"I think we've lived a thousand lives, I try to find you every time. Searching for those same wide eyes that locked me in, in my first life. Do you remember my old names? Recognize my old face? We're both hanging in picture frames somewhere in this place. But my stare at you stayed the same." - Same Soul, PRVIS
HAYLEE
Dawn is approaching ominously upon the city, and all is quiet, save for the sound of my heels against the cobblestone pavement. In the distance lies the Eiffel Tower, like a skeleton of metal projecting up into an infinitely grey sky; as if a thousand Dementors are circling the tower's apex, casting darkness and despair across all of Paris. At this hour, the city should be slowly trickling to life, but the Parisians, it seems, have gone into hiding, and the dull ache in my chest tells me I should follow in their stride. But despite my anxieties, something more powerful is telling me to stand my ground.
"I knew you would come, Albus."
Hidden in the colossal shadow cast by the tower stands Dumbledore and Grindelwald, far older and much more weathered than the young, handsome boys in my locket, and no longer the inseparable allies depicted in Rita Skeeter's writing. And yet, when they look at each other, it's as if nothing has changed, as if they're not fighting on opposite sides of a global war.
Dumbledore smiles, his blue eyes twinkling all the while. "Then you know, Gellert, that you must be stopped."
Grindelwald chuckles, twirling the Elder Wand between his slender fingers. He radiates the same evil, malicious energy as Voldemort, and though he is not quite as deformed, his years away from Dumbledore have clearly been troublesome. But there is still some humanity in him, and, as Dumbledore would say, he wields the single most powerful magic in the world, which Dumbledore would have experienced first-hand; the ability to love, and to be loved.
"I never took you for a fool, Albus, but perhaps I was wrong," Grindelwald says coldly. "You are the one wizard in all of Europe who could defeat me, and yet, also the one wizard who cannot harm me. We swore an oath never to harm each other, do you not remember?"
"That was before you betrayed me -"
"You betrayed yourself."
I can see that it is taking all of Dumbledore's willpower not to scream at him, and his wand-arm gives a furious jerk at his side. Grindelwald sees this too and a smirk curves onto his lips, still twirling the Elder Wand in his hands like a trophy -- a symbol of his power, and strength.
"You killed my sister," Dumbledore continues, clearly struggling to keep his temper in check, "and yet, you have done even more terrible things since that day."
"Things you approved of, long ago," Grindelwald says darkly. "Tell me, do your friends at the Ministry know what we once shared? And your devoted students, do they know the role you played? 'For the Greater Good'. Those were your words, my dear, not mine. The loss of Muggle-life -- the deaths of a few naysayers -- are regrettable things, but they were necessary. You knew that, once."
"It matters not what I believed all those years ago," Dumbledore retorts, "only that I use my remaining time to ensure the next generation of wizards don't make the same mistakes I did. To make sure this never happens again."
"Education might cure wizarding prejudice, but what of the Muggles?" Grindelwald asks, and I can tell that this a debate which he has practised in his head on many occasions. "Who is there to teach the Muggles not to fear something infinitely more powerful than they? It is human nature, Albus. So long as there are Muggles alive to fear us, we will never be safe. Which would you prefer, a thousand dead Muggles, or a thousand little girls just like Ariana?"
"Do not speak her name to me."
I've never heard Dumbledore with so much vindictiveness in his voice, nor have I ever seen his eyes alight with such an insatiable fury, intertwined with a tragic regret.
"I see my words are wasted on you," Grindelwald says, looking him up and down. "Shame, we could have been wonderful together. Run along, Albus, and tell your Ministry puppeteers that they will have to try harder than this."
"Oh?" Dumbledore echoes.
"You know full well that you cannot harm me. You may not love me anymore, Albus, but our oath remains."
Much to my surprise, Dumbledore chuckles, and the all-too-familiar twinkle in his blue eyes is evident once more; like he knows something you don't. "There's one thing that hasn't changed about you, old friend; your blatant disregard for the things you consider simple."
Without another word, Dumbledore raises his wand, and from it a spectacular display of golden sparks emit, striking Grindelwald in the chest and causing him to stumble backwards with a cry of pain, which quickly turns into a scream of frustration.
"I see," Grindelwald seethes, regaining his posture. "If destiny requires us to play this game, then so be it."
Dumbledore corrects his stance and takes a deep breath. "I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, Gellert."
"And I, you," Grindelwald says softly. After a moment's contemplation, his wand raised before him, Grindelwald speaks again, "I have the Elder Wand, Albus, does that not frighten you?"
"Yes," Dumbledore says truthfully. "I'm terrified. But that is the only time a man can be brave."
And they both raise their wands, lethal curses echoing in the wind, as the streets of Paris begin to disintegrate around me. Just as the spells meet their mark, Dumbledore and Grindelwald are suddenly gone, leaving only darkness and pain in their wake. My chest is aching, and every breath feels as if somebody has stabbed me through the heart.
