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𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐉𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑

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I hope our daughters

are born with so much

fire in their souls, they

could put volcanoes and

stars to shame.

— Nikita Gill, Girls Made of Fire

·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐔𝐑'𝐒 cottage stood alone on a cliff overlooking the sea, its walls embedded with shells and whitewashed. It was a lonely and beautiful place. Wherever Elara went inside the tiny cottage or its garden, she could hear the constant ebb and flow of the sea, like the breathing of some great, slumbering creature. She spent much of the next few days making excuses to escape the crowded cottage, craving the cliff-top view of open sky and wide, empty sea, and the feel of cold, salty wind on her face.

Even despite the dull pain in her abdomen, she would climb to the cliff and sit.

Currently, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were talking to either Griphook or Ollivander at the moment. They insisted Elara accompany them, but she was so overwhelmed at the moment that spending even just one more second inside the suffocating walls of Shell Cottage made her nauseated.

The bright afternoon sun reflected on the sparkling water as Jane took a seat next to her.

"There's. . . . something I need to tell you, Elara," she began quietly, looking pointedly out over the sea.

Elara hummed in response.

"When you first got to the manor, you asked Dean and I if your father made it out — he didn't. . . ."

The ocean breeze sucked all the wind out Elara's lungs. No word formulated upon her tongue as she stared intently at Jane.

"We — I didn't want to tell you when you are already so weak, and — and Dean and I were going to tell you but everything just got so much worse — "

A grief unlike anything she's ever known settled upon her tired body, sapping her will to speak any sentence or do any action on that cliff.

"He — he saved our lives," whispered Jane, tears gathering in her sorrowful eyes, "Dean and I owe him everything. He was a great man, Elara. . . ."

The tears that had been threatening to spill out Elara's eyes finally fell. She saw nothing but Jane in front of her as she reached her arms out and latched onto the girl she barely knew. Elara's shoulders trembled violently as Jane held her. The visions of the life she could've had if the godforsaken 'Constellations' hadn't condemned her die peppered her melancholy mind.

Ted would still be alive. What she wouldn't do to see him again.

The last time they had spoken was at the wedding. Their rushed goodbyes the last interaction they ever had. Months. And he was standing only twenty feet from her in November. Why hadn't she ignored Harry, Ron, and Hermione? Why hadn't she gone and hugged him, even if for just a second?

"Fleur said I should — oh. . . ." came the voice of Ron.

What Fleur had asked Ron to do, Elara wouldn't find out, as he swiftly took a seat at Elara's side. With Jane holding Elara and Ron somewhat awkwardly rubbing her back soothingly, she found only the slightest of solace.

The rest of that bleek March day was spent in her room. After returning from the cliff, Elara refused to get out of her bed. She lay, staring straight up at the ceiling until nightfall.

Harry entered the room for the fifth time that day.

"What did Griphook and Ollivander say?" asked Elara finally, eyes still set on the ceiling.

"That's not important right now," he replied, climbing into the bed. "I only care about you in this moment."

"I don't — I would — Something else to put energy into would be a lot better then just sitting and going over everything I regret."

Harry sighed.

"You've heard of the tale of the three brothers, right?"

"Yeah, the ones who made a deal with Death and came across the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility."

"Ollivander reckons they're real, and that Vol — Bitch Boy is going after the Elder Wand."

"Wouldn't his time prove more useful to actively try to kill us? Why would he go after a fictional wand?"

"It's something to do with the twin cores of our wands, I suppose. Bitch Boy probably doesn't know my wand's broken. He's always after more power too, and the Elder Wand is apparently supposed to be all-powerful."

"How close is he to the wand, then?"

". . . . That's the issue."

"Harry, if you tell me that fucking Bitch Boy has the wand and that we're positively screwed — "

"See, that's the thing. . . . Dumbledore had the wand and Bitch Boy just found out."

Elara turned to look at Harry, praying that Voldemort will not pry the Elder Wand from Dumbledore's tomb.

