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,

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 805