"Haylee?" comes a faint voice from beside me.
The concern in their voice stings my heart, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut, willing the streets of Paris to materialize once more, my heart thumping in my chest. This is what Dumbledore wanted me to see. When the vision returns, the sun is now steadily on the rise, peaking through the colossal Tower and casting a beautiful, yet mournful, orange light across the city. In my absence, it seems, the glorious duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald seems to have panned out, and I wonder briefly if Dumbledore purposefully omitted this from his memory, haunted by the ghost of what once was. A little way away Grindelwald is leant against a stone wall, clutching his heart and struggling to catch his breath as Dumbledore surveys him from a distance, a million words unsaid dancing behind his twinkling eyes. Aurors have begun to Disapparate onto the scene: across the way, I recognize Newt Scamander, hand-in-hand with a young witch with a sleek black bob.
Wordlessly, Dumbledore approaches his former lover, kneels, and picks the dreaded Elder Wand up from beside him, and when he holds the wand in his hands for the first time, it is admittedly anti-climatic. Upon the ground, Grindelwald gives a defeated chuckle, wincing when he does so, "may it serve you well, my friend," he says quietly.
Dumbledore casts a reproachful look upon him, staring down the barrel of the Elder wand. "I'm sorry it had to be this way." And he goes to turn his back, his face stoic despite all the emotion he must be feeling.
"I'm not," says Grindelwald, and Dumbledore stops dead in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder. "We've lived a thousand lives together, Albus. I swear, I'll find you in the next. Perhaps fate will be a little kinder to us."
Dumbledore turns his back once more and walks away, ignoring the stares of the myriad Aurors now on the scene, and I can tell that his heart is breaking. I watch him stow the Elder Wand away in his breast pocket before the scene disappears once again, slowly swirling out of focus until all I'm left with is darkness and the intense pain in my chest.
I keep my eyes shut for a moment, trying to remember the events that led me here. I'm in pain, but I'm lying in a comfortable bed, and I can feel rays of light from a nearby window on my skin; I know only one thing for sure, I escaped Malfoy Manor. But how? I remember duelling Voldemort. I remember Bellatrix aiming at Sirius' turned back -
My eyes spring open with a gasp, and I try to pull myself into a sitting position.
"Haylee!" There are hands-on my shoulders forcing me back down, and I wince, the sudden and sharp movements making the pain in my chest erupt. "Hey, hey! It's all right; you're all right. Just try and stay still, okay?"
Harry is perched on the edge of the bed with the air of someone who has gone far too long without sleep. The room is airy, light, and most importantly, the safest place we've been in months. I push myself up on the pillows behind me, trying my hardest not to wince again. "Where's Hermione? Is she okay? And Dad and Sirius, did they make it out?"
"They're all fine," Harry says. "You should be worried about yourself. Bellatrix got you pretty bad."
I grasp at my chest for a moment and try to make my breaths shallower as to mediate the pain. Combined with the stinging of my scar and the dull throbbing in my head, the memories are foggy and vague. I can remember the blood on my hands, the scent of Sirius' cologne mixed with cigarette smoke, and a flash of blond hair.
"You don't remember?" Harry says knowingly. "You pushed Sirius out of the way of Bellatrix's curse...Sectumpsempra. Snape must've taught her." We both shiver, and I remember Draco laying on the floor of the boy's bathroom, bleeding out. "Dad says you would've all died if it weren't for -- for --" he trails off, a sour look on his face he saves for only one person.
My heart skips a beat; I can't tell if this is a good thing or not. "For Draco," I finish, and in my mind's eye I see Draco casting the Shield Charm which saved our lives, hear him and Dad healing my wounds, like Snape, and I did for him so long ago. "He's here?" Harry gives a short nod. "Holy fucking shit."
It feels like only yesterday that Hermione and I were talking about Draco and George, and yet, those problems seem so very distant now.
"It's...weird," Harry says, though I know he could use far more colourful words to describe Draco. "He saved your life, but none of us know how to act around him. It's like walking on broken glass. If it weren't for Dad and Sirius, I reckon Ron would've murdered him by now. I just can't bring myself to trust him."
"Doesn't matter," I say dismissively, but my heart continues to beat irregularly at the thought of him so close to me again. "Where's Dobby? He would've torn himself to pieces when he realised I didn't make it back, right? I need to apologise --"
"He didn't make it," Harry chokes, and I trail off, feeling as if someone is holding my head underwater. "Bellatrix's knife, we -- I couldn't save him."
It feels as if I'm kneeling beside Dumbledore's body at the foot of the tallest tower at Hogwarts, the grief destroying all other pain I'm experiencing. "You buried him? I want to see him."
