Dobby the House-elf died at Shell Cottage, right in front of them.

His large blue eyes stared up, stared past, stared somewhere very far away. Luna, who had also been in the cellar, closed his eyes, and then he only looked like he was sleeping.

Ron took the unconscious body of Hermione inside, and Bill Weasley and Fleur came out and brought Harry the shovel he had asked for. Soon, Dean and Luna both left and it was just Diana and Harry and Dobby.

"You don't have to help me," he told her, his face red from crying. "I--I can do this by myself."

"I want to," she told him. He did not protest.

She brought some water from the lapping waves as Harry began to dig a small, elf-sized grave. She began to gently pull the knife from him and began to clean his wounds with the water and a spare shirt from inside her Extended bag, gently, as if trying not to hurt him, as if he could still feel.

She cleaned the wound and Harry dug and she pulled a pair of socks from her bag and set them aside. Harry lifted Dobby gently from the grass like a child and set him slowly into the grave, covering him with a blanket to keep him warm. They each took one sock and placed it on top, so Dobby could always have them, even in death.

Ron and Dean appeared beside them, and they silently took a moment to mourn Dobby, the Free Elf, the friend. They all said nothing as Harry tucked the blanket snugly beneath him, and they said nothing as they each poured in a hand full of sand, and then Harry began to shovel the rest in until there was no grave, only sand.

Ron and Dean said some kind words about Dobby then left them two in peace.

"Goodbye, Dobby," Harry said thickly.

"Goodbye, Dobby," Diana whispered.

Numbly, Harry grabbed a large stone nearby and stuck at the head of the grave, and with a wand that was not his, began to engrave the words:

Here lies Dobby, a Free Elf.

They looked at it, sparing just a few more seconds to mourn their friend, their equal, then stood with stiff knees and held hands all the way back down to the quiet cottage, leaving Dobby to rest soundly in peace.

++

Fleur opened the door to a small, well-lit bedroom. Griphook the goblin was perched on the bed, his eyes toward the open window. Harry, Diana, Ron, and Hermione, who had woken up a little while ago, trailed inside and Fleur closed the door behind them. Gryffindor's sword gleamed in the corner.

"I'm sorry to wake you," said Harry to the goblin. "How are your legs?"

"Painful," the goblin replied, eyeing each of them in turn. They lingered on Diana for a moment before his eyes fell to her necklace, though he said nothing. "But mending."

"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."

The goblin watched Harry through slitted eyes.

"You buried the elf," Griphook said, his eyes sliding between him and Diana. "I watched you, from the window of the bedroom next door."

"Yes," said Harry,

Griphook watched him in silence.

"You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter."

"In what way?"

"You dug the grave."

"So?"

Griphook did not answer.

"Griphook, I need to ask you---"

"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, 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 that he had even heard.

"I need to break into a Gringott's vault."

The air in the room morphed into one of certainty and seriousness, the largeness of those words weighing on them all.

"Break into a Gringott's vault?" said Griphook. "It is impossible."

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

"Yeah, the first day I met you, Griphook, seven years ago."

"The vault in question was empty at the time," snapped the Goblin. "Its protection was minimal."

"But the thief got away," Diana interjected after being silent since they first entered the room. "And look where he is now. The Dark Lord got in and got back out, and now he has infiltrated your bank. If he can do it, I'm sure that we can find a way, too."

The goblin turned to her with narrowed eyes, watching her.

"Yes, I'm sure," he drawled. "You are his blood, after all."

Her fists clenched before releasing.

"You will help us," she said, her patience thin, "for we could have left you to die at the Manor, but we did not. So, as we have just saved your life, I would implore that you would return the favor."

He watched her shrewdly.

"This vault," he said, turning back to Harry. "Who does it belong to?"

"The Lestranges."

"And what do you seek within their vault? The sword that lies inside is a fake. This is the real one," said Griphook, and he pointed at the sword in the corner.

"But the fake sword isn't the only thing in that vault, is it? Perhaps you've seen other things in there?"

Griphook watched Harry.

"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."

It was silent as his eye roved between the four wizards.

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

The words hit Diana suddenly, surprisingly. They were uttered so simply, but Diana could feel how real they were, how true. They were so young, so young to fight an entire army by themselves. They were just children, and then were supposed to fight like warriors. And she was so tired of it.

"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."

Ron began to protest, and Hermione nudged him in the ribs.

"Thank you," said Harry, an they left the room with solemn nods toward the goblin.

Ollivander's room was just across the landing. The wandmaker was lying on the bed, his frail frame favoring the nice mattress over the stiff floor of the Malfoy Cellar. He looked thin and deathly sunken, his eyes hollow and dull, his hair wispy and long.

"Mr. Ollivander, I'm sorry to disturb you," said Harry.

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

Outside of the window, Diana could see the place where Dobby was laid to rest. She looked away solemnly, and the four crowded inside and watched Ollivander.

"We were glad to do it," said Harry, though his voice was shaky and he rubbed his scar. Diana watched him like a hawk.

"Mr. Ollivander, we need you to help us," Diana said quietly, letting Harry recover.

Ollivander turned to her, and his eyes lit up with recognition, and Diana paled.

"Ahh, you, curious, you were so curious indeed... the daughter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the brave one... you did not ever make it to Hogwarts, is that correct?"

"Unfortunately."

