DEATHLY HALLOWS: PART TWO

CHAPTER TEN:

Third Person Narrative:

It was like sinking into an old nightmare; Hermione felt as though she couldn't breathe, her gaze fixated upon the tiny body laying lifelessly on the grass, whom was pierced by Bellatrix's silver dagger — the same dagger that had pierced her heart as it was plunged deep into Charlie's skin over and over again.

Had she lost him too?

Had Charlie met the same fate as Dobby?

Was it too late?

Beside her, Harry's voice was still saying, "Dobby... Dobby..." even though he knew that the elf had gone where he could not call him back.

Hermione wished more than anything that everything that had just unfolded was some cruel nightmare, and that she'd eventually wake up — unharmed and immensely content — in Charlie's arms. The heart-wrenching pain and emptiness she felt at seeing Dobby's lifeless form, however, acted as a painful reminder of reality, which was threatening to overtake her completely. If Charlie, too, was lost, Hermione was quite certain she would've rather let the waves wash over her, allow the sea to take her.

Somehow, she managed to pull herself from her morbid thoughts as she looked back down to Dobby, her reddened cheeks stained with tears. Hermione watched as Harry stretched out a hand and pulled the sharp blade from the elf's body, then he dragged off his jacket and covered Dobby in it like a blanket.

The sea was rushing against the rock somewhere nearby; Hermione listened to it while the others talked, discussing matters in which she could take no interest. In the midst of the chaos, Dean had carried the injured Griphook towards the house, Fleur hurrying away with them, and now Bill was making suggestions about burying the elf.

Through the dull hum of it all, Hermione could've sworn she felt Ron pull on her arm. He desperately tried to escort her back towards the safety of Shell Cottage, but Hermione remained firmly still, numb and isolated to everything happening around her. Her rage was dreadful, and yet her hope that Charlie was somewhere out there — alive — seemed to diminish it, so that it became a distant storm that reached her from across a vast, silent ocean.

"I want to bury him properly," she heard Harry say, the first words of which Hermione was fully conscious of hearing since their arrival on this shore. "Not by magic... have you got a spade?" he asked Bill, his glasses slightly fogged.

And shortly afterward, Harry had set to work, digging the grave in the place that Bill had shown him, just up on top of a small cliff, looking down on the cottage. He dug with a kind of fury, relishing the manual work, glorying in the non-magic of it, for every drop of his sweat and every blister felt like a gift to the elf who had saved their lives.

Hermione watched, frozen in place, her heart beating ridiculously fast within her chest. In the darkness, with nothing but the sound her own breath and the rushing sea to penetrate her grief, the things that happened at Malfoy Manor had returned to her, the things she had heard came back to her, and gut- wrenching realization blossomed in the darkness.

The frantic rhythm of her heartbeat seemed to challenge the rapidness of her thoughts.

Hallows.

Horcruxes.

Gryffindor's Sword.

Bellatrix.

M-Mudblood.

Blood Traitor.

Charlie... Ch-Charlie...

Unable to stop herself, Hermione sank back to her knees and sat amongst the pale buds of early spring in the garden, refusing Ron's protestations that she should go inside and rest once more.

Through her grief was something more powerful, however; it surged each time she gazed at the word carved into her arm.

Grief? No... it was not grief — it was love.

Her undeniable love for Charlie seemed to be the only thing stronger than her insufferable sadness, and it was the very prospect of love that gave her hope as the daylight became extinct.

Lost in thought, Hermione felt time slowly fade away, but she seemingly did not mind at all. Coming to her senses, she knew only that the darkness had lightened a few degrees when Dean joined her, Harry, Ron, and Bill in the garden. Her eyes void of any emotion, Hermione stared at the deep grave Harry had been digging, painfully aware why her friend had simply not created a perfect grave with a wave of his wand.

With a wordless glance, Ron and Dean jumped down into the hole Harry had made with spades of their own, and together they worked in silence until the hole seemed deep enough.

Once they had finished, Harry wrapped the elf more snuggly in his 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 woollen hat, and Harry placed it carefully upon Dobby's head, muffling his bat-like ears. With a quick wave of her own wand, Hermione conjured a tuft of daisies and laid them atop the elf's still and silent chest.

"We should close his eyes," came a dreamy voice.

Hermione had not heard the others coming through the darkness; Fleur was wearing a large white apron, from the pocket of which protruded a bottle of what Hermione recognized to be Skele-Gro. 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," she said softly, "now it looks like he could be sleeping."

In a huddle, everyone watched as Harry placed the elf into the grave, arranged his tiny limbs so that he might have been resting, and climbed out, gazing for the last time upon the little body.

With a slight sniffle of her own, Hermione was reminded of Dumbledore's funeral, and the stateliness of the white marble tomb, the recitation of Dumbledore's achievements, and the look of utter heartbreak on Charlie's face as he was forced to say goodbye to his grandfather for the last time.

In that moment, Hermione's heart ached all over again — Charlie would've wanted to be here...

"I think we ought to say something," piped up Luna. "I'll go first, shall I?"

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, especially because you were so good and brave. I'll always remember what you did for us, and I hope you're happy wherever you are."

She turned and looked expectantly at Ron, who cleared his throat and said in a thick voice, "Yeah... thanks, Dobby."

"Thanks," muttered Dean.

Harry swallowed, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Goodbye, Dobby."

"A free elf," concluded Hermione quietly; it was all she could manage, but everything Luna said seemed to have sufficed. Bill raised his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rose up into the air and fell neatly upon it, creating a small, reddish mound.

"D'you mind if I have a moment alone?" asked Harry, glancing around at the others.

They murmured words he did not catch; Harry felt gentle pats upon his back, and then they started to traipse back toward the cottage. With one last look at the house-elf's grave, Hermione followed behind the others and remained solemnly quiet as they travelled along the gravel path to Shell's Cottage, her knees buckling ever so slightly due to her weakened state.

Harry looked around as he was left alone. There were a number of large white stones, smoothed by the sea, marking the edge of the flower beds. He picked up one of the largest and laid it, pillow-like, over the place where Dobby's head now rested. Reaching in his pocket, he retrieved one of the wands he'd collected at Malfoy Manor and pointed it at the rock.

Slowly, under his murmured instruction, deep cuts appeared upon the rock's surface. He knew that Hermione could have done it more neatly, and probably more quickly, but he wanted to mark the spot as he had wanted to dig the grave. When Harry stood up again, the stone read:

HERE LIES DOBBY: A FREE ELF

Harry glanced down at his handiwork for a few more seconds, then walked away, his scar prickling a little, and his mind full of ideas that had taken shape in the darkness, ideas which were both fascinating and terrible. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and proceeded along the path without another word.

They were all sitting in the living room when Harry entered the little cottage, their attention focused upon Bill, who was talking. Curled on the sofa, Hermione cradled her head in her hands, voicing soft, incoherent mumbles into her palms. Ron, who managed to raise the corner of his mouth into a weak lopsided smile, was sat with Luna and Dean on the opposite sofa. The room was light-coloured, pretty, with a small fire of driftwood burning brightly in the fireplace. Harry did not want to drop mud upon the carpet, so he 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. As it turns out, she'd convinced Elaina Dumont to stay with her over the break. Now, at least, we know they're both safe, too."

Bill looked around, saw Harry standing there, and began to explain, "I've been getting them all out of the Burrow, moving them to Muriel's. The Death Eaters know Ron's with you now, so they're bound to target the family — don't apologize," he added at the sight of Harry's expression, "it was always a matter of time, Dad's been saying so for months. We're the biggest blood-traitor family there is."

At this, Hermione let out a little whimper, for she was again reminded of the words now carved into Charlie's left forearm, of the amount of blood he'd lost trying to protect her — Charlie... Ch-Charlie...

"How're they protected?" asked Harry, trying to move swiftly onwards.

"Fidelius Charm," muttered Bill, casting a worried glance in Hermione's direction. "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, now that Fleur's given him Skele-Gro. Soon enough, we'll be able to move him —"

"No," said Harry abruptly, and Bill looked a bit startled. "I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It's important —"

"Remember when your best friend was more important than anything else?" muttered Hermione bitterly, looking up at last, as her hands shook with a mixture of rage and devastation. "Yeah? Me too."

"Hermione, calm down —" began Harry soothingly, but Hermione's ire had returned, and it overpowered every ounce of sadness coursing through her veins.

"Don't you fucking dare tell me to calm down, Harry Potter!" hissed Hermione, pointing a finger in his direction accusingly. "My boyfriend — your best friend — could be dead! And yet you somehow have the audacity to tell me to calm down?"

"Okay, okay," intervened Ron, putting his hands up in a mock surrender. "Can we all just take a breath? If Charlie were here, he wouldn't have wanted —"

"That's exactly the point, Ronald," Hermione flared, her eyes dangerously narrow, "Charlie's not here! In case you've forgotten, we've abandoned him, left him behind at Malfoy Manor! He's probably being tortured this very second by his father and the other Death Eaters, but none of you seem to care!"

"Of course we care, Hermione," said Harry gently, "and I want Charlie here as much as you do, but what are we supposed —"

"Must I remind you, Harry, that it was you who got us into this mess in the first place?" she seethed, unable to stop herself. "That it was you who broke the Taboo and led the Snatchers to us in the Forest of Dean? If you hadn't let your anger get the best of you for once, we wouldn't've been captured —"

"That isn't fair —"

"Yes, well, it's not fair that Charlie has to suffer for your mistakes either, but here we are," said Hermione hotly, and everyone in the room visibly winced. "So forgive me, but I refuse to sit here and pretend like everything's okay when it's not!"