Harry shakes his head. "You need to rest --"
"He died to save us, I want to see him," I say thickly. "And besides, I know you saw what I saw back at the Malfoys -- You-Know-Who and Grindelwald. We're running out of time, Harry. Help me up."
He hesitates for a moment, but he knows I'm right. Though it causes me immense pain, he pulls me up from the bed and wraps an arm around my waist, keeping me stable. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I breathe, biting back the pain. "Let's go."
He leads me down the steep steps towards the bottom floor, pausing anytime a wince escapes my lips to make sure I'm okay. When we finally reach the foot of the stairs, it feels as if a millennium has passed, and yet the loss of Dobby still hangs heavy on my heart.
"Ow, fuck!" I slip on the bottom step and stumble forward, Harry's grip on my shoulders the only thing stopping me from tumbling over. At the sound of my pain, a collection of frantic footsteps come from the living room.
"What are you doing?" Bill Weasley shouts, and behind him appears Fleur, Ron, Dad, Sirius, Hermione, Luna, Riley, and Draco. "Haylee, you need to lay back down, you almost died!"
The sight of Draco across the room momentarily renders me speechless, and I can feel colour rising to my cheeks as I try and avoid his gaze.
"I'm taking you back upstairs," Dad adds, taking a step towards us.
I shake my head, "no --"
"If Mum finds out we let you waltz around hours after having your chest slashed open, she'll flay us," Bill cuts me off, and if the circumstances were different, I might have laughed. "Whatever you're doing can wait."
"No, it can't," I say a little louder. "Harry's going to take me to see Dobby's grave. He died thinking he'd failed me, please let me do this."
Although I can see it goes against their better judgement, upon hearing the way my voice cracks, they move aside silently, and Harry guides me into the garden, the smell of seawater immediately washing over me. By a congregation of bushes by the end of the garden, I can see a small mound of dirt, marked by a smooth white stone, and my heart grows even heavier. When we reach the grave, I see that Harry has marked it:
Here lies Dobby, a free elf.
"You probably could have done it neater," he murmurs from beside me.
"It's perfect," I whisper. As I gaze down upon the tiny grave, my scar prickles and burns, and in one part of my mind, viewed as if from the wrong end of a long telescope, I see Voldemort punishing those we left behind at Malfoy Manor. His rage is dreadful, and yet my grief for Dobby seems to diminish it so that it becomes a distant storm that reaches me from across a vast, silent ocean.
"We dug it without magic," he adds numbly, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Do you want to say anything to him?"
I shake my head, knowing that if I speak again, I'll breakdown. And so Harry simply takes my hand, and we stand in silence for a few moments in requiem of Dobby, one of our greatest protectors, the elf who saved our lives more times than I can count.
Our scars burn, but we have become masters of the pain; we feel it, yet we're apart from it. We've learned how to control it, at last, learned to shut our minds to Voldemort, the very thing Dumbledore had wanted us to learn from Snape all those years ago. Just as Voldemort had not been able to possess us while we were consumed with grief for Taylor, so his thoughts cannot penetrate us now, while we mourn Dobby. Grief, it seems, drives Voldemort out...though Dumbledore, of course, would have said it was love.
In the comfortable silence, the things that happened back at the Malfoy's returns to me, the things we heard come back to me, and my vision of Dumbledore and Grindelwald replays in my mind like a movie theatre, and understanding blossoms...
Repeating in my head like a broken record amidst it all is the same mantra that's been stuck there for weeks. Hallows...Horcruxes...Hallows...Horcruxes...yet I no longer burn with that weird, obsessive longing. Loss and fear have snuffed it out: I feel as though I have been slapped awake again.
Tears begin to slip down my cheeks and I know exactly where Voldemort has been tonight, and whom he had killed in the topmost cell of Nurmengrad, and why...
And I think of Wormtail, dead because of one, small, unconscious impulse of mercy...Dumbledore had known that...what else had he known?
"Dobby will never be able to tell us who sent him," is all I can manage to say.
"I know what I saw," Harry says firmly, shaking his head. "It was the blue eye again --"
"It was probably Dad or Sirius. They have the other shard --"
"Neither of them have blue eyes, Hayles. Remember what Dumbledore used to say: help will always be given to those at Hogwarts who ask for it."
These words seem to resonate within me as I take one last look at Dobby's grave before turning my back. We walk away together, our scars prickling, and our minds racing. In our silence, I know that he has come to the same conclusion as me, that our minds are working in unison, as they have always seemed to do. I remember Grindlewald's last words to Dumbledore, of how they had loved each other in a thousand different lifetimes, and wonder if Harry and I have spent a thousand lifetimes as siblings. It's always seemed as if we've shared one soul, after all.
They're all sitting in the living room when we enter the little hall, their attention focused upon Bill, who is talking. The room is light-coloured, pretty, with a small fire of driftwood burning brightly in the fireplace.
"...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."
He looks around and see's Harry and me.
