Theft
Griphook was sitting on the shabby bed in a dark and grimy room of the Leaky Cauldron, and he hadn't been as happy for long time.
Gryffindor's sword flickered as he turned it around in his hands, his long burnt fingers caressing it, his eyes filled with a gleam almost as red as the rubies on the hilt.
He turned it around again and saw the name engraved on the blade, and a stab of envy-induced fury shot through him.
"It belongs to us!" he said angrily, meaning only himself.
The next moment his hands were clutching only empty air.