Harry gulped anxiously, "Hermione —"

"NO! No, don't do that! You know I'm right," she shouted. "And if the roles were reversed, Charlie's first priority would've been to save you!"

"I know," admitted Harry, an ashamed tone creeping into his voice. "Please — Hermione, I know, and I'm sorry."

Needless to say, that wasn't the answer Hermione had been hoping to hear. In the flash of an instant, her anger seemed to have bubbled over and she lunged at the raven haired boy, punching and pounding at her best friend's chest as she broke out into harsh sobs.

The rest of the room fell into a stunned silence as Hermione's whimpers filled the air, but instead of retaliating in the heat of the moment, Harry wrapped his arms around her to comfort her. He held Hermione tightly until the momentum of her punches came to a halt, and then she buried her head into his neck, tears flowing uncontrollably down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Harry whispered into her hair, squeezing the hysterical girl closer to him. "And I know it'll be hard to forgive me, b-but I really need you on my side for this."

"I m-miss him, Harry," she croaked in a barely audible whisper, "and I'm scared... w-what if h-he —"

"Shh, it's okay," hushed Harry soothingly, as Hermione shook with a dreadful thought of Charlie's lifeless body. "We'll find him, I promise — and he'll be okay. Everything's going to be okay. It'll just take a little bit of time —"

"But w-what if it's t-too late —"

"Charlie's not going to go down without a fight and you, of all people, should know that," said Harry confidently, easing the tension with a light chuckle. "Trust me, we'll see him again, Hermione."

"You know, I really wish I could believe that," whispered Hermione quietly, pulling out of his embrace, "but until I know that he's alive, I'd rather not depend on such hopeful expectations, for they have a tendency to disappoint people."

At this, Harry's frown grew significantly. There had been such dread in Hermione's voice, such conviction, such a sense of a horrific truth that nobody wished to believe. Everyone in the room had turned their faces towards her, looking frightened for a moment.

"I'm going to wash," Hermione told Harry, looking down at her hands, still covered in mud, sand and her own blood.

And without another word, she staggered into the little kitchen, crossing towards the basin beneath the window overlooking the sea. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, shell pink and faintly gold as she washed, again holding on to any fragment of memory she had of her relationship with Charlie. Her heart ached, as though it had been ripped out and stomped on repeatedly, and she'd often clutch at the magically enchanted bracelet dangling from her wrist, hoping against hope that it'd emit a light and guide her towards her lost love, or at least provide some insight to whether he was alive.

Hermione dried her hands, impervious to the beauty of the scene outside the window and to the murmuring of the others in the sitting room as she watched her blood disappear down the drain. She looked out over the ocean and felt closer, this dawn, than ever before, closer to the heart of it all.

And still, she cried again, for she didn't know how she was meant to continue without Charlie by her side. Hermione understood and yet did not understand. Her instinct was telling her one thing, her brain quite another. The version of Charlie in Hermione's head smiled, surveying her through strands of his messy brown hair, his eyes alit with specks of infamous gold.

You told them to take you instead... you sacrificed yourself for me... you suffered because of me...

You knew they'd kill you for what you've done... you knew you'd be punished for loving a Mudblood...

And I know I'd once told you to prove your love for me, but this is far from what I meant... you must've realized that your patience was enough, that you were enough...

And if you knew... why'd you do it? Am I meant to know, but not to seek? Did you know how difficult my life would be without you? Is that why you've been taken from me? So I'd have time to realize that you are undoubtedly the love of my life?

Now I know... I've always known, deep down...

So come back... c-come back to m-me...

Hermione stood quite still, her eyes glazed, watching the place where a bright gold rim of dazzling sun was rising over the horizon. Then she looked down at her clean hands and was momentarily stunned to see the cloth she was holding in them. Setting it down, she turned towards the sitting room, and as she did so, the bracelet on her wrist emitted the slightest vibration; Hermione quickly glanced down, her heart skipping a beat, and there flashed the dimmest light.

It'd been alit with a subtle glow for a mere moment before the light diminished into darkness, but that was all the confirmation Hermione had needed. Granted, she wasn't sure whether it had been reality or a cruel trick of her mind, showing her what she'd wanted to see. Nevertheless, there was a newfound smile that graced her lips and she wiped the last remaining tears from her eyes.

He's alive. He's alive.

When she entered the sitting room once again, Bill, Fleur, and Harry were standing at the foot of the stairs, while the others huddled around the fire.

"I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander," said Harry, as Hermione approached; Fleur met her halfway, shoving a dark purple potion into her hands.

"'Ere," she beamed, "zis will 'elp you get some rest."

"I won't take it," Hermione muttered weakly, but firmly. "Not until Harry speaks with them."

"No," said Fleur, arms crossed sternly. "You will 'ave to wait, 'Arry. Zey are both too tired —"

"I'm sorry," he said without heat, "but it can't wait. I need to talk to them now. Privately — and separately. It's urgent."

"Harry, what the hell is going on?" asked Bill, his eyes narrowed. "None of you have explained anything since you've turned up with a dead house-elf and a half-conscious goblin. You haven't cared to explain why Charlie's missing, or why Hermione looks like she's been tortured. Not to mention, Ron's just refused to tell me anything —"

"We can't tell you what we're doing," said Harry flatly. "You're in the Order, Bill, and you know Dumbledore left us a mission. We're not supposed to talk about it to anyone else."

Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look at her; he was staring at Harry. His deeply scarred face was hard to read, but Hermione's stomach seemed to drop at the sudden reminder of the werewolf Greyback's vile words about her and Charlie.

Finally, Bill sighed and managed to say, "Alright then, who do you want to talk to first?"

"Griphook," stated Harry after a moment, considering what Hermione would choose. "We'll talk to Griphook first."

Hermione's heart was racing as though she had been sprinting and had just cleared an enormous obstacle.

"Up here, then," said Bill, leading the way.

Harry had walked up several steps before stopping and looking back.

"We'll need you too, Ron," he called, and the ginger instantly leapt up from the sofa, following Harry and Hermione up the steep staircase onto a small landing, which led off to three different doors.

"In here," beckoned Bill, opening the door into his and Fleur's room. It too had a view of the sea, now flecked with gold in the sunrise. Hermione moved to the window, turned her back on the spectacular view, and waited, standing against the windowsill, arms folded. Harry took the chair beside the window and Ron sat on the arm on his other side.

Bill reappeared, carrying the little goblin, whom he set down carefully upon the bed. Griphook grunted an incoherent thanks, and Bill left, closing the door upon them all.

"I'm sorry to take you out of bed," said Harry, clearing his throat. "How are your legs?"

"Painful," replied the goblin, "but mending."

Griphook was still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and wore a strange look; half truculent, half intrigued. Hermione 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 —" Harry began.

"— that I was the goblin who showed you to your vault, the first time you ever visited Gringotts?" finished Griphook, nodding. "I remember, Harry Potter. Even amongst goblins, you are very famous."

Harry and the goblin looked at each other, sizing each other up. Hermione could tell that her best friend wanted to get through this interview with Griphook quickly, and at the same time was afraid of making a false move. While Harry tried to decide on the best way to approach his request, the goblin broke the silence.

"You buried the elf," he said, sounding unexpectedly rancorous. "I watched you from the window of the bedroom next door."

"Yes, I did," said Harry, shrugging. Griphook looked at him out of the corners of his slanting black eyes.

"You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter."

"In what way?" asked Harry, rubbing his scar absently.

"You dug the grave."

"So?"

Griphook did not answer directly, but instead moved briskly on, saying, "You also rescued a goblin."

"What?"

"You brought me here. Saved me."

"Well, I take it you're not sorry?" said Harry a little impatiently.

"No, Harry Potter," grunted Griphook, and with one finger he twisted the thin black beard upon his chin, "but you are a very odd wizard."

"Right," murmured Harry. "Well, I need some help, Griphook, and I know you can give it to me."

The goblin made no sign of encouragement, but continued to frown at Harry as though he had never seen anything like him.

"I need to break into a Gringotts vault."

Hermione's eyes went wide, staring at her friend as though he'd gone mad. Deep down, however, there was a part of her that unjustifiably believed that the Gringotts vault would provide something useful...

"Harry —" she started, but she was cut off by Griphook.

"Break into a Gringotts vault?" repeated the goblin, wincing a little as he shifted his position upon the bed. "It is impossible."

"No, it isn't," Ron contradicted him. "It's been done."

"Yeah," nodded Harry. "The same day I first met you, Griphook. My birthday, seven years ago."

"The vault in question was empty," snapped the goblin, and Hermione understood that even though Griphook had left Gringotts, he was offended at the 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 its protection will be pretty powerful," sighed Harry, brushing his hair back. "It belongs to the Lestranges."

Out of the corner of his eye, he 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," said 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, I know, I remember," finished Harry. "But I'm not trying to get myself any treasure, I'm not trying to take anything for personal gain. Can you believe that?"

"If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain," mumbled Griphook, looking slantwise between the three Gryffindors, "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 at least, for the right to carry a wand has long been contested between wizards and goblins."

Ron shrugged, "Goblins can do magic without wands!"

"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 won't share any of their magic either," argued Ron, rising to his feet. "You won't tell us how to make swords and armour the way you do. Goblins know how to work metal in a way wizards never —"

"It doesn't matter," said Harry, noting Griphook's rising colour. "This isn't about wizards versus goblins or any other sort of magical creature —"

Griphook gave a nasty laugh.