"I've been getting them all out of The Burrow," he explains. "Moved them to Muriel's. The Death Eater's know Ron's with you now, they're bound to target the family -- don't apologise," he adds, at the sight of our faces. "It was always a matter of time, Dad's been saying so for months. We're the biggest blood traitor family there is."
"How are they protected?" I ask, once again trying my best to avoid Draco's gaze in the background.
"Fidelius Charm. Dad's Secret Keeper. And we've done it on the cottage too; I'm Secret Keeper. None of us can go to work, but that's hardly the most important thing now. 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-Gro: we could probably move them in an hour or --"
"No," Harry says, and Bill looks startled. "We need both of them here. We need to talk to them. It's important."
I hear the authority in his voice, the conviction, the sense of purpose that has come to us. All their faces turn to us, looking puzzled.
"I'm gonna go clean up," I tell Bill, looking down at my ripped, blood-stained clothing. "Then we'll need to see them straight away."
"Fleur left you some clothes for you in the bathroom," Bill tells me. "Thanks to the Dittany, there shouldn't be too much scarring," he adds, motioning to my chest, "but be careful you don't strain yourself."
"Thank you."
I walk into the little bathroom, to the tiny basin beside a window overlooking the sea. Dusk is breaking over the horizon, shell pink and slightly gold, and for the first time since Ron shoved me into the corner of the coffee table, I assess my wounds. Somebody has cleaned the blood from my face while I slept, but there is still a faint scar and lump from the impact. I also notice distinct bruising underneath my eyes, likely from when Lucius Malfoy punched me in the face. The scar on my chest is the worse; long, jagged, painful, and something I will forever have in common with Draco.
I had always dreamt of the moment Draco would do the right thing, of the moment when he decided to follow the good in his heart, but now that it's finally here, I don't know what to do. His words from last year ring in my ears...You are the most important person in my life.
That statement resonates within me as I change into Fleur's clothes, impervious to the beauty of the scene outside the window and to the murmuring of the others in the sitting room. I look out over the ocean and feel closer, this evening, than ever before, closer to the heart of it all.
And still my scar prickles, and I know that Voldemort is getting there, too. I understand, and yet, I do not understand. My instincts are telling me one thing, and my brain quite another. A young and handsome Dumbledore in my head smiles, surveying us over the tips of his fingers, as if in a 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...
You even understood Draco...knew that he had the potential to be redeemed, to do the right thing...
And if you knew them...what did you know about us? Are we meant to know, but not to seek? Did you know how hard we'd find that? Is that why you made it this difficult? So we'd have time to figure it out?
I stand quite still, eyes glazed, and silent, but as I watch the dazzling sunset over the horizon, I'm confident that Harry, on the other side of the door, is on the same wavelength. Then I look down at my clean hands and am momentarily surprised to see the cloth I'm holding in them. I set it down, and I return to the hall, and as I do so, my scar pulses angrily, and there flashes across my mind, as swift as the reflection of a dragonfly over the water, the outline of a building we know extremely well.
Bill and Fleur are standing at the foot of the stairs.
"We need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander," Harry says.
"No," says Fleur. "You will 'ave to wait. Zey are both ill, tired --"
"So am I," I say, trying my hardest to keep my temper in check, "but I'm sorry, this really can't wait. We need to speak to them now. Privately, and separately. It's urgent."
"Harry, Haylee, what the hell's going on?" asks Bill. "You turn up here with a dead house-elf, a half-conscious goblin, and a Death Eater, Hermione looks as though she's been tortured, Haylee was bleeding to death, and Ron's just refused to tell me anything --"
"We can't tell you what we're doing," Harry says flatly. "You're in the Order, Bill, you know Dumbledore left us a mission. We're not supposed to talk about it to anyone else."
Fleur makes an impatient noise, but Bill does not look at her; he is staring at us. His deeply scarred face is hard to read. Finally, Bill says, "All right. Who do you want to talk to first?"
Harry and I hesitate and look at each other. We both know what hangs on this decision. We're in the endgame now, there's hardly any time yet: now is the moment to decide: Horcruxes or Hallows?
"Griphook," we say in unison. "We'll speak to Griphook first."
My heart is racing as if I've just been sprinting and cleared an enormous obstacle.
"Up here, then," says Bill, leading the way.
We've walked up several steps before I look back.
"We need you two, as well!" I call to Ron and Hermione, who have been skulking, half-concealed, in the doorway of the sitting room. They both move into the light, looking oddly relieved. "How are you?" I ask, and though it makes the burning in my chest explode, I close the space between us and pull her into a hug. "I'm so sorry."
"You were amazing," Harry adds, as I try to hide the tears welling in my eyes in Hermione's shoulder, "coming up with that story when she was hurting you like that --"
Hermione gives a weak smile as I pull away.
"What are we doing now?" Ron asks.
