Emma Potter; Going to War

112: Talks

I  walked into the little kitchen, to the basin beneath a window overlooking the sea. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, shell pink and faintly gold, as I washed, again following the train of thought that had come to me in the dark garden. . . . Dobby would never be able to tell us who had sent him to the cellar, but I knew what I had seen.

 A piercing blue eye had looked out of the mirror fragment, and then help had come. Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it. I dried my hands, impervious to the beauty of the scene outside the window and to the murmuring of the others in the sitting room. 

I looked out over the ocean and felt closer this dawn, than ever before, closer to the heart of it all. And still, my scar prickled and I knew that Voldemort was getting there too. I understood and yet did not understand. My instinct was telling me one thing, my brain quite another. The Dumbledore in my head smiled, surveying Harry over the tips of his fingers, pressed together as if in prayer. 

 You gave Ron the Deluminator. You understood him. . . . You gave him a way back. . . .

 And you understood Wormtail too. . . . You knew there was a bit of regret there, somewhere. . . . And if you knew them . . . 

What did you know about me and my brother, Dumbledore?Are we meant to know, but not to seek? Did you know how hard we'd find that? Is that why you made it this difficult? So we'd have time to work that out? 

You're not worth it. 

You're not worth any of this. 

I stood quite still, eyes glazed, watching the place where a bright gold rim of the dazzling sun was rising over the horizon. Then I looked down at his clean hands and was momentarily surprised to see the cloth I was holding in them. I set it down and returned to the hall, and as I did so, I felt my scar pulse angrily, and there flashed across my mind, swift as the reflection of a dragonfly over water, the outline of a building I knew extremely well. 

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

 "We need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander," Harry said as I joined them. 

 "No," said Fleur. "You will 'ave to wait, 'Arry. Zey are both ill, tired —"

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

 "Harry, Emma what the hell's going on?" asked Bill. "You turn up here with a dead house-elf and a half-conscious goblin, and the son of Death Eater--"

"He's innocent--"

"I know he is, Emma, but that still doesn't explain anything. 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 and me. His deeply scarred face was hard to read. Finally Bill said, "All right. Who do you want to talk to first?"

 I hesitated. I knew what hung on our decision. There was hardly any time left; now was the moment to decide: Horcruxes or Hallows? Harry looked at me, catching my eye he gave a small nod.

  "Griphook," I said. "we'll speak to Griphook first." 

 My heart was racing as if I had been sprinting and had just cleared an enormous obstacle. "Up here, then," said Bill, leading the way.