said.
The little color she had regained since our arrival had drained from her face. Ron gave Harry a reproachful look.
"Let's not worry about that now –" Ron said.
But Mr. Ollivander intervened.
"The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only for your destruction, Mr. Potter. He is determined to possess it because he believes it will make him truly invulnerable." Ollivander said.
"And will it?" I asked.
"The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear attack, but the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit . . . formidable." Ollivander said.
I was suddenly reminded of how unsure, when we first met, of how much I liked Ollivander. Even now, having been tortured and imprisoned by Voldemort, the idea of the Dark Wizard in possession of this wand seemed to enthrall him as much as it repulsed him.
"You – you really think this wand exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?" Hermione asked.
"Oh yes. Yes, it is perfectly possible to trace the wand's course through history. There are gaps, of course, and long ones, where it vanishes from view, temporarily lost or hidden, but always it resurfaces. It has certain identifying characteristics that those who are learned in wandlore recognize. There are written accounts, some of them obscure, that I and other wandmakers have made it our business to study. They have the ring of authenticity." Ollivander said.
"So you – you don't think it can be a fairy tale or a myth?" Hermione asked hopefully.
"No. Whether it needs to pass by murder, I do not know. Its history is bloody, but that may be simply due to the fact that it is such a desirable object, and arouses such passions in wizards. Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands, and an object of incredible fascination to all of us who study the power of wands." Ollivander said.
"Mr. Ollivander, you told You - Know - Who that Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, didn't you?" I said.
Ollivander turned, if possible, even paler. He looked ghostly as he gulped.
"But how – how do you –?"
"Never mind how I know it. You told You - Know - Who that Gregorovitch had the wand?" I said, closing my eyes momentarily as my scar burned and I saw, for mere seconds, a vision of the main street in Hogsmeade, still dark, because it was so much farther north.
"It was a rumor. A rumor, years and years ago, long before you were born, I believe Gregorovitch himself started it. You can see how good it would be for business, that he was studying and duplicating the qualities of the Elder Wand!" Ollivander whispered.
"Yes, I can see that. Mr. Ollivander, one last thing, and then we'll let you get some rest. What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?" I said as I stood up.
"The – the what?" The wandmaker asked, looking utterly bewildered.
"The Deathly Hallows." I repeated.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Is this still something to do with wands?" Ollivander said.
I looked into the sunken face and believed that Ollivander was not acting. He did not know about the Hallows.
"Thank you. Thank you very much. We'll leave you to get some rest now." I said.
Ollivander looked stricken.
"He was torturing me! The Cruciatus Curse . . . you have no idea . . ." Ollivander gasped.
"I do. I really do. Please get some rest. Thank you for telling me all of this." I said.
I led Ron and Hermione down the staircase. I caught glimpses of Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean sitting at the table in the kitchen, cups of tea in front of them. They all looked up at me as I appeared in the doorway, but I merely nodded to them and continued into the garden, Ron and Hermione behind me. The reddish mound of earth that covered Dobby lay ahead, and I walked back to it, as the pain in my head built more and more powerfully.
It was a huge effort now to close down the visions that were forcing themselves upon me, but I knew that I would have to resist only a little longer. I would yield very soon, because I needed to know that my theory was right. I must make only one more short effort, so that I could explain to Ron and Hermione.
"Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago. I saw You - Know - Who trying to find him. When he tracked him down, he found that Gregorovitch didn't have it anymore. It was stolen from him by Grindelwald. How Grindelwald found out that Gregorovitch had it, I don't know – but if Gregorovitch was stupid enough to spread the rumor, it can't have been that difficult." I said.
Voldemort was at the gates of Hogwarts. I could see him standing there, and see too the lamp bobbing in the pre - dawn, coming closer and closer.
"And Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become powerful. And at the height of his power, when Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could stop him, he dueled Grindelwald and beat him, and he took the Elder Wand." I said.
"Dumbledore had the Elder Wand? But then – where is it now?" Ron said.
"At Hogwarts." I said, fighting to remain with them in the cliff - top garden.
"But then, let's go! Harry, let's go and get it before he does!" Ron said urgently.
"It's too late for that. He knows where it is. He's there now." I said.
I could not help myself, but clutched my head, trying to help it resist.
"Harry! How long have you known this – why have we been wasting time? Why did you talk to Griphook first? We could have gone – we could still go –" Ron said furiously.
"No. Hermione's right. Dumbledore didn't want me to have it. He didn't want me to take it. He wanted me to get the Horcruxes." I said and sank to my knees in the grass.
"The unbeatable wand, Harry!" Ron moaned.
"I'm not supposed to. . . I'm supposed to get the Horcruxes. . ." I said.
And now everything was cool and dark. The sun was barely visible over the horizon as I glided alongside Snape, up through the grounds toward the lake.
"I shall join you in the castle shortly. Leave me now." I said in his high, cold voice.
Snape bowed and set off back up the path, his black cloak billowing behind him. I walked slowly, waiting for Snape's figure to disappear. It would not do for Snape, or indeed anyone else, to see where I was going. But there were no lights in the castle windows, and I could conceal himself. . . and in a second I had cast upon myself a Disillusionment Charm that hid me even from my own eyes.
I walked on, around the edge of the lake, taking in the outlines of the beloved castle, my first kingdom, my birthright. . .
And here it was, beside the lake, reflected in the dark waters. The white marble tomb, an unnecessary blot on the familiar landscape. I felt again that rush of controlled euphoria, that heady sense of purpose in destruction. I raised the old yew wand. How fitting that this would be its last great act.
The tomb split open from head to foot. The shrouded figure was as long as thin as it had been in life. I raised the wand again.
The wrappings fell open. The face was translucent, pale, sunken, yet almost perfectly preserved. They had left his spectacles on the crooked nose. I felt amused derision. Dumbledore's hands were folded upon his chest, and there it lay, clutched beneath them, buried with him.
Had the old fool imagined that marble or death would protect the wand? Had he thought that the Dark Lord would be scared to violate his tomb? The spiderlike hand swooped and pulled the wand from Dumbledore's grasp, and as he took it, a shower of sparks flew from its tip, sparkling over the corpse of its last owner, ready to serve a new master at last.