"Are you going to go after it?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I've chosen my path. Dumbledore told us about the Horcruxes, not the Deathly Hallows."

"Dumbledore didn't tell us about a lot of things."

"I still don't understand why he never came right out and told us everything from the start. . . . Why didn't he mention this 'Constellation' thing before the night on the tower? What if — What if we misinterpreted what he told us? What then?"

Elara sighed.

"Then it wouldn't be our fault. He made the choice to be cryptic. And Harry, we're only teenagers. If we do get it wrong, and we're meant to be going after the Elder Wand, then we figure it out. Dumbledore shouldn't have left so much up to chance."

". . . . I suppose you're right."

"And what about Griphook?"

"He's considering my offer."

"I really hope he says yes. Breaking into Bellatrix's vault would be awesome."

Elara felt that she was still groping in the dark; she had chosen her path but kept looking back, wondering whether she had misread the signs, whether she should not have taken the other way. From time to time, anger at Dumbledore crashed over her again, powerful as the waves slamming themselves against the cliff beneath the cottage, anger that Dumbledore had not explained before he died.

"But is he dead?" said Ron, three days after they had arrived at the cottage.

Elara and Harry had been staring out over the wall that separated the cottage garden from the cliff when Ron and Hermione had found them; Elara wished they had not, having no wish to join in with their argument.

"Yes, he is, Ron, please don't start that again!"

"Look at the facts, Hermione," said Ron, speaking across Elara and Harry, who both continued to gaze at the horizon. "The silver doe. The sword. The eye Harry saw in the mirror —"

"Harry admits he could have imagined the eye! Don't you, Harry?"

"I could have," said Harry without looking at her.

"But you don't think you did, do you?" asked Ron.

"No, I don't," said Harry.

"There you go!" said Ron quickly, before Hermione could carry on. "If it wasn't Dumbledore, explain how Dobby knew we were in the cellar, Hermione?"

"I can't — but can you explain how Dumbledore sent him to us if he's lying in a tomb at Hogwarts?"

"I dunno, it could've been his ghost!"

"Dumbledore wouldn't come back as a ghost," said Elara. There was little about Dumbledore he was sure of now, but she knew that much. "He would have gone on."

"What d'you mean, 'gone on'?" asked Ron, but before Elara could say any more, a voice behind them said, "'Arry? 'Lara?"

Fleur had come out of the cottage, her long silver hair flying in the breeze.

"Grip'ook would like to speak to you. 'E eez in ze smallest bedroom, 'e says 'e does not want to be over'eard."

Her dislike of the goblin sending her to deliver messages was clear; she looked irritable as she walked back around the house. Griphook was waiting for them, as Fleur had said, in the tiniest of the cottage's three bedrooms, in which Hermione, Luna, and Jane slept by night. He had drawn the red cotton curtains against the bright, cloudy sky, which gave the room a fiery glow at odds with the rest of the airy,light cottage.

"I have reached my decision, Harry Potter," said the goblin, who was sitting cross-legged in a low chair, drumming its arms with his spindly fingers. "Though the goblins of Gringotts will consider it base treachery, I have decided to help you —"

"That's great!" said Harry,. "Griphook, thank you, we're really —"

"— in return," said the goblin firmly, "for payment."

Harry hesitated.

"How much do you want? I've got gold."

"Not gold," said Griphook. "I have gold."

His black eyes glittered; there were no whites to his eyes.

"I want the sword. The sword of Godric Gryffindor."

Elara's spirits plummeted.

"You can't have that," she said.

"Then," said the goblin softly, "we have a problem."

"We can give you something else," said Ron eagerly. "I'll bet the Lestranges have got loads of stuff, you can take your pick once we get into the vault."

He had said the wrong thing. Griphook flushed angrily.

"I am not a thief, boy! I am not trying to procure treasures to which I have no right!"

"The sword's ours —"

"It is not," said the goblin.

"We're Gryffindors, and it was Godric Gryffindor's —"

"And before it was Gryffindor's, whose was it?" demanded the goblin, sitting up straight.

