Chapter Eighteen
They landed into the crowded drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place.
Griphook whimpered as he released Harry’s hand, sliding down onto the carpet, and Remus rose in one lithe movement, laying Hermione onto the drawing room sofa as Andromeda hurried forward, inspecting her as Ron came to kneel by Hermione’s head. Ted, who had been sitting in one of the armchairs, his nose now healed thanks to his wife, jumped to his feet. Luna and Dean stood by the fireplace, rushing forward and then abruptly halting. Their eyes went wide.
Remus had returned to kneel beside Sirius, who lay on his back on the drawing room floor. Harry was still holding tight to his arm, and did not let go.
Sirius was panting, his eyes barely open, and Harry dared to look down at the silver hilt of the knife that protruded from Sirius’ heaving chest. Blood was pooling down Sirius’ white shirt, seeping onto the carpet, more blood than a stab from a small short knife should have produced…
Apparating. Apparating with the knife in him….
Suddenly Fleur was beside Harry, scooping up Griphook into her arms and sweeping out of the room.
Andromeda was inspecting Hermione by the sofa, “I reckon she’ll…” she turned, catching sight of Sirius for the first time, and then went silent.
Harry tore his eyes away from Sirius to look at Remus.
The cuts given to him by the broken shards of crystal when the chandelier crashed upon him were already healing on Remus’ face and neck. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his brown jumper, displaying the familiar crisscrossing slashes of scars up his forearms and the burn-marks on his wrists, and lifted a hand into the air, Summoning something wandlessly and wordlessly as if it were a second thought.
Because it was a second thought. Remus’ face was so intent…so focused…Harry felt as if those sharp brown eyes would Vanish the silver knife and the blood with their sheer will.
“Remus—” Andromeda started but just then the healing supplies Remus had Summoned zoomed into the room and waited, floating in mid-air, by Remus’ raised hand. An assortment of potion bottles and gauze and bandages.
“Tend to Hermione,” Remus said without looking at Andromeda, his voice was strained and hoarse from howling. His nimble hand snatched a potion jar from the air above his head and he uncorked it in one smooth movement.
“Lift his head, Harry,” Remus said. His voice was so stiff, inflexible.
Harry did so at once, putting his hand beneath Sirius’ black hair and raising Sirius' head off the drawing room carpet. Remus gently pressed the potion bottle—Pain Relief Potion, Harry recognized—to Sirius’ lips.
Sirius began to drink, and as he did so his furrowed brow smoothed, his tense body slackened, his panting slowed to even breaths. His eyes closed fully.
But Remus’ hand on the potion bottle was shaking; there were tremors all the way up his arm. Harry reached forward in alarm and caught the bottle before it slipped from Sirius’ lips just as Remus turned sharply and bowed over, vomiting upon the carpet.
The silver. The silver knife was still in Sirius…and Remus would not leave his side.
Andromeda made a soft noise in the back of her throat but did not leave Hermione. She had Summoned a bottle of Pain Relief Potion as well and was studying a Diagnostic Charm which she had cast over her as she and Ron helped the unconscious Hermione drink her own pain-relieving potion.
Ted, Luna, and Dean at last came out of their shock and stepped forward from the hearth. Ted reached for the wand Ron still held clutched in his fist where he knelt beside Hermione—Wormtail’s wand—and Vanished Remus' sick from the carpet silently. Luna reached for the gauze floating in the air above Remus’ head and knelt beside Harry, “Use this to staunch the blood,” she said, “I can pull the knife out.”
Dean hovered, looking around the room helplessly. His eyes fixed on the floating potion bottles, “Which one does he need next?”
“The dark one,” Remus croaked, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand and lifting himself back up onto his knees.
Dean handed Remus a dark brown potion bottle, inside sloshed an amber-looking liquid. Blood-Replenishing Potion.
“Luna,” Remus breathed, his face, already pale, was now a faint shade of green, “pull upward swiftly. Harry, hold the gauze against the wound as soon as the knife’s out of him.”
Harry and Luna nodded.
