Author's Notes: Hello, everyone! Got a bit of a longer chapter for you, as well as a few twists, I hope, to yet another very familiar scene. Really appreciate everyone's kind words regarding the last chapter. As always, I appreciate your comments and criticisms (so long as they are actually constructive rather than simply confrontational).

Anyway, without further ado, the next installment.

Cheers

Chapter Twenty-Eight: An Old Family Friend

Harry and Hermione walked past the church unnoticed and hand-in-hand as the pub across the street drew in all the village's inhabitants looking to continue their festive celebrations. They turned down an unlit quiet street that promptly led them from the village center and into a long cul-de-sac lined with unassuming cottage houses.

"Thank you," said Harry as they stepped around the corner.

"For what?"

"Everything; the flowers…what you said…being here with me…"

"You don't have to thank me for that."

"Yes I do," argued Harry, his eyes glued to the snowy road stretched out before him. He could just make out the abrupt end of the street that led to a small gathering of leafless, snow-covered aspen. "I always thought I'd've come here with Dumbledore, or maybe Sirius, if he had been cleared…I'm glad it was you in the end."

"I wouldn't be a very good friend if I didn't do those things, Harry."

"You're the best, Hermione," said Harry. "I meant every word; Mum and Dad would have loved you. I don't know how I know it, but I do."

"I wanted to be here with you," she said as she latched onto his arm again. "I meant every word too, you know; sometimes I'm just as selfish as the rest of the world."

"Of all the things you are, Hermione, selfish is not one of them."

"You're as simplistically sweet as ever," she responded, squeezing his arm tightly for a second. "But I promise you I'm just as selfish as the rest of the world; at least when it comes to you."

"I don't think following your fated best friend to almost-certain death can be thought of as selfish, Hermione," he said with an amused smile.

"But I am," she argued, looking down at the snowy sidewalk beneath her boots. "I've thought about Godric's Hollow long before we knew about Horcruxes or the Order—I knew you'd want to come here someday—and I've always wanted to be with you when you came. I was sure it would be Dumbledore, or Sirius, or Remus, or maybe even the Weasleys and I'd be left behind. I wanted to be here with you, Harry. I didn't want you coming here without me. You have no idea how selfish I am."

"You're not," said Harry. "Besides, you've nothing to worry about anymore; look around—you're the only one here, just like always."

"There are loads of people who would want to be here with you if you let them," she insisted.

"Maybe," said Harry. "But they wouldn't be you. I don't trust anyone like I trust you, Hermione. If being here with me makes you selfish, then I'm just as selfish for wanting you here too. For what it's worth, I think it was supposed to be this way." She looked up and turned her head to face him, her chocolate eyes noticeably moist, but she smiled away any tears that might have been.

"When this is all over, I'm taking you far away from this place," she said. "It is selfish of me, and I don't care." Harry smiled.

"If we make it out alive, Hermione, I'll go anywhere you want me too."

They continued past several more cottages, each identical and no sign of anything out of the ordinary.

"I still don't know how we're going to find Bathilda's house," said Hermione as though she'd just read his mind.

"Dunno," said Harry, shrugging his shoulders in half defeat. "She's a witch, so wouldn't her place have several protective enchantments and what-not? If we're right about Dumbledore leaving the sword with her, wouldn't that mean she and Dumbledore were friendly? Wouldn't that mean she'd at least have some level of protection if she was keeping something as important as the sword safe?"

"It's very possible," she said with a heavy sigh. But then Harry saw it. Rising up in front of the moon-drenched aspens at the end of the street, a dark mass emerged and hid the trees from view.

"Hermione…"

"Is it…"

But as they drew nearer, Hermione silently answered her own question as she gripped harder around Harry's arm. The hedge had grown wild in the sixteen years, long left unattended since James and Lily had left the world. Rubble and debris lay scattered, exposed by the clumps of waist-high grass that protruded from the snow-covered yard. The cottage loomed over them with a mix of dark ivy and snow, the crater of the top floor forever attesting to the calamity that had once visited in the night. Harry observed the missing walls and collapsed roof; the place where the curse had backfired. Harry felt his chest numb against the beating of his heart while he imagined the cottage home whole, well-kept, green and bright on a summer's day, he and his father outside on brooms, his Mum watching from the porch. He shook his head as they he and Hermione approached the gate. He felt another squeeze on his arm and heard Hermione sniffle.

Harry reached out to the unhinged, heavily rusted gate.

"You're not going in, are you," she asked in a chilled whisper. "The house could collapse." But Harry shook his head, wanting only to hold, to touch, to feel something—anything—of home. As soon as his hand latched onto the gate, a sign emerged from the snow as if it had long been buried. Fluid, golden letters emerged against the white-painted wood.

