Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hp-7

by J. K. Rowling

Bill and Fleur were standing at the foot of the stairs.

  “I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander,” Harry said.

  “No,” said Fleur. “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’s going on?” asked Bill. “You turn up here with a dead house-elf and a half-conscious goblin, Hermione looks as though she’s been tortured, and Ron’s just refused to tell me anything—”

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

  Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look at her; he was staring at Harry. His deeply scarred face was hard to read. Finally, Bill said, “All right. Who do you want to talk to first?”

  Harry hesitated. He knew what hung on his decision. There was hardly any time left; now was the moment to decide: Horcruxes or Hallows?

  “Griphook,” Harry said. “I’ll speak to Griphook first.”

  His heart was racing as if he 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.

  “I need you two as well!” he called to Ron and Hermione, who had been skulking, half concealed, in the doorway of the sitting room.

  They both moved into the light, looking oddly relieved.

  “How are you?” Harry asked Hermione. “You were amazing—coming up with that story when she was hurting you like that—”

  Hermione gave a weak smile as Ron gave her a one-armed squeeze.

  “What are we doing now, Harry?” he asked.

  “You’ll see. Come on.”

  Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed Bill up the steep stairs onto a small landing. Three doors led off it.

  “In here,” said 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. Harry moved to the window, turned his back on the spectacular view, and waited, his arms folded, his scar prickling. Hermione took the chair beside the dressing table; Ron sat on the arm.

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

  “I’m sorry to take you out of bed,” said Harry. “How are your legs?”

  “Painful,” replied the goblin. “But mending.”

  He was still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and wore a strange look: half truculent, half intrigued. Harry 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?” said Griphook. “I remember, Harry Potter. Even amongst goblins, you are very famous.”

  Harry and the goblin looked at each other, sizing each other up. Harry’s scar was still prickling. He wanted to get through this interview with Griphook quickly, and at the same time was afraid of making a false move. While he 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,” said Harry.

  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. Harry rather thought he was being sneered at for acting like a Muggle, but it did not matter to him whether Griphook approved of Dobby’s grave or not. He gathered himself for the attack.

  “Griphook, I need to ask—”

  “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,” said Griphook, and with one finger he twisted the thin black beard upon his chin, “but you are a very odd wizard.”

  “Right,” said Harry. “Well, I need some help, Griphook, and 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.”

  Harry had not meant to say it so badly: the words were forced from him as pain shot through his lightning scar and he saw, again, the outline of Hogwarts. He closed his mind firmly. He needed to deal with Griphook first. Ron and Hermione were staring at Harry as though he had gone mad.

  “Harry—” said Hermione, 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,” said Harry. “The same day I first met you, Griphook. My birthday, seven years ago.”

  “The vault in question was empty at the time,” snapped the goblin, and Harry understood that even though Griphook had left Gringotts, he was offended at the idea of its defenses 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,” said Harry. “It belongs to the Lestranges.”

  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,” said 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?”

  The goblin looked slantwise at Harry, and the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead prickled, but he ignored it, refusing to acknowledge its pain or its invitation.

  “If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain,” said Griphook finally, “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.”

  “Wand-carriers,” repeated Harry: The phrase fell oddly upon his ears as his scar prickled, as Voldemort turned his thoughts northward, and as Harry burned to question Ollivander next door.

  “The right to carry a wand,” said the goblin quietly, “has long been contested between wizards and goblins.”

  “Well, goblins can do magic without wands,” said Ron.

  “That is immaterial! Wizards refuse to share the secrets of wand-lore with other magical beings, they deny us the possibility of extending our powers!”

  “Well, goblins won’t share any of their magic either,” said Ron. “You won’t tell us how to make swords and armor the way you do. Goblins know how to work metal in a way wizards have never—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Harry, noting Griphook’s rising color. “This isn’t about wizards versus goblins or any other sort of magical creature—”

  Griphook gave a nasty laugh.

  “But it is, it is precisely that! As the Dark Lord becomes ever more powerful, your race is set still more firmly above mine! Gringotts falls under Wizarding rule, house-elves are slaughtered, and who amongst the wand-carriers protests?”

  “We do!” said Hermion
e. She had sat up straight, her eyes bright. “We protest! And I’m hunted quite as much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I’m a Mudblood!”

  “Don’t call yourself—” Ron muttered.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” said Hermione. “Mudblood, and proud of it! I’ve got no higher position under this new order than you have, Griphook! It was me they chose to torture, back at the Malfoys’!”

  As she spoke, she pulled aside the neck of the dressing gown to reveal the thin cut Bellatrix had made, scarlet against her throat.

