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And
she
strode
past
Harry
and
sat
down
in
the
tent
entrance
bringing
the
action
to
a
fierce
full
stop
.
But
Harry
hardly
slept
that
night
.
The
idea
of
the
Deathly
Hallows
had
taken
possession
of
him
,
and
he
could
not
rest
while
agitating
thoughts
whirled
through
his
mind
:
the
wand
,
the
stone
,
and
the
Cloak
,
if
he
could
just
possess
them
all
...
I
open
at
the
close
...
But
what
was
the
close
?
Why
could
n't
he
have
the
stone
now
?
If
only
he
had
the
stone
,
he
could
ask
Dumbledore
these
questions
in
person
...
and
Harry
murmured
words
to
the
Snitch
in
the
darkness
,
trying
everything
,
even
Parseltongue
,
but
the
golden
ball
would
not
open
...
And
the
wand
,
the
Elder
Wand
,
where
was
that
hidden
?
Where
was
Voldemort
searching
now
?
Harry
wished
his
scar
would
burn
and
show
him
Voldemort
's
thoughts
,
because
for
the
first
time
ever
,
he
and
Voldemort
were
united
in
wanting
the
very
same
thing
...
Hermione
would
not
like
that
idea
,
of
course
...
But
then
,
she
did
not
believe
...
Xenophilius
had
been
right
,
in
a
way
...
Limited
,
Narrow
,
Close-minded
.
The
truth
was
that
she
was
scared
of
the
idea
of
the
Deathly
Hallows
,
especially
of
the
Resurrection
Stone
...
and
Harry
pressed
his
mouth
again
to
the
Snitch
,
kissing
it
,
nearly
swallowing
it
,
but
the
cold
metal
did
not
yield
...
It
was
nearly
dawn
when
he
remembered
Luna
,
alone
in
a
cell
in
Azkaban
,
surrounded
by
Dementors
,
and
he
suddenly
felt
ashamed
of
himself
.
He
had
forgotten
all
about
her
in
his
feverish
contemplation
of
the
Hallows
.
If
only
they
could
rescue
her
,
but
Dementors
in
those
numbers
would
be
virtually
unassailable
.
Now
he
came
to
think
about
it
,
he
had
not
tried
casting
a
Patronus
with
the
blackthorn
wand
...
He
must
try
that
in
the
morning
...
If
only
there
was
a
way
of
getting
a
better
wand
...
And
desire
for
the
Elder
Wand
,
the
Deathstick
,
unbeatable
,
invincible
,
swallowed
him
once
more
...
They
packed
up
the
tent
next
morning
and
moved
on
through
a
dreary
shower
of
rain
.
The
downpour
pursued
them
to
the
coast
,
where
they
pitched
the
tent
that
night
,
and
persisted
through
the
whole
week
,
through
sodden
landscapes
that
Harry
found
bleak
and
depressing
.
He
could
think
only
of
the
Deathly
Hallows
.
It
was
as
though
a
flame
had
been
lit
inside
him
that
nothing
,
not
Hermione
's
flat
disbelief
nor
Ron
's
persistent
doubts
,
could
extinguish
.
And
yet
the
fiercer
the
longing
for
the
Hallows
burned
inside
him
,
the
less
joyful
it
made
him
.
He
blamed
Ron
and
Hermione
:
Their
determined
indifference
was
as
bad
as
the
relentless
rain
for
dampening
his
spirits
,
but
neither
could
erode
his
certainty
,
which
remained
absolute
.
Harry
's
belief
in
and
longing
for
the
Hallows
consumed
him
so
much
that
he
felt
isolated
from
the
other
two
and
their
obsession
with
the
Horcruxes
.
"
Obsession
?
"
said
Hermione
in
a
low
fierce
voice
,
when
Harry
was
careless
enough
to
use
the
word
one
evening
,
after
Hermione
had
told
him
off
for
his
lack
of
interest
in
locating
more
Horcruxes
.