Dean fidgeted, his eyes locked on the pool of blood emanating from Sirius’ chest, staining his shirt and the carpet crimson. Ted came to kneel beside Remus, watching attentively.
Luna reached forward and lightly grasped the short silver hilt. A second later, her thin arm yanked upward, and blood gushed forward from Sirius’ chest like a stone pulled from a dam in a stream. Harry plunged his hand, full of the gauze, down against Sirius’ chest, and he could feel the warmth and stickiness of the blood as it instantly soaked through the white cloth, could feel Sirius’ ribs as he breathed softly.
There was a soft thunk.
Harry looked up for a second and started. There, embedded just below the ceiling into the wall on the opposite end of the room, was the silver knife. Luna had thrown it so hard that all that was visible of it was a soft glint among the dark wood.
Remus moved instantly. He gently lifted Sirius’ head onto his knee and raised the Blood-Replenishing Potion to Sirius’ lips as his other hand stroked Sirius’ cheek with a feather-light touch, “Drink, love,” Remus murmured, “Then you can sleep, I promise…”
Sirius’ eyes peeled partly open and he opened his lips. His throat worked as he drank the potion down to its dregs.
Remus set aside the empty potion bottle and looked up at Harry, “You may remove the gauze now," he said quietly, his voice having lost its severe edge.
Harry pulled his hand away numbly and he, Luna, Ted, and Dean watched as Remus placed two hands on the collar of Sirius’ white shirt. He flexed the muscles of his hands only slightly and the fabric instantly tore. Remus’ deft hands moved quickly, yanking lower and lower, until the shirt was torn clean in two. Remus used his long, scarred right hand to sweep the blood-stained fabric off of the chest wound, and his brown eyes stared steadily down at the open stab wound in Sirius’ fair skin from which blood still leaked forth.
“My wand, Harry.”
Harry hurriedly looked around, and there by his shoes were two wands. One he recognized at once as Remus’. The other's was Draco’s.
But Dean was leaning forward and he picked up the brown cypress and unicorn-core wand—and some small part of Harry’s mind realized that Dean must have remembered Remus’ wand from his tenure as Professor Lupin. The fact that Dean remembered…it made part of the terrible queasiness roiling within Harry ease a bit.
Remus nodded at Dean in thanks and then raised his wand over the wound, murmuring spells that sounded like chants…or perhaps hymns.
Harry’s blood ran cold, remembering Snape doing the same spells on Draco that horrible day last school year in the bathroom. But Harry shoved that memory aside, and thought of how Remus must have come to know such healing spells: from those twelve years in which he had to repair himself after each Full Moon he Transformed alone.
Slowly, the blood began to retreat back within the wound, and then the skin began to stitch itself back together, until all that were left was a small angry scar below Sirius’ heart and the bloodstains on the carpet.
Remus leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sirius’ brow, inhaling softly.
Dean was openly gawking at Remus now, and Luna was smiling serenely, looking down at Sirius as if he were just sleeping. Ted patted Remus on the shoulder and rose to his feet, “He’ll be alright. I’ll make some tea.”
Harry at last looked over to Andromeda, Hermione, and Ron. Andromeda had stepped away from Hermione, her healing seemingly finished. Hermione was stirring and Ron ran his hand over her forehead, sweeping the hair out of her face.
Dean and Luna moved away, following Ted out of the room. A moment later, Andromeda followed as well.
Ron was faintly whispering to Hermione words that Harry could not catch over the fire in the hearth, which crackled soothingly. Sirius’ head still rested on Remus’ knee, and Remus’ hand had returned to gently stroking Sirius’ cheek, his brown eyes were molten in the faint fire-lit room.
It was only then that Harry realized that his scar burned, but yet…he had been and still was apart from it. In his state of absorbed fear for Sirius, he had become master of the pain. He had learned to control it at last, learned to shut his mind completely against Voldemort. He had done so in the drawing room, in the very place that he often envisioned when trying to practice Occlumency, but it had not been the safe calming nature of the room…
It had been his love for Sirius which had drove Voldemort out.