  “Did you know that it was Harry who set Dobby free?” she asked. “Did you know that we’ve wanted elves to be freed for years?” (Ron fidgeted uncomfortably on the arm of Hermione’s chair.) “You can’t want You-Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!”

  The goblin gazed at Hermione with the same curiousity he had shown Harry.

  “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. 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. “Perhaps you’ve seen other things in there?”

  His heart was pounding harder than ever. He redoubled his efforts to ignore the pulsing of his scar.

  The goblin twisted his beard around his finger again.

  “It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers.”

  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. “We haven’t got a hope of breaking in without a goblin’s help. You’re our one chance.”

  “I shall… think about it,” said Griphook maddeningly.

  “But—” Ron started angrily; Hermione nudged him in the ribs.

  “Thank you,” said Harry.

  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,” said Harry, but before leaving the room he leaned forward and took the sword of Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook did not protest, but Harry thought he saw resentment in the goblin’s eyes as he closed the door upon him.

  “Little git,” whispered Ron. “He’s enjoying keeping us hanging.”

  “Harry,” whispered Hermione, pulling them both 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?”

  “Yes,” said 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.”

  “But I thought we were looking for places You-Know-Who’s been, places he’s done something important?” said Ron, looking baffled. “Was he ever inside the Lestranges’ vault?”

  “I don’t know whether he was ever inside Gringotts,” said Harry. “He never had gold there when he was younger, because nobody left him anything. He would have seen the bank from the outside, though, the first time he ever went to Diagon Alley.”

  Harry’s scar throbbed, but he ignored it; he wanted Ron and Hermione to understand about Gringotts before they spoke to Ollivander.

  “I think he would have envied anyone who had a key to a Gringotts vault. I think he’d have seen it as a real symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world. And don’t forget, he trusted Bellatrix and her husband. They were his most devoted servants before he fell, and they went looking for him after he vanished. He said it night he came back, I heard him.”

  Harry rubbed his scar.

  “I don’t think he’d have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though. He never told Lucius Malfoy the truth about the diary. He probably told her it was a treasured possession and asked her to place it in her vault. The safest place in the world for anything you want to hide, Hagrid told me… except for Hogwarts.”

  When Harry had finished speaking, Ron shook his head.

  “You really understand him.”

  “Bits of him,” said Harry. “Bits… I just wish I’d understood Dumbledore as much. But we’ll see. Come on—Ollivander now.”

  Ron and Hermione looked bewildered but very impressed as they followed him across the little landing and knocked upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur’s. A weak “Come in!” answered them.

  The wandmaker was lying on the twin bed farthest from the window. He had been held in the cellar for more than a year, and tortured, Harry knew, on at least one occasion. He was emaciated, the bones of his face sticking out sharply against the yellowish skin. His great silver eyes seemed vast in their sunken sockets. The hands that lay upon the blanket could have belonged to a skeleton. Harry sat down on the empty bed, beside Ron and Hermione. The rising sun was not visible here. The room faced the cliff-top garden and the freshly dug grave.

  “Mr. Ollivander, I’m sorry to disturb you,” Harry said.

  “My dear boy,” Ollivander’s voice was feeble. “You rescued us, I thought we would die in that place, I can never thank you… never thank you… enough.”

  “We were glad to do it.”

  Harry’s scar throbbed. He knew, he was certain, that there was hardly any time left in which to beat Voldemort to his goal, or else to attempt to thwart him. 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,” said the wandmaker weakly.

  “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,” said Ollivander in a tremulous voice. “Eleven inches. Nice and supple.”

  “Yes,” said Harry. “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 two wands he had brought from the Malfoys’.

  “Can you identify these?” Harry asked.

  The wandmaker took the first of the wands and held it close to his faded eyes, rolling it between his knobble-knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly.

  “Walnut and dragon heartstring,” he said. “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. 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. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its allegiance will change.”

  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, “like they can think for themselves.”
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  “The wand chooses the wizard,” said Ollivander. “That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore.”

  “A person can still use a wand that hasn’t chosen them, though?” asked Harry.

  “Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.”

  The sea gushed forward and backward; it was a mournful sound.

  “I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force,” said Harry. “Can I use it safely?”

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

  “So 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.

  “I think so,” replied Ollivander, his protuberant eyes upon Harry’s face. “You ask deep questions, Mr. Potter. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic.”

  “So, it isn’t necessary to kill the previous owner to take the possession of a wand?” asked Harry.

  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 has decided to put his idea into action. “Legends about a wand—or wands—that have been passed from hand to hand by murder.”

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

  “Only one wand, I think,” he whispered.

  “And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn’t he?” asked Harry.

  “I—how?” croaked Ollivander, and he looked appealingly at Ron and Hermione for help. “How do you know this?”