2017-01-16 11:20:55来源：爱词霸 哈利波特
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 Harry went inside the tiny cottage or its garden, he could hear the constant ebb and flow of the sea, like the breathing of some great, slumbering creature. He 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 his face.
The enormity of his decision not to race Voldemort to the wand still scared Harry. He could not remember, ever before, choosing not to act. He was full of doubts, doubts that Ron could not help voicing whenever they were together.
“What if Dumbledore wanted us to work out the symbol in time to get the wand？” “What if working out what the symbol meant made you ‘worthy’ to get the Hallows？” “Harry, if that really is the Elder Wand, how the hell are we supposed to finish off You-Know-Who？” Harry had no answers: There were moments when he wondered whether it had been outright madness not to try to prevent Voldemort breaking open the tomb. He could not even explain satisfactorily why he had decided against it: Every time he tried to reconstruct the internal arguments that had led to his decision, they sounded feebler to him.
The odd thing was that Hermione’s support made him feel just as confused as Ron’s doubts. Now forced to accept that the Elder Wand was real, she maintained that it was an evil object, and that the way Voldemort had taken possession of it was repellent, not to be considered.
“You could never have done that, Harry,” she said again and again. “You couldn’t have broken into Dumbledore’s grave.”
But the idea of Dumbledore’s corpse frightened Harry much less than the possibility that he might have misunderstood the living Dumbledore’s intentions. He felt that he was still groping in the dark; he had chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering whether he had misread the signs, whether he should not have taken the other way. From time to time, anger at Dumbledore crashed over him 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. Harry had been staring out over the wall that separated the cottage garden from the cliff when Ron and Hermione had found him; he 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 Harry, who 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 Harry. There was little about Dumbledore he was sure of now, but he knew that much. “He would have gone on.”
“What d’you mean, ‘gone on’？” asked Ron, but before Harry could say any more, a voice behind them said, “ ’Arry？”
Fleur had come out of the cottage, her long silver hair flying in the breeze.
“ ’Arry, 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 and Luna 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, relief surging through him. “Griphook, thank you, we’re really —”
“— in return,” said the goblin firmly, “for payment.”
Slightly taken aback, 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.”
Harry’s spirits plummeted.
“You can’t have that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“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 goblinwork！ It belongs with the goblins！ The sword is the price of my hire, take it or leave it！”
Griphook glared at them. Harry glanced at the other two, 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, Harry walked to the fireplace, brow furrowed, trying to think what to do. Behind him, 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 Hermione. “They’ve been treated brutally 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.”
“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？”
There was a pause while they tried to think of a way around the problem. Harry looked out of the window at Dobby’s grave. Luna was arranging sea lavender in a jam jar beside the headstone.
“Okay,” said Ron, and Harry turned back to face him, “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. Harry 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.
He closed his 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 him: He 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,” Harry said, opening his 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.
“Changes how I feel about it,” said Harry.
He 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.
“Harry, we can’t —”
“He can have it,” Harry went on, “after we’ve used it on all of the Horcruxes. I’ll make sure he gets it then. I’ll keep my word.”
“But that could be years！” said Hermione.
“I know that, but he needn’t. I won’t be lying . . . really.”
Harry met her eyes with a mixture of defiance and shame. He remembered the words that had been engraved over the gateway to Nurmengard: For the Greater Good. He pushed the idea away. What choice did they have？
“I don’t like it,” said Hermione.
“Nor do I, much,” Harry admitted.
“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; he felt irritated at her, afraid that she might give the game away. However, Griphook had eyes for nobody but Harry.
“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. He wondered whether those black eyes saw any misgivings in his own. 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 Harry, 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 Harry, Ron, and Hermione only emerged for mealtimes. Nobody asked questions, although Harry often felt Bill’s eyes on the three of them at the table, thoughtful, concerned.