On the night of October 31st, 1981

Lily and James Potter lost their lives here.

Their son, Harry, survived the brutality visited upon this home

and remains the only known wizard to have survived the Killing Curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state

as a monument to the Potters and a reminder to us all

that peace is never cheaply purchased.

Harry pushed the gate through the snow and crossed the threshold. He kneeled beside the sign and found that people had scribbled or magically carved their names across every blank space. Hermione kneeled beside him. Some had simply added their initials, many their names, while others had offered words of encouragement. Many of them were old, but some were fresh, glistening brightly beneath the starlight. He read some of them, feeling the swell in his heart brush aside the cold chill that had seeped into his skin upon seeing the home that Voldemort had denied him: We're standing with you, Harry, read one. He found another: Don't give up, Harry, it read. He felt his throat constrict as Hermione gripped him painfully around the forearm as they read a third entry: I believe in you, Harry. It was signed: Dean Thomas.

Harry found his eyes wandering to the porch. Four white wooden pillars remained erect, though one leaned heavily inward toward the crater of the second floor. Paint peeling and weather worn, they too were covered in carvings and graffiti. Together they approached the house, looking over each column. Many of the names were unknown to them, but some stood out.

"Harry, look," said Hermione, pointing halfway down the first pillar. "Diggle signed this one…and look over here," she went on, her finger resting near the bottom, "Barnabus Tofty…Griselda Marchbanks…you remember them, Harry? They were our O.W.L. examiners…" Harry nodded. He didn't trust his voice. So many people had visited. They moved to the next one.

"Oh, Harry, look here," she said, pointing to a pair of names: Frank and Alice Longbottom. Once more, Harry could feel the burning sensation in his eyes. Harry had long considered Neville a good and trusted friend, but never before had he felt so close to the young man. How much time had passed between their visit and the day they were tortured into insanity, he wondered. For a brief moment, he shared in Neville's longing for his parents' recovery. They read more names: Tiberius Ogden, Elphias Doge, Xenophilius and Pandora Lovegood, and Amelia Bones. However, it was the names carved in the final pillar of the porch where Harry nearly lost all his composure: Molly and Arthur Weasley. Hermione embraced him tightly as she looked out onto the street over his shoulder. It was then that Harry heard her sharp intake of breath. He turned on his heels, pulling her in a half circle as he drew his wand in the direction of the street.

The womanly figure stood on the other side of the old rusted gate, covered in an earthly traveling cloak, her back hunched over as she held tightly to the old rusted gate for balance. White hair escaped at the bottom of her hood and Harry could just make out the wrinkles around her cheekbones. When she spoke, it was an old, raspy voice.

"I wondered when you would come home, Harry."

Harry however, did not lower his wand. Hermione had recovered from her shock and had drawn hers as well.

"Who are you," demanded Harry. The woman lowered her hood, revealing a very elderly face, heavily gouged by wrinkles with several cataracts around her still sharp blue eyes. She hobbled along the fence a few paces, her steps slow and deliberate. Her gaze never left them.

"You're Bathilda Bagshot," said Hermione. The stranger nodded. Her eyes briefly surveyed the ruined house, her expression sad and longing.

"You won't find what you're looking for in there," she said, looking intently at Harry again. "Not anymore."

"Do you know what I'm looking for," he asked, doubtfully. He slowly pulled Hermione with him as he stepped backward up the porch steps.

"Perhaps," she said cryptically. "Come, we'll talk inside."

She led them back up the street toward the brightly lit square, but turned suddenly to the right once they had passed a few houses. She led them through a gate and into a tiny yard with an icy-path. The cottage looked as old and weather-worn as the woman who resided there. Once inside, they found the sitting room dimly lit by a nearly extinguished fire in the grate. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all crammed full of dusty books and tightly rolled scrolls. The sitting room table was buried beneath loose sheets of scribbled-on parchment, half-consumed ink bottles, and quills with dried ink on their tips. There was a single sofa tucked up beside a curtain-drawn window accompanied by stiff, thinly upholstered arm chairs on either side. Bathilda flicked her wand toward the grate and the fire crackled into life, bathing them in flickering light and warmth. She flicked her wand a few more times and several candles were lit.

"Make yourselves comfortable, and I'll put on some tea," she said. She disappeared for several minutes. Meanwhile, Harry and Hermione looked about the room.