"But it is, it is about 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!" shouted Hermione finally, stepping forward. "We protest! And I'm hunted quite as much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I'm a Mudblood!"

"Don't call yourself —" Ron muttered, visibly wincing.

"Why shouldn't I?" said Hermione hotly. "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 Malfoy's!"

To prove a point, Hermione pulled aside the neck of her cardigan to reveal the thin cut Bellatrix had made, scarlet against her throat, and then she rolled up her left sleeve, revealing the word etched in dark red onto her soft skin:

Mudblood.

"They've branded me, Griphook, and they've taken the man that I love," she croaked, holding back tears. "And so I highly doubt that there's anyone who wants You-Know-Who defeated more than us."

The goblin gazed at Hermione with the same curiosity he had shown Harry moments prior, evidently stunned into silence.

"What do you seek within the Lestranges' vault?" he asked abruptly. "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, Harry Potter, since you asked me to lie for you back there."

"But the fake sword isn't the only thing in that vault, is it?" asked Harry, his eyes widening with curiosity. "Perhaps you've seen the other things in there?"

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."

The goblin stroked the sword, and his black eyes roved from Harry to Hermione to Ron and then back again.

"So young," he said finally, "to be fighting so many."

"Will you help us?" said Harry, sounding desperate. "We haven't got a hope of breaking in without a goblin's help. Griphook, you're our only chance."

"I shall... think about it," whispered Griphook maddeningly.

"But —" Ron started angrily, but Hermione quickly nudged him hard in the ribs.

"Thank you," muttered Harry, and Hermione echoed the sentiment. The goblin bowed his great domed head in acknowledgement, then flexed his short legs.

"I think," he said, 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," mumbled Harry, but before leaving the room, he leaned forward and took the sword of Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook did not protest, but Hermione thought she saw resentment in the goblin's eyes as she closed the door upon him.

"Little git," whispered Ron. "He's enjoying keeping us hanging."

"Harry," said Hermione quietly, ignoring Ron and pulling both of her friends away from the door, into the middle of the still-dark landing, "are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you saying there's a Horcrux in the Lestranges' vault?"

"Yeah," nodded Harry. "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."

"Makes sense," reasoned Hermione, raking her brain. "Gringotts is the safest place in the world for anything you want to hide, except for Hogwarts. And don't forget, he trusted Bellatrix and her husband. They were his most devoted servants, and they must've went looking for him after he vanished."

Harry rubbed his scar, muttering, "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."

When Harry had finished speaking, Ron shook his head, astonished, "You really understand him."

"Bits of him," said Harry, and Hermione bit her lip, as though she was considering something in his words. "Only bits... I just wish I had understood Dumbledore as much. But we'll see. Come on — Ollivander now."

Ron and Hermione followed him across the little landing and knocked upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur's. On the other side, a weak "Come in!" answered them.

The wandmaker was lying on the twin bed furthest from the window. He had been held in the cellar for more than a year, and tortured, Hermione guessed, on at least one occasion. Ollivander 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.

Hermione sat down on the empty bed, between Ron and Harry. The rising sun was not visible here, for the room had faced the cliff-top garden and the freshly dug grave.

Harry gave a small smile, "Mr. Ollivander, we're sorry to disturb you —"

"My dear boy," Ollivander's voice was feeble. "You rescued us. For a moment, I thought we would die in that place, so I can never thank you... never thank you... enough."

"We were glad to do it."

There was pause in which Harry's scar throbbed once more. He felt a flutter of panic, yet he had made his decision when he chose to speak to Griphook first. Feigning a calm he did not feel, he groped in the pouch around his neck and took out the two halves of his broken wand.

"Mr. Ollivander, I need some help."

"Anything, anything for you," said the wandmaker weakly; Hermione frowned and shook her head sadly.

"Can you mend this? Is it possible?"

Ollivander held out a trembling hand, and Harry placed the two barely connected halves in his palm.

"Holly and phoenix feather," announced Ollivander in a tremulous voice. "Eleven inches. Nice and supple."

"Can you — ?"

"No," whispered Ollivander. "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."

Harry had been braced to hear it, but it was a blow nevertheless. He took the wand halves back and replaced them in the pouch around his neck. Ollivander stared at the place where the shattered wand had vanished, and did not look away until Harry had taken from his pocket the three wands he had brought from the Malfoy's.

Clearing his throat, Harry asked again, "Can you identify these?"

The wandmaker took the first of the wands and held it close to his faded eyes, rolling it between his knobble-knuckled fingers and flexing it slightly. Hermione's eyes widened in the horror of recognition, her traumatic memories of Malfoy Manor forcing their way to the forefront of her mind.

"Walnut and dragon heartstring," whispered Ollivander. "Twelve-and-three-quarter inches. Unyielding. This wand belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange."

"And this one?"

Ollivander performed the same examination.

"Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. Yes, yes, this was the wand of Draco Malfoy."

"Was?" repeated Harry. "Isn't it still his?"

"Perhaps not. If you took it —"

"— I did —"

"— then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of taking matters. Much also depends upon the wand itself. This wand, however, does not feel as though it has been drawn to you, Mr. Potter."

"Who would it belong to, if not to me? Can't you tell us —" Harry started, but was quickly silenced once Ollivander's eyes fell upon the last wand, his head tilting with intrigue.

Following the older gentleman's gaze, Hermione gasped. Her heart began to race, leaving her frozen still with her mouth slightly agape.

"Is that — ? Harry, how do you — ?"

"Malfoy had it on him," he said defensively, caught and under pressure. "And I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to upset —"

He trailed off at once, startled. Ollivander had reached forward and seized the last wand from his hand, rotating it between his fingers as he had done with the others. The wandmaker smiled oddly, as though he'd been remembering a fond memory only he'd be able to recount.

"Ah, yes. Cypress and phoenix feather," beamed Ollivander, admiring the wand in his palms. "Another wand of twelve-and-three-quarter inches. Reasonably supple. This, my dear boy, appears to be one of the few wands belonging to Charlie Hawthorne."

"Sorry? One of the few?" echoed Hermione, glimpsing Ollivander's expression. "How is that even possible? Charlie would have told me if —"

"But perhaps he did not know himself. In general, Miss Granger, once a wand has been won, its allegiance will change unbeknownst to its new master," explained Ollivander, handing Charlie's wand back to her. "And it seems as though Mr. Hawthorne has acquired the loyalty of few wands in his time."

There was a silence in the room, except for the distant rushing of the sea.

"You talk about wands like they've got feelings," said Harry, amazed, "like they can think for themselves."

"The wand chooses the wizard," recalled Ollivander in a sing-song voice. "That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, asking, "Someone can still use a wand that hasn't chosen them, though?"

"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. There must be an initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand —"

"And love?" asked Hermione quietly, looking down at Charlie's wand in her hands as the sea gushed on the shore outside; it was a mournful sound. "Is love a way that wizards can use other people's wands?"

Ollivander nodded, "That is the most powerful affinity, my dear girl."

"But I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force," muttered Harry, brandishing the second wand once again. "Can't I use it?"

"Again, the wand unfortunately holds no loyalty to you, Mr. Potter," said Ollivander regrettably. "The wand you acquired from Draco Malfoy was indeed the one I gave him years ago, but its allegiance swayed long before it came into your possession. Naturally, if you were to use one of these wands, I suggest Madame Lestrange's. That one, I'm sure, has taken a likeness to you."

Harry frowned, but forged on nevertheless.

"And it's safe to use?"

"I think so, Mr. Potter. Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but the conquered wand will usually bend its will to its new master."

"So I should use this one?" said 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 kidnapping for Peter Pettigrew. Yes, if you won it, it is more likely to do your bidding, and do it well, than another wand."

"And this holds true for all wands, does it?" asked Harry, intrigued.

"I think so," replied Ollivander, his protuberant eyes upon Harry's face. "You ask deep questions, Mr. Potter, but wandlore is a very complex and mysterious branch of magic to understand."

But Harry ignored this, pressing on, "So, it isn't necessary to kill the previous owner to take true possession of a wand?"

Ollivander swallowed.

"Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill."

"There are legends, though," said Harry, and as his heart rate quickened, the pain in his scar became more intense; he was sure that Voldemort had decided to put his idea into action. "Legends about a wand — or wands — that have passed from hand to hand by murder."

Ollivander turned pale. Against the snowy pillow he was light grey, and his eyes were enormous, bloodshot, and bulging with what looked like fear.

"Only one wand, I think," he whispered.

"And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn't he?" asked Harry, desperate to learn more.

"I — how?" croaked Ollivander, and he looked 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," muttered Harry, and Ollivander looked even more 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!"

"We understand," said Hermione gently, brushing over the scarred skin of her left forearm.

"But you told him about twin cores?" asked Harry eagerly. "You said he just had to borrow another wizard's wand?"

Ollivander looked horrified, transfixed, by the amount that Harry knew. The wandmaker nodded slowly.

"But it didn't work," Harry went on. "Mine still beat the borrowed wand. Do you know why that is?"

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..."

"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 asked about that other wand, didn't he?"

"How do you know this?"

Harry did not answer.

"Yes, he asked," whispered 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."

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione. For a moment, she looked bewildered, scared.

"The Dark Lord," whispered 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 twin 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 mine's broken beyond repair," said Harry quietly.

"No!" gasped Hermione, sounding frightened. "He can't know that, Harry, how could he — ?"

"Priori Incantatem," said Harry softly to her. "We left your wand and the blackthorn one at the Malfoy's. If they examine them properly, make them re-create the spells they've cast lately, they'll 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."