Harry rose slowly to his feet and stepped back toward the entrance hall, pausing to look back one last time. Ron was smiling as he whispered by Hermione’s ear, his cheeks wet with tears, and Hermione's eyes were blinking open. Remus was slowly lifting Sirius into his arms—Remus was so tender and so careful, it made some part of Harry’s heart ache with it. Sirius, pain-free and sleeping, pressed his head against Remus’ chest and a faint pulse of Remus’ love, that purest and strongest of magic, which Harry also recognized within himself at that moment, spilled out into the room.
A moment later, Remus walked past Harry and ascended the stairs, Sirius cradled in his long arms.
But Harry stayed in the entrance hall, and stared up the stairs after Remus. There was only his own breath and thoughts in the quiet hall, and the things that happened at Malfoy Manor returned to Harry, the things he had heard came back to him, and understanding blossomed within him in the silent, dark hall…
Hallows…Horcruxes…Hallows…Horcruxes….
“Wotcher.”
Harry started in shock, looking up to see Tonks standing on the bottom of the stair case.
“Teddy’s sleeping in his room,” Tonks said, “Griphook and Ollivander are resting. Fleur just left. She’s meeting Bill at the Weasley’s new safe house.”
Harry frowned in confusion.
“The Death Eaters know Ron is with you now,” Tonks said, “Bill was on a mission with Sturgis and Kingsley; they and Fleur are now helping Arthur, Molly, Lee, Fred, George, and Ginny go into hiding. Ginny was on her Easter holiday, it’s quite lucky she wasn’t at Hogwarts or they could’ve gotten her.”
“They could all come here,” Harry said.
Tonks shook her head, “Too crowded now."
“Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we could move them in with the Weasley’s,” came Andromeda’s voice behind Harry. He turned to see her and Ted standing by the door that led to the kitchen.
“Fleur gave Ollivander a Nutrient Tonic and Griphook Skele-Gro for his legs,” Tonks explained, “we could probably move them in an hour or—”
“No,” Harry said and Tonks and her parents looked startled, “I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It’s important.”
He heard the authority in his own voice, the conviction, the sense of purpose that had filled him.
“I’ll have a wash,” Harry said, looking down at himself. He was covered in mud and dirt and Sirius’ blood, “Then I’ll need to see them straightaway.”
Harry climbed the stairs to his bedroom in Headquarters and closed the door behind him. He removed his clothes and changed, and then went to his bathroom sink, washing his face and hands under the cool water in the basin. He dried his hands and turned to look out the magically-impenetrable window of the concealed flat in Islington, London.
Dawn was breaking over the rowhouses and a man on a bicycle rode by on the street, whistling merrily. A woman walked along the pavement, pushing a pram. Harry peeled his eyes back up, and looked south over the rooftops at the distant dome of St. Paul’s, lit with the pale golden rays of sunrise.
Harry felt closer than ever before to the heart of it all.
Because Harry had now fully realized that Voldemort had just killed Grindelwald.
And still his scar prickled, and Harry knew that Voldemort was getting there too. Harry understood and yet did not understand. His instinct was telling him one thing, his brain quite another. The Dumbledore in Harry’s 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 knew Hermione would investigate the symbol in the book…you wanted her to find the tale…
You knew them…so what did you know about me, Dumbledore? Am I meant to know, but not to seek? Did you know how hard I’d find that? Is that why you made this so difficult? So I’d have time to work that out?
Harry stood quite still, his eyes glazed, and watched the place where the bright gold rim of the sun bathed the dome of St. Paul’s.
He needed to speak to both Griphook and Ollivander, but there was hardly any time left; now would be the moment to decide: Horcruxes or Hallows?
He needed council, Harry thought, from the wisest person he knew.
He knocked on their bedroom door, and footsteps tread lightly across the wooden floor before the door cracked open and Remus stood there, looking down at him.
He’d removed his outer jumper, and was now wearing just his thin cotton shirt and trousers. His face was no longer pale, his brown eyes warm and clear.
“How's Sirius?"