"You'll see. Come on."
We follow Bill up the steep steps, on to a small landing. Three doors lead off it.
"In here," Bill says, opening the door to his and Fleur's room. It, too, has a beautiful view of the sea, now flecked with gold in the sunrise. Harry and I move to the window, turning our back on the spectacular view and wait, our arms folded, scars prickling. Hermione takes the chair beside the dressing table; Ron sits on the arm.
Bill reappears, carrying the little goblin, whom he sits down carefully upon the bed. Griphook grunts thanks and Bill leaves, closing the door upon us all.
"I'm sorry to take you out of bed," Harry says. "How are your legs?"
"Painful," replies the goblin. "But mending."
"I bet," I say quietly, remembering the time Madam Pomfrey had to regrow my leg, because of Dobby...
He is still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and wears a strange look; half-truculent, half intrigued. I note the goblins sallow skin, his long, thin fingers, his black eyes. Fleur has removed his shoes: his long feet are dirty. He is larger than a house-elf, but not by much. His domed head is much bigger than a human.
"You probably don't remember -" I begin.
"-- that I was the goblin who showed you to your vault, the first time you ever visited Gringotts?" says Griphook. "I remember Harry and Haylee Potter. Even amongst goblins, you are very famous."
Harry, myself and the goblin look at each other, sizing each other up. Our scars are still prickling. I want to get through this interview as quickly as possible, but at the same time, I'm afraid of making a false move. While I try to decide on the best way to approach our request, Griphook breaks the silence.
"You buried the elf," he says, sounding unexpectedly rancorous. "I watched you from the window of the bedroom next door."
"Yes."
Griphook looks at us out of the corners of his slanting black eyes.
"You are very unusual, Harry and Haylee Potter?"
"How so?" I ask, rubbing my scar absently.
"You dug the grave."
"And?"
Griphook does not answer. I can't help but think that we're being sneered at for acting like Muggles, but I don't care if Griphook approves or not. I gather myself for an attack.
"Griphook, we need to ask --"
"You also rescued a goblin."
"What?"
"You brought me here. Saved me."
"Well, I take it you're not sorry?" Harry says impatiently.
"No, Harry Potter," says Griphook, and with one finger, he twists the thin, black beard upon his chin, "but you are very odd."
"Right," I say. "Well, we need some help, Griphook, and you can give it to us."
The goblin makes no sound of encouragement but continues to frown at us as though he has never seen anything like us.
"We need to break into a Gringotts vault."
I didn't mean to say it so bluntly; the words are forced from me as pain shoots through my scar and I see, again, the outline of Hogwarts. I close my mind firmly. I need to deal with Griphook first. Ron and Hermione are staring at us as though we've just gone mad.
"Haylee --" Hermione says, but she is cut off by Griphook.
"Break into a Gringotts vault?" repeats the goblin, wincing a little as he shifts on the bed. "It is impossible."
"No, it isn't," Ron contradicts him. "It's been done."
"Yeah," says Harry. "The same day we first met you, Griphook. Our birthday, seven years ago."
"The vault in question was empty at the time," snaps the goblin, and I understand that even though Griphook has left Gringotts, he is still offended at the very idea of its defences being breached. "Its protection was minimal."
"Well, the vault we need to get into isn't empty, and I'm guessing it will have some pretty crazy protection," I say. "It belongs to the Lestranges."
I see Ron and Hermione look at each other, astonished, but there will be time enough later to explain.
"You have no chance," says Griphook flatly. "No chance at all. 'If you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours --'"
"'Thief, you have been warned, beware --' Yeah, we know, we remember," says Harry. "We're not trying to take anything for personal gain. Can you believe that?"
The goblin looks slantwise at us, and the scars on our foreheads prickle, but we ignore it, refusing to acknowledge their pain or their invitation.
"If there were a witch or wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain," says Griphook finally, "it would be you, Harry and Haylee Potter. Goblins and elves are not used to the protection, or the respect, that you have shown this night. Not from wand-carriers."
"Wand carriers," I repeat, the phrase falling oddly upon my lips.
"The right to carry a wand," says the goblin, "has long been contested between wizards and goblins."
"Well, goblins can do magic without wands," says Ron.
"That is immaterial! Wizards refuse to share the secrets of wandlore with other magical beings, they deny us the possibility of extending our powers!"
"Well, goblins don't share any of their magic, either," says Ron. "You won't show us how to make swords and armour the way you do. Goblins know how to work metal in a way wizards have never --"
"It doesn't matter," Harry says, noting Griphook's rising colour. "This isn't about wizards versus goblins or any sort of magical creature --"
Griphook gives a nasty laugh.
"But it is exactly that! As the Dark Lord becomes ever more powerful, your fate 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!" says Hermione. She has 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!"
"Don't call yourself --" Ron mutters.
