The starry sky had barely changed throughout the night. They serenely twinkled down on Malfoy Manor, unaware of the violence of the last few hours.

A man, savage-looking and wild, stared up at the stars through a window. He stood in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, picking at something in his sharp brown teeth. Growling softly, inhumanly, Fenrir Greyback walked away from the window and smiled at the scene before him.

Four bodies lay on the polished wood floor, splayed out uncomfortably.

The smallest, a woman with long blonde hair, stirred absently, softly whimpering. A quick look at her face revealed deep, bloody gashes.

Next to her lay a boy, perhaps just a stone's throw away from his twenties, moaning in pain. An arm was bent at an odd angle, and his robes were torn and bloody.

Between them was a man who, judging by his similar blonde locks and pointed chin, could only be the boy's father. But whether father and son had similar faces was unknowable, for the man's face was a shocking mess of bruises and cuts. He, unlike his kin, was silent and unmoving.

And finally, a haughty-looking woman lay apart from the others. She had a hand pressed tightly to a deep wound in her arm. Her injuries were the least severe, yet perplexingly, she sobbed and raged the loudest.

"Shut up, Lestrange." Greyback laughed. The now-wandless witch had seen fit to Stun his gang of Snatchers for nothing, and so the werewolf relished in her agony.

"Fenrir, please." A high, cold voice pierced through the air, silencing Greyback instantly. A quick glance showed that it had sounded from an armchair turned to the crackling fireplace. "Show some decency,"

Bellatrix Lestrange laughed shakily, but a flick of a wand had her screeching in pain.

Lord Voldemort sat in the armchair, watching the fire intensely. Every so often, he was forced to renew the Malfoys' punishment, but he had largely been left to mull over the events of the last few hours in mocking silence.

While a rage for the Malfoys still burned within him, it had cooled vastly. They were an incompetent bunch, for sure, but their failure was peripheral to Voldemort. Indeed, something far worse had been pressing into him like a weight all night long.

Gellert Grindelwald, the last master of the Elder Wand, had defied Lord Voldemort. A lowly relic of the past, powerless and feeble, had refused to offer even a hint of the wand's whereabouts. How dare he? The indignancy of it made Voldemort's muscles tense, and made the Malfoy's magical pain increase by several degrees.

Grindelwald was unafraid. That fact was undeniable and, though Voldemort would sooner die than admit this, terrifying. An ant had stared a dinosaur in the eyes and mocked it. Mocked its title. Mocked its ambition. Mocked it, and died without fear,

"Kill me, then, Voldemort. Ich begrüße den Tod! But my death will not bring you was du suchst. Es gibt so viel, was du nicht verstehst."

He welcomed death, did he? His death would not elucidate the problem, would it? It was true, evidently, that there was so much that Voldemort did not understand. What perverse magic had given a half-dead failure the courage to defy the greatest sorcerer in all of history?

But questions like that were only salt in the wound. Voldemort had failed in his quest for the Elder Wand. He had spent months prowling throughout Germany and Austria, following even the smallest leads, and it was all for naught. Grindelwald, the linchpin to the mystery, had seen fit to refuse Voldemort the conclusion of his work. And the shame of failure stung like the Killing Curse sixteen years ago, the curse that had started this whole sordid affair.

"Greyback." Voldemort leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. "Greyback, what wandmakers remain in Britain?"

Greyback grunted in thought. "There's Jimmy Kiddel in Diagon Alley. And I heard from Scabior that some Transylvanian wandmakers were setting up a shop in Ulster."

"And beyond?"

"None, my Lord."

Voldemort sighed. "Where did you get your wand, Greyback?"

"Gregorovitch Wands. Crakitt Market."

"Of course…" Voldemort laughed, "Of course you did. Gregorovitch and Ollivander. The greatest wandmakers in history. Useless fools…"

Greyback stood silently for a moment, obviously confused. "My Lord?"

Voldemort growled in anger. Anger at Greyback's uselessness. Anger at the wandmakers' incompetence. Anger at his own failure.