"He'll be fine, he’s just resting now,” Remus said, stepping into the hall and closing he and Sirius’ bedroom door behind him. His soft eyes gazed over Harry carefully, “What is it? Are you alright?”
“I wanted to ask you something,” Harry said, surprised by the depth of his own voice.
Remus bowed his head, “Of course. Anything.”
Harry looked up at Remus’ prematurely aged face, lined and scarred. At those brown eyes that shone with attention and intellect and magic and wells of fierce and tender love. Remus raised a scarred hand to sweep the grey and brown hair out of his face, and Harry saw the shining onyx wedding ring adorned with phases of the moon and the Dog Star.
“You Mastered Death,” Harry said, “that day you saved Sirius in the Death Chamber. How?”
Dumbledore had said that it was Remus’ love that had saved Sirius that day, but Harry needed to know…
Remus did not show any outward signs of surprise at the question. He looked down at Harry, and his brown eyes shone with boundless depth, “I offered myself in exchange,” he said quietly, “Just as your mother did for you.”
Harry had thought so, and now Remus affirmed it.
“But Death did not take you instead,” Harry said, “Why?”
Remus stared at him for a moment, and at last he said, "I was not hit with the Killing Curse, Harry. I just spoke to the voices beyond the veil...to Death...with my heart and soul. I told them I loved him, I offered up myself, and in answer, Sirius was spared."
Harry nodded, “Okay."
Remus reached a hand out to Harry and slowly rested it upon his arm, “I won’t ask what you are planning,” Remus said, “What choices you are making. I’ll just say again that I trust you, and that you must trust yourself.”
“Thank you,” Harry said, “and I do.”
“Alright,” Remus said, lowering his warm hand. The corners of his lips twitched slightly upward in a soft smile as he said, “I’m so very proud of you, Harry.”
Harry took the stairs down towards the guest quarters and found Hermione and Ron waiting for him on the second floor landing. Hermione was leaning heavily on Ron, his arm wrapped her waist, and while her face looked pale and peaky, her eyes shone with fierce determination. Ron looked shaken, but gave Harry a nod in support. Beside them, Andromeda, Ted, and Tonks were waiting too.
“You were amazing, Hermione,” Harry said, “You were so brave and clever—coming up with that story…”
Hermione gave him a small smile and Ron gave her a one-armed squeeze.
“Who do you need to speak to first?” Andromeda asked.
“Griphook,” Harry answered, his mind now fully made up.
“What are we doing now, Harry?” Ron asked.
“You’ll see,” Harry told him, “Come on, you two.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed Andromeda to the room at the end of the second-floor landing. She opened the door to reveal Griphook sitting up against the bedframe of the guest room he was now occupying, still clutching the sword of Gryffindor. As Andromeda closed the door behind the three of them, Harry saw that Griphook wore a strange look: half irritated, half intrigued. His skin was sallow and he looked quite thin, even for a small goblin.
Griphook and Harry stared at one another. Harry’s scar continued to prickle, but he paused, trying to decide on the best way to approach his request.
“Three werewolves live in this house,” Griphook said into the silence.
“Yes,” Harry said.
“And one of them is married to a Wizard. Both male,” Griphook continued, “I saw the werewolf carrying the Wizard up the stairs.”
“Yes,” Harry said again.
“You keep unusual company, Harry Potter.”
“Do I?” Harry asked, unruffled.
Griphook did not answer, and Harry gathered himself, “Griphook, I need to ask—”
“You also rescued a goblin. You brought me here, saved me.”
“Well, I take it you’re not sorry,” Harry said.
“No, Harry Potter,” Griphook said, “but you are a very odd Wizard.”
“Or everyone else is just lagging behind,” Harry said, “Now, I need some help Griphook and you can give it to me.”
Griphook just frowned at Harry as though he had never seen anything like him.
“I need to break into a Gringotts vault,” Harry said.
And as he said it, pain shot through his lightning scar and he saw from Voldemort’s view, his new destination now that he had killed Grindelwald: Hogwarts Castle. Harry closed his mind, thinking of Sirius and Remus and Ginny and Ron and Hermione…and it was gone.