"Why shouldn't I?" says Hermione. "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'!"
As she speaks, she pulls aside the neck of her dressing gown to reveal the thin cut Bellatrix had made, scarlet against her throat.
"Did you know that it was Harry and Haylee who set Dobby free?" she asks. "Did you know that we've wanted elves to be freed for years?" (Ron fidgets uncomfortably on the arm of Hermione's chair). "You can't want You-Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!"
The goblin gazes at Hermione with the same curiosity he showed us.
"What do you seek within the Lestranges' vault?" he asks abruptly. "The sword that lies inside it is a fake. This is the real one." He looks from one to the other of us. "I think you already know this. You asked me to lie for you back there."
"But the fake sword isn't the only thing in that vault, is it?" I prompt. "Perhaps you've seen other treasures in there?"
My heart is pounding harder than ever. I redouble my efforts to ignore the pulsing of my scar.
The goblin twists 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."
He strokes the sword, and his black eyes rove between us once more.
"So young," he says finally, "to be fighting so many."
"Will you help us?" Harry asks. "We haven't got a hope of breaking in without a goblin's help. You're our one chance."
"I shall...think about it," says Griphook maddeningly.
"But --" Ron starts angrily; Hermione nudges him in the ribs.
"Thank you," I say,
The goblin bows his great, domed head in acknowledgment, then flexes his short legs.
"I think," he says, settling himself ostentatiously upon Bill and Fleur's bed, "that the Skele-Gro has finished its work. I may be able to sleep at last. Forgive me..."
"Yeah, of course," Harry says, but before leaving the room, he leans forward and takes the sword of Gryffindor from beside Griphook. He does not protest, but I swear I can see resentment in his eyes as we close the door upon him.
"Little git," Ron whispers. "He's enjoying keeping us hanging."
"Harry, Haylee," Hermione whispers, pulling us all away from the door and into the middle of the dark landing, "are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you saying there's a Horcrux in the Lestranges' vault?"
"Yes," I say confidently. "Bellatrix was terrified when she thought we'd been in there. Why? What did she think we might've seen, or taken? Something she was terrified You-Know-Who would find out about."
"But I thought we were looking for places You-Know-Who's been, places he's done something important?" Ron says, looking baffled. "Was he ever inside the Lestranges' vault?"
"I don't know whether he was ever inside Gringotts," Harry says. "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 went to Diagon Alley."
My scar throbs, but I ignore it; I want Ron and Hermione to understand about Gringotts before we speak to Ollivander.
"Think about it," I continue. "He would have envied anyone who actually had a key to a Gringotts vault. I reckon he would have seen it as a real symbol of belonging and power in the wizarding world. And don't forget, Bellatrix and her husband have been his most loyal followers since the beginning -- they were the only ones who went looking for him after he vanished, he said so the night he came back!" I rub my scar. "I don't think Bellatrix knows it was a Horcrux, though, just like he never told Lucius Malfoy the truth about the diary."
"He probably told her it was a treasured possession," Harry agrees, "and asked her to place it in her vault. The safest place in the world for anything you'd want to hide, Hagrid told us...except for Hogwarts."
Once we're finished speaking, Ron shakes his head.
"You really understand him."
"Bits of him," I say dismissively. "Bits...God, I just wish we understood Dumbledore as much. Come on -- we'll see Ollivander now."
Ron and Hermione look bewildered, but impressed, as they follow us across the little landing and knock upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur's. A weak "Come in!" answers us.
The wandmaker is lying on the twin bed furthest from the window. He has been held in the cellar for more than a year and tortured, we know, on at least one occasion. He is emaciated, the bones of his face sticking out sharply against yellowish skin. His great, silver eyes seem vast in their sunken sockets. The hands that lay upon the blanket could belong to a skeleton. Harry and I sit down on the empty bed, wedged between Ron and Hermione. The rising sun is not visible here. The room faces the cliff-top garden and the freshly dug grave.
"Mr Ollivander, I'm sorry to disturb you," I say.
"My dear girl." His voice is feeble. "You rescued us. I thought we would die in that place. I can never thank you...never thank you enough."
"We were glad to do it."
My scar throbs. I know, I am certain, that there is hardly any time left in which to beat Voldemort to his goal, or else attempt to thwart him. I feel a flutter of panic...yet we made our decision when we chose to speak to Griphook first. Feigning a calm I do not feel, I watch as Harry gropes in the pouch around his neck and takes out the two halves of his broken wand.
"Mr Ollivander, Haylee and I need some help."
"Anything. Anything," says the wandmaker weakly.
"Can you mend this? Haylee's is the same. Is it possible?"
Ollivander holds out a trembling palm and Harry places the two barely connected halves into his palm. I retrieve my own snapped wand, feeling embarrassed as I pass over the two halves.
"Both holly and phoenix feather," says Ollivander in a tremulous voice.