"No one's," said Ron. "It was made for him, wasn't it?"

"No!" cried the goblin, bristling with anger as he pointed a long finger at Ron. "Wizarding arrogance again! That sword was Ragnuk the First's, taken from him by Godric Gryffindor! It is a lost treasure, a masterpiece of goblin work! It belongs with the goblins! The sword is the price of my hire, take it or leave it!"

Griphook glared at them. Elara glanced at the other three, then said, "We need to discuss this, Griphook, if that's all right. Could you give us a few minutes?"

The goblin nodded, looking sour. Downstairs in the empty sitting room, Elara walked to the fireplace, brow furrowed, trying to think what to do.

Behind her, Ron said, "He's having a laugh. We can't let him have that sword."

"It is true?" Harry asked Hermione. "Was the sword stolen by Gryffindor?"

"I don't know," she said hopelessly. "Wizarding history often skates over what the wizards have done to other magical races, but there's no account that I know of that says Gryffindor stole the sword."

"It'll be one of those goblin stories," said Ron, "about how the wizards are always trying to get one over on them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he hasn't asked for one of our wands."

"Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, Ron," said Elara. "They've been treated like shit in the past."

"Goblins aren't exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, are they?" said Ron. "They've killed plenty of us. They've fought dirty too."

"Yeah, maybe, but arguing with Griphook about whose race is most underhanded and violent isn't going to make him more likely to help us, is it?"

"Okay," said Ron, "how's this? We tell Griphook we need the sword until we get inside the vault, and then he can have it. There's a fake in there, isn't there? We switch them, and give him the fake."

"Ron, he'd know the difference better than we would!" said Hermione. "He's the only one who realized there had been a swap!"

"Yeah, but we could scarper before he realizes —"

He quailed beneath the look Hermione was giving him.

"That," she said quietly, "is despicable. Ask for his help, then double-cross him? And you wonder why goblins don't like wizards, Ron?"

Ron's ears had turned red.

"All right, all right! It was the only thing I could think of! What's your solution, then?"

"We need to offer him something else, something just as valuable."

"Brilliant. I'll go and get one of our other ancient goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it."

Silence fell between them again. Elara was sure that the goblin would accept nothing but the sword, even if they had something as valuable to offer him. Yet the sword was their one, indispensable weapon against the Horcruxes. She closed her eyes for a moment or two and listened to the rush of the sea. The idea that Gryffindor might have stolen the sword was unpleasant to her: She had always been proud to be a Gryffindor; Gryffindor had been the champion of Muggle-borns, the wizard who had clashed with the pureblood-loving Slytherin. . . .

"Maybe he's lying," Elara said, opening her eyes again. "Griphook. Maybe Gryffindor didn't take the sword. How do we know the goblin version of history's right?"

"Does it make a difference?" asked Hermione.

"I guess it changes how I feel about it," said Elara.

She took a deep breath.

"We'll tell him he can have the sword after he's helped us get into that vault — but we'll be careful to avoid telling him exactly when he can have it."

A grin spread slowly across Ron's face. Hermione, however, looked alarmed.

"Elara, we can't —"

"He can have it," Elara went on, "after we've used it on all of the Horcruxes. We'll make sure he gets it then. We'll keep our word."

"But that could be years!" said Hermione.

"We know that, but he needn't. We won't be lying . . . really."

Elara met her eyes with a mixture of defiance and shame.

"Hermione, I don't like it much either, but what choice do we have? Our only other option is a Basilisk Fang, and those are at Hogwarts — a place where we are definitely not welcome."

."Well, I think it's genius," said Ron, standing up again. "Let's go and tell him."

Back in the smallest bedroom, Harry made the offer, careful to phrase it so as not to give any definite time for the handover of the sword. Hermione frowned at the floor while he was speaking.

"I have your word, Harry Potter, that you will give me the sword of Gryffindor if I help you?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"Then shake," said the goblin, holding out his hand.

Harry took it and shook. Then Griphook relinquished him, clapped his hands together, and said, "So. We begin!"

