Emma Potter; Going to War

115: Gringotts

Our plans were made, our preparations were complete; in the smallest bedroom a single long, coarse black hair (plucked from the sweater Hermione had been wearing at Malfoy Manor) lay curled in a small glass phial on the mantelpiece. Draco had gone to Hogwarts, thanks to Bill, a day prior

 "And you'll be using her actual wand," I said, 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 to me 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 in character, though," said Ron. "Think what that wand's done!" 

 "But that's my point!" said Hermione. "This is the wand that tortured Neville's mum and dad, and who knows how many other people? This is the wand that killed Sirius!"

 I had not thought of that: I looked down at the wand and 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 him. 

 "I miss my wand," Hermione said miserably. "I wish Mr Ollivander could have made me another one too." 

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

I looked down at the hawthorn wand that had once belonged to Draco. I had been surprised, but pleased, to discover that it worked for me pretty decently. Remembering what Ollivander had told us of the secret workings of wands, I thought I knew what Hermione's problem was: She had not won the walnut wand's allegiance by taking it personally from Bellatrix. 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. I winced.

 Seeking to gloss over the sticky moment, I 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." 

 We had been firm on this point because Hermione would need to transform into Bellatrix before we left, and the less that Bill and Fleur knew or suspected about what we were about to do, the better. We had also explained that they would not be returning. As Harry, Ron and Hermione had lost Perkins's old tent on the night that the Snatchers caught them, Bill had lent us another one. It was now packed inside the beaded bag, which, I was impressed to learn, Hermione had protected from the Snatchers by the simple expedient of stuffing it down her sock. 

 Though I would miss Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean, not to mention the home comforts we had enjoyed over the last few weeks, I was looking forward to escaping the confinement of Shell Cottage. I was tired of trying to make sure that we were not overheard, tired of being shut in the tiny, dark bedroom. 

Most of all, I longed to be rid of Griphook. However, precisely how and when we were to part from the goblin without handing over Gryffindor's the sword remained a question to which Harry nor I had any answer. It had been impossible to decide how we were going to do it because the goblin rarely left me, Harry, Ron, and Hermione alone together for more than five minutes at a time:

 "He could give my mother lessons," growled Ron, as the goblin's long fingers kept appearing around the edges of doors. With Bill's warning in mind, I could not help suspecting that Griphook was on the watch for possible skulduggery. Hermione disapproved so heartily of the planned double-cross that Harry and I had given up attempting to pick her brains on how best to do it; Ron, on the rare occasions that they had been able to snatch a few Griphook-free moments, had come up with nothing better then "We'll just have to wing it, mate."