The little colour Hermione had regained since their arrival had drained from her face. Ron gave Harry a reproachful look, and said, "Let's not worry about that now —"

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."

"And will it?"

"The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear attack," said Ollivander lowly, "but the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit... formidable."

Hermione gulped, unsure of how to feel about Ollivander's current perspective. Even now, having been tortured and imprisoned by Voldemort, the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of this wand seemed to enthrall him as much as it repulsed him.

"Y-You really think this wand exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?" she asked, still unaware.

"Oh yes," nodded Ollivander vigorously. "Yes, it is perfectly possible to trace the wand's course through history. There are gaps, of course, 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 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."

"So you — you don't think it can be a fairy tale or a myth?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"No," said Ollivander firmly. "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," called Harry at once, "you told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, didn't you?"

Ollivander turned, if possible, even paler. He looked ghostly as he gulped.

"But how — how do you — ?"

"Never mind how I know it," said Harry sharply, closing his eyes momentarily as his scar burned and he saw, for mere seconds, a vision of the main street in Hogsmeade, still dark, because it was so much farther north.

"You told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the wand?"

"It was a rumour," whispered Ollivander. "A rumour, years and years ago, long before you were born... 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," muttered Harry distastefully, standing 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?" asked the wandmaker, looking utterly bewildered.

"The Deathly Hallows."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Is this still something to do with wands?"

Curious, Hermione looked into the sunken face and believed that Ollivander was not acting. The wandmaker did not know about the Hallows.

"Thank you," said Harry, evidently aware that Ollivander knew nothing. "We'll leave you to get some rest now."

Ollivander looked stricken.

"He was torturing me!" he gasped abruptly. "The Cruciatus Curse... you have no idea..."

"We do," whispered Hermione softly, bowing her head. "We really do, Mr. Ollivander. Thank you for telling us all of this, now please get some rest."

And with that, the three Gryffindors left the room; Harry led Ron and Hermione down the staircase. In the kitchen, Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean sat around the table, cups of tea in front of them. They all looked up at Harry as he appeared in the doorway, but he merely nodded to them and continued into the garden, Ron and Hermione behind him. The reddish mound of earth that covered Dobby lay ahead, and Harry walked back to it, as the pain in his head built more and more powerfully.

"Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago," he said, cocking his head over his shoulder. "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 rumour, it can't have been that difficult."

Hermione shuddered, her weakened state growing worse. Her concerned gaze fell upon Harry, and she felt like she knew his scar was painfully throbbing.

"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."

"Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?" said Ron, trying to process. "But then — where is it now?"

"At Hogwarts," muttered Harry, fighting to remain with them in the cliff-top garden.

"But then, let's go!" urged Ron eagerly. "Harry, let's go and get it before he does!"

"It's too late for that," said Harry, and he could not help but clutch his head, trying to help it resist. "He knows where it is. He's there now."

"Harry!" growled Ron 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," muttered Harry, and he sank to his knees on the grass. "Hermione's been right all along. Dumbledore didn't want me to have it. He wanted me to get the Horcruxes, and that's precisely what we're going to do."

Hermione paled, her eyes threatening to well up with unjustified tears. The day had been overwhelming, and as the dust began to settle, her protruding thoughts seemed to erode her mind once more.

"But what about —"

"I told you already, we'll find him," Harry responded, answering the question before it was even asked. "Until then, however, we're in desperate need of rest."

And with that, everything felt cold and dark. The sun was barely visible over the horizon as the three of them marched back towards the cottage, both physically and emotionally drained.

—————————————————————

Bill and Fleur's cottage stood alone at the top of a beach, nestled between the dunes, its walls embedded with shells and whitewashed. It was a lonely and beautiful place.

Whenever Hermione went inside the tiny cottage or its garden, she could hear the constant ebb and flow of the sea, like the breathing of some great, slumbering creature. She spent much of the next few days making excuses to escape the crowded cottage, craving the view of open sky and wide, empty sea, and the feel of cold, salty wind on her face.

At night, she'd be alone with her thoughts in the smallest of the cottage's three bedrooms, which only had enough room to house a single bed, a chest of drawers and a bedside table. The first night was the hardest, and she sobbed hysterically, cradling any essence of Charlie close to her chest.

In the dull hum of it all, Hermione's tears gave way to fretful sleep laced with nightmares. Her dreams were often tainted with memories of what she'd been through, of the cackling of Bellatrix Lestrange, of the hoarse screams eliciting from her boyfriend's lips...

At the sunrise, the enormity of the decision not to race Voldemort to the Elder Wand caused an upset of tension between Harry and Ron, for the latter could not help voicing whenever they were together.

"Harry, if that really is the Elder Wand, how the hell are we supposed to finish off You-Know-Who?"

Now forced to accept that the Elder Wand was real, Hermione maintained that it was an evil object, and that the way Voldemort had taken possession of it was repellent, not to be considered.

"You could never have done that, Harry," she said, over and over. "You couldn't have broken into Dumbledore's grave."

"But is he dead?" challenged Ron, four days after they had arrived at the cottage. Harry had once again been stuck in the middle of their bickering, staring out over the small wall that separated the cottage's small front garden through the bedroom window.

"Yes, he is! Ron, please don't start that again!"

"Look at the facts, Hermione," said Ron, speaking across Harry, who continued to gaze at the horizon. "The silver doe. The sword. The eye Harry saw in the mirror back at the Malfoy's —"

"I could have imagined it," murmured Harry, considering it himself.

"But you don't think you did, do you?"

"No, no, I don't."

"There you go!" argued Ron quickly, before Hermione could interject. "If it wasn't Dumbledore, explain how Dobby knew we were in the cellar, Hermione?"

"I don't know! I wasn't there — but can you explain how Dumbledore sent him to us if he's lying in a tomb at Hogwarts?"

"I dunno, it could've been his ghost!"

"Dumbledore wouldn't come back as a ghost," stated Harry, matter-of-factly. "He would have... gone on."

Ron blinked, perplexed, "What do you mean, 'gone on'?"

But before Harry could say any more, a voice behind them said: "'Arry?"

Fleur had poked her head through the bedroom door, her long silver hair pulled into a braided plait.

"'Arry, Grip'ook would like to speak to you. 'E eez in my bedroom, 'e says 'e does not want to be over'eard."

Her dislike of the goblin sending her to deliver messages was clear; she looked irritable before she vanished behind the door once more. Griphook was waiting for them, as Fleur had said, in the tiny bedroom her and Bill shared. He had drawn the red cotton curtains against the bright, cloudy sky, which gave the room a fiery glow at odds with the rest of the airy, light cottage.

"I have reached my decision, Harry Potter," announced the goblin, who was sitting cross-legged in a low chair, drumming its arms with his spindly fingers. "Though the goblins of Gringotts will consider it base treachery, I have decided to help you —"

"That's great!" said Harry, relief surging through him. "Griphook, thank you, we're really —"

"— in return," finished the goblin, "for payment."

Slightly taken aback, Harry hesitated, then said, "How much do you want? I've got gold."

"Not gold," whispered Griphook, shaking his head. His black eyes glittered; there were no whites to his eyes. "I want the sword. The sword of Godric Gryffindor."

Harry's spirits plummeted.

"You can't have that," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Then," muttered the goblin softly, "we have a problem."

"We can give you something else," suggested Ron eagerly. "I'll bet the Lestranges have got loads of stuff, you can take your pick once we get into the vault."

"Ron!" admonished Hermione.

But it was too late; Ron had said the wrong thing, causing Griphook to immediately flush angrily.

"I am not a thief, boy! I am not trying to procure treasures to which I have no right!"

"The sword's ours —"

"It's not though," said Hermione factually, "not really."

"How d'you figure that? Charlie's found the sword loads of times, and why do you think that is? Because he's a Gryffindor! The sword belonged to Godric Gryffindor, and now —"

"But before it was Gryffindor's, whose was it?" demanded the goblin, sitting up straight.

"No one's," grunted Ron, displeased. "It was made for him, wasn't it?"

"No!" snarled the goblin, bristling with anger as he pointed a long finger at Ron. "Wizarding arrogance again! That sword was Ragnuk the First's, taken from him by Godric Gryffindor! It is a lost treasure, a masterpiece of goblinwork! It belongs with the goblins! The sword is the price of my hire, take it or leave it!"

Griphook glared at them. Harry glanced at the other two, then said, "We need to talk about this, Griphook, if that's all right. Could you give us a few minutes?"

The goblin nodded, looking sour. Downstairs in the empty sitting room, Harry sat next to Hermione, head in his hands. Across from them, Ron said, "He's having a laugh! We can't let him have that sword."

"It is true?" Harry asked Hermione. "Was the sword stolen by Gryffindor?"

"I don't know," she said hopelessly. "Wizarding history often skates over what the wizards have done to other magical races, but there's no account that I know of that says Gryffindor stole the sword."

"It'll be one of those goblin stories," snarled Ron, crossing his arms, "about how the wizards are always trying to get one over on them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he hasn't asked for one of our wands."

"Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, Ron." retaliated Hermione. "They've been treated brutally in the past, which is similar to the way you seem so keen on treating him now."

"Well, they're not exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, are they?" scoffed Ron. "They've killed plenty of us. They've fought dirty too."

"But arguing with Griphook about whose race is most underhanded and violent isn't going to make him more likely to help us, is it?"

There was a pause while they tried to think of a way around the problem. Hermione sighed, shifting her gaze to look out the window, up at Dobby's grave. In the distance, Luna was arranging sea lavender in a jam jar beside the headstone.