It was like planning to break into the Ministry all over again. They settled to work in the smallest bedroom, which was kept, according to Griphook's preference, in semidarkness.

"I have visited the Lestranges' vault only once," Griphook told them, "on the occasion I was told to place inside it the false sword. It is one of the most ancient chambers. The oldest Wizarding families store their treasures at the deepest level, where the vaults are largest and best protected. . . ."

They remained shut in the cupboardlike room for hours at a time. Slowly the days stretched into weeks. There was problem after problem to overcome, not least of which was that their store of Polyjuice Potion was greatly depleted.

"There's really only enough left for one of us," said Hermione, tilting the thick mudlike potion against the lamplight.

"That'll be enough," said Elara, who was examining Griphook's hand-drawn map of the deepest passageways.

The other inhabitants of Shell Cottage could hardly fail to notice that something was going on now that Elara, Harry, Ron, and Hermione only emerged for mealtimes. Nobody asked questions, although Elara often felt Bill's eyes on the four of them at the table, thoughtful, concerned.

The longer they spent together, the more Elara realized that she did not much like the goblin. Griphook was unexpectedly bloodthirsty, laughed at the idea of pain in lesser creatures, and seemed to relish the possibility that they might have to hurt other wizards to reach the Lestranges' vault.

Elara could tell that her distaste was shared by the other three, but they did not discuss it: They needed Griphook. The goblin ate only grudgingly with the rest of them. Even after his legs had mended, he continued to request trays of food in his room, like the still-frail Ollivander, until Bill (following an angry outburst from Fleur) went upstairs to tell him that the arrangement could not continue.

Thereafter Griphook joined them at the overcrowded table, although he refused to eat the same food, insisting, instead, on lumps of raw meat, roots, and various fungi. Elara felt responsible: It was, after all, she who had insisted that the goblin remain at Shell Cottage so that she could question him; her fault that the whole Weasley family had been driven into hiding, that Bill, Fred, George, Aurora, and Mr. Weasley could no longer work.

"I'm sorry," she told Fleur, one blustery April evening as she helped her prepare dinner. "Harry and I never meant you to have to deal with all of this."

She had just set some knives to work, chopping up steaks for Griphook and Bill, who had preferred his meat bloody ever since he had been attacked by Greyback. While the knives sliced away behind her, her somewhat irritable expression softened.

"'Lara, you and 'Arry saved my sister's life, I do not forget."

This was not, strictly speaking, true, but Elara decided against reminding her that Gabrielle had never been in real danger.

"Anyway," Fleur went on, pointing her wand at a pot of sauce on the stove, which began to bubble at once, "Mr. Ollivander leaves for Muriel's zis evening. Zat will make zings easier. Ze goblin," she scowled a little at the mention of him, "can move downstairs, and ze boys can take zat room."

"They don't mind sleeping in the living room," said Elara, who knew that Griphook would think poorly of having to sleep on the sofa; keeping Griphook happy was essential to their plans. "Besides, people can always bunk with me. I don't need a large space anymore. Don't worry about us."

And when she tried to protest Elara went on, "We'll be off your hands soon too, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I. We won't need to be here much longer."

"But what do you mean?" said Fleur, frowning at Elara, her wand pointing at the casserole dish now suspended in midair. "Of course you must not leave, you are safe 'ere!"

She looked rather like Mrs. Weasley as she said it, and Elara was glad that the back door opened at that moment. Luna, Jane, and Dean entered, their hair damp from the rain outside and their arms full of driftwood.

". . . and tiny little ears," Luna was saying, "a bit like a hippo's, Daddy says, only purple and hairy. And if you want to call them, you have to hum; they prefer a waltz, nothing too fast. . . ."

Looking uncomfortable, Jane and Dean shrugged at Elara as they passed, following Luna into the combined dining and sitting room where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were laying the dinner table. Seizing the chance to escape Fleur's questions, Elara grabbed two jugs of pumpkin juice and followed them.