Harry looked to see that Ron was staring at him as if he had gone mad. Hermione, however, was smiling softly. She had figured it out too.
“Break into a Gringotts vault?” Griphook said, “It is impossible.”
“No, it isn’t,” Ron contracted, “It’s been done.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, “It happened the same day I first met you in fact. Seven years ago.”
“The vault in question was empty at the time,” Griphook snapped and Harry understood that he was offended, “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,” Harry said, “Considering it belongs to the Lestranges’.”
“You have no chance,” Griphook said flatly, “If you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours—”
“Thief, you have been warned, beware—yeah, I know, I remember,” Harry said, “but I’m not trying to get myself any treasure and I’m not trying to take anything for personal gain. Can you believe that?”
Griphook glowered at him, and Harry’s scar prickled again 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,” Griphook said at last, “it would be you, Harry Potter. Goblins and werewolves are not used to the respect that you have shown them.”
“And that is exactly what this fight is all about,” Harry said, meeting Griphook’s gaze, “As You-Know-Who gains power, he ensures that Wizards who think like him—who think they are above goblins or werewolves or those with non-magical families or whatever else—rise to power and that they will control everything and everyone. Well, we can't allow that to happen. Any and all beings and creatures and humans deserve respect and fairness.”
Griphook stared at Harry and then asked bluntly, “What do you seek within the Lestranges’ vault? The sword that lies inside it is a fake. This is the real one. But I think you already know this. You asked me to lie for you back there.”
“But the fake sword isn’t the only thing in the vault, is it?” Harry asked, “Perhaps you’ve seen the other things in there?”
Harry’s heart was pounding and he had to focus twice as hard now on ignoring the stabbing pain of his scar.
“It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts,” Griphook said but he continued to fix his gaze on Harry and at last he said, “You are so young to be fighting so many.”
“Will you help us?” Harry asked, “We haven’t got a hope of breaking in without your help. You’re our one chance.”
“I shall…think about it,” Griphook said.
Ron made to open his mouth but Hermione elbowed him in the ribs.
“Thank you,” Harry said.
Griphook bowed his domed head and then leaned back against the bed’s pillows, “I must rest now…forgive me…”
“Of course,” Harry said and just before he left the room he leaned forward and picked up the sword of Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook did not protest, but his eyes flashed darkly.
Hermione turned to Harry as soon as they were on the landing and the bedroom door was shut, “Brilliant, Harry! I thought so too!”
“Will one of you please explain?” Ron huffed.
“There’s a Horcrux in the Lestranges’ vault,” Harry said quietly, “Bellatrix was terrified when she thought that we had been in there. Why? 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,” Ron said, “Was he ever inside the Lestranges’ vault?”
“I don’t know whether he’s ever been inside Gringotts,” Harry said, “But he would have seen the bank from the outside the first time he ever went to Diagon Alley and 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,” Harry paused, rubbing his scar, “He trusts the Lestranges, they were his most devoted servants before he fell. He said it the night he came back, I heard him. I don’t think he’d have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though. He probably told her it was a treasured possession and asked her to place it in her vault.”
Ron stared at him in awe, shaking his head, “You really understand him.”
“Bits,” Harry said, “Bits…I just wish I’d understood Dumbledore as much. But we’ll see. Come on—Ollivander now.”
Ron and Hermione now both looked bewildered but impressed as they followed Harry to the next door on the landing and Harry knocked. A weak, “Come in!” answered from within.
The wandmaker was lying in a bed that was pushed up as close as possible to the window. He had been held in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor 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 under 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 in the closest armchair to the bed, and Ron and Hermione hovered behind him.
“Mr. Ollivander, I am sorry to disturb you,” Harry said.
“My dear boy,” Ollivander said in a feeble voice, “You rescued us. I thought I would die in that place. I can never thank you…never thank you enough.”
“We were glad to do it, but don’t thank me,” Harry said, “Thank Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.”
Ollivander’s lips twitched upward, “Ah. I remember those boys…One so unique among his family, and the other so very unusual indeed…”
Harry’s scar throbbed. He knew there was hardly any time left to beat Voldemort to his goal or else to attempt to thwart him. Yet he had made his decision to choose to speak to Griphook first.