"Okay," said Ron abruptly, and Hermione turned back to face him, "how's this? We tell Griphook we need the sword until we get inside the vault, and then he can have it. There's a fake in there, isn't there? We switch them, and give him the fake."

"Ron, he'd know the difference better than we would!" ridiculed Hermione, dumbfounded. "He's the only one who realized there had been a swap!"

"Yeah, but we could scarper before he realized —"

He quailed beneath the look Hermione was giving him. Harry was just glad it was a look reserved — at that moment at least — for Ron.

"That," she said quietly, "is despicable. Ask for his help, then double-cross him? And you wonder why goblins don't like wizards?"

Ron's ears had turned red, his hands raised in a mock surrender, "All right, all right! It was the only thing I could think of! What's your solution, then?"

"We need to offer him something else, something just as valuable." Hermione said reasonably, if not slightly hopefully.

"Brilliant, I'll go and get one of our other ancient goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it."

Silence fell between them again. Hermione was sure that the goblin would accept nothing but the sword, even if they did have something just as valuable to offer him. Yet the sword was their one, indispensable weapon against the Horcruxes. Closing her eyes for a moment, she listened to the rush of the sea.

"Maybe he's lying," suggested Harry, and Hermione was forced to open her eyes again. "Griphook. Maybe Gryffindor didn't take the sword. How do we know the goblin version of history's right?"

"Does it make a difference?" asked Hermione with a sigh.

"Changes how I feel about it," said Harry grimly, taking a deep breath. "We'll tell him he can have the sword after he's helped us get into that vault — but we'll be careful to avoid telling him exactly when he can have it."

A grin spread slowly across Ron's face. Hermione, however, looked alarmed.

"Harry, we can't —"

"He can have it," he went on quickly, "after we've used it on all of the Horcruxes. I'll make sure he gets it then. I'll keep my word."

"But that could be years!"

"I know that, but he needn't... I won't be lying..."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, muttering, "I don't like this."

"Neither do I," Harry admitted.

"Well, I think it's genius," said Ron, standing up again. "Let's go and tell him."

Back in the tiny bedroom, Harry made the offer, careful to phrase it so as not to give any definite time for the handover of the sword. Even Hermione, though she liked the plan as little as he did, maintained eye contact with the goblin. However, it wouldn't have mattered if she hadn't, as Griphook had eyes for nobody but Harry.

"I have your word, Harry Potter, that you will give me the sword of Gryffindor if I help you?"

"Yes."

"Then shake," said the goblin, holding out his hand.

Harry took it and shook, but he wondered whether those black eyes saw any misgivings in his own. Then Griphook relinquished him, clapped his hands together, and said, "So, we begin!"

It was like planning to break into the Ministry all over again. They settled to work in the smallest bedroom, which was kept, according to Griphook's preference, in semidarkness.

"I have visited the Lestranges' vault only once," Griphook told them, "on the occasion I was told to place inside it the false sword. It is one of the most ancient chambers, sturdy as though it were a prison. The oldest wizarding families store their treasures at the deepest level, where the vaults are largest and best protected..."

They remained shut in the room for hours at a time. The longer they spent together, the more Hermione realized that she did not much like the goblin. Griphook was unexpectedly bloodthirsty, laughed at the idea of pain in lesser creatures, and seemed to relish the possibility that they might have to hurt other wizards to reach the Lestranges' vault.

Slowly the days stretched into weeks, and Hermione began to grow more and more anxious. Ever since the first day in which they arrived at Shell's Cottage, she had not felt a single vibration emit from the bracelet on her wrist. Not to mention, there was problem after problem to overcome, not least of which was that their store of Polyjuice Potion was greatly depleted.

"There's really only enough left for one of us," said Hermione, tilting the thick mud-like potion against the lamplight.

"That'll be enough," assured Harry, who was examining Griphook's hand-drawn map of the deepest passageways.

The other inhabitants of Shell Cottage could hardly fail to notice that something was going on. Nobody asked questions, although Hermione often felt Bill's eyes on the three of them at the table at mealtimes, thoughtful, concerned.

The goblin ate only grudgingly with the rest of them. Even after his legs had mended, he continued to request trays of food in his room, like the still-frail Ollivander, until Bill — following an angry outburst from Fleur — went upstairs to tell him that the arrangement could not continue. Thereafter, Griphook joined them at the overcrowded table, although he refused to eat the same food, insisting, instead, on lumps of raw meat, roots, and some fungi.

"...and tiny little ears," Luna was saying, one blustery April evening as Hermione came down the stairs. "bit like hippo's, Daddy says, only purple and hairy. And if you want to call them, you have to hum; they prefer a waltz, nothing too fast..."

Looking uncomfortable, Dean shrugged at Hermione as she passed, following Luna into the combined dining and sitting room where Ron and Harry were laying the dinner table.

"...I'll be able to show you all the horn, Daddy wrote to me about it but I haven't seen it yet," Luna went on, as she and Dean relit the fire.

"Luna, we told you," Hermione called over to her. "That horn exploded. It came from an Erumpent, not a Crumple-Horned Snorkack —"

"No, it was definitely a Snorkack horn," said Luna serenely. "Daddy told me. It will probably have re-formed by now, they mend themselves, you know."

Hermione sighed, shook her head and grabbed two jugs of pumpkin juice as Fleur and Bill appeared, leading Mr. Ollivander down the stairs. The wandmaker still looked exceptionally frail, and he clung to Bill's arm as the latter supported him, carrying a large suitcase.

"I'm going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander," said Luna, approaching the old man.

"And I you, my dear," smiled Ollivander, patting her on the shoulder. "You were an inexpressible comfort to me in that terrible place."

"So, au revoir, Mr. Ollivander," said Fleur, kissing him on both cheeks. "And I wonder whezzer you could oblige me by delivering a package to Bill's Auntie Muriel? I never returned 'er tiara."

"It will be an honour," whispered Ollivander with a little bow, "the very least I can do in return for your generous hospitality."

Fleur drew out a worn velvet case, which she opened to show the wandmaker. The tiara sat glittering and twinkling in the light from the low-hanging lamp.

"Moonstones and diamonds," said Griphook, who had sidled into the room without Hermione noticing. "Made by goblins, I think."

"And paid for by wizards," grunted Bill quietly, and the goblin shot him a look that was both furtive and challenging.

There was a strong gust of wind that slammed against the cottage windows as Bill and Ollivander set off into the night. The rest of them squeezed in around the table; elbow to elbow and with barely enough room to move, they started to eat. Beside them, the fire crackled and popped in the grate.

As she so often did, Hermione merely poked at the food on her plate, unable to bring herself to eat. Every few minutes, she glanced out the window as though expecting to somehow see Charlie in the garden. To her disappointment, however, it was only Bill who returned before they had finished their first course, his long hair tangled by the wind.

"Everything's fine," he told Fleur. "Ollivander's settled in — Mum and Dad say hello, Ginny misses everyone, and Elaina sends you all of her love. Fred and George are driving Muriel up the wall, they're still operating an Owl-Order business out of her back room. It cheered her up to have her tiara back, though. She said she thought we'd stolen it."

"Ah, she eez charmante, your aunt," said Fleur crossly, waving her wand and causing the dirty plates to rise and form a stack in midair. Then she caught them and marched out of the room.

"Daddy's made a tiara," piped up Luna. "Well, more of a crown, really."

Ron caught Hermione's eye and grinned. He had since remembered the ludicrous headdress that they had seen on their visit to Xenophilius.

"Yes, he's trying to re-create the lost diadem of Ravenclaw. He thinks he's identified most of the main elements now. Adding the billywig wings really made a difference —"

But Luna trailed off as someone rapped loudly on the front door. Everyone's head turned toward it. Fleur came running out of the kitchen, looking frightened; Bill jumped to his feet, his wand pointing at the door; Harry, Ron, and Hermione did the same. Silently, Griphook slipped beneath the table, out of sight.

"Who is it?" Bill called.

"It is I, Remus John Lupin!" called a voice over the howling wind. "I am a werewolf, married to Nymphadora Tonks, and you, the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come in an emergency!"

"Lupin," muttered Bill, and he ran to the door and wrenched it open.

Lupin fell over the threshold. He was white-faced, wrapped in a traveling cloak, his graying hair windswept. Straightening up, he looked around the room, making sure of who was there, then cried aloud, "It's a boy! We've named him Ted, after Dora's father!"

Hermione gasped, "What — ? Tonks — Tonks was pregnant?"

"Yes, yes, and she's just had the baby!" shouted Lupin, and all around the table came cries of delight, sighs of relief. Hermione and Fleur both simultaneously squealed, "Congratulations!" and Ron said, "Blimey, a baby!" as if he had never heard of such a thing before.

"Yes — yes — a boy," said Lupin again, who seemed dazed by his own happiness. He strode around the table and hugged Harry, squeezing him tightly. "You'll be godfather?" he asked, once they parted.

"M-Me?" stammered Harry.

"Yes, yes, of course — Dora quite agrees, no one better —"

"I — yeah — blimey —"

Harry felt overwhelmed, astonished, delighted; Bill hurried to fetch celebratory wine, and Fleur was persuading Lupin to join them for a drink.

"I can't stay long, I must get back," said Lupin, beaming around at them all; he looked years younger than Hermione had ever seen him. "Thank you, thank you, Bill!"

Bill had soon filled all of their goblets, they stood and raised them high in a toast.

"To Teddy Remus Lupin," announced Lupin, "a great wizard in the making!"

"'Oo does 'e look like?" Fleur inquired, amazed.