But there was also a racing mind. It was not a Slytherin trait to merely pout and rage in the face of failure. Voldemort had mused on his failure, but he had also mused on what little he could glean from his journey. What little leads had been left to him…

The Elder Wand was out there, definitely, and Grindelwald had been its last master. Voldemort didn't require Legilimency for that. The litany of stories from Grindelwald's height of power all but confirmed his ownership of the Elder Wand. So where was it?

Hidden in Grindelwald's prison cell? Under magical lock and key? Being watched by some disloyal Ministry agents?

Hidden somewhere, somewhere far-flung and distant, by Grindelwald's conqueror, Albus Dumbledore?

Dumbledore…Dumbledore…

Voldemort's jaw slackened. The prickling rage faded. An image came to Voldemort. A lone dragonfly, lazily hovering over the lake at Hogwarts. Of course…

Of course. It was obvious. Grindelwald had tried, in vain, but his prolific career was his downfall. Voldemort had been sitting for his N.E.W.T. exams when it happened, but he couldn't help but listen to every retelling of the "greatest duel in history".

Dumbledore had bested Grindelwald over fifty years ago. Dumbledore had defeated him and locked him in his own prison. And if Grindelwald was the holder of the Elder Wand, as Gregorovitch's memories confirmed, then the only logical conclusion was that…

Voldemort walked briskly to the werewolf. "Greyback, I would like you to watch over the Malfoys. I have business to attend to."

"Happily, my Lord." Greyback smiled, baring his teeth.

"If they try to leave the house, I think I shall offer you Draco."

Greyback laughed wildly. Narcissa yelped as though she had been struck. Draco went completely silent. Before Greyback could respond, Voldemort had turned and left the drawing room, cloak trailing behind him.

The Wand was at Hogwarts. The Wand was at Hogwarts. The Wand was at Hogwarts. Voldemort kept repeating this in his head, shocked at the simplicity of it. Dumbledore had taken the wand from Grindelwald. Perhaps he had somehow wrested its loyalty, perhaps he had not, perhaps Grindelwald himself wasn't the true master. He had stolen it, not killed for it.

But Voldemort had killed. Oh, how he had killed. Gregorivitch, Grindelwald, Dumbledore, all possible masters of the Wand were dead at his hands. Whichever one held the Wand's loyalty was dead at his hands. And there was only one place in the world that Dumbledore would hide anything. He had, after all, hidden the Philosopher's Stone there, too…

Voldemort smiled in the darkness outside Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix and Lucius's failure, outrageous as it was, hadn't interfered in his quest for the Wand at all. The Wand was here, so close to him. It had been within Apparition distance this whole time…

For the second time today, Lord Voldemort Disapparated and Apparated with a crack in the air.

Voldemort had not been in Hogsmeade in several years, but the village had not changed much. It was dark and asleep, no signs of life anywhere on the main street. The faintest glimmer of dawn was on the horizon. Muddy remnants of snow crowded along buildings, melting into the wetness of the road.

Voldemort rushed forward, looking up. Just beyond the vast stretch of treetops, he could see the tip of Hogwarts's Astronomy Tower. Not even a year ago, Albus Dumbledore had fallen from his school's tallest tower and landed, dead and useless, on the grounds below. This was a testament to his absence, to his defeat, that Lord Voldemort was strolling onto the Hogwarts grounds for the first time in decades.

Voldemort quickly rose into the air. He didn't so much fly as take a colossal leap. Midair, he strained his thoughts and felt Severus Snape's mind stir within the castle. He was wide-awake, pacing in the Headmaster's office, musing on…something unimportant to the matter at hand.

"Severus."

A brief surprise surged through Snape's cold mind. "Yes, my Lord?"

"I will be at the castle gates shortly. Greet me."

Snape's presence in Voldemort's mind faded, just as he daintily fell to the cool earth in front of the winged boars in front of Hogwarts. Hogwarts, his one true home.

The castle was dark, a scarce few windows glowing in the early morning darkness. Imagine if the staff knew their most heinous enemy was standing calmly at the school gates. Voldemort smiled at the thought of their indignant faces.

He didn't have to wait for long at the gates. A lone lantern bobbed in the dark, coming closer and closer. Soon, Severus Snape's face appeared in the warm light, and the gates swung open.

"My Lord." Snape bowed.