“Mr. Ollivander, I need some help.”
“Anything, anything,” the wandmaker said weakly.
Harry reached into his pocket and now pulled out the other wand he had been carrying when he arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place. Not Remus’ wand, but Draco’s.
“This is Draco Malfoy’s wand?” Harry asked.
Ollivander nodded minutely, “Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. That was the wand of Draco Malfoy.”
“Was?” Harry asked, “Isn’t it still his?”
“Perhaps not. If you took it—”
“I did, I disarmed him. I used Expelliarmus.”
“Well, then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of taking matters. Much depends on the wand itself. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its allegiance will change.”
“You talk about wands like they’ve got feelings,” Harry said, “like they can think for themselves.”
“The wand chooses the Witch or Wizard,” Ollivander said, “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?”
“Oh yes. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between a Witch or Wizard and their wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, then a mutual quest for experience, learning from one another.”
Outside, the brakes of a bus on the main road squeaked loudly and a flock of pigeons took to flight across the small square.
“I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force,” Harry said, “Can I use it safely?”
“I think so. The conquered wand will usually bend its will to its new master.”
“And this holds true for all wands, does it?” Harry asked.
“Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic, Harry Potter. But yes, I think so.”
“So, it isn’t necessary to kill the previous owner to take true possession of a wand?” Harry asked.
Ollivander swallowed, “No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill.”
“There are legends,” Harry said, “Legends about a wand—or wands—that have passed from hand to hand by murder.”
“Only one wand, I think,” Ollivander whispered.
“And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn’t he?”
“How…” Ollivander croaked, “How do you know this?”
Harry did not answer.
“Yes,” Ollivander whispered, “He wanted to know everything I could tell him about the wand variously known as the Wand of Destiny, or the Elder Wand.”
Harry looked sideways at Hermione; she looked utterly shocked.
“The night the Dark Lord returned to his body, your wand cores connected. He sought a new wand as a way to conquer yours.”
“But my wand is broken beyond repair,” Harry said quietly.
“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,” Ollivander said, “But the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Elder Wand is…formidable.”
“You…you really think this wand exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?” Hermione asked.
“Oh yes. It has certain identifying characteristics that those who are learned in wandlore recognize. There are written accounts which ring of authenticity. But whether it needs to pass by murder, I do not know.”
“Mr. Ollivander, 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 stammered, “How…how did you…?”
“Never mind how I know it,” Harry said, closing his eyes as his scar burned and he saw a vision of the main street of Hogsmeade, “You told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the wand?”
“It was a rumor,” Ollivander whispered.
“One last thing,” Harry said and he rose to his feet, “What do you know about the Deathly Hallows, Mr. Ollivander?”
“The what?” The wandmaker looked utterly confused.
“The Deathly Hallows.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this still to do with wands?”
Harry looked into the sunken face and believed that Ollivander was not acting; he did not know about the Deathly Hallows.
“Thank you,” Harry said, “Thank you very much. We’ll leave you to your rest now.”
Harry led Hermione and Ron out of the room and back out onto the landing. Hermione and Ron followed Harry back into his usual bedroom and Harry closed the door behind them.
“Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago,” Harry said, turning to face Ron and Hermione, “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.”
Voldemort was at the gates of Hogwarts; Harry could see him standing there, and see too the lamp bobbing in the pre-dawn of the northern latitude of Scotland, coming closer and closer.
“And Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become powerful. And at the height of his power, Dumbledore dueled Grindelwald and beat him, and he took the Elder Wand.”
“Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?” Ron gasped, “But then—where is it now?”
“At Hogwarts,” Harry said, waring within himself to remain present in his bedroom in 12 Grimmauld Place.
“But then, let’s go!” Ron cried, “Let’s go and get it before he does!”
“It’s too late for that,” Harry said, clutching at his forehead, “He knows where it is. He’s there now.”