"Oh, yes, I remember clearly, your wand had a twin!"

"That is what you told me that day, yes," said Diana.

Ollivander's eyebrows furrowed and he watched her. "Very rare," he mumbled, "very rare indeed. Just as Mr. Potter and Mr. Riddle have twin cores, yours had one as well. You shared twin cores with the wand that belonged to your mother."

Diana stiffened, nodding. "You did not tell me her name then, though. You told me I shared blood with the other twin."

Ollivander made an odd noise in the back of his throat. "I told you only what the wand told
me, dear."

Harry cleared his throat after a moment of silence. "Now," said Harry, "can you identify these wands?"

Harry pulled three wands from his pocket. "Can you identify these?"

Ollivander took them, examining them and at one point, sniffing them. He held up the first one, a long, thin one.

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

He pulled the next one and examined it.

"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, 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."

It was silent except for the distant lapping of the waves.

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

"The wand chooses the wizard," said Ollivander. "That much has been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore."

The next one he examined, he concluded shortly that it belonged to Peter Pettigrew.

"So," said Harry, "so it isn't necessary to kill the previous owner of a wand to take possession?"

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

"There are legends, though," said Harry quickly, building to the question he had been meaning to ask all along, "legends about a wand---or wands---that have passed from hand to hand by murder."

Ollivander turned pale, his eyes growing large.

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

"And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn't he?"

"I---how?" Ollivander croaked. "How do you know this?"

"He wanted you to tell him how to overcome the connection between our wands," said Harry.

Ollivander was 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!"

"I understand," said Harry. "You told him about the twin cores? You said he had to borrow another wizard's wand?"

Ollivander was terrified of how much Harry knew, but he nodded.

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

"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 should 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 came back and asked about that other wand, didn't he?"

"How do you know this?"

"Please, Mr. Ollivander," Diana said gently. "We must know."

"Yes, he asked," he said quietly. "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.

"The Dark Lord had always been happy with the wand I made him 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."

"No!" said Hermione, sounding frightened. "He can't know that, Harry, how can he---?"

"Priori Incantatem," said Harry. "We left your wand and the blackthorn at Malfoy Manor. If they examine them properly, make them recreate the latest spell they've cast, they'll see that yours broke mine."

"The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only for your destruction. 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. "The idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit... formidable."

"You really thing the wand exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?" said Hermione.

"Oh yes," he replied. "Yes, it is perfectly possible to trace the wand's course through history. There are gaps, of course, long ones, where the wand vanishes from view, temporarily lost or hidden; but always it resurfaces. It has certain idetifying characteristics that those who study 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. "Whether it needs to be passed 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," said Harry, "you told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, didn't you?"

"But how--how did you--?"

Harry closed his eyes in pain. Diana unconsciously raised her hand to his shoulder.

"It was a rumor," whispered Ollivander. "A rumor, years and years ago, long before you were born! I believe 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," said Harry. He stood, and Diana's hand fell from his shoulder. "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, befuddled.

"The Deathly Hallows."

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

Harry was silent for a moment.

"Thank you," said Harry finally. "Thank you very much. We'll leave you to get some rest now."

Ollivander looked stricken.

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

"I do," said Harry. "I really do. Please get some rest. Thank you for telling me all of this."

Harry pulled them all out with force, leading them stumbling down the stairs and out of the front door, and they were greeted by the nice ocean breeze.

"Harry--"

"Gregorovitch had the Elder wand a long time ago," he gasped once they were outside, holding his forehead in agony. Diana sat him down against the side of the cottage, and they all sat with him.

"I saw You-Know-Who trying to find him," he continued through gritted teeth. "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 he had it, I don't know, but if Gregorovitch was stupid enough to spread the rumor, it can't have been that difficult."

Harry hissed in pain again. Diana couldn't bear the sight.

And then something clicked.

"Dumbledore," she breathed, her eyes finding his, and he nodded.

"What? What about Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore was the one who duelled Grindelwald in the end," said Harry. "The wand became his."

Diana couldn't quite bring herself to be surprised. He had never told her, and she felt a slight bitterness because of that, but it only fit that the most powerful man had possession of the most powerful wand.

"Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?" asked Ron. "Where is it now?"

Harry hissed again. "Hogwarts."

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

And then Diana could feel it too: the beast inside her waking, roaring in its cage, rattling it to free himself, clawing at her insides to get away, the beast was awake and hungry and it wanted blood---

And then there was Voldemort in her mind's eye, and Harry was there with her, and Voldemort was at the lake beside the castle---then the white marble tomb stood before them, the three of them, the ones bound together by blood and death and prophecy, the only three that there were. They stood in front of the tomb as it began to open, and the body of Albus Dumbledore was inside, a wand clutched in his lifeless hands.

And Harry and Diana watched the Dark Lord pull the wand from the dead man's clutches, the Elder Wand, knotted and gnarled with magic coursing through it like none other, and Voldemort was alive with energy with the most powerful wand in his hands. He was immortal, and he was king, and he was going to break every castle beneath his fingers until he had it all, and this was just the beginning---

The wand was pointed to the sky, and a stream of brilliant red sparks burst from it, sparkling over the tomb of its last owner. Voldemort was a king. Voldemort was power.

Over Shell Cottage, over the darkened castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, there was no god: there was only a king with the power of Death behind him.