"I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he is like me. He doesn't have much hair. It looked black when he was born, but I swear it's turned ginger in the few hours since. It'll probably be blonde by the time I get back. Andromeda says Tonks's hair started changing colour the day that she was born." Lupin quickly drained his goblet. "Oh, go on then, just one more," he added, beaming, as Bill made to fill it again. "Come on everyone — where's Charles? Our differences aside, I'd like to have a drink with him in celebration!"

And with that, the joyful atmosphere seemed to diminish significantly. The wind buffeted the little cottage and the fire leapt and crackled, and Hermione whimpered softly into her cup before draining it. Lupin's news seemed to have taken them out of themselves, removed them for a while from their state of eternal grief for a mere moment.

But all good things must come to an end...

Without another word, Hermione placed her empty glass on the table and slunk back to the bedroom she now shared with Luna. The reminder of Charlie's disappearance was like a dagger to her chest, digging deeper and deeper. Sitting on the edge of her single bed, Hermione let blazing hot tears stain her cheeks.

In the weeks they'd been residing at Shell's Cottage, the planning of the Gringotts robbery provided necessary distraction from reality. With each passing day, however, Hermione felt more and more hopeless. The idea of one day stumbling upon Charlie's corpse frightened her much less than the possibility that she might have left the living Charlie for dead.

Hermione felt as though she was groping; she had chosen to abide by Harry's wishes but kept second-guessing herself, wondering whether she should've set out on her own to find him, whether she was too late to say goodbye. From time to time, anger at Harry and Ron crashed over her again, as powerful as the waves slamming themselves against the cliff beneath the cottage. In truth, she knew, however, that no amount of anger or grief would bring Charlie back.

Come back... come back to me...

"Hermione?" came a voice from behind her, and she jumped, frightened. Caught up in her thoughts, she hadn't even heard the bedroom door open, nor had she heard Bill approach her.

"Forgive me," he said, clearing his throat, "but I wanted to have a private word with you. It hasn't been easy to get an opportunity with the cottage this full of people."

Hermione wiped her eyes and looked up, shaking her head, "Can't this wait — ?"

"I know you, Harry, and Ron are planning something with Griphook."

Caught off guard slightly, Hermione raised her eyebrows, but did not bother to deny it. Instead, she merely looked at Bill, waiting.

"And I would just advise you to be careful," said Bill awkwardly. "I know goblins, you see. I've worked for Gringotts ever since I left Hogwarts. I mean, I'm sure you know from History of Magic, but dealings between wizards and goblins have been fraught for centuries. So, please, be very careful with whatever you three have promised Griphook. It would be less dangerous to break into Gringotts than to renege on a promise to a goblin."

Hermione felt a slight squirm of discomfort, as though a small snake had stirred inside her.

"Why'd you come all the way up here to tell me that?" she asked, confused. "If anything, Harry is the one —"

"There's one more thing," gulped Bill, hesitating for a moment. "It's about... Charlie."

At the mention of her boyfriend's name, Hermione's heart seemed to pound rapidly in her chest. There was an ominous feeling arising in her stomach now, and she stood upon the mention, desperate to hear more.

"W-What is it?"

"I'm still in touch with a couple blokes from work," explained Bill, leaning up against one of the sturdy bed posts. "And they let slip that a few Death Eaters brought in a prisoner last week, and took him down to the depths of the bank for some ungodly reason. Brown hair, brown eyes, and beaten to an unrecognizable, bloody pulp. Now, I don't know for sure, but —"

"H-He's alive! It's him," squeaked Hermione excitably, her eyes wide. "It has to be, but why would they —"

"Gringotts is impenetrable," emphasized Bill, shrugging. "If anything, why wouldn't they hold him in one of their top security vaults? Again, there's no guarantee that it's him, but if it is, there's a good chance he'll be held in a Death Eater's vault —"

"Like Bellatrix Lestrange?" questioned Hermione, formulating a rescue plan in her head. "Charlie could be in her vault, right?"

"That's a good example, yeah. It'll definitely be one of the most secure vaults in the whole place," said Bill, giving her the benefit of the doubt. "I've entrusted one of my friends to keep a lookout, but I just thought you should know."

"How long have you know about this?" asked Hermione accusingly. "Why are you just telling me this now?"

"You were upset, Hermione," gulped Bill awkwardly, "and I didn't want you to get your hopes up, especially if I wasn't sure —"

"But you still aren't sure," retaliated Hermione, using his own words against him. "Why the sudden change of heart? What else happened?"

"Nothing," said Bill quickly, sighing. "It's just — well — if I was in your shoes, and the Death Eaters had Fleur, then I would stopped at nothing to get her back. In truth, I can only imagine how you must feel without him here. Please, Hermione, I'm just trying to help."

"And I appreciate it, truly I do," she whispered at once, managing a small smile. "Honestly, Bill, you have no idea how much I needed to hear that... thank you."

"Any time," grinned Bill, looking slightly relieved. "And now, I'll leave you to it. Get some rest, will you? I promise I'll let you know if I hear anything else."

As Bill left the room, Hermione sat back upon the single bed, her eyes sparkling with happiness for the first time in weeks. Going over her formulated plan in her head, she seemed set on course to rescue her boyfriend and, similar to how Bill felt about Fleur, she'd stop at nothing to get Charlie back.

—————————————————————

Their plans were made, their preparations complete; in the smallest bedroom a single long, coarse black hair — plucked from from the sweater Hermione had been wearing at Malfoy Manor — lay curled in a small glass phial on the mantelpiece.

"And you'll be using her actual wand," said Harry, nodding toward the walnut wand, "so I reckon you'll be pretty convincing."

Hermione looked frightened that the wand might sting or bite her as she picked it up.

"I hate this thing," she said in a low voice. "I really hate it. It feels all wrong, it doesn't work properly for me... It's like a bit of her."

"It'll probably help you get into character, though," shrugged Ron, trying to ease her worries. "Think what that wand's done!"

"But that's exactly my point!" snapped Hermione, shaking her head. "This is the wand that tortured my boyfriend, Neville's mum and dad, and who knows how many others? This is the wand that killed Sirius!"

Hermione was disgusted by the mere thought it. Looking down up the wand, she was visited by a brutal urge to snap it, to slice it in half with Gryffindor's sword, which was propped against the wall beside her.

"I miss my wand," she muttered miserably. "Why can't I just use Charlie's? Merlin, I wish Mr. Ollivander could have made me another one too."

Mr. Ollivander had sent Luna a new wand that morning, and she was currently out on the back lawn, testing its capabilities in the late afternoon sun. Dean, who had lost his wand to the Snatchers, was watching rather gloomily.

The door of the bedroom opened and Griphook entered. Harry reached instinctively for the hilt of the sword and drew it close to him, but regretted his action at once; he could tell that the goblin had noticed. Seeking to gloss over the sticky moment, he said, "We've just been checking the last-minute stuff, Griphook. We've told Bill and Fleur we're leaving tomorrow, and we've told them not to get up to see us off."

They had been firm on this point, because Hermione would need to transform into Bellatrix before they left, and the less that Bill and Fleur knew or suspected about what they were about to do, the better. As they had lost Perkins's old tent on the night that the Snatchers caught them, Bill had lent them another one. It was now packed inside the beaded bag, which Hermione had protected from the Snatchers by the simple expedient of stuffing it down her sock.

Though she would miss Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean, not to mention the home comforts they had enjoyed over the last month, Hermione was looking forward to escaping the confinement of Shell Cottage. In truth, she was tired of trying to make sure that they were not overheard, tired of being shut in the tiny, dark bedroom. Most of all, she longed to be reunited with Charlie, to see him somewhere other than her tainted dreams.

As for Griphook, precisely how and when they were to part from the goblin without handing over Gryffindor's sword remained a question to which Hermione had no answer. It had been impossible to decide how they were going to do it, because the goblin rarely left Harry, Ron, and Hermione alone together for more than five minutes at a time.

Hermione slept badly that night, her thoughts racing. Lying awake in the early hours, she thought back to the way she had felt the night before they had infiltrated the Ministry of Magic and remembered a terror, almost an anxiety, nagging doubts. This time, unfortunately, she did not have Charlie to comfort her until she fell asleep. Not to mention, she hated the thought of transforming into Bellatrix Lestrange.

It was a relief when six o'clock arrived and they could slip out of bed and dress in the semidarkness. In the bathroom, Hermione drank the polyjuice potion, then headed for the garden to meet Harry, Ron and Griphook. The dawn was chilly, but there was little wind now that it was May. Hermione looked up at the dawn sky, which still glimmered with faint stars, and listened to the sea washing backward and forward against the cliff; she was going to miss the sound.

Small green shoots were forcing their way up through the red earth of Dobby's grave now; in a year's time the mound would be covered in flowers. The white stone that bore the elf's name had already acquired a weathered look. As Hermione crossed the garden, the other three turned towards her she as tucked the small, beaded bag into the inside pocket of another set of the old robes they had taken from Grimmauld Place.

Hermione was now taller than Harry and Griphook, her long black hair rippling down her back, her heavily lidded eyes disdainful as they rested upon them; but then she spoke, and they heard Hermione through Bellatrix's low voice.

"How do I look?"

"Hideous," replied Ron, his face scrunched in disgust.

"You know, I don't reckon that's Charlie's type," joked Harry lightheartedly, which earned him a smile from Hermione, though it came out as one of Bellatrix's evil grins.

"She tasted disgusting, worse than Gurdyroots! Okay, Ron, come here..."

"Right, but remember, I don't like the beard too long!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, this isn't about looking handsome —"

"It's not that, it gets in the way! But I liked my nose a bit shorter, try and do it the way you did last time."