“Harry!” Ron said furiously, “How long have you know this? Why have we been wasting time? Why could have gone—”
“No,” Harry said and he sank onto his bed, “Hermione’s right. Dumbledore didn’t want me to have it. He didn’t want me to take it. He wanted me to go after the Horcruxes.”
“But Harry—it’s an unbeatable wand!”
“I’m supposed to…get the Horcruxes. I do not need...the wand…to master Death…”
And now everything was cool and dark. He glided beside Snape up through the grounds toward the lake.
“I shall join you in the castle shortly,” he said in his high, cold voice, “Leave me now.”
Snape bowed and set off back up the path, his black cloak billowing behind him. He cast a upon himself a Disillusionment Charm and then he walked on, around the edge of the lake, taking in the outlines of the beloved castle, his first kingdom, his birthright…
And here it was, beside the lake, reflected in the dark waters.
The white marble tomb.
He raised the old yew wand—how fitting that this would be its last act.
The tomb split open from head to foot. The shrouded figure was as long and thin as he had been in life. He raised the wand again and the wrappings fell open.
The face was translucent, pale, sunken, yet almost perfectly preserved. They had left his spectacles on his crooked nose. Albus Dumbledore’s hands were folded upon his chest, and there it lay, clutched beneath them, buried with him.
Had the old fool imagined that marble or death would protect the wand? Had he thought that the Dark Lord would be scared to violate his tomb?
The spiderlike hand swooped down and pulled the wand from Dumbledore’s grasp, and as he took it, a shower of sparks flew from its tip.
On the fifth floor of 12 Grimmauld Place, in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs and behind the closed door, Remus Lupin sat on the edge of he and Sirius' bed and lifted Sirius Black’s hand in his. Gently, he pressed his lips to the inside of Sirius’ left wrist. Feeling the steady, thrumming pulse that beat there beneath the fair skin, inhaling the scent of musk and wind and embers.
Sirius was sleeping peacefully, his chest rising and falling easily. The wound had been simple enough to heal with magical healing spells and remedies. But still…Remus ached that Poppy was up at Hogwarts, unable to risk sneaking off to help the Order under Snape's nose. If she could just check on Sirius…
Remus’ blood had been cold and his mouth had been dry ever since he had felt that knife strike Sirius. He concealed it well, he thought, considering the almost uncontrollable nature of the panic and the desperation he had felt. Considering the voice inside his head that had continuously screamed—screamed just as he had done so aloud when he had realized it had happened.
But he had channeled his fear and his hysteria into careful action; that had always been Remus’ way. Ever since he was bitten, he made sure his feelings were predominantly dealt with internally. It was a way to fight back against the unbridled rage and frenzy of the wolf that he often felt within him when he let his anger triumph. So, he had learned to bury his feelings—anger, anxiety, even sorrow—within himself. He wore a steady mask of composure that became who he was and also…not. Because those who knew Remus well understood that he carried a universe within him.
He revealed it to those he loved, in small and big moments.
Tonight, the March 18th Full Moon would rise, and Remus would insist Sirius stay behind to rest and recover. Sirius was an Animagus, yes, but he was also a human; he did not have Remus’ rapid self-healing abilities. It would be the first Full Moon they’d spend apart since September, and Remus knew the wolf would howl and bay at the moon, longing for Padfoot.
Sirius opened his eyes, and Remus moved Sirius’ wrist away from his lips, laying Sirius’ hand gently into his own lap.
“How do you feel?” Remus asked.
“Like I took a knife to the chest,” Sirius answered, his voice slightly hoarse.
Remus’ brow furrowed.
“I’m alright, Moony,” Sirius said, squeezing Remus’ hand, “Truly.”
Remus gave a faint nod and reached a long arm to the bedside table and handed Sirius a glass of water, which Sirius held with his free hand, drinking deeply. When he was finished, Remus set the empty glass back on the bedside table and turned to face Sirius again.
“How did you know she would throw it?” Remus had to ask, “I was not focused on her, I did not glean her thoughts.”
Sirius’ eyes glinted, “Chekhov’s gun, Moony. She had a silver knife; it was only a matter of time before she used it on you. It was just about knowing when.”