"Harry, look at this," she said, pointing to the small end table between the couch and one of the armchairs. It was a book, Harry could see, and certainly newer than any of the others scattered around or piled onto the many bookshelves. Hermione reached over and scooped it up, holding it to the light. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore looked out of his frame at them, smiling broadly, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. Golden letters sparkled beneath him: The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. Tucked inside between the cover and the first page was a crinkled note written in a familiar acid-green ink: Dear Batty, thanks for the help. Here's a copy of the book. I hope you like it. Just so you know, you said everything, even if you don't remember doing so. Rita. Harry felt a sour sensation at the pit of his stomach. Hermione turned past the opening pages when Bathilda reentered the sitting room, a small silver tray shaking slightly in his hands. She set down the tray and filled the three cups to the brim with steaming liquid.

"I'd read that with caution if I were you, dear," she said, eyeing the book in Hermione's hand before she wobbly dropped into the nearest armchair.

"So it's all lies, then," said Hermione, her face flush with sudden ease. Harry felt a small sense of pleasure; nothing written by that horrible hag could be trusted.

"Yes, and no," said Bathilda as she brought the cup to her lips. "But we can address that later." She took a sip of her tea and closed her eyes, her face visibly warmed by the steaming liquid running down her throat as the blue tinge of her lips faded away. She looked at Harry again. It was rare that anyone would look at him without their eyes drifting to the scar on his head, but Bathilda was one of those individuals who had yet to look there.

"You probably don't remember me," said Bathilda, "but I was a friend of your parents. I used to come by for tea pretty regularly once they'd gone into hiding."

"I don't really remember anything from then," said Harry truthfully. "But I found a letter Mum wrote to Sirius a while ago…she said you came by…telling her stories about Dumbledore…" Harry could not resist bringing up Dumbledore. So much was unknown and here was probably the only person alive who could tell him the things no one else could.

"So sad," she said. "I remember reading in the papers. I hadn't really known Sirius, but I believed him to be a good man. Lily adored him. I didn't want to believe he'd done those things…but history's pages are often filled by those we least expect. Now, at least the world knows the truth. I hope his soul has found rest."

"So you knew Dumbledore well then," said Harry, not wanted to talk about Sirius, especially to a complete stranger.

"I can see you won't be dissuaded," she said with the first smile. "May I ask who your friend is?"

"Hermione Granger," said Hermione, introducing herself. "I love your books—they are all incredibly fascinating."

"She's read them several times over," said Harry.

"And they've been right useful," she said, punching Harry lightly in the arm.

"Well thank you," said Bathilda. "Like father, like son, Harry, you seem to have gravitated toward a lover of knowledge."

"She's brilliant," admitted Harry, "but she's a lot more than that."

"Of course she is," said Bathilda. "Given the current climate of our affairs, few would willingly walk shoulder-to-shoulder with you, dear boy. You'll be Muggleborn, of course," said Bathilda knowingly. Hermione nodded, her head slightly downcast, but Bathilda shook her head.

"Not an insult, dear," she said quickly. "I've been around for a very long time, longer than you can imagine; I've seen terrible things done in the name of blood purity and superiority. I've witnessed the prejudiced brutality countless times over the years, watched its baton handed down generation after generation, each calamity more perverse and sickening than the one that preceded it. I've yet to see a Muggleborn perpetrate such atrocities in our world. No, the best of us are often Muggleborn. Never be afraid of where you come from."

Hermione, not knowing what to say, simply smiled as she took hold of Harry's hand. Bathilda again turned her eyes upon Harry.

"The last time I saw you, Harry, you were hardly a year old. You look just like James. Except your eyes, of course—"

"—like my mothers," he said. "I know."

"Forgive me," she said sadly. "You must tire of it. I can't imagine how many times you've already heard it." She stood then, reached over to the window and pulled away the curtain a sliver and looked out into the snowy street.

"I was here when he came that night," she said, talking to the window. "It was cold, even for an autumn night. It had rained all through the day and the wind was incredibly fierce. Handfuls of children were running up and down the streets, getting their candy, dressed in costumes, pretending in a world they didn't believe existed. I watched this street every day, and every night. I never saw him walk past. If only I had…" Harry felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as she recounted that fateful night.

"No one knew what had happened until there a massive explosion from the house," she said finally as she stared out the window. "I leapt out of bed and looked out through my bedroom window. The nursery room was…destroyed. You saw the remnants, tonight. And there you were, Harry, on the floor of the nursery, your crib in pieces and scattered about you, walls gone…Lily and James…gone." Harry looked down at his feet. Hermione rested a hand at the top of his shoulder, her thumb stroking the skin on the back of his neck. Bathilda closed the curtain and sat again, her tiny eyes looking past them as if she observed something in the distance.