"Yes," I say. "Can you --?"
"No," he whispers. "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."
I braced myself for this news, but it is a blow nevertheless. I take my halves back and shove them into my pocket. Ollivander stares at the place the shattered wands have vanished and does not look away until Harry pulls a wand from his pocket.
"Can you identify this?" Harry asks.
The wandmaker takes the wand and holds it close to his faded eyes, rolling it between his knobble-knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly.
"Walnut and dragon heartstring," he says. "Twelve and three-quarter inches. Unyielding. This wand belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange."
I fumble within my jacket pocket, and much to my surprise, the wand I used at Malfoy Manor is still there. "And this one?"
Ollivander performs the same examination.
"Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco Malfoy."
"Was?" I repeat. "Is it not still?"
"Perhaps not. If you took it --"
"-- I did --"
"-- then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of taking matters. Much also depends on the wand itself. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its allegiance will change."
There is silence in the room, except for the distant rushing of the sea.
"You talk about wands like they've got feelings," Harry says, "like they can think for themselves."
"The wand chooses the wizard," says Ollivander. "That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore."
"A person can still use a wand that hasn't chosen them, though?" I ask.
"Oh yes, if you are any witch or 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."
The sea gushes forwards and backwards; it is a mournful sound.
"I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force," I say. "Can I use it safely?"
"I think so. Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but the conquered wand will usually bend its will to its new master."
"So should I use this one?" asks Ron, 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 kidnap, for Peter Pettigrew. Yes, if you won it, it is more likely to do your bidding, and do it well, then another wand."
"And this holds true for all wands?" Harry asks.
"I think so," replies Ollivander, his protuberant eyes upon our faces. "You ask deep questions. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic."
"So, it isn't necessary to kill the previous owner to take possession of a wand?" I ask.
Ollivander swallows. "Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill."
"There are legends, though," I say, and my heart rate quickens, the pain in my scar becomes more intense; I'm sure that Voldemort has put his idea into action. "Legends about a wand -- or wands -- that have passed from hand to hand by murder."
Ollivander turns pale. Against the snowy pillow, he is light grey, and his eyes are enormous, bloodshot, and bulging with what looks like fear.
"Only one wand, I think," he whispers.
"And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn't he?" asks Harry.
"I -- how?" croaks Ollivander, and he looks appealingly at Ron and Hermione for help. "How do you know this?"
"He wanted you to tell him how to overcome the connection between our wands," says Harry.
Ollivander looks terrified.
"He tortured me, you must understand! The Cruciatus Curse, I -- I had no choice but to tell him what I knew, what I guessed!"
"I understand," I say. "You told him about the triplet cores? You said he just had to borrow another wizard's wand?"
Ollivander looks horrified, transfixed by the amount we know. He nods slowly.
"But it didn't work," I continue on. "Harry's still beat the borrowed wand. Do you know why that is?"
Ollivander shakes his head as 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 triplet cores is incredibly rare, yet why your wand should have snapped the borrowed wand, I do not know..."
"We were talking about the other wand, the wand that changes hands by murder. When You-Know-Who realised our wands had done something strange, he came back and asked about the other wand, didn't he?"
"How do you know this?"
We do not answer.
"Yes, he asked," whispers Ollivander. "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."
I glance sideways at Hermione. She looks horrified.
"The Dark Lord," says Ollivander, in hushed and frightened tones, "had always been happy with the wand I made him -- yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches -- until he discovered the connection of the triplet cores. Now he seeks another, more powerful wand, as the only way to conquer yours."
"But he'll know soon, if he doesn't already, that our's are broken beyond repair," Harry says quietly.
"No!" Hermione says, sounding frightened. "He can't know that, how could he--?"
"Priori Incantatem," I say. "We left your wand and the blackthorn wand at the Malfoys', Hermione. If they examine them properly, make them recreate the spells they've cast lately, they'll see that yours broke Harry's, they'll see that you tried and failed to fix ours, and they'll realise we've been sharing the blackthorn one ever since. And besides, I told them mine was broken, anyway."
The little colour she has regained since their arrival has drained from her face. Ron gives me a reproachful look, and says, "Let's not worry about that now --"
But Mr Ollivander intervenes.
"The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only for your destruction. He is determined to possess it because he believes it will make him truly invulnerable."
"And will it?"
"The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear attacks," says Ollivander, "but the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit...formidable."
I'm suddenly reminded of how I was unsure, when we first met, of how much I liked Ollivander. Even now, having been tortured and imprisoned by Voldemort, the idea of a Dark wizard in possession of this wand seems to enthral him as much as it repulses him.
"You -- you really think this wand exists, then, Mr Ollivander?" asks Hermione.
"Oh yes," says Ollivander. "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 it always resurfaces. It has certain identifying characteristics that those who are learned in wandlore recognise. 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."