Hermione sighed and set to work, muttering under her breath as she transformed various aspects of Ron's appearance. He was to be given a completely fake identity, and they were trusting to the malevolent aura cast by Bellatrix to protect him. Meanwhile, Harry and Griphook were to be concealed under the Invisibility Cloak.

"There," said Hermione a few minutes later, "how does he look, Harry?"

It was just not possible to not discern Ron under his disguise, but only, Harry thought, because he knew him so well. Ron's hair was now long and wavy; he had a thick beard and moustache, no freckles, a short, broad nose, and heavy eyebrows.

"Well, I wouldn't know you if I didn't know you," shrugged Harry, convinced. "Shall we go, then?"

All of them glanced back at Shell Cottage, lying dark and silent under the fading stars, then turned and began to walk toward the point, just beyond the boundary wall, where the Fidelius Charm stopped working and they would be able to Disapparate. Once past the gate, Griphook spoke.

"I should climb up now, Harry Potter, I think?"

Harry bent down and the goblin clambered onto his back, his hands linked on front of Harry's throat. He was not heavy, but Harry disliked the feeling of the goblin and the surprising strength with which he clung on. Hermione pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of the beaded bag and threw it over them both.

"Perfect," she said, bending down to check Harry's feet. "I can't see a thing, so let's go."

Hermione turned on the spot, concentrating with all her might on the Leaky Cauldron, the inn that was the entrance to Diagon Alley. Her curls whipped around as they moved into the compressing darkness, and seconds later, Hermione's feet found pavement and she opened her eyes on Charing Cross Road. Muggles bustled past wearing the hangdog expressions of early morning, quite unconscious of the little inn's existence.

The bar of the Leaky Cauldron was nearly deserted. Tom, the stooped and toothless landlord, was polishing glasses behind the bar counter; a couple of warlocks having a muttered conversation in the far corner glanced at Hermione and drew back into the shadows.

"Madam Lestrange," murmured Tom, and as Hermione paused he inclined his head subserviently.

"Good morning," said Hermione awkwardly, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom look surprised.

"Too polite," she heard Harry whisper in her ear as they passed out of the Inn into the tiny backyard. "You need to treat people like they're scum!"

"Okay, okay!"

Hermione drew out Bellatrix's wand and rapped a brick in the nondescript wall in front of them. At once the bricks began to whirl and spin, then a hole appeared in the middle of them, which grew wider and wider, finally forming an archway onto the narrow cobbled street that was Diagon Alley.

As they set off along the street, her heart ached as Charlie's face glared down at her from posters plastered over many windows, always captioned with the words: 'UNDESIRABLE NO. 3'. Beggars littered the street, each of them cowering as Bellatrix Lestrange walked past, not even daring to look in her direction. In truth, they were terrified, for Voldemort had taken most of their families, ruined their lives.

Hermione led the way down the cobbled path, strutting with a confidence that was so unlike herself. For a moment, she grew anxious from the eerie silence of the setting, but remembered what she'd set out to do — find the Horocrux, save her boyfriend. Before the goblin bank came into her view, however, she heard an enthusiastic cry from behind her.

"Why, Madam Lestrange!"

Her eyes wide, Hermione whirled around to be met with a tall, thin wizard with a crown of bushy gray hair and a long, sharp nose, who was now striding toward them.

"It's Travers," she heard Griphook hiss aloud, but at the moment, Hermione could not think who Travers was. Instead, she simply drew herself to full height and managed to perform her Bellatrix impression to the best of her ability:

"Can I help you?"

Taken aback, Travers froze in his tracks, clearly affronted by the bitterness in her voice.

"He's another Death Eater!" growled Griphook lowly.

"Forgive me, Madam, I merely wished to talk," said Travers coolly, "but if my presence is not welcome..."

Hermione recognized his voice now; Travers was one of the Death Eaters who had been summoned to Xenophilius's house.

"No, no, my apologies, Travers," she said quickly, trying to cover her mistake. "How are you?"

"Well, I confess I am surprised to see you out and about, Bellatrix."

"Really? Why?" asked Hermione, curious.

"Well," Travers coughed, "I heard that the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house, after the... ah... escape."

"The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him most faithfully in the past," snarled Hermione, in a magnificent imitation of Bellatrix's most contemptuous manner. "Perhaps your credit is not as good with him as mine is, Travers."

Though the Death Eater looked offended, he also seemed less suspicious. He glanced over at Ron, eyeing him up and down, and said, "Who is your friend? I do not recognize him."

"This is Dragomir Despard," announced Hermione; they had decided that a fictional foreigner was the safest cover for Ron to assume. "He speaks very little English, but he is in sympathy with the Dark Lord's aims. He has traveled here from Transylvania to see our new regime."

"Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir?"

"'Ow you?" said Ron, holding out his hand.

Travers extended two fingers and shook Ron's hand as though frightened of dirtying himself.

"So what brings you and your — ah — sympathetic friend to Diagon Alley this early?"

Hermione cleared her throat, "I need to visit Gringotts."

"Alas, I also," said Travers confidently. "Gold, filthy gold! We cannot live without it, yet I confess I deplore the necessity of consorting with our long-fingered friends — shall we?" he added, gesturing Hermione forward.

With a quick look at Ron, Hermione fell into step beside Travers and continued on their way up the street. At last, they had reached the snowy white bank that towered over the other little shops. Ron sloped along beside them, and Harry and Griphook followed.

A watchful Death Eater was the very last thing they needed, and the worst of it was, with Travers marching at what he believed to be Bellatrix's side, there was no means for Hermione to communicate normally with Harry or Ron. Together, they walked up to the great bronze doors. As Griphook had already warned them, the liveried goblins who usually flanked the entrance had been replaced by two wizards, both of whom were clutching long thin golden rods.

"Ah, Probity Probes," sighed Travers theatrically, "so crude — but effective!"

And he walked passed the wizard guards, who raised the golden rods and dragged them up and down his body. The Probes, Hermione knew, detected spells of concealment and hidden magical objects. Behind her, Harry quickly pointed Charlie's wand at each of the guards in turn and murmured, "Confundus" twice. Unnoticed by Travers, who was looking through the bronze doors at the inner hall, each of the guards gave a little start as the spells hit them.

"One moment, Madam," said the guard, raising his Probe.

"But you've just done that!" spat Hermione in Bellatrix's commanding, arrogant voice. Travers looked around, eyebrows raised. The guard was confused. He stared down at the thin golden Probe, and then at his companion, who said in a slightly dazed voice, "Yeah, you've just checked them, Marius."

With a breath of relief, Hermione swept forward over the threshold, Ron by her side, Harry and Griphook trotting invisibly behind them.

Two goblins stood before the inner doors, which were made of silver and which carried the poem warning of dire retribution to potential thieves. The long counter was also manned by goblins, who sat on high stools serving the first customers of the day. Hermione, Ron, and Travers headed toward an old goblin who was examining a thick gold coin through an eyeglass.

The goblin tossed the coin he was holding aside, said to nobody in particular, "Leprechaun," and then greeted Travers, who passed over a tiny golden key, which was examined and given back to him.

Hermione stepped forward.

"Madam Lestrange!" said the goblin, evidently startled. "Dear me! How — how may I help you today?"

Hermione cleared her throat, "I wish to enter my vault, and I don't like to be kept waiting!"

The old goblin seemed to recoil a little. Behind Hermione, not only was Travers hanging back, watching, but several other goblins had looked up from their work to stare at Hermione.

"And do you have... identification?" asked the goblin.

"Identification?" echoed Hermione, with an airy laugh. "I have never been asked for identification before!"

"It's just a precaution, Madam," said the goblin, holding out a slightly trembling hand. "Your wand will do."

In a dreadful blast of realization, Hermione knew that the goblins of Gringotts were aware that Bellatrix's wand had been stolen. Slightly panicked, she hesitated, trying to signal Harry and Ron. Behind her, Harry instantly raised the cypress wand beneath the Cloak, pointed it at the old goblin, and whispered, for the first time in his life, "Imperio!"

The goblin took Bellatrix's wand, examined it closely, and then said, "Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!"

"A new wand?" questioned Travers, approaching the counter again; still the goblins all around were watching. "But how could you have done, which wandmaker did you use?"

Harry acted without thinking. Pointing Charlie's wand at Travers, he muttered, "Imperio!" once more.

"Oh yes, I see," said Travers, looking down at Bellatrix's wand, "yes, very handsome. And is it working well? I always think wands require a little breaking in, don't you?"

Hermione looked utterly bewildered, but to Harry's enormous relief, she accepted the bizarre turn of events without comment. The old goblin behind the counter clapped his hands and another goblin approached at once.

"I shall need the Clankers," he told the goblin, who dashed away and returned a moment later with a leather bag that seemed to be full of jangling metal, which he handed to his senior.

"Good, good! So, if you will follow me, Madam Lestrange," said the old goblin, hopping down off his stool and vanishing from sight, "I shall take you to your vault. You'll be visiting the prisoner, I presume?"

Hermione froze, stuttering, "P-Prisoner?"

The goblin appeared around the end of the counter, jogging happily toward them, the contents of the leather bag still jingling.

"Oh, yes, yes! Hawthorne's boy, don't you remember?" beamed the goblin. "As you've requested, Madam, he's been kept under heavy surveillance. He's been fairly vocal since his arrival, I must say, but your fellow counterparts have done well to keep him quiet as of late."

"R-Right," said Hermione regretfully, her heart racing in her chest. Pushing aside her personal feelings towards the matter, she demanded, "Take me to him."