"Severus." Lord Voldemort nodded deeply. "I trust that I am not keeping you from more important matters?"

"Nothing is more important than you, my Lord."

The two walked up the steep path to Hogwarts, Snape holding the lantern aloft with his off-hand, wand drawn in the other.

"Do you expect danger, Severus?"

Snape's face was impassive. "Rubeus Hagrid has been forced out of Hogwarts, but he held some sway over the creatures of the forest. The oaf may have encouraged them to attack."

Voldemort looked to the dark foliage on either side of the path. "What do I have to fear from centaurs and Acromantulas?"

"Hagrid was known to illegally breed new creatures. Dangerous ones." Snape smiled very slightly. "Draco Malfoy still complains about the 'Blast-Ended Skrewts'. Is something the matter, my Lord?"

Snape had seen Voldemort's face contort in fury. "The Malfoys, Severus. Once again, they failed me. Potter was in Malfoy Manor earlier tonight, and the family let him escape."

"He escaped?"

"Oh yes." Voldemort said. "He escaped with the help of a Weasley. And a House-Elf."

Snape snorted. "How pathetic."

As they came to the edge of the lake, Voldemort stopped and turned to Snape.

"Severus, when they laid Dumbledore to rest, where was he buried?"

Snape's brow just barely furrowed. He turned and pointed across the lake. A white marble tomb rested on the familiar lakeside. "There, my Lord."

Voldemort felt excitement well up within him. "And what of his wand, Severus? Did they bury it with him?"

"That is the custom. I wouldn't think Minerva McGonagall would change it. Dumbledore was venerated, of course."

"Of course, of course…" It took all Voldemort had not to beam triumphantly. He had found it. He had found it, at long last.

"My Lord?"

"I shall join you in the castle shortly. Leave me now."

Snape gave a short bow and began a slow ascent to Hogwarts. Voldemort watched his long black cloak billow in the wind for a moment. Severus had proven himself the most trustworthy of all the Death Eaters, but the fact remained that the quest for the Elder Wand was a personal quest.

With a wide wave of his faithful yew wand, a Disillusionment Charm fell over Voldemort's body. His reborn form disappeared into a perfect facsimile of his beloved Hogwarts grounds.

He slowly paced the perimeter of the lake, letting the past overtake his senses for a moment. Around sixty years ago, he had sat on the water's edge, half-listening to Avery and Lestrange complain about Mudblood students while Rosier traced something in the air with his wand. He had held up a pale hand, commanding his followers to silence, before discussing his fascination with the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The look of fascination, of delight, on their faces as he spoke of the potential of Slytherin's monster…

And then came to Dumbledore's tomb. Recollections of days long passed vanished. Once Potter was dead and Hogwarts was truly his, he would have to remove the offending block of marble. It was tantamount to desecration.

Voldemort raised his yew wand, his most enduring companion, and the tomb split in two with a sharp crack. With another subtle movement, the burial wrappings on the corpse fell as ribbons.

And, thus, his yew wand had outlived its usefulness.

Albus Dumbledore was still thin, still long. His face was still serene, so infuriatingly serene. Even in death, nothing broke his calm. Voldemort slid along his body like a serpent, searching his body for…

There it was. After months and months of tireless searching, after much unneeded death of some of wizardkind's best and brightest, there it was. They had placed the Elder Wand underneath Dumbledore's long, folded fingers. Had they never considered hiding history's deadliest wand? Or had they thought Lord Voldemort unable, or unwilling, to pry open his enemy's tomb?

Voldemort seized the Elder Wand, brushing against Dumbledore's cold flesh. He raised it high into the air, watching the dazzling array of sparks fall onto the corpse's crooked nose. The wand felt colder than his faithful yew, but it was of little concern. He, Lord Voldemort, had the Elder Wand at last, and amidst the swooping feeling of triumph pulsing through him, he knew for an undeniable fact that Harry Potter was finished.

A cold, high cackle swept through the grounds as sunlight burst over the mountains. Victory was, rather literally, at hand.


And that was the story. It was short, but I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for reading.

And please excuse the pun at the end. I couldn't help myself.

Criticism and comments are strongly encouraged.