"So you -- you don't think it can be a fairy tale or a myth?" Hermione asks, hopefully.
"No," says Ollivander. "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."
"Mr Ollivander," says Harry, "you told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, didn't you?"
Ollivander turns, if possible, even paler. He looks ghostly as he gulps.
"But how -- how do you --?"
"Never mind how we know," I say, closing my eyes momentarily as my scar burns and I see, for mere seconds, a vision of the main street in Hogsmeade, still dark, because it is so much further north. "You told You-Know-who that Gregorovitch had the wand?"
"It was a rumour," whispers Ollivander. "A rumour, 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!"
"Yes, I can see that," Harry says, and together we stand up. "Mr Ollivander, one last thing, and then we'll let you get some rest. What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?"
"The -- the what?" asks the wandmaker, looking utterly bewildered.
"The Deathly Hallows."
"I'm afraid that I don't know what you're talking about. Is this something to do with wands?"
I look into his sunken face and believe that Ollivander is not lying. He doesn't know anything.
"Thank you," Harry says. "Thank you very much. We'll leave you to get some rest now."
Ollivander looks stricken.
"He was torturing me!" he gasps. "The Cruciatus Curse...you have no idea..."
"We do," I say grimly. "We really do. Please get some rest. Thank you again."
We lead Ron and Hermione down the staircase. I catch a glimpse of Dad, Sirius, Bill, Fleur, Riley, Luna, Draco, and Dean sitting at the table in the kitchen, cups of tea in front of them. They all look up at Harry and I as we appear in the doorway, but we merely nod to them and continue into the garden, Ron and Hermione behind us. The reddish mound of earth that covers Dobby lays ahead, and we walk back to it, as the pain in my forehead builds more and more powerfully. It is a huge effort, now, to close down the visions that are forcing themselves upon us, but I know that we only have to resist a little longer. We will yield very soon because we need to know if our theory is right. We must make only one more, a short effort so that we can explain to Ron and Hermione.
"Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, a long time ago," Harry says. "we 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 rumour, it can't have been difficult."
Voldemort is at the gates of Hogwarts; I can 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 more powerful. And at the height of his power, when Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could stop him, he duelled Grindelwald, and beat him, and took the Elder Wand. The necklace Dumbledore left me has been showing me his memories of Grindlewald, he wanted us to figure all of this out by ourselves! This is why he left it to me!" I exclaim, clutching at it beneath my shirt.
"Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?" Ron asks. "But then -- where is it now?"
"At Hogwarts," I say, fighting to remain with them.
"But then, let's go!" Ron says urgently. "Harry, Haylee, let's go and get it before he does!"
"It's too late for that," says Harry. I can't help myself, but I'm trying my hardest to resist it. "He knows where it is. He's there now."
"Harry! Haylee!" Ron says, furiously. "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 --"
"No," I say, and Harry and I sink to our knees in the grass. "Hermione's right. Dumbledore didn't want us to have it. He didn't want us to take it. He wanted us to get the Horcruxes."
"The unbeatable wand, Haylee!" Ron moans.
"We're not supposed to...we're supposed to get the Horcruxes..."
And now everything is cool and dark: the sun is barely visible over the horizon as he glides alongside Snape, up through the grounds towards the lake.
"I shall join you in the castle shortly," he says, in his high, cold voice. "Leave me now."
Snape bows and sets off back up the path, his black cloak billowing behind him. I walk slowly, waiting for Snape's figure to disappear. It would not do for Snape, or indeed anyone else, to see where Voldemort is going. But there are no lights in the castle windows, and he can conceal himself...and in a second he has cast upon himself a Disillusionment charm that hides him even from his own eyes.
And he walks on, around the edge of the lake, taking in the outlines of the beloved castle, his first kingdom, his birthright...
And here it is, beside the lake, reflected in the dark waters. The white marble tomb, an unnecessary blot on the familiar landscape. He feels again that rush of controlled euphoria, that heady sense of purpose in destruction. He raises the old yew wand: how fitting that this will be its final great act.
The tomb splits open from head to foot. The shrouded figure is as long and thin as it had been in life. He raises the wand again.
The wrappings fall open. The face is translucent, pale, sunken, yet almost perfectly preserved. They have left his spectacles on the crooked nose: he feels amused derision. Dumbledore's hands are folded upon his chest, and there it lays, 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? A spider-like hand swoops and pulls the wand from Dumbledore's grasp, and as he takes it, a shower of sparks fly from its tip, sparkling over the corpse of its last owner, ready to serve a new master.
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A/N: Hey guys, hope you enjoyed Same Soul! Also known as Haylee avoiding Draco for 8000 words straight, and also, dumbledore and grindlewald were boyfriends, jk rowling was just a coward.
Remember to vote and comment if you enjoyed!! And I'll see you all in the next chapter, which will feature the draylee content you've all be craving.