"I Floo-called Albus immediately," she continued after a heavy swallow. "There was no answer. I pulled on my robes and set off down the street. None of the Muggles were aware anything had happened, yet. The anti-Muggle charms and other remaining protections kept them ignorant through the night. I entered the house. I found James first, in the hallway, without his wand. I went upstairs. Lily was sprawled on the floor. She hadn't had her wand either. And there you were, dear boy; I found you curled next to Lily, tapping her shoulder for attention…"

Harry fought the burning in his eyes. He squeezed Hermione's hand for strength. She responded. She took his hand in both of hers and held tightly.

"I grabbed a blanket—it had been torn some, but it did the trick," she said, wiping away a solitary tear that had slid into one of the grooves of her cheek. "I wrapped you in it and held you—did my best to comfort you. But I was not Lily…"

Harry's mind worked tirelessly, recreating everything as Bathilda spoke.

"Albus arrived a few hours later. He tended to your parents…made quick arrangements. He summoned Hagrid, who arrived a few hours later by the Knight Bus. Albus evaluated the few remaining protective enchantments. They were beginning to fade. Dumbledore gave instructions to Hagrid. He was to bring you someplace at a specific time. I offered to bring you into my home…for warmth…and shelter…he said no, that you could not leave the house, damaged as it was. He said something about ancient magic and left to make preparations."

Harry looked at Hermione, wondering if she was thinking the same as him.

"He went to my aunt and uncles," said Harry with a faint understanding, "to set up the wards."

"He must have done, yes," said Bathilda, absentmindedly. "I was to leave you in Hagrid's care. I fought Albus adamantly, but it did me no good. Hagrid took you in his arms and he stood in that room all day. I misjudged him; no one was taking you from that room. They would have met a gruesome death. I went back periodically, brought you a warm bottle, changed you…night fell...and then the last of the protections fell. I did what I could to distract the villagers…I heard from a distance Sirius arrive on his flying motorcycle. I could hear an argument, though I couldn't make out the words—I was too far away. When the argument ended I saw Hagrid set off on the motorcycle, leaving Sirius on the porch of the house, kneeling with his head down. Ministry officials arrived, modified memories, and concealed the house. I returned home. You know the rest."

Harry let his tears fall as Hermione held him tightly. At last all the scattered fragments of that terrible night had pieced themselves together: the voices he heard in the presence of Dementors, Hagrid's rescue, Dumbledore's wards, and finally Bathilda's first-hand recollection. Why hadn't Dumbledore told him everything? Bathilda appeared to have picked up on Harry's feelings.

"Everything in that book, everything that is attributed to me, is all true," she said, eyeing the book in Hermione's lap, though every word appeared to cause her a small bout of pain. "However, as often is the case with history, facts on their own do not always tell the whole story. And Rita, well, she is gifted in the art of misdirection."

"Tell me," said Harry, surprised by his own desperation.

"You can have it," she said, indicating to the book in Hermione's lap. "Just remember what I said when you read it." She another sip of her tea, swallowed hard, and started her tale.

"You and Albus both share a painful history in this village," said Bathilda. "Albus' mother moved the family here after her husband attacked several Muggle boys and was sent off to Azkaban."

"What?" Harry couldn't believe it.

"Yes," said Bathilda. "That's where Albus' misery began, I think." Over the next hour, Bathilda revealed the secrets of Dumbledore's family: how Kendra's husband's fate loomed over the family's head, the secret illness of Dumbledore's sister, Ariana, and the unexpected death of both.

"She's buried here too," said Hermione. "We saw them, in the churchyard."

"Yes, poor Ariana," said Bathilda. "When Kendra died, Albus became the head of the family. I won't tell you it was easy for him; oh he grieved—he loved his family, but Albus was unlike any wizard our world had ever seen. No one had ever achieved such a level of academic success: Prefect, Head Boy, and Youth Representative to the Wizengamot…already noted for his alchemical prowess and contributions in theoretic Transfiguration. He was seventeen then, seeking what most boys his age seek: glory. Few are capable of finding glory in what appears to be the mundane task of caring for family, and Ariana…she needed constant care…"

"The family appeared to manage, for a while," she went on. "I hadn't paid as much attention to the boys as I perhaps ought to have, as my own great-nephew had come to stay for the summer. Little did I know my nephew and Albus would become fast friends. Such a pity it did not last…I think…sometimes, if Albus had…but it doesn't matter…not anymore."

"Who was your nephew," asked Hermione. Bathilda looked sadly at Hermione, but pointed to the book. "There's a picture of him—in there—about a third of the way—I think the chapter is called, 'The Greater Good.'"

