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Summary
It was a sword that killed the Basilisk, not magic. If the weapon was that powerful, Harry was going to learn to use it properly.
Harry stared at Dobby. The house elf was bowing frantically, promising to do anything he could to repay 'Harry Potter Sir'. Harry hadn't been expecting to see the elf in his room that night, or ever again if he was honest, and he was about to send him away when he remembered a thought he'd had while in the hospital wing.
"Dobby," he asked quietly, "could you find me a sword? One that I would be able to use?" After all, Gryffindor's sword had been almost too heavy for him to lift, let alone fight with effectively.
Dobby nodded, seeming ecstatic to be able to help. He popped away. Harry turned his impulsive idea over in his mind. Magic hadn't helped him in the Chamber. It had been a sword that had saved his life, and he had almost died because he didn't know how to use it properly. He was going to learn though, and learn well. Besides, even if he wasn't allowed to use magic to defend himself during the holidays, a sword wasn't magical, was it?
Dobby squeaked at the evil grin on Harry's face as he handed over the priceless Malfoy family heirloom.
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Fred and George had been more than willing to put a charm on the sword that would make people overlook it. They had offered to make it weightless too, but Harry had declined. He was going to learn this the hard way. He wasn't going to disrespect the weapon that had saved his life by taking
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