Remus accepted this, but found that it did nothing to ease the lingering metallic taste of fear on his tongue, the still-rapid pounding of his heart.
“Hey,” Sirius whispered, squeezing their interlaced hands again, “I’m alright. We got them out. It’s all alright.”
Remus swallowed slowly, “May I lie beside you? Would that hurt—?”
“Come here, you great git,” Sirius growled, smiling widely and pulling Remus forward by their interlaced hands.
Remus did not smile, but he did loosen a deep exhale as he and Sirius released their clasped hands and adjusted themselves on their bed. Sirius moved onto his side and Remus lifted the blankets and slid against Sirius’ back, wrapping a long arm around Sirius’ waist and pulling Sirius tenderly against his own long body.
“It’s alright, my darling,” Sirius murmured, reaching for Remus’ arm around his waist and squeezing tighter so their bodies pressed even closer.
Remus propped himself up on his elbow and swept the black locks of Sirius’ hair off his neck, leaning forward and kissing the skin just above Sirius’ broad shoulder. He took a moment to savor Sirius’ strong body against his, the feeling of their hearts beating against one another.
“Harry asked me something while you were sleeping,” Remus said.
Sirius shifted his head to look up at Remus, “What’d he ask of you?”
Remus tucked a strand of black hair behind Sirius’ finely carved ear, his finger trailing down Sirius’ neck, feeling the spike in Sirius' pulse beneath his ivory skin, “A question. He asked me how I saved you in the Death Chamber.”
Sirius’ pulse faltered, his heartbeat paused, his shining dark eyes widened, “Why…why would he ask that? What…I thought it was love, wasn’t it? That’s what Dumbledore said—”
Remus squeezed Sirius’ waist soothingly, “It was my love, Sirius. But it was also more than that. I told you the voices beyond the veil heard me. But I did not tell you exactly what I said to them.”
Sirius stared up at him, “Moony…” he swallowed, his eyes feasting upon Remus were so large in his beautiful face, “What did you say to them?”
“I told Death I loved you,” Remus said, “And I told Death to let you live, and take me instead.”
Sirius moved at once, flipping onto his other side and releasing a grunt in pain as he did so—
“You shan’t move like that, Sirius—”
“Bloody hell I won’t!” Sirius shouted, his hands reached up and seized Remus’ face, his dark eyes boring into Remus’ own. Sirius looked like thunder, “Swear to me that you will never do that again, Remus John Lupin!”
Remus couldn’t help it, “My full birth name, is it?”
“Swear to me that you will never do a fucking daft thing like that again!”
Remus stared into those gleaming dark eyes, that beautiful face that could have been sculpted from marble…that face which he had seen grow from a young boy to a teenager and then into a man. That face which he had seen in all its facets. That face which he had loved from the moment he laid eyes on it—on him. That face with which shone out the soul of Sirius Orion Black.
“I can’t,” Remus said.
I would do it for you again. And I would do it for Teddy, and for Harry.
Sirius’ face crumpled, the tidal surge of his outrage receded, leaving him open and raw in its wake, and Remus saw tears shining in Sirius’ eyes and he was shaking his head and then Sirius stammered, “I bloody can’t swear it either.”
Remus swallowed. He could still see Sirius diving in front of him, shielding him...he could still hear the soft sound of the silver knife hitting Sirius' flesh, smell the sharp fresh tang of Sirius’ blood…
Remus lifted one hand to trace his fingers along Sirius’ cheek, wiping away the tears that spilled from Sirius’ black eyelashes, and then Remus bowed forward, pressing his lips to Sirius’ cheek, his brow, his temple, anywhere he could, until he met Sirius’ lips and they opened wide to meet his.
Their breaths became one. Sirius’ hands still cupped his face, and now Remus did the same, moving his own hands to hold Sirius’ face in his, and the kiss became deeper…their lips crushed against each other as if to bruise, and soon they were panting and Sirius’ tongue was sliding across his teeth and Remus saw stars bursting into light behind his eyelids.
And Remus let that universe within him open and reveal itself to Sirius.