Hermione thumbed through the pages, photographs and words blurring as she sped page by page.

"There it is," said Bathilda, pointing at the photograph.

A young Dumbledore stood with a wide smile, teeth glistening and blue eyes twinkling mirthfully, arm in arm with another familiar face…the thief who had been in Gregorovitch's wand shop. Harry looked at the caption:

Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother's death with close friend, Gellert Grindelwald

"Grindelwald," asked Hermione surprised.

"It's not a misprint," said Bathilda, sadly. "Go on, you may as well read it."

So Hermione read it aloud. Harry listened while Hermione recounted the tale painted in dark words they could not imagine Dumbledore taking part in. They were scandalized at Rita's own admissions of having used truth serum on the old historian, but were more shocked at the friendship that had briefly blossomed between Dumbledore and the man who was once feared as the darkest wizard of all time. Of course, Voldemort held that title now. But most shocking, most disturbing of it all to Harry, was the letter between the two young men and a phrase that formed into an angry cloud that enveloped his thoughts; The Greater Good. The subjugation of Muggles. He wanted to vomit.

He had already forgotten the death of Dumbledore's mother and sister, the estranged relationship between him and his younger brother, Aberforth, and the very known fact that Dumbledore had fought and defeated Grindelwald later in life, for all of it had seemed inconsequential, nearly irrelevant to the blatant selfishness that smiled up from the page at him. His mind screamed at him. How could Dumbledore have entertained such thoughts? Always, always, Harry had believed in Dumbledore—believed in his goodness, his wisdom, his blinding moral fortitude… A new emptiness emerged in his chest, a great gaping hole exposed to the world; the grandfatherly image burned to ashes.

And was Rita right for once? Had Ariana been the victim of their selfish ambition? Had Dumbledore, even briefly, stumbled down the path of the Dark Arts? He felt his lungs collapse as his chest constricted. He was breathing quick, sharp gasps of air.

"It's alright, Harry," said Hermione. "You know Dumbledore…you know who he was…"

"No, Hermione, it's not," he said. "Look what he was doing. Hermione…he wanted to rule over them. People like…people like your parents…"

"He was young, Harry, young and foolish."

"So are we," said Harry, surprised by anguished tearing in his voice. "And we're running though the country side fighting the Dark Arts, ready to give up everything, including our lives for it, and here he was, orchestrating an end to one of the very things we're trying to protect."

"I'm not defending what he wrote, Harry, as you well know," said Hermione, her voice attaining a sharp edge previously absent. Harry stilled a moment. "But the Dumbledore we knew, Harry, the Dumbledore that stood between you and You-Know-Who at the Ministry, the Dumbledore that fought for Muggle protection acts and Muggleborn rights, the one who gave his life for you, Harry, that Dumbledore was a good man." Hermione wiped her tears upon her sleeves. "Harry, I think the reason you're angry, is because he didn't tell you all this himself."

And she was right, he thought. His mind flashed back to the Pensieve encounter. Dumbledore couldn't even do him the courtesy of telling him the truth of the Horcrux that existed inside him while living, instead delegating the unfortunate task to a memory of his likeness.

"Maybe I am," he said quietly. "Look at everything he's asked from me."

"And that, Harry, is why Albus could never bring you here," she said softly. Harry fell silent, waiting for her to explain.

"You remind him of the choices he wished he made all those years ago. I was not close to the Dumbledores after Ariana died. Gellert left, as you read, the next day. I daresay none of us will ever know the truth of that terrible moment. Albus may have ultimately given Gellert the philosophical plinth to stand upon and defend the atrocities he committed, and just as it would be wrong to deny that truth, it would be equally wrong to deny that Albus spent the remainder of his long life tirelessly fighting those injustices."

"And what does it matter what Albus once was," she asked him. "Would the man you know commit the same atrocities that my great-nephew once did? Would the man you know seek to destroy and tear apart families and friends in the selfish quest for power and out of a false sense of superiority? History is not made up of a single moment in time, Harry; it is made up of several moments, some of them exceedingly long. Similarly, a man's life cannot be properly weighed until it is complete."

"I know little of Albus' affairs aside from what he himself made public later in life," Admitted Bathilda. "Albus often said it was our choices, far more than our abilities that determine who we truly are. Well, it can also be said that it is our actions, far more than our words that demonstrate who we truly are. Do Albus' actions reflect the words in that ill-fated letter? Were they the actions of a selfish, power-seeking man, or were they the actions of the man you already believed in? I cannot answer that for you. You must answer it for yourself."