"Very well! Right this way —"

"Wait — Bogrod!"

Another goblin came scurrying around the counter.

"We have instructions," he said with a bow to Hermione. "Forgive me, Madam, but there have been special orders regarding the vault of Lestrange."

He then whispered urgently in Bogrod's ear, but the Imperiused goblin shook him off.

"I am aware of the instructions, but Madam Lestrange wishes to visit her vault, her prisoner... she's an old client... well trusted... this way, please..."

And, still clanking, Bogrod hurried toward one of the many doors leading off the hall. Hermione chanced a look back at Travers, who was rooted to the spot looking abnormally vacant, and could've sworn she heard Harry's voice mutter a quick incantation under the Invisibility Cloak. Almost immediately, Travers followed them, walking meekly in their wake as they reached the door and passed into the rough stone passageway beyond, which was lit with flaming torches.

"We're in trouble! They suspect something's wrong," whispered Harry as the door slammed behind them and he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak. Griphook jumped down from his shoulders; neither Travers nor Bogrod showed the slightest surprise at the sudden appearance of Harry Potter in their midst.

"They're Imperiused," he added, in response to Hermione and Ron's confused queries about Travers and Bogrod, who were both now standing there looking blank. "I don't think I did it strongly enough, I don't know..."

"What do we do?" asked Ron, slightly panicked. "Shall we get out now, while we can?"

"Absolutely not! Have you not been listening, Ron?" said Hermione excitably, looking back toward the door into the main hall, beyond which who knew what was happening. "Charlie's here! He's being held in Bellatrix's vault, and there's no way I'm leaving without him!"

"Hermione," began Ron, shaking his head, "we're here to find the bloody Horcrux! This isn't meant to be a rescue mission!"

"No reason it can't be both," said Harry quickly, as Hermione went to open her mouth in retaliation. "We've got this far, I say we go on."

"Good!" beamed Griphook. "So, we need Bogrod to control the cart; I no longer have the authority. But there will not be room for the wizard."

Harry pointed Charlie's wand at Travers, muttering, "Imperio!" and the wizard turned and set off along the dark track at a smart pace. Hermione gave a little hitch at Harry's use of the curse.

"What are you making him do?"

"Hide," replied Harry as he pointed his wand at Bogrod, who whistled to summon a little cart that came trundling along the tracks toward them out of the darkness. Hermione was sure she could hear shouting behind them in the main hall as they all clambered into it: Bogrod in front of Griphook, Harry, Ron, and Hermione crammed together in the back.

With a jerk, the cart moved off, gathering speed. They hurtled past Travers, who was wriggling into a crack in the wall, then the cart began twisting and turning through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downward all the time. Hermione could not hear anything over the rattling of the cart on the tracks; her hair flew behind her as they swerved between stalactites, flying ever deeper into the earth, but she kept glancing back.

They took a hairpin bend at speed and saw ahead of them, with seconds to spare, a waterfall pounding over the track. Hermione heard Griphook shout, "No!" but there was no braking.

They zoomed through it.

Instantly, water filled Hermione's eyes and mouth. She could not see or breathe. Then, with an awful lurch, the cart flipped over and they were all thrown out of it. Hermione heard the cart smash into pieces against the passage wall, raised Bellatrix's wand without thinking, and felt herself glide back toward the ground as though weightless, landing painlessly on the rocky passage floor.

"C-Cushioning Charm," she spluttered, as Ron pulled her to her feet, but to her own horror she saw that he was red-haired and beardless again. Hermione reached for her face, realizing that she was no longer Bellatrix; instead she stood there in overlarge robes, sopping wet and completely herself.

"The Thief's Downfall!" said Griphook, clambering to his feet and looking back at the deluge onto the tracks, which, Hermione knew now, had been more than water. "It washes away all enchantment, all magical concealment! They know there are impostors in Gringotts, they have set off defences against us!"

Hermione saw Harry checking that he still had the Invisibility Cloak, and she hurriedly thrust her own hand into her pocket to make sure she had not lost her beaded bag. Then, she turned to see Bogrod shaking his head in bewilderment; The Thief's Downfall seemed to have lifted his Imperius Curse.

"We need him," said Griphook, "we cannot enter the vault without a Gringott's goblin. And we need the clankers!"

"Imperio!" Harry muttered again; his voice echoed through the stone passage as he felt again the sense of heady control that flowed from brain to wand. Bogrod submitted once more to his will, his befuddled expression changing to one of polite indifference, as Ron hurried to pick up the leather bag of metal tools.

"Let's keep moving! They'll be coming soon enough," whispered Hermione, and she pointed Bellatrix's wand at the waterfall and cried, "Protego!"

They saw the Shield Charm break the flow of enchanted water as it flew up the passageway.

"Good thinking," awed Harry. "Lead the way, Griphook!"

"How are we going to get out again?" asked Ron, as they hurried on foot into the darkness after the goblin; Bogrod panting in their wake like an old dog.

"We'll worry about that later," dismissed Harry, keeping his eyes forward. "Griphook, how much farther?"

"Not far, Harry Potter, not far..."

And they turned a corner and saw the thing for which they had been prepared, but which still brought all of them to a halt.

There was a gigantic dragon tethered to the ground in front of them, barring access to four or five of the deepest vaults in the place. The beast's scales had turned pale and flaky during its long incarceration under the ground, its eyes were milkily pink; both rear legs bore heavy cuffs from which chains led to enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor.

Its great spiked wings, folded close to its body, would have filled the chamber if it spread them, and when it turned its ugly head toward them, it roared with a noise that made the rock tremble, opened its mouth, and spat a jet of fire that sent them running back up the passageway.

"It is partially blind," panted Griphook, "but even more savage for that. However, we have the means to control it. It has learned what to expect when the Clankers come. Give them to me."

Ron passed the bag to Griphook, and the goblin pulled out a number of small metal instruments that when shaken made a loud, ringing noise like miniature hammers on anvils. Griphook handed them out; Bogrod accepted his meekly.

"You know what to do," Griphook told Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "It been taught to expect pain when it hears the noise. It will retreat, and Bogrod must place his palm upon the door of the vault."

"That's barbaric," scolded Hermione, narrowing her eyes towards the goblin. Griphook hardly seemed to notice, or more likely, Hermione knew, he didn't care.

"Don't forget what's at stake, Miss Granger," said Griphook icily. "Your boyfriend's just beyond that door."

Caught, Hermione reluctantly advanced around the corner with the others, shaking the Clankers, and the noise echoed off the rocky walls, grossly magnified, so that the inside of their skulls seemed to vibrate with the den.

The dragon let out another hoarse roar, then retreated. Hermione could see it trembling, and as they drew nearer, she saw the scars made by vicious slashes across its face, and guessed that it had been taught to fear hot swords when it heard the sound of the Clankers. Unable to stop herself, she shuddered.

"Make him press his hand to the door!" Griphook urged Harry, who turned his wand again upon Bogrod.

The old goblin obeyed at once, pressing his palm to the wood, and the door of the vault melted away to reveal a cavelike opening crammed from floor to ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armour, the skins of strange creatures — some with long spines, other with drooping wings — potions in jeweled flasks, and a skull still wearing a crown.

"Search, fast!" shouted Harry, as they all hurried inside the vault.

And while she knew Harry had been referring to Hufflepuff's Cup, Hermione had disregarded the Horcuxes entirely, craning her head over the mountains of Galleons in search of the man she loved. There was barely time to look around, however, before there was a muffled clunk from behind them: the door had reappeared, sealing them inside the vault, and they were plunged into total darkness.

"It's fine, Bogrod will be able to release us!" said Griphook, as Ron gave a shout of surprise. "Light your wands, can't you? And hurry, we have very little time!"

"Charlie!" shouted Hermione desperately, squinting through the darkness. Moving forward, she muttered, "Lumos Maxima!" and the tip of Bellatrix's wand lit the entirety of the room.

The light fell upon glittering jewels; she saw the fake sword of Gryffindor lying on a high shelf amongst a jumble of chains. Harry and Ron had lit their wands too, and were now examining the piles of objects surrounding them.

"Hermione, quickly! You've got to help us!"

"No, no, wait!" she hushed, still searching. "He has to be here somewhere! He has to be — !"

"But we're running out of time!"

"I'm not leaving without him... not again..." mumbled Hermione, and she quickened her pace, desperate in her search. "Charlie! Charlie! CHARLIE!"

"Bloody hell, Hermione," said Ron hotly, catching up to her. "We need to find the Horcrux!"

Behind them, Harry shouted, "Guys, come on!"

"I don't care, I'm not — Ch-Charlie...?"

As they rounded the corner, Hermione felt her knees grow weak at the sight. Her wand light illuminating the short distance in front of her, she felt as though her mind was playing tricks on her again. The room fell silent, except for the occasional sound of blood dripping onto the vault's stone floor.

Hermione's eyes landed on Charlie's half-naked form, his wrists shackled to the cobblestone wall. His head was down, lolling on his shoulders, and blood dripped from the various open wounds covering his body. Her hands now trembling, Hermione whimpered at the paleness of Charlie's skin, the stillness of his body, and the lack of breath eliciting from his icy blue lips...

"CHARLIE!"

—————————————————————

Author's Note:
*this chapter was not proof read*

...and we're back!

super weird writing an entire chapter from a perspective with Hermione as it's main focus, but I enjoyed it! lmk what you thought!!

ngl I did miss Charlie quite a bit...

[insert begging for comments and votes here]

xo, selena

p.s. that